#false ​hopes and a terribly misplaced heart

[rebrandedbard]

A Bard He Would A-Wooing Go (6858 words)

Gift for @valdomarx: some good old mutual pining morons. In which Jaskier courts Geralt and Geralt is oblivious. Ao3 link in title.

Jaskier wrote a song like counting; Counting the years, the steps, until one day he might count the seconds and centimeters of distance that seemed to stretch like oceans between them. Each of them were like marks on a calendar, an entry in a diary to mark the progress. At first, he hid his true intentions behind false names and romantic figures, crafting beautiful damsels for the recipients of his verses in the time when he was still uncertain, but when the depth of his love became apparent to himself, he decided the day had come to be more overt.

He sang of a beautiful man with hair kissed by moonlight, eyes of amber still hollowed with the liquid golden honey left to flow inside. This he played by the evening fire, casting shy glances at Geralt over the flames. “Do you like my new song?” he asked.

“You inflate my image enough already,” Geralt replied in his usual gruff manner. The idea was to make him a hero of monster-slaying, not the heroine of some romance. Jaskier’s verses were too pretty and flattering, bound to be laughed at by the public. Moonlight and honey—such descriptions were wasted on witchers.

Jaskier frowned and played the second verse a little louder, ignoring his response. “I would rather sing it below a balcony; perhaps the artistry of the setting would help better mold your opinion.” He took on a faraway, doe-eyed expression as he spoke, strumming the gentle melody. “I would weave a crown of clover and present it to you. Yes, I think that would suit you fine. You’d cut a majestic figure, lighted by the stars. I would pluck one from the heavens and offer it to you so that it might sit atop your head, the very jewel of the crown, so that all might better see how brightly you shine.”

“Your songs do enough as it is. No need to crown me,” Geralt scoffed. He was not some divine hero. He was a witcher working for pay, and it was crude work. “You romanticize everything too much.”

“Oh, what would you know of it? You haven’t got a romantic bone in your body.”

“First true thing you’ve said tonight.”

“The honey was more than true,” Jaskier huffed. He played the verse again, then stopped, something new glittering in his eye. It was an idea, Geralt recognized. He was far too familiar with that expression by now to mistake it, and he knew there would be a long, terrible enterprise awaiting him. Jaskier started to smile, and he took to his feet.

“Geralt of Rivia!” he proclaimed. “I’ve decided that this will not do. A simple song is not enough! Let it now be known that it is my intention, henceforth, to court you with all the trim, all the pomp, all the circumstance and bells and whistles! You must know the pleasures of romance in their many forms, and I will leave no stone unturned, no mountain unclimbed, until you have been thoroughly romanced!”

Geralt groaned and closed his eyes. He was not interested in a study of human courtship. He was especially uninterested in receiving such lessons from Jaskier of all people. Yet he knew there was no refusing once Jaskier set his mind to anything. Whether he wanted to or not, whatever protests he’d make, Jaskier would not be denied. The bastard would dig in his heels and get his way, and this—it was this game of his that would at last be the thing to kill Geralt. This farce would not be something Geralt’s heart would survive in one piece. He retired early, hoping the declaration would be forgotten in the morning if he gave no reaction. The slightest acknowledgement was all the encouragement Jaskier needed.

The next day, to his surprise, Jaskier was the first awake. He’d gone wandering in the woods before sunrise and returned with his arms laden with flowers. Geralt had awoken to the smell of the bouquet waved under his nose.

“Good morning, my dear witcher,” Jaskier said, grinning ear to ear. “Welcome to the first morning of the rest of your life! A humble offering, still wet with sweet morning dew.” He bobbed and placed the bouquet in Geralt’s hands with finesse before bounding over to relight the fire and begin their breakfast. To Geralt’s even greater surprise, there were five fish speared in the dirt beside it. Jaskier had gone fishing, it seemed. Flowers, fish—would there be a third gesture awaiting him so early in the morning? Or perhaps being first up was the gesture itself. Jaskier was not an early riser by any measure. Geralt might as well still be asleep as unbelievable as it was.

“So, you were serious about that courting thing,” Geralt said.

Jaskier waved his flints in the air dramatically. “Perfectly serious. Honestly, Geralt, you must have known this day would come.”

And Geralt had to admit, after several days spent with Jaskier giving lessons detailing the etiquette of the high courts, the more fashionable dances of the season, a history of the textile arts in which he explained how his doublets were made from the harvest of the fibers all the way through decorative pleating, and the proper forms of address for peers in no less than seven countries … yes, Geralt ought to have known that courting customs were next on the list of useless trivia Jaskier meant to impart.

At first, there was not much fuss and they were able to get on as usual. Geralt didn’t know what he expected in regards to a courtship from Jaskier, but what little thought he’d given the subject conjured images of endless smothering, Jaskier waxing poetic, arms waving dramatically, attaching himself at the hip of his hapless, adoring victim. But perhaps courtship was a one-a-day expression and that would be all until tomorrow.

He was wrong in multiple ways. Jaskier did not leap upon him with some obnoxious peacocking gesture, but he took it upon himself to pack camp after breakfast. Geralt watched him shuffle about, humming quietly. Jaskier had insisted Geralt stay out of the matter and sent him off to ready Roach. Camp packed, Jaskier tied their things to her saddle, and Geralt notice that he’d been careful to arrange the bags just as he himself might, the weight evenly distributed, potion bag furthest in front in easy reach, the rest in the order in which they’d need unpacking come evening. It was observant to say the least. Such a little thing, really, but Geralt was impressed.

“Ready?” Jaskier asked, offering Geralt his hand.

Geralt looked curiously at it, not sure what it was meant for. Jaskier was looking at him expectantly, and for an absurd moment, Geralt thought he wanted a tip like the men who kept Roach tended to in stables in town. At a loss, he shook Jaskier’s hand and turned to hook his foot in the stirrup. He startled when Jaskier took his hand again and helped him up over the side.

It was ridiculous. Geralt needed no help mounting. Yet … something about the action stuck with Geralt. It had been brief, but the way Jaskier had looked up at him as he held his hand, he looked almost as if he’d been about to kiss it.

Geralt wished he would.

After a while of travelling in companionable silence, Geralt inched his head to the side. He looked at Jaskier from the corner of his eye and asked, “What are your plans for this?” wondering just how well Jaskier had thought this silly game through.

“The courtship? Oh, flowers, sweets, dancing—the usual,” Jaskier replied with a careless wave of his hand. He played so casual, and yet Geralt saw the mischievous quirk of his lips. There was more. Jaskier was a great lover of surprises, both in giving and receiving.

Jaskier fiddled with one of his lute strings, running his nail up and down its length shyly. “I’m surprised you’ve accepted it without quarrel,” he said. “Thrilled, really. Not to imply that I’m blind to your reservations; I know how you must feel about the idea of formal courtship: a lot of fluff and unnecessary nonsense. But this is how I express my love, and it means a great deal to me that you would allow me to share the experience with you.”

“It’s not such a great burden,” Geralt replied, offering a light shrug.

Jaskier laughed. “No, indeed, I shouldn’t think so! It’s a gift—the greatest gift of all.”

Geralt snorted and argued that a new set of armour would be a much greater gift.

“Ever the pragmatist,” Jaskier sighed, smacking Geralt’s boot with a smile.

When they stopped for lunch, Jaskier offered his hand once more to help Geralt dismount. After eating, Geralt put his gloves quietly away in one of the bags, muttering to himself that is was a warm day, as if Jaskier might notice and wonder. And though the air had a leftover chill of early spring, when the time came to ride off again, his hand felt hot in Jaskier’s. Geralt soon forgot his gloves entirely, had misplaced them quite carelessly among his bags or on the road. But Jaskier never commented on their absence.

In addition to the attentions Jaskier lavished upon Geralt, Roach benefitted from a surge in care. Jaskier brushed her coat nearly every other day, and it was shinier than ever before. He braided wildflowers in her mane, styled each morning length by length. Afterwards, he would brush Geralt’s hair, braiding it to match. It was the most preposterous thing, and yet Geralt could not help feeling a silly sort of happiness. Jaskier had been feeling much bolder since the first day, and had even allowed himself to put flowers in Geralt’s braids. Geralt would wake to find them on his bedroll in the morning—Jaskier wasn’t as sneaky as he liked to imagine.

It was new, Jaskier brushing Geralt’s hair this way. He might comb Geralt’s hair after a bath or wrestle a brush through it when it had begun to resemble a feral rat’s nest, but now it was more regularly maintained. There was no excuse of necessity. Geralt could close his eyes and enjoy the moment, Jaskier’s gentle hands at work, sometimes simply scratching his scalp, the brush abandoned for minutes at a time. It was such a tender gesture, Geralt at times forgot that it was nothing more than a demonstration.

But oh, Jaskier went to such lengths so teach! He had Roach re-shoed in the city with fine new horseshoes, claiming that the shoes would clip and clop and ring out the song of his heart on every cobblestone, and that the gait of her stride itself would be a reminder of his devotion. And truly, as they walked her to the stables afterwards, Geralt heard their cheerful mocking with each step, “It’s all a game! It’s all a game!” He was glad to give her the day off to rest, and to avoid the clippity-clop of her bright new shoes.

Geralt tried to be objective. When they spent the evening at a tavern, listening to a local bard perform, he did not allow his thoughts to linger on the hand resting over his on the bench. Nor did he read into things when Jaskier asked him to dance. Dancing—the usual. It was one of the most basic aspects of courtship.

When they spun in and out of the formation on the dance floor, when Jaskier entwined their fingers, when Jaskier pulled them close together, Geralt tried in vain to blame his dizziness on the spinning steps. When someone tried to cut in for a quick romp with Jaskier, only for Jaskier to snatch Geralt’s waist again in rejection of the advance, Geralt did not let his thoughts linger on how pretty the young woman had been and how well Jaskier might look dancing with her, nor the thrill he’d felt in that instance of being so firmly chosen against such an enticing offer.

Though there were contracts to be fulfilled, Jaskier found ways to steal Geralt away for an hour or two here and there and between. He’d dragged Geralt along to see a play: something very modern and poetic. They paid for standing admission, the cheapest and, according to Jaskier, the very best way to appreciate the art up close. They talked throughout, joking with the other patrons and laughing at the worst bits in near-vicious mockery. Evidently, that was the only way to enjoy anything so poorly critiqued, and a step above throwing rotten fruit. He bought them a little parcel of candied nuts, and now and then they flicked a nut at the very worst actor for having every other line fed to him from offstage. They came away laughing with not a single guess as to what the play itself had been about.

The next week they were on the road again, and things were quieter. The city provided so many forms of entertainment, but Geralt liked it best when it was only the two of them, nestled in the calm of nature. Jaskier was lively, and the environment affected his mood. Out in the woods, his gestures were sweeter, smaller, and sentimental. Geralt enjoyed this gentler aspect of Jaskier’s courtship, for his method changed between the city and the road.

Away from the excitement and bustle, Jaskier expressed himself more subtly. As if by magic, ingredients for Geralt’s potion stock would be replenished after one of Jaskier’s morning walks. He did not make grand declarations or even show any signs of wishing to be acknowledged for the little things he did. He simply did them, waiting to catch Geralt’s smile.

“Here,” Jaskier said, tossing a coiled bit of leather at Geralt. It was a braided strap of cord, burnt black over the fire. “In your favorite gloomy color,” he teased. “Your old tie is a twist from falling apart; I thought you might like a new one to tie back your hair.”

Geralt smiled, and he was sure he’d begun to build muscle in his cheeks from how often that had happened now. He admired the tie, running his thumb over the pattern. Cautiously, he edged closer to Jaskier and handed it back to him. He turned around, offering Jaskier his back and whispered, “Would you fix it for me?”

At once, Jaskier’s hands were in his hair, swapping out the old tie for the new. When Geralt turned back around, Jaskier had the old tie fasted to his wrist, looking down at it with a gentle smile. His eyes flickered back up to Geralt, and that same shy expression softened his features from that day when he’d presented his new song. A new shine glinted in his eyes, a fresh spark that danced in the firelight. Geralt’s words of thanks died on his tongue at the sight of it. His eyes roamed Jaskier’s face, taking in the warmth of his gaze.

So loving. So deceptively close to genuine. What a fantastic actor Jaskier would make, Geralt thought. He even smelled happy. Like … vanilla. He leaned closer, breathing it in. By now he’d forgotten the smile in Jaskier’s eyes, forgot how long he’d ceased to study it. Now he’d been distracted by the smile on his lips, taking in their color, the shape of them. He wanted a better look. If he touched them, perhaps he’d learn what made them turn up the way they did—might know how much of their warmth was owed to the fire, how much was owed to Jaskier. He thought they’d come nearer now, and he could just make out the small lines in them. The scent of vanilla was stronger, sweeter, and he felt the touch of Jaskier’s hand brush his cheek.

Jaskier’s hands rose, curling back around his neck as he leaned forward. Geralt blinked rapidly, tilting his head a fraction to the side. His slow heart fluttered to life in his chest. Often he’d imagined what it might be like to be in this very moment. Once, he’d even had the pleasure of dreaming it, but living it was more unbelievable. That Jaskier might kiss him was unfathomable, yet he was here, his hands reaching out, his lips parting, the nearness of him overwhelming and gloriously true. Geralt had nearly closed his eyes when he felt a slight tug on his hair.

“There,” Jaskier said with satisfaction, pulling away. “It was a bit crooked.”

His hair. Jaskier had leaned forward to … to fix his hair.

Jaskier was up now, walking toward their bags. The wind of the motion sent a chill through Geralt and he slumped forward, feeling suddenly cold. He’d been on the flat of a mountain once, standing at the edge of a cliff, all the wide world below him. Looking down, he’d felt as if the world might swallow him up. The sky above was so clear, devoid of even clouds, and he felt he might fall into it if only to relieve the endless void. That was how Jaskier’s absence felt. The wind which had commanded the mountainside was but a puff of air compared to the waft of air left in Jaskier’s wake. Geralt turned like a dying flower turns toward the sun, longing after him.

The bedroll was made smooth beneath Jaskier’s attentive hands as he went about preparing to retire. Geralt sighed and watched, trying to remind himself again that he was reading too much between lines that were unwritten: lines like bars in a cell. His infatuation was unfounded, and this scheme of Jaskier’s to educate Geralt in the ways of courting was only fuel to the fire. What a pointless endeavour. When would Geralt ever use this knowledge? To aid Jaskier as he pursued his fancy of the month? To himself win the heart of some stranger?

Jaskier bowed playfully and motioned to the bedroll. “Your chariot awaits to carry you off into Slumberland, sweet prince of the night,” he announced. He held a blanket in his hands, his boots and doublet set by his pack. With a flourish he rose and waited for Geralt expectantly.

