#but it would be easier to tolerate it if i could at least sing along)

[edwardshundredyearoldspunk]

I hate visiting my grandma because her house is so noisy I legitimately want to cry because it's either use my headphones that hurt my ears or live with the constant noise of the stereo

[kbandtrash]

Black Eye (Vernon x Reader)

~Rachel~

Masterlist

I actually finished this at least a month and a half ago but I couldn't decide if I was really done with it or not so yeah

Content: angst, hurt/comfort but unresolved, feelings of abandonment, mention of death of a parent

Word count: 1.8k

“I could have driven. I got my license before you did.”

“You’ve gotta stop rubbing that in my face,” Vernon said, rolling his eyes. “At least I actually tolerate driving.”

“I don’t mind it so much anymore. I found out that driving is a lot easier when you don’t live here.”

“Sorry you had to come back.” 

“Sorry you had to stay.”

He pushed your shoulder so you would lean back into your seat. The roads were angled terribly at this particular intersection, and this brought back memories of learning to drive and almost getting hit because it was impossible to see. At least tonight it was late and nobody was around to blind you with their headlights.

“Why did you come back?” he asked once he had cleared the intersection. “I know it wasn’t to pay your respects.”

You let out a cold “ha.” “You just want to hear me say it.”

“Maybe I’ll actually believe it if you do.”

He wasn’t the one who had changed between the two of you. You had to remind yourself that you were the one who was different now, that this version of him was the one that had always existed.

“I came back for you.” You let it hang in the air for a moment while you tried to figure out how to phrase what you wanted to say next. “Unless things have changed since I left, I didn’t think anyone else would want to be there for you.”

His expression darkened. Whether he realized he was doing it or not, he started speeding up. “Then why did you leave in the first place?”

“If I hadn’t left when I did, I would have been stuck here forever,” you said sharply. “I wanted you to come with me.”

“Whatever,” he scoffed under his breath, reaching over to the volume dial on his radio. The sudden wave of sound that blasted from the speakers made you flinch, but you didn’t try and stop him.

Of course he felt betrayed. There wasn’t anything you could do about it now, but there wasn’t anything you would have done differently then, either. You had your reasons, and he had his, too.

You didn’t know any of the songs on the radio; you didn’t try to sing along, not that you would have felt like it, anyway. You watched the road instead, and you let yourself remember all the reasons you never wanted to come back. If there were good memories, the only reason they were good was because of who you made them with.

You were glad you were beyond it all and you would never go back, but you wished he could have been with you on your journey. After all this time, it was hard to see him still in the same place.

Instead of the mom and pop diner you had agreed to go to, he surprised you by pulling into the gravel parking lot of an old haunt of yours—a little secluded spot out in the natural outskirts of the town. You must have been too lost in thought to take notice of where he was going.

“I packed food in the trunk,” he admitted in response to your wary expression. He cast his eyes downward shyly in as much of an apology as he was ready to give. “I guess I just…I didn’t want to share you tonight.”

His heart hadn’t changed, either.

Despite the less-than-cordial beginning to your night, you smiled, similarly not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t want to be shared, anyway.”

You met him at the back of the car. He handed you some blankets to carry while he stacked the food in his arms. You hoped his food selection was meant to be nostalgic, but even if it wasn’t, it still made you crack a smile. Grocery store deli fried chicken and baked goods, complete with a cheap loaf of French bread. Nothing different from the snacks you used to eat here.

“My trunk is going to smell like fried chicken for a month,” he complained jokingly as you walked over to your spot. You were a few steps ahead of him.

It wasn’t a particularly wooded area, but a few trees and a steep little path down to a creek sheltered you from the road. As far as you knew, this was private land, but the owners hadn’t built a fence, but rather set up a little fire pit and some benches, so you didn’t feel like you were necessarily trespassing.

“That’s a good memory for a month, though, isn’t it?” you replied, looking back over your shoulder at him. 

He took a few big steps to catch up to you and bump your elbow. “Depends on how the rest of the night goes.”

You set the snacks and the blankets on one of the benches and set out for some tinder to start a fire. It wasn’t quite cold yet, but if you didn’t start something now, you would regret it soon. 

“I left the lighter in the car,” he said, standing up and brushing his knees off.

“Okay, be safe,” you responded as he jogged back up the incline.

“No, I think I’ll be dangerous instead,” he called back.

You snorted. “Alright, then, as you will.”

After a while of chatting and laughing and playing musical chairs with the smoke off the fire, Vernon became quiet. He seemed to be a little lost in his own thoughts as he stared at the chicken bones you had thrown into the fire.

It was just like old times and completely different at the same time. While it felt like no time had passed between the two of you, like you were still in high school yesterday, there was an unspoken fissure between the two of you. 

He finally sighed and unfolded a blanket. You glanced up at him just as he wrapped it around your shoulders. 

“I don’t blame you for getting out of here when you could,” he admitted. “I don’t blame you for leaving and starting over somewhere else.”

You watched him as he looked anywhere but at you. “But you blame me for something.”

You wanted to look away now, but it was hard to give him the privacy he wanted when his face was screwing up like that.

“For leaving me alone.” 

His voice broke and he turned away, hiding his face from you. If you tried to comfort him, it would either feel like you were denying responsibility for the way he felt or that you were being insincere in your acceptance. In all your years together, you had never quite figured out how to tell him that you were sorry.

“And I keep trying to get over it,” he continued in your silence, “but I guess I just always thought we could be together no matter what. Even after we stopped talking, there’s always some part of me that thinks you’re still here.” He sniffed and wiped his face with his wrist.

“We were supposed to stay together,” you said, finally able to tear your eyes away and back to the fire. “It felt wrong leaving and going to school without you.”

“I don’t think I believed it would really happen,” he agreed, sniffing again. “I even helped you pack all of your stuff into your car, and I still thought that nothing would change.”

“Honestly, me too.” You twisted your hands in your lap. “I don’t think it set in until I got back here last night, how much time had passed and how different our lives would be.”

“Is that why we’ve had like two conversations since you left? Time just flew by like that?” Bitterness was seeping back into his tone.

In fact, that was the truth. Days turned into weeks turned into months turned into years, and you had barely noticed. Reinventing yourself was something that had taken all of your time and energy, leaving you none to remember your only childhood friend. If only he had that chance, too.

He didn’t want to hear that, though, and you didn’t want to say it. All of your apologies, one after the other, couldn’t possibly sound sincere. He deserved so much better than the life he had been dealt, and you felt like you were part of what he deserved better than.

“I thought maybe it was because you hated me,” he said when you didn’t answer. “Finally got the chance to ditch me and you took it.”

The air left your lungs like you had been hit in the stomach. 

You wanted to tell him that that couldn’t be further from the truth. The town? Your life there? All of that was what you wanted to leave behind. Never him.

You finally brought yourself to look at him again, although he was blurry through the tears you were holding back. He was staring at you, waiting for a reaction. You could have sworn his cheeks were shining, too.

“I think I hated you for a while, too.” Once he had gauged your reaction, he looked away from you like it was painful to meet your eyes. “But I can’t do that. You never did anything wrong.”

“I left you behind,” you finally spoke up, coming back to the beginning of the conversation. “It doesn’t matter how much I didn’t want to, I still left you alone without hardly a word.”

He didn’t interrupt you or have anything to say this time.

“You were the most important thing in my life, and I just let you go. Why can’t you blame me for that?”

“Because I probably would have done the same thing, and…” He buried his face in his hands, and you could barely make out what he said next. “I really wish we could be together.”

So did you. If you could have stolen him and taken him with you, you would have.

“I have to stay now, though, now that Dad’s gone, I know Mom won’t be able to take care of Sofia by herself. I can’t leave.” He looked back at you again. “And I would never make you stay.”

You couldn’t help it anymore. Moving the half inch you needed, you wrapped your arms around him and let him hide his face in your shoulder as you both really started to cry.

He had missed his chance to start his own life, and you had both missed your chance to be something.

[i-was-bored-so-this-happened]

Greensleeves Chapter Twenty-One: Nothing But The Water

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Warnings: Canon-typical violence, consequences of alcohol consumption [poor Wyll] Wordcount: 4.3k

The party must make their decision on where to go next. While looking for ways into the Underdark, they explore the wetlands which are more dangerous than they know

Read on AO3 Previous Chapter | Next Chapter Writing Masterpost

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The softly glowing reprieve of the morning is short-lived. The tieflings have to move on and the party has to decide on their next moves, which depend entirely on whatever Halsin is going to tell them. He waits until they’re gathered in their breakfast circle. Shadowheart skins and cuts up pears to give to Lae’zel before the others can claim them. Xaph cuts slices of bread and sets them on Karlach’s open palms to toast, flipping them over to make sure they’re even before passing the crunchy slices to Gale to butter and make toasted sandwiches of. Astarion begrudgingly flings leftovers of uncooked venison to the animals and the owlbear starts to copy Scratch’s trick of sitting neat and proper before every shred of meat is given. Wyll is on his second bottle of Baldur’s Grape, but at least he’s not mean with it. 

“It may be some time before you are afforded another such night,” is Halsin’s opener, “There is much to be done, and I promised I would help you however I could. I’m certain a cure can be found for you at Moonrise Towers, but it’s…complicated. The journey specifically, it’s extremely perilous. Though it seems you’re all well accustomed to navigating danger.”

“Suppose it was too much to hope we could be cured here and now.” Shadowheart sighs, passing the prepared fruit to Lae’zel. Pears, the githyanki had admitted at some point, were an enjoyable fruit. Shadowheart made a point of aiding her in snatching them away from the others after that as a peace offering. 

“What’s the danger, Halsin?” Gale asks. It’s a mistake to take his eyes off Karlach, which he soon learns as he whips his hand away from hers with singed fingertips.

“Sorry.” Karlach cringes as the wizard flaps his hand. Gale insists it’s fine, only his own foolishness, but Karlach’s tail shows her guilt and nerves. Halsin doesn’t hesitate to take Gale’s hand and breathe healing words over his burnt fingers before he answers his question,

“To get to the Towers, you’ll need to pass through a terrible place. A cursed place. This curse shrouds everything in shadow - you will not find life, light or anything natural there. Any who linger are twisted by the curse; they become shadow beings. Tormented, dangerous souls.” As expected, his explanation dampens the content mood of the party. Unexpected, however, is the steeliness he’s met with from all angles.

“So we find a way through,” Xaph replies, “Do you know of any clear routes?”

“You could go overland - along the Risen Road or through the mountains. Easier at first, but you’ll run into the shadow curse eventually-”

“The creche is among those mountains. That should be our route.” Lae’zel states firmly.

“Do let him finish his sentence.” Astarion tells her.

“-You could also go under. There is a tunnel somewhere in the ruined temple of Selune. It leads to Moonrise through the Underdark.”

“That’ll be how they’re getting all those people through undetected,” Wyll says, and his words show how much he’s drunk. He’s young and human and he doesn’t have the same tolerance as most of the others without drinking at breakfast, but he has a point, “A trafficking route.”

“That is what I believe,” Halsin agrees, “Long ago, a man called Ketheric Thorm built a secret stronghold deep down there, before rallying a whole army of Dark Justiciars. Shar worshippers.”

“Dark Justiciars?” Shadowheart echoes, “I must see for myself.”

“And at this juncture, I would like to remind you that the temple is still full of very angry goblins who want to kill us all and may well have sent word to gather Absolutist reinforcements.” Gale points out.

“Aradin and his lot were looking for a way down there. They were promised riches if they retrieved a relic called the Nightsong, but I think there’s more to it. From this stronghold, Ketheric’s forces could access both the temple of Selune and Moonrise Towers, but he was defeated before he could launch an attack. If you can find this place, I’ll wager it will reveal a more direct path to Moonrise Towers, and may even bypass the worst of the shadow curse.”

“Sorry, big guy, circling back,” Karlach cuts in, “Temple might not be the smartest move. There are other ways down under, right?”

“Most likely there are, but none that I know of.” Halsin says. His head turns to follow Xaph when she gets up and goes into her tent.

“Shar’s worshippers would aid me in my mission,” Shadowheart tells the others, “We must meet with them.”

“We must go to the creche. That is where our cure lies. This…cult may be based at Moonrise Towers, but only the zaith’isk offers certain and complete cleansing,” Lae’zel states, “I will not have us move on to the Underdark - or anywhere else - before we attend to the creche.”

“We will go to the creche, Lae’zel.�� Gale replies.

“I-”

“We swore we would,” he keeps talking over Shadowheart, “When we met you. It would be a poor show for us to go back on that promise. Besides,” the next part is said with a very direct look at the Sharran, “Who are we to say that the people who have been battling mindflayers for centuries haven’t developed a way to extract the tadpoles?”

“To keep to your word would be the honourable path, even if you have elected to travel through the Underdark.” Halsin points out.

“You’re going to make us vote on it, aren’t you?” Astarion asks, rolling his eyes in Gale’s direction.

“It’s the best way to ensure the decision is made fairly, allowing disagreeing parties to air their grievances-”

“I would kill to hear you answer a question with one word.”

Xaph returns to the party with their map of the surrounding area. The party map is thoroughly marked and creased to the point of fading along the lines where it folds. Small red stamps make three new marks that none of the party have seen before. None but her.

“I have a lead. On a way through the Underdark,” she admits, “Raphael paid me a visit last night.”

“Oh, that’s why you wanted to get sloshed. Not because-”

“Astarion.”

“Alright.”

“He wouldn’t tell me much, but he marked out these areas and said I should consider each for my path forward. Now I understand that they must be ways down,” Xaph walks her fingers across the map to the first of the marks, the one furthest west, “This is in the wetlands, past the forest.”

“Where Ethel lives,” Halsin adds, “She may be able to point you in the right direction.”

“This one,” Xaph continues, moving on to the next mark, “Is in the blighted village. We’re not going there.”

“Why not?” Shadowheart asks.

“It’s the one he recommended personally. That’s enough of a deterrent to me.”

“Me too,” Shadowheart agrees, “And the third?”

“In Waukeen’s Rest. It’s the same place Rugan marked out as the Zhentarim hideout, and knowing them they probably have a supply route through the Underdark. It would most likely be the safest, and the Zhent owe us.”

“What did you trade for this information?” Wyll asks.

“He owed me payment on my last job.” Xaph answers.

“We know it takes less than a tenday to get from here to here,” Gale draws a line across the map with his finger, “If we bypass the goblin camp and the village.”

“Which we’re doing, yeah?” Karlach checks that everyone nods. Shadowheart only does so reluctantly, but her disgust of returning to the Selunite temple wins out.

“If you’re willing, Lae’zel, we can cross the wetlands to speak to Ethel and secure one path should the deal with the criminal gang fall through and then proceed to the creche.”

“If you insist,” Lae’zel nods. The simple sentence shows - if not her trust in them - that she might actually like them, “But I will not tolerate any further delays.”

“It seems, then, that our fates are aligned,” Halsin rejoins the conversation, “I have long sought to return to Moonrise Towers. I would join your camp, if you will have me.”

“What of the grove?” Wyll asks, leaning a little too far forward and spilling his wine.

“Okay, honey, I think that’s enough of that.” Karlach manages to snatch up the bottle before Wyll can grab it, and Xaph pushes a bowl of food into his empty hand as substitute. 

“I’ve chosen a successor as First Druid. Francesca of the High Forest. A bird’s already been dispatched to summon her.”

“Then we’re to leave this place behind.” Shadowheart states.

“Can’t say I’ll miss it,” Astarion says, “The flies. The mud. Eugh.”

“We’re going further into the wilderness, you realise.” Their cleric points out.

“Worse than simple wilderness. As I said, there’s no avoiding the shadow curse.” Halsin adds. 

“You’re really not selling this to us, druid.”

***

Almost half of Elient has passed. The Autumn Equinox will mark a month since this party had fallen from the sky. They should have become mindflayers within seven days, according to the gruesomely detailed description Gale had given them that first day. They’ve outlived Halsin’s estimations. The strange beings who visit them in their dreams have been oddly quiet except to encourage them to accept further illithid influence and let the worms they’ve collected from so-called True Souls make homes in their skulls. All they know is that they’re protected. Remnants of summer’s warmth still sit over the wetlands, making Xaph gather her hair up off the back of her neck and Wyll fold up his sleeves. Shadowheart should be sweating her metaphorical balls off under all that hair and all that armour, but she’s resolute. The wetlands are beautiful, maybe even more so than the surrounding forest, with fragrant marsh flowers and helpful boards of wood to cross deeper sections of water. Roughly a dozen sheep wander freely. Halsin hadn’t mentioned any shepherds in the area. Only Ethel. They can’t even ask him about it, he’d returned to the grove to wait for Francesca and taken the animals with him.

A twig snaps underfoot and the smell of mud slowly baking under the sun morphs into something far more unpleasant that Xaph can’t identify. Another twig, and the smell gets worse. Xaph swats at the back of her neck even though she knows the feeling tickling there isn’t a fly. There’s a picnic basket a few steps away. There’s something wrong here. Something deeply, disconcertingly wrong.

“Stop.” She reaches for the nearest shoulder to stop her closest companion from moving. Shadowheart. Lae’zel or Astarion would have snapped her hand off at the wrist, but Shadowheart lets it slide. Acrid, that’s the word she wants for what she’s smelling. The bitter bite of a room left alone for too long with too many bugs in it. 

“What is it?” Shadowheart’s eyes are round with concern.

“I don’t know,” Xaph answers, “Do you feel like you’re being watched?” she asks. Then she remembers who she’s travelling with, helped along by an eye roll from Astarion, “More than usual?”

“Well…yes, I suppose I do, but I was blaming the sheep.” Shadowheart tells her.

“For pity’s sake, don’t tell us you’re afraid of livestock too.” Astarion complains under his breath. Shadowheart pretends not to hear.

“I feel it. Eyes on our backs,” One of Lae’zel’s ears twitches as though repositioning itself to hear better. Wyll swaps his trident for a crossbow, “Keep sharp, and move quietl-”

“Karlach, no!” The other tiefling startles back from the picnic basket at Xaph’s shout.

“There’s a note!” she calls.

“Read it, but don’t touch it. There’s something wrong with this place.”

“Got it, soldier” Karlach bends over the basket, her arms spread out behind her for balance, and reads out the note, Take a breather, lovelies, and have a bite on me. Auntie E. “There’s love hearts and flowers drawn on it and everything.”

“Never trust food left out with a loving note, that’s how you end up stripped naked in a vine circle with a satyr about to-” Gale stops when he realises everyone’s looking at him and clears his throat, “Well. Uh. Anyway, don’t…don’t touch it.” Xaph watches the colour rise in his face as she weaves through her companions to the waterline. 

“Careful,” Astarion warns just before she steps into the water, “Trap.”

“Shit. Thanks,” Xaph follows the line of his finger to a rounded metal casing half-buried in the waterlogged soil. She doesn’t particularly want to find out what happens when she steps on it, or even causes too much disturbance around it, so she moves back out of the murky stuff, “What’s the point in trapping a swamp?”

“We’re clearly not wanted here.” Lae’zel answers.

“Halsin said Auntie Ethel was the only person who lives here. She has no reason for all this.” Xaph replies.

“Auntie E?” Shadowheart echoes the name on the note. Xaph blinks, and the beautifully sunlit wetlands change before her eyes. The colour is sucked from her vision, reduced to sepia tones, the previously bright flowers wilting and shrinking away into grass that is rotting between the bones of dead animals that weren’t there before. Xaph stumbles further back, her tail lifting off the ground in apprehension, and the back of her hand knocks into Gale’s as she damn near treads on his toes. What they’re left with - once the transformation is complete - is still a swamp, but it’s a rancid place full of mud and death. Full of bones and the just-there smell of bile.

“Magic.” Gale breathes.

“You think?” Astarion asks archly. 

“By Mystra’s-”

“We proceed with caution,” Lae’zel stresses, “And we keep to the land, the water’s full of traps. Shadowheart, my right.” The party settles into the formation decreed by the githyanki and creep along the mulchy, muddy ground of the bog. They do have to pause when the smell makes Wyll gag and the large amounts of alcohol he’s consumed over the last few days threatens to make a reappearance several times in the same minute. He loses the battle eventually and the party splits in two as half of them make disgusted comments and distance themselves while the other half coo comforts and rub circles into Wyll’s back. Shadowheart at least tosses Xaph a potion when the tiefling claps her hands at her, and she passes it to Gale to try and get it down the other human’s throat while Xaph takes his crossbow from him. 

“Uh, soldier?”

“Yes, Karlach?”

“What’re those?”

“Meph’s tits,” Xaph knows the creatures she’s looking at. She’s seen them kill before. Little things, only about three feet tall. Their hats, stiff with blood, make up another full foot of height, “Redcaps. Biologically driven to kill, and they don’t band together for no reason. Something fey lives here and that’s their anti-theft device,” Xaph repeats the words mentally, projecting an image of the creatures to the others in case her words don’t come through clearly enough, then speaks to Karlach again, “Soldier, move up, let me cover the boys.”

“On it.” Karlach takes Wyll’s crossbow from Xaph as they pass each other.

We should leave, Shadowheart’s voice suggests through the open channel between their worms.

How good is their sense of smell, because the Blade’s bleurgh is entirely wine, and that carries, Astarion adds. He’s answered when the closest redcap turns to them, opens his mouth and starts warbling, Oh, for fuck’s sake. Wyll’s usually particularly helpful in this crucial moment before combat breaks out, he’s quick off the mark with his numbers, but he’s still retching into the bulrushes. 

“Gale, I need you to get him up.”

“I think he needs a minute.”

“Gale.”

***

They’re caked in mud, one and all, by the time they make it to the other side of the bog. Nothing is left in Wyll’s stomach, not even the bile. Exhaustion has him leaning on Lae’zel of all people for support. She’s making her discomfort abundantly known and can only bear it for a few minutes until she shoves him onto Shadowheart who unfortunately has to take him as part of her unspoken contract as the party cleric. She dumps him on a rock the first chance she gets and starts trying to coax chunks of apple into him, muttering about silly young humans.

“It’s not his fault,” Xaph interjects, pulling bottles of clean water from her pack to share with the others, “He does try to do the right thing, he just keeps getting punished for it.”

“I’m not sure getting this drunk while he’s in jeopardy was the right thing.” Shadowheart points out.

“I gave him the bottle. He was having a tough time.” Xaph admits.

“That was smart.” Shadowheart snorts.

“She was only trying to help.” Wyll’s voice waver from behind the cleric.

“Thanks, Wyll, but maybe just try and eat something, yeah? Get some water down you?” Xaph pats the warlock’s shoulder and presses her other palm into her forehead, “It’s how I dealt with problems when I was his age, it’s how I deal with them now. I just…better tolerance. He’s in a completely new body, he doesn’t know its limits yet.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be testing them for him.” Shadowheart says tersely.

“Maybe we should all calm down.” Karlach suggests gently. 

“You’re right,” Xaph nods, not only because Shadowheart is right but because it wouldn’t be smart to pick a fight here and now, “Which is why I want you to stay here with him. Both of you. We need to figure out what’s going here, which means we need to be sneaky and we need to be smart. Astarion, come with me?”

“Away from the smell? Of course, darling.” Astarion pushes himself off the tree he’d been leaning against to stand by Xaph. Lae’zel proposes coming with them, but is reminded that stealth and plate armour don’t go particularly well together. Gale asks Lae’zel to stay behind should any more redcaps turn up, and that convinces her. Xaph and Astarion slink away into the grass while her back is turned. 

For a city boy, Astarion has quickly adapted to moving quietly through the wilderness. He and Xaph step carefully through the brown grass, avoiding the delicate bones of rabbits and squirrels they pass. They keep low to the ground, but don’t see any other life forms yet.

“So, you and Gale-”

“Really, Astarion, now?” Xaph hisses back. 

“Oh dear, that disappointing?”

“Nothing happened, dearest, no need to be jealous.” Xaph lets her teeth show while she talks, sidelong sarcastic smile at her friend. She’s a little more comfortable doing that around Astarion than she is with the others. She can call him friend now, she’s fairly certain of that.

“Jealous? Ha!” A breath of a laugh, mocking, “Hardly.”

“You tried to stick your tongue down my throat first.”

“A mistake I will not be repeating after the lecture you gave me.”

“You’re really not my type, friend.”

“You’ve no taste. Though I suppose that does explain the fascination for the wizard.”

“It’s not a fascinatio-” Xaph cuts herself off, “Wait, get down.” She flattens herself onto her stomach. Astarion tries to maintain his dignity by squatting lower instead of lying on the ground. They’ve reached the crest of a hillock, and there’s a person down the other side of the slope. An individual. He looks like a man, but then again the redcaps had looked like sheep. 

“He’s Gur.”

“The nomads?”

“The barbaric vagrants.” Astarion answers. Xaph decides that is a prejudice she can address later. For now, they agree to creep down the slope of the hillock and see what the man has to say. Knives ready. 

“Good day, saer.” Xaph calls, careful not to be too loud. Her nose wrinkles as she gets closer.

“Ah, stranger. Forgive the aroma.”

“Powdered iron-vine. I use it myself.”

“Most monsters will think twice before making meals out of us, then.” He replies. He seems friendly enough and he shows the normal human traits, complete with crow’s feet wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but after the events of the day, Xaph can’t trust it. Astarion pushes forward, bumping against her shoulder,

“A monster-hunter? I’m surprised - I thought all Gur were vagrant cut-throats.”

“Ignore the elf,” Xaph shoulders in front of Astarion, “He talks too much.”

“I wish I had half the power settled folks think my people possess. Alas, I am a simple wanderer,” he says, “A simple wanderer and a monster-hunter,” he amends, “But I’m no witch doctor or cut-throat.”

