#blame the pheasants

[owlbear33]

not that I don't love the UK's native reptiles, all 5 of them, but I wish we had some more, and I wish they were bigger

I wish the UK had something crocodilian, or some sort of big monitor, maybe an actual big snake

but alas we are too cold what we have, wonderful though they are, are three species of medium to small snake, and 3 little lizzies, one of which lacks legs

[escapetothelake]

rusty lake: paradise spoilers!!!

[reindeerswillsavethisworld]

Corpse au case fic where the trio decided to try cracking a murder mystery, except instead of angst it's a comedy of errors where they make everything worse.

Like. Danny comes out of a portal dead and translucent and glowing, and there's charred remains of a human body on the floor. So now all three of them are freaking out, and instead of asking for help, or finding an adult, or telling literally ANYONE, they decide to just. Get rid of the body. As one does.

So that's what they do: they break out Tucker's nice shovels (because god forbid Sam's family owned something as pheasant as a shovel, and Danny's too afraid of touching their family's Patented Fenton ShovelsTM for... reasons), they find a nice desolate clearing in the woods, and then they bury Danny's body like one would a very unfortunate hamster who met their demise too soon under very suspicious circumstances. They even stay at the new "grave" in silence for a minute or five in respect and DEFINITELY nothing else, you know. And so, they bury the body, and then they (try to) forget the experience as some horrific nightmare.

And then, a year later, there's an uproar: the Amity Park's police department found the child's remains in the woods! And you see, Amity Park is not THAT big of a town, and the police estimated that the body belonged to a 14-15 year old child, and, look, there's only so many schools in a small town, alright. Obviously, the rumours start very soon in Casper High: about how the kid could've gone to their school, about how they could've died, about whether or not anybody was missing them, about their identity, and some definitely-truthworthy-would-I-lie-to-you-bro-come-on sources insist that the kid was murdered around a year ago, around the time ghosts started showing up. And these rumours obviously reach the ears of Sam, Danny and Tucker.

Now, you would've thought that their first thought would be something like "oh no, they found Danny's body", or "oh no, they know", or even simply "we're sooo fucked". Except. You see, the night they buried the body? It was really cloudy. And dark. And, y'know, it's very easy to get lost in a forest. And they were too high-strung, you see, they completely forgot to leave some sort of a marker or anything. And also like, it was so long ago, you know? A lot have happened, they were sooo busy and the likes, you can't really blame them for forgetting some things.

And here's lies the problem: all three of them just fucking forgot that there was a body left to bury at all.

And then it gets out that the police can't even conduct any sort of DNA test because it became corrupted to the point of being absolutely unrecognisable due to exposure to a large amount of ecto-energy.

It's now looks like a bad set up for a joke: an identifiable body of a child, cause of death unknown; the probable involvement of ghosts or at the very least a very large quantity of ecto-energy; a probable murderer on the loose, which naturally breeds suspicion and speculation; a town full of all kinds of rumours; and a trio of absolute dumbasses, who after hearing that ghosts were involved immediately went to stick their noses where they don't belong.

Rejoice, Amity Park! Sam, Danny and Tucker are now on the case! Except they are all teenagers, and nobody in their right mind will allow teenagers to solve a murder case. Plus, them poking around would be highly suspicious, but Phantom, on the other hand?

(people seeing Phantom helping solve this case and coming to the conclusion that the ghosts were definitely involved was not on their bingo card, but oh well)

They don't go to the cops, obviously: Danny at least in part because he's worried they will call GIW on his ass or try to arrest him, and Sam and Tucker simply because fuck the cops (one because the police is involved in a militaristic, capitalistic corrupted system that breeds injustice and furthers the divide between average people and the wealthy, and the other because cops suck and will probably call GIW on his friend's ass). They also can't go to any other authorities: cops are out of the question, as is the mayor; laboratory personnel will most likely just throw them out; and there're no witnesses or known relatives, so they're stuck.

Therefore they decide that desperate times need desperate measures, and so they enlist all of their ghost allies on a quest, hoping to find the ghost of the kid. Considering the amount of ecto-energy they were subjected to, they MUST have formed a ghost, they only need to find them.

Except. The Ghost Zone is a big place, and they only have so many allies, even if some of them are a queen and a god. So Danny bites the bullet and does the most stupid (debatable) thing he has ever done: he goes to his enemies for help. They're surprisingly understanding and willing to help, even if some of their reasons are a little... strange (Skulker and Johnny entered some sort of competition on who finds the ghost first, Box Ghost starts to seek out coffins (??) and Youngblood is not above to start torturing people to finally have a friend that is not either an adult or a complete stick in the mud). And even then they still can't find the ghost.

In the end Danny goes to Clockwork in a desperate hope that he will be able to glimpse at least a little of what had transpired on the night of the murder, and to Danny's annoyance Clockwork laughs so hard he almost pops a ghost equivalent of a blood vessel.

A few weeks down the line Sam hesitantly brings up Danny's buried corpse ("MY WHAT" "Your corpse which we buried in the woods, Danny, don't you remember?" "Yeah, bro, I think you dissociated the whole time we were digging the hole and carrying your dead body" "WE DID WHAT-"), reasonably saying that, you know, they ALSO technically buried a body in the woods. On that Tucker just shrugs because obviously it was not Danny's body, the place of the burial was way off, he remembers that there was a really big stone to the left of the grave (he doesn't and there wasn't), so they are in the clear. During that exchange Danny's sitting on the floor and having a panic attack, because he really did dissociate the whole time and afterwards legitimately forgot that there was a body to bury at all.

After that conversation all three of them leave with a certainty that Danny's body is still there where they left it, whenever it was. And so the shenanigans continue.

[1stpoliticalcartoons]

“South Dakota Gov. Kristi Noem’s bid for Donald Trump’s VP slot on the Republican ticket blew up in recent days, unless the Trump team grossly underestimates how much Americans love their dogs and other animals.

Ahead of upcoming release of Noem’s new book, “No Going Back: The Truth on What’s Wrong with Politics and How We Move America Forward,” The Guardian news outlet obtained a copy, and the biggest revelation appears not to be what’s wrong with politics, but what’s wrong with Noem.

Noem, who served in the South Dakota House of Representatives and the U.S. House of Representatives prior to becoming governor, is also a hunter. Guardian writer Martin Pengelly reports that Noem writes in the book about her 14-month-old (still a puppy) wirehair pointer named Cricket.

These dogs require vigorous exercise and can be rowdy and highly exuberant when not exercised sufficiently, particularly when young. They need a confident owner.

Cricket was a female with an “aggressive personality” who needed training to hunt pheasant, wrote Noem. So Noem took Cricket out on pheasant run with other older dogs for training. But, young girls just want to have fun. Cricket was “out of her mind with excitement, chasing all those birds and having the time of her life.”

After the outing, which Noem considered ruined by Cricket, she stopped to talk with a local family, and Cricket, apparently not secured in Noem’s truck, escaped and headed for the family’s chickens. Chaos and chicken death ensued. Cricket was just having fun, with no idea of what was about to befall her.

“I hated that dog,” Noem recounts in the book, finding young Cricket “untrainable,” “dangerous to anyone she came in contact with” and “less than worthless … as a hunting dog.” Noem appears to place the blame for that on the dog, not herself.

Summary execution from Noem was near.

After her day of frolicking and joy, Cricket was then led by Noem to a gravel pit where she was executed.

By then, perhaps all fired up to dispatch any creature that didn’t fit Noem’s view of acceptable behavior, Noem shot a male goat she viewed as “nasty and mean,” because it wasn’t castrated (again, whose fault was that?), and who chased the kids and smelled “disgusting, musky, rancid.”

The goat also met his unnecessary fate in the gravel pit, in a story that sounds like the South Dakota version of Tony Soprano.

Since the Guardian story and wide pick-up of the animal executions, Noem has not backed down on her position that the story was an illustration of making “tough, challenging decisions.” Defining the dog as a “working dog,” seems to justify for her the act of putting it down. But the more Noem responds to what the majority of people see as indefensible, the bigger the hole she digs for herself in her own gravel pit.

Death for these animals was the only option in her mind? What about rehoming, sending the dog to training with someone else? How about letting the goat have its own enclosed space and keeping the kids away? Could the goat still be neutered? Would a hose down have helped with its smell?

As a potential VP pick, the concern is that her judgment is this poor. We’ve already endured nearly four years of a president and VP with poor judgment – this country can’t endure more.

Noem’s story reminded me of a friend who said when he was an older teen, he took Halloween candy from the younger children. Even as a grown man, he didn’t seem to recognize that what he had done as a teenager was wrong. He still thought taking candy from kids was funny. And like Noem, he didn’t have any awareness that it was a story you don’t tell other people because it reflects very poorly on him.

Mahatma Gandhi, who used nonviolent resistance in the campaign he led to obtain independence for India from British rule, said, “The greatness of a nation can be judged by the way its animals are treated.” Noem doesn’t pass the sniff test.”

[hollowflight-propaganda]

I love Pheasant so much, because when you compare her to all of her other siblings it really puts into perspective how fucked up they are. You have:

Clay, who was sold to a secret society before he was even born to be part of this prophecy, and then spent his whole childhood underground with three of the worst possible people to entrust with children. Needless to say, it wasn't the best childhood

Reed, who has an inferiority complex due to always feeling like he wasn't doing all he could to protect his siblings, and thinking that things would be better if he was never in charge to begin with. Plus, he very much blames himself for their sister's death

Crane, who is dead

Sora, who the universe must hate, because she was assigned to be roommates with HER SISTER'S KILLER. She tries to kill her, but ends up accidentally killing two other people, and then has to go on the run because of that

Umber, who joins Sora in being a fugitive

Marsh, who got ditched by the last two and is now alone, which isn't helped by the fact that he's already an anxious wreck

And then there's Pheasant. Just chilling

Iconic

[anonymoushouseplantfan]

I am listening to it on audible and am still only half way through but so far have a few thoughts

1. ⁠It is actually very boring

2. ⁠You can feel the treachery, spite, vindictiveness, deceit, victimhood, maliciousness, envy, paranoia, delusion and manipulation in every sentence, Its oozes into my pores and makes me feel unclean just listening to it. I cannot think of a book I have enjoyed less.

3. ⁠The weird and constant mentions of his mum are just bizarre. I understand the tragedy of him losing her so young, but I am sure his reactions to it are not typically normal for what is now a grown man. He is batshit crazy.

4. ⁠He has long gratuitous sections about killing rabbits, deer, pheasants, and talks at length about the blood, gore and disembowelling. It literally made me feel sick.

5. ⁠He has a grandiose sense of self-importance that is utterly delusional.