Geralt obediently removed his boots and crawled onto the bedding. Best to sleep and let the moment be forgotten by morning, start over with another day. He turned on his back, waited for Jaskier to cover him with the blanket, to finish his joke and set up his own roll to sleep. Instead, he found Jaskier flopped at his side, his arm flung over his chest, and the blanket wrapped around the two of them snugly.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. His breath puffed against Geralt’s neck as Jaskier cuddled closer, hooking an ankle over Geralt’s leg. He settled comfortably on Geralt’s shoulder and closed his eyes, the most contented smile on his face. Geralt could hear his heartbeat slow down, even and rhythmic, lulling.

After some time, Geralt thought he’d gone to sleep. He cautiously shifted, rolling on his side to face him. Jaskier had long eyelashes, he discovered. This close, Geralt could see a number of faint freckles on his cheeks, the subtle wrinkles about his eyes. He rarely allowed himself to look when they were together at night, but lately that had become a temptation hard to resist. He looked now while he might steal a private minute or two without fear. There was one little hair poking out from Jaskier’s nose and Geralt chuckled to know how bothered Jaskier would be when he noticed it eventually. He reached a tentative hand out, resting it on the loose fabric of Jaskier’s chemise where it lay on the roll, too cowardly to reach out and touch Jaskier in spite of the arm Jaskier had around him. That alone was enough. That already was daring.

Geralt slowly closed his eyes, trying to lock away the memory of the moment. He opened them again for one last look as the fire died down. Jaskier seemed to shine in the afterglow and Geralt closed his eyes again so that he might trap the afterimage in the dark. Then, Jaskier shifted and there was a warmth pressed to Geralt’s forehead. A kiss goodnight.

Was Jaskier awake, or was he in a dream? Geralt’s fingers curled in a fist around the hem of Jaskier’s shirt, desperately wondering. The question plagued him as he felt himself slip away. He shuddered, the inches between them a frozen tundra, all his doubts denying him the feel of Jaskier’s warm embrace even as it wrapped tighter around him. His last thought before being claimed by sleep was a silent wish. He wished that tomorrow the game would end. And more secretly, he wished it would be replaced with something real.

The courting continued more enthusiastically than before. Jaskier broke from the conservative spending habits Geralt had instilled in him over the years. He did not skip about buying frou-frou delights for himself or wasteful fashions. No. When he loosened his purse strings, it was to buy an extra plate for Geralt at dinner. It was to stock the spices Geralt liked best and the preserves he would never indulge in on his own. Geralt did his best to object, but relented upon Jaskier’s insistence that, “It’s a part of the courtship! You cannot deny me this privilege!” And because Jaskier would not be denied, he even found a twisted paper package of caramels hidden away in his bag among the empty potion bottles.

Jaskier continued to cuddle up with Geralt even as spring gave way to the heat of summer. Geralt thought that the game would surely be over by now, but there was no end in sight. Jaskier kept finding more and more ways to surprise Geralt, and it seemed his knowledge of courtship was far more lengthy than Geralt might have ever anticipated. That such an affair could hold Jaskier’s attention for so long was incomprehensible, and with nothing in return. Geralt could understand continuing their study if Jaskier were courting someone in earnest all the while, or having one of his romps for a weekend when they were travelling, but Jaskier had not so much as looked at anyone since … Geralt could not remember the last time Jaskier had flirted with anyone. That made it so much easier to believe. And that made it so much harder to withstand.

Months passed. Jaskier’s courtship fluctuated. He was mainly reserved in his affections and things were not much changed from before they’d begun. There may have been more lingering touches, but those had always been there, since the day they’d met. Likely it was only that Geralt was more aware of them, looking for any sign, grasping at straws for a hint of truth, denying it whenever he found one in an act of self-preservation.

Occasionally the grander gestures would return, and Jaskier counted these as special days. He justified their indulgence by using the situation as evidence; usually these occasions fell on holidays or anniversaries of which Geralt had been unaware, and if they should happen upon a festival or event unaware, Jaskier would sweep Geralt along for an improvised day of fun.

“As with any courtship, one ought to take any opportunities to enjoy oneself as one may find,” Jaskier said, always happy to remind Geralt that the courtship was ongoing, no matter how many months had passed, as if he could not tire of such proclamations. “And what could be more memorable than a day together where all the world is colorful, all the people laughing? It’s so much more fun when everyone is having fun! You can pretend that all the world is right and perfect for one day: no monsters to fight, no prejudices to contend with, and no disdainful destiny pulling at strings. Just a day chasing whatever shining thing catches your eye, unplanned, unbridled joy!”

And truly those were days where it felt like anything might happen. Jaskier shined so brightly, dragging Geralt from booth to booth. They played horseshoes, tried their hand at throwing hatches and other games and tests of skill. One favorite event they’d come upon was a sort of artist’s exhibition in Oxenfurt. Jaskier had been invited to give a lecture on his composition process and he’d insisted on Geralt coming along. After his lecture, which Geralt had listened to attentively from the back of the room, they’d gone through the university and explored the other lectures and demonstrations.

There were great works on display: tapestries and steam-powered inventions, fastidiously cultivated plants with clippings and pressed blooms for sale; a perfumer gave samples of scented paper and described how the brewing was done, and a much better kind of brewing was explained by an artisan ale brewer who offered them small mugs of her product while they listened. Jaskier attended a workshop on embroidery. Fascinated by the practice after so many years of wearing finely embroidered clothes, he wished to learn a bit of handiwork himself. Meanwhile, Geralt was especially interested to watch the smelter, blacksmith, and silversmith at work, privately comparing their methods of crafting swords with those he’d studied in the keep. It was by far one of the more memorable days of the season.

Jaskier bought Geralt a small scrap of decoratively twisted iron from the blacksmith to keep as a reminder. It wasn’t useful for much apart from keeping away faeries, but he bought a strip of cord from the lecturing tanner and fashioned a charm for him, tying it to the sheath of his silver sword. Once more, Geralt chided him for wasting money on useless things, but he found himself smiling at the charm whenever he sat to sharpen his swords. Later on, Geralt had nearly lost it on a hunt and had lingered later after the kill, searching the rocky terrain until he found it.

By fall, Geralt had nearly forgotten Jaskier was courting him at all. It had become their new normal. He let himself indulge in Jaskier’s attention, taking a page from his book. Once in a while Jaskier would make some comment about their courtship to someone in a tavern when asked why he would be travelling with a witcher, and Geralt would remember and the heavy feeling would settle over him again, but the days were too busy and bright, so he soon forgot again. It was difficult to be sad long with Jaskier’s arm looped in his.

When they weren’t travelling, that is to say, when they spent a day or two in town on a contract, Jaskier had taken to spending time alone. He would spend a few hours in their room, or he’d be somewhere in town, a bag always at his side. He practiced his embroidery, following the sample patch he’d stitched at the exhibition. Sometimes he displayed his work proudly when Geralt passed, and other times he was quick to hide it in his bag. Once, Geralt overheard news in a pub that Jaskier had been present at a quilting bee, then the gossiping party fell to whispers when they saw the witcher approach. This was during the time when Jaskier was more frequently away, acting secretive and sneaking about.

The reason behind these mysterious disappearances was shortly unveiled by the end of the month when Jaskier presented Geralt with a new winter cloak. He held it proudly stretched in his hands. It was a dark blue wool. The hood and collar were embroidered with white and yellow flowers, framed by a curling green ivy. There were two metal clasps sewn on either side, and a close look revealed them to be buttercups.

“I made it myself,” Jaskier said, glowing with pride. “Well, all but the clasps. But I did design them—think of it as the signature on a great painting!” Before Geralt could take a breath to compliment his work, Jaskier swung the cloak around Geralt’s shoulders, adjusting it handsomely. “Good, it’s not too narrow. I was a little worried, but I thought if it fit me it ought to fit you fine. Had to make sure it was wide enough in the shoulder, so I measured your armour for a good estimate. Do you like it?”

Geralt blinked. “It’s for me?” he asked.

“Of course it is. Why else would I have been so secretive? I wanted to surprise you!”

Jaskier turned away, kneeling down to pull something from beneath their bed. There was only one—had only been one for a long time now. When Jaskier emerged, he had a large box in his hands. “And now to complete the ensemble,” he said cheerfully. He shoved the box in Geralt’s hands looking up at him in anticipation.

Struggling to process the enormity of the gift, Geralt opened the box mechanically. Inside was a pair of new black leather boots with heavy tread. Upon further inspection, he discovered they were lined with rabbit fur inside the cuff.

“There. Now you’ll be ready for the journey home this winter,” Jaskier declared. Then, just a twitch, there was something reserved in his expression—something that suggested gloom. He smiled through it and straightened Geralt’s hood, making it symmetrical. His hands remained a moment, poised on Geralt’s shoulders. He seemed hesitant. There he stood, looking up at Geralt, and he appeared to be holding his breath, waiting for something.

“Thank you,” Geralt said at last. He shook his head. “No, I … it’s more than that.” It was too much; he didn’t know how to express his gratitude.

Jaskier’s hands fell and he looked at the shining clasps, avoiding Geralt’s eyes. “Yes, well. You’re welcome to it,” he said.

“I’m not sure how I ought to thank you,” Geralt continued. It occurred to him that he could ask. That was the purpose of all of this: to educate him on courtship. Every good pupil asked questions. So he did ask. “How does one usually show their appreciation after receiving a courting gift? Should I reciprocate?”

Whatever cloud passed over Jaskier’s features faded and was replaced by a small smile. “Custom dictates that you should complement the handicraft and dress yourself immediately that I might admire you bedecked in my gifts,” he answered. “Go on then! On with the boots! And if you’re feeling especially gratified, you may accompany me to dinner and allow me to show you off in all your glory.”

Geralt snorted. “Long-winded way to say you’re hungry and broke.”

“Put on the boots, you ass; I’m paying for dinner.”

As soon as Geralt had his new boots on—and oh, how comfortable they were!—Jaskier twirled his finger in the air, made him turn and model. Geralt rolled his eyes but turned around graciously. Jaskier beamed and showered him with praise. He slipped on his own cloak, for it was a cold evening, and they left the little inn, headed toward the delicious smell of the pub and their dinner, following the welcoming glow of its windows down the cobbled street.

“Wait!” Jaskier cried, leaping in front of Geralt. He spread his arms wide and Geralt nearly crashed against his back. Geralt looked over his shoulder to see what danger caused Jaskier to halt in the middle of the road, only for Jaskier to sweep the warm cloak from his shoulders and drape it across a rather nasty, muddy puddle before them.

Geralt’s eyes went wide. It was a new cloak—Jaskier had bought it only a fortnight past. He’d carefully selected a cool green, saying it would remind him of spring when the winter made the world grey, and Geralt had seen him embroidering the collar of it in the evenings before bed. Jaskier had doted on it, and Geralt had never known Jaskier to wear a cloak. Ever. He was never on the road when the weather was cold enough to warrant one, always holing up in Oxenfurt or carving himself out a space in some court for the season. He’d taken such pride in the cloak, adding his own personal touches to it, making it quite his. He talked about it constantly, boasting that it would keep him thoroughly safe when the winter chill set in, that he might climb the most icy, terrible mountain and feel as though he were snuggled up by the fireside.

That was the straw to break his back at last.

“What are you doing? That will never wash out,” Geralt scolded.

Jaskier bowed dramatically and rose with a charming shrug. “What burden is a bit of mud, my dear? I’ll not have your new boots so soon sullied on their first venture. If I allowed that, what kind of suitor would I be?” He chuckled and pressed a chaste, teasing kiss to Geralt’s cheek.

Geralt flinched away, heart leaping into his throat. “You’ve taken this too far!” he cried.

“Geralt, I assure you, the fabric is perfectly sensible and there’ll be no stain. I specifically chose it for wearing on the road.” He looked at Geralt, picking at the end of the cloak still draped in his hands. He kept his tone teasing and light, but there was a nervous edge to it he tried to hide behind a laugh. “Come now,” he said, “don’t let my gesture go in vain; I was trying so very hard to be suave.”

“No. It’s not just the cloak,” Geralt hissed. “This whole charade! I—!” Geralt fisted his hands in the thick fabric of his cloak. He turned his head away, grit his teeth. “I’m calling it off, Jaskier. I can’t tolerate one more day of this game.”

“What game?” Jaskier asked. The false cheer left him. Honest worry furrowed his brow as he lifted the wet cloak once more from the puddle, clutching it as a child might cling to a blanket.

“This courtship. It has to stop.”

Jaskier turned pale. He trembled, though no breeze swept through the air. When he spoke, his voice trembled in kind, and he looked at Geralt with anxious eyes. “If this is about the winter,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry for being pushy. You’re not ready—I can wait. But we can move slower if that’s the issue, and I can give you your space until spring, just like every year.” His hands twisted in the cloak and he held it closer to his chest. “But I thought you wanted … you agreed to the courtship. And we were headed east together. It’s coming on winter, so I thought … And you’re not one for words …” he trailed. “I don’t understand what’s changed. Just this morning we—”

“This morning, you didn’t kiss me!” Geralt snapped. “I can hold your hand, I can dance with you and listen to your pet names, I can accept your gifts and gestures in an effort to understand your customs. I know you want to teach me about courtship. It’s important to you—or entertaining. But I can’t abide being kissed! Not as part of some lesson.”

Geralt’s eyes felt hot and there was a strange hollow in the pit of his stomach. “Not if it doesn’t mean anything,” he concluded. He couldn’t look Jaskier in the eye for fear of the understanding he’d find there. What pity or disgust would he see when the realization hit? What horrible expression would he find twisting Jaskier’s expression when he finally understood that his best friend, an emotionless, beastly, taciturn witcher, was in love with him?

“Oh,” Jaskier whispered.

There it was. Geralt’s head hung low. He silently braced himself. This was the part where Jaskier would let him down gently. Or he might make an awkward joke and pretend he didn’t understand, brushing it all aside and moving on as always. Geralt wasn’t sure which would be worse. He wished Jaskier would simply leave and he wouldn’t have to suffer either one.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. Geralt heard the splash as Jaskier dropped his cloak once more to the ground. And suddenly there were warm hands cradling his face. “My darling,” Jaskier said, “let me be perfectly clear. No, no, don’t look away—you’ve got to look at me and listen very carefully to what I say. This isn’t a game. I’m not playing at romance with you. I’m not trying to teach you anything either. No games, no jokes, no tricks.”

Jaskier pulled Geralt closer, forced him to meet his eyes. Geralt looked at last and saw nothing but raw sincerity staring back. “This is real,” Jaskier said. “All of it. Since that day I stood and swore to court you and win your heart. Every action and effort I made was in earnest.”