“What monster are you hunting?” Xaph asks. Maybe he knows more about the fey presence in the bog.

“Something terrifying, no doubt,” Astarion butts in, “Dragon? Cyclops? Kobold?”

“Kobold?” Xaph repeats, casting doubt.

“Nothing so dramatic. I’m hunting for a vampire spawn,” oh, “His name is Astarion,” oh shit, “but I fear he’s gone to ground. I’m hoping the hag of these lands could help me flush him out, if I can afford her blood price.” A hag. This is getting worse and worse with every word from this man’s mouth. Xaph chances a glance at Astarion. The elf is watching her, looking…scared? Scared, like he had that night she’d woken and found him looming over her. His life is once more in her hands.

“And when you find this…Astarion. You’ll kill him?” she asks carefully.

“Not this time. My orders are to capture him.”

“Oh? And bring him where, exactly?” Astarion asks. He’s managing to keep his voice smooth but his worm is rapidly swishing back and forth, copying the motion of her tail that Xaph is trying to still.

“Baldur’s Gate. My people wait for me there.” The hunter answers. Baldur’s Gate. All roads lead to Baldur’s Gate.

“But he’s only a spawn. Not like he’s a real vampire, a real danger, right?” Xaph tries.

“I don’t know. I’m sure a vampire spawn could still rip your throat out if he felt like it.” Astarion answers. Off-handed, nonchalant. Angry.

“He’s right, unfortunately,” the hunter agrees, “They are only weak when compared to their masters. During the day, we have the advantage. But at night, when they hunt? You will not find a more deadly quarry.”

“Yes,” another glance at Astarion and yes, that’s anger filling his eyes, “I’m sure they can creep right up on you.”

“We’ve survived this far. Let’s just focus on that.” He shifts his weight and it’s a move she’s seen before, a move she’s tried to talk him into showing her, lifting his dagger from his belt without being seen.

“It would still be wise to post guards at night. The threat is real.” The hunter tells them, with no indication that he’s noticed the change in their demeanour.

“Indeed it is. We should do something about this threat.” Astarion’s eyes slide to meet Xaph’s. They’re on the same page for once.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind taking the night watch, would you, Astarion?” 

“That’s Astarion? Impossible.” 

“These days, I’m making the impossible look easy,” Astarion drawls, striking a showy pose that doesn’t match his tone. He glances at Xaph one more time and tilts his head towards the hunter just a little, “Mother, may I?” All Xaph has to do is nod. 

It happens quickly, Astarion lunging forward with his prepared dagger. The hunter’s surprise leaves him in a prime position to get stabbed, but his reflexes kick in a moment too late and he sprints away from them with only a deep gash across his chest. He’s going for a weapon, he must be, a pack concealed in the bushes or something. Xaph gets to hers first, her bow drawn and released as fast as it can be. Her arrow tears through the hunter’s calf and makes him stumble, giving Astarion time to catch up to him and bury his knife up to the hilt in the hunter’s eye socket. He dies quickly, but that doesn’t make Xaph feel any better. She moves forward to join Astarion, who simply stands over the hunter’s body.

“Astarion?”

“Xaphania.”

“Cazador sent him, didn’t he?”

“Only he would know to send the Gur after me,” Astarion pauses here, weighing his words, “It was a group of Gur that attacked me that night in Baldur’s Gate. I would have died had Cazador not appeared and saved me.”

“He appeared just when you needed him. Convenient for him.”

“Maybe. Maybe he was just drawn to the smell of blood. The point is, I have a history with these barbarians. Cazador’s sending a message. He’s reminding me of his power. Even in the middle of nowhere, he can reach me. And he wants me back.”

“He’s not getting you back.”

“Do you know the power a vampire lord possesses? He can change shape, turn into mist, call wolves to do his bidding, shrugs off blows like they’re nothing.” Though fear isn’t explicitly clear in his voice Xaph knows it’s glossing over his other feelings and the memory of exactly who he’s talking to.

“But he didn’t find you. This man was going to make a deal with a hag to find you.” She reasons. One of them has to be the voice of reason, the voice against fear.

“He could walk into our camp tonight and kill you with his bare hands. And you’d be lucky if death was the worst thing that happened to you.” Astarion goes on. His gaze has shifted past the hunter. Looking at nothing. Stuck in his own head. She knows the feeling.

“Astarion,” she manages to pull his attention back to her, “You’ve got my back. I’ve got yours. You’re not going back to Cazador,” she pauses to let those words sink in before going on, “When you’re ready, we’ll go back to the group. We don’t have to tell them about this if you don’t want to.”

“We should. There’ll be others, I’m sure of that. If Cazador sent one peon after me he’ll send another.”

“They’ll protect you. You’re our friend,” Astarion’s expression warns her that she’s getting too mushy and soft on him, so she switches tack, “Say, how do you feel about killing a hag?”

[raggaraddy]

Can you please do a yandere hyung line reaction to MC being jealous and tries to hide it ( For jin could you please make it as his wife has come back for a short holiday or something)

A/N: My brain did not want to do the writing thing the last couple of days, but I got there. I think these stories are good? but somehow they all ended up a bit soft. I hope you like them though 🤞 because it was a great request! Thank you 💜💜💜

@blacksnow160

Summary: Hyung line reaction when you get jealous.

Trigger warning: Smut, violence, blood-drinking, murder, abuse, yandere themes.

Alpha! Namjoon

Normally you didn't consider yourself clingy. You enjoyed your personal space and your time alone. But at the same time, you've also become accustomed to Namjoon dropping everything to take care of you. This entire week though, he's been preoccupied with a territorial issue, and the last 3 nights he hasn't even come to bed.

Leaving you feeling a little discarded, to say the least.

Nevertheless, you're a mature adult, and you were able to let it go with the knowledge that Namjoon is an Alpha who has responsibilities and knowing that he would still rather be with you.

It is, however, a comfort that you have trouble holding on to whenever you see the new girl around him. It's not like you're jealous. It's just that she doesn't seem to know how to behave respectfully or appropriately around Namjoon. She always stands too close or looks at him a bit too much, and she's way too touchy. Only his elbow, arm, or shoulder. But it's like, get your fucking hands off him.

Rationally, you know Joon is your mate and you own his heart, mind, and body. Still, it doesn't stop you from tossing restlessly, laying in bed at 2 am, once again alone. The two things added together making you feeling sour. Feeling sick of being sent away while this other girl gets to stick around being way too familiar with your Boyfriend.

Coming downstairs in your pyjamas, you weave in among the wolves working your way to Namjoon. Standing at the dining table, looking over a mess of paper, he notices you right away a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

"Y/n, what are you doing up?"He asks, checking his watch.

There she is again, right next to him. Her hand casually coming off his shoulder when she sees you.

"It's late. Go back to bed, Beautiful." he coos.

You ignore his instruction. Wrapping to his side by pushing yourself between him and this girl, creating space for yourself with a not-so-subtle shoving of your elbow into her arm. Smiling up at him sweetly as he accepts your presence, hugging you tightly.

"We're going to be busy most of the night. You should go to bed." he leans down to whisper, his breath tickling your ear. He's trying not to draw the focus from the rest of the table into your personal discussion.

"I'll go up when you come with me." You whisper back.

"It's going to be a few more hours still baby." He sighs, seeming frustrated with the circumstances.

"Then I'm staying here."

"You shouldn't-"

"Don't argue with me Kim Namjoon. You're not going to win this one." While it's said in jest, you also mean it. He'll have to drag you upstairs to make you go. And if he steps foot in that bedroom, you both know you'll be able to make him stay.

"Oh really?" He challenges, fighting the smile growing on his face, not wanting to encourage your mischievous behaviour.

Grabbing the collar of his black tee, you pull him down to your height, smacking your lips against his. Kissing him passionately and longingly. Something you haven't been able to do for nearly a full week.

Letting his shirt go, his smile is fully grown. His dimples on display.

"Really." You finalize, looking up at him coquettishly.

You can see the struggle playing in his mind. He's extremely tempted to throw you over his shoulder and take you upstairs right now, his wolf fighting to shirk his responsibilities and give in to desire. His chest rumbling lowly as he winks down at you.

"Okay baby." his fingers dig into your hips, "If you're gonna play dirty, you can stay." He teases with a chuckle. Resisting the bait.

Feeling calmed and relaxed on the warmth of his hold again, a smug sense of pride fills your chest. From the corner of your eye, you can see her attention on the two of you. Your ego is not able to resist, and you shoot a cold pointed glare at her. A smirk creeping onto your face as she looks down, avoiding your eye line.

"Seeing as it's late, do you wanna make coffee for everyone?" You order her in the form of a question, speaking loudly enough for both her and Namjoon to hear your sassy, obvious tone.

She looks a little stunned. She'd just been promoted to the inner circle for this problem-solving session, and she doesn't seem pleased at being asked to perform menial tasks. Trying to go over your head, she looks at the Alpha for confirmation. But he doesn't give it to her. Instead, you can feel him nod, supporting your order. A full smile filling your face as you get his backing.

"Of course, Luna." she obeys, looking a little dejected.

"Thank you." you shoo her to action with a sing-song voice. Curling into Namjoons side, you can't help but feel authoritative. And a little bit victorious.

King! Seokjin

It had been nearly two weeks since you had seen Jin last. As frustrating as it was, you were genuinely missing him. There was a kind of energy he had when it was just the two of you. Something that filled you, and without him you were feeling like your own spirit was draining away.

It would be okay though, today Jin was coming back from visiting his wife and children. You're sure he missed you just as much as you missed him. That he was as excited to see you, as you were to see him. You were a little worried knowing that you would have to satisfy his sadism first, but you can tolerate it, thinking that at least you'll get to see his smile.

As the day is drawing to an end, you've finished all your tasks but you refuse to retire for the night, certain the King is going to call for you at any minute. Feeling a mix of excitement and relief when the staff manager comes to collect you.

Nearly skipping you rush to the dining hall, having been instructed to serve dinner to the King and his guest. Working with another maid to bring the meals from the kitchen.

Walking in, the smile you were trying to conceal disappears completely. Your stomach dropping. Jin's guest is the Princess. His wife.

You have to control your expression to hide your distress, feeling sick while serving him. His wife never comes down. She hasn't in a year and a half. Jin doesn't even really like her. It doesn't make sense why she's here.

With a curt bow, you remove the closh and place the plate down. Meeting the King's eye for a moment, you do your best to placify your appearance. Your efforts cracking when you see his lips pulling ever so slightly into a knowing smile.

He dismisses the other maid, but not you. Sending you to the waiting station by the wall. You're stuck watching over their conversation. Feeling more and more insecure as you look at the Princess's regality and beauty. Getting more frustrated as your mind runs rampant.

How long is she going to stay? It doesn't seem like they brought the Princes, so she has to go back soon. And what kind of mother leaves her children alone? It doesn't even matter that she's here, you know Jin likes you more. So what if she is really pretty, he can't hurt her like he can you. You make him happy. She's just a prop he was given to secure a treaty. He actually chose you.

Slowly, you're building yourself into a craze. Making yourself feel sad until the very end of the meal. Finally, their dinner date ends and he stands, kindly bowing to see her off. Leaving only you and him in the hall.

Relaxing back in his seat, he finishes the remainder of his drink.

"Y/n." Holding his empty glass to the side, he calls you over. You follow his gesture and top up his cup. Avoiding looking directly at him again. Pacing back to your place when he stops you.

"Come here." He grins, enjoying how uncomfortable you are. "You met my wife today." He pushes the difficult topic, again probing for your reaction.

Nodding softly, you're trying to not let your bitterness out. You know Jin doesn't like it when you pout.

"Are you jealous Princess?" He holds his hand out for you to take, leading you closer to him. Leaning back to create a space for you on his lap. Guiding you over him with your legs spread.

"No, your Majesty." You shake your head, your pause and hesitation giving away the truth.

Jin's gentle touch comes off your hand, his grip instead ripping back your hair, arching your back and nearly yanking you off of his lap. Biting back a shriek, you can't keep entirely quiet, whimpering as his fist curls tighter and closer to your scalp.

"Are you lying to me?" His mouth latches onto your shoulder, biting into your muscle vindictively. Unbridling that scream you had tried to smother.

"Yes. I'm sorry your Majesty!" you cry out, tears building in your eyes. "I'm jealous. I missed you. I want you-" all the truth is pouring out, but you hesitate worried you're being too bold, "all to myself."

His grip comes out of your hair. His hand instead raking down your chest, leaving painful red marks as each nail digs along the skin. Continuing lower, tearing the buttons on your dress. Yanking down your bra also, exposing your breasts. His other hand hikes the fabric up around your thighs, stopping on your waist, lowering your hips into him.

Pinching your nipple, he draws you closer until his lips are just off yours. Gasping through the initial pain, you can only whine and bite your lip to further keep quiet.

"Go on Princess. Prove to me why I should have missed you."

Assassin! Yoongi

Over the past couple of weeks, Yoongi would be gone for days at a time. Coming back in a strangely talkative and happy mood. You were as miserable and depressed as always, but his vigour was somehow revitalizing and comforting. It made him easier to deal with. It made him less moody. And it made your life easier. So to begin with you were very happy that he was happy.

That was until he mentioned a name in passing. A woman's name. Someone he was working with on a project.

As soon as you heard him talking positively about her, a pang of anxiety spiked through your stomach. From then on it rested in your gut, making you irritated, uncomfortable, and flustered every time you heard about or thought about her.

It was the strangest thing. You hated Yoongi, you're sure of it. But he was all you had. And hearing him talk about another woman, even though it sounded platonic, the adoration in his voice was hurting you in a way you never expected.

Slowly you had to work through this feeling on your own. You couldn't bear to let Yoongi know, not certain what he would do with the information that you were, in lack of a better word, jealous.

The more you heard about this woman, you knew you could never be as impressive as her. Every detail sounding equally terrifying and awe-inspiring. To be honest the specifics slipped your mind, as you were mostly wrapped up in self-pity when Yoongi spoke about her.

All you know is that you felt inferior, and you were craving, longing to feel that kind of importance to Yoongi, also. Resenting the fact that this other person was so easily able to bring joy and energy out of him.

Over the next couple of weeks, you spent every waking moment thinking about how to make Yoongi happy. Not just avoiding annoying him, like you usually did, but instead thinking about how to bring him genuine enjoyment.

One time you spent hours making him a meal. Making something you knew he would love. But, unfortunately, he only complained about the mess. He said he wasn't hungry and left you to throw the food away and clean up.

Another time, you had planned a full evening of activities. Movies, snacks, games that would help you get to know each other better, anything fun you could organize with your limited resources. Only, he wasn't in the mood to play, or talk. He only wanted one thing, and when he was done, he left you alone in your room, feeling used and a bit sore.

However, that gave you an idea. Maybe you could connect with him physically first. Then that might give you a way for something, anything more to develop.

This time, you set the house up with candles, music, wine, chocolate strawberries, everything you'd seen in movies. Waiting for him on the couch in something a little provocative. But, as soon as he comes in from the garage he looks more annoyed than impressed. Rolling his eyes, ordering you to your room.

By this stage it's late, you're tired, and you're losing your mind trying to make him happy. You were fighting so hard for his attention, and he was barely tolerating you. You aren't thinking clearly as you snap at him.

"Why?!" You yell, stomping your foot down. "I'm working so hard and you're just being an asshole!"

The words come out and you instantly regret them. His straight expression hardening.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." You rush to him, wrapping your arms around his chest trying to soothe any reaction. "Just tell me what I can do." You plead. Exasperated by so many failed attempts.

"That depends. What do you want?" He honestly questions, looking down at you.

You weren't exactly prepared to answer this question. You're not sure you really know.

"I'm your's right?" you say with big eyes, your voice coming out so softly, feeling embarrassed even though you're mimicking his words. "I get that I have to be yours. But then you have to be mine too." Your voice trembles.

Finally, it makes sense to Yoongi. Your change in demeanour, and in behaviour. Why you've been so needy. Why you've been trying to get his attention. He understands now. And that was most of what was annoying him. Not knowing why you were acting differently.

He steps out of your grasp, calling for you to follow him upstairs. You're not so nervous as you do. Surprisingly, the revelation has given Yoongi has a warm smile.

Falling back onto his bed, he taps the space beside him, inviting you to join him. You climb into the middle of the bed, resting in the place he set for you, his arm laid out under your head. He curls into you, gently wrapping his arm over your waist. Hugging you.

For the first time ever, he is showing you some kind of affection. For the first time, he's actually making a gesture of warmth and comfort. You couldn't even let yourself think that Yoongi could be capable of this. Having spent so many months isolated and alone. Even when you weren't locked up.

Hating yourself for not being stronger, you break into silent tears. Biting your thumb to stifle any sobs.

While reason is battling in your head, telling you that it's a bad idea to form any kind of emotional attachment to him, you don't want to listen to logic right now. Letting yourself cling to Yoongi and the desperately needed human connection.

Vampire! Hoseok

There was a delicate balance to your relationship with Hoseok. You couldn't exactly rely on his moods to be stable, but you could rely on his obsession with you. It was the only thing that kept you feeling secure. Feeling certain that when he bit you next he wouldn't let you bleed out. Or that when he hit you or cut you or hurt you, that he wasn't going to leave you to suffer in agony but would heal you. Because he wanted to keep you. You were his.

It was a twisted kind of reassurance. But it's what you had, so it's what you worked with.

You knew the source of his obsession. It was you as a person, sure. But you weren't kidding yourself. Mostly, his infatuation was with your blood. Hoseok wasn't specific about it, but you had overheard some of the other Vampires discussing you. Apparently, you smell delicious, and that's why he never lets you wander the house with any cuts. That's why you were locked away every 28 days. And that's why you were his only.

It didn't make sense to you, there was nothing different about you.

But somehow you'd fallen in and become the star of your very own YA horror story.

Whatever the cause though, you were aware that Hoseok's addiction to your blood was the reason that he kept you. Without that, he might simply kill you, or worse, he might throw you to one of the other bloodsuckers who look at you like a happy meal they want to fuck.

Which is probably why you were so defensive when you saw him biting another girl.

Sitting on the back terrace looking over the gated property, Hoseok and a few of his creations were sitting in the moonlight enjoying a drink. You'd come downstairs expecting to be his refill when you see him sinking his fangs into the arm of one of the human pets.

Frustration floods through your body, a new kind of anger making your hands shake. A malicious and honestly, not-all-together thought out idea springs into your head. You've never seen him drink from anyone else before, and you need to remind him that he should only want you.

Taking a serrated peeler from the bar at the side of the terrace, you hold it concealed in your palm, going up to the first Vampire leaning there.

"Are you thirsty?" you ask, speaking lowly. He, like all the others, know you're Hoseok's, and so he rightfully looks uncomfortable being near you. Stepping into his personal space, you raise your arm under his chin and run the sharp blade across the top of your forearm. His eyes immediately going black, his fangs bared. Unable to resist what you're offering.

Behind you, every single one of them turns their heads, smelling you the second blood gathers on your skin.

In a flash, Hoseok is between the two of you. Ripping his teeth into the guy's neck, tearing his throat out. Killing him in an instant.

Breathing heavily, he turns to you with blood washed down his front. His eyes murderous and cold.

Retaliating, you storm towards the human-pet and shove her with all of your might, pushing her down the stone tile steps onto the grass. Watching her tumble into a heap.

Those around you have gone dead quiet, none of them even daring to look directly at either of you.

"How dare you?" He seethes, stalking towards you. But you're not backing down. You know better than to retreat from him when he charges.

"How dare I?" you scream. "How dare you drink from that skank!" An enraged Hoseok is something all of his offspring know to fear. Steadily you can see them clearing the space around the two of you. Withdrawing from whatever this is leading to.

"You want to tell me who I can eat?!" He growls, his hand shooting around your neck, holding you but not choking you. "You're a blood bag that I keep as a toy!"

"If that's all, then I'll let all of them feed on me too."

His hand constricts, restricting your air. "I'll kill anyone that tries."

"Then," you gasp, your words coming out short. "only me." you pull your hair off your shoulder, turning your neck as far to the side as you can. Throwing his head back, he takes the invitation, sinking his fangs into your jugular, swallowing down mouthfuls of your blood.

Holding onto his shoulders, you jump up wrapping your legs around his waist, pushing yourself closer to his mouth. Hoseok's arms wrapping around your ass, keeping you up.

Pushed back by your momentum, he stumbles a few steps, dropping down onto the open sofa chair. You landing on his lap, straddling his thighs.

As more of your blood is drained, and you get lightheaded, the pain starts to slip and your body starts to float. A euphoric sensation, akin to being high consuming you.

You tangle your hands up into his hair tugging it, massaging his scalp. You've become so accustomed to him fucking you when he feeds from you, that whenever he bites you, you get turned on. Your body reacting out of instinct. Slowly grinding down, rocking your hips into him as you start to get him hard. The friction feeling good making you moan. Making you move faster with pleasure tingling through your core also.

"Hobi," you moan. Shivering, as his tongue runs up your wounds.

Your gentle whine catches his attention. A surprised expression on his face that shifts into a smile as he leans back to watch you. His focus on you making you feel slightly embarrassed, slowing your motions until they stop altogether.

Biting his tongue, your eyes meet for a moment before he kisses his blood into your mouth, the copper taste feeling soothing and familiar. Your body relaxing completely knowing you'll wake up healed.

"Mine." He whispers into your lips.

The blood loss pulls you into unconsciousness, your head dropping onto his shoulder. The euphoric feeling swallowing you up as you purr back. "Mine."

[qqueenofhades]

Modern AU Heartrender Husbands gives me the vibes of like they'll watch eurovision bc Fedyor wanted to and Ivan only begrudgingly agreed but in the end it's him who's standing really close to the TV with a bottle of beer loudly criticising the jury vote

Anon, your Mind. As 100% ever, I am so very easy to enable. As before, this is set in Phantom!Verse, and serves as a sequel of sorts to this (and as a further prequel to PEL).

Brighton Beach, 2014

It’s their first spring in their new home – they arrived in America in August 2013 and got this place, fittingly, right around Orthodox Christmas in January 2014 – and that means many things to them. Their apartment is in a formerly rent-controlled brownstone tenement right off the boardwalk, but prior to their arrival, it was occupied for fifty years by an old bat from Krasnodar Krai who apparently never, ever, threw anything away. (Fedyor is too scared to ask if she actually died in this apartment and her mummified corpse is lurking at the bottom of all the junk.) That is why he and Ivan were able to afford it, at least, but now that the weather is warmer, they have been spending all day cleaning, hauling boxes of crap to the dumpster, and trying in vain to get the smell of pickled cabbage out of the kitchen. It looks exactly like your Great Aunt Masha’s house, the one that traumatized you as a child and has never left your nightmares since. Home sweet home.

The upside is that the location is great, the apartment is surprisingly spacious and lovely – a big bedroom, a bathroom with two sinks and a deep claw-footed tub, a living room with high windows that let in lots of light, original crown molding and hardwood floors – and if it was located in the really chic parts of Brooklyn and inhabited by a tech-startup hipster rather than a Russian émigré spinster with definite hoarding tendencies, it would rent for some astronomical monthly sum. Fedyor has a three-ring binder full of paint swatches, sketches, furniture samples, and other plans to give it a total overhaul (he’s thinking a nice pale green for the living room?) But the one thing that spring definitely means is Eurovision, and it is just the ticket to relax from their grueling schedule of throwing boxes of junk away and hoping they don’t stumble upon a withered hand in a glass jar. He likes America and he’s excited for their new life, for all that they had no choice but to leave Russia in a hurry, but Eurovision is Eurovision.

Actually watching it, of course, is easier said than done. For one thing, Fedyor can’t find a blasted station that is airing it, when he could have just switched on the TV and found it right away back home. For another, Ivan is deeply dubious of the whole endeavor, having watched five minutes of it once when he was eighteen and turning it off in disgust, never to return. Fedyor spends a lot of time wheedling him to give it another chance. “Come on, Vanya. It’s fun!”

“It is a lot of homosexuals gyrating in leather to very bad music,” Ivan snaps. “They look ridiculous. And sound even worse.”

Fedyor glances at them – the fact that they’re sitting on the couch, he’s on Ivan’s lap with his legs draped over Ivan’s thigh, and Ivan’s arms wrapped around his waist – and coughs. “I’m not sure how to break this to you, darling,” he says, “but you are also a homosexual.”

“Maybe, but you would never catch me dead up there.”

“Of course not.” Fedyor rolls his eyes. “You might actually have to smile.”

Ivan makes a scoffing noise. Then he notices the full-on puppy-dog face that Fedyor is now giving him, and says, “Oh no. Oh no, Fedya. Do not look at me like that.”

“Why not?” Fedyor shamelessly snuggles closer. “Is it working?”

The predictable outcome is that Ivan grudgingly agrees to watch it with him, though they’re on American time now and Eurovision Song Contest 2014, held in Copenhagen, Denmark, is six hours ahead of them. Ivan thinks that it’s stupid to sit down and watch a lot of gyrating homosexuals in the middle of the day, when there’s still so much work to do, and tries to demand that they just watch the recording later. Fedyor says this is nonsense, you simply cannot watch a recording of Eurovision, and after a lot of investigation, finds the online streaming channel on his laptop and hooks it up to the TV so they can watch it there. Then he prepares his popcorn, his alcoholic beverages, and his glitter glasses, corrals his recalcitrant husband, and readies himself to experience pure joy. No wonder Ivan doesn’t get it.

However, the effect is both swift and remarkable. By the end of the first semi-final, Ivan is put out about the fact that Russia came seventh in the popular vote but was knocked down to eleven by the jury (this is evidence of an anti-Russian conspiracy, according to him) and when only Moldova, a tiny no-name non-EU former Soviet state, deigns to award them the full twelve points, he is openly incredulous. “Moldova?! That is all we get?! MOLDOVA?!”