6. ⁠His constant references to his drug taking are over the top. He acts like it is totally normal. I understand why this plays a part in his autobiography since he seems to have spent so much of his time taking them. But he seems to glorify it with no introspection on the dangers, and revels in spilling all the details with no cares for the people who have loyally tried to cover up for him over the years. Despite the fact he talks about leaking and planting by his family it is obvious how much they have covered for him.

7. ⁠He doesn't seem to give a damn if he destroys the monarchy, and after reading the book that is what I think he is intent on doing. He misses no opportunity to add in any malicious adjectives, unnecessary anecdote, unflattering (and unlikely) quotes about his family and throws shade and blame on to them whenever he can. He comes over as so petty and malicious. You get the sense that he feels that if he can't be king he will blow the whole thing up.

8. ⁠It is abundantly clear he has no real love for his dad, brother, or grandfather from the way he talks about them, and it is questionable that he even loved the queen. He shows no empathy or respect for them and makes them look bad whenever he can. He can talk all he likes about reconciliation but he has burnt every bridge and if he were my son or brother, he would be dead to me. There is no purpose to a reconciliation - if it is not for love then it is for his own self-serving purposes.

9. ⁠When you read the whole book rather than listening to excerpts, some stories fade into insignificance. For example the losing his virginity story is a minor mention in passing. But what you don't get from the excerpts is the whole sense of nastiness pervading every paragraph. Before reading it I really didn't like Harry, but blamed Meghan far more. Never before have a read an autobiography where someone has the chance to write the narrative of their own life in a way that is supposedly flattering, and I have found myself liking them even less, despising them in fact. He is an utterly nasty piece of work......and I am still only half way through the book.

I'm so glad you wrote it up. Thank you.

I think part of the sense of boredom is that the writing gets monotonous after a while. Also, you are immersed inside Harry's head and he really has no empathy for anyone. When I finished the first few chapters, I felt like I was reading one of those 80s anti-hero novels like American Psycho, where you are looking at things from the viewpoint of a sociopath. The way he focuses on the bedroom sheets and the hole in his shoe and even the way he spoke of women ("she was perfect, perfect, perfect") struck as very Patrick Bateman.

I agree as to the nastiness, hence the American Psycho reference above. One of the passages that most struck me was when the Diana Ghost Leopard shows up and his bodyguards are alarmed. He explains that they were alarmed because if the leopard mauled him the headlines would be horrible. It didn't seem to cross his mind that the bodyguards were scared because they did not want him hurt. He only thought of the headlines. That, to me, shows how warped his mindset is.

Ditto on the Diana segments. It feels almost sweet at first because the first chapters of the book deal with his childhood, but then it turns weird really quickly.

I'm surprised not that many people have talked about the hunting gore. It's very striking and, frankly, alien. I know hunters (at least in the US) and I've never heard of any describing the kills like this. It was truly disturbing, and I'm not anti-hunting. It's just that he seemed to enjoy the gore a little too much.

He is very arrogant, particularly for someone who was supposedly raised with an inferiority complex for being a spare.

Drugs seem to be a part of his identity, which surprised me since I'd bought into the "Hero Harry" image. I don't know if that was always the case, or if he bought into the California drug culture when he arrived there, but it's striking.

He does want to destroy the monarchy. That comes across very clearly.

He seems very detached from everyone in his family, and yet passionately attached to the image he has built of his mom (a tabloid-based image!). It's an interesting contrast. He has no empathy for Will's position at all or for his dad's struggles. His family relationships seemed to be stuck at a childhood developmental level--mom is the perfect nurturer, father is all-powerful, and brother is a rival.

It is all very nasty, and I'm surprised someone didn't step in to explain that to him.

[youhideastar]

WujiWatch: CQL Rewatch Episode 17

 The funniest thing about this episode (which is not a funny episode) is Wen Chao waking up after having been drugged, blaming Wei Wuxian, and then—while blowing a gasket about how Wei Wuxian could possibly have gotten into Lotus Pier past all the traps that Wen Chao set—fuming, “What, can he fly or tunnel underground?!” Uh. Yes. Yes. He can fly. So can you. You’re cultivators. He can fucking fly.

(Yeah, I know WWX doesn’t have his sword but at the end of the episode he’s soaring around sans Suibian to catch a pheasant, so…)

Something that’s not funny at all—and something I missed on previous rewatches—is that Wen Ning’s daring rescue of Jiang Cheng and retrieval of Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan’s bodies is aided and abetted by Wen soldiers who are personally loyal to him and Wen Qing. He mentions this twice: once before the rescue, shortly after Wei Wuxian considers taking him hostage, and once at the end of the rescue, when he tells Wei Wuxian that the disciples who are loyal to him are bringing the bodies of Jiang-zongzhu and Yu-furen (bringing the bodies where is an interesting question since they’re clearly not in the boat with Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng, but let’s just assume Wei Wuxian gave them a quick burial).

Those soldiers have to be Dafan Wen, same as the soldier who calls Wen Qing “Qing-guniang” in the inn where she stages a fight with Jiang Cheng – there wouldn’t be any other subset of Wen Ruohan’s soldiers who would have sufficient personal loyalty to Wen Ning and Wen Qing to drug their own comrades and rescue a prisoner from right under Wen Chao’s nose. And through Wen Ning, Wei Wuxian is aware of their efforts on his behalf—indeed, if he gets the bodies from Wen Ning’s accomplices, he’s met them. That’s not going to stop him from massacring Wen soldiers indiscriminately once he comes back from the Burial Mounds. But it sheds a light on why he might feel responsible, not just for Wen Qing and Wen Ning, but for all the Dafan Wen, and why he might be willing to make such terrible sacrifices on their behalf.

[what-the--curtains]

Fire & Ice

Chapter 6 - Dances & Diatribes

(Robb Stark x f!Targaryen!Reader)

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

Summary: Tenuous bridges are built with the arrival of a wedding present from across the Narrow Sea. Bridges that are tested by a visit to the Vale

Authors note: She's Baaaaaaaack (by unpopular demand) Let me know if you want to be untagger I know I've been gone a while!

TW: Fighting, Swearing (maybe?), mentions of blood, hallucinations, alcohol

Taglist: @kittykylax @winxschester @mihrimahsultan03 @stargaryenx @the-desilittle-bird @roselibrary @luxlisbonlover @r1dd1kulus

Word count: 5.1k

Playlist

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

Snow dusts the foliage around you. The quiver hangs on your back, reigns grasped loosely. A hushed barter with a stable boy allowing your escape for a few hours most mornings. ​​The woods are silent this hour. You basque in the quiet knowing the men would soon return from the front. The sky glows copper as the sun rises, blood has been spilled. 

You slow your horse to a walk stopping when tracks appear in the distance. Three pronged digits jut out from a large base, the prints were uncanny, unfamiliar, distorted. The air goes silent as you raise your bow. No birds chirped above, no crunch of the frosted ground beneath you, no wisp of the wind. 

Nothing. Not even the sound of your own breath reached your ears. 

Something is watching you. 

 You turn and a chill shoots down your spine, every hair on your neck lifted. Your heartbeat fills the empty space as cold breath hits your neck. You grab an arrow and drive it backwards, but it falls to the ground imprinting in the snow that dusted the remaining grass, the sound of the forest returning. 

Your hand reaches back again and you fire into the nearby bush pheasants flocking upwards and you shoot two down.

You were spending too much time alone, too much time with your head buried in books full of tales meant to scare children. The chilling legends that had always managed to find themselves lodged in your head.  These occurrences were the last thing you needed, a senseless distraction. 

You prayed Jorah's return with the rest of the men would settle you, though you hesitate to share your visions with him considering your lineage. Unless it progressed further, it was best kept a secret. 

In addition to the sense of comfort you hoped Jorah would provide insight into Talisas departure, you had your suspicions but you weren't one to breathe life into rumour before it was fact. The thoughts are fleeting and they dissipate as you dismount inside the stable. Coming forward to thank the mare for her efforts.

“Thank you for lending her to me, and for your discretion,” you say to the sable haired boy appearing from the shadows of a stall he was cleaning. He smiles, but it drops slightly as footsteps approached. Had it followed you back from the woods? You look over your shoulder to see Robb freshly returned from war, unwashed and bloodied. 

“Fear not, he is not nearly as ferocious as he looks, and he only turns into a wolf on the battlefield” you whisper to the boy who smiles. 

“You ride?” Robb asks, rinsing his hands of blood in a nearby barrel. 

“A long time ago, in another life,” you admit, your wedding gift from Drogo passing through your mind. You hand the saddle to the boy who runs off as quickly as he came. 

“You're working in the stables now, is he sharing his pay with you?” Robb asks. 

“Yes, and you should pay him more, it's hard work. Do not blame him I am very convincing,”

“Seems people find you impossible to refuse,” 

“I can think of at least one person always ready to refuse me,” 

“Your lack of broken neck suggests you ride well, you should take your pick'' Robb states, “save for the white mare, she's mine. ” he relays storking the creature's speckled face, one of his fathers final gifts to him.

“She’s beautiful, do the rest not have owners,” you ask, hanging the pheasant on the wall as the boy leads the horse back into the stable, you hang them on the wall as you wash your hands of the mud. 

‘Four in the back lost their riders, they would do well to have someone keep them in shape, try them, choose your favourite. Did Ser Darrion shoot these?” he asks, before you have time to thank him.

“I shot them, your Grace.” His eyes flit to you then back to the birds “they go to the boy, he takes them to his family, that was part of our deal,” you relay pulling them down off the wall “He wanted nothing of course but I told him to never do anything for free, especially if the person asking is wealthy,” Robb’s laugh catches you off guard 

“Aren’t you angry,” you ask, turning to make sense of the lightness you felt in the conversation. 

“Quite the opposite. You’ll have to teach my youngest sister, Arya when… if we find her,” he relays, stone faced. “She would like you,” he admits. 

“I look forward to meeting her,” 

“His family must be well fed, you're a good shot,”  Robb says, looking the birds over. 

“I've been hunting for a long time your Grace, though Visery didn't think it a very lady-like hobby so naturally…” 

“Well my mother would agree, but if it keeps you out of my hair for a few hours I see it as a benefit to our union,” 

“Did you come here to land an insult or was there something else you needed?” you ask 

“I believe I just paid you a compliment,” he states

“What was your intended purpose here then?” 

“A gift arrived late last night, a wedding present for you,” he says as you re-don your cloak. 

“A compliment, a horse and a gift. Seems a very fortunate day for me. Why haven't you opened it yourself?” You ask, looking down in confusion at his arm extended to you.