Geralt felt the grounding touch of Jaskier’s thumb stroking his cheek. His heart remained in his throat, still uncertain, but it beat with a fragile hope. “What does it mean then?” he asked.

Jaskier sighed, resting their foreheads together. “It means I love you,” he answered.

Geralt closed his eyes. He felt such a fool. Slowly, he brought his hands up to cover Jaskier’s, pressing them more firmly against his skin. The touch felt new. It had a weight to it now, and he felt lighter than ever before, needed their anchor to keep from drifting away.

Jaskier loved him.

“How does a happy courtship end?” Geralt asked, though he did not wish for it to end so soon, now that he’d learned it was real. He was inclined to start over again and do it properly, no shadows or clouds to hang over them.

Jaskier let out a last nervous breath and smiled. “With marriage,” he said. “Eventually. But I think that may be a bit too soon for us.”

“Then before that.”

“Generally, the first stage ends with a kiss. I think that’s about right for where we are.”

“And … will you kiss me?” Geralt asked, opening his eyes again. He looked into Jaskier’s deep blue irises, and for once he could examine them as much as he liked, he realized. So he stared, taking in every brown freckle, every fleck of gold however small, looking as he never allowed himself to before. With satisfaction, he watched Jaskier’s pupils widen. He was sure he looked much the same.

Jaskier chuckled, pulling Geralt’s hands down and cradling them in his own. “Me?” he asked playfully. “Oh no, my dear; I did the wooing. The stage ends when you take the reciprocating action and encourage me to continue. Therefore it is you who must kiss me. If you like.”

“And if I do?”

“Then by all means,” Jaskier prompted. “Kiss me!”

Geralt tilted his head to the side, no more hesitation, and pressed their lips together in a gentle embrace. Just one short, reverent kiss: the fruition of his longing. It was not studied—was even a bit skewed from lack of practice. But it was freeing. He leaned back again as they parted, and he felt Jaskier leaning forward after him. Geralt smiled, his heart fluttering with a joy he never thought he’d know. This felt right. Felt wonderful. And now the tension was gone and he had nothing left to fear with Jaskier’s hands so tightly clasping his.

“So. What comes in the next stage of courtship?”

“Another kiss, certainly,” Jaskier said, stepping forward in an attempt to close the distance.

Geralt stepped back, a cheeky smile rising to his lips. “I’m fresh out,” he teased.

“Goodness me!” Jaskier gasped theatrically, and he was grinning right back. “Thankfully, I have one spare! Many, in fact, if you’d like them.”

“I would.”

“But, ah! I’m not so cheap as that!” Jaskier cried in retribution. If Geralt would refuse him another kiss, Jaskier would make him earn the next. “I must be wooed first, Geralt of Rivia. It’s your turn, I did say, and I’ll have you know I expect a great deal after all the work I put in. Rides on Roach, dinners cooked for me, breakfasts, embarrassingly poor poetry; then there’s the matter of you holding my hand when I ask, sweeping me off my feet and carrying me to bed in the evening, fresh flowers, foot massages, the—”

Geralt stepped forward again and silenced Jaskier’s rambling with another kiss, smiling through it too hard to make good on the act. He laughed, tucking his face against Jaskier’s jaw as he tried to compose himself long enough to see it through, then he was kissing Jaskier’s jaw and cheek, his eyes, everything within reach as the giddy feeling rose from his chest, laughing all the while as though he would never stop.

Jaskier laughed and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. “Yes, and as many of those as you can afford,” he chuckled. “You were holding out on me, you old tight-purse.”

Geralt pulled away enough to look Jaskier in the eye. “If I promise to woo you later, would you please just shut up and kiss me now?” he asked.

Jaskier huffed and regarded Geralt with sarcastic affection. “Someone has got to teach you about romance,” he said.

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Of Monsters and Men

Chapter 12- Till Death Do Us Part

Summary: The battle for Sodden Hill is not over yet, your forces are almost all dead and the Nilfgaardian army is close. Things have been better, maybe by destiny they will?

Warning: blood & gore, feels, angst, fluff

Masterlist

You scream in fury as hot white lighting sparks from your opened palms and into the bodies of countless Nilfgaardian men, they fall in agony, their bodies twitching as they quickly meet a violent and painful end. You've been in battle all day, the forces of the enemy holding much better then you'd anticipated, nonetheless you've held your ground the absolute best you can.

You will not fall.

The sun has long abandoned the land and let darkness consume her whole, the woods around Sodden Hill on the other hand have been alive with the sounds of screaming and swords clashing. In the jumble of bodies and angry soldiers had you unfortunately managed to misplace your dagger, while also getting yourself sliced by a silver blade across your collarbone and left rib cage. Resorting your self defensive weaponry to the use of your destructive dark gift. And now more then ever have you been glad to make use of it.

It feels not enough.

The opened wound adorning your collarbone is small enough that it's not much of a bother for the time being, but the slice to your rib cage burns and seeps with hot wet blood as you move through the brush. You're certain that the leaves you part away are leaving a blood trail when you skim past them as you walk through the woods.

You wander though the thick underbrush in search of Yennefer and Tissaia, you've made sure to keep yourself hidden from Nilfgaard for as long as possible as you hunt for them in the darkness, also considering you're injured and bleeding, better to not draw any attention to yourself.

A few stray droplets of shining red fall to the forest floor while you stumble across a small downed log, praying that they're still alive in the woods somewhere, they have to be, your numbers are already dwindling every minute as Nilfgaard progresses.

Your eyes scan over the near distant patch of evergreens weeping low to the ground as a sudden flicker of light catches your attention, your eyes keenly follow as a torch and many soldiers charge through the thick conifers in the opposite direction of you to your great relief. They are oblivious to your existence as they hunt relentlessly for any sign of movement in the forest. Suddenly your ears prick to the tell tale individual beats of the heiress' and Yennefer's nervous hearts, walking further, you emerge from some bushes to find Tissaia and Yennefer on a grassy hill. Tissaia's hands outstretched as she casts some type of defense spell while Yennefer clutches her arrow wound, breathing heavily in the night air.

A feeling of great relief washes over you as a tired smile breaks out upon your dirt smudged face, "You're alive! Both of you!" You cry, sounding the most eased of your problems in quite some time. Yennefer finds your eyes, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as you shuffle closer to the two of them, your ribs hurting with each step.

Tissaia slowly turns, her face is an absolute mess, her clothes dirty and her hair a disordered nest upon her head. She smells of sweat and blood and fear as you catch her tired blue eyes with your crimson ones, "Y/N." She rasps, reaching a hand out to you, you take it, keeping the other pressed firmly against your opened flesh.

You take a heavy breath, "Sabrina needs your help. Yennefer told me, she probably said...why are you not...where are..." You pause for a moment to take another breath and regain your words, it even hurts to breath, they notice your discomfort as an explosion sounds from the near distance, "We all do."

She lowly smiles before her face contorts into a pained expression, a whimper escapes her lips as she clutches the side of her stomach before falling to her knees. You quickly kneel down, a look of deep worry upon your own bloody face as you gently touch her arm, "No! No! Not now Tissaia, the Northern Kingdoms are close..." You plead desperately, she stares back at you through dazed eyes as Yennefer joins your huddle upon the dewy grass, "We can't give up." Your voice a rasped whisper.

Gods my throat is dry.

More explosions sound in the far distance as you grasp her shoulder, her face is sad with defeat and fear as tears fall down her sweaty blooded cheeks, "We need you, what do we do now?" Your voice is shaky and desperate, a frustrated tear falls down your face as you feel more sticky blood oozing out from your fresh wound.

Tissaia says nothing, her eyes taking in everything you're saying but looking rather vacant at the same time, you nod in understanding before releasing her shoulder. She sits down and turns to stare off lost into the far off firelight flaring through the thick woods. Understanding her exhaustion you move away from her to seat yourself atop the grass as you grimace in pain. Gods your deep battle wound hurts like a bitch, the fucking skin not immediately healing due to the silver. This may suck but in retrospect you've done one-hundred times more damage to Nilfgaard then a simple slash to your ribs.

You can be an optimist Y/N, but you know they hit bone. It bleeds too much.

Yennefer takes your once close position next to Tissaia, she looks desperately into the blue eyed mage as she grasps onto her shoulder, "You...you saved me. I won't ever forget that." Says Yennefer, her voice breaking as tears well up in her violet eyes.

Tissaia smiles a pained one, touching Yennefer's cheek before letting her hand fall, her blue eyes playing downcast as she looks out into the exploding woods. Yennefer's head falls as her lip quivers, her lavender irises trailing over to you in a last hopeful effort to find help. She kneels down by your side, her face expectant as you stare up at her, feeling almost in a blurry daze.

Yennefer blinks, her voice but a determined whisper, "Y/N, we have to fight. I can't do this without you, I can't." You breath through heavy painful breaths as a small trickle of your own blood trails out from your mouth, her brows furrow in deep worry as she finds your bleary eyes, "Y/N?"

Your breathing is almost ragged now as you gently reach out to touch her arm, "It's your turn...to save the people, this Continent. This is your legacy."

Her face is pained, "How? I can't!"

"You can!" Your voice is stronger now, "Everything you have ever felt, everything you've buried..." Your free hand softly touches her cheek, a small smile upon your lips, "Forget the bottle, forget the djinn. Let your chaos explode." She looks deeply into your shimmering crimson eyes, not an ounce of falseness lacing your words. She furrows her brows as the two of you lean your sweat covered foreheads against one another in a comforting manner.

"Be a dragon."

She slowly pulls away, rising to her feet as she parts from you, knowing exactly what must be done if you're all to survive this night. You watch as she slowly stumbles over across the grass, standing in between two large boulders, she faces the Elven Keep that is currently aflame. She pauses for a couple long moments before turning and climbing up the giant heavy stone, a small stream of blood drips out of your nose as you keep your eyes on Yennefer the whole time.

You feel so tired.

Tissaia gently touches your shoulder as she wills you to stand, rising to your feet the both of you wait in anticipation for what she's about to do next, her vessel atop the highest rock, she looks down upon the grassy woodland valley. Mages fight close by as you ignore their hardships and the terrible sounds of Nilfgaard soldiers as they charge in your direction. You ignore them all as Yennefer makes eye contact with you, she nods before thrusting her hands down, a scream of fury erupting from deep within her lungs.

Fire emits from her opened palms like a fearsome dragon throwing her wrath across the land, the bright hot flames dance in your direction as you and Tissaia fall to the ground for cover. Though you know better, it's no use, the fire will certainly end your long life in an instant.

I'll miss you Geralt. I'm sorry.

You cover your face in dreaded anticipation as the hellfire of heat passes you and Tissaia without giving you so much as a burn. You can hear the piercing screams from the nearby soldiers as they burn in agony from Yennefer's grand display of chaos. Your glistening eyes look around you, nothing but a hot orange glow surrounding yourself and Tissaia as you suck in astonished ragged breaths.

Yennefer you amazing woman. Burn those fuckers.

The flames consume around you, hot wind brushing past your face and conveniently drying away all the sweat as you let the blaze swallow whole the forest full of soldiers. Then just like that does the fire end, the spewing wrath of Yennefer going almost as suddenly as it had come. Your eyes lock with Tissaia's as she helps you stand, your sights finding nothing but charred ground and smoky ash in the aftermath.

You take a small step forward, you can't hear her heartbeat anymore, she's gone.

Nothing.

"Yennefer." Whispers Tissaia, unsure of where the violet eyed mage has gone, she suddenly walks past you in search of the missing sorceress, "Yennefer!" She shouts again and again while looking all around the scorched field.

"Yennefer!"

A couple stray tears fall down your ashen cheeks as a quivering smile forms across your face while you fight the urge to laugh at how terribly everything has gone, dried blood cracking on your skin as you grin, "We're alone Tissaia." Your voice is hoarse, the blue eyed mage turns to you, her eyes wide.

"No. We can't b...she can't....she can't be gone." Her eyes are sad with fearful grief.

"I can't sense her near." You shake your head, "No heartbeat but yours and mine. She did the most bravest thing she could have done, there is nothing more we can do now..." Your eyes fall to the smoking grass, "I don't know....I can't sense her anymore...she's just....she's....gone..." Tears fall freely now at the loss of your friend, heavy breaths hurting your rib cage as you try to stop yourself from sobbing.

Not another friend, gone. Not her too.

The hollow and empty feeling of loss consumes your entire vessel as you stand among charred Nilfgaard soldiers and fallen mages, you take another step forward, your face downcast with sadness and anger.

Your fist clenches, pain and anguish coursing through your heart, "It shouldn't have ended this way!" You shout in a fury, your ribs falling into agony as you start to cough.

Tissaia casts her eyes away from your fuming desperation, "No, it shouldn't have."

Taking in ragged breaths you look out into the scorched forest, "I guess now I'll truly be alone forever. How terribly sad." You snicker though there is no humor in your words, "Huh, I should have never left Geralt." More tears and blood patter to the charred grass as you hold your side, "Tissaia, go back to Aretuza. Leave this mess, go before it's too late. She may have killed everyone in the woods, but more still live beyond her flames. I can't have you dead either."

"Where will you go then?" She wonders, glancing down at your sliced flesh hidden behind your fingers, her voice laced with concern, "Y/N, if you stay you'll die."

"I know." More blood patters to the ground, "I need to feed, human blood is the only thing that can heal this type of wound." You grimace in pain once more, "I can't help what I am, it's the only way I will survive this."

She nods in understanding, "Be careful Y/N. It is not safe."

You lowly chuckle despite the pain, "Thanks for the forewarning, hopefully any surviving soldiers know that. Because I don't intend to keep a single one of them alive if we cross paths."

She hands you a small smile in return, "Till we meet again."

"Goodbye Tissaia."

She watches as you trudge into the burnt and smoky forest, out of sight in an instant as you wander into the night. She stands alone atop the singed earth as you wander through the blackened trees, letting the scent of Nilfgaard soldiers lead you to your first victim, if any are still alive that is.

Hopefully soon, gods this knife wound hurts.

Your eyes adjust perfectly to your surroundings as they had in the beginning of the night, all colors now of dull greys, blues, purples, greens, and black. No one but a Witcher could see as well as you. For some time do you stumble through the charred trees and logs until finally have you made it to the other side. You walk out into a grassy opening, the air is fresh and cool as you scan the area in search of life.

You walk forward and notice the tell tale signs of Nilfgaard, they were undoubtedly here, the grass is matted and horse shit wafts into the air. They are still very close, you can almost....suddenly a stick cracks from your left alerting you to a new sound.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Two heartbeats. Hooves thudding against the dirt.