“Well,” Fedyor says delicately. “There is that little situation in Ukraine, so I’m afraid we are not that popular right now.”

“That is bullshit,” Ivan grouses. “This is a song contest. The Tolmachevy Sisters are not Vladimir Putin. I am sure they have worked very hard to be here.”

Fedyor glances at him and wisely decides not to say anything. He is likewise a little peeved when the Russian contestants get booed by the Danish audience, but Ivan looks like he’s about to leap through the screen and throttle every single one of them. He thrusts out a hand. “Give me a drink, Fedya. I need it to suffer this indignity.”

Fedyor cracks the lid off a cold one and hands it over – there is the Brighton Bazaar just a few blocks away, stocked with Russian goods, so they are spared the ordeal of drinking Yankee beer – and Ivan takes a long slug. He thinks they can skip watching the second semi-final two nights later, since Russia isn’t in it, but Fedyor puts it on anyway. They both like Austria and “Rise Like a Phoenix,” sung by the bearded drag queen Conchita Wurst (there have been a few dumb comments about her from the usual suspects), but Ivan hits a fist on the arm of the sofa. “She was not better than the Russian girls,” he says loyally. “I still think that they should be the ones to win.”

“Right, well,” Fedyor says. “I think the only ones less likely to win are the Brits, and they never win, so we might be waiting a while.”

The grand finale, on May tenth, is an inadvertently hysterical exercise. They get up early and put on the pregame show, like the Americans do with their bewildering fixation on the Super Bowl, and Ivan gets even more furious when the Tolmachevy Sisters are booed again. “Are they not supposed to love everyone at this glitter bacchanalia? So much for the Scandinavians being tolerant and accepting people! The song is nice! They are nice girls! What is wrong with them?!”

“Come over here and give me a cuddle, Vanya,” Fedyor suggests. “Otherwise you will blow a blood vessel long before the show starts.”

Ivan growls like an escaped tiger from the zoo, but consents to sit down next to Fedyor. They both drink copiously once the festivities get underway, singing along loudly (and not that melodiously) to the various entries, Fedyor’s arm draped around Ivan’s neck as he sits on his lap and critically judges the acts before the official results pop up. Once again, the only twelve-point awards Russia gets are from former Soviet countries (Azerbaijan and Belarus) and Ivan looks like he’s going to have a conniption before Fedyor kisses him and he gets distracted for the next three minutes. “This is disgraceful,” he mutters, when they break away. “Not you, Fedya. Just the horrible way they have clearly rigged this show against us.”

“You know,” Fedyor says. “That’s Eurovision. You declare war on your neighbors when they don’t give you twelve points. Now they have the EU, they’re not supposed to fight anymore, this is the only way they can get all those old rivalries out. Just be glad that Australia isn’t in this year. You might have really blown a gasket.”

“Australia?!” Ivan shifts Fedyor to a more comfortable position on his lap and grabs for his third bottle of beer. “AUSTRALIA IS NOT IN EUROPE! It is not even anywhere NEAR Europe! WHY DOES AUSTRALIA GET TO BE IN EUROVISION!?!”

Fedyor laughs out loud. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Ivan says. “But this is still the stupidest thing I have ever seen.”

“Shh.” Fedyor nuzzles him. “Just give in, Vanya. Just give in.”

Ivan consents to turn his grumbling down to a simmer, and is somewhat mollified that Russia comes in sixth overall, which is better than even Fedyor thought they were going to do. Austria takes the champion’s crown, they can both agree that Conchita Wurst deserves it, and get up and dance around their still-junk-cluttered living room as she gives her bravissima performance. A few things have been thrown during the judging, but they can’t add much to the existing mess, and in Brighton Beach, “damage caused to the apartment because Russia got shafted during Eurovision finals” might actually be a legitimate excuse. As he leans against Ivan’s chest and grins into his neck, Fedyor has to admit that this place may just feel like home yet.

[hawkinsschoolcounselor]

“Why do you lie?”: A look at a gay Mike Wheeler

This is a sort of a companion post to Will Byers and Growing Up Gay in the Pre-Internet Era, which I posted last year. I looked into what could have possibly been going on with Will as someone with a gay identity at a time when there was little support. Now I’d like to look at Mike, who would have his own unique challenges towards accepting a positive identity. This isn’t meant to be a post for why Mike is gay, as I (and several others) have already addressed that. Instead, I want to look at some of the psychological processes that may be at work in how Mike develops through the series. I will be treating Mike as if he were a real person, rather than a fictional character, and, so, I will attempt to ignore narrative devices (foreshadowing, parallels, etc.) as much as possible.

“Friends don’t lie” is one of the prevailing messages in Stranger Things. It more or less becomes El’s personal motto, so it ultimately became associated more with her than the person who taught it to her: Mike. Despite attempting to instill this value onto El, Mike himself is shown to have a lot of trouble living up to it. While Mike spends quite a lot of time in Season 3 lying to El, she is not the biggest victim of his lies. No, the one he lies to the most is himself, and he seems to have been doing that since Season 1.

According to the Cass Identity Model, a journey to a positive gay identity requires several steps: confusion, comparison, tolerance, acceptance, pride, and synthesis. This is not a perfect model, but it is one of the better attempts to create a general framework for how it worked for many gay individuals, at least in the time it was created (1979). A general way to look at it is that, at least at the time, individuals would work their way through this process as they engaged with the gay and lesbian community and started to see it as less of a bad thing and more as something to be proud of until it finally becomes just another part of who they are.

As I mentioned in my Will post, there is little opportunity for a kid in Hawkins to engage with the gay and lesbian community. There is no internet, nor is there any (known) place for local gays to gather in Hawkins. This results in the only real mention of homosexuality being the slurs thrown around by school bullies and people like Lonnie. A town like Hawkins would be a very difficult place for a young gay person to grow up. This makes it hard for even the initial stage, confusion, even occurring. Mike has deep feelings for Will, but the confusion stage requires that he acknowledge his feelings as homosexual in nature. Instead, I think Mike has been hiding from his own feelings, and it may not have been until the finale of Season 3 that he finally acknowledged them for the first time. So what comes before the first stage? 

Lies! Well, sort of. Defense mechanisms are how our minds protect us from the anxiety and social consequences of unwanted thoughts and desires. We all use them, unconsciously, to some extent. The next time you come home from a hard day at work and yell at a family member, ask yourself why you’re angry. Odds are it’s nothing the family member did. Getting angry at work can be a risk to your employment, so, instead, you unconsciously find a “safer” target. In this case it’s still bad, but getting forgiveness from a family member is easier than talking a boss into rehiring you. Mike has similar processes going on to protect him from his budding attraction to Will.

It’s impossible to tell when exactly Mike started thinking of Will as more than a friend, even if he doesn’t label the thoughts as such. He already shows an intense concern for Will in Season 1. When the boyish-looking El shows up and provides an opportunity to find Will, Mike risks his friendships to make use of her powers. He also goes over the top in disguising her as, well, a girl. It probably would have been easier to disguise her as a boy, but Mike decided to put a wig and dress on her, and then apply makeup to her. This could be a combination of displacement and reaction formation. Mike is redirecting his feelings for Will onto El, and also making her as obviously female as he can. 

Mike’s bond with El came very quickly, and even caused a rift within the Party. While Dustin and Lucas would come around and value El as a trusted friend, their process with her is more natural than Mike’s rushed, forced relationship with her. Dustin and Lucas had no weird feelings to hide from. Their search for Will contained no unwanted implications, they simply wanted their friend back safe and sound. Still, we would see Mike on the opposite end of this type of interaction in Season 2.

Max is the first “normal” girl to show interest in the Party. Mike reacts to her presence and attempts to join the party with hostility. There is little reason for this, as he was more than willing to allow El to be their friend. He doesn’t truly hate her, and in his own words he can’t hate her as he doesn’t even know her. He simply wants nothing to do with her. His only given reason is that the party is full as it is, which seems to fall flat. It could be that the presence of a girl reminds him of El, but we don’t see him acting hostile to girls in general. It seems, instead, to be his friends’ interest in her that gets Mike to dislike her. While the theory that he is jealous at Will’s interest in Max is intriguing, there isn’t much to go on aside from Will showing a curiosity about her and then letting Dustin and Lucas bring her along for Halloween. Instead, Mike may be projecting here. He shows incredulity that Dustin and Lucas could be so interested in Max despite never having talked to her, suggesting that he thinks getting to know someone is important in regards to being romantically interested. This runs counter to his interactions with El in Season 1. He resents his own behavior, but takes his anger out on his friends and Max instead when he sees them doing something similar.

Mike is very protective of Will throughout Season 2. He also spends a lot of time reaching out to El via his SuperComm, though he admits it’s likely a fruitless effort. His guilt over what has happened to the both of them is another sign of his mixed up feelings for Will and El. On Halloween, Mike and Will open up to each other about how crazy they feel, and they share a smile at the end of a conversation that is arguably a masked love confession. However, as Mike twice brought up El as a part of their conversation, it further reinforces the displacement of Mike’s feelings to her. However, soon after this, Mike finds himself caught up in another Will-related crisis, and El is out of his thoughts until her return at the end of the season.

Mike also shows a lot of willingness to allow himself to be vulnerable with Will in Season 2, something which isn’t seen in his interactions with anyone else. In these moments, Mike’s body language shifts. His tone becomes softer, his head dips slightly, and he peers at Will through his lashes. His aforementioned conversation on Halloween is just one example, but it is also seen when Will is asked if he remembers Mike, when Mike recounts meeting Will as they try to break through to him, when they’re at the movies, and when Will is packing at the end of Season 3. The moment in the shed is perhaps Mike’s most vulnerable moment. He shares a cherished memory, and unashamedly cries while doing so, perhaps even so lost in the moment that he forgets other people are in the room. His feelings, driven into overdrive by the fear of losing Will for good, are beginning to overwhelm him, but he still maintains his “Will behavior.”

This shows an uncharacteristic degree of trust and/or submission. In interactions with other characters, even El, Mike often displays assertive, or even aggressive, tones and stances. Mike doesn’t realize he does this, but we do see him sometimes use similar body language with El, further suggesting that he is redirecting his affections.

Perhaps the biggest moment we see him act this way around El is at the Snow Ball at the end of Season 2. Mike had been having a great time at the dance until Will had gone off to dance. This is strange considering Mike seemed to urge him to go with the girl in the first place. He appears shocked as the pair walks to the dance floor, his mouth agape, and wide eyes staring off into space. This isn’t the body language of someone expressing pride at a friend’s unexpected boldness, but rather it suggests a disturbing revelation. It is at this point that Mike could potentially have moved into the Confusion stage of the Cass model, as he sits on the sidelines (despite Dustin briefly there for company) watching Will dance. Any progress he may have made is instead halted when El arrives unexpectedly. This allows for him to continue using her as an outlet, and gives him a convenient escape from where his thoughts would likely take him.

Season 3 is the first time Mike had to deal with having both El and Will in his life at the same time, and it’s where his defense mechanisms begin to break down. In therapy, the goal is to shine light onto defense mechanisms in order to deconstruct them, so the patient can see and deal with what is actually going on. 

We find out Mike has been largely ignoring his friends and spending most of his time with El. He makes a big show of his relationship with El, including leaving early after Dustin had returned from camp under the false pretense of a curfew. The others don’t buy it, and Mike likely knew this. He wanted them to know he was going off to make out with El. When we actually see them alone, they do indeed make out, but, curiously, Mike twice takes steps to make it less intimate. He stops to sing along to the music, for example, despite El not enjoying it. He also removes El’s hands from her face, leaving them both simply leaning forward at each other without additional contact. There is a suggestion here that Mike is not enjoying what he is doing and limiting just how intimate they get. 

We continue to see his lack of a desire to be close to El. For her part, El shows behavior that could only be considered clingy. It is she who initiates nearly all of their physical contact, and, at one point, she even literally clings to Mike as Dustin is showing off his gadgets. A close inspection shows that Mike is standing with his arms crossed during this, making no active attempt to return the physical contact. None of this physical intimacy is for his own benefit. While being with El means he doesn’t have to worry about his feelings for Will, it does not really allow him to express those feelings to his satisfaction. This may be why he goes on movie “double dates” with Will, Lucas, and Max in between spending time with El. 

The occurrence we see at the movies is clearly not the first due to Steve’s frustrated reaction and their familiarity with his threat. They are late, so there are not enough seats, but there is no hesitation as Mike goes with Will to sit apart from Max and Lucas. Mike is so comfortable with reaching into Will’s bag for the snacks that it suggests it’s happened multiple times before. We also see that, despite his reclusive behavior with El, Mike still has Will on his mind when he asks if Will is ok. His tone again soft, head slightly dipped as he peers up through his lashes. He glances briefly down, possibly at Will’s lips, suggesting he needs to remind himself that it’s not El he’s with at this moment. He is otherwise very content to be “alone” with Will at the movie. 

Mike ultimately needs the relationship with El to protect himself against his feelings for Will, and it all comes to a head when they fight after Will’s attempt at a campaign. Mike’s continuous theatrics lead to not only Hopper forcing him to spend less time with El, but to him getting busted as he allows Lucas to lead him through a plan to get El an apology gift. We later see that he has no difficulties apologizing when he feels he should, so his grand gesture is another sign that his relationship with El is more of a show. He puts up no fight when El dumps him, acting annoyed and accusing Max and El of conspiring against him. He’s hiding from his own complicity in order to avoid acknowledging that it doesn’t really bother him as much as it should. He wants El to come back to him to continue his show, but he can’t do anything about it without confronting his feelings. El leaving didn’t hurt him; it just made him angry. This complicates things for him. It was easier for him to shift his feelings to El when he didn’t actually need to do anything about it.

Will loses it at Mike’s disinterest in his campaign, particularly his attempt to abruptly end it. Mike seems to be trying to be just another too-cool ladies man, and he is disallowing himself to enjoy the game. Still, he can’t bare to have hurt Will, and he chases after him when Will tries to leave. Mike struggles to maintain the lie while trying to placate Will. When Will accuses him of ruining everything to make out with “a stupid girl,” we see Mike lash out, saying it’s not his fault Will doesn’t like girls. While this hurt Will, it was likely another case of projection. Mike hates himself for spending all of his time with El because he doesn’t actually like girls. He can’t even stay angry at Will when he sees how hurt Will was with what he said. He tries to explain that this is just how it needs to be, and he appears sad as Will leaves. Unlike with El, Mike is hurt when he loses Will, and he chased after him to apologize. We don’t actually get to see him apologize, however, as the threat-of-the-season kicks into gear, resulting in Mike needing to get El.

Mike thus is able to bounce his feelings back to El. He maintains a physical proximity to Will, but also tries to avoid interacting with him. The apology he never gets to make to Will ends up clumsily being offered to El. Mike’s vulnerable, genuine behavior is absent as he goofily attempts to make nice with his ex-girlfriend. He awkwardly attempts to invoke previous conversations with Will, suggesting an increasing desperation to re-establish El as the safe target for his affections. Cracks had already been forming in his carefully constructed subconscious defense mechanisms as a result of the contrast in how El and Will dumping him made him feel. Mike is starting to see the truth, and he needs to fix it.

Ultimately, the Byers decide to move away. A few months pass between the end of the season and the epilogue where they actually move. Mike seems to be on good terms with both El and Will, but we don’t really know what happened in the interim to get him there. Mike has conversations with both El and Will. His demeanor in each again demonstrate that, despite what he wants others to think, it’s Will who Mike can’t bear to part with. With Will, Mike again shows his vulnerability when Will goes to give away his D&D books. Mike is clearly afraid at the implications, that Will will move on from him, but Will is able to allay his fears, assuring him it’s “not possible” for him to find a new party, and that he expects to just use Mike’s set when he returns. Mike shows no vulnerability with El. In fact, he seems quite at ease as he explains how they’ll talk all the time, so everything will be ok. El suddenly attempts to bring up his previous attempts to talk about feelings, and he feigns ignorance, seeming uncomfortable. There’s a suggestion that they never re-established a romantic relationship. She says she loves him, and he seems perturbed. She kisses him, and he stands there, unresponsive. As she leaves, Mike stands confused and disturbed. He was not expecting that, nor did he enjoy it. Previously, after such a vulnerable moment with Will, Mike would have jumped at the opportunity to shift his feelings to El. Now it seems that he is finally accepting the truth. Defense mechanisms, being elaborate unintentional lies, only work when the individual remains unaware of them. Insight results in the truth being revealed.

As the Byers leave, Mike stares longingly at the cars. His friends all bike away, but he hangs back momentarily, looking back at Will’s house one last time with a pensive look on his face. All his walls have come crumbling down, and he can’t deny it anymore. He can’t pretend it’s El that he loves. He rides home, walking into his home in a daze. We last see him seeking comfort in his mother’s arms, seeking that unconditional love he craves so much. Mike is now confused, consciously aware that he loves Will, dealing with not only losing him, but also the acknowledgement that he’s likely gay. He’s no longer lying to himself, though it remains to be see how he reacts to the truth.

From here it’s all speculation, as we have little to no knowledge of Season 4. Based on the Cass model, Mike needs to explore his gay identity by meeting other gay people. He needs to see that not only is he not alone, but that being gay isn’t a bad thing. This process isn’t easy, and he will need to deal with the social implications of what it means. He may well choose to attempt to maintain a straight image. El being away means he can claim her as his girlfriend without them needing to be intimate. On the other hand, with support, he could work his way through the model and learn to love himself as he is. 

Note: I tried hard to stick to a conceptualization of Mike, but this does not mean this is how the writers see him. 

[inkstaineddove]

Man as Mirror

Ships: PruAus if you wish; background PruHun and FraAus

Characters: Roderich, Gilbert; mentioned Erzsi + Francis

Summary: Arriving home early from Paris, Roderich encounters a shirtless Gilbert in his kitchen, leading them to have a conversation Roderich could've gone without.

Vienna, 1774.

Once his carriage safely rolled to a stop, Austria stepped out of it and stretched. While even he could not deny the beauty of Paris, nothing pleased the heart quite like home. Servants rushed about him, ushering in his extensive luggage. Sidestepping away from them, he gazed up at the early-morning sky and allowed himself the luxury of taking it all in. The fading purple of night, the sun shyly poking its face out through his hedges, and the birds singing their daily hymns. Truly, there was nowhere quite like home.

Feeling sufficiently uplifted, he entered the home and mindlessly made his way up the stairs. He froze once his hand hovered above the doorknob to his bedroom. He had been burned once before doing this and while, thankfully, all other parties had been asleep, the event had caused him enough mental anguish to power him through another three decades. Still, the desire to change out of his travel clothes was nigh impossible to dismiss. Leaning an ear against the door, his decision was made for him when he heard something like a moan come from Erzsébet. Changing could wait.

All remnants of his good mood dissipated as he silently grumbled to himself about their guest. While it certainly came as no surprise – Erzsébet did this every time he was out of town and, honestly, Roderich had grown to expect it – but hearing them was different. Sure, he was no fool and they made no effort to pretend but having indisputable proof of their trysts was another. Roderich was cursed to have found a spouse and enemy full of cunning. He noted that, if the two of them ever put their powers to good use, he’d have to compliment them for it. For now, while he was their target, any appreciation was out of the question.

He felt his body yearning for caffeine and knew what the next item on his agenda must be. Still lost in his thoughts, he was completely caught off guard at the sight of a bare-chested Gilbert standing over the kitchen counter. It was comical, really, watching such a brutish man delicately pour cream into two dainty mugs, mentally measuring out the right amounts. Roderich stood back and watched the whole performance in domesticity, studying the man before him as he never had before. The way his back and shoulder muscles shifted with each movement; how he never slouched even when it would be far more comfortable to; how the whole time, he never stopped humming marches to himself.

This scene felt too intimate and Roderich understood that he was not its intended audience. What he needed most from his rival now was hostility and not misguided fantasies of marital bliss. He cleared his throat and stepped into Gilbert’s line of sight. “For me? How sweet of you.” He snatched the mug closest to him and added in his usual five spoonsful of sugar. He held up a finger when he felt Gilbert gearing up to protest. “She’s still asleep. Besides, no one likes waking up to cold coffee. It sets such a tone for the day.”

They settled into a tense silence, neither one wanting to acknowledge the other. It was childish, Roderich understood, but failing to will the other out of his existence was better than devolving into petty insults or a physical altercation. And, if he ignored all rational thoughts, he didn’t even care. When around each other, what else were they but ancient children? There was no reason for them to speak, why invent one?

“Paris again? How many times have you been there over the last three months?” There almost appeared to be a hint of affectionate teasing in Gilbert’s words.

Roderich turned to face him and was surprised to find Gilbert already observing him with mild interest. What a strange morning, one he wished he could find some escape in by returning to bed but felt certain would provide him with no real escape. If anything, the pair would wake him up and demand he leave his own damn bed for another room, that’s how selfish they were. Against his will, he felt himself noticing the strength in Gilbert’s body, all broad shoulders and muscle, the physique of the ideal warrior. All suddenly clicked on why Roderich always found himself flat on his ass whenever they’d begin to trade blows. His arrogance had blinded him to the fact that imperial power mattered little when they weren’t trying to kill each other on the battlefield. With biceps like that, his only chance to get the upper hand would be a swift kick to the groin, which even at his worst he was too principled to resort to.

He was brought back to reality when Gilbert began snapping his fingers in his face. “Jesus, has anyone ever told you how creepy that staring thing you do is? Like you were trying to undress me with your eyes.” He straightened up and shivered. “Commission a portrait, it’ll last longer.”

“Please, don’t be so crass. This,” Roderich flippantly pointed to Gilbert’s outfit, “is already enough. If I imagined you in any less, I’d be ill for at least a month.”

Gilbert smirked as he took a sip. “Funny, most people have the opposite reaction.” He leaned his hips back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, how much more stalling can you do? What’s kept you in Paris so much? I don’t recall most treaties taking that much time to…hammer out.” He bit his lip, trying to suppress his snickering.

“It’s rude to talk work at breakfast.” Austria couldn’t be bothered to mask his irritation. Things such as ‘politeness’ and ‘civility’ always seemed to go to waste on Prussia. “And, if you’re fishing for what’s in our agreement, you’ll have no such luck from me. You’re wasting your time.”

“You think I give a damn about what’s on a fucking piece of paper? As if I’d be wasting my time on that. I don’t know who blabs more for the right price, your officials or France’s.” Gilbert’s demeanor was too casual. “Most of the time, we don’t have to go to those damn meetings anyways. We’re little more than decorations, the bureaucrats have everything written before they even breathe a word to us. We know that, they know that. There are always ulterior motives for our little business trips. Whenever I come here, I tell my current minder I’ll be off doing a diplomatic something-or-other in Vienna for a week, don’t wait up.  They buy it even though they know the real reason I come to this shrine of gaudy antiques.”

“Your point, Gilbert?”

“My point is that you’re no different. Sure, you tell everyone that you’re renegotiating this or that little detail and maybe your officials believe it. And you tell it to Erzsi, and she believes it since it’s easier than thinking the husband she loathes so much is just as miserable as her. And maybe you believe it too because you have to lie to yourself first to lie to everyone else. But you can’t fool me.”

The whole time he spoke, Roderich was staring down into the contents of his mug. When all was quiet between them was when he finally looked up, laughing. “You must be desperate if you’re begging to get a morsel of gossip on me from me.”

Gilbert scoffed. “I’m not fishing for gossip. If I was, I would’ve gone through your letters while you were gone. And, before you ask, I’ve never done that. Not for lack of trying, I’m just not good at picking locks.”

The vein behind Roderich’s left eye began pulsating. He rubbed his temple gingerly, wincing. “I think I prefer it when you act like you can’t stand to be in the same room with me. Why the annoying younger brother schtick?”

“Maybe I’m making up for lost time.” For added emphasis, Gilbert made sure to loudly schlurp down a sip. Roderich’s wince at such a noise caused him to snort some coffee out his nose. Wiping it away, he grinned. “Or maybe I just want you to stop thinking you’re any better than me. Get you when you’re unguarded.”

“There’s a glaring hole in your plan. You’ve forgotten that I would never allow myself to be so vulnerable around you, no matter what time of day it is.” He mockingly shook his head, tutting. “I understand that, for now, we’re officially getting along just fine, but don’t mistake that for camaraderie. The first chance either of us gets, we’ll be back to stabbing each other in the back for sport. It’s who we are.”

“Well, aren’t you a pessimist.”

“Hardly. I simply know our natures too well,” Roderich sighed, growing weary at this line of conversation. “So, if this is only temporary, why should I feign tolerance towards you? Quite honestly, you’re not important enough to me for that sort of performance. Even if you were, you would see right through it. No, my energy is better spent on nobler pursuits.”

Gilbert had set his mug down, now drumming his fingers on the countertop. “I’m not asking for friendship; I’m asking for honesty.” He rolled his eyes with the temperament of a teenager. “Whatever. You got me sidetracked. It’s pointless anyways; you’re too delusional.”

“Excuse me?” That was quite the accusation from an unusual source. “At this point, you may as well come right out and say it.”

“If you insist,” Gilbert’s tone lilted up, songlike and jeering. “What you won’t admit is what I started this whole conversation with. All these trips to Paris, they’re not about work or diplomacy or any of your other shitty excuses. I know and you know that the only purpose is to blow a load in Francis’ ass and get away from your miserable life.”

Roderich set his mug down gently. There was no need for it to spill, to make a mess all over the clean marble. “For a moment, I’m going to ignore the vulgar insinuation you’ve made about my relationship with Francis.” He looked up, not breaking eye contact with Gilbert. “You know nothing about my life and my contentment with it. I understand that you are a deeply unhappy and wretched creature and why shouldn’t you be? There is nothing for you to go home and boast about, no shining accomplishments of yours not bathed in the blood of an innocent people, but do not project your misery onto me. For all your crowing to the contrary, we have never been, nor will we ever be, the same.”