“They are not addressed to me” he states, “And we may as well look the part” you link your arm in his and exit the stable. Appearances were crucial now, and any effort on his part at this point seemed miraculous.  “You’ve grown more accustomed to the cold, last I saw you wore three cloaks when you went outside,” 

“We run warm, I just needed some time to adapt,” You explain, though the heat radiating from your arm was welcome as days grew colder. 

“Blood of the dragon, I almost forgot,’ Robb states. 

“Was that a joke your Grace,” you ask looking at him. 

“Was that a compliment?”  he replies, mouth cautiously upturned. 

“I don't recall saying it was funny,” you remark dryly as he pulls the tent flaps open. Perhaps there was a reason his men followed him to death after all, now he was no longer blaming you for his anguish; he was, dare you say it, tolerable.  Your heart skips seeing Darrion inside, and you instinctively drop Robb's arm. 

“Ser Darrion, Ser Jorah,” you address “It does my eyes good to see you both alive and unharmed,” your eyes trail down to the chest before them. 

“Thank you Ser Mormont for delivering this to us, safely and for ensuring it is not tampered with,” Robb states, so Jorah had brought them back. 

“Who are they from?” you ask 

“An Iilyrio Mopatis, you stayed with him a while as a child after the maesters. I told him you were married and he said he had been saving it for the last true dragon,”

“Rheagar was the last true dragon,” you reply, “but I will not refuse a gift from someone who cared for me when the rest of the world would not. I will entrust you with a letter of thanks that is to be delivered to him, I will write it myself,”

“Yes, your Grace,” Jorah replies

“You may leave us,” Robb finishes throwing his gloves down on the desk. Your eyes involuntarily stuck on Ser Darrion as he bows, his own eyes trailing up your body causing a heat to flush throughout your inside. 

“Are you going to open it?” Robb mutters, removing his blood stained linens and rinsing himself with the water from the basin, warmed by the hearth burning beneath it.

“Have you always been so impatient or are you just used to getting what you want?” you prod playfully, looking over your shoulder quickly. 

“I have always been good at getting my own way,” he relays

“Privilege of being the eldest,” you replay, kneeling before the chest on the floor. 

“Topped only by the preference for the youngest,” he counteracts, watching your hands ghost over the box, hesitantly.

“It has been checked, both by Jorah and Darrion, though I can open it if you…” 

“I am fine your Grace, just admiring the craftsmanship, appears to be welded in Dothraki gold,” you click the latches open slowly pushing the wooden lid eyes widening as the contents are revealed. 

“What has he sent?” Robb asks, unable to hide his curiosity, noting the look on your face your hands reach in, pulling out an egg, the size of a man's head, a bright gold. 

“Dragon eggs,” you reply breathlessly, wonderment plastered on your features as your hands trace down the scales, warming them.  “Three of them.”

“All gold?” Robbs queries, watching  you intently as you carefully place the first down on the hearth. 

“No. It’s rare any within a brood are remotely alike,” You lift the other two together, one black and one green reuniting them with the gold on the hearth. 

“Dragon eggs have to be kept warm if you want them to hatch, they cannot survive in the cold and before you start I know they are decorative in a likelihood, but you have your gods and we have ours. To leave them in the cold would be disrespectful,” you explain looking up to meet Robbs own gaze of bewilderment at the mythology placed before him. 

He pulls a clean shirt on and sits down in his chair rolling up his sleeves before decanting wine into a glass, watching curiously as your hands gently stroke the scales of the matte coloured eggs illuminated by the embers.

“I realise now I know nothing about you, or your family or your beliefs. Well apart from what I assume are the most horrifying details and some of which I assume to be less than true,” 

“Whose fault is that?” you counter eyes still on the eggs, hands trailing across them. 

“Must you always be so difficult,”

“Me?” you begin, but when you turn towards an argument he's smiling at the wall, so you forgo it. It was the first time he had asked you a question about yourself, the first time either of you had to be fair.  “Well some of the atrocities are certainly elevated though many I fear to inform you are true. Tell me then, your highness, what it is you wish to know,”

“Is it your highness now? Is that better or worse than your grace,”

“I am only trying to uphold the standard of address you set for me when we first met,” 

“Tell me about the dragons. They were the only part of my lessons I could focus on from what I remember,”

“Oh I find it hard to believe you were anything but the perfect student. Would you like to hear the truths or the myths?” you ask and gently stroking the tops of the eggs, the scales lining the shell shine in the flames, and for a moment you swear you feel them beating.

“Are they different?”

“You have much to learn your Grace,” you replay standing, brushing off the ash from your skirts. 

“Then teach me, perhaps some of your ability to perceive strategy will rub off on me,” 

“As much as it pains me to say, you would survive without me, most of my conclusion are easily found once you know what you're looking at,” 

“Yet none seem to find them,” he replies 

“Was that another compliment? Two in one day, have I strayed into a dream?” you joke  

“Eye for an eye,” he replies, a playfulness playing off you both, previously unknown. 

“Very well, I concede, what would you like to hear about the dragon's your highness”, you ask, curtseying, causing Robb to shake his head. 

“Where did they come from?” he asks as you pour yourself a glass of wine. It was bitter compared to that you'd had in Dorne, but you were growing accustomed to it. 

“Depends on the source. Some say they were born from deep beneath the mountains. When Westeros and Essos parted and the earth cracked open, ash and fire rained down from the sky as dragons crawled out from the centre of the world. Others say they fell from the moon, a gift from the gods,” 

“Why was your family so favoured by the gods,”

“The gods simply placed the dragons on this earth, the Targaryens learnt to train them,”

“How did they manage that?” he continues. 

“My fore-bearers knew of their breeding grounds, before kings and kingdoms existed, before Targaryens and Starks and Lannisters and Baratheons. We lived alongside them in trust until a rule was broken. An egg stolen, dragons devastated bruning the land before them,”

“Creating the red waste,” Robb finishes, enraptured in your words glad for your immersion in tale lest you see his stare, one he could not seem to deter as the warmth of the light illuminated your features drawing him further in. 

“See, the perfect student,” he chuckles, “ Well the dragon went into hiding as the kingdom of men grew, and relationships strained. It became a tradition, a ritual, a rite of passage; it was the entrance into Targearyn lineage. Before the incest and the inbreeding a Targaryean was any who would be bold enough to survives the dragons nest and return with the eggs. Then it became a customary practice of marriage and engagement, and eventually even a gift for children, but populations dwindled. The dragons became few and populations inbred shrinking them making them vulnerable and weak in the mind, an easy correlation perhaps to my own family history,” you admit sadly, swilling your wine around in the glass. “You know, we once rode them to war,”

“I have heard that tale, They said your forefathers would ride to war a back them,”

“It is not merely a tale nor was it only the men. Women rode alongside their husbands; you'll find that in any book you read.”

“Will I,” he challenges 

“Are you calling me a liar,” you press 

“Perhaps I'll believe it if I ever see it, for now the hour grows late, so I must call a truce,” he states, weary from battle, your tales having entranced him into a state of relaxation he rarely felt. 

“I accept,” you reply, placing the glass down, going once more to the eggs to bid them goodnight. Your arm reaches down but they are caught before they make contact. You look up to Robb whose thumb runs gently over your wrist. “You’ll burn your hands beyond repair touching those now…” he drops your wrist, realising the intimacy of the moment “ without gloves at least,” words fail you, but he clears his throat. 

“There is another piece of business that demands a truce,” he admits and you look at him. “ We are stopping at the twins. My grandfather survived another year, he is to celebrate his name day at the Vale, and my mother demands our attendance. I agreed with her on the sole condition that more support is needed if we are to win. While you need not attend, I believe you would be an asset,” 

“Truly,” 

“Yes,” he confirms. 

 “If you believe I will be useful, then we shall attend,” 

“Be warned, since her husband's death my aunt has gone somewhat mad, try not to take offence,”

“Salt helps well with the blisters,” he says, nodding down to your hand “They stop forming once practise with the blade is consistent, they should heal up by the time you meet my grandfather, I do not know what kind of chastising I will get for allowing you near a weapon. Also, it may also be best if you address my by my name when around family,”

“Is your grace giving me permission to forgo his initial request?”

“Robb, is very much indeed asking that of you,” 

“Very well, if your grace demands it, who am I to refuse,” the haze of the wine had seeped into the surrounding air, the whole room slightly out of focus when you blew out the candle and pulled the furs over your shoulders. “Goodnight, Robb,” 

“Goodnight Rhaeanya,” 

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

The Vale

Light blue garments adorned your body, intricate silver clutching around your waistline flowing up into trees and woodland scenery and downwards into roots, starks colours for the night. 

“You look well,” Robb says, offering his arm as you meet him by the base of the stairs. 

“As do you,”  you reply, taking it, you had arrived a few hours ago from the front, Cat had arrived early in the morning.  The ride to Riverrun was silent for the most part, Robb having fallen asleep, saving you the need for unnecessary small talk, less chance of irritating the other. 

“The celebration is due to begin shortly but I will first introduce you to my aunt ,nephew and grandfather,”

“Lysa, Robyn and Hoster,” you list

“Very Good, my Uncles will likely be here as well, The blackfish and Edmure. The former is interesting and the other is relatively useless but harmless.”

“Lots of family, once again my job is much harder than yours. I only had one and that proved so difficult for you to remember you killed him,” you state, relieved by Robb’s huff of amusement.

“Best behaviour, just for Lysa and my grandfather, the rest well they are easier to converse with,” your feet almost trip over one another when you enter the large room, taken aback by the woman sitting high atop a throne nursing what appeared to be an eight year old boy. 

“Lady Arryn,” you curtsey  “I wish to thank you for your hospitality, your home is truly a work of fine craftsmanship, and its upkeep impeccable,”

“The last time I saw a Targaryen here was when I was a few years younger than you, I believed you all dead,” she states, a carelessness that implied neither malice or hatred, neutrality was better than you had expected. 

“We are sturdy folk, hard to be rid of my lady, and my lord. Your son looks well, may I ask his name”

“Robyn,” she replies, the boy looked sickly with large eyes and runny nose perched atop a somewhat frail frame. 

“Robyn Arryn, a gentle name, but a strong one as well. One of good fortune and friendship, it is a name as high as honour one that carries the Tully spirit with the Arryn name,” she smirks. 

“And your name,” she asks

“Rhaeanya, my lady,” 

“Flowing with grace in the common tongue, we shall see if that holds true,” she replies, sushing Robyn who had begun pulling at her hair. 

“I hope it does, my Lady“

“And what of you my beloved nephew come forward you need not stand in her shadow of all places. The king in the north , avenging your father and your uncle against the evils birthed of lannister incest.”