A slender faced man appears from the tree line atop his steed, his face dirty as his piercing blue eyes squint at you in curiosity. He is without a doubt from Nilfgaard, his strange black armor giving him away instantly, a crest of the golden thin star marked on his chest. Oddly enough he still looks rather attractive, in a sadistic cold hearted kind of way, Geralt would without a doubt be making fun of you if he was here to read your facial expressions.

You and the blue eyed stranger make eye contact as he leads his horse closer, once he's close enough to better see your face does he click his tongue signaling the horse to halt. If he's nervous he sure doesn't show it, most men would either cower away or immediately show aggression once they've glanced at your ruby irises.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Another heartbeat. Another man.

An armored soldier breaks from the tree line and stops, staring at the two of you, unsure of what's to happen next. The first man eyes you suspiciously as he lays a careful hand atop his sheathed sword.

"You are not human?" He wonders in a questioning statement, eyes trailing up and down your body in a cautious way rather then anything else more sinister. You stare up at him through irritated eyes, a hand still covering your wound, as your free one taps the side of your thigh.

"I am not the only monster to stand upon this land. You inbred Nilfgaardian cocksucker." He grimaces in disgust, clearly not anticipating that kind of blatantly bold answer, nonetheless he stares on still unsure if you're a true threat or not.

The other soldier takes a couple proud steps forward, instantly his ragged sword is out in an act of dominance, "You foockin' bitch, how dare ya call The Black Knight Cahir aep Ceallach by such a derogatory name." Huffs the loyal soldier as he spits in the direction of your feet, his black sword flashing in the bright moonlight.

You tilt your head to the side, a fangy smile stretching across your ashen face, "Oh, forgive me then. But as it would turn out, I don't give a fuck." You sneer with hatred, Cahir's eyes darken at your words.

Oh, you've got him now.

"Sebastian. Kill her." Commands The Black Knight with a simple nod, his loyal man smirks before raising his sword and charging at you like a wild animal.

Cahir watches in anticipated curiosity from atop his horse as his devoted soldier makes quick thunderous steps in your direction like a raging blunderous fool. You take one last even breath, enjoying the dull throbbing of your wound before you send it into agony once again.

You steady your feet, staggering them as you turn your shoulder so it faces the charging man, when your scarlet irises catch the brown of his bulging eyes do you launch yourself over his head swifter then he's able to comprehend. Flipping in the air above him you quietly land upon the soft earth once again before using all the strength you have left to throw yourself atop the man. His sword is ripped from his hands as you pin him to the ground in a fury.

His glossy brown eyes lock onto your flaming red ones, he shakes in fear before you push his neck to the side and bite down hard into his soft warm flesh. His scream pierces through your ears for a few seconds as he struggles underneath you, a moment later all goes silent as his body turns limp in your grasp. His blood is warm and absolutely delicious as it pours down your throat and seeps into your system, you can already feel your silver inflicted injuries healing as you drain the life from the soldiers body.

Once all his satiated and you feel one-hundred percent you again, do you release him, standing to your full height you turn around to face the wide blue eyes of Cahir. He quickly pulls his sword out as his horse neighs in nervousness underneath him.

"My god you're a vampire." He reveals astonished, swallowing hard as you study his fearful expression.

Blood trips down your chin and onto the grass below as an amused smirk plays at your lips, "A dhampir my good knight, sorry to disappoint." You chuckle, "Now I must be off, your friend was all I needed and now I am satisfied." He stares intently as you continue, "From here I plan to leave this fucking place and I intend to do so in peace. So I warn you, if you try and stop me I will end your pathetic life, you can try to slice me from atop your weak legged detestable meat-bag of shit. But if you dared raise that filthy sword at me, you will lose."

He blinks, thinking over your threatening proposition, just then he slowly brings the sword to his side and carefully sheaths it, his eyes never leave yours, "I will accept these terms." His hands tightly grip the leather reigns of his nervous horse. His face stoic as he clenches his jaw, he doesn't appear to appreciate being told off.

"Good." You smile politely, your face falling in an instant, "Now fuck off."

His face is stone as he clicks his tongue once more before kicking the sides of his steed, you watch as he hastily gallops on past you from a safe distance and out of sight into the thick brush.

This is a Knight of Nilfgaard, interesting.

——

After cleaning yourself up with crystal clear water from a nearby stream did you begin your search for a trail, anything that could take you to some kind of civilization or a fucking tavern for that matter. You wandered in bored frustration for almost the entirety of the day, your vampiric stamina keeping you awake and on guard as you trudge your way through the woods.

Your stomach growls, you haven't had a proper meal since Aretuza, and right now you're honestly desperate enough to take a bite out of anything. Though with the gracious scent of a deer wafting into your nostrils, your more primal instinct kicks in, your eyes narrow as you stalk your way through the bushes. The scrawny bastard stands near a tiny stream, you take another step and crack, a damn stick, the deer finds you standing in the greenery and books it away in the opposite direction.

Letting out an annoyed "fuck" you make good use of your legs by racing after the doe, your chase is short lived when she runs out of the wood line and closely past a horse and it's rider, though you're moving so fast that you don't have time to register what's in front of you until its too late. With a thud do you smack right into the front of the powerful mare, she neighs loudly in alarm while you stumble clumsily into the dirt.

Letting out a breathy huff, you inhale sharply, your sights fuzzy and spotted as you blink hard, trying to collect your bearings once again. Holding yourself up by your elbows you try and shake off the whiplash you've just received when the rider suddenly speaks in confused astonishment, "Y/N?"

Raising your head to the gruff voice your crimson eyes go wide in shock, your heart practically catching in your throat as you stare, "Uh, Geralt?"

His big beautiful golden irises trail across your disheveled state as you continue to stare, mouth a-gap, before he quickly jumps off of Roach and takes swift steps to your side, looking rather concerned. He reaches a hand down for you to take, that you willingly accept without a second thought he pulls you to your feet, quickly letting go of your hand, his brows furrowing as he tries to find his words.

"Y/N. How are you here...I though that you were....well, uh....where did you come from?" He questions, just about tripping over his words he's so confused but also incredibly relieved to see you nonetheless. It's been weeks.

"I...was hungry." Immediately slips out, nice one you idiot. His brows furrow once again, unsure what to do with that information and honestly taken so far aback by your random intrusion in the middle of nowhere.

He finally sighs, his eyes finding yours, "It's been almost four weeks."

You swallow, "Oh.....Has it now? Didn't notice." Your voice is smaller then you'd intended, but he can see right through your nonchalant answer. He knows you.

Clearing his throat he look to the ground then at a bush to your left, awkwardly avoiding your gaze as he thinks of what to say next, "Uh...I went to Cintra, and well, um....I didn't get the child surprise...the kingdom, it's gone to..."

"Shit." You nod, "Yeah, I know. I uh....went with Yennefer to Aretuza and uh.....happened to learn about Nilfgaards reign of terror from Triss." He looks at you with a puzzled raise of his grey brow, you give him the tiniest of smiles, "Long story." You shrug, "Even longer one if you really wanna know how I got here." You add with a familiar tinge of humor lacing your words that he's always loved.

His smile is small, but you catch it all the same as he finds your eyes once again, "Guess we both have a lot to catch up on. Although you might laugh when I tell you this," You raise an interested brow as he continues, "Calanthe wasn't very fond of my arrival in the slightest, so she had me set behind bars....and well," His eyes falling downcast, "I couldn't do anything to stop Cintra's destruction...."

"Sounds about right." You remark with a humored snort as you attempt to lighten up the mood once again, he lightly chuckles while you let a couple more friendly laughs slip out before falling into an awkward silence.

He looks to the ground as you shift your eyes to the trees before whispering, "Okay fuck I can't do this." He immediately snaps his attention over to you looking a tad bit afraid, shaking your head you shrug, "I'm skipping the heartfelt shit because Geralt, I wanted to shatter your kneecaps on that mountain...but, stay with me here...leaving you alone for a couple shitty weeks seems like enough of a fuck you." A small grin tugs at the corners of his lips as you break out into a smirk before your face falls once more, "But I am...Geralt I'm sorry for just leaving you there and I just...."

You let out a breath, yours eyes darting around his face as you try and figure out what he's feeling, he takes a cautious step forward, "You had every right to hate me, and even now. I can live with that and I can live without you by my side if that is what you choose." He says, not a shadow of falseness in his gravely voice.

You shake your head, blinking tears away that you didn't even realize started to form, "I could never hate you. Not now, not ever." A small grin tugs at the corners of his lips at your heartfelt words while you grace him with an affectionate smile, "I love you too much, you fucking idiot."

He takes another step closer, "I don't deserve you." Is all he's able to say as he gently opens his palm for you to take.

Slowly reaching out, you take his calloused hand, placing it upon the side of your cheek as you blissfully lean into his familiar touch with a warm smile adorning your features, "You definitely don't deserve me." He wraps his other arm around you, a genuine laugh reverberating from his strong chest as he presses himself against you.

Your foreheads pressed comfortably against one another now, "I've missed you so much." He whispers gently into the breeze.

You move your arms to hug him even closer, "I've missed you more then the moon and all the stars combined," You kiss the tip of his nose, "Though I won't hesitate to break both your legs and leave you a crippled man if you ever do that shit again." He chuckles at your passive aggressive yet loving threat, before pulling away to stare adoringly into your eyes.

His big golden irises shine like shimmering coins as he studies every inch of your face, his own one hides nothing as he shows pure love and admiration for you through his beaming grin, "I love you Y/N. Please never doubt that." He speaks softly as he presses his head flush with yours for the second time.

You chuckle, "Then never doubt this." He doesn't have time to reply as you hastily pull him in for a heated embrace, his lips are gentle and warm as you taste him. He's the same as you'd remembered. Full of fiery passion and feather light care all at the same time as his lips move with yours, hands trailing your sides as you feel him up just the same. Making sure to fully memorize each and every curve of one another that you'd both desperately missed from your time apart.

You slowly pull away, he follows your lips for a second before turning his head to find your scarlet irises, "As much as I'm wholeheartedly enjoying this, and much anticipating how you're going to make everything up to me later. I think we should get-a-riding before I decide to eat Roach."

He shakes his snowy mane, chuckling at your innate ability to always make him laugh, "You wouldn't dare." He jests, mock serious.

Gently squeezing his muscular bicep you eye him real close, your noses just about touching, "I would. And I bet she tastes, delicious." You add with a dramatic shift in your voice for humored emphasis of course. You'd never really eat Roach, well unless you happened to be desperate.

He suddenly hugs you even closer, his lips brushing against yours, sending shivers down your spine, "I know what could satisfy your hunger, my love." He whispers darkly, shifting the mood to your surprised enjoyment.

You lightly kiss his bottom lip, "Oh please, you may be a Witcher but there's no way you could handle me when I'm starved."

You can feel the electricity in the air, his scent and aurora shifting to that of lust, "I wouldn't mind your beautiful face as the last thing I see before I fall into darkness, never to wake again." Muses your Witcher with a small grin, "Sounds rather pleasant."

He bites his lip as you study his alluringly handsome face, "Too bad." You smirk as he watches your lips, "I'd miss your annoyingly attractive face and that ever enticing body of yours way too much to discard you like a forgetful rotten apple tossed to the side of the road."

In reply Geralt presses his plush inviting lips to yours, sending a pleasurable warmth beginning to blossom from deep within your chest, you can't help but to tug him even closer now. He's missed you a thousand times more then you'd first realized, and he is not disappointing with making a fraction of it up to you.

Roach snorts impatiently in the background causing you to laugh and Geralt to sneakily stick his tongue in your opened mouth.

You enjoy the surprisingly delightful sensation before a sudden thought sparks into your mind, pulling away from his enticing lips do you look up at his pouting face, your brows furrowed as you tilt your head at him.

"Where's Jaskier?"

-

Tagged:  @seninjakitey​  @notahappytree​ @ashleyforeverareject​ @sokkasdarling​ @kmuir1​​@haleypearce @diegos-butt​ (@auds24 sorry idk why ur name won’t work) @a-girl-who-loves-disney

[vennilavee]

to build a home - ch 4

memory misplaced

TBAH masterlist

Pairing: levi x reader (attack on titan)

Summary: a modern au where you and levi both work for the Survey Corps, a non-profit organization with a mission to help the youth of the Underground District.

chapter summary: reader goes through a bad break up. takes place about 4 years before the present story

Warnings: cursing, alcohol, drama, reader sleeps around lol

Word Count: 3838

Levi walks past your empty office, a morsel of curiosity wiggling its way into his mind. You’ve been gone for three days and it was an abrupt absence. You hardly ever take days off without letting everyone know.  He wonders if you’re sick or something. But you were fine on Monday… So what is it?

At least Erwin of all people has to know, as your direct boss. But Levi stays out of it, shifting his eyes to the interns who are furiously typing away on their laptops at their cubicles. He takes a sip of his hot tea and heads into his own office, putting thoughts of you to the back of his mind.

Levi doesn’t see you until the following week and when you finally do return, you come back as if you hadn’t been mysteriously gone for four days. He says nothing when he passes you in the hallway going to his office, only offering you a small nod of acknowledgement.

Your lips might be impeccably painted, blazer pristine and lashes curled, but Levi sees nothing but pain sitting in the planes of your pretty face. 

You don’t offer a smile back as you normally would. You don’t have it in you to break the lines of your lips to do so.

Concentration doesn’t come easy to you that day. You’re uncomfortable, out of your element. Maybe you should’ve stayed home. But you’ve been home for the better part of a week. You’re lucky that Erwin is your friend and that he allowed you this much time to wallow.

You’re uncomfortable in your own skin. You subconsciously itch your wrist with sharp nails. 

You’re single. It sounds foreign to you, considering you’d been in a relationship with your now ex-girlfriend for a little over a year. You stare at your fingers, at the absence of any of the jewelry she had gifted to you over the last few months.

You thought it was the real deal. And then it wasn’t. Something inside of you lurches when you glance at the photo of both of you near your monitor. With shaky hands and shaky breaths, you manage to peel the photo out of the frame. You don’t want to look at it but you don’t have the heart to throw it away. You tuck it into your backpack, hoping it gets crumpled without your intervention.

And she had broken up with you. The worst part was you hadn’t even seen it coming. Not even a month ago, you were talking about moving in together. 

You sigh, trying to avoid the inevitable spiral of despair. You can’t tiptoe down that dangerous path, not when you have a mountain of work to catch up on.

***

You keep to yourself mostly over the next few weeks at work. Levi comes to wonder when you’ll barge into his office without permission, as you usually do. He doesn’t see you with Hange in her office, scolding her about her habits or giggling over gossip. 

Your door is closed, and Levi can’t think of the last time he’s ever seen your office with it’s door closed. Levi was tempted to knock on your door but he can’t even tell if you’re inside. He hears the faint noise of typing. And then he hears a frustrated sniffle.