Gilbert scoffed. “And everything you’ve ever done, there was only glory to be found there? All the princes you absorbed into your own lands, they were willing? The Bohemians, the Hungarians, they love your rulers? Are you pretending that only Russia and I invaded Poland because I remember seeing you at the table, carving out portions for yourself.”

“I’m not so naïve to believe I haven’t picked up the sword before. And, if necessary, I would again. You’d be wise to remember that.” Roderich straightened up, pulling his shoulders back. “But I’ve achieved just as much without force as with. The home we’re currently standing is a monument to such.”

“Please. It’s a monument to other people’s power and what it can get you. We don’t impact change, we just ride the waves of it,” Gilbert sneered. “This house is a prison for all who come in it. A golden cage is still a cage, Roderich, even for the largest bird.”

Roderich sighed with a roll of his eyes. “Mixing your metaphors doesn’t make you sound wiser, I’ve told you this before.” Needing caffeine for his growing headache, he took a sip. “I assume you’re including yourself among the captives.”

“To a degree. I can leave whenever I want – as you love to point out, I do have my own house – but where would one of us be without the other two? We are the protagonists of our own tragedy.”

“I sincerely regret that old king of yours got you into theater. Next you’ll be telling me how all the world’s a stage and we are but merely players.” When Gilbert opened his mouth to comment on that, Roderich held up his hand. “That wasn’t an invitation for your Shakespearean theories!” He rubbed the bridge between his nose, his prior weariness intensifying. “Why does it matter to you so much? Why must I parade my discontent as you and Erzsébet do? If you make your life’s purpose revenge against an unjust world – there you go! I admit it’s unjust! – you are sure to become more miserable than ever before. Perhaps you should learn that before it destroys you like one of your dear tragedies.”

“It matters because you act like you’re superior to us in every way when, really, you’re no different. And I don’t think I’ll ever understand that,” Gilbert’s voice softened with something akin to regret.

Something in his tone of voice, in his posturing, lit a fire within Roderich. His eyes hardened and he pressed his lips into a scowl. “Understanding is what you want? If it’ll get the defiling power of your pity off me, then so be it! I am better than you in every conceivable way. If I am to you but a mirror, peer close and you’ll realize it too. Where you feel trapped by the circumstances life has thrown us in, with a life that can never truly be our own, I’ve taken what you’ve failed to grasp. While you were slaughtering pagan Easterners in your little bog, I was here, accumulating wealth and power you’ve only fantasized about. I am the seat of an empire that you only have access to through Brandenburg.

“But those are meaningless things, aren’t they? Because here’s what really matters to you – the only thing, isn’t it? I’ve seen how you stare; I know that look – I’ve got what a childhood spent pining among the monks prevented you from getting. Did you ever mention it to them? How young love made that vow of celibacy torturous? How close did you come to breaking it? How many Hail Mary’s did they make you perform for every impure thought? Do you wonder what they’d think of you now, going through all this because you’re in love with your brother’s wife? Phrased just so, they would burn you at the stake again. Ah, but the hellfire is familiar, isn’t it?” Roderich glanced at the clock hanging behind Gilbert’s shoulder. “Erzsébet should be waking now. Go play domestic and bring my wife some coffee.”

Roderich forced himself away from Gilbert, who was left crestfallen with his wide eyes and gaping mouth. He had said enough, gloating would be overkill. He entered his study and locked the door. If there would be consequences for his monologue, let them come later.

The day was still new. Roderich stared out the window. Despite checking the clock, his adrenaline had made him forget the time. He approximated it was no more than nine. He began pouring himself a glass of brandy, but stopped, preferring to drink from the bottle. He gazed around the vast emptiness of the room beyond its sole occupant. He raised the bottle for a toast:

“To the prison of my own making. There is no place quite like home.”

[amindofstone]

Match up, No. 9

@starlightbydaybright hat gefragt:

Hello! Saw you were taking match-ups and I was wondering if I could request one. Only done one before for another fandom, and I was wondering who I’d align with for One Piece ^^

I'm an INFP and generally an introvert, finding it difficult to express myself when I'm around people I'm unfamiliar with or just not close to. I can be both quiet and shy; quiet when I have no interest in making good impression on that person (a stranger I'll see once and never again) and shy when I'm genuinely trying to make myself acceptable to them. But, I do trust easily, so it's not hard to get close enough with me that I'll open up about almost everything, so long as they understand have my boundaries (that'll shift depending on how close). I'm also very affectionate with people I'm close with, particularly through physical touch, since I've been pretty touch starved. If you're close friends with me, you can find me constantly looking for a hug, but I can respect boundaries since not everyone enjoys contact.

The situation would be a bit different romance wise, since I’d revert a bit back to my introverted side, but also very affection-seeking at the same time. I say affection seeking as in I’d crave time and activities spent together with them, but I’d be afraid to ask/initiate, at least during the early beginnings of the relationship. I’d be constantly seeking affirmation of their love, and since I’ve never been in a relationship before (but desperately wanted one), they’d be constantly receiving my love too ❤️

While being an introvert in reality, I find it much easier to speak with confidence online. as I actually have time to contemplate what I can say. It's when I'm either with close friends or on the internet, that I can go on passionate endless rants or show my passive aggressive side. I'm usually pacifist, but if something irks me enough, I can and will pitch in snide/sarcastic remark or two, or if it's more serious; I will write out whole sophisticated and well worded paragraph that'd sound all polite with a hidden snarky tone.

I'm pretty much a hopeless romantic, so there's lot of couple things I want to try when I find someone. Back hugs, bridal carry, tickle fights, you name it. While I do enjoy these displays of affection (comes with the happy kind of embarrassment aka. I feel embarrassed that others sees it but I’m happy because I know they’re not doing it out of maliciousness and because they truly love me), small gestures are appreciated too; a gentle squeeze of the hand, a passing smile, etc.

As for hobbies, I enjoy reading, writing, (occasionally) drawing, but most of all; probably singing. I enjoy a wide variety of songs, depending on what mood I'm in, but I particularly like songs about love. Looking for someone to sing the duet love songs with me, doesn't matter how good or bad they are at singing. They can be tone deaf for all I care, it's the thought that matters 😊

I'm very emotionally sensitive, and can both laugh and cry easily. A random stranger online wished me good day? I'll be in good mood for awhile. Watched a 'mildly' sad movie? (Extra emphasis on mildly) I better have new box of tissue on the side just in case. It'd be nice to have someone that can either comfort me or at least tolerate my emotions, so I wouldn't be irking them 😞

I don't really have a type when looking for significant other but being an INFP does make the romance thing complicated. It'd be nice to have someone that's far along on the extroverted side (just not happy go lucky and can be serious) since, despite being introverted, I like to experience new things. I'm just too afraid to try alone and prefer it if someone else recommends it first. Someone to prompt me and nudge me to do something, but won’t take it too far if I really looked uncomfortable. (I’m also a procrastinator so they gotta find out the right ratio between pushing vs. taking it too far 😅) In relationship, I'd value trust and loyalty the most, since both are important in keeping the healthy relationship. If both sides could equally trust and be trusted, then there wouldn't be place for insecurity or fear. This ties in with another part of me being an INFP; I want a relationship that lasts forever. While it's weird to decide how long lasting the love will be early in the relationship, I don't think I can fully commit myself to someone, knowing that it'll end (through the other side falling out of love with me, finding interest in someone else, etc.) (natural causes like death are fine, even though I will still be sad 🥲)

As for appearance, I’m a 5”4 female with slightly wavy black hair that reach nearly to my waist. I don’t think I’m particularly short, but then again, every anime character seems to be straight up giants XD (Man, I was born with the wrong genes) I’m overall very plain, with black hair, brown eyes, but I’ve always been told I had pretty long eyelashes and big bright eyes. Average weight for my height, and flat chested :’)

As for the preference for gender, I’m mainly attracted to guys. I had some (very few) crushes on a small selection of female anime characters, but that were very rare, like 3, compared to my (insert large number) male crushes

Thank you in advance and sorry for how long this is 😔

P.s. I feel like I need to emphasize I’m still an introvert, since the personality I described is only limited to my very small friend group

a/n:

Hey there? How are you doing? Thank you so much for requesting. First off I should be apologizing for making you wait so long. I hope you´re not mad at me but lately there is a lot happening in my life. In my private life but also in my college life. But let´s put that aside and get to your request.

I have to thank you for the detailed info about you because that helped me to choose a match up for you so much. Like I instantly could think of someone. Not only did it help me to match you up with someone but also to come up with a plot. So I came up with this little imagine/hedcanon… I really don´t know what to call my work for the imaginies so I go with work. XD Anyways I really don´t know what to do at this point. Your request and your personality gave me such a good idea for a plot that I tried my best to keep it short because I decided to turn this request and my ideas and thoughts that are flying around in my mind to an actual FANFICTION! AHHHHHHHH. I can´t stop thinking about it. The idea sounds so damn good in my head that it makes me smile like an idiot right now! Uff I can´t wait to find time writing it down. AHAHH, but I fear that I already gave aways so much with this!!!! *pouts Doesn´t matter I´ll do it anyways. AHHHHHHHHHHH Thank you so damn much for requesting!

Anyways! Back to my work now. If there is anything that bothers you or you simply hate please make sure to tell me so I can change it and give you whatever you´d like. Other than that happy reading my dear!

Match up rules can be found HERE.

Warning(s): Maybe grammatical or spelling mistakes since English is my third language and I´m still improving in every aspect (Please have mercy on that.)

!!! Please do not steal my idea or work. Credit me if this is shared or published in any other platform or any other way. Please respect me as the writer and my work. Picture is not mine. Credits to: I sadly don't know. Please tell me of you know so I can give credits. Thank you in advance. !!!

· I decided to pair you up with KILLER

· Like am I the only person that thinks that he is not getting the screen time and appreciation he deserves? Because that is the damn case! ODA GIVE THIS MAN THE LOVE AND APPRECIATION HE DESERVES. And while we´re at it I wouldn´t mind if I would get a bit more of Eustass Kid too… Thank you in advance. <3

· But that’s not the point. Please dear requesting beautiful human being give this man and me, your hopelessly dreamy author a chance. Thank you, I really appreciate. <3

· aNyWaYssssS.

+

· “y/n? Are you still awake?”, asked the blond man softly. “No worries I won´t make you carry me to bed again.”, you said with a giggle. You couldn´t see his face but you knew that he was smiling. “I don´t mind that you know? I like having you close to me without having to fear to see you hid under the blanket for who knows how long.”, you rolled you eyes and hit his arms. “That only happened because that idiot captain of yours annoyed the hell out of me. That was embarrassing Killer.”, you slowly put one leg over the railing and then the next one. Making sure you don´t fall down the ship. “What happened? Didn´t you drag me out our cabin to watch the stars?”, asked the muscular man who held you close to him while making sure you didn´t fell. “I did but now I´d like to look at something different. Something even more beautiful. Something that gives me warmth and happiness. Something that keeps me alive and always makes sure I am doing fine.”, talking to the blond pirate while sitting at the railing was one of the rare moments you were close to an eye level with him. “You mean my mask?”, asked the man with a tiled head that got you to roll your eyes and hit his chest. “Great you destroyed the sweet moment. I hate you. Make a step back so I can get down. I want to go back to bed and drown in regret of dating you.”, you tried to push him away but he was obviously stronger and threw you over his shoulder. “Of course you hate me. That was also the exact same thing you were moaning a while ago. Let´s go back to bed nerd.”

· As sweet and loving your relationship was now with the pirate it also started like that. Wanna know how? Alright let me get comfortable in my bed and get started. Story TIIMMMEEEE!!!

· An island well known for their universities and scientist. An island full of top ranked doctors.

· Physics, chemistry, biology, astrology was well thaught in the schools of the island. An island well known around the world. An island ruled by a powerful devil fruit user.

· An island in which every civilian had a talent in another field. And you? You sadly had an impressive talent for languages.

· Why sadly you wonder? Well the amount of times you had to run for your dear life because some pirates could come and kidnap you and make you read the poneglyphs is immense.

· Once even the infamous Red haired Shanks came and asked you with the hope to have someone who could read them. But sadly you couldn´t. You told him that you were done with pirates coming for you or your best friends. You regretted learning all of that and hated yourself for that. Shanks and Beckman to whom your were talking to really felt bad for you and claimed the island as their territory after they had a chat with ruler and made a deal.

· That was that saved you and your friends for years and made you happy. You were thankful to the red hair pirates and always treated them with meals and drinks when they came visiting the island. You were happy for 5 years. 5 years until these stupid reckless pirates came.

· And now? Now you hated yourself all over again

· You knew that not every pirate was like the red hair pirates. Nice and respectful. They didn´t kill innocent people and destroyed civilizations only to get some gold and diamonds. But these? These were horrible. Cold and cruel.

· “Someone make this btch talk otherwise I´ll do it by cutting her into pieces only stropping when IT actually starts to answer my god damn questions!”, screamed a tall and guy with red hair.

· You were scared. Tied on a mast on their ship, you feared for your life. Screaming for help was not an option since you were already on the sea since a while now.

· The man that was yelling at you none stop was now holding a blond man with a mask at his collar and growling at him. The man might have a mask on but you somehow had the feeling that he was talking to the man with the red fur coat. “Clear the deck! NOW!!”; yelled the man before he left inside the ship. Slowly every man on deck was leaving you alone. You wanted to ask them were or why the left but you knew that they wouldn´t give you an answer. You were a prisoner. A captive. A pathetic human they took on board. With the last pirate leaving you behind, a door that was located behind the mast you were tied on closed while the need to cry grew inside of you. How long am I here by now? One hour? Two or three? Was anyone missing me back at home? Were they already looking for me? Thoughts that occupied your mind were blurring your vision. You were looking right in front of you but also not. Your eyes were wide open but your vision was back at home. Home were you belonged.

· “Hey. Hey can you hear me? Hey you alright, woman? Hello?”, a man was squatting in front of you and waving with his hands in front of your face. You were deeply lost in your thoughts that you neither heard him coming nor saw him sitting right in front of you.

· But the moment he touched you tight you screamed and got back to reality. “Please don´t touch me. Please don´t hurt me. Please I beg you. Please.”, fear was written all over your face. You saw yourself death with a huge puddle of your blood. “Alright I won´t touch you. It´s just that I´ve been sitting in front of you for 5 minutes now and the only thing you did was breath and say no. Anyways here is something to drink. You´ve been her for four hours now. Half of the time unconscious and the other one either basically mute or in a trance.”, the guy in front of you was the same one who got the mad man to leave and clear the deck. It made you wonder who he was that he had such a power but you didn´t dare to ask. “Here I hold it for you and you drink.”, the glass was put on your lips and you drank. You didn´t knew how thirsty you were until your lungs were wetted by the water. Finished drinking he put a blanket over your legs since the position your were in didn´t allow you to cover yourself properly. And the fact that you were wearing a dress wasn´t helping at all.

· “Alright. You had something to drink I got you a blanket now tell me are you able to talk to me and answer my questions?”, you nodded. “Good. Now listen to me. There is this language that is called Krisanasy. As far as I know there is a tiny amount of people who are able to speak that and you are one of these. Am I right?”, you nodded. “How well are you in it?”, you gulped and looked at the man with the mask “I know the most important basics. I remember basic grammar rules and a good amount of vocabulary but I´m not that good in it. I didn´t worked with anything that included this language since years now.”, the masked man nodded and fully sat down now. “Would you be able to get back in it if you had some books and scripts to work with?”, slowly you understood where this was supposed to lead. You knew that if you said yes they would keep you as their prisoner and make your work for them. And if they had everything they would kill you because there would be no more use for you. But if you said no now and refused to talk to him he would probably also kill you. You were in a dilemma. You didn´t wanted to die but also didn´t wanted to die after you helped them. They were criminals. Feared and hated by the government and any human around the world. You looked down on your lap and let your head fall forward so your long black hair covered your face. “Hey I asked you something. Would you be able to do that?”, his voice was deep and rough but in the same time soft and gentle. That irritated you. it make you realize that him being nice to you now was just a way to get under your skin and make you do whatever they wanted. And then they simply would kill you in the most brutal and cruel way. “Hey, woman. Are you listening?”, you felt helpless. “I don´t want to die. Please let me go. Please. I beg you. Please.”, tears were streaming down you cheeks you couldn´t hold back anymore. He came closer and lifted you face. “Listen here you are a smart woman. Stop crying for fcks sake. If I would be you I would have made these pirates work for me. Use your damn brain and stop crying. Do you really think anyone in here would kill you? Heck no! They need your help. They need your brain because all of them are basically stupid. Like damn I need you to answer all of my questions before my captain with anger issues comes and beats the sht out of me. Now answer me woman. Are you able to get back in it if we got you some scripts to work on?”, you nodded while more tears streamed down you cheeks. You felt pathetic. You felt worthless and used. Helping them would turn you into a criminal too and ruin everything you worked on. Everything the emperor did for you and the island would be wasted. “See wasn’t that hard to answer.”

· The questioning went on for a while you didn´t know for how long but you knew that a long time passed since the sun stared to set. “Alright. Now I give you two options. One, stay here. Tied up on the mast no matter what kind of weather we face. Two you swear to obey me no matter what kind of order I give you and you will be able to sleep on a bed. You will get food and tomorrow you will start working on the scripts we give you. You choose.”, with your head hung lowly you said number two and instantly got released from the chains and handcuffs. He helped you stand up and covered you in the blanket before he led you into his cabin. “Wait here. Sit there and don´t do anything stupid as long as I´m not here. If you do anything stupid I won´t be able to help you. Got it?”, he didn´t even wait until you answered or gave any reaction he simply left and closed the door after him. So you waited while sitting with a lowly hung head. Minutes passed and he came back. “Your clothes are dirty. The bathroom is empty so you can take a bath or shower. Anything you want but I´ll be in the room with you. Because of one I have to make sure no one is coming in and secondly to watch over you and make sure you don´t do anything stupid. Got it. Fine. Take this towel and these clothes. We don´t have any female crewmates so you have to be wearing with my clothes until we dock on another island and you get to buy clothes.”

· The man with the mask took care of you for the rest of the day. He took you to shower and gave you fresh clothes. You had dinner with him alone in the kitchen when no one was around and got back to sleep. And no matter what you did he made sure to keep a respectful distance towards you. Whenever he had to come closer or touch you to take care of your wounds he would warn you. The day kept going like that. Nothing else was said about the following days and the thing they wanted you for. Only necessary things were said that were needed at the moment. And you only gave short replays or only answered with a head movement.

· Slowly the day passed by and the night took over with the moon putting the world alight. You were back in his cabin with him sitting on an armchair and you lying in bed sleeping with one hand tied up on the bed.

[hannibard]

Waiting for You

My @thewitchersecretsanta gift for @ofxwordsxandxletters. I tried my best to incorporate the things you said you liked and I sincerely hope you enjoy. Happy Holidays!!!

Crossposted to AO3

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

It was early afternoon when Geralt made it back to the village covered in monster guts. It wasn’t a particularly difficult hunt, but it did take him quite a bit of time to actually find the cockatrice before killing it, so he returned later than he had originally planned.

The villagers quickly stopped chatting with each other when they saw him and made sure to avoid him as he and Roach passed through a dense road on their way to the alderman’s house. He had been on the path for many years and by now he was used to their hateful gazes along with the rotten stench of fear they always seemed to eminate.

He dropped the pouch containing the cockatrice’s head on the alderman’s threshold and accepted his meagre payment from the man, without having to exchange a single word with him, before going straight for the inn he and Jaskier were staying at.

He left Roach at the stable next to the building and made his way inside, expecting to find the bard singing to a bunch of drunkards, having started his set already, but when he entered the common room, he found it empty and with only a hint of Jaskier’s smell, meaning it had been at least a couple of hours since he’d last been there.

The witcher ignored the small pang of worry in his chest and hurried upstairs to their shared room. He threw the door open with a little too much force and looked around. The bard wasn’t inside as he had hoped, despite all his stuff was still being in the same place he had carelessly thrown them when they first arrived the day before. Even his lute, aka his most prized possession and love of his life, was here and he rarely ever went somewhere without it.

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose and took a few deep breaths, suddenly feeling stupid for caring this much. Jaskier was a grown man after all. He could do whatever he wanted and Geralt had no right to keep him by his side, despite how much he secretly wanted to, but it wasn’t the right time for such thoughts.

Anyhow, Jaskier was probably off with some barmaid or stablehand that had caught his fancy and had decided to skip his usual performance seeing as they had more than enough coin saved up as of late.

Assuming his friend would be back after he’d had his fun, Geralt started on his typical post-hunt routine: placing his swords and pack on a corner, taking off his armor (though this time without the help of a certain someone’s skilled fingers), calling for a bath and a meal to be brought up and after he was both clean and fed, kneeling on the bed and meditating.

By the time he was done with everything, the sun had long set and with his enhanced senses Geralt could hear the rest of the inn’s guests getting ready for bed, but his bard had yet to return.

Feeling as though enough time had passed for his feelings of worry to be reasonable, the witcher went downstairs to the bar. He placed his empty plate and tankard on the counter and as a man got reluctantly closer to take them away, he asked:

“Have you seen the bard that was with me when I arrived anywhere?”

The man was startled to be addressed but he looked back at Geralt.

“I think he went to play gwent at ‘The Rusty Rapier’ with some guys around midday.”

Jaskier’s skills in gwent were notorious to involve quite a bit of cheating, and since it had been so many hours since he went off, Geralt had a bad feeling about this.

“How do I find this tavern?”

He was given directions by the other man and after going back up to the room to take his swords, he went straight to that place hoping nothing bad had happened to his bard, though he doubted that was the case since neither of them was ever that lucky.

.......

Locked inside an abandoned shed, Jaskier was sitting on the ground, hugging his knees and trying to calm himself down while rocking back and forth in a rhythmic motion.

When he was first thrown in here by the men he had tried to scam, after they’d given him a small beating and taken all the coin he had on him (thank Melitele he had left his pouch at the inn) it was still day outside and he could see clearly around him because of some holes on the shed’s wooden ceiling. And Jaskier was mostly fine at that point, just cheerfully singing to pass the time and waiting for his dearest friend Geralt to come rescue him.

Sure, the few wounds and bruises he had (admittedly deservingly) acquired from his gwent-playing buddies stung a bit but it was nothing compared to what some cuckolded husbands had done to him in the past. Plus, ultimately both in this case and all the previous ones where he’d been roughened up by someone he had brought it upon himself, so he couldn’t really complain.

And yeah, singing was always more fun when he had his lute with him but that wasn’t enough to faze him, he could easily make do even without any instrumental accompaniment. He was a professional musician after all.

But as the hours went by, one after the other, the light from outside started dimming, the temperature dropping and his optimism dying, Jaskier grew more and more anxious. He has always hated the dark ever since his childhood and the whole situation was making him recall old memories that he had tried his best to forget.

By this point he had run out of his own songs to sing and had moved on to the ones he had been taught at Oxenfurt, his voice much weaker than before.

He went to rub a hand over his face and noticed that it was slightly trembling, together with the rest of his body and even though it was very cold, he suspected it was only half the reason. He clenched his eyes shut and rested his forehead against his knees, hugging them closer to his torso. He really fucking hated the dark.

Deep breaths Julian, he though as he dug his nails to his upper arms in order to distract himself and sighed. You have no reason to fear. Geralt will probably be here soon and then both of us can leave this godforsaken place behind in the morning.

Except… what if Geralt didn’t come? What if he used this chance to finally get rid of him? After all it was a well-known fact that the older man only barely tolerated his presence.

Sure, Jaskier’s songs had helped lesser the prejudice that existed against Witchers and made it easier for him to find work, but that didn’t mean he needed Jaskier in his life, he’d made that perfectly clear from the start of their acquaintance. Hell, he still refused to even call Jaskier his friend for fucks sake. The bard had thought they’d grown closer over time but maybe that was only wishful thinking.

Jaskier was only a burden and a nuisance to Geralt, and he couldn’t deny that no matter how much it hurt to admit. Still, the bard loved and cared for him anyways. He always had since that fateful day in Posada.

He might have attached himself to the witcher’s side for mostly selfish reasons at first, but he quickly realized how kind and caring he was behind his tough exterior and how low his self-esteem had become from decades of dealing with humans’ contempt and so he had vowed to do everything in his power to create a better world for him.

And although he knew this love wasn’t mutual and that he should have been content by being able to stay with him, even if only as a travel companion, a small traitorous part of him would always crave for more...

Nevertheless, if the witcher was aware of Jaskier’s feelings towards him he probably would have ditched him in some backwater town a long time ago, and so the bard was careful to lock them up inside his chest and never let them show.

But what if he had been careless? What if he let his touch linger while washing Geralt’s hair a little too long? What if he had written a few too many love songs recently with references to ‘luscious silver hair’ and ‘perfectly sculpted biceps’?

Perhaps the reason Geralt hadn’t come yet was because he had left the village without him as his way of letting Jaskier down gently.

Or even worse, what if he’d gotten hurt? Cockatrices (as the witcher suspected the monster he was sent to kill this time was) were fairly easy for Geralt to handle if they were by themselves but accidents could always happen.

What if he was bleeding to death from a fatal wound right this moment when Jaskier had no way to find and help him? If he wasn’t such an idiot and gotten himself in this situation, he might have been able to save him.

All those what ifs were making Jaskier more and more distraught and he could feel tears fill his eyes. He buried his face in his hands and started sobbing quietly, no longer able to continue his singing when suddenly the door was kicked open. The musician looked up abruptly, but he couldn’t make out who was in front of him because of the darkness.