“Thank you aunt, your husband gave his life for my family, that will not be forgotten, but I must see the guest of honour before the festivities begin,”

“He is with your mother, and Edmure no doubt gossiping without me,” 

“It was lovely to meet you lady arryn and you as well lord robyn,” you smile at the boy whose brown eyes stare at you as if you were an apparition. Though your features were likely obscure in the north especially to a boy who hardly left the tower walls. 

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

“Please my lord do not rise on my behalf,” you begin

“Fear not you grace, I am old but I am not dead yet,” 

“You have her likeness, your mothers,” he says sitting down at the dresser, and your heart drops 

“I am glad to encounter one who knew her, though I warn you I may bore you with many questions now we are acquainted,”

“Tales I am happy to share, none find my words interesting these days, not since they were children, and I am always happy to share the past especially with one so full of beauty,”

“I see Robbs charm is not merely a product of the Stark lineage,”

“The Tullys were always less serious my dear,” 

“Where on earth would you get the idea Robb was serious?” you joke opening the door allowing his dressers to enter. 

“Speaking of serious,” Robb interjects, “There are matters I hope to discuss,not tonight grandfather not on your name day but there are things that need seeing to before we depart,”

“Of course, my boy, tomorrow we will discuss before you leave but tonight we celebrate. Rhaeanya, a pleasure to meet you, and what a joyous thing for you to be apart of our family,” 

“It is my greatest joy to have found family here, I thought it lost to me forever,”

“Well you shall have children soon enough, I hope to meet them,” your chest tightens, your throat closing as you swallow your panic, fear of being caught for the fraud you were. Unable to complete what was needed to ensure a war won. 

“Well my aunt only slightly insulted you, and my grandfather seems to want you for a son, so  all in all its going quite well,”

“Had you not prepared me for the breastfeeding that would have thrown me, how old is the boy?”

“Must be nearing 8, and for once you are speechless. I suppose we should make our way down to the festivities am I still presentable,”

“Are you asking if you appear kingly,” 

“Yes,” he replied, his earnestness catching you off guard, you refute the joke sitting behind your teeth and take a step back. You move forward, hands reaching up, his gaze following you as you shift the crown on his head just to the left. 

“It's never quite fit right,” he mutters,

“It fits, and more importantly it suits you, shall we,” you ask. There is a steadiness to him as you enter the hall, despite the eyes and the whispers, the paranoia you felt entering a room was absent in him. You wonder if he felt through your facade. You watch intently as he pulls out your chair waiting for you to sit before taking his place next to you taking up conversation with his grandfather. 

“And you must be the new bride,” a rough voice speaks out. 

“Perhaps the old bride now, but yes, no longer a Targaryen by name,”

“But in appearance, the lineage is unmistakable”

“You must must the Blackfish,”

“Aye your Grace, I see my reputation precedes me, I hope you don’t think too ill of me,”

“Well, hard to pass judgement while rebelling against a kingdom that deemed my entire family an outcast. Perhaps we are more alike than you think,” 

“And how does Westeros compare to Essos,”

“Essos is warmer, the wine is sweeter and it smells less of piss and more of flowers,” you relay, causing the Blackfish to cough into his drink caught off guard. “Apologies my lord, but I assumed you of all people would forgive such low language. Now tell me for I must know, what was he like as a child, I imagine he came out stern faced and serious, shouldering the weight of the world before he knew it,”

“In ways he was, but unlike now it was attributed to an almost unbelievable shyness,”

“Shyness,” you respond, shocked at the revelation. 

“I believe so, but duty always prevailed and he always did what he needed to,”

“Well that what not nearly as fun as I had hoped, nor did it provide me with any such ammunition for teasing,”

“He use to be funny, though now I fear joy may be lost on him, make sure he finds some,” 

“I will try, though I do admit I may not be the best candidates,”

“Well you made me laugh, and that's a victory in itself these days,” he nods his head back and you turn your attention to where your name had just been called

“Rhaeanya, when may I expect a great grandchild, I will be first in my family to see such a sight,” Hoster states loudly, Robb seemingly gone white

“Soon, we hope, I pray everyday” you say, taking Robbs hand in yours. 

“Unfortunately the situation with the Targaryen lineage,” Lysa chimes in from further down the table, “they are mad and rumours say their offspring have been born deformed and scaly, monsters. You should have found better breeding stock for your eldest son, such a fine young man surely others would have been willing,” Lysa shouts loudly, words clear over the crowds clamour, you feel Robbs hand tense as your eyes glaze over. 

“Lysa,” Catlynn warns, but she doesn't let up, and you feel your demeanour shift, cowering inwards at the fear of being found out. An uncharacteristic meekness that caught the attention of another. 

“Your highness,” Ser Darrion interrupts, you release Robbs hand and tune back into the crowd  “may I request a dance with your wife,” 

“It is her decision, though I encourage it. Conversation here has grown tiresome, she has my permission if she wishes to leave,” you feel his eyes on you

“Thank you Ser Darrion. I would be glad to leave the scene,” you state standing from the table and making your way to the floor. 

“Her stock is higher than any I am aware of, she's the only with a true claim to the iron throne, and in addition to that she is invaluable in the war room. She does the work the Lannisters entire counsel cannot. As for scaly children, perhaps you have fallen victim to propaganda dear aunt, ” Robb defends. “A war your father supported,” Lysa fires back

“A war that saw her entire family slaughtered, and would have seen her dead had my father not intervened,”

“Enough, no more of this on my name day, celebrate, the night is young and I am old, I do not wish to spend my last days listening to family squabbles,” 

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

“Apologies for interrupting your conversation,” ser Darrion whispers.  

“Is that what it was, felt more of personal attack from a woman who still breastfeeds her son,” you mutter

“I have missed you,” 

“And what about me is it that you have missed,”

“Every aspect, you face,  your voice, your laugh, your stories,”

“Enough of my stories, I need a few of yours,”

“Anything you request,”

“You have known Robb since childhood”

“I have,” 

“Was he always so… well… him,” you chuckle 

“Yes, but infinitely more reserved. He never danced, hardly laughed, was always shy, and very serious. Keep to himself, drove most of the girls to him of course, man of mystery and all,”

“Is that jealousy I sense in your voice,” you joke 

“I’d like to say I’ve gotten over it,” 

“Oh i'm sure you did just fine,”

“Well I was able to make them laugh, does he make you laugh” the lightness of the conversation shifted. 

“He is my husband,” you reply, hoping to avoid broaching an intimate topic so publicly. 

“If I was your husband I would ensure your happiness,” he whispers  “My hands would never leave you, there would not be a day that went by without my love for you being expressed,” 

“Ser Darrion,” you whisper

“Rhea,” he replies seriously, 

“You forget yourself,” you mutter sternly,  eyes boring into his, resisting every urge in your body. You stare over the shoulder to see Robb staring directly at you grey gaze amber under the light as the music ends

“Thank you Ser Darrion, but you should be on your way,” you reply, and he kisses your hand.

“If you ever wish to leave this behind you need only ask,” he states, and your stomach drops, heart racing.  Your eyes watch as he leaves the floor, ignoring the women walking towards him. 

Your heart flutters, beating up into your ears. Against better judgement you lift your skirt and follow him, but by the time you reach the outer room he’s gone. You walk off into a hallway looking around when you turn to go back you see Robb. Concerned at the look in your eyes during Lysas trade, seeking you out as another olive branch, only to see you following another. He had not been concerned with the dance, not until he saw you rushing out after Darrion.

“What do you think your doing?” he asks

“I… I was… what was I doing with what?” you stutter. 

“Don’t act stupid, we both know you are not,” he relays, and you shift into defensive mode. 

“So you get to go gallivanting around into every whorehouse in Westeros, but I am not allowed to walk in the same direction as a man?”

“I will not have an uncertain heir, I cannot, do you understand,” he states firmly

“Are you jealous,” you ask, echoing back words he had once shouted at you. 

“Of what? I seem to remember getting an earful about making you out to be a fool. You dancing closely, so closely with your guard makes me look foolish. Do you understand that? They will not follow a man they do not respect. If you cannot see that then perhaps I overestimated your intelligence,” he scolds. 

“Do not mock me,” you reply evenly, feeling smaller than you expected

“You do it so easily for yourself in your hypocrisy,” he digs further into you.

“You are being unnecessarily cruel,” you snap. 

“Perhaps you bring it out in me,” he states

“Apologies, your highness have I awoken the dragon,” you shoot back.

“Do not compare to that man,” he states, anger now evident in his features. 

“Then stop acting like him,” you state clearly

“Perhaps if you were not such a spoiled brat…”

“Me?” you laugh, “ I am not the one currently in the throes of a tantrum. You have had everything handed to you since the day you were born, the perfect prince, beloved by his kingdom, adored by all. Well perhaps not so perfect considering your failures of late,” there it was. The dagger behind your teeth sharpened to a point, always ready to strike, always to kill, never willing to only wound. 

“I am well aware of my failures, I know my fathers death , and my sisters' continued torture falls into my hands. So yes I am a failure to them. I need not have a stranger remind me of this,” You feel the truth in his words and guilt washes over you. 

“Tonight by all accounts has been a success. So we will go back inside, we will dance, we will drink, we will stay a night then we shall return to a war I'm failing to win. Join me once you have composed yourself,”

“Robb,” you call and he turns around

“Save it, I do not care to hear anymore from you tonight besides what is owed to my family.”

[mythos321]

The First Character Description for that WoF x Persona AU

Clay of The Diamond Spray Delta

Codename: Joker

Arcana:The Fool

Birth Date: 5005 AS on the Brightest Night

Persona:Possesses The Wild Card ability, which allows him the ability to use multiple different personas. His first Persona however is The Infamous Thief Black Bart(also known by the name C.E.)

Backstory:A kindhearted Mudwing who until recent events lived in The Diamond Spray Delta taking care of his 6 sibs. However, due to recent events, he has been forced to lose everything after a false assault charge issued by some high society skywing.

With assistance from Queen Moorhen he managed to not be given to harsh a sentence and ended up with a one year probation, in which he must also attend a seawing school as part of something called the “Destiny Program” which was created by Queen Coral for currently unknown reasons. His residence is in Cavern Tavern, and is under the guardianship of a Skywing named Kestrel.