Levi steps away, not wanting to hear something that he shouldn’t. He hears you curse under your breath before he swiftly walks back to his office, pretending he was never there.

Leaning back in your office chair, you sigh heavily as iciness seems to fill your bloodstream slowly but surely. Has the ceiling always looked like that? So awfully bland and commonplace? Dull and dismal? Like you? Is that why she left?

Is that why she left?

You nearly scoff at yourself. Look at you, dictating your own self-worth over the actions and reactions of the person you love. Or loved. Love? Present tense? Can those intense feelings dissipate so quickly? What bothers you even more is that you didn’t even see it coming.

How could you not see it coming? How could you be so delusional to think that everything was fine, when apparently, it wasn’t?

How could she allow you the false sense of security? How could you allow yourself the false sense of security?

But maybe you had missed the signs. Were there any signs?

Maybe people just fall out of love. At least, that’s what she had said to you. That it didn’t feel the same. It’s not you, it’s me. 

Who were you to argue with that? You’ll refuse to beg, refuse to beg for an explanation, refuse to beg for her love. Even if she had plunged her anchor of a hand into your stupid, foolish heart and squeezed until you couldn’t breathe… You would never beg.

You swallow the ache in your lungs and bury it in the pit of your stomach, make yourself a cup of coffee and get to work.

A month. Then two. Then four. And suddenly, it’s six months later.

You’re walking into work on this bright, beautiful Monday morning. Birds are chirping, the sun is high in the sky and there’s even a light breeze in the air.

You’re coming off of a weekend long bender, complete with a throbbing headache and the taste of cotton in your mouth. Your reflexes are delayed and the sun burns red in your retinas despite your sunglasses. You hope Levi doesn’t catch the wrinkles on your collar and on your shirt. You don’t think you can handle his sharp tongue and scathing look. Not today.

You had barely gotten ready to leave for work on time this morning. It had taken far too long to kick your guest out of bed.

Your guest from the night before. You barely remember her name, you only remember the scent of her sweet, vanilla perfume. You recall it being almost too sweet. 

The thought makes you gag. 

Yeah. You’re dealing with the break up really well.

You set your backpack down in your office and head to the break room to make yourself some coffee. Of course, Levi is already there with his teacup. 

“Sunglasses inside? You look like an asshole,” Levi greets you, raising his teacup in acknowledgement.

“Thanks. You’re a dick,” You mutter, putting your coffee beans into the coffee machine and taking the creamer from the fridge.

“You look like shit.”

“You done yet?” You shoot him a scathing glare. Not that he’d be able to tell.

It would be almost comical, if you didn’t show up like this more and more over the last few months. He knows Hange and Erwin are worried, not wanting to set you off by confronting you about your behavior. Hell, he’s worried, too. That you’re hurting in a way you don’t even realize. That you need to heal in a way that might feel foreign and uncomfortable to you.

A hand brushes over your shoulder as he exits the breakroom, a wordless but welcome comfort. Your shoulders relax at his fleeting touch and you stir your coffee absently.

It had been a pure coincidence. It had been a stroke of fate, a laughable atrocity. That’s the only explanation, for why your ex-girlfriend is staring you in the face with another woman from across the club.

Mike, Hange, Levi and Erwin had asked if you’d like to join them at a club on Friday to end the week. At first, you had declined. And then changed your mind because you realized that you missed your friends terribly. You can’t recall the last time you had seen their faces for more than a few minutes outside of work.

You had even invited them to your apartment to have drinks beforehand- 

Your speakers are charged, the apartment freshly cleaned, and alcohol recently stocked in anticipation for company coming over. 

You wonder what Levi will think of your cleaning.

One by one they arrive, first Levi and Erwin, ever so punctual. Then Mike, with Nanaba. And last, but not least, Hange. About thirty minutes after all of them. You’re all already one drink into the evening and you eagerly give Hange a mix of her favorite cocktail.

You see Levi peering around your apartment in mild curiosity, and you can’t help but tease him.

“What? You impressed that someone can clean better than you?”

“No,” Levi rolls his eyes, but you see the twitch in his lips.

“It’s alright, Levi. You can admit it.”

“I’d rather choke on my own tongue, thanks.”

“Now that’s a sight I’d pay to see.”

You wink at him and walk away for a minute, when Hange calls your name to take a shot with her. It’s tequila, and it burns in the best way. Only Hange can get you to agree to tequila. As you walk away, Levi watches the curve of your hips, the glistening tan of your skin, the way your heels and your jeans make your legs look endless. 

He’s not immune to you. You’re pretty, but more than that, you’re funny and brilliant and caring. He thinks your ex-girlfriend is an idiot for letting you go, if anyone was to ask for his opinion. As your friend, of course.

Levi takes a hearty gulp of his drink, vaguely realizing how strong you had made it. Apparently, you were heavy handed with your pour.

Suddenly, his neck feels hot when he watches you lick your hand with salt and throw your head back to take your shot of tequila. The junction of your neck is accentuated by the necklace you’re wearing- it’s tight and inviting around your neck. And then the slight wince on your face, before thrusting a lime slice into your mouth.

He rolls his eyes at the thoughts floating through his mind before turning his gaze away and observing your apartment. It’s warm, littered with pieces and parts of you. A few frames hang on the walls, a painting above your couch. A mahogany bookcase to the right, next to your corner of plants. Your bookcase has clearly worn out books in it, some dog eared and some not. But you also have some trinkets on the shelves- a snowglobe, a small royal blue box with a golden ribbon on it and a little pink succulent in a painted clay pot.

There’s a light coating of dust on some of the shelves, but he’ll keep that to himself for a bit.

It seems like forever ago that you were in the comfort of your own apartment with your friends. You’re frozen in place, and it seems like she is, too. The woman on her arm glances at you, then at her, and then back at you before shaking her head and walking away.

You hardly notice. Because you only see your ex-girlfriend, in this crowded sea of people. And you feel almost nothing. Except for hurt, sadness, and the anger that follows. You have a million words to say to her and twice as many questions, except your tongue feels like lead in your mouth. 

The bass thumps through your veins as a coldness washes over you.

Was there anything even left to say?

No. You decide there isn’t. You’ve already come to terms with the fact that closure isn’t always what you need it to be.

Before she can get a word in edgewise, you turn your back on her and head back to your friends at your table. Levi notices that your lips are pulled into a grim line and that your shoulders are tense. But you say nothing, instead only offering to buy another round of shots for everyone. And then another. And just another.

Soon enough, your arms are wrapped around Hange’s waist as you both sip on matching drinks. A lazy, drunken grin is plastered on your face and you’re nearly swaying on your feet as you and Hange both sing along to the song playing through the club speakers.

Levi can feel a headache brewing. He usually hates places like this for the most part. But it’s not so bad, he thinks. Maybe because despite the crowd, the noise, the dirtiness of bodies close to each other… He still feels like he’s in his own bubble with Hange, Mike, Erwin, Nanaba and you. 

As quickly as your smile had floated across your face, dripping in drunkenness, it sours. Levi follows your line of vision and sees a woman who looks familiar. He can’t quite place it, and it takes him a few seconds to realize that it’s your ex-girlfriend. She’s currently walking towards you with a determined look in her eyes.

Conversely, your dark eyes have turned icy and you’ve recollected yourself quickly. Levi doesn’t know anything about your previous relationship. All he knows is that it was an unexpected break-up.

“Can we talk?” An unfamiliar voice asks and your eyes narrow. 

Levi thinks that he would hate to be on the receiving end of that stare.

“No. I have nothing to say,” You say coldly. You flinch when she tries to reach out to you. Levi doesn’t miss the way your hand tightens around your drink.

Should you grant her the dignity of the closure she needs? Are you mature enough to do that? You want to hurt her the same way she hurt you, and you’re not above admitting that. 

Despite the alcohol coursing through your system, you’ve never felt so clear headed before.

“Seriously? That’s a surprise,” She scoffs and Levi can see steam coming out of your ears.

“Are you kidding me,” You laugh mirthlessly, “You given’ me attitude? You are giving me attitude?”

“I’m just asking if you wanted to talk-”

“I wanted to talk six fucking months ago!” You hiss and step away from the table to face her. And so that your friends don’t need to hear you airing out your dirty laundry. 

Your eyes are wild, rage and hurt and poison flooding into them through an already broken dam. 

“Fine,” You shrug, once you find a relatively quiet place away from people, “Let’s talk. What could you possibly want to say to me?”

Your heart aches, in that familiar way that makes you want to twist your limbs together and never leave the safety of the four walls of your home. And yet, you are here. About to have a very belated conversation with your ex-girlfriend. You want to say a million things to her, you want to spit steel into her heart, the same way she did with you. You want to show her the poison that has curled in your blood and left a bitter taste in your mouth that leaves you choking most nights.

She can have a taste of your angry mouth when all she’s known from you is your softened, sweet lips.

She opens her mouth first, but you beat her to the punch-

“I cannot fucking believe that after six months of you not taking my calls or answering my texts or anything- the only fuckin’ reason that we’re discussing anything is because of a happy coincidence,” You seethe, pointing an accusing finger at her.

“You just- you just fucking left! And verbatim, you said ‘it’s not you, it’s me’! So it was just me, when we were talking about moving in together? It was just me when I told you I loved you? When I told you that we could work through anything, it was just me?!

“I can’t believe you, and I can’t- I can’t explain to you what it’s like. To be completely blindsided by someone who you thought was your other half. Only for them to say that the last year and a half just isn’t what they wanted. And for you to already have determined that this wasn’t worth salvaging- god, you are so- fucking- full of it!”

Your voice is loud, attracting several onlookers but you don’t notice. You feel like you’re in a pit of hell and that you’re about to be swallowed by flames. Tears of frustration, anger and hurt are dotting your eyes and you hate it. You hate that you’ve become this way, afraid to show vulnerability to anyone who might care about you.

“I deserved better! You know that right? You didn’t deserve me.”

She looks stunned into speechlessness and you want to turn away and turn your back on her. But you stay planted on the spot, subconsciously waiting for some semblance of regret or remorse.

You catch a flicker of it but it passes, and you wonder how you could have loved a person this much and still have known nothing about them.

“I’m sorry I ended things the way I did. I didn’t want to hurt you,” She begins and you don’t interrupt, “And I know it was selfish of me, the way I didn’t communicate with you what I wanted and needed. And led you on. I should’ve gone about it differently. And for that, I’m sorry.”

The roaring fire in your belly is slowly fading and suddenly, you’re exhausted. Your shoulders slump and you offer her a small smile.

“Did you love me? When we were together?” You ask quietly, and somehow she hears you through the chaos of the club. 

You know she did. You just need to hear it from her.

“Yes, of course I did,” She murmurs, “I still care about you. I want the best for you, I really mean that. And the best for you isn’t me.”

“Likewise,” You reply and find it in yourself to wrap your arms around her for one last hug.

You expel the final death of the relationship into the air with a cathartic breath. Despite the buildup of hurt, anger, betrayal and loss from the last few months, you feel nothing but relief. You are free from the invisible cage of closure, and you finally feel your wings spreading once more.

How can it be that just a five minute interaction can put your mind at ease so quickly? You had expected lingering resentment, or lingering something… And yet, all you feel is relief. That you were able to say what you had to say. 

It still boggles your mind that even though it’s been six months since the relationship ended, all you needed to fully move on was a five minute confrontation. Maybe you were mostly there anyway, though. 

Maybe time does heal all wounds.

Either way, all you know is that you’re suddenly very emotionally exhausted and you’re certain it shows on your face.

Hange looks like she wants to ask you what that was all about but she keeps her mouth shut, offering you the remainder of your drink. You give her a wan smile and finish the rest of it before rubbing your temples.

“You know what. I think I’m going to head out,” You finally say, fastening your clutch tightly under your arm, “Gettin’ tired.”

You appreciate their looks of concern but honestly, you just want to wash your face, put on comfortable clothes, bury yourself under your covers and maybe cry a little.

“I’ll leave with you,” Levi says after a few seconds, “I hate this place anyways.”

Yes. He tells himself that that’s why he’s quick to leave. A small grin graces your face before you give hugs to everyone in the group and slink away to the coat check. Levi follows you out of the club to wait for a cab and you both stand in silence.

“I can get a cab home by myself,” You finally say, turning to face him.

“Okay,” Levi shrugs, “I don’t know where you live anyways.”

“Stohess district,” You reply, but your voice is far away as you turn to glance around the street, “Hey, do you want to grab food? It’s on me.”

Your dark eyes are wide, pleading and slick with loneliness. You don’t want to be left alone with your thoughts just yet. You can barely handle yourself on a good day, let alone right now.

“Sure,” Levi says. He’s not particularly hungry but he’ll entertain you anyways.

“There’s a great ramen place around here…” You say, brushing shoulders with him to lead the way.

You feel as if you’re moving on auto-pilot. Maybe you should’ve just gone home. But you don’t want to be home. You don’t want to be alone, not tonight. You’ll prolong the inevitable for just a little longer. You can’t handle being alone right now. Not yet. 

Levi sits on the opposite side of you in the booth. There are several people at the restaurant but it’s relatively quiet, besides the bustle of the late night. You both sit in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. At this angle, Levi can see signs and lines of fatigue on your face. But you still smile at him in that brilliant and disarming way, as if you hadn’t had a confrontation that had been in the works for months.

“Good, right?” You mumble, after another slurp of your ramen.

“Yeah. Tastes fresh,” Levi replies.

“It is.”

Another beat of silence.

“Thanks. For leaving the club with me. And coming with me to get food. Sorry I’m so- that I’m like this,” You murmur, looking into your ramen and continuing to eat. As if you hadn’t just apologized for your very existence.

It incenses Levi and he can’t bite his tongue.

“Who made you like that?” Levi asks casually.

“Who made me like what?” You ask with a raised eyebrow, setting your chopsticks in the bowl.

“Made you feel like you had to apologize for being yourself.”

Your eyes are wide and lips parted in surprise, “I d-don’t-”

“You don’t need to apologize for wanting company after what I’m sure was an incredibly taxing encounter with your ex-girlfriend,” Levi says bluntly, meeting your startled eyes.

You avert your gaze immediately, unable to hold his penetrating stare.

“O-Okay, Levi,” You breathe.

And you continue to eat your ramen.

“You’re not very good at pretending,” Levi observes dryly, “So don’t. Especially around your friends.”

The statement brings tears to your eyes and a dry lump to your throat. This man, who you’ve barely been a real friend to in the last few months, can read you like a book. Lately, the few times you’re reminded that you have people in your life who love you wholly and unabashedly, it brings waves of emotions you haven’t felt in a while to the forefront of your heart.