“Jaskier?!” yelled a very familiar gruff voice.

The bard’s eyes widened, and he wiped his tears with the back of his hand. “G-Geralt? Is that you?”

The witcher dropped to his knees beside him. “Yes, it’s me.” He said and started running his hands all over Jaskier’s body, checking for injuries. “You don’t seem badly hurt. Can you stand?”

The bard nodded and got up with his friend’s assistance. It was a bit hard since he felt as if his legs had turned to putty after staying in one position for so long but after leaning on the wall for a moment, he was able to take a few trembling steps. Geralt helped him get outside and onto Roach’s back before climbing to sit behind him. “How do you always manage to get in trouble?” The witcher asked as Roach started galloping towards the village.

Jaskier gave a weak laugh in response. “Must be a talent. How did the hunt go? Are you hurt anywhere?”

Geralt sighed and shook his head. “How you had time to worry about others when you were in that situation evades me.”

“Don’t avoid the question!”

“…The hunt went well and I didn’t get hurt.”

“Promise?” the bard asked, knowing the older man had a habit of hiding his injuries from him.

“Promise.”

Jaskier smiled softly and leaned on his chest, all of a sudden feeling very tired. “Good. How’d you find me?”

“I paid a visit to ‘The Rusty Rapier’ and asked about you. After a bit of threatening, the men you cheated at gwent told me where you were.”

“Heh…Took you long enough.” Jaskier grumbled.

“I thought you were just fucking someone’s wife or something, didn’t expect you to be locked in a shed.” Geralt answered but he sounded somewhat apologetic.

Jaskier chuckled. “I was kidding big buy. Thanks for coming.”

Geralt just hummed in response and the bard could feel the vibrations of it on his back as he dozed off.

.......

When he woke up, he found himself back at the inn’s room. He was laying on the bed in his nightclothes and as he sat up, he noticed that his wounds had been bandaged. The sight brought a small smile to his face. He was about to get up when the door opened and Geralt walked in, carrying a bowl of what seemed to be stew and a tankard of ale. He looked surprised to see Jaskier awake. “You’re up.”

“So it seems.”

The witcher placed the food on the table. “How do you feel?”

Jaskier thought about it. “A bit sore.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “That’s to be expected. Come.”

Jaskier obeyed and got up, making his way to the table. He sat down and started eating eagerly, only now noticing how hungry he was. When he was done, he pushed the empty bowl away and looked up at the older man. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, thank the innkeeper that had to get up and prepare this in the middle of the night.”

“No, not just that. For everything.” He said nodding towards his bandaged arm. “And… I’m sorry for always causing you trouble.”

The witcher looked a bit taken aback by that but he quickly schooled his expression. “It’s fine.”

Jaskier gave him a lopsided smile and looked down on his hands that were resting on his lap.       Geralt waited a bit to see if the bard would say anything and when it was apparent that that wasn’t going to happen, he took hold of the bowl and tankard and went downstairs to leave them somewhere for the innkeeper to find in the morning. He also dropped by the stables to check on Roach.

When he returned, the bard barely noticed his presence. He was still sitting in the same position, not having moved at all, looking dazed and forlorn. Geralt’s brows furrowed in worry and he sat down on the bed.

“Jaskier.”

The musician didn’t turn to look at him, still distracted by his own thoughts. “Hm?”

“What’s wrong?”

Jaskier blinked rapidly a few times and looked up at him. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Geralt sighed and rubbed his face. “You’ve been a bit… out of it. Since I found you.” The witcher had never been good with words, that was Jaskier’s job. But he desperately wanted to help his friend, so he pushed on. “I’ve just never seen you so uh. Quiet. You’ve always been unfazed by any situation, cracking jokes even when that griffin dislocated your shoulder.”

The bard glared at him “Well I though you fucking preferred the quiet.” he snapped and then immediately regretted it, his gaze softening. “Sorry… it’s just-” He cut off himself and sighed. He got up and came to sit next to the witcher. “You might laugh at me when you hear this but… I’m afraid of the dark.”

That definitely wasn’t what Geralt expected. “What? How’s that even possible? We’ve made camp in the woods countless times and you always seemed perfectly fine.”

Jaskier let out a nervous laugh. “That’s because you were there with me. I don’t have an issue when I’m with others but when I’m alone I just kind of lose it. Oh, and there’s also a bit of claustrophobia sprinkled in there.”

“Hm. I never would have guessed.”

The younger man snorted. “Well it’s not like I advertise it.” He scratched his cheek and bit his lower lip. “So that’s why being in that shed affected me this much. Anyhow, I’ll be over it by morning probably.” He bumped the witcher with his shoulder. “Don’t worry, my silly little phobias won’t delay our schedule.”

Geralt immediately felt guilty for making his friend think he would care more about being back on the Path than his mental wellbeing. He frowned and took one of the bard’s hands in his own, giving it a little squeeze. “Jask, if you need more time I wouldn’t mind staying here for a few days longer. I-I just want you to be ok.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened and he looked as if he was about to cry. “Oh Geralt… This means a lot to me. Thank you.”

The witcher smiled at him and gave him a look that seemed full of affection, though Jaskier didn’t dare hope. “Anytime.” He coughed to clear his throat. “So… Do you want to talk about it? Your fear of the dark?”

“Well… There’s not much to say really… It started when I was very young, and my parents decided that to keep me from becoming even more of a disappointment they’d have to find new, stricter ways to punish me for my wrongdoings.” He ran his free hand through his hair. “And one of them was locking me inside a dark storage room for days, without giving me any food until they’d deemed that I had learned my lesson.”

Jaskier was retelling all that casually, as if he was talking about the weather but Geralt was horrified by his words. He always had a hunch that the bard likely didn’t have the best childhood- being a disowned noble and all- but he never guessed that it was actually that bad.

Because how could someone that didn’t receive any love as a child be so full of it as an adult? How could someone that grew up in such a joyless environment be able to spread happiness and laughter wherever he went? How could he wear his heart on his sleeve, letting anyone he met just take it from him and trample it down if he knew better?

“Jaskier that’s fucking horrible, how could you call the fear all that trauma has instilled in you just ‘silly little phobias’?!” His voice raised with each word he spoke, and he was yelling by the end of the sentence.

The bard flinched away from him and avoided his gaze. “Because it’s all in the past Geralt. It’s stupid, to be this affected by it still.”

The witcher was at a loss for words. Jaskier was a pretty talkative guy, always chatting about one thing or the other, but he rarely ever mentioned his family and now the older man could see why, even if he couldn’t completely relate.

Part of him would always resent his mother, Visenna, for abandoning him and thus leading him to the life of a witcher but even still, he had retained many nice memories from their short time together. Instances where she hugged and comforted him or sung him a lullaby to sleep, he treasured all of them dearly.

Because at the end of the day, even though it might not have been as strong in comparison to other mothers, Geralt knew in his heart that Visenna loved him.

And knowing that Jaskier probably couldn’t even be sure about that (because how could a parent that starved their child willingly for days and locked them up have any capacity for love and affection? With that being only one of the punishments) was paining him more than the bard could ever imagine. He wanted nothing more than to envelop him in his arms and protect him from the cruel world they were forced to live in.

He was perfectly aware of what all this meant of course. He might have been bad at dealing with emotions but after the first few years of travelling together, even he couldn’t continue to deny the feelings held towards Jaskier.

It was almost inevitable really. After spending so much time with someone like the bard, with his gorgeous smile and cornflower blue eyes, his easy-going attitude, his beautiful singing voice, someone that had not once been afraid because of him and that had stood up for him when others treated him unfairly, he was bound to fall in love.

“It’s not stupid Jask.” He said after a long exhale. “You’re so strong to have gone through something like that. Most people would have broken under such circumstances.”

Jaskier didn’t look convinced and he smiled wryly while shaking his head. “It’s music that saved me y’know. Whenever I was locked up, I would start singing the melody to whatever few songs I knew, and during those times I could almost forget the hunger and the cold and all the expectations I had failed to meet.” He sniffled and rubbed his eyes. “That’s why I decided to become a bard later on. So that I’d be able to create music too, and maybe help other people when they’re feeling down and give them hope through it.”

When the bard finished speaking, Geralt brought his free hand up and wiped a stray tear that had slid down his cheek. “You’ve done a wonderful job so far. I know I don’t say it much, but I really like all your songs. Yes, even the ones about me.”

Jaskier snickered inelegantly, surprised by his words. “You might regret admitting that darling cause I’m never gonna let you live it down.”

Geralt chuckled. “Hm. True that.” He said and gave the musician a small sad smile. Jaskier rolled his eyes elbowed him in the stomach.

“Oh come on, don’t make that face now! Honestly, if I knew you’d be this affected I wouldn’t have told you.” He said teasingly, trying to make this conversation a bit more lighthearted but the witcher wasn’t having it. He grimaced and maneuvered his body to better face the bard.

“Of course I’m affected Jaskier, how could I possibly not be?! To me you are...” He stopped himself before he could finish that sentence. Nothing good would come if he revealed his feelings to Jaskier. Such a bright person that had their whole life ahead of them would never be interested in a witcher. The bard had helped him see himself in a better light in recent years but that didn’t change the fact that he was a monster, a mutant killing machine that was undeserving of the kind and sweet musician.

Jaskier, unaware of Geralt’s internal monologue, tilted his head the side, looking simultaneously curious and adorable. “…To you I’m what?”

Geralt avoided his gaze. Even in the best-case scenario, the witcher could only hope that the bard would take into consideration their friendship and long history together and not show his disgust too much. Maybe even begin a relationship with him out of pity, but it wouldn’t last long.

Geralt had seen the way Jaskier’s previous flings had gone. He always fell head over heels for some random person that he met during their travels and spent a few weeks, or months at most lavishing them with attention but after that time period passed, he’d fall out of love just as quickly and leave his ex-paramour behind as he rejoined the witcher’s side.

It always secretly pleased Geralt, making him feel superior. Because even if he could never really have Jaskier, not like those other people did, at least he had the knowledge that the younger man would always come back to him. It helped lessen the sting of his jealousy.

And if he ever were to be the recipient of Jaskier’s attentions, no matter how nice it could be at first, he wouldn’t be able to bear it when he became the next person Jaskier left behind, especially after getting a taste of everything he ever wanted. That would only serve to haunt him in his dreams.

But the bard deserved to know. He had just laid down his heart and let Geralt see him at his most vulnerable state. That meant he trusted him enough to do that and the witcher wanted to show him how much he appreciated it by in turn showering him with all the love and affection he held for him. So he took one large breath to brace himself and let the truth out.

“To me you’re everything.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened but he didn’t pull away. “Huh?”

Geralt started tracing circular patterns with his thumb on the other man’s hand. “It’s exactly as I said. When I first met you, I thought you were just a stupid kid looking for adventure and easy coin, and that once you had a taste you’d go back where you came from. But you never did. You stuck next to me through thick and thin, no matter how much I tried to push you away or treated you like shit. You were like an angel, entering my life out of the blue and improving it in every aspect.”

“I hadn’t even realized how lonely I was until you came along. Back then I only focused on my job as a witcher, not really caring if I’d make it out alive whenever I fought a monster. But nowadays I’m extra careful and I try harder just so that I can see you again. You’ve made life worth living again Jask and I… I love you.”

Jaskier just stared at him with his mouth hanging open.

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was it possible that he was still locked in that shed and had begun to hallucinate from the lack of food? Because this whole situation definitely seemed too good to be true.

He pinched himself hard on the arm for good measure.

“Ouch!” Yeah no, it was real. “Are-are you serious?”

Geralt pursed his lips and nodded, looking almost comically grim. He could hear the other’s heartbeat start to pick up.

“And I understand if you feel uncomfortable and want me to be gone by morning, I’m not expecting anything so-hmph!” He was interrupted as Jaskier’s lips crashed onto his. The witcher froze, not able to comprehend what was happening right away but when he did, he wrapped both arms around the other man’s waist and kissed him back with vigor.

When they eventually had to break apart, they were both breathing heavily and Jaskier rested his forehead on Geralt’s, chest heaving, and felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine. “Gods, I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

The older man brought his hand up and started petting his hair gently, feeling giddy and a little nervous. “Me too.”

This had gone much better than expected and no matter how things turned out in the future, he would never regret this moment.

Jaskier pulled away to look him with the brightest smile on his lips, his eyes crinkling in the corners with the force of it. “I love you too dear heart, I have since the day we met.”

Geralt blinked in shock. “You have? But you never said anything and you’ve been in a thousand relationships since then.”

“That’s because I never expected you to feel the same way! No one else could ever compare to you witcher and now that I have you, I’ll never look at other people ever again.”

Jaskier laced their hands back together and brought them up to his mouth, giving a kiss on the back of the witcher’s palm, letting his lips linger for a few seconds. “I promise.”

With all his worries gone, Geralt grinned at his bard and pulled him to his chest for a tight embrace.

They sat there like that for a long time, just basking in each other’s presence and their close proximity.

“…We’re both pretty stupid aren’t we?”

“Pffft, we sure are.” Jaskier said as he nuzzled his lover’s chest when a thought entered his mind. “By the way, how long has it been since you last slept?”

“Two days give or take.”

The bard looked up at him horrified. “What the hell Geralt! We have to fix that immediately.” He said and blew out the few candles that were still lighting the room, before pushing the witcher to lie down on the bed and joining him. They curled around each other on their sides, torsos facing, and Jaskier buried his face on Geralt’s neck as the older man pulled the blankets over them. When they were settled, he wrapped his arms around the bard and tangled their feet together.

The younger man was about to fall asleep when he heard the witcher’s deep voice calling his name.

“Jaskier?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you since before this whole thing happened.”

“M’listening.”

“…Do you want to come to Kaer Morhen with me for the winter?”

Geralt held his breath as he waited for a response. It came in the form of Jaskier pulling back slightly, only to give him a long, gentle kiss.

“Of course I’ll come darling.”

The witcher was relieved and felt excited for the months to come. He smiled softly even though he knew the other man couldn’t see it. “Then we’ll have to buy you one of those thick woolen coats you hate sometime soon.”

Jaskier groaned. “Fuck. I guess it’s worth it.” He gave him one last kiss before closing his eyes once more. “Goodnight love.”

“…Goodnight.” Geralt replied and then dozed off to the best sleep he’d had in decades.

[tobesobri]

𝒜 lot happens in this chapter. You’re welcome and I’m sorry at the same time. If you’d like a preview of Chapter 11 right now, you can join my patreon here! Thank you so much for all the love and support with this story ❤️

huge massive thank you to the incredible @youresogolden-h for editing ❤️

CHAPTER TEN: DANCE IN MY LIVING ROOM (5.7K)

Harry and Y/N are friends…. with benefits, but not the kinds you’re thinking of.

🥥MASTERLIST 🌃INSPO TAG 🌻ASK TAG 💃PLAYLIST 🛌

Harry’s mind went to overthinking mode again when he was alone. When he was tidying his room and hiding Y/N’s things in case Will decided to come upstairs for whatever reason and see replicas of all her toiletries on his counter. The impromptu party was in four hours but when he walked back into his room and stared at his bed, he quickly got lost in his thoughts.

The last time he’d seen her had been Wednesday night.

And it was because he couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t stop picturing her crying alone in her bed and then crying himself into hysterics about it. He even tried washing every piece of his bedspread to get her scent off his pillowcases just so he could get some sleep, but that still didn’t work. The distance he thought he needed had only made him miserable, even more so than before. She didn’t have to care about him, he supposed, he just needed to see her.

So that’s what he ended up texting her at ten o’clock at night. On Wednesday.

(Harry, 10:02 pm)

Please come over.

I need you.

It was desperate, he knew that. But it had worked. She showed up thirty minutes later with her usual backpack, and ten minutes after that in her usual spot under the covers with him.

She hadn’t wanted to at first, because it was late and because it had been a while since he had last asked her to come over, but him needing her was what did the trick in the end. She knew she was sad and alone and she assumed he was as well. That’s why they’d gotten into this mess and the first place, to not be so sad and alone anymore, so it would have been a text she’d regret ignoring, that much she knew.

Things were still different, though. He’d been the one cozied up to her side this time. It was his head resting on her collarbone, his hair tickling her skin. His arms wrapped tightly around her entire body like maybe he really did need her. And that’s how he’d fallen asleep, using her as a pillow while she stayed up, switching between staring out his window and at him. At his back as he inhaled and exhaled evenly. At his face when she periodically pushed his hair out of it and periodically played with said hair. He was asleep anyways, he’d never know the difference.

He had needed someone, she reminded herself. Not anyone in particular. He needed what she needed. But for her, there wasn’t anyone else. No one really quite knew her like Harry did and she wasn’t about to go out tomorrow and find someone to replace him. She’d known him for over a year, having a dormant sense of trust in him even before they started all this. It wasn’t easy for her to jump into things, and even though she knew it wasn’t a piece of cake for him either, he managed better than she ever had.

She had thought about his journal while he slept, and whether or not it was in his nightstand like it usually was. Even with things slowly breaking apart, she could never do that to him. As much as she had wanted to, she couldn’t read through something so personal to him, especially when she didn’t have his permission. She knew she’d grow to resent him a little bit if the roles were reversed.

So, she kept her mind off of it. She had kept her mind off of everything except for the present because it was easier to tolerate. Harry sleeping soundly on her chest like he wanted to be there was all that had mattered.

And when it was Friday night just before people started arriving at his doorstep he missed her all over again. Every single close friend that showed up to his door that wasn’t Y/N didn’t get the same attention he knew he’d give to her.

Luckily for him, however, Will was in charge of something, which meant he’d be arriving earlier than most. Harry had the alcohol covered and a couple of leftover chip bags from previous nights to tide everyone over until Will arrived, even though he still managed to run late, as per usual.

When Will did finally show up, Harry stood in the middle of his foyer, surrounded by others who had just gotten there, completely out of breath. And it wasn’t because he’d just ran around his house like a chicken with its head cut off--which he had done earlier in the evening--it was because of who slid through the doorway right behind Will.

Who was at his house dressed in something other than jeans or sweatpants. Who was, in fact, in something he’d never seen her in before. And if he had, he hadn’t been looking at her with the same pair of eyes he was now.

Will greeted him first, using his free hand to go in for their typical handshake while Harry was still far too preoccupied with Y/N. He stared at her from over Will’s shoulder while she stood there out of place. She made him feel like his brain wasn’t in his head anymore but he somehow operated anyways, no matter how poorly he was doing it. His ears started ringing and he grew uncomfortably hot in his outfit while struggling to make out the words to tell Will to put the fucking cheese and crackers in the kitchen already and leave them be.

“So where’s this girl at?” Will asked suddenly, glancing around the room, unaware that he was pressing every single one of Harry’s nerves.

Harry’s eyes found Y/N again, then went back to Will. He wanted to say that she was here. Right fucking behind you, actually. But Harry reconsidered that decision quickly. “She couldn’t make it.”

He knew Y/N heard him and it hurt to see the way it didn’t seem to bother her at all that he might be talking about some other girl. Then he just hated himself for saying something with any intention to hurt her, just to see if she would be jealous. Will hadn’t really left him with much of a choice, but Y/N deserved better regardless.

“Fuck, I wanted to meet her and talk some sense into her for you, but oh well.” Will patted Harry’s shoulder before heading off.

Once he was finally gone, once she was the only thing left in Will’s absence, she averted her wandering gaze from the other people around them and met Harry’s eyes. She bit back her resentment and worked up enough muscles in her face to fake a smile, even though Harry just blankly stared at her.

Then he snapped out of it when she handed him a bag full of various chips she and Will had picked up along the way to his house.

He took it from her, mostly as an excuse to pull her just a little bit closer. He wrapped his free arm around her back like he was greeting a friend and thanking her for buying his favorite flavor of Doritios. It was innocent, to everyone else. But just between them, he brought his mouth to her ear and said something a little less predictable.

“You clean up nice.”

She rolled her eyes and hugged him reluctantly. It was hard accepting his compliment and feeling his hands on her when her skin burned with jealousy.

“I thought I told you to tell me if you wanted to be with someone.” She whispered back.

When he pulled her in front of him again and saw the sad look on her face, he hated both himself and Will in that moment.

“I--” Harry started but then his annoyance with Will hit an all time high when he heard the other boy calling her name from the kitchen.

She gave Harry another fake smile and started off to find Will. He tasted all the regret when he watched her walk away, staring at her dress and the way it hugged her in all the right places. The way it came to just the middle of her thighs and he realized that’s what he’d missed out on the night they went to sleep with a little less clothes on. That’s what he’d been missing out on ever since, and that’s what he would continue to miss out on if he didn’t do something.

And so he decided tonight was the night. He would tell her everything. And if she didn’t feel the same then at least he tried. At least he’d finally be open with his feelings that had come to an agonizing head the past couple of weeks.

Maybe he had been foolishly in love with the little things he learned about her all those nights ago. And maybe he had gone without someone for so long, he just needed anyone who cared to hold him at night. But it wasn’t just some silly crush or craving intimacy anymore. It was real.

He knew that before he went to New York, he was sure of it. But letting her slip right through his fingers like he’d been doing made him certain of it as he watched her now. He was in love with her, not the way she made him feel or the idea of her. Just her.

By midnight they were drunk. Beyond that, actually. Wasted was a better word for it, and they were wasted enough that all the tension between them washed away with the tequila.

Y/N was so drunk, she completely forgot about their conversation earlier in the night. She took off her shoes and truly let go while singing the lyrics to Drunk In Love at her fullest volume, not a single care in the world about Harry’s love life. She was gone, as gone as Harry who did the exact same thing right beside her. Bumping shoulders with each other while everyone in the room acted as if they were at a full-fledged Beyoncé concert and not Harry’s living room. It made him happy inside again, warm and summery. Maybe it was the alcohol, having lost count of how much he’d had to drink, but either way, he was happy.

And she seemed that way too, particularly when she turned to him, grabbed his arms and danced with him exclusively. Like Will wasn’t in the room anymore. Like nobody was in the room at all. It was just the two of them… and Beyoncé.

They flailed around together for a while, taking another shot each, clicking their glasses together until she fell against him, her arms reaching up around his neck for support. She still danced though, still moved her body to the right beat. And he was too drunk to care about them having their hands all over each other in front of everyone.

When he did start to care was when it was far past midnight and he was sleepy. Others had already claimed their spots around his house if they were too drunk to drive themselves home. It had definitely started to empty out when others, who were far less intoxicated went home. He just didn’t remember when they’d said goodbye.

Will had already claimed an entire sofa when he passed out there around an hour ago, being the first to drop. Y/N and Harry the last ones as they somehow managed to hold each other upright in the middle of the living room again, swaying along to Harry’s oldies playlist and fucking up all the lyrics their sober minds knew by heart.

When he got particularly sleepy, his forehead just sort of fell onto her shoulder with a mind of its own and he cuddled into her neck while things got a little less silly between them.

“Do you even need me anymore?” He asked, and even though his voice felt like a dream, she knew it was real the way his breath tickled her skin and the way he held her waist a little bit tighter.

“Do you?” She retorted.

“Always,” he answered quickly.

And just as quickly, she pulled away from him, far enough that he had to hold the weight of his head up on his own while she glanced between his eyes to see if he was serious or not.

They stared at each other, neither ready to look away again for a long while. It took him glancing at her lips to get them both to snap out of it. To realize they were swaying awkwardly to Aretha Franklin in the middle of his fucking living room.

“Can we go upstairs?” She whispered.

It was then when he realized what he had wanted to say to her had gone tragically unsaid. He hadn’t done jack shit he’d wanted to, the only thing he managed was screaming lyrics into her ear and desperately seeking her validation, if either of those counted as saying anything to her at all.

So he made his move.

Grabbing her hand, he led the way toward the stairs, but when he paused abruptly to turn off the music and the lights, her body collided against his back and they both laughed uncontrollably. Going upstairs this drunk was a dumb idea, but it didn’t seem to cross either of their minds as they continued on.

Once they were out of immediate eyesight in case anyone woke up and spotted them, he whisked her off to his bedroom where they could do what they did best. Where they could be connected, and not just be two drunken, missing puzzle pieces stumbling around alone in the world again.

She followed him, letting him pull her along up the stairs while they both shushed each other when their giggling got too loud.

He closed the door once she was in his room with him and neither of them cared too much anymore about being loud or getting caught. She separated from him then, dancing her way over to his closet for her spare clothes while he plopped down on the edge of his bed and waited for her, kicking his shoes off in the meantime.

She was back moments later with her dress gone and just a shirt in its place, but it was one that didn’t belong to her. Staring at her across the room as she stood in just his black t-shirt sobered Harry right up. The dress she wore had been one thing but this was... his inebriated brain couldn’t even process it.

Swallowing, he moved his hands to the buttons on his shirt but never took his eyes off of her.

She walked over and carefully helped him just like she had done before. This time, though, once his shirt was off, she stared a little longer. He watched her eyes bounce around lazily from each tattoo like she’d been dying to see them this entire time. He stood in front of her while tugging his pants off quickly. They were close, fewer layers between them again. And they were drunk.

She moved around him to her side of the bed and he watched as she crawled in before he joined her under the covers naturally, like there hadn’t been a split between them whatsoever the past few weeks. Like they were them again before New York happened. Everything finally felt right in the world again.

They laid facing each other, both keeping their hands to themselves. His arms didn’t stretch around her frame the way they always did because he was far too lost in her eyes. They weren’t so dull anymore but instead looked normal, like her eyes that trusted him and cared about him and needed him.

“Harry?” She whispered, pulling him out of whatever distant land he’d just gone to.

“Hm?”

“How many tattoos do you have exactly?”