On his first day to the school however he discovers an app with a strange symbol upon it, and through it met a strange dragon shrouded in darkness(from what Clay could tell, they seemed to have been a Nightwing hybrid of sorts), who soon “helped” him discover a vast world he never could’ve expected…

Physical Description:though overall physically similar to his non au counterpart, Clay has a slightly more bulky build due to a more stable diet that fit his Mudwing body, apart from that he also wears non prescription glasses in a failed attempt to blend in with the school easier, he also has a slight slouch(he jokingly blames his smaller sibs Umber, Sora, and Marsh for it due to having to always look after them) in spite of that he still is the tallest of his friends

Personality:Although a very different upbringing, Clay is still the same sweetie pie we all know and love, though he has a slightly easier time with academics, it isn’t by much, only really able to handily recall random trivia, and if not quickly reminded can forget strengths and weaknesses of enemies(luckily he has his trusted ca-er, trusted friend Turtle to help him with that!) He however has a slightly more debilitating sense of trust in others, though it usually works out for him still

Goals: To change the hearts of as many people as he possibly can for the betterment of both their victims and themselves with his newfound power. His other goal is to make it through his probation so he can also reunite with his family, though this becomes slightly more difficult for him overtime, he still holds to wanting to be with his family, and clear his name!

Trivia:

-He makes sure to send a notecard to Reed, Crane, Pheasant, Umber, Sora, and Marsh each week, one for each of them, no matter how tired he might he that day

-His first friend when he goes to academy is Princess Tsunami, who soonafter becomes his right hand man in The Phantom Thieves

-He was given the codename Joker by Turtle due to being the trump card of their original group. Clay and Tsunami both pointed out in that case Ace would be a more fitting name, but then they learned about his wild card ability so it worked out anyway, and Turtle pretended he totally knew about that

-as acknowledged by Kestrel herself, he makes a great coffee brew

-don’t even think about trying throw chalk at him, he is disturbingly good at dodging it

-He shares the wildcard ability with not one, but TWO other characters…technically 3

[that-one-enby-ranger]

Experience

Day 4 of Ranger Gathering: Experience

“I think it’ll be a good idea,” King Duncan was saying, “A good chance for you to get familiar with the landscape of the fief so you have some experience here before you really start.”

Baron Arald piped in, “And it’ll be fun.” Duncan, Arald and Horace were sitting in Duncan’s office. Horace had just moved to Castle Araluen to start his new career as a knight. Arald was visiting Duncan for some boring business affairs that Horace didn’t know, but the two seniors had some time off, so Duncan suggested the three of them go on a hunting trip around the fief, posing it as an opportunity for Horace to get familiar with the fief. Horace had a suspicion that the king just wanted to get out of the castle and do something active, and he didn’t blame him.

“I’d be interested in that,” Horace said and Duncan clapped his hands together. 

“Then it’s settled,” he said, “tomorrow we’ll go hunting. We can meet here around midday, get some lunch, and then we’ll go.” Arald and Horace nodded their agreement, showing the king that the plan was all fine with them. They said their farewells to each other, and left Duncan’s office, going off to do their own separate things for the remainder of the day.

← – →

The next day, at midday, Arald and Horace met outside Duncan’s office as they had planned. When Duncan let them enter, they found he already had a meal prepared for them. They ate, engaging in friendly conversation while doing so, collected their gear, and set off for the stables to collect their horses.

They were mostly silent as they followed Duncan to the spot that he said was the best area if you wanted to hunt small prey, which is what they wanted. None of them ever wanted to kill if there was no need to, so they would take the rabbits they were most likely to get and bring them back to the castle kitchens to be used in future meals. 

Duncan stopped the small group when they got to the edge of some trees, leading into a wooded area. 

“We’ll dismount here and carry on through foot,” he said, “the trees are really close together in there and there’s a lot of bushes. It would make too much noise and we’d be too noticeable to any animals.”

“What animals are we talking?” Arald asked.

Duncan shrugged. “Just the normal small prey,” he said. “Rabbits, mainly. A couple birds and pheasants. Maybe a small deer if we get lucky.” Arald nodded, taking in the information. They dismounted from their horses and tied the reins to the closest sturdy looking trees. When Duncan judged the other two were ready, he moved into the trees, moving slowly so they could follow him to the more open area he was planning to go to. 

As they walked, every now and then they would set up a small snare, carefully hiding it behind some leaves. Arald had the good idea of rubbing his hands in some food, and then rubbing his hands on the leaves so that some of the scent would transfer to the leaves and hopefully attract some animals. It wasn’t really something he had tried before, he was just experimenting, but it wouldn’t hurt to try a new method.

When they made it to the area Duncan had originally been talking about, a place that apparently had more game than any other part of the forest, they set up double the amount of traps. When they heard some of the traps go off, one of the three of them would run over to the snare and grab the animal out of it, taking it back to their waiting point to bag it.

At one point when Horace went to clear out a trap, he saw that the rabbit that had been caught in it was still alive. It was badly injured and bleeding out, so if he let it go it wouldn’t survive in the wild. Horace knew that he would have to kill it to put it out of its misery, but he still felt extremely guilty about it. He could kill opponents in the field without a second glance, and skewer anyone with his sword who was a threat to the people he cared about, but seeing a helpless injured rabbi struggling to get out of a trap was an entirely different matter. 

Horace quickly hit the rabbit on the head with the butt of his sword, trying not to think about the fact that the rabbit might had had a family, and could have been trying to get food for them, while him, Arald and Duncan had killed it for their own food source when they already had plenty.

The rabbit stopped squirming and stayed still.

By the end of their trip, the three knights had managed to catch three rabbits, a hare and a couple birds. Duncan and Arald told Horace, who hadn’t been on that many hunting trips that it was a successful one.

“So how was that?” Duncan asked Horace as they rode their horses back to the castle.

“It was fun,” Horace replied, although he was a bit saddened about the rabbit incident, but he waved it aside. 

“The chefs should be happy to see we’ve bought them some more meat for them to use,” Arald said, “In my experience chefs are always happy to have more things to cook.”

“That’s true,” Duncan agreed.

They rode in silence for the rest of the way and Horace thought to himself. The trip had been good for him. It had given him a good layout of the forest surrounding his new home, and it had been fun for him to get out and get some fresh air alongside the kingdom’s two most famous knights. Over all, Horace figured it had been an amazing experience.

Don't like this one very much because I rushing to get it done and pretty much everyone from here on is all going to be rushed to get done. I also hate the moodboard thing but that doesn't matter. Hope you liked it, because I didn't. Now my computer being a bitch and pissing me off so I'm gonna go watch Deadpool and Wolverine finally.

[lambden]

my entry for the latest flash fic challenge was revealed! the image prompt was a grand ballroom and I chose to write this ridiculously silly and also sexual-with-no-actual-smut fic where geralt reluctantly LARPs with jaskier. enjoy!!

2.9K, M, no warnings Also on AO3!

“My lord,” begins Jaskier, tentative but with that ever present edge in his voice that means trouble. Geralt sets down his knife hard. The table shakes but the wine does not spill, and the witcher is glad for this, as his companion would no doubt lunge to clean up the mess. “Is the duck to your liking?”

Geralt hisses, “Stop.”

“Oh? Shall I have the chef executed?” Tearing into his own meal with unabashed glee, Jaskier only pauses to grin at him. “Or shall I call your Knight Commander to send out his men in search of a fine pheasant for your dinner?”

“How about roasted bard instead?”

“Very well.” Jaskier accepts his fate with dignity— and a theatrical gulp and grimace. “If you wish it, sire. I’ll have them bring out the pyre immediately, and you won’t hear even a whimper from me; I consider it an honour to die in service of the best king who ever lived—“

“Jaskier, if you don’t stop, I’ll meditate the rest of the night.”

This threat finally gives Jaskier pause, although Geralt doubts he’ll stop the charade for long. He can’t even really blame the bard for his absurd behaviour; not when this is one of the more absurd situations they’ve been thrust into together. Or, rather, that Geralt has been thrust into while Jaskier has clung to his arm, ready and willing to face any and all shenanigans.

They’re on hour three of the confinement. At dusk, the royal family had taken their finest horses on an overnight journey to the next kingdom over. The official reason for the trip was to oversee the wedding of their eldest princess and a foreign prince. But the real reason is that the paranoid king suspects treasonous conspiring in his court. So in secret he hired Geralt, and told the witcher to guard his throne room overnight. If anyone on their staff tries to break in to peek at valuable documents or switch heirlooms, well— the king will have his traitor. And Geralt gets paid either way, so he couldn’t give less of a fuck.

He had been hesitant to take this job, especially since the royals reached out to him specifically and personally. But their kingdom is relatively small, and as soon as Geralt discovered that he wouldn’t be expected to accompany the nobility on their journey, the contract became irresistible. A royal salary for a job involving very little actual contact with royals. Plus a large dining hall with provided dinner, wine, and a bath and bed for him to use upon their return in the morning.

If only he’d known in advance how much the bard would love it.

For three hours now, Jaskier has been ‘sire’ and ‘milord’ and ‘your Excellency’ing him, to the point where Geralt is contemplating abandoning the throne room altogether. Geralt had scoped out all possible entrances to the monumental room, including secret trapdoors or hidden windows behind paintings. All the while, the bard had eagerly regaled him with a full set that he never asked to hear. Geralt had carefully examined each curtain for potential lurking spies, as Jaskier built a whole fiction about his wise dominion over his epic kingdom. And now that he feels comfortable enough to sit and eat, the bard insists on laying a serviette over his lap and pushing in his chair.

The lukewarm food is still better than they’ve had in weeks, but the duck is a little dry. Geralt reaches for the carafe of red wine from Toussaint, but to his extreme annoyance, he cannot fucking reach it. Embarrassed, Geralt mutters, “Pass the wine.”

The smile twitching at Jaskier’s lips is positively impish. Not for the first time, Geralt wonders if there’s any truth to Yennefer’s theory about Jaskier’s bloodline being touched by the fae. “If I do, will you play along?”

“Ugh.” The doors are unlocked and unguarded, but there’s no one here. The twilight has long faded from the curtains and they still have a long night ahead. Geralt inhales, nose flaring, and then finally caves. “Is that any way to speak to your king?”

Jaskier’s delight almost makes this silly charade worth it. The bard jumps to his feet, bleating out apologies, “I’m so— my— I misspoke, my lord, please forgive me,” and he grabs the pitcher. In an instant, Geralt’s goblet is refilled; the witcher raises a hand to stop him before Jaskier can pour him far too much. As he backs away and sets the carafe down, the chandeliers hanging above their heads twinkle in his bright gaze. “Will that be all, sire?”

“I should order you to go give Roach a sponge bath,” Geralt snorts. Jaskier doesn’t even falter, still standing at attention. “I suppose my options for what I can ask you to do within this throne room are limited.”