“If you’re going to cry, don’t get it in your ramen,” Levi says, voice uncharacteristically soft.

It pulls a watery noise, halfway in between a laugh and a sob, out of you. You both eat in silence, with some occasional quips thrown in between, until Levi pulls his card out to give to the waiter before you can. He moves with the speed and grace of an angel.

He’s an angel with steely eyes, dark hair and a tender heart. You’re certain of it.

tags: @simpingmaize​

[monst]

can i ask for a yandere shinso pt2?? like y/n kinda comes back to him and he lowkey manipulates her to move in with him??? and the rest that goes down in his place is up to you

Trust

yandere Shinsou x Reader

Part one -> Is here!

Warnings: Subtle Manipulation? Mind control. There’s both under Tw just in case tho (Tw: Manipuation Tw: Mind control) 

               Your bottom lip trembled as you stood hidden in the corridor just a smidge out of sight. You had brought your hand over your mouth to snuff a gasp when you heard your friend speak.

               “I love you.” Her voice exhaled.

               A sudden cold seeped into your pores and chilled your bones at the confession. Your heart felt swollen in its cage, trilling like the strings of a violin. Your nose felt stuffy as a wave of nausea disbalanced you. The wall was your support as you awaited his reply, your mind racing to make sense of the situation.

               “I…I’ve always loved you.” She added.

               Betrayal! Confusion! Anger! Jealousy! You felt a flurry of emotions attack your being filling you to the brim with heavy frustration. Your heart clenched painfully at the additional words and you felt short of breath. In a winded haze you thought: ‘Always’ the word had a ball ricocheting off every corner available in your mind. Your friend had always loved Shinsou…….?

               Suddenly there were plenty of things that now made sense. Why she always sneered at him when he pressed his lips to your temple, why she disliked when you had him over, how she warped the sweet memoirs he had of you. ‘Those poems and pictures didn’t have any malicious intent! Shinsou’s a poetic soul a hopeless romantic’ you had been fooled!

               He loved you with an intensity that he was too shy to show you in person, so he took to creating art for his lover and muse. How were you so blind to that?! No, it wasn’t because you were obtuse. She had distorted the truth with her poisonous envy. Made you believe Shinsou was sick, was obsessive, was horrid! You had believed your friend under the guise of ‘bros before hoes’. And yet here you were; around the corner showed in darkness like a thief in the night as the ironic light shined down on the truth.

               You were livid. You were hurt. However, you were also ashamed. Ashamed that you had put a halt on your love for Shinsou due to the poison of a venomous viper. A viper who had the nerve to call herself your friend. A wolf in sheep’s clothing was too light a comparison. She was like the cobra in the desert, still and waiting to the perfect time to strike.

               “W-well? Say something?!” She pleaded.

               It was as if someone was purposefully dropping peroxide into your fresh wounds. The nerve! The utter nerve she had of waiting till you were supposed to be away on vacation! If you wouldn’t have misplaced your passport would you have remained ignorant to this all your life!?

               You heard shuffling and your need to know, took action in the form of you peering around the corner. Your lover- Your ex-lover had been backed into the main door. His amethyst eyes wide in unbridled shock. He had placed the palms of his hands out as if to bar her off, but she shamelessly intertwined her fingers with his.

               “Things didn’t work out between you and (Name).” She continued. “She didn’t like your dedication, didn’t appreciate your love for her. But I would have! You should have chosen me from the very beginning!”

               “W-What are you even saying?” He stuttered. His movements slow and dumb as he tried to process what was occurring. He had only gone over to speak to you. To let you know that even if you didn’t want him, he would always love you and would respect your space. He wasn’t expecting this! He didn’t know you were going on vacation! He didn’t know that accepting an invitation to drink tea and talk about things would turn into this stomach-churning confession.

               “I understand your hesitation. You were with my best friend.. But I’m sure she’ll understand. You just need to stop holding onto false hope.” She ranted. “She doesn’t think about you. In fact she was going to go visit some guy she met online. She’s moved on. I think it’s time we do the same…. We can keep quiet about it if you want?”

               Your body trembled in rage. She knew he was the love of your life! That not a day went by in which you didn’t think about his sleepy plum colored irises. In which you didn’t fantasize about hearing his deep baritone voice spew declarations of love. Not a day went by in which your body yearned for him. His warm affections, be it his palm on your cheek as his forehead rested against your brow or something more salacious. The fact of the matter was that you still loved Shinsou Hitoshi!

               You couldn’t help but think yourself a fool for not listening to your heart, and not realizing your ‘friends’ true intentions. You wanted nothing more than to come out of your hiding spot; to yell, scream cry, to just let out all the emotions you were feeling but you held off. Why? ..You wanted to know what his response was to be. You were at the edge of your metaphoric seat waiting for his words watching with bated breath as she brought her lips closer to his.

               “No.” He frowned. “I love (Name), I don’t know what’s gotten into you but aren’t you supposed to be her best friend? Why would you be trying to get wit-“

               “You don’t get it do you?” She huffed. “She doesn’t love you.”

               “I’d rather hear that from her own mouth.” He argued. “I don’t exactly trust what you’re saying..”

               “But it’s tru-“She paused mid-sentence, her body going slack.

               “I’m sorry but I didn’t have any other choice.” He huffed, taking over your friend’s body with his quirk. “Go to your room and sleep. I was never here and you never confessed to me.”

               She did as direct and Shinsou collapsed onto your couch in exasperation. His palms pressed against his eyes as he pondered on what to do. “(Name) deserves to know the truth.. But.. Will she even believe me? That’s her best friend and I’m just her creepy ex…” Shinsou let out a frustrated noise as he let his slender fingers tug at his roots.

               “I’d believe you.” You sighed, allowing your bum to seek the cushioning of the sofa across from him. Shinsou jumped in frightened yelp slipping past his pale pink lips.

               “(N-Name)!” He gasped. “Y-Your friend said you were on vacation!? Wait- You… You heard everything didn’t you.” He asked. You nodded solemnly.

               “I-It’s not true.” You stuttered.

               “What isn’t true?” He questioned. His lips tugged into a frown when his eyes met your glossy ones.

               “My feelings for you.. They’re as strong as ever. You… You were right to doubt her on that.” You paused. “Fuck ‘Toshi I feel like such a fool! I believed her every word about you!” You sobbed.

               “Was that why you broke up with me?” He quired.

               “Yes.” You sniffled. “She told me you were no good.. I never would have thought that it was because she… I’m terrible.. I must have really hurt you when I broke up with you.” You sobbed.

               Shinsou reached the couch you sat upon and his strong arms quickly wrapped around our trembling frame. You were at a loss on what to feel. But at that moment, as his arms comforted you and his cologne comforted your senses you felt relived. Every deep rumble of his voice telling you it was okay filled you with ease. An ease you had been missing out on ever since you had broken up with him. You really missed him.

               “Hitoshi.” You sniffled.

               “Hmm”

               “I’m so sorry.. I hope you can forgive me one day for being so dumb-“

               He pulled back, his finger pressing against your lips to silence you. The smile that lit his features filled your cheeks with heat. It was a gorgeous sight.

               “I’ll only forgive you if you take me back?” he teased. An ugly sob tore itself from within your throat as you launched yourself at him. Your lips met in a clumsy press as your arms wound tight around his firm body.

               “I missed you so much kitty.” He sniffled, pulling your head to his chest.

               “Me too, Toshi, I missed you so so much.” You mumbled into his chest, feeling your heart soar when you felt his lips press against the crown of your head. “I love you.”

               “I love you more.” He smiled. The both of you lost track of time as you rested in each other’s arms. It was a long while before either of you spoke. But you knew that something had to be done.

               “What are we gonna do?” You mumbled. “About… You know”

               Shinsou’s silence was worrying. You were going to speak again when he brought your intertwined hands up to his lips. He placed a delicate kiss on your skin before speaking.

               “Move in with me…” He whispered. “I.. I know how much you love this area and this place but-“

               “Yes” You breathed.

               “W-what!?” He squeaked.

               “I’ll move in with you, I don’t want to be apart from you anymore. And, after finding out that… I just.. I just want to be with someone I can trust. Who loves me and won’t try to take advantage of my love. And I trust you ‘Toshi, I should have from the very beginning.”

.

.

.

               The both of you worked quickly and silently and once the last box was in his car you went upstairs to write your friend a fair well letter. You included how her betrayal made you feel. How you were incredibly disappointed, you included an address in which you could meet up and talk. You didn’t want it to end with a note. You wanted an explanation in person, but you knew you couldn’t stay with her anymore.

               “Will she be okay” You asked Shinsou as you clipped in your seatbelt. “On her own..”

               “She’ll be fine, you mentioned she could pay for all the expenses on her own.” He shrugged. “Crap!”

               “What’s wrong?” You asked.

               “I left my phone upstairs.” He huffed. “I’ll go grab it, I’ll be down fast.” He grinned placing a chaste kiss on your nose.

               Once upstairs he held onto the counter for support. His head spun at the overuse of his quirk. He grabbed a handful of napkins and pressed them to his nose as he walked into your friends’ room. Her body was laid out on the bed her eyes wide and unblinking. He plucked her phone from her bedside and used her thumb to unlock it. He easily deleted everything about you. Phone number social media etc.

               He tossed her phone onto her limp body and smirked, releasing his quirk. She blinked slowly, finally coming out of the haze she had been in for hours. She caught Shinsou’s gaze and gazed up at him in fright. The last thing she remembered was opening the door for him!

               “I told you I’d win. (Name) is my fair sun and I would have never let such an envious moon get between us.” He grinned. She wanted to scream, to cry but her body felt so exhausted. And, it wasn’t long before her eyes slipped closed and she nodded off. Shinsou whistled a happy tune as he crumbled up your letter. He slipped out a pre-written one. One he had made you write in his frequent nightly visits while you were asleep. He knew that since it was your handwriting it wouldn’t arouse suspicion.

               Just as he flushed your letter down the toilet drain he heard your voice call out to him.

               “Sorry had to go.” He chuckled. “But I found my phone so we can leave now.”

               “Okay.”

.

.

.

.

               It’s been weeks. You hadn’t heard from your so-called friend. You had figured that maybe she felt so ashamed that she couldn’t bring herself to call you. And you were always hesitant in calling her first. You were glad that Shinsou was always there for you to reassure you that you had made the right choice. Besides, life with Shinsou wasn’t so bad…

.

.

.

You just weren’t allowed outside…..

[kadeuxhyeonju]

Lee Hyeonju: Family

Mother—Lee Jihye

Hyeonju primarily grew up with his mother, Lee Jihye, a Rank 10 Master Sergeant of Spade. The Lees were a proud and ambitious family, always seeking to rise to greater heights within Kadeu and Spade. They expected greatness from their children and would see to it that their offspring rose in Rank and reputation. Lee Jihye was, from the very start of her life, put into a strict training regimen, which could be why she treated her future son much the same way—it was all she ever knew and it was effective. There was no room for mistakes, for flaws. If you showed weakness, the Lee family showed no hesitancy in casting out one of their own. It had happened to her younger brother, a born human who showed no ability in combat or intelligence, though he had an empathetic heart. Jihye would not be like him, she vowed it.

And it was true. She became nothing like her brother; she was not kind, gentle, understanding. Jihye only knew how to be cold, indifferent, calculating, her only virtue being that she knew patience. But even that was misplaced for more cruel deeds and ambitions. Hyeonju’s arrival in the world did nothing to change that. His innocent life did not stamp out the Lee family’s brutality, in fact, it may have spurred her on. Hyeonju found himself treated more like a pet project, an experiment, than a child in desperate need of and yearning for affection and acceptance.

Over time, as Hyeonju grew and distanced himself mentally from his environment and Jihye, he unconsciously began to believe that family was a sham of a concept. He’d seen the “normal” families, visited their homes, watched their interactions, and found he couldn’t understand, though part of him still held longing for what he observed. His mother’s way of life—of being—had stemmed from a prestigious family who deemed power and status as the only qualities of value in their lineage. Hyeonju failed to possess these two things.

As a born 10, he had garnered the proper respect of his rank, but he was a child and had no real authority. When his mother insisted he enlist, the young boy knew his Seven would make him worthless in the eyes of his mother, though that was considered reasonable rank for someone of his skill and age—at least what he had chosen to exhibit. His mother’s obsession with rank and power made Hyeonju resent her, Spade, it’s values, and how it made him feel trapped and unable to pursue what /he/ found value in. In all honesty, he didn’t even know what that was; his mother never let him explore his own identity to figure it out. And now as an adult, Hyeonju finds himself struggling to define who he is because of his mother’s erasure of his individuality. Which of the many masks that he wears is the real him?

Father—Park Minjun

The Parks are a long line of Kitsune and the occasionally Kumiho as many in the family’s history have chosen to stick to marrying their own species—fox spirits. Where the Lee Family was made up of the cruel and ambitious, the Parks were a clan of cunning and deceit. Mind you, they had “morals.” They didn’t kill unless necessary, didn’t wound or steal from the poor if they could help it. Their focus was primarily on theft, falseranking, and sabotage of rivals. Over time, though that changed. Killing became common. Scamming Low Rankers into crippling amounts of debt was the name of the game.

Park Minjun was a natural. Born to a Kitsune and Kumiho, both Queens of Heart and surrounded by the bloodthirsty, competitive nature of his six older siblings, Minjun learned quickly that he needed to get smart fast or find himself in the gutter with a knife in his back. Out of the seven children, Minjun was the most successful of them. He refused to piggy back off his parents’ wealth, not out of a need to prove himself, but out of simple arrogance. Minjun believed he didn’t need his parents in order to become the best. He thought of his siblings as moochers, pathetic and incompetent. They hadn’t figured out the rules as quickly as him and that was just fine.

Minjun was charming, cunning, conniving, and cruel. He took pleasure in the kill, whether human or something else, but he saved that as a last resort. He opted for handsome smiles and playing up his fox features—much to the delight of the women he pursued. He knew what to say, when to say it, could strike a deal with a man and have his business bankrupt within months all while Minjun walked away with droves of coins filling his bank account. Nothing could stop him and nobody could hold him back. He was invincible.

Then his eyes landed on what he would forever dub “the impossible deal” as he liked to tell his son. Jihye was everything he expected from a Spade—capable, strong—let’s face it, Minjun was a sucker for a powerful woman—competent, and always one step ahead of him. Minjun saw her and fell in love with a possibility. He wanted control and he wanted Jihye to give it to him willingly. The pursuit was something Hyeonju could speak about it in his sleep, his father had mentioned it so often whenever he visited Spade. Jihye pulled him in with her cold eyes and sultry sneer. She only ever cared about what his powers were, his lineage, his success as a Heart. Minjun had become ensnared without realizing it—entranced by her indifference and desire only for power.  He had thought he was the pulling her in, but Jihye knew what she wanted and she was going to get it. She was an illusion he’d experience for a year before finding out she had become pregnant with his child, shattering any idea that /he/ had ever had any handle on this battle of minds.