He couldn’t help but laugh at her. He had the same old Y/N back that told her little comic-relief jokes and never failed to make him smile. He was warm again.

“I dunno.” He chuckled a bit louder than anticipated, but when she joined right along with him, it didn’t matter so much.

Without even thinking of the consequences, she moved her hand to his face, cupping his jaw like soft linen against his rough, grainy stubble. And then she pressed her thumb into his dimple, not unlike the last time she’d done it, and made him laugh even more. 

She kept her fingers in his hair, and the next time they were back to watching each other in a comfortable silence was different. He wasn’t looking at her eyes, at least not for all of it. He glanced at her lips once quickly, but enough for her to notice, and then landed back on her eyes. Like he was asking for permission. And she gave him a subtle, but definitely there, nod.

He scooted closer then, watching her face for any signs that he should stop. When he didn't find any, he carefully rested his hand on the side of her face, watching as her eyes fluttered shut with the feeling of his touch on her skin.

He waited until she opened her eyes. Until she saw him and knew he was about to kiss her. That his face would be the only one she saw when he pressed his forehead against hers.

His breathing was erratic and she couldn’t get her lungs to function properly. But either way it was happening, even if she had to pass out. She was kissing Harry whether or not her lack of oxygen killed her.

The last thing she saw before he closed the gap between their mouths was his smile. And then he melted it right against hers. All of the time he spent daydreaming about it was nothing compared to the real thing. Not when she clasped her own hands around the sides of his face and went a little deeper. Not when his fingers slipped through her hair to the back of her neck and he breathed in the sweet smell of her shampoo. Not when she moved her lips against his in ways that made the immobile butterfly on his stomach flap its wings.

Until, of course, she pulled away with a gasp. Both their lips pouted and damp and begging to be kissed again. She looked at him like she’d just realized what they were doing. Like she was about to push him off of her because they definitely should not be fucking kissing right now. But instead, all it took was one last glance at his mouth before she was all over it again.

He fell slowly to his back thanks to the unrelenting way she kissed him. It was like she couldn’t get enough of him, like she’d never kissed anyone before this way or maybe not even at all. And she never wanted to stop. He moaned into her mouth when she pulled more of her weight on top of him, digging her fingers into his hair. And he kissed her back, of course, as if no one he had ever kissed before came anywhere close to how she made him feel. All he saw behind his eyelids was bright yellow and all he felt inside his body was a hot summer day on the beach in California. His hands digging into the soft sand that smelled peculiarly like coconuts…

He got lost there for a while until she did it again, until she broke contact and stared at him the way he wished she’d stop doing. But when he moved to reconnect their mouths, she backed away even further until not a single one of her body parts was on top of him or touching him at all.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, laying flat on her back with her palm on her forehead and her fingers twisted into her hair where he wanted his to be again. “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

“Wh-” He started, being immediately cut off by the way she covered her face with her hands. Embarrassment. He knew that emotion on her all too well. She was embarrassed that she’d kissed him.

“I shouldn’t have done that.” Her voice was like crisp autumn air cutting his summer short and there was nothing he could do to stop it. “Can we go to sleep and act like that didn’t just happen?”

Although he wanted nothing to do with forgetting about it, he didn’t want to upset her more. He’d rather never kiss or touch her ever again than make her upset or uncomfortable. So, he nodded his head and pulled her into him like nothing had happened after all. Even though it killed him.

Even though he still hadn’t said anything he’d wanted to and now he wasn’t sure if he should.

Maybe it was a huge mistake. It didn’t feel as wrong as his previous mistakes involving Y/N, but she still made it feel that way. She made it feel like the worst thing they could have done was be drunk and make-out in his bed. And maybe it was. Nothing had gone the way he planned it in his head, but he had been fine with that. Until she wasn’t fine with it.

She was up before him, gone before he even blinked a single eye open. It was like her first night here all over again when he woke to a cold, empty bed and his heart sunk in his chest.

Instead of her he found a thin piece of fabric, and after bunching it up in his fist, he brought it in front of his face. He untangled it and blinked a few times, confused until he realized what it was. His shirt. The one she���d put on last night that nearly had him drooling.

And then he remembered what happened. He still felt her on his lips, burning like fresh mint. He went back further into his memories from the previous night and realized why she was gone.

Will.

He figured everything out when he walked downstairs and found her on the couch where she was supposed to be. Where Will would wake up next to her in an hour and not suspect a damn thing. He might have some words about why they’d been dancing on each other last night, if he even remembered it, but at least he wouldn’t know that they slept in the same bed. And he especially wouldn’t know about that kiss.

Harry escaped back upstairs once he knew where she was. Once he couldn’t stand another second around people, even if they were all dead asleep. He didn't even want to see any of them. He wanted to be alone in his bed where he could cry his stupid, hungover eyes out.

“Is there… something going on with you and Harry?” Will asked, breaking the awkward tension in the car ride home from Harry’s.

She shot her eyes over to him in a panic, “No, why?”

“I swear you guys were dancing all over each other. You never even talk to him.”

Her heart started to race as she thought of an excuse, any excuse to throw him off of thinking about that any longer.

“I don’t even remember anything from last night, Will.” She lied.

He was quiet, but his face was still skeptical, so she went on pulling some morally questionable strings to get him to believe her. “You know I’m not into any of that.”

Nodding, he sighed and that seemed to do the trick. “I know. He’s just… really messed up right now and I was worried about you getting involved with him.”

“I’m not.” She said, with a little too much confidence. “He’s nice but I don’t like him like that.”

She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince more in that moment, Will or herself.

Her stomach fluttered all weekend every time the mere thought of Harry crossed her mind. It only got worse when she found one of his sweaters at the bottom of her hamper or when the scent of his cologne still lingered on her sheets. When she got a glimpse of her dress peeking out of her closet and remembered how it looked in a pile on his floor. When she showered and suddenly all her things looked like they didn’t belong in her own bathroom. When she tasted the tequila as it came back up Saturday morning and couldn’t help tasting him as well.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t convince herself that she didn’t like him as easily as she’d convinced Will. She didn’t want to like him anymore, not since he came home from New York, but she couldn’t quite convince herself of that yet either.

And then he’d kissed her.

What the fuck was she supposed to do with that?

By Monday at work she stopped fighting how she felt about him. He kissed her and there had to be a reason for it. Maybe her chances with him weren’t as nonexistent as she thought they were and maybe he did actually like her the way she wanted him to.

She couldn’t help but wonder, however, if it had just been a side effect of getting Harry properly drunk. They both were. Will had plenty of stories about how clingy Harry was when he got wasted, so maybe that’s all this was. Maybe he was just drunk and doing stupid things like the stupid thing he’d done in New York. She remembered his and Will’s conversation at the party. The girl that apparently couldn’t make it. Harry hadn’t looked at Y/N or kissed her that night like he had anyone else on his mind.

After work, she gained the courage to text him. It was no use sitting around overthinking things. She had to know if he felt at all the same way she did. If he’d want to kiss her again while they were sober.

With shaky fingers, she typed out her message to him. Although she hesitated before hitting send, there was still a sigh of relief when she finally did.

(Y/N, 5:43 pm)

Can I come over tonight?

It was like it always was. Same positions, same view out his massive window. The only difference when she arrived was the ‘For Sale’ sign out front reminding her that his time in this house was temporary. That he was going to leave it and all the memories they had together behind him the second someone made the right offer.

But everything else, it was all the same.

“So you’re really moving then, huh?” She asked, curled up into his chest as if nothing had happened Friday night. The kiss seemingly erased from his memories completely and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. She’d gone in hoping he would do something, but he never even mentioned it and so she decided that she wouldn’t either.

“Finally found an apartment in the West Hollywood area. Figured it was time.”

She felt her body droop, like she’d gotten her hopes up that maybe he’d change his mind about leaving. He’d be a further and harder drive to get to with traffic, but she guessed it would still work. She just didn't want to change at all. She wanted to stare out at his view for the rest of her life.

“I don’t want you to move.” She knew it was one of the first times she’d really laid her heart right out there with how nervous it made her to say that one simple sentence. She felt better once it was out though, like maybe her opinion on his changing zip code mattered enough to make him stay. And she didn’t often feel like any of her opinions ever made too much of a difference.

He rolled his eyes down toward her, “Have properties in London I want to put the money in, I’m afraid. Wasn’t even going to bother getting an apartment here until…” He stopped himself before he said something that crossed another line as if kissing her hadn’t been enough. She didn't need to know he only wanted a semi-permanent home in L.A. because of her. Because his rocky and indecisive plans changed the first night she slept over. Even if he didn’t want to keep his current house, he still wanted to be close to her. Gauging her reaction after they’d kissed, however, telling her any of that would be stupid.

“Until what?”

He shook his head and yawned. “Nevermind.”

She narrowed her eyes at him though, wishing she knew everything that was going on inside his head. If only she could be a fly on the wall inside that brain of his then life might be easier.

“So you won’t even think about staying?”

He sighed and turned onto his back, keeping his arm around her as she adjusted beside him. “Why should I?”

She didn’t say anything else after that. Even when he glanced at her sideways for any good excuse for him to stay. Her heart broke though when, with that simple little question, she finally got her answers. He didn’t feel the same way. He didn’t want to kiss her again. He didn’t want to stay in his house. He didn’t want to preserve all the memories they’d had here together. It meant nothing to him the way it did to her.

She didn’t have any other reasons besides selfish ones to answer his question, so she didn’t. It was his money and his life. She had nothing to do with it.

But he wanted her to. He wanted her to say everything to make him stay. And so when she was quiet, it was just another blow to his chest. Another piece of evidence that she didn’t care about him the way he thought she might. Especially after they’d kissed. He thought maybe something might change, but here they were, pretending it never fucking happened. Convincing each other that it bothered neither of them if he were to move.

He fell asleep shortly after that while she stayed up. While she watched the profile of his face as he ventured off to dreamland, wondering if he’d ever dreamt about her like she had him. If he’d ever thought about her while he was alone like she did. If he wanted her at all in the same way she wanted him.

Thinking about his lips again wasn’t her best idea, especially not when they were right in front of her and she could do nothing about it.

Until her phone buzzed on his bedside table where she’d left it and she got a break from her own mind. She grabbed it from behind her without looking so she didn’t disturb Harry too badly. It dinged again once she had her hand wrapped around it, but once the screen was lighting up her face, she realized it wasn’t her phone at all.

She’d already seen it though, and she mentally cursed Harry for having the same phone as her and putting her in this position. There were two texts stacked together on his lock screen but she’d only seen the most recent one before clicking his phone off and putting it back.

The stupid fucking text still flashed in her mind when she shut her eyes tight to stop thinking about it. It wasn’t entirely that she’d unintentionally read his private conversation, it was the contents of it that turned her heart into a cinder block weighing down on her chest. And more than just the contents, it was the name of the person messaging him.

(Jess, 10:56 pm)

And maybe we can hang out this week?

Jess. Like the Jessica he’d slept with in New York.

She didn’t want to overreact for no reason, but she couldn’t really help her mind from spiraling out of control, even if she did curl up beside him again. Even if a few tears spilled out onto his shirt while she thought about losing him. While she thought about letting him go. He didn’t have to stay and do anything for her. She’d let him walk right out of her life if he wanted to. And if he was too chicken to tell her he didn’t want her around anymore, then she’d be the first to go.

It was time.

Because even if Jess had nothing to do with anything, she was miserable the way they were. Her constantly falling hopelessly in love with him every time she saw him, just to be left disappointed. It wasn’t healthy. And if she left now, it would be a clean break. Cold turkey. She’d kissed him and got his sad, but honest answer.

He didn’t want her. He didn’t need her. He was just drunk, doing stupid things.

She was up well before him, not that she got much sleep all night anyways. It was the first time, however, that she’d woken up without his touch as he had his back to her, a good chunk of space in between them. The distance only cemented her decision.

She tiptoed to his bathroom, where her various things had been taking up root in his shower and on his counter. She’d become more comfortable than the first time she set anything down in his bathroom. They weren’t so organized anymore as they once had been and she didn’t pay much attention to how much space she was taking up until his bathroom suddenly felt cold and empty.

She wiped a tear from under her eye, not allowing it to escape down her cheek as she gave one last once-over of the bathroom before she flipped off the light and left.

He didn’t even stir the tiniest bit while she gathered more of her things. While she cleared out her drawer in his closet and lingered at his pink suit jacket, wishing she could go back to that time when everything hadn’t gone to absolute shit yet.

The last thing she did, before she took the stairs out of his life completely, was peak out the curtains. She couldn’t stand to look at him alone in his bed, knowing he might not care that she’d be gone when he woke up. So she took in that view L.A. for what might be the last time and tried to convince herself to stay. No matter what she told herself, however, the rational parts of her brain won. And so, she slung her bag over her shoulder and left him.

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[fluffykitty1999-blog]

Burned Chapter 21- Epilogue

"Can we go home yet?" Ed rasped, voice still hoarse but bordering on whiny from where he sat on the hospital cot, swinging his legs impatiently.

Mustang cocked an eyebrow. "Has the doctor cleared you yet?"

Ed said nothing.

"then you have your answer." Roy supplied helpfully. Still, secretly he was a bit relieved. If Edward was complaining, then he couldn't be too badly hurt.

A few moments later, a woman in a white coat strode into the room, looking far too cheerful for the late hour of the night it now was.

"Hello there, Edward." she beamed at him. "What seems to be the problem?"

"My commanding officer dragged me here and won't let me leave." Ed supplied, fixing Roy with a glare.

The doctor's eyes drifted to Roy, who sat, still in uniform and arms crossed, looking unimpressed. "He was caught in a house fire earlier tonight. Keeps insisting he's fine, but he's also a habitual liar about that sort of thing."

The doctor's eyes widened, and she scrutinized Ed more closely- looking at his dusty clothes and the singed ends of his hair and frowning.

"How long were you inside the fire? Any trouble breathing?"

"Uh... I was inside the whole time... No trouble breathing." Ed supplied lamely.

The doctor looked him up and down, eyes still wide. She turned to Mustang. "Was this the fire on fifth avenue?"

Roy nodded.

The doctor looked at Ed once again, a mix of horror and astonishment on her face. "That house burned to the ground. How on earth are you standing here?"

"It's a long story. I'm an alchemist." Ed said, not having the energy to explain it all. He lifted his sleeve to his mouth and coughed- a raspy, pained sound, like a broken motor trying to start with a wet rag wrapped around it.

Ed's sleeve came back sooty, and the doctor frowned.

"He's been coughing up that crap for the last hour." Roy supplied, trying to school his features, though his concern showed in his charcoal eyes as he looked at Ed worriedly. All that soot in the boy’s lungs couldn’t be healthy- hopefully it didn’t make him sick.

The doctor nodded, going for her stethoscope. "Right. I'm going to need to listen to your lungs- can you take off your shirt for me?"

Ed shrugged off his rather sullied red coat slowly- at first Roy mistook the boy's slowness for reluctance. But Ed paused for a brief moment in only his black sleeveless t-shirt, took a breath as though he were steeling himself, and grit his teeth before he was pulling his shirt over his head.

The banding of black and purple spread out in a macabre fashion- veins or purple, bands of it, really- peering around from the boy's back and wrapping around his lower abdomen, some of the bruising stopping just beneath his ribs.

The doctor carefully replaced her stethoscope around her neck, nodding to Edward. "On second though- first I should take a look at his. Are you in any pain right now?"

"I've had worse." Ed said simply.

The doctor nodded. "Can you lay on your stomach for me?"

Ed shifted, moving rather slowly- but he managed to lay on his belly. Roy carefully stood- wanting to get a better look at the extent of the boy's injuries. The bruising on the front of the boy's torso was nothing compared to his lower back. His lower back- nearly all of it- was a deep, deep purple- an impossibly large bruise- like the boy had been in some sort of car accident, or been struck by something impossibly large.

"Do you know what caused this, Ed?"

"Beam of wood." Ed said simply. "Fell on me."

"Can you rate your pain for me? On a scale of one to 10, with 10 being the worst you've ever felt and 1 being the least?"

"4. I'll sleep it off."

Roy exhaled through his nose- unsure whether to laugh at such an Edward-esque response or be alarmed.

The doctor nodded, the surprise slowly disappearing from her face as she saw Edward's automail arm. She allowed a small smile to creep onto her face. "You automail patients always have ridiculous pain tolerances." she said quietly, almost as though she were speaking to herself.

She gently felt along Ed's spine, fingers moving with an expert but gentle touch to make sure that everything was in place and no bones were broken.

"Everything seems alright there- can you lay on your back for me now?"

Ed grunted in reply and turned over, a slight wince tugging at his features for a moment before it disappeared.

"It must've been quite the beam that fell on you, Edward. I'll need to feel your belly and make sure there aren't any other injuries. Are your ribs hurting at all? Any trouble breathing?"

"Ribs are bruised. Not broken. I can breathe fine."

The doctor nodded, before she was carefully reaching down to start to feel Ed's abdomen. Ed recoiled violently her touch, looking rather betrayed.

Mustang sat up straighter in alarm when he heard the kid gasp, fearing some unseen injury.

 "Your hands are cold." Ed said, looking annoyed.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to warn you about that." the doctor rubbed her hands together to warm them, looking down at Ed "may I continue?"

Ed nodded, and she continued her exam without incident.

She continued on to listen to Ed's lungs with her stethoscope, before she nodded, as though satisfied with her exam.

"Can I go home yet?" Ed asked, rather tired of the whole ordeal.

"In a moment. I'd like to speak to you" she nodded to Roy "outside briefly.".

Roy nodded, and he and the doctor stepped out of the room together, closing the door behind them.

"How is he?" Roy asked, not wasting any time. He knew Ed was good at hiding injury.

"Considering the situation he's been through- remarkable. Anyone else would be dead. That little girl in the other room came from the same fire and didn't have a scratch on her- it's amazing."

Roy nodded. "Edward is a very skilled alchemist. I have some idea of the rough deconstructions he used to partially stall the fire and protect them. But he neglected to mention a beam of wood falling on him." Roy could hardly keep the annoyance from his voice at the last part.

"That's the worst of his injuries, to be honest. He's certainly sore- the bruising is severe, but from my exam I'm confident nothing is broken. His back is, in less clinical terms, bruised to hell, and he'll certainly be sore for a week or so- but that's the worst of it. Normally, my first worry would be smoke inhalation- his lungs did sound irritated, but I didn't hear any fluid or sounds suggesting further injury. My next major concern would be internal bleeding from the trauma of the beam falling on him."

Roy nodded. "Will you be doing any scans or x-rays?"

"I don't think it's necessary. I can say with certainty that no bones are broken- they were all intact on examination. And I honestly don't think a scan would be necessary- with the kind of trauma we're worried about, there would be obvious clinical signs of internal bleeding, like a swollen belly full of blood. He looked right as rain when I examined him- I honestly believe he's just severely bruised."

"So he's alright? He's still coughing up soot." Roy admitted, looking to the doctor for assurance.

"Yes. To be honest, that's to be expected- better for him to get it coughed out than have it stay in his lungs- if it does, it might cause pneumonia. I'm going to write a script for some medicine- an expectorant- to make it easier for him to cough all that up. It'll also be easier for him if he drinks lots of water. And- I'll be writing a script for some cream as well. It's a gel that helps alleviate pain from bruises on his back to help him rest easier. I'll have the pharmacy fill them for you in a few minutes."

"So I can take him home tonight?"

"Yes, I don't see why not. He should be kept warm and quiet for the next few days- in bed and resting. He'll be sore for a week or so, but nothing that will last too long."

"He'll be glad to hear that."

The door behind them opened, and Ed- clad in his shirt and coat again- peered out at Roy, looking rather irritated and tired. "Can we go yet?"

"Go lay down." Roy said simply.

Ed fixed him with a withering stare.

"I'm sorting out some medicine you'll need from the kind doctor here. Once we have that we can go. Now lay down. The sooner I get this squared away the sooner we go."

Ed nodded, still looking rather irritated, and shut the door behind him.

Roy sighed. "Sorry about that. Edward dislikes hospitals immensely."

"I can see why. He does spend a fail bit of time in them. I like to read the medical records of my patients before I see him- he has a file like a phone book." the doctor was smiling, though. Ed had that charm about him. "I'll go write up the medicine for your charge, Mr.... ?"

"Mustang. But you can call me Roy." suddenly Roy was aware that it was well after midnight, he was covered in grime and dirt, and in front of a rather beautiful young doctor. He ran a hand through his dusty hair, trying to smooth it, and the doctor smiled.

"Well, Roy- that certainly is some young alchemist you have on your hands. I'll go gather up that medicine for you."

And she was gone.

Roy was about to go back into the exam room and give Ed the verdict when the sound of running feet stopped him.

"Roy! Hey, Roy!"

Roy turned to see an equally filthy and bedraggled looking Hughes trotting over, though the man was much more cheery than he was at this late hour.

"Hughes. How's Elicia?"

"Incredibly cute. That's all the doctors could say. Not a scratch on her. But the doctors have given her princess bandaids anyways because she's so cute, and it's adorable and I have photos but I haven't been able to develop the film yet." Hughes smiled, holding up his trusty camera.

"That's good." Roy ran another hand through his hair.

Hughes smiled. "How's yours doing?"

"Bruised and cranky. But he'll live. They're writing up some medicine to help him cough up the crap he inhaled and some cream for the bruises and then we're out of here. They want him to rest for about a week."

"Knowing him, he'll be up and about in two days." Hughes said with a grin.

"Not if I have anything to say about it. Doctors orders. Lord knows I have enough trouble wrangling the kid into the hospital when he is hurt- if I let him make himself worse then we're both screwed." still, Roy couldn't shake the slightly fond note from his voice.

"Are you and Gracia alright?"

Hughes nodded. "We've already made arrangements to stay with her mother across town. We'll figure something out. It's no big deal, really- a house is a house- things can be bought. Edward and Elicia are the only things that can't be replaced. Although-" Hughes frowned slightly "I lost all of Elicia's baby pictures. But it's okay. I'll take more photos of her."

Roy nodded. A nurse came over with a small white bag of medicines for Roy, and the two said their goodbyes.

Roy headed back into the exam room to find Ed laying on the exam table, half asleep.

"Ready to go, shortstack?"

"Finally." Ed swung his legs over the side of the table, brows furrowed in annoyance. "And don't call me short."

The kid really must've been tired. He hadn't even yelled.

Edward spent that night and most of the next day sleeping. It was comforting to see the boy resting, but unnerving that he was willing to do so without complaint. In Roy's mind, it only solidified that the boy's body needed to do more healing than it let on. He dutifully woke his annoyed blonde teenage alchemist to give him some of that medicine- an expectorant, the doctors had called it- to help him cough up whatever soot he'd inhaled.

Edward insisted his back was fine, but he was sleeping on his stomach, which informed Roy that the boy was lying. While he was asleep, Roy managed to smear some of the pain relieving cream onto the boy's back, and he seemed to rest easier after that.

On the third day of bedrest, however, Ed had decided he'd had enough.

Roy found him in the kitchen downstairs, trying to make scrambled eggs.

"You shouldn't be up."

"I was hungry."

"You could've called. I'd have brought you something."

"Mustang, as much as I like having you as my loyal manservant, there's some things a guy has to do by himself." Ed paused, stopping where he was using a spatula to stir his eggs and coughing, spitting a mouthful of soot into a nearby coffee mug he'd been using for an impromptu spittoon. Roy cringed, taking the mug from the boy and dumping it down the sink.

"Bed." he pointed upstairs.

"But my eggs!"

"I'll cook them and bring them up to you. You're still coughing up soot. The doctors said rest for a week."

"But I'm not tired!"

"Then read. Al has brought you plenty of research from the library. And I've got him working on a project for me as well."

"But I'm bored!"

"I have a project you can help me with too. But I'm not going to tell you what it is unless you go. Rest." Roy hadn’t stopped pointing with one hand, as he took the spatula with the other and kept cooking the eggs.

Ed was a mixture of grumpy and intrigued as he stomped upstairs and climbed back into his bed.

A few minutes later, Roy came upstairs with a plate of scrambled eggs, which Ed eagerly devoured.

"So- what's this project you want my help with anyways?" Ed asked between mouthfuls of food.

"Actually, it's the same one Al is helping me with. He should be back with the materials soon."

They fell silent, the only sounds for a few moments Ed demolishing his eggs.

Roy simply watched him. "Were you scared?"

Ed looked up, golden eyes questioning.

"In the fire. After everything you've been through, being trapped in a fire is probably the last thing you'd need. I was frightened watching it. Knowing you were trapped in there and I couldn't get to you." Roy admitted.

Ed nodded, setting down his fork. "Yeah. I was scared. But Elicia- she was talking. crying, actually- and I realized I couldn't fall apart. I tried to breathe deep, even though there wasn't a lot of air, and I just had to keep going. So i got us downstairs in the flooded bathtub, and then I put us underground. And I just waited. Elicia was really scared, and so was I, but I just tried to be like you, when you calmed me down before, and it seemed to work out alright. I should've been more scared, towards the end- I was too tired to use my alchemy to get us out from underground. But I wasn't, because I knew you'd find us- I wasn't on my own anymore."

Roy nodded, looking pensive for a moment. He looked up, meeting Edward's eyes.

"I'm proud of you, Edward."

The door opened downstairs, and large, hollow footsteps let them know that Alphonse was home and climbing the stairs.

"I got the materials you asked for, Colonel. It took awhile- there was a lot more than we thought, I talked to nearly everyone in Hughes's office." Alphonse set down a rather large box on the floor, and a shopping bag beside it.

"This is that project you guys were talking about?" Ed sat forward in bed, looking interested.

Roy nodded. "Hughes mentioned all his photo albums of Elicia's baby pictures were lost in the fire." he said seriously.