“Anything,” says Jaskier, too quickly. Then his pulse picks up, and blotches of pink creep into his cheeks and along his throat. Even if he didn’t mean to voice that aloud, he doesn’t walk it back either. Carefully, the bard folds his hands behind his back, and adds, “Anything you desire, my lord.”

The grandiose, sprawling throne room suddenly seems as small as a closet. Geralt takes a long sip of his wine, and doesn’t remove his gaze from Jaskier as he swallows. The bard twitches as if uncomfortable, but he doesn’t move an inch— he just stands there, blushing, hands behind his back in servitude. Geralt expects him to break the tension between them with a quip, an awkward laugh. Anything.

Back when they first started adventuring together, Geralt dreamt of having the bard like this; but Jaskier was too young, too inexperienced with the world. There were times when he’d angrily shoved his companion up against his wall and covered his mouth, and he had felt Jaskier’s warm breath on his gloved palm and the evidence of his body stirring between them. Other times Geralt had feigned a meditative state as the bard, only a dozen feet away, took himself in hand and moaned over and over. Always the same name. Geralt wonders if Jaskier still gets off thinking about him, or if his lust for the witcher faded as they travelled together.

Jaskier stands, silently awaiting his orders.

“Sit,” Geralt says, his voice unexpectedly thick. At his command, Jaskier retreats to his seat, and nearly collapses into it. “And eat. I want you to finish your plate, first and foremost. I can’t have… my most trusted advisor starving to death.”

Jaskier nods, lifting his fork and knife. His face is still pink. Satisfied, Geralt reaches for his wine, resting his elbow on the table and leaning a little more into his assigned role. The wine is good, and the food, though cooling, is still enjoyable. He makes sure to keep watch on the door, lest anyone come to interrupt their fun. But… the embarrassment that he thought would be too much to handle is nowhere to be found. Instead he finds he enjoys watching Jaskier actually do what he says for once.

As soon as Jaskier’s lips close around his last bite, Geralt rises from his seat at the head of the table. The abrupt scrape of his chair against the floor makes the bard jump, but thankfully he doesn’t choke; he only swallows his food quickly before mimicking the witcher.

Geralt tosses his napkin away, carrying only his goblet and his swords over to the royal throne. He reclines into it without hesitation, spreading his legs and rolling his head back as any real spoiled king would. In his decades, Geralt has seen a hundred nobles drunk on their own power, bloated with wealth even when their kingdoms live in poverty. He summons that same self-importance now, running his hands through his hair to undo his loose braids. It’s easy to mimic a stuck-up king.

It’s harder to maintain his composure when he rolls his chin back down to see Jaskier already staring, standing before him with wide eyes and slightly parted lips. The bard’s frippery fits him well; he looks right at home in this royal court, as he would in any. Geralt tries not to sound too distracted as he asks, “Is there something else, Jaskier?”

“No, my lord,” Jaskier answers. Again he speaks too quickly; again he’s blushing.

Geralt takes pity on him. “Why don’t you play me another of your compositions? I only invite the best bards into my court, you know. And it’s said across the land you’re the very best.”

Now he’s just teasing. Even as Jaskier frantically grabs his lute, he responds with the utmost sincerity, “Thank you, my lord.”

“Despite that witcher you follow around,” jokes Geralt. “Bit of a prick, don’t you think?”

“He is my muse, my lord,” Jaskier says. He strums the first chord of Toss A Coin. “I could no sooner deliver an insult to him than I could deride my own writing abilities, for, indeed, my work had no meaning until I stumbled across the witcher.”

“I doubt that very much. Trained at Oxenfurt, didn’t you?”

As if chastened, Jaskier lowers his head. Geralt knows better— he doesn’t have to see Jaskier’s flushed face to sense his racing pulse. “Yes…”

“And you have connections all across the Continent,” teases Geralt. He’s beginning to understand why Jaskier enjoys this game so much. “Could one witcher really mean so much to a bard as travelled and distinguished as you?”

“Yes,” Jaskier repeats. He lifts his chin; his eyes are bluer than ever. “I would never have travelled anywhere without him— or if so, it wouldn’t have meant anything. And with all the audiences I have had, none have distinguished me from the others as he has. He means everything to me.”

“Ah,” chokes Geralt, unexpectedly affected. “The passion behind your work is clear, then, master bard. You… love this man.”

“Of course,” Jaskier says. He has previously proclaimed his love for Geralt at least dozens of  times: when the witcher let him ride Roach after he twisted an ankle, and again when Lambert had asked why he had come to Kaer Morhen, and sometimes out of nowhere. Why are you staring? Just thinking about how much I love you. Geralt had always interpreted the sentiment as teasing and altogether unserious. It is impossible to avoid taking Jaskier seriously when they’re alone like this, and when damp emotion gathers in his already bright eyes. “Of course I fucking do. Um. Your majesty…?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt begins. Speaking is more difficult now than ever, and he chews his lip before probably landing on the wrong thing to say anyway: “Come kneel before your king.”

“Yes,” breathes the bard, before falling to his knees so hard he must hurt them against the polished, cold floor. Geralt does not let his pain go unnoticed, leaning forward so far out of his throne that the chestplate of his armour touches his thighs. He takes Jaskier’s blushing, bright face in his broad hands, laying his fingers on the man’s temples before kissing him deeply.

Jaskier’s mouth is a revelation. Geralt pulls him up, kissing him all the while— he never wants to break away— and Jaskier follows readily and eagerly. It takes very little work to tug the man up into his lap, and once his thighs bracket Geralt’s lap on the heavy throne, Geralt’s questing fingers sneak up to weave themselves in Jaskier’s short, soft hair.

“Oh,” the bard groans, low and desperate. His head moves with Geralt’s hands; the witcher exposes his neck easily by pulling his hair, and it’s just as easy to duck down and kiss his bare throat above his fancy collar. “The king roleplay really did it for you, huh? Or is this the wine?”

“Not the wine,” Geralt growls, nipping his pulse.

Jaskier actually squeaks, which is delightful and adorable and only encourages Geralt to bite him again. “Right. The throne, then? I can’t say I blame you, witcher dearest; I knew you’d have fun playing pretend with me. You only had to let yourself give in—”

“Far too much talking,” he complains, dragging his fangs over an exposed vein. Even though he obviously doesn’t press hard enough to draw blood, his teeth leave a monstrous pink scrape over Jaskier’s neck. Geralt should probably feel worse about that. His cock throbs inside his armour. “And it’s not your stupid game either.”

“Really? Then pray tell—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt hisses, exasperated. He’s been exasperated for hours now, and even though this isn’t how he expected his irritation to peak, he has no complaints. He reaches for the man’s hips, dragging Jaskier closer on his lap until he can rock their hips together and show him the hard, hot proof of his desire. “It’s you, you fool. Of course it’s you.” Jaskier’s eyes widen; maybe he truly hadn’t known, all these years, that Geralt returned his affections. “Do you really think I’d do all this stupid shit for anyone else?”

Before Jaskier can voice whatever further doubt is on his mind, Geralt kisses him again. This time the bard kisses back instantaneously, with the same passion he carries himself with on stage. Geralt grins into their kisses— until Jaskier does something very clever with his tongue, disrupting his brain processes entirely.

He hadn’t expected much from this contract. He quickly rewrites it in his memory as the best job he ever took.

-

The bard’s clothes are hanging off the arm of the throne when, from out in the hall, the witcher hears a distant creak.

Geralt’s warning is somewhat muffled against Jaskier’s lips, and he doesn’t think the bard would have enough time to hide anyway. He ends up lifting the man with one arm, determinedly ignoring the loud moan that Jaskier releases at that. It’s easy enough to set him down next to the throne; grabbing his swords in time is somewhat more difficult.

As the bard takes cover, Geralt strides over to stand in front of the door. Sure enough, it slides open and the royal family’s seneschal enters. He’s as astonished as could have been expected. “What the fuck are you doing in my lord’s throne room?!”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Geralt growls right back. “I was hired to guard this room, and instructed that no one would come calling. Why didn’t you accompany your king and queen to see their daughter off?”

“My job is to stay here and care for the castle and its staff,” the seneschal insists. A bead of sweat drips down his neck, and he does a poor job of hiding his nerves; even a human could detect his stress. He glances around Geralt at the table laden with half-eaten dinner and half-finished wine, and the curtains drawn shut to avoid watchful gazes from below. Luckily, Jaskier had the smarts to yank his clothing out of sight— and the throne, though perhaps sweaty, is empty as expected. “Perhaps… you could take your leave for the night? We’ve a few empty rooms; you could sleep there.”

Geralt huffs, amused. “And leave the most important room in the palace unguarded.”

“How much has the king offered you?” The seneschal fumbles to find coin, still sweating. “I can pay!”

The tiny snick of his dagger leaving its sheath is almost impossible to hear, but to Geralt’s enhanced senses, it echoes around the room. Before the seneschal can draw his weapon and make his attempt at an assassination, Geralt’s steel blade is up against his throat, pressing him back against the open doorframe. “Not interested.”

-

By the time he returns from the dungeon, Geralt is covered in a thin layer of old dust and new sweat. He’d actually cherish a bath now, although he still won’t have the opportunity until the morning. Even though the seneschal has been secured and is awaiting further judgement, he still needs to maintain his post.

But when he pushes open the doors to the throne room he sees a new king seated atop the throne; although right now, Jaskier looks more like a succubus. His body is entirely bare, and his legs, spread wide open, are an invitation that Geralt eagerly takes. He strides the length of the enormous room in only a few steps, finally coming to kneel before the throne so that he can stare up at his bard.

With a disaffected tone only betrayed by the twinkle in his eyes, Jaskier asks, “Has the threat been disposed of, witcher?”

“He’ll have to wait out the rest of the night in a cell,” Geralt tells him. “Then in the morning his king can hand down his sentence.”

“You’ve done well,” Jaskier murmurs. His hand almost feels like a benediction when it comes down to gently trace the bone in Geralt’s cheek and jaw; the witcher closes his eyes, and Jaskier exhales deep. “You deserve a hefty reward.”

“I have one in mind,” teases Geralt. When he opens his eyes, Jaskier already has a fist around his length, watching the witcher closely. Geralt grins, thrilled, and lunges for his reward.

-

“While the princess and her betrothed were away,

Back at home the king and his lover did play—”

“No.”

“On a cold winter’s night,

Under chandelier light,

A man of such great might

And an arsehole so tight—”

“Jaskier!”

“Hang on, I’ve almost got it! After apprehending a treasonous foe,

And hanging the bastard by his little toe,

The witcher returned to collect his reward,

And entered the throneroom of the great warlord…

The witcher approached him and began to talk;

‘Sire, I much desi-re to ride on your—”

“JASKIER!”