Hyeonju has no false ideas of what his parents did and why they did it. Both were in pursuit of different forms of power—and they got it in the form of a little hybrid baby. Minjun trained him like Jihye requested, but Minjun wasn’t doing it out of kindness or even obligation. He used those moments to whisper toxic secrets and false hopes, all in an effort to one-up the woman who’d played him for a fool. Hyeonju had only ever wanted his father to see him and treat him as a son. In his desire for that, he did and said what Minjun wanted, sentiments leaning towards Minjun the more strained Jihye and Hyeonju’s relationship became. Looking back on it, Hyeonju is disgusted with himself for ever wanting anything from a man who only ever saw his child as a tool and punching bag. Nevertheless…

His father’s abandonment came as no surprise, but it was a wound that buried deep in Hyeonju’s chest. It further embedded the belief that family was only there to wound and then disappear. Ingrained in him was only the obligation he had toward his mother when he finally made it as a High Ranker. He can’t acknowledge it, even as a passing thought, but Hyeonju still hopes his biological family will change, will show him what he’s always wanted. But he’s not holding his breath. He’s died too many times for that.

Found Family—Nari

Hyeonju pursued life without any love, romantic or familial. Aside from his parents, he’d known his father’s family—and promptly decided they were as terrible as his father, but more idiotic. His parents among other factors had made him cynical of blood ties and even those formed through trust and respect. He had nothing to gain from it, fearing it would result in rejection and pain.

Nari came along just as he was ready to shut out the world. She reminded him of when he needed someone, anyone to show him empathy, kindness, mercy. She pulled at a string in his heart he was certain his parents had snipped in half with rusted shears long ago. At first, Hyeonju kept himself closed off, only occasionally offering advice or chastisement if he thought she was a bother to others. Time passed and Hyeonju found Nari’s sweet demeanor softening his heart and he began to reach out and become more involved. In her, he had found someone to care for. In time, and to his surprise, she reciprocated and Hyeonju found himself lighting up whenever she appeared.

There was nothing romantic about Hyeonju’s affections for the younger fox spirit, only a fondness he’d never known. It felt like what he’d always imagined in the dead of night as a child a family would be like. Never before and not since after, has he found someone that he loves as much as Nari—the family he had always longed for.

Chosen Family

Hyeonju will hesitate to call them family, but he does care for some people. Max, his childhood friend, who puts up with all his bullshit; Sullivan, who only recently became someone that the Heart has found himself opening up to. His circle is hardly a dot on a map, but to Hyeonju it is far larger than he’s ever known and it brings him some joy. This small, eclectic family he calls his own. It is the one thing that brings a true, heart-shaped, gentle smile to his face.

But only when no one’s looking.

[nikkywrites]

Decision (Jo pt. 2)

Summary: Jo goes to the funeral. It goes like she expected it to. She makes a decision in her grief.

Part One

Prompt: open casket by @writing-challenges-and-prompts

Warnings for a funeral, death mention, a dead body and a gore description, cursing, grief, passing out due to panic, overwhelming grief, and questionable decisions made about future while in the midst of said grief). This one has been edited. Not hugely so, but a few things have been tweaked.

*****

They bury him in an open casket and it’s the most horrifying thing Jo has ever seen.

His lifeless body isn’t a new sight, of course, she’s the one who found him, but it’s sick how they’re putting it up on display like there’s something beautiful in the horror of it.

There isn’t.

He used to be pretty enough to be displayed, but now he’s a sick caricature of what a human is. He’s not pretty enough to be admired anymore, even if a part of her still tries.

His veins bulge, blue and black and thick. She physically recoils when she sees the lifted lid, the ghost of the boy she loves held within like a piece of art on display. Like a statue of a hero. Carved marble instead of rotted flesh.

If he is art right now then he’s only a horrid, despicable piece fit only for the abandoned ruins of a cursed castle. Nothing else, more or less.

His face is ashen, lips faded so they no longer hold color, no longer share the shade of a half-bloomed rose petal. His hair -- once golden, once shiny, once beautiful and thick -- lays limp like a slain snake against his forehead, covering the scar she’d placed there when she was eight and threw a rock too hard with poor aim in a game they made up. He’s dressed in the finest clothes he’s ever been in, simple plain casual wear freshly sewn and unsoiled except by his body.

Behind the obvious signs of his death -- the rot on his tongue, his veins, his rigid fingers and yellow, shattered fingernails, the way his mouth is held half-open like an undeclared secret (one she knows well, he always promised his last words would be of his love to her and she heard the way he choked on them) -- he’s almost pretty. She hates -- loathes, fire under her skin, that it’s been turned into an ‘almost’ instead of a given.

Even when poor, deprived of sleep and beneath layers of dirt and dust, hair browned with filth, he was pretty to her.

She used to think that nothing could sully his beauty.

Now she knows better. Now, with death upon him in such a visual way, she knows otherwise. Pretty, to her in regards to him, means alive. Breathing. He’s not and she can’t bring herself to find beauty in his corpse and the horror of his final moments she will never be rid of.

Her mother jabs her with an elbow to lead her to her place to kneel, the dirt soft and swallowing under her. Her mother tears her eyes from the boy she’ll never marry, glued to his form like -- well, like it is the last time she will ever see him. She does so in cold callousness.

She’s acting as though this is just an act they must play, another scene in some tragedy where the only reward is more grief.

The preacher recites some long-winded, pretty, shining speech about sacrifice and honor and bravery. Jo drones it out and stares at her hands clenches in the folds of her skirt, fighting a useless fight against her own grief and the lack of other’s. She curses how they gloss over the humility of his selflessness -- he’d given himself to people who didn’t care about him until he was dead and a threat was slain.

Her sobs are the only ones that tremble against the drowning silence of the preacher’s speech and everyone else’s obedience to play their part.

Her own mother, beside her, sits demurely with her eyes closed and her hands folded, like he was merely a boy she used to pass on her way to the shops that she never spoke a word to but saw everyday and not her future son-in-law. She too, the only other person who had spared him kindness and pity, does not truly mourn him.

It just makes her grieve all the more.

Jo stays kneeling as long as she can, tears drying under her stubbornness, damned back until later, when she can release them in peace, in the mindless comfort of the forest. (His battleground, where his last breath had shuddered, warm on her neck but wrong, where his soul had dropped from his body like a glob of half cold porridge; the last place he was pretty and living and loving. The last place where he was hers).

She flinches when his casket is closed and he’s lowered into the ground. They nail him shut right there and every smack of the hammer is a blow to her heart.

She stares unseeingly as they begin to pile shovelfuls of dirt over him like he’s a sapling about to grow into more, but he’s not. This is an end, not a beginning, though she wishes it was. She wishes that this was just a new beginning, him succumbing to her pleas, a rebirth of him and her and their love. A fresh start that continues with their hands linked together, a city before them promising peace, but it’s just an epilogue, a mere footnote of despair to the hundred-odd people living here.

Nothing is ever as she wishes and hopes.

If he’d listened, he wouldn’t have been here when the Drowned showed up and maybe he’d still be breathing right now. But that was something she wished for. Something she hoped would happen. His stubborn streak was as thick as hers, though, and he’d ended up winning that battle.

She wonders if this is the price of her losing.

She stays after everyone else leaves, no one asking her to say a eulogy, to paint him as he truly was, not caring that she was his closest companion and that she should have been the one leading all of this. They leave her to her silence, shrouded over her like the dirt now covering him. Six feet of distance no one will ever cross. 

They’re content with him being a caricature of heroism and not someone they knew who used to be as alive as they are now.

The buriers leave, stamping their boots into the dirt like a seal of his newfound deadness, the Reaper’s signature on his warrant, pearly gates clicking shut behind him. They eye her oddly, but let her continue to kneel. It isn’t their business.

It’s the end. Finally.

It’s her last chance to speak to the lingering life in his ghost, the air of people’s false care hovering in their relief about not having to worry about being dead or losing crops to poisoned algae in their rivers.

She crawls forwards and slumps her forehead against his headstone, biting cold.

“You,” her words shake, her sorrow returning in her solitude, hand fisting at the dirt beneath her, freshly buried, freshly moved and loose, “you lied to me.”

There’s a moment of silence where she waits for his rebuttal, useless, but it also serves to allow her a moment to steady her breath. Or, to try and to fail.

“You promised.” She bites her lower lip and struggles to keep her words decipherable. “You promised you’d come back. You promised we would get married.”

Her tears slide, damping the dirt staining her skin. It’s her version of the bloomed rose that people are supposed to throw in with their lovers, but there are no such flowers in this season and she wouldn’t have had the chance or spare coin to, so her tears will have to do. She hopes he can hear her, if nothing else.

If ghosts truly do not exist and he cannot remain to haunt her, to stay by her side even in death, she hopes he can stay long enough to hear her out.

She blinks and lifts her eyes to gaze at the neatly etched lettering on the stone. His name, his dates, the word ‘Hero’ that was going to wash away after a decade of miscare.

She wasn’t going to stick around to tend to his grave like she wishes she could have tended to him.

No, she already knows what she has to do.

It just… has to wait. For her to finish her goodbyes (she never wants to, wants to keep words rolling off her tongue like if she says the exact right thing, he’ll rise from the earth like a phoenix from the ash). For her sorrow to fade away and for her to temper herself into something stronger.

She balls her fist and strikes against the stupid four letter word that’s true, but that no one but her really cares about.

“I love you,” she hisses, too afraid to spew the misplaced hate in case he can hear her (she hates the situation, hates the town, hates the townspeople, but not him. She could never hate him). “I loved you and you had to go and...” her words wobble, “...and be a fucking hero when you knew--” she pinches her eyes shut, chokes on her own tears, fights to finish, “you knew you weren’t going to come back because--  you didn’t have the sword or the help or the coin or the armor or, anything, to keep you safe enough that you’d come back.”

Her vison blurs, a senseless swirl of brown and gray.

“You had nothing and you knew that, didn’t you? You knew you that that was going to be the end and you still...” she hits the stone again, knuckles throbbing with her frustration. “You left me. Like you promised you wouldn’t.”

Her grief rises higher, a mountain at her back, sitting on her throat and strangling the words she’s killing herself with to turn to the air.

“You kissed me and promised that you’d come back when you knew.” 

Her throat seems to shatter, breaking, as she relinquishes to the weight. The sky presses against her, the world oppressing her with its unfairness and its scrutiny.

It knows and she knows and there’s a terrible, terrible secret she must now take to her own grave. 

She— she had let him wander alone. She’d let him delude her with his worry for her and she let him walk into his death and promise her things she knew he wouldn’t keep (his chances were none, unless he gave up and ran and he wouldn’t do that, not if he had the chance and the thing was still living).

She let this happen.

Everything’s crashing around her, hyperventilation darkening her vision and stealing away her awareness. Allowing her a brief reprieve from her own grief.

She could have helped. She’s not useless in a fight even though she should be. She could have tried, but instead she’d spent every minute on her knees praying and she’d offered herself to gods that gave her nothing.

She had to leave before her own emotions swallowed her whole.

While she was gone, she was going to have to make something of herself. Make living without that part of her heart worth it. Fall into the backup plan she never should have planned anything on.

She tried to convince him to move to Numir. It was a good stepping stone for anything. To get a man out of poverty. To turn a demure girl into a weapon.

Whatever the need was. 

He died to save her. He died fighting a monster for people who didn’t care whether he sullied around the streets or rotted in their fields. She can think of nothing more fitting, more binding, than living in the way he failed to. A way that a part of her has always itched for, despite the scandal of it.

Consciousness slipping under the grief cinched around her heart, she vows to become like him so she doesn’t have to really grieve him. So she can’t lose him. So she doesn’t have to feel so alone in the drag of days.

She’ll do everything he couldn’t. Become what she’d hoped he would -- a savior. Someone worth the gold in their pocket. Someone who was worth all the air they breathed.  Someone who was living and rich enough to purchase a wedding ring and spend forever with the one they loved, who breathed enough to be able to return home and warm the bed their partner leaves cold out of worry-induced insomnia.

The last part is lost -- he’s dead and there will not be another -- but she can live the former. She’ll live it or die trying and they’ll be the same, be reunited, together as ghosts.

Either way suits her. As long as she’s settled, she could care less what her day looks like. She can adapt.

She can live.

*****

Remember when I first posted this as a standalone thing? Those were good times. This is no longer a standalone thing. Also realized in the editing of this that I never specified how Jo prefers to go by Jo instead of Joanna. It just swaps here. I meant to put something in about that. Curse my forgetful brain.

[romioneficfest]

Missing Trousers

Title: Missing Trousers

Prompt/Day: Day 2 - Pants (I changed the word to trousers, I hope it’s okay!)

Tumblr name:

Rating: M/MA

Brief summary: Hermione’s brief stint with working from home has not been going well: Ron is terrible at housework, he’s bored out of his mind, and —on top of all that— the racket he’s making as he apparently turns the house inside out is totally shattering her concentration. So when he barges into her office, determined to get her to pay some attention to him, she decides to get back at him by teasing him a little before she attempts, for what seems like the millionth time, to get back to work.

Tags: sexual touching

When Kingsley had suggested she take the papers home and sort them out there, she’d hopped onto the idea eagerly: she might be able to work better away from the bustle of the Ministry, in the quiet warmth of her own little study at home, surrounded by books and with a nice cup of tea next to her at all times, the stiff Ministry garb replaced by fuzzy socks and sweatpants… A few days back, Ministry curse-breakers had found a cave system in West Ireland, and though there hadn’t been any curses to undo or treasures to return, there’d been some unfamiliar runes scraggled across the stony wall. Bill, who’d been on the team, could only think of one person right for the job, and Kingsley had immediately agreed: and that’s how Hermione Granger —for whom, at 20, the epithet of “brightest witch her age” had never rung false—, came to be sitting in her study at home, deciphering runes that could earn her a medal from the Wizengamot.

Or so she would be, if the racket outside would stop.

In a fit of gallantry, Ron had offered to take over all of the housework they usually split so she could have time to pour into her work; however, he’d soon realized he’d bitten off more than he could chew, and was going insane with the chores and the boredom of having Hermione shut in all day long. Besides —though he’d never admit it to his face, for fear he’d tell her she sounded like his mother—, Ron may be skilled at many things, but housework just wasn’t one of them, and Hermione cringed a little every time she heard a dish break or a piece of furniture bowl over, inevitably punctuated with some of Ron’s choice swearwords.