"But luckily the Colonel knew that Hughes has shown people so many pictures and given them away that there were a lot out there. We just had to gather them up from everyone who's gotten some. Including us, brother-" Alphonse held up a few photographs.

"So I just need your help sorting them out and putting the album together." Roy opened the shopping bag, pulling out a large red photo album with gold trim.

"Sounds easy enough." Ed sat up in bed, and Alphonse moved to open the large box of photos, which they started to spread out on the bed.

One hour turned into four like nothing- there were little pictures, of Elicia when she had just been born, wrapped in a blanket, and cute pictures of her in a ladybug outfit and various baby clothes as she grew up. They decided to order the album chronologically- starting with the youngest pictures and moving to the oldest. It was fun to see not only Elicia, but also themselves grow- there was a picture of Ed holding Elciia as a newborn- he'd only been 12 at the time- and one of a toddler Elicia chewing on Al's gauntlets, and pulling Roy's hair. In one photo, Elicia was clinging to Roy's leg while he did paperwork in his office, green eyes impossibly big as she gummed on the very end of Roy's pantleg. She'd been teething.

It was also fun to see themselves in the background. In one of the pictures, Elicia crawled on the carpet of Roy's office, reaching towards the camera, while in the background, Ed had just thrown a chair at Mustang- the chair was mid-flight towards Mustang, who was making hasty retreat after calling Ed short.

The door downstairs opened. "Anybody home?" Hughes voice drifted upstairs, and the man himself followed, holding something steaming in his hands.

"Hey guys! Ed, I see you're resting up nicely." Hughes smiled, holding the steaming pan in his hands higher. "Elicia's resting at home with Gracia too, but they wanted me to bring you this apple pie!"

"That's great, Hughes." Roy said, looking up from the snapshot in his hand.

"We have something for you too." Ed said, holding up the closed and finished book in his hands.

"What's this?" Hughes set the pie on the dresser and stepped closer, taking the book from Ed and opening it.

When he saw what was on the first page, he gasped, turning to the next, and then the next, as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

When he looked up, a few tears were on his cheeks. "This is amazing! I thought I lost all her baby pictures in the fire." he breathed, lips trembling.

"You did. But luckily you were always giving the spares and extra photos to anyone who'd listen." Roy admitted calmly, smiling.

"It was the colonel's idea." Alphonse said, nodding. "We just gathered them from the people you'd given them too and arranged them".

"It's perfect." Hughes set the album on the bed with shaking hands and pulled Ed and Roy into a hug with one arm, reaching for Alphonse with the other.

"You guys are the best!"

"We know. Now quit with the mushy stuff already and let's eat some pie!" Ed exclaimed.

Done! One big, happy ending!

But I'm not finished writing FMA fanfiction. I'm think of doing more Ed angst and whumph in the future- mainly, a fic where Ed has to go into a warzone when war breaks out and fight. And looses his innocence along the way. Or another idea I've been toying with is Ed gets put in a dangerous position by a military officer superior to Mustang and holds his ground and loyalty. These are just ideas I'm playing with right now. Let me know what you think!

And as always- if you enjoyed this story, if you’d spare even $3 for the coffee fund, it would make my week! :)

https://ko-fi.com/fluffykitty12

[spacestationdaedalus]

Happy late Christmas to @malevon!! I might not be able to throw you a party but at least I can give you a fic to read to celebrate the last day at your job. This is the longest single piece I’ve written in a long time and my first time writing injury/whump, so I hope it’s comprehensible, at least. It was SO much fun to write, thank you for the lovely prompt <3

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28435182

...

She's coming apart, now. 

I’m not scared of you.

Helen...was that...a lie?

Once he heard it, Saw it, Jon knew it was over. Her doors and hallways bend and creak under the weight of the Watcher’s gaze, and she herself is twisting. She’s always twisting of course, but this is different. It’s uniform, too comprehensible for the incarnation of lies and deceit. She’s screaming, crying out-

- it’s me, it’s Helen -

Channeling the power of the Eye comes a bit easier each time, which Jon registers in the back of his mind as vaguely concerning. The corridors are crumbling, colors blending into each other as Distortion and Spiral become indistinguishable. Jon staggers as the walls and floor shift, disorienting still even with the Eye staring down at them. It reaches out, then, a last-ditch effort to save itself. Stretching and warping with hands, sharp fingers that don’t belong to Helen or Michael or anyone with a name. Jon doesn’t stop talking.

He registers a pain, vague and far-off. Everything warps into red and a million colors all at once, and then he's nowhere.

Dry grass crunches under his feet, and icy wind cuts through him. He can’t actually hear it over the ringing in his ears, but he can definitely feel it, bracing and whipping the dark strands that had come free from their bun. There’s a ringing in his ears; it travels into his jaw, rattles his teeth. There's a coppery taste in his mouth and warmth trickling down his face. Another nosebleed. Great.

"Christ, Jon!"

Martin's voice comes from behind, and Jon sags with the relief of it.

"Oh, Martin! Good." Jon turns to greet him. His words sound strange to his own ears. Slippery and lopsided and wrong. The ringing in his ears is replaced with the dull roar of rushing blood. Accented by a rhythmic thud - his heartbeat, surely. Was it always so loud? He can feel it behind his eyes, and with every beat it hurts just a bit more.

"Wh-what happened? There was the hotel and then..." Martin's voice trails off, eyes widening.

Jon laughs, bringing a hand up to wipe his face. His fingers are cold. Which is strange because the rest of him is light and warm. He shivers. "Oh calm down Martin, it's just a nosebleed." He can taste the copper, still.

Martin rushes toward him. He's saying words that Jon desperately wants to hear, but he can't. Not over the roaring in his ears, or the blur of color and static. He can feel Martin's hands on his arms, his shoulders. Jon reaches up, tries to grasp one of his hands. Has his arm always been this heavy? He feels a pulling, sudden and deep - his abdomen. And it hurt.

He blinks. He's on the ground, half kneeling. Martin's arms are around him.

"-my god, what happened? Oh god Jon-"

His head is heavy, eyes tired. He looks down. And there's blood. His blood?

Oh.

He opens his mouth to tell Martin that it's alright, it's ok, it's not as bad as it looks. He makes a sound, he thinks. He hopes, desperately, that Martin understands.

A wave of dizziness overtakes him, followed closely by darkness.

Without himself to talk to, the dismal weather is a bit distracting.

Martin braces himself against the wind and the light pattering of rain. There’s hardly a way to tell if he’s walking in the right direction, or if there even is a right direction to begin with. He’d simply picked the way that felt right and began the trek, hoping he’d meet Jon along the way. Which isn’t an outstanding plan, sure, but Martin has a hunch that wherever the fog of the Lonely ends is where he’ll find Jon. Or, where Jon will find him - not that there’s much of a difference. Regardless, Martin hopes it’s sooner rather than later. His other self had slipped away into the fog long before, with all the fanfare of a breath dissipating into cold air. At the very least he’s walking with the wind instead of against it, though it doesn’t stop the minuscule droplets from painting his glasses. He’s already given up on cleaning them, resigning himself to the rivulets that form and drip down the smooth surface.

When the rain lets up and the fog clears just enough to catch a building crest over the horizon, the relief marginally outweighs the apprehension. The sight of something other than gray mist and dead grass is promising that he’s reaching the boundary of his domain.

Hidden horrors beyond comprehension aside, at least he can get a break from the damn wind.

It’s a hotel, Martin realizes, one of the old kinds you see in travel magazines and history shows. It’s weather-worn and outdated in a way that might have seemed charming at one point, but now practically oozes terror. The wind dies down as he approaches, for which Martin is grateful.

And in a matter of moments, it’s gone. 

Although "matter of moments" might be pushing it. One second it was there, and then Martin blinked, and then it wasn’t.

And Jon is there.

"Christ, Jon!" Martin says, half startled-fear and half relief. The wind picks up again in the hotel’s absence, but it seems more tolerable, now.

"Oh, Martin! Good." Jon turns, a dazed look on his face to match his tone. There's a thin trail of blood dripping from his nose. Overusing his powers again, Martin realizes with a bolt of apprehension.

"Wh-what happened? There was the hotel and then..." Martin looks to the space the hotel once occupied, and back to Jon, who’s facing him now. His voice trails off as slow sinking horror creeps in its wake.

Jon's shirt is ripped open, tatters fluttering like wind chimes in the frigid breeze. Four gashes, deep and red, run diagonally across his torso, from mid-rib cage to just above the waist. Blood is coating his stomach, his clothes-

Oh, god

Jon's wiping the blood from his face and laughing - why is he laughing? - as Martin closes the gap, heart lodged and hammering in his throat. He grabs Jon with shaking hands, holding him, steadying him when he sways back. Martin’s vaguely aware that he’s speaking, words and half-formed questions rattled off rapid-fire.

What happened where were you when how oh god fuck fuck-

Jon's knees buckle. Martin brings him into his arms, supports his weight as he lowers them to the ground. Jon is dead weight at this point, head falling to rest on Martin's shoulder. He brings a shaking hand to Jon's hair, then his neck. He can feel his pulse against his palm, light and fast and as frantic as the beating of Martin's own heart.

 He lays his down, gently, as gently as he can with how bad his hands are shaking. He rips the backpack open and grabs the first piece of cloth he sees. It's an old t-shirt, one of the few Martin brought with him from the safehouse. A faded band logo adorns the front. Jon had been pleasantly surprised to find Martin wearing it, since he was a fan of the same group. They’d laughed and sang their favorite songs together-

“I can’t believe I didn’t know you could sing!”

“I can’t really sing, Martin, it’s a functional skill more than anything-”

“Bullshit! You’re good! Like, actually good.”

“Is now a good time to mention I used to be in a band?”

“What?!”

Martin crumples the old shirt and presses it to Jon’s bleeding stomach.

That pulls a low moan from him, eyes closed and face screwed up against the pain.

"Sorry, sorry, I know," Martin placates, high and strung thin. Out of the grab-bag of work experiences Martin had gathered over the years, anything tangentially related to health care was nowhere to be found. Everything he knew came from corny 90’s job safety trainings and overly-dramatic television shows. 

He wants desperately to check the wounds - how deep are they? Will Jon be able to heal them before he, he bleeds out or something?! - but his arms are locked at the elbows, fists clenched in the white fabric ever-so-slowly seeping with red. He fears that if he were to move even a millimeter, everything would slip between his fingers.

A touch, feather-light on his arm, feels like a shock. It’s Jon’s hand

"I-it's fine, it's ok-" Jon's voice is soft and ragged.

"It's-it’s really not, actually," Martin replies, and it might have come across as playful if it didn’t crack so deeply through the middle. He sacrifices a hand to grasp Jon's. It's ice cold and small and thin.

Martin uses his other hand to gingerly lift the shirt. The bleeding is slowing now - thank god - and Martin is sure the edges have closed ever so slightly. Not that he had gotten the best look before. He remembers how quickly Jon’s leg healed after Daisy-

It wasn’t a miracle though, his mind supplies.

He throws the bloody shirt aside and digs through the backpack once more, Gauze, some tape, a knife, a bottle of water. There’s only a half-roll of the gauze left, and it’ll have to be enough. With a jittering determination Martin uses the water to clean away some of the blood, cutting away the remains of Jon’s shirt as he goes. As the red washes away, the wounds don’t look quite as deep, quite as awful as they did before. He feels the smallest sliver of panic leave him and he draws in a deep breath to calm himself. Martin notices, really notices the wind for the first time in minutes - or hours, how long has it been? It burns the tips of his fingers numb, slicing through him like the knife in his hands. They don’t have anything in the realm of antiseptic, because of course they don’t, and Martin desperately hopes that Jon can heal himself before it becomes a problem. He gently wraps Jon’s middle with fumbling hands, placating as best he can when Jon winces against the movement.

They aren't in the Martin's domain anymore, technically. Just on the edge between Lonely and god-knows-what. But the open, gently rolling hills and vestiges of fog sends his spine tingling. Like a rabbit with no cover, and a hawk circling overhead. Not to mention the wind - now that Martin’s brought attention to it, he can’t stop shivering.

There’s a cobblestone wall, maybe twenty meters away. Left over from the perimeter of the hotel, if Martin had to guess. Wedging themselves into a corner to block out some of the wind is probably their best - only? - option.

Martin leans forward, brings his hands to cradle Jon's face. For as frozen as his fingers are he can still feel the chill against Jon’s skin, which isn’t the most comforting sign. He caresses his thumbs against Jon’s cheekbones in an attempt to coax the barest bit of attention out of him. Jon hums as he opens his eyes, slowly, foggy and unfocused. Whether it’s blood loss or pain or the after-effect of using his powers, Martin isn’t sure. Probably all three.

“There you are,” Martin whispers, and as small as it is he can’t hold back the relieved smile. He presses a soft kiss to Jon’s forehead. “We need to get out of the wind, love. I’m going to pick you up, alright?”

“I can walk.” Jon murmurs, almost lost in the air between them.

Idiot man .

“Not a chance.” Martin kisses his forehead once more, the comfort at the sound of Jon’s voice, ragged as it is, bringing tears to his eyes. He re-positions the backpack and slips his arms under shoulders and knees, rising to his feet with only a slight stagger. Jon cuts off a cry with his teeth, and Martin whispers apologies once more.

The stone wall on both sides makes more difference than Martin had dared to hope. He sets Jon down delicately on the grass, followed by the backpack with a bit less care. As he rummages through it once more - he’d packed that blanket, hadn’t he? - Jon shifts, raising himself on shaking arms.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Martin starts as Jon leans himself against the cobblestone, arm wrapped gently against the new bandages.

“It’s ok, I can manage it,” Jon replies in between deep breaths. He’s shaking, Martin can tell, pale and drawn. Martin grabs the blanket from the bottom of the pack at last, crawling to kneel next to Jon.

“Alright, alright, just stay there now, will you?” Martin chides as he leans against the stone, dragging the blanket over them. He was starting to think they’d never need it, but with the cold air still biting against them he was more than grateful they’d kept it around. “It’s not like we can give you, y’know, stitches or anything, so try not to move around so much while it’s healing.”

Jon leans his head - and most of his weight - against Martin’s shoulder with a hum, eyes sliding shut. They sit in a not-uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Martin takes a breath to ask-

“I killed Helen.” Jon speaks, soft and half-muffled by the sleeve of Martin’s jacket.

“...oh.” Martin says, quietly, because what else is there to say? Then, louder: “Wait, did- did she do this to you?!”

“Not her fault.” Jon takes a breath, slowly. Martin thinks he’s about to fall asleep. Or pass out, but he certainly hopes it’s the former. “It was self-defense.”

Oh.

Martin’s not exactly sure what to do with that, and by the time he figures it out he’s sure Jon won’t be conscious anymore. Jon’s breathing evens out into something resembling sleep - or rest, at least, since he can’t really sleep anymore - and Martin resigns himself to his thoughts and his still-slowing heartbeat. The feeling of Jon’s breaths against him are enough to dispel the last dregs of his panic, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

Jon couldn’t have been asleep, because he didn’t dream.

The sensation is similar though; the lost time, the panic, the awareness that comes back to him with all the subtlety of a freight train. The headache isn’t exactly new, but the deep ache that sinks its teeth into his bones is an interesting touch.

He’s against Martin, still - Martin it’s Martin he’s safe you’re both safe - who’s breathing is slow and deep. He’s not dreaming, though. The last dream he had, at the safehouse, was about his mother-

Jon sits up, sudden, fast. He didn’t know that. Not before. But now he Knows.

Knowledge; a familiarity, awareness, or understanding of something-

Stopstopstop

The knowing pushes against him, against the back of his eyes that throb in time to his heartbeat. It’s hard and fast and it hurts -

Fever causes and increase in heart rate, breathing rate, and blood circulation to the skin-

Temperature is considered elevated when it is higher than 38 degrees Celsius, or 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit-

(32°F − 32) × 5/9 = 0°C

He brings his hands up, foolish to think he can force the onslaught back with the heels of his palms against his eyes. His hands are frigid and damp against his face, or is it his face that’s burning against his hands? The movement of his arms tugs against his chest, his stomach, and folding in on himself only makes it hurt more but he can’t stop-

You think you could be saved without paying the price?

T̶h̵i̷s̴ ̵i̷s̷ ̷h̸e̶l̴p̵i̴n̸g̶ ̶y̸o̵u̴.̴

Ỳ̶̧̮͎͔̇̑o̷͚̖̬͈̙̽̅̆̕u̷̢̙͍͙̅̽̌̂́ ̸̯̈̓͠ͅs̵̙͇̗͠͝ȟ̸̩̝̗͚͓̈́͒̈͑o̸̢͉͎̯͒u̸̬̩̯͇̿̿̍͛͝l̶͇̗̮̦͒̾d̴̠̪̰͉̉̃̈́ ̵͍̙̺͖̮̒̊b̵̡̯͕͕̘̑e̶̫̹̒͊ ̴̬͑̓g̸̟̝̻͕̣͊͠ ̶̞̰̯͍̟͌̑̌ṛ̶͍̹̀ ̴̲̭̚͜ã̸͎̼̥̜̦͆͝ ̵̝̺̈̿t̴̢̛͗͝ ̶̺̝̂͛e̴̙͆̆̉̚ ̶̜̦̮͓̱̓̒f̶̢̗͓̥͗ ̷͓̾͜ụ̵̭͋͛ ̵̝̪̃̋͗͘l̶̨̥͈̼̝͂͘͝

He tastes copper again. Copper and static and paper and magnetic tape pooling on his tongue. He clenches his teeth against the need to vomit every bit and piece of knowledge and horror he’s ever known. The door in his mind is cracking now, buckling and splintering with the pressure and the weight of it all. 

It was a small, unremarkable door, painted dark yellow, with a matte-black handle.

Something touches his shoulder and he would scream if he could open his mouth. The same something - hands hands two hands - touches his face, his hair-

And he had long, straw-coloured hair that fell onto his shoulders in loose ringlets-

“Jon,” someone says, and it’s Martin because of course it’s Martin. He’s kneeling in front of him, blessedly cold hands cradling his face. One hand brushes his hair back - had it come undone again? - resting against his forehead. It’s so soft and cool and comforting Jon can barely hold back the sob against his throat.

I felt the cold night air on my face and, and wet tarmac under my hands and knees.

“Good lord, you’re burning up!” He sounds frantic and Jon wants to comfort him, but he doesn’t know how. Martin starts on about medicine and things they don’t have and things that Jon knows, Knows can’t help him. He Knows it’ll pass and he Knows it won’t kill him, but in the moment that doesn’t feel like the mercy it should.

Jon shakes his head against Martin’s hands and tries, really tries to tell him it’s ok -

I decided to come to you and tell you my story.

“ I- ” The one syllable is jagged and dripping with compulsion and tellmeyourstory . Jon clamps down on it with a whine, shaking his head again. He brings a shaking hand to touch Martin’s on his cheek. He meets his eyes for the first time, wide and searching. Jon realizes he must look as wretched as he feels for Martin to have that look on his face.

I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry

“Oh, Jon.” Martin must understand, at least some of it, because his face softens. He pulls Jon to his chest - Jon would put his arms around him if they weren’t so heavy-

-held up my arm for a handshake, but he just looked at it, and laughed-

-but he settles for burying his face in the crook of Martin’s neck, eyes shut.

...felt like I couldn’t trust my eyes.

Her statement echoes in his ears and on his tongue. He remembers her face, her real face, before Helen twisted it into endless, sickening spirals. The bounce to her hair, the odd way she held her pen, the bags under her eyes that mirrored his own. He wasn’t mourning her. He certainly wasn’t morning Helen . She didn’t deserve that. He wasn’t mourning the woman he’d never known, a woman he probably wouldn’t have liked anyway , a woman that he let walk through that fucking door -

There has never been a door there, Archivist.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until his next breath catches in the middle. It’s silent because he makes it silent, because the second he opens his mouth the words will come spilling out and they’ll never stop. So his shoulders shake and his chest heaves from the force of it, and it hurts . His tears drip down the collar of Martin’s shirt, and Martin - god Martin - has one hand on his back and another in his hair, making soft circles with the pads of his fingers. He’s talking to him, and Jon can’t hear the words over the static and statement pulsing through his eardrums. But the vibration of his voice is gentle, comforting, and it makes breathing just a bit easier. His face is hot and he shivers against the chill creeping up his frame, but Martin is here and warm and safe and Jon hopes that he never has to leave.

“Here,” Martin says - and Jon hears - after who knows how long, shifting slightly but never taking his arms away. He repositions himself, back against the wall, and lowers Jon by the shoulders until his head is pillowed on his lap. The motion hurts, Jon knows, but it’s muted and far away against the burning of his skin and how cold he is in spite of it.

Later they’ll talk, when he’s better, about Helen and friendship and other things. Jon will say I’m sorry for worrying you and Martin will say it’s ok and they’ll both say I love you . But for now, Jon drifts off to Martin’s hand resting on his head, his whispered reassurances reminding him that he’s safe.

“Rest, love.” Martin presses a kiss to his forehead and brings the blanket over him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jon can’t stop himself from Knowing that, not now, but he doesn’t need the Eye to know that it’s true.

[storyteller-inn]

And here is the second part for @holmes-the-meddler's request. I hope it will be satisfying, my sweet!

P.S. I'm really sorry for the delay, but work got in the way >.< ◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

PART II [Part I]

Quite unsurprisingly, for Bofur it felt like love at first sight when a young bard like you joined the company. An artistic kind of love, of course, that soon developed however in a fast-growing and long-lasting friendship. He was the one that kept close and encouraged you when everyone else seemed to be in everything but the mood for music, the one to always manage to put a smile on you. There was no describing the wonderful melodies the two of you could play together, you with your trusted lute and him with his ever-present flute. And that time, after Thorin's umpteenth scolding, when you felt the impulse of just throwing your beloved instrument down in the river? «Hey!» Bofur had interrupted you, just one second before your hand let go of the lute. «Hold on, my dear, that is no way to waste a good instrument!». Without asking questions, he had given you his handkerchief so that you could wipe away those angry tears, and sat down by you for the rest of the evening. «You are one of us, Y/N» he had whispered sweetly, «And so is your music. More than any of the others could ever realize».

It was always somewhat difficult for you to understand whether Bifur liked your music, barely tolerated it or simply couldn't stand it. After all, the dwarf only communicated through disconnected Kuzdul words - completely unknown to you - and some confused hand gestures. It took some time, lots of riding together and sitting around the campfire, but finally, one evening, you did notice it. And even if he stopped the moment he saw you looking, his foot bouncing along the rhythm of your lute was an image you would treasure forever in your memories.

Bombur was, for you, one of the sweetest among the dwarves. Despite being someone of a few words, there was no misunderstanding his kind smiles and friendly pats on the back. You would often giggle, seeing how he shook his body to your music while he was cooking, and you couldn't help but planting a kiss on his cheek every time he would secretly bring you the best slice of cheese or cuts of meat - to which he would reply with a wink, while trying to hide the red of his face behind his beard.

Probably the most elusive dwarf of the Company, Nori decided you were not much of interest once he verified that your lute - or anything else in your possession - was of no real value on the market. Regardless, as time passed and miles of road together went by, he could not avoid but feel somewhat protective of you, the same way he was of his brother Ori. He also "found" you a bunch of new chords for your lute, after your unfortunate encounter with the trolls. «Oh Nori, thank you! These are exactly what I needed!» you had squealed with happiness, «But where did you find them?». «Oh, no need to worry about that my dear» he had playfully scoffed, only to then whisper to himself «Those harps in Rivendell had too many anyway».

It took some time for Dori to stop imagining what kind of awful scenarios your playing music would bring upon the Company. «By now, someone ought to have heard us travelling already» he had complained once «And they probably have sold our exact location for a pretty good price. Mahal knows how many enemies are on our traces already». «Master Dori,» Gandalf had coughed «I can assure you that if the bard's music hasn't attracted indiscreet eyes, your constant rambling has done the trick by now». After that episode, Dori had kept the complaining to himself, but ultimately content about the effect your melodies had on his younger brother Ori. Not that he would have ever admitted it.

You and Bilbo had some sort of friendly understanding from the very beginning. You had some things in common, after all: both of you enjoyed a simple life, made of good food, evenings spent in front of the fireplace and a quiet place to call home. Both of you had been, well... dragged into this quest. And both of you also felt out of place, from time to time, despite the rough attempts of the dwarves to achieve the opposite effect. It was easier, for you. Being a bard, singing of adventures and heroes, made you always feel slightly more enthusiastic about your situation, whether it came to camp under the stars or dodge some boulders thrown by the rock giants. But you were also younger, a bit more carefree, while Bilbo dearly missed his home, his routine and could have definitely have managed without Thorin's constant criticism. That is why you knew when the hobbit most needed your help, in the form of a kind word or a song: you understood him, understood his nostalgia for his old life and his feeling of being out of place. But you were always there to remind him of his worth, as he did in turn for you a countless amount of times. And if there was something you were certain of, was that the friendship you built on that trip would have lasted forever.

Gandalf knew, from the moment he heard your music on his way to Bilbo's house, that you were special. There was something about the way you played the lute, something magical, that seemed to tug at chords inside people that would normally be left buried deep. The fact that you also knew songs from the tradition of different races, well, that was just another indication of the peculiar person he has stumbled upon. That is how he decided to bring you with him, at least for the meeting planned at the hobbit's house, to see if that hunch of his would somehow be confirmed. And when, after dinner, you started to sing along the dwarves' choir... Once on the quest, he always appreciated your music: they gave him the chance to relax and to focus on his thoughts, because, oh yes, he had to do a lot of thinking. Thinking about the treasure, the curse. About Thorin and the corruption Radagast had mentioned. About the orcs, and about that ancient song, capable of soothing even the spirit of a dragon...