[lordansketil]

listen listen okay people blame prinny for eating too much so everyone else had to keep eating too, but you can move those peas around with your fork, no big deal, it's still better than queen victoria fucking inhaling her food and spitefully laying down her cutlery when you've only had three bites of roast pheasant and no potatoes.

[jotunvali02]

Shogun episode 5

I knew that fucker beat his wife. And not just that. He's the worst.

Yeah, blame it on alcohol, you sorry goddamn asshole. You already have that somber abusive dick's beahavior in you, you prick. That's obvious just by the way you talk to people when you barely step in their house. And I don't fucking care if you regret it to the extent you wanna be killed, you don't fucking deserve such a kind gesture. What you deserve is an endless, violent and painful suffering till you die choking for years on contaminated shit and blood!

Please someone just shove the rotten and full of flies pheasant in that abusive bastard's throat!

Yabushige may be a cruel, honorless and treacherous prick, but be sure that if HE kills you, he'll be my forever heavenly hero.

Since that Toda fucker saved Toranaga's ass, I hope my sexy shogun will at least punish him the most painful and most dishonoring way.

Oh and Toranaga-chan definitely fell in love with Anjin-kun now.

[blackcurlsgreeneyes]

cont; Being the Wallflower //Closed RP

@fidelixcorde continued from this thread~

Just as he’d been surprised to see her at all, Harry was more surprised when Taylor spoke up. She was normally so...unobtrusive, as if she was actively trying to avoid being noticed--but not in a shy or fearful manner. She just wasn’t usually front and center.

But this room she spoke of sounded quite promising. They put a pin in that, and turned next to when; Harry did not blame his fellow Quidditch players for being concerned for their practice schedules, though he could--for once--understand why Hermione was annoyed by it taking priority.

Though, then again, it would be in their best interest not to hinder the teams; any change in routine, and appearance of reduced focus on Quidditch, would no doubt catch Umbridge’s eye or ear.

He zoned back in to find the talk shifting rapidly--Umbridge’s ineptitude, which Taylor apparently knew the truth about loud and clear, and then that somehow brought up one of Luna’s odd conspiracies--and Ginny brought them back to the subject at hand.

Hermione got the names of everyone joining, and Harry did not miss those who hesitated--though they were appeased by Hermione’s testy reminder that this was her, she was not about to risk losing track of such an incriminating document.

Taylor signed last, and Harry smiled at her a bit shyly, before Hermione spoke again. At Taylor’s confirmation she could show them the Room, Hermione nodded. “Perfect,” she beamed. “Perhaps tomorrow, I don’t want to risk curfew when we get back to the castle tonight.”

They wrapped up, the list tucked very safely away in Hermione’s bag, and then headed out. “Well, I think that went quite well,” Hermione said happily as they emerged into the bright sunlight a few moments later. 

“That Zacharias bloke’s a wart,” Ron grumbled, who was glowering after the figure of Smith just discernible in the distance.

“I don’t like him much either,” Hermione agreed, “but he overheard me talking to Ernie and Hannah at the Hufflepuff table and he seemed really interested in coming, so what could I say? But the more people the better really—I mean, Michael Corner and his friends wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t been going out with Ginny—”

Ron, who had been draining the last few drops from his butterbeer, gagged and sprayed butterbeer down his front. “He’s WHAT?” he asked, outraged, his ears now resembling curls of raw beef. “She’s going out with—my sister’s going—what d’you mean, Michael Corner?”

“Well, that’s why he and his friends came, I think—well, they’re obviously interested in learning defense, but if Ginny hadn’t told Michael what was going on—”

“When did this—when did she—?”

“They met at the Yule Ball and they got together at the end of last year,” Hermione said, eyeing him with concern. They had turned into the High Street and she paused outside Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop, where there was a handsome display of pheasant-feather quills in the window. “Hmm... I could do with a new quill.” She turned into the shop.

“But,” Ron protested, following Hermione along a row of quills in copper pots, “I thought Ginny fancied Harry!”

Hermione looked at him rather pityingly and shook her head. “Ginny used to fancy Harry, but she gave up on him months ago. Not that she doesn’t like you, of course,” she added kindly to Harry while she examined a long black-and-gold quill.

Harry blinked, honing back in on the discussion; this information did bring something home to him that until now he had not really registered. “So that’s why she talks now?” he asked Hermione. “She never used to talk in front of me.”

“Exactly,” Hermione confirmed. “Yes, I think I’ll have this one....” She went up to the counter and handed over fifteen Sickles and two Knuts, Ron still breathing down her neck. “Ron,” she went on severely as she turned and trod on his feet, “this is exactly why Ginny hasn’t told you she’s seeing Michael, she knew you’d take it badly. So don’t harp on about it, for heaven’s sake.

“What d’you mean, who’s taking anything badly? I’m not going to harp on about anything...” And Ron proceeded to continue muttering under his breath all the way down the street.

Hermione rolled her eyes at Harry and then glanced at Harry with a half-smile. “But speaking of pairs--I was glad to see Taylor Borelli came. And she’s so eager to help out! I’m looking forward to seeing this Room tomorrow, aren’t you?”

Harry gave his friend a bemused look. “You could go, just the two of you.” Hermione didn’t reply, and he sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll come along. But don’t be like that, ‘Mione, she and I never even spoke again after the Yule Ball. She’s cool, but she’s not bothered one way or the other about me.”

[soranihimawari]

Cinders and Phoenixes

A second piece to this

Warnings: mourning!gojo x healing!reader

Ratings: angst->comfort->fluff

At approximately 1:25am, your body goes missing. You arrive at your secret boyfriend’s door at 1:46am, seen talking to him through a window per a perimeter check. He pulls you inside to talk. You talk until he kisses you closer to 2:22am. Returning his affections, you feel yourself go numb after you notice him calmly whispering an apology as your breathing is softly, deftly going still… it’s a sleeping curse, you realize and you nod. Your eyes roll to the side and see your best friend, now understanding the situation—an incredible view into the void with a wisteria tree waving it’s flowers in the air. A glass bed waits. Last you, you feel your lover’s hand leave your body last as his friend carries you close to 3:00am and the portals close.

You are pronounced dead on arrival in a forged, legal document meant to fool immediate family, friends, and the elders in the sorcerer community. Your time is frozen around you, but you age alongside your friends until you reach your late twenties… your eyes burn and you break free from the glass… the heat is too strong. Something is very wrong, as you catch your breath. You feel we though your heart breaks a little and you realize perhaps the raven haired love is no more.

“Geto…?” His name falls out as the first you question and the wisteria flowers dance around you, the branches try to hug you by proxy of him and you nod understanding that life is not always fair.

And so, you wait for another. A young boy, probably as old as you are as you tally the sun and moon movements, with hair the color of a falling star and eyes that would make the winter scene scape jealous.

It happens suddenly, you know? One day you were eating a few blueberries after hunting a pheasant down in this lovely part of a place you can’t escape when he falls, bloodied from the sky. You wander toward him and see him dazed and a bit confused.

“S-satoru?”

His breath is knocked of him a second time. You haven’t changed much in appearance, sure your hair is longer and your clothes are a little tight here and there, but that’s what happens in this void: the people or things trapped here age, they’re materials do not.

Gasping, he says your name like a question and a relieved sensation washes over him. Helping him sit up, you dust the crushed flowers off his hair.

“Gardenias?” you ask, small smile tugging on your lips.

“Mm,” he sheepishly nods.

“They mean secret love,” you glance at the crushed blossom in your palm. “I’m so sorry.”

“We were angsty teenagers. I wasn’t going to interfere…”

“Thank you.”

You kiss his cheek before offering some blueberries.

“This is a nice part of your technique. How did you find it?”

“Thought of the first place I’d take anyone on a date, whether it’s a platonic one or not.”

“You did good, Gojo Satoru. I’m really impressed.”

He leans on your shoulder before breaking down and through his shaking shoulders and wobbly voice filled with anger and woe, he tells you everything.

And at the end of his odyssey of a tale, you cup his face and dry his tears.

“You are not to blame,” you whisper against his skin. “I saw it too, with the Eye. We couldn’t stop Geto from doing any of it. We were too young and too full of ourselves then.”

“Now I’ll help you best I can before the king of curses makes our lives a living hell,” you smile as you stand up with him.

“And now?”

Three seasons come and go in this imprisoned realm. In that time, you grow closer again to your childhood menace of a friend. He, like you, process the grief, the healing, and in so doing, come the next autumn, you sense he’s being pulled away.

“They’re calling for you to come back,” you notice he’s more translucent now than before.

“Come with me?”

Gojo Satoru is many things, clever is one of them because as the imprisoned box cracks, he steps out confidently with a person Kenjaku recognizes as a cardinal abomination.

You, you smile telling Satoru to watch the clouds a moment and tend to his students…but not before you bellow a stern, “bow to me.”

And Kenjaku obeys against his body’s will. Geto’s corpse bends lower and lower as Kenjaku tries to resist your livid loathing.

“Go possess someone else,” and the order causes all cursed spheres from the last parade to be regurgitated out of the living corpse. This torture continues for as long as it takes for you to draw out a mean looking man with six arms and glowing red eyes. He seems to be amused at how you command special grades.

“The Eye is a terrible burden on a righteous soul,” Sukuna chuckles in the distance turning his heel after muttering something about how things will only become more complicated later.

Months later, or rather, what feels like a lifetime ago, Gojo and you are back in his own apartment. You have an ID card from Jujitsu Tech, except yours says your home city: Kyoto. You are not often paired for missions, but Gojo takes you anyway to keep you busy. Why? Because he’s afraid he sees a little too much similarity between Geto’s spiral as you stand on the precipice of your own… and it’s quite terrifying.

Until one rainy afternoon, Gojo comes in soaking wet and in a moment of crisis and severe blood loss, his lips align with yours. Time freezes a moment and you feel the blood soaked fabric and the iron burns your nostrils slightly. He tells you it’s someone else’s, but you feel the bandages through his shirt and you shake your head.

“I know it’s not,” you nudge his nose with yours. Your hands unzip his jacket and he breathes sharply when he rests his head on your shoulder, his though roll to help you peel the soaked cloth of his jacket off. His bandages over his eyes push up on his forehead before you carefully slide it off when his lips find your jaw.

“Let me have this,” he begs, his voice so tired and hallow.

“Satoru,” you hum before you lazily close your eyes and give in just this once.

Surely, if this was a myth, Geto’s love for you would just be a lovely filled short season. Gojo’s emotional torment over losing so many and gaining one back is a legend spanning generations—it’s almost comical how brightly he burns himself out for the ones he cares to protect. Even more so if they are all like you. The kisses you shared at first were teasing and testing. Currently? They are viscious and horrendously passionate.