[currywaifu]

𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: summer date 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩: sumeragi tenma/reader 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: sfw 𝐰𝐜: 1.9k words

𝐚𝐧: I debated what kind of “summer date” to do, until I remembered something I was supposed to do with some friends + one of Tenma’s lines about being tired. I hope this turned out decent!

“Are you sure it’s okay with your parents if I come over tonight?” Tenma asked, and as much as he tried to mask it you knew he still had his worries.

“Pfft, at this point I think my mom likes you more than she likes me,” you joked, “besides, it’s not like we’re gonna do anything.”

You laughed as Tenma sputtered; even though you were talking through the phone you could envision the traitorous rose flush blooming on his cheeks, his face turned away in a vain attempt to avoid your gaze.

“Hah? What are you even saying? You’re the one who's being weird!”

“Didn’t even say you were being weird in the first place, but go off I guess.” Other than an exasperated sigh, there was a momentary silence in the call.

“You sure you’ll be able to make it? If filming ends late we can always resched-“

“No need. I promised I could make it, right?” He interrupted with a huff, his tone eventually transitioning to something a little softer but still sure of himself. “I already cancelled our date last time. I’m not doing that to you again.”

You were unable to hold back the giggle bubbling up within you, being pushed outwards by the slight jump your heart did. For all of his oddly cute quirks, you sometimes forgot how cool Tenma could be.

“Tenma… my heart totally skipped a beat just now,” you teased, knowing fairly well he’d either tell you off or pretend to be nonchalant to hide his embarrassment.

“Of-of course it did! Are you only realising my charm now?”

You continued to talk a little longer, half indulging him and half teasing him. He would have to leave the call soon at the signal of his manager, so who could blame you for relishing even the shortest of moments together?

You knew beforehand that getting into a relationship with Sumeragi Tenma wouldn’t be the easiest thing. His celebrity status meant having to hide your relationship and a lack of time spent together.

The former wasn’t that hard to deal with.

Spending time with Tenma probably allowed you to pick up some of his acting skills, as it became easier and easier to dodge inquiries from your friends and his fans about your close relationship; it also helped that Juza and Taichi were often there to cover up for the two of you, both of them sworn to secrecy.

You knew the importance of Tenma’s image, so if he was with other celebrities in dramas or had to hide his face when he was with you, you understood that he was only looking out for the two of you and the peacefulness of your relationship.

Even so, it was hard not to get lonely sometimes.

Juggling being a popular actor and being a high-school student barely gave him any free time, and by extension, time to go on dates with you. Recently, with his practices and filming ending late in the day, the two of you only had the few hours of the evening to spend time together until one of you eventually had to retire in exhaustion.

Still, as nice as the songs sung together were during karaoke night and the dinners together in and out of his dorm, you wished you could take the time to have both of you relax, the summer breeze caressing your skin as you both relaxed and the week’s stresses flew away with the wind.

“I’m here at the shoot location. I have to go now,” Tenma said, “you don’t need me to bring anything later? I can ask someone to buy stuff.”

“I’ve got this, don’t worry. Do your best today!”

As soon as the line went dead, you sprung into action. Operation: Relaxing Summer Date Night with Tenma was a go!

“Maybe I should check the set-up again and see if I missed anything,” you muttered, glancing at the glass sliding door where you could see your backyard outside.

When your doorbell rang, you knew it was already too late for that.

“It looks great, kid. This Sumeragi boy is lucky you’re putting that much effort for him,” your dad said, ruffling the hair you already tried to make presentable an hour ago. “I didn’t get to meet him last time he was here. Should I pretend to be a strict and serious dad?”

“Dad, don’t scare him!” you exclaimed. Tenma was a talented actor, but very gullible. If your father didn’t admit he was joking right away, who knew how long Tenma would go along with his act?

“I’m joking~ I’ll greet him normally, just watch.”

You watched your boyfriend greet your parents respectfully at the doorway, his face shifting from slightly nervous to a more relaxed one as your father said something to him that you couldn’t hear.

When he finally enters the house you lock eyes with him, resisting the urge to hug him with others’ eyes on the two of you. You didn’t want Tenma to combust so quickly into the night.

“Alright, just call us if you need anything. Have fun, don’t stay up too late!” at the cue, you asked Tenma to follow you outside.

Tonight wasn’t the first time Tenma’s been to your house. Still, even with your dad telling him you worked hard on making tonight go perfectly, he hadn’t expected this.

Fairy lights hung from the tree branches, helping the stars of the night sky illuminate your backyard. A white drop cloth was hung and clipped on a string rope in between two trees, some rocks weighing it down in case of a heavy breeze.

A few decorative rugs, throw pillows, and blankets were placed purposefully on the grass— the combination tasteful but cozy. On the small side table, several food and drinks were stacked for the two of you, from a box of pizza to popcorn and candy to soda.

Tenma was glad for the minimal lighting, it was making it much easier for him to hide his flushed face and give him time to still his beating heart.

“This is…” he trailed off, unable to find any semblance of coherence in his thoughts.

“An outdoor movie theatre,” you supplied helpfully. “It was a bit last minute so the projector and sound system might not be the most high-qual, but I think I did well for a DIY!”

Well? Just well? Seriously, to think you’d even put in the effort to do all this for him, even though he was the reason the two of you barely went on normal dates.

Since the start of your relationship, he’d done his best to pace himself with you, to be the one to make the big surprises and heartwarming gestures, but somehow you were always one step ahead that he didn’t know what to do with himself.

Realising you were waiting for a response, he let out a small cough, forcing out a line that was so much easier to say in a drama. “Don’t sell yourself short, it looks really nice.”

As you beamed at him, Tenma resisted the urge to crumble into dust and settle onto the ground beneath him. Shouldn’t he be used to the sight of that by now? Does he need to practice looking at a picture of you smiling or something?

“Ahh, that’s good. I was worried it’d look too messy,” you said, him following suit as you plopped yourself atop a pillow. “Are you up for Aladdin first? It reminded me of you.”

“Because of Water Me?” Tenma asked, grabbing the soda bottle that you offered him. You hummed thoughtfully as he twisted the cap open, before finally replying.

“Because the camels there looked like you— Tenma don’t drop the drink! I’m joking!” you said, nearly shouting as his grip loosened. “Obviously because of the play.”

“You should really leave the comedy to me,” he turned away from you, hiding a small pout. “Seriously, why a camel?”

His body stiffened as you inched closer to him, hugging his arm loosely and trying to make eye contact with him. He wasn’t gonna look at you, no, no—

“Tenma,” you said in a sing-song voice, a syrupy sweet tone making its way to his ears.

He looked, and he immediately regretted it because he was, once again, spiralling down. Don’t think about how beautiful you are, the two of you haven’t even watched a single movie yet.

“Should… shouldn’t you turn the movie on now?” he said, barely giving him the time to miss your warmth as you were back beside him in minutes.

The movie was great, really. He enjoyed the songs, and he managed to tolerate the brief look you gave him whenever a camel was up on screen. Tonight, however, was one of those few moments where he could be honest— at least to himself— that you were a lot more interesting to watch.

It’s not just because he hasn’t seen you in a while, although that definitely contributed, it’s just that your reactions were so… endearing? Heart-clutch worthy?

“Did you see that? That was so, ahhhh, right?” you asked him, pointing at the screen.

“Mhm,” Tenma replied, unsure if you were referring to the magic carpet or the song or what. Even with his short response, you rewarded him with a small grin before dragging your eyes back to the scene in front of you.

You were adorable whenever you acted like this, you and your honest and unabashed enthusiasm. It was something he still struggled with every so often, so watching the way your eyes lit up always lit a fire in him as well.

As the next movie played, the more used he got to your proximity. Sometime in between the opening credits of Sleeping Beauty, the two of you had gone from sitting to lying on the bundles of cloth beneath you, a position much more comfortable and close.

At this point he’s barely paying attention, a little lost in his thoughts about tonight.

“Why did you decide on a movie night?” he asked, absentmindedly watching the main character dance with the prince.

“I figured you’d be tired from your busy schedule,” you paused to yawn, “plus, I thought it’d be nice to just… relax, you know?”

When you stared at him, he tried to give himself the courage to stare back instead of looking away immediately.

“You’re the one who sounds sleepy,” Tenma said, but not denying that he was tired. That this really helped him, your presence, and the plan you had for your date ultimately relaxing him.

“Did I do okay, though?”

He almost scoffed, only softening up as soon as he noticed it was a serious question. “You did great, thank you for doing this,” he murmured. That simple admission was enough for you, you returning to the movie and him wondering if you could feel his eyes on you instead.

It turned out the name of the movie was rather telling.

It was around two-thirds through the movie when you just fell asleep, then the cuddling started. He doesn’t even dare move at all. There’s nothing he can really do at this point, not that he minds your weight on his, even if his arm is a little dead.

The credits roll and you’re still fast asleep. Not wanting to wake you, he carefully moved to lay a blanket on top of the both of you. This might not be the most optimal way to sleep, his back might hurt tomorrow and he was still in his jeans, but as he watched you slumber he figured it was worth it.

“Good night,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head, his only audience the trees you two were nestled under and the night sky.

want to order again?

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 12 paragraph viii

Only here’s what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can’t be trusted—? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight towards a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster? Is Kitsey right? If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement, the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or—like Boris—is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name? It’s not about outward appearances but inward significance. A grandeur in the world, but not of the world, a grandeur that the world doesn’t understand. That first glimpse of pure otherness, in whose presence you bloom out and out and out. A self one does not want. A heart one cannot help. Though my engagement isn’t off, not officially anyway, I’ve been given to understand—gracefully, in the lighter-than-air manner of the Barbours—that no one is holding me to anything. Which is perfect. Nothing’s been said and nothing is said. When I’m invited for dinner (as I am, often, when I’m in town) it’s all very pleasant and light, voluble even, intimate and subtle while not at all personal; I’m treated like a family member (almost), welcome to turn up when I want; I’ve been able to coax Mrs. Barbour out of the apartment a bit, we’ve had some pleasant afternoons out, lunch at the Pierre and an auction or two; and Toddy, without being impolitic in the least, has even managed to let casually and almost accidentally drop the name of a very good doctor, with no suggestion whatever that I might possibly need such a thing.

[As for Pippa: though she took the Oz book, she left the necklace, along with a letter I opened so eagerly I literally ripped through the envelope and tore it in half. The gist—once I got on my knees and fit the pieces together— was this: she’d loved seeing me, our time in the city had meant a lot to her, who in the world could have picked such a beautiful necklace for her? it was perfect, more than perfect, only she couldn’t accept it, it was much too much, she was sorry, and—maybe she was speaking out of turn, and if so she hoped I forgave her, but I shouldn’t think she didn’t love me back, because she did, she did. (You do? I thought, bewildered.) Only it was complicated, she wasn’t thinking only of herself but me too, since we’d both been through so many of the same things, she and I, and we were an awful lot alike—too much. And because we’d both been hurt so badly, so early on, in violent and irremediable ways that most people didn’t, and couldn’t, understand, wasn’t it a bit… precarious? A matter of self-preservation? Two rickety and death-driven persons who would need to lean on each other quite so much? not to say she wasn’t doing well at the moment, because she was, but all that could change in a flash with either of us, couldn’t it? the reversal, the sharp downward slide, and wasn’t that the danger? since our flaws and weaknesses were so much the same, and one of us could bring the other down way too quick? and though this was left to float in the air a bit, I realized instantly, and with some considerable astonishment, what she was getting at. (Dumb of me not to have seen it earlier, after all the injuries, the crushed leg, the multiple surgeries; adorable drag in the voice, adorable drag in the step, the arm-hugging and the pallor, the scarves and sweaters and multiple layers of clothes, slow drowsy smile: she herself, the dreamy childhood her, was sublimity and disaster, the morphine lollipop I’d chased for all those years.)

But, as the reader of this will have ascertained (if there ever is a reader) the idea of being Dragged Down holds no terror for me. Not that I care to drag anyone else down with me, but—can’t I change? Can’t I be the strong one? Why not?] [You can have either of those girls you want, said Boris, sitting on the sofa with me in his loft in Antwerp, cracking pistachios between his rear molars as we were watching Kill Bill. No, I can’t. And why can’t you? I’d pick Snowflake myself. But if you want the other, why not? Because she has a boyfriend? So? said Boris. Who lives with her? So? And here’s what I’m thinking too: So? What if I go to London? So? And this is either a completely disastrous question or the most sensible one I’ve ever asked in all my life.] [That little guy, said Boris in the car on the way to Antwerp. You know the painter saw him—he wasn’t painting that bird from his mind, you know? That’s a real little guy, chained up on the wall, there. If I saw him mixed up with dozen other birds all the same kind, I could pick him out, no problem.] And he’s right. So could I. And if I could go back in time I’d clip the chain in a heartbeat and never care a minute that the picture was never painted. To try to make some meaning out of all this seems unbelievably quaint. Maybe I only see a pattern because I’ve been staring too long. But then again, to paraphrase Boris, maybe I see a pattern because it’s there. [Do you ever think about quitting? I asked, during the boring part of It’s a Wonderful Life, the moonlight walk with Donna Reed, when I was in Antwerp watching Boris with spoon and water from an eyedropper, mixing himself what he called a “pop.” Give me a break! My arm hurts! He’d already shown me the bloody skid mark—black at the edges—cutting deep into his bicep. You get shot at Christmas and see if you want to sit around swallowing aspirin! Yeah, but you’re crazy to do it like that. Well—believe it or not—for me not so much a problem. I only do it special occasions. I’ve heard that before. Well, is true! Still a chipper, for now. I’ve known of people chipped three-four years and been ok, long as they kept it down to two-three times a month? That said, Boris added somberly—blue movie light glinting off the teaspoon —I am alcoholic. Damage is done, there. I’m a drunk till I die. If anything kills me—nodding at the Russian Standard bottle on the coffee table—that’ll be it. Say you never shot before? Believe me, I had problems enough the other way. Well, big stigma and fear, I understand. Me—honest, I prefer to sniff most times—clubs, restaurants, out and about, quicker and easier just to duck in men’s room and do a quick bump. This way—always you crave it. On my death bed I will crave it. Better never to pick it up. Although—really very irritating to see some bone head sitting there smoking out of a crack pipe and make some pronouncement about how dirty and unsafe, they would never use a needle, you know? Like they are so much more sensible than you? Why did you start? Why does anyone? My girl left me! Girl at the time. Wanted to be all bad and self-destructive, hah. Got my wish. Jimmy Stewart in his varsity sweater. Silvery moon, quavery voices. Buffalo Gals won’t you come out tonight, come out tonight. So, why not stop then? I said. Why should I? Do I really have to say why? Yeah, but what if I don’t feel like it? If you can stop, why wouldn’t you? Live by the sword, die by the sword, said Boris briskly, hitting the button on his very professional-looking medical tourniquet with his chin as he was pushing up his sleeve.]

And as terrible as this is, I get it. We can’t choose what we want and don’t want and that’s the hard lonely truth. Sometimes we want what we want even if we know it’s going to kill us. We can’t escape who we are. (One thing I’ll have to say for my dad: at least he tried to want the sensible thing—my mother, the briefcase, me—before he completely went berserk and ran away from it.) And as much as I’d like to believe there’s a truth beyond illusion, I’ve come to believe that there’s no truth beyond illusion. Because, between ‘reality’ on the one hand, and the point where the mind strikes reality, there’s a middle zone, a rainbow edge where beauty comes into being, where two very different surfaces mingle and blur to provide what life does not: and this is the space where all art exists, and all magic. And—I would argue as well—all love. Or, perhaps more accurately, this middle zone illustrates the fundamental discrepancy of love. Viewed close: a freckled hand against a black coat, an origami frog tipped over on its side. Step away, and the illusion snaps in again: life-more-than-life, never-dying. Pippa herself is the play between those things, both love and not-love, there and not-there. Photographs on the wall, a balled-up sock under the sofa. The moment where I reached to brush a piece of fluff from her hair and she laughed and ducked at my touch. And just as music is the space between notes, just as the stars are beautiful because of the space between them, just as the sun strikes raindrops at a certain angle and throws a prism of color across the sky—so the space where I exist, and want to keep existing, and to be quite frank I hope I die in, is exactly this middle distance: where despair struck pure otherness and created something sublime.

And that’s why I’ve chosen to write these pages as I’ve written them. For only by stepping into the middle zone, the polychrome edge between truth and untruth, is it tolerable to be here and writing this at all. Whatever teaches us to talk to ourselves is important: whatever teaches us to sing ourselves out of despair. But the painting has also taught me that we can speak to each other across time. And I feel I have something very serious and urgent to say to you, my non-existent reader, and I feel I should say it as urgently as if I were standing in the room with you. That life—whatever else it is—is short. That fate is cruel but maybe not random. That Nature (meaning Death) always wins but that doesn’t mean we have to bow and grovel to it. That maybe even if we’re not always so glad to be here, it’s our task to immerse ourselves anyway: wade straight through it, right through the cesspool, while keeping eyes and hearts open. And in the midst of our dying, as we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory and a privilege to love what Death doesn’t touch. For if disaster and oblivion have followed this painting down through time—so too has love. Insofar as it is immortal (and it is) I have a small, bright, immutable part in that immortality. It exists; and it keeps on existing. And I add my own love to the history of people who have loved beautiful things, and looked out for them, and pulled them from the fire, and sought them when they were lost, and tried to preserve them and save them while passing them along literally from hand to hand, singing out brilliantly from the wreck of time to the next generation of lovers, and the next.

[lettheladylead]

avoid the unhappy ending (ch3)

ships/characters: Goldie, Donald, Duckworth, Scooge/Goldie

words (ch3): ~1600

summary: Goldie comes to town to see Scrooge. Instead, she somehow manages to run into literally everyone else.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27108943/chapters/66232663

Chapter 3 below the cut:

The conversation with Launchpad had faded and turned to him singing along to the radio once again, and Goldie was perfectly content with that. Or at least she found it tolerable. Him thinking she and Scrooge were married was giving her a strange headache, but she couldn't deny it was definitely a benefit...pretending to be Mrs. McDuck was never at the top of her con list, but maybe she’d consider it in the future.

Didn’t want to lead Scrooge on too much, though. He might get excited if he caught wind. Or maybe he’d be pissed. Hmm...

They arrived after a short drive and Launchpad rushed to open the door for her. Goldie was going to comment on the surprising lack of crashing that happened, but she turned around and saw several bushes, trees, lamp posts, and small animals attached to the back of the vehicle. He had that radio volume set way too loud for her not to notice any of that.

“Thanks, L…” she started to say, until realizing she didn’t know this man’s name. She knew it began with an L! That was pretty good! “...Lunchbag?”

Launchpad just smiled and saluted at her. “You’re welcome, Ma’am! Anytime!”

She nodded and headed towards the front door, satisfied that she got his name right. It was an odd name, but surely he would’ve corrected her had she been wrong. The closer she got to the door, the more she could see inside the front window, and the more that made one thing clear:

Bentina was right. There.

Goldie froze in her walk and turned her head around to see if her hunky young escort was still watching. He was - though if she was being honest he didn’t look like he was processing much of anything. There was a butterfly fluttering near him that seemed to capture most of his attention. In an effort to avoid the resident bodyguard, Goldie turned to the left and started her short trek around the side of the manor. It was easier to get up to Scrooge’s room without arousing suspicion if she went from the side.

The walk was longer than she remembered - or maybe she was just getting too old - and Goldie turned the corner to see Donald’s familiar houseboat sitting in the pool. She’d forgotten about this odd little arrangement he had with Scrooge. The old miser probably didn’t even share his electricity with the poor kid.

“Goldie?

She twisted her head to the side to see Donald watering some plants in the back. Internally, Goldie was screeching at herself. She was supposed to be a stealthy thief! She’d broken into the manor a thousand times, completely undetected! Past bodyguards and children and Scrooge himself! And now she’d been seen almost immediately? Was she really getting that old? She needed to visit Ronguay again.

Externally, she put a hand on her hip and smirked. “Donnie!”

Donald tossed his hose to the side and walked over. “What are you doing here?”

Goldie took a second to play his words in her head and make sure she understood him correctly. After three and a half decades, she was definitely getting a hang of his unique way of speaking. “Just visiting your uncle. Same old, same old.”

“Uh-huh.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you gonna steal this time? Another map?”

She brought a hand to her chest in feigned offense. “Why, Donald, I can’t believe you think so little of me! Your dear Aunt Goldie was just in the neighborhood and thought to stop by!”

He scoffed and pointed to her side. “And where’d you get that umbrella from?”

Goldie looked down. Oh. She’d completely forgotten about the umbrella - kind of thought she’d left it in the limo. “Good question,” she said, tossing it behind her and ignoring the loud crash. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“I...guess not?” Donald frowned. “If you’re here to see Scrooge, why’d you come to the pool? He’s usually in his room around now.”

“Is that so?” Goldie looked up at the window she knew connected to just that spot. “I thought he’d be at the Bin, now I'm just trying to avoid Beakley. I’m sure you understand.”

Donald grimaced. “Yeah....she’ll kill you if she sees you.”

“I’m counting on it,” Goldie laughed and grabbed a grappling hook out of her endless bag. She tossed it up to the window with ease. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

“Wait!”

She didn’t move and looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

Donald sheepishly rubbed his arm. “I...well...look. Scrooge was really happy after Florida.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really happy, Goldie.” Donald waved his hands around for emphasis. “So please don’t...just run off with his money, or whatever you’re planning.”

Goldie blinked a few times and turned away from Donald, smiling sadly. She let out a short laugh and leaned over to pat him on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Donnie. I was pretty happy after Florida, too.”

Donald didn’t get a chance to respond before Goldie launched herself up towards Scrooge’s bedroom. He supposed he didn’t have that much more to say.

Undoing the latch on Scrooge’s bedroom window was as easy as breathing - she’d done it so many times it wasn’t even funny. A quick pop and up it went - so she crawled and crouched, landing on the floor unfortunately not as gracefully as usual. Her poor knees screamed at her.

She stood up with a smile and scanned the room, ready to hear some complaints in a thick Scottish accent.

There were no such complaints.

Instead, she was alone. Still. This was getting to be too frustrating. But after putting in this much effort, it wasn’t like she could just give up. She’d spoken to too many people already, and they’d tell Scrooge, and then Scrooge would be able to hold that over her for years to come.

She glanced over at his desk. They’d had hundreds of conversations over the years with him sitting at his desk and her standing nearby or leaning on the windowsill or sitting on his bed. Not often did she have an opportunity to sit and go through it herself.

And so she did. Goldie sunk into the chair and just sat there for a minute without moving, basking in some memories. She was starting to understand why Scrooge did it so often. Every scratch or nick on the surface of this desk could be tied back to a specific moment - several of which Goldie remembered exactly the night they were from. Good times.

She leaned forward and rubbed circles around one particular dent that was bugging at the corner of her memories. Ah, well. She had a good memory, but she also had 150 years worth of things to remember. No one was perfect.

Her finger trailed down the wood and over the side, where she landed on one of the drawer handles. A small tug and her suspicions were confirmed - locked. After a thorough check, it seemed all of the drawers were locked. Nothing that she couldn’t handle, of course.

She reached into her hair to grab a bobby pin when there was a sudden aggravating chill behind her. Her spine tingled and she waited only a moment before ducking down and grabbing the chair, flipping it over and holding it in front of her like a shield.

She was greeted by a very unexpected sight.

“...Duckworth?”

“Miss O’Gilt,” the floating, translucent figure said. “Nice to see you again.”

“You’re, um…” She cautiously put the chair down and walked closer to him, sticking out her hand and swishing it through his middle. “...a ghost?"

“Observant as always.” He floated through her, stopping between the thief and the desk that he knew Mr. McDuck wouldn’t want her meddling through. “Are you looking for something?”

“Hmmm.” She took note of where he chose to float, and now she definitely wanted to see whatever was in that desk. “Won’t know until I see it.”

Goldie walked back towards the desk and ignored Duckworth when he tried to get in her way again.

“How exactly are you going to stop me? You’re a ghost.”

In only a second, she watched as Duckworth transformed from a mild mannered British dog into a gigantic ferocious demonic figure - who immediately leaned down into her face and lurched his fingers into her arms.

She could feel him, very clearly.

“Alright, alright, I’m convinced!” She held up her hands in faux-surrender as he turned back to normal. She’d just come back here later and look again, when there wasn’t a terrifying pseudo-poltergeist hanging around. “So is this what you do now? Hang around and scare off beautiful thieves?”

He rolled his eyes. “I was brought back only recently and was bored silly in the afterlife. Cleaning up after Mr. McDuck gives me something to do, especially considering how little Mrs. Beakley does.”

“Oh?” Goldie put a hand to her beak. “And I’m sure you’ve said as much to her.”

“As often as possible.”

“I would pay to see her reaction to that,” Goldie said with a laugh.

Duckworth gave her a hint of a rare smile. “If you mention payment, perhaps Mr. McDuck can have something arranged for you.”

This time she rolled her eyes and shooed him with a wave of her hand. “Yeah, yeah. Where is he, anyway? I’ve been looking all over.”

“I believe I saw him downstairs earlier, but he’s been shuffling around quite a bit today. Something on his mind, perhaps.”

Goldie hummed.

“Is this one of your anniversaries?” he asked without a hint of judgement.

She was already halfway to the door. “Not with me. Maybe it’s his anniversary with some other gold digging ne’er-do-well this time.”

“Doubtful. I hope you find him soon,” Duckworth said as he started to float down through the floorboards. “He looked a little melancholy this morning.”

She frowned and watched as the ghost faded away. Only at McDuck Manor, she supposed.