“Mmf,” he presses himself against your hold on him when you triumphantly lean into him more. He’s warm, a little too warm when you leave his kiss bruised lips alone.

“Satoru,” you warn when his hands press into the small of your back. “You have a fever.”

Your breath cools his flushed cheeks and he nods. He relents, but he does let you go.

“We can talk about this later, ok?”

You bring an open palm of his to your cheek before you press a kiss inside the palm. He nods and right before he leaves you in the entrance of the hallway, the strongest hears your voice and he turns to you in a forlorn and lovely way.

“I already lost Geto, don’t want to lose you either,” you say what his expression means. “Go get cleaned up. Your dinner is in the microwave, just heat it up if you want.”

You are in a limbo with him. Yes, he loves you, and you, your heart moves with his. Did it have to take the loss of many to come here? Surely not, but his hands wrap around you every night and you hold him together best you can, quietly cutting the demons tethers around him so he sleeps easier. His insomniac drives grow low because of your help. Gojo Satoru is always talked and spoken highly of, yet he is the most vulnerable he ever is in this sense of home with you, it spells trouble for later on.

For now, for now in the cold December morning, you wrap your arms around him. He chuckles asking what you’re doing up before six:

“I needed you, the bed was empty after…”

“After you and I got out our frustrations?”

You give him a look.

“Sweetness, that was …,” he whistles low.

“Oh, I know,” you laugh before pressing your forehead against his shoulder blades.

Silence hangs itself in the room and he continues to make another cup of tea after offering you some.

Satoru turns to you, both still half dressed, his shirt on your body, his sweatpants on his waist. He slides the mug down down a minute before lifting you up and on to the counter top.

“Is it betrayal if I kiss you?” You ask sipping your tea. He scratches his chin before kissing you lightly. Eyes, all six of them, look at your love bitten skin, your third eye does the same on him. His chest has scars to can’t even remotely fathom and when you press a finger or two on the one nearest his sternum, he stutters a breath.

“No,” he murmurs. “It’s not.”

“How many people can say they had two great loves in their lives, hmm,” sips tea with a smile. Satoru smirks too as he drinks his hot tea.

“Want to visit Suguru?” His voice is eerily calm. “His family mausoleum isn’t that far from his home town.”

You see the doubt and the embers of how this relationship morphs as it was born out of grief and needing to feel loved, so you chose to quell his fears.

“Gojo Satoru,” you place the mug back down to hold one of his hands and the other, you use to guide his face downward to look you in the eyes. “I may have loved Suguru, but I am in love with the man who’s lost so much more.”

You kiss his brow. “You can’t compare apples to oranges because to be fair, I love both equally and differently. It took me an extraneous amount of time to recover in a spiritual sense, but you? You never did…”

“But i—”

“Not done, Satoru,” you say firm in tone. “But you did your best with what life threw at you; at him; at us.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he catches your tear drops in his finger tips. He whispers praises and hymnals is your words. Palaces built on a shaky foundation is bound to fall, yet for him and you, your healing together forges a stronger fill for the cracks. Your lips fit against his when he leans forward, understanding that this is ok too. You break for a moment and rest your forehead against his.

“It’s alright,” you reassure him. “You’re afraid?”

Gojo scoffs before cupping your hair and drawing you near, kissing your neck innocently enough. You laugh, and he does too after cheering your glasses together.

Peace, though in its swiftly fading light, christens over two silhouettes yearning for the answers to the other’s loneliness. And though sorrow drove you apart, your feet and by proxy his, led him to you. So you sing to his exhausted bones a lullaby to appease his fears and even the phantasms of his mind obey your call. Each word soothes him, every touch sends his soul to the Elysian fields where good and morally gray warriors rest. You wonder what he sees that makes him cry so beautifully, you don’t press further until you ask his consent to kiss him in more effective ways. A solar flare seeks the dark as does you to Gojo Satoru who uses this fugue state of his to fall madly, deeply, devoted to you.

“Beware the Eye of the storm: there is silence and resolve; a resiliency most revered,” Geto’s sixteen year old self reads from a shelf. His best friend, shakes his head and in his hands, a gardenia drawing he doodled earlier.

The white haired young lad looked up at his rival of a best friend and chuckled saying, “We should ask yn if that’s true or something the elders made up to scare us?”

The memory remains locked in the minds of those that were there in the library’s restricted section that afternoon. Even now when two lovers are pressed against the other in a dawning sunrise.

[maigo-san]

Before Kyoujurou became a Hashira, he would ask himself why he didn't grieve his mother.

Was it because he was ashamed of crying? Was it because he was afraid to do so?

Time seemed to move on and slowly the questions drifted like dry twigs washing down the Tama River.

One thing for sure, though, he hadn't changed.

Because he told himself that it was fine to not mourn his mother as long as he kept his promise to her.

Even Senjurou, who barely remembered Mother, became quieter and more anxious. Kyoujurou would cross it as a flow-on effect to Father's change in demeanor. Still, sometimes Kyoujurou could see it in his eyes, especially during the rare times they went out or when Kyoujurou, who was off-duty, picked him up from school and they would pass other parents picking up their children.

He waited as Senjurou just... watched his friends running to their mothers.

He couldn't blame it on them either.

But sometimes he wished Senjurou weren't as affected as them Father.

Like himself! He was still as happy optimistic. Still as loud. Still as hard-working as before.

He knew, Mother would be so proud of him.

No, Kyoujurou did didn't change.

.

.

Sitting in the lower rank, he used to think there were supposed to be a lot of missions. He was aiming to be a Hashira, afterall.

He had even sent Oyakata-sama letters about it. He had a trace of memory where Oyakata-sama's scar had not reached his left eye and Father took them with their best dresses to a banquet with the Ubuyashikis and they'd met before. The young man smiled at him.

But Kyoujurou still introduced himself through letters and to the previous Oyakata-sama's youngest daughters or Kagaya-sama's sisters during Final Selection.

Yet... every mission seemed to end too soon.

I need a stronger challenge.

I need a more elaborate mission.

I need to go somewhere farther than the capital.

Kyoujurou thought as he paced around the spacious halls of his home.

He stopped as his stomach growled.

Senjurou was supposed to be home by now and Kyoujurou agreed to not pick him up because he was packing.

Not that Kyoujurou needed to wait for his brother if he wanted to eat lunch sooner, but they had always eaten lunch at home together.

He decided to prepare the rice and side dishes. Dried fish and stir-fried green beans.

(Fume-obaasan from two blocks away, who was thankful to the Rengokus for their continuous contribution to protecting the neighborhood, had been the one who prepared their food from lunch to dinner every single day until Kyoujurou was 18. As both Kyoujurou and Senjurou were too young to use the kitchen and because Father had fired all the servants except Kakehashi-san who would clean the house and do the laundry and then come back home as soon as the sun reached its peak.)

Kyoujurou bit the tip of his thumb as he stared at the scrumptious food on the tray. He decided against eating them right away as he wanted to eat lunch with Senjurou.

He knew he'd already miss it in a few days.

He trained as he waited, rehearsing all nine Flame Breathing techniques. He didn't know how long he repeated the same move but his eyes started to shift to the other side of their yard.

Cascaded by the keyaki tree, was Mother's flower corner.

Shrubs of hydrangea, chrysanthemum, and whatnot. Kyoujurou didn't know all the names but they sure were pretty.

Bordered with heavy stones, the soil seemed dark and fluffy.

The wind blew cool air and Kyoujurou dropped his wooden sword, slowly sauntering along the dry dirt and entering the grassy area. Each step fitted into bald trails, that were sized like his zori, to the front of the sweet-smelling "altar".

Father had stopped caring about a single thing, but he had paid Kakehashi-san good money to keep this corner healthy and well-taken care of.

Kyoujurou was sure of it as Father wouldn't know how to garden or would be stable enough to learn and keep doing it for a pretty long time.

Kyoujurou sat on the thinly trimmed grass floor.

He reached for a red pheasant's eye, careful not to clumsily pluck the fragile head.

He closed his eyes.

As zephyr caressed his hair and stung his ears with the after silence, Kyoujurou let himself fall to the side.

He curled both legs, just slightly, and let his hair cushion the ticklish yellow grass.

When the wind rustled the leaves, Kyoujurou breathed out with it.

The hand that cupped the bud fell mid air, reaching into nothing.

But he could feel it somehow, from the tip of his fingers to the top of every standing hair on his skin.

He could stay there forever, melting into the yellow bed. His hair was already incognito.

Mother would laugh at that, he thought.

The wind chortled, sending wispy petals of blues and whites. Kyoujurou could feel them, on the surface of his uniform, like delicate frail fingers tickling his shoulder and hip.

A memory swam behind his lid. Of mother brushing fallen leaves off of him, then taking one and fiddling it under Kyoujurou's nostrils.

Kyoujurou continued to lay there, even as the sun shifted and pushed the shadow further from Kyoujurou's face.

But Kyoujurou didn't mind, as the heat seeped into his being. He pulled his hand back, letting it fall to the side of his face.

Just like this Kyoujurou wished he could melt, into the apparition of his Mother's embrace.

.

.

Kyoujurou didn't grieve the way Father did, but having the time to lay there for a while was enough for him.

He couldn't cry. But he would find dark stains on the dry dirt when he woke from the not-nap.

It took him until he became a Hashira and he couldn't do all the things he could do before to admit that he had been grieving Mother, just in his own way, and even as he told himself he was not that obtuse he knew he had been...

Protecting and protecting himself from his own thoughts.

That afternoon, he crumpled the letter he had finished writing to Oyakata-sama, throwing them in the trash.

During lunch, Senjurou glanced shyly at him. Kyoujurou was sure, at some point Senjurou knew what he had been doing because it was not the first time he had found Kyoujurou lying in their yard, unmoving, and it always concerned him even after seeing Kyoujurou acting as usual.

So, Kyoujurou had to pry the words out of him.

He ended up asking if Kyoujurou had gotten ready and if he was really going up north with the other big boys?

The previous stress he didn't even know was feeling, came back like a sore in the neck.

For several days, he had been hiding his frustration. Planning and unplanning to travel to Noboriretsu. He was tagging several Tsuchinoe-ranked demon slayers, some he had never met before and hadn't even told his superior about it.

No, he planned to tell his superior after he hopped on that train.

But then, as he stared at his brother's solemn face, he realized that the stress had melted.

Kyoujurou exhaled before smiling wide, shaking his head.

"No, I'm staying for dinner."

.

.

Kyoujurou didn't need to change.