But today it went further: all of a sudden, as she tried to pick her way back to the rune she’d left off on, the door to her study flew open with a bang. She lifted her gaze from her papers and was met with a comical sight: Ron was splayed like a star across the doorway, a wild look in his eyes, clad only in a T-shirt, knee-length socks, and green Snitch-patterned underwear: “My trousers are missing!” he bellowed.

“There’s such a thing as knocking, you know,” she quipped, and tried to dive back into her work, but he marched right up to her desk and she was forced to look up again.

“Hermione, my trousers are missing!”

“I got that the first time, thank you,” she sighed, leaning back in her chair with the resignation that there was no way she was getting work done now. “What’s the matter, Ron? Housework not sitting well with you?”

“Oh, I’ll have you know it’s going splendidly,” he huffed, and Hermione had to stifle an amused snort at how clearly false that was, “very well indeed, I think I may have found the one thing I’m better at than you. Only there’s one problem—”

“Let me guess: your trousers are missing,” said Hermione, breaking out into a grin.

Ron was hysterical: “Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want, but this is a serious matter! I can’t find them, and I need them!”

“Why don’t you just try a Summoning charm?”

Ron withdrew a bit, looking sheepish, and rubbed the back of his head absentmindedly as he muttered something that sounded a bit like ‘dunno where my wand is…’

“Oh my god, Ron, you’ve lost your wand too?” she cried, but she wasn’t really surprised: it wouldn’t be too far-fetched if Ron had misplaced his wand somewhere in the mess he kept creating rather than cleaning. She pushed her chair back and began getting up: “That’s it, I’m going to go help you—”

“No, no, no, no, no!” firmly yelled Ron as he hurried over to the other side of her desk and pushed her back into her chair. “As much as it pains me to admit that, yes, I may be slightly dreadful at housework —oh, get that look off your face, won’t you—” he groaned when a slight smirk of vindication drew itself across her face, “I promised you I’d do it so you could get your space to work, and Ronald Bilius Weasley is a man of his word.” He paused, feigning solemnity with a hand across his heart: “Yes, even when he’s wearing nothing but his old Quidditch underwear.” He paused, lowered his hand, and continued in a slower, deeper tone: “And yet…”

“Yes?” she said, raising her head to look him questioningly in the eye.

He paused for an instant, then said in the same sly, low voice: “It’d be nice if you’d find it in your schedule to, y'know, make some time for me…”

“Oh, Ron, I know you’re bored, but my schedule’s packed—” she was cut off by a small gasp, as she noticed Ron slowly draping his left leg around her thighs. “Ron, what are you doing?”

“Attempting to convince you,” he grinned broadly, settling comfortably now on her lap with his legs hugging her waist, his hands resting on her shoulders and his back reclined lightly against her desk. He locked his gaze with hers: “Although, of course, as you well know by now, I’m not wearing trousers,” he said, diverting his glance downward toward the green underwear —which was quickly beginning to stretch— momentarily before raising it to meet hers again, a new spark in his eyes, “but I should hardly think that’d be a dissuasive factor.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d love for it to be the opposite,” Hermione purred back in the same low tone, her right hand making her way from her quill to his underwear, as she began to rub him slowly. He let out a small grunt of pleasure, and she smirked satisfiedly: “I’m sure you’d love for me to tell you that this is exactly how I want you to convince me from now on, waltzing into my office in just underwear…”

“You’re right, I’d —oh— I’d love that,” mumbled Ron between moans, which were steadily increasing in intensity and volume as she dug her hand in further, stroking and pulling lightly at his quickly-growing bulge. “Really be —ah— a boost to my —oh— a boost to my ego— oh, Merlin, Hermione,” he whimpered as she drew him closer, her left hand behind his back as the other one continued working, and leaned in to begin nipping slightly at his neck, kissing and biting alternately as her hand intensified its movements.

“Your ego, Ronald?” she laughed in between kisses, reveling in how his contented grunts seemed to punctuate her movements. “Like that needs to get any bigger…”

“Well you —uh— you know me, I’m a great —ah— I’m a great guy, I can’t deny —Merlin, Hermione, that feels so good— I can’t deny it,” he said now, almost as if he were breathing the words out, squirming and tensing contentedly on Hermione’s lap as she continued to stroke him. She pulled a little harder now, and a pleading whine burst from his lips: “Oh, Hermione, keep going, please, I’ll do anything…”

“Anything?” she teased sultrily, repeating the same pull and taking pleasure in how the whine this time seemed to be higher, harder to contain.

He trembled, struggling to get out words from the moans that now seemed to be cascading through his lips: “Anything.”

Then her hand left his crotch, she pushed her chair back and shoved him off playfully, and with a flick of her wand, sent him sliding across the study and out of it, a stunned look plastered across his face: “Then get out of my office, and let me work!”

[narniaandplowmen]

Mysterious Fathoms Below (3/8)

Fandom: OUAT Pairing: Captain Swan Also on AO3

Rated: General Audiences Complete Full Fic is 12005 words

Summary:  When a storm throws Killian overboard, a mysterious mermaid who saves him. Now it is up to him to save her and bring her back home.

[first chapter]  •   [previous chapter]  •  [next chapter]  

CHAPTER 3 - Buttercup Mark

“A two-minute swim,” Killian huffed. “Sure, for a mermaid it is.” It had taken him almost ten times as long to reach the coast, and another couple of minutes to find a place that wasn't made out of gold where he could actually climb on land. He was soaked and cold and frustrated. And, he had to admit, curious. Why did that mermaid save him? And what had she meant with her parting words? “Excuse me,” he approached a young boy carrying a bucket and a mop. ”Have you seen a splendid ship docked here, named the Jolly Roger?”

   ~   ~   ~   ~

“I-I'm sorry Captain, w-we thought you were dead, Captain, I- we-”

“It's okay Smee,” Killian replied in an annoyed huff. He turned and continued inspecting the Jolly Roger. It would cost quite a lot of gold to repair the damage the storm had brought. The mast was broken and the rudder was almost splintered. He thought back at Emma. “Smee. How do you contact a mermaid King and Queen?”

“Why, captain?”

“Don't ask me why, Smee. Tell me how.”

   ~   ~   ~   ~ 

A merman hurried through the hallways of the underwater castle. He passed rich statues, beautiful curtains, immense portraits without even a passing glance. He only stopped when the giant doors to the throne room were right in front of him. “I bring news for the King and Queen. It's urgent.” The doors open and reveal a gigantic room. Gorgeous pillars holding up a shimmering roof covering two towering thrones, seating a black-haired woman sitting proudly next to her blonde husband. Only those who look carefully would be able to see the bags underneath their eyes, the weight on their shoulders and the grief in their hearts. “Your Majesties. A pirate has arrived at the Sunrock. He said he wanted to speak to you. He said it was urgent. He said it was about-” the man swallowed, fearing his message was just false hope. “About Princess Emma.” the King and Queen rose at once. Gossiping voices filled the room. It had been a while since news about the lost princess had reached the castle. Most of it was false anyway, but the King and Queen refused to give up hope. The punishment for false information was severe, ranging from steep fines to eternity in prison.

“Who is this pirate? Bring us to him!”

“He- He said he would return in two days, my Queen. He said, that if you would see him, he'd be at the Sunrock at dawn.”

   ~   ~   ~   ~ 

Mr Smee looked at his Captain in shock. “A magic bean? How did you get that?”

“Let's just say, Mr. Smee, that someone owed me a favour.”

“If we sold that-” Killian could almost see the gold coins in his eyes. “We- we'd be rich! We'd be able to repair the ship a dozen times over!”

“Aye, but we could be even richer if we use this bean to pick up a little package.” Smee grinned.

“Well, Captain, where are we going?”

“Anaheim.”

   ~   ~   ~   ~ 

Emma threw the shell on the floor. Again a dead trail. That stupid merman really did not want to be found. He was good. Better than the previous bastards she had caught. But she liked a challenge. What was she missing? She read through the information again, but her buttercup mark, as well as the memories of the events following the previous storm, kept distracting her. She sighed and got up. This was no use. She should never have saved that blasted, lying, human pirate. He knew nothing about her, or her life, or her parents. For all she knew, he could've overheard her name somewhere, recognised her mark and made something up on the spot to save himself. Of course, Emma had heard tales of the lost princess of Atlantia. Many girls her age had dreamed that they were the one. Emma had allowed herself to dream too, once. But she had been found many realms away, left in a kelp forest. She was lucky someone had found her, or her life would have ended right there. A soft little dinner on a green platter, for any interested shark to devour. Emma huffed, grabbing a piece of cloth to cover her buttercup mark. Her? A princess? She looked down at her tail, absentmindedly tracing the small lines over her fin. The result of her punishments in the orphanages, too many to count. For speaking before her turn, for fighting, for stealing food, or talking back at the supervisors. For not selling enough, for selling too many. There was always a reason to be suspected of stealing or misbehaving in any way. No, Emma wasn't a princess, she was a simple, ordinary orphan with a job and a fugitive merman to find. A stupid, lying pirate would not change a thing about that.

   ~   ~   ~   ~ 

There was already someone on the island when she arrived for her weekly sunbath. It was the pirate, casually sitting in the sand and throwing dice. “What are you doing here? And how did you even get here?” Emma asked, with a disgusted voice.

“What is it love, not happy to see me?”

“I brought you to your ship. Whatever you need I am not giving it to you.”

“Well,' Killian smiled. “It seems like I have misplaced myself again. My crew and I were looking for- treasure.”

“And you were wondering if you could steal some from me?”

“No.” the pirate replied, rolling his dice again. 2 sixes and a four. “I know well enough you don't have any to spend.”

“Excuse me?”

“Emma Swan. Bail bond mermaid. Orphan. Late on rent.”

“Did you spy on me?” The dice again rolled over the wet sand, resulting in a five, a three and a two. The black-haired pirate cursed underneath his breath, apparently having lost the game against himself.

“You are not the only one capable of doing research,” he replied.

“You come to my realm, on my island, just to insult me?”

“No, I came to your realm, to your island, to offer you a deal.”

“I am not stealing anything for you, filthy-”

“I am well aware of your opinion on me. Now, at last here me out. I can get you a large sum of money, enough for a whole year of rent, if you can get me and my crew back to the Enchanted Forest by dawn, tomorrow. Right around the SunRock, that would be great.” Emma raised an eyebrow.

“And where would you get that money?”

“Ah, a pirate never reveals his secrets.”

“Why should I trust that you will actually pay me?”

“You can't. But right now, I am your only bet at gaining anything. And it shouldn't take you longer than an hour.” Killian got up and walked towards a small boat dragged on the sand. “Just think about it. I will be back here tomorrow, an hour before dawn. Enjoy your sunbath.” With those words, he dragged the boat back into the sea and rowed away.

“Fine. I'll do it.” Emma said, even before Killian could open his mouth. She had received a not-so-friendly visit from her homeowner about the rent. She needed that money, now. And, as much as she hated to admit it, the pirate was right. He was her only bet. There was no chance she'd find the fugitive merman in time, and that would still leave next month's rent to be paid. “Let's go to your ship, I'll make you a portal and you better pay me after we arrive.”

   ~   ~   ~   ~ 

“She is beautiful! Our little princess,” the King smiled upon his newborn daughter. “

She has your hair.” his wife replied.

“But she has your tail.” he countered, hugging his wife tight. Suddenly, the seafloor started to shake, and the castle with it. Black waves upon waves entered through the now shattered windows and the newly forming cracks in the floor, swirling around, snatching the infant from its parents.

“No!” The Queen's scream has not yet died away before a black-tailed mermaid enters the room, cackling. '

“I told you I would destroy your happiness. Well, here I am, to fulfil my promise. You didn't think I would forget about it, did you?”

   ~   ~   ~   ~

 Snow and her husband looked at each other, nervously. The two days were over and almost the entire court had gathered at the SunRock. Ruby, her loyal friend, dove up behind her. “Do you want more privacy?” she whispered.

“Yes.” The mermaid Queen could not say more, in fear she would break down in front of the crowd. In the past twenty-eight years she had tried so desperately not to lose hope, but each false report of someone promising they'd seen their daughter was a huge blow to the royal couple. Yet, with every report, they could not help but hope. Twenty-eight years and three days, it had been since the Sea Witch had created her terrible storm, stealing their child and laughing, laughing about it. They had captured her, removed her magic and chained her up, but she refused to talk. The princess had disappeared, and the royal's happiness with it.

A shark with red stripes appeared, chasing away the curious crowd. Snow smiled, recognising the over-dramatic flair of her friend. Even though by now many people knew of the shape-shifting abilities of the Queen's best friend, they still feared the shark when it appeared. Suddenly, a surge of magic disturbed the water and a huge pirate ship appeared nearby the rock. The Queen was extra grateful for her friend, for the ship would have injured some of the crowd gathered to potentially see the mermaid princess for the first time. The King and Queen locked eyes, held hands and waited.

   ~   ~   ~   ~ 

“You want to find your child again, dearie?” A golden merman locked in a cage giggled. 'You know me, I'm always willing to make a deal!”

“What do you want?” The desperate couple replied.

“Hehehee! You. Want help. From me? What a delightful turn of events! Hmmm. Yes, yes, I know what I want! That magic squid of yours. The one whose ink got me locked up in this cage?”

“I am not going to kill him.”  Even though the Queen's face is filled with tears, her voice is unwavering. “He is my friend.”

“Oh no, dearie, you don't have to kill him. Squid was never really my favourite meal, you know. I just want you to- empty the cartridge.”

“What?”

“Well, get rid of its ink, of course! You must realise, that black stuff is horrible for your clothes. I was wearing my good shirt when you caught me!”

“And if we do it. Can help us find our daughter?”

“Your daughter? Oh, she is lost for the next twenty-eight years, of course.”

“What?”

“Part of the curse, you know. Nothing I can do about that”!

“Let's go. He is of no use.”

The King started to turn around, grabbing his wife's arm to take her with him.

“Wait wait wait!”  The golden merman looked panicked.

“What do you want, Rumplestiltskin?” The Queen sounded tired. The golden creature closed his eyes, waving his hands as if seeing through them.

“Someone will find your child, at her twenty-eighth birthday. He will bring her back to you. She will have a perfect little buttercup mark, on her left wrist.” He opened his eyes again and giggled. “H ow ridiculous! Why would an adolescent mermaid, who thinks she is an orphan, ever believe someone telling her she is a lost princess?”

“Can you help, or not?”

“Of course I can help! I can make you a trinket, hmm, let's make it a crown! Seems fitting, no? And then, when you place it upon your head, he will understand. How about that, for a deal?”

   ~   ~   ~   ~ 

“Now, pay up.” It was the first time Emma spoke after agreeing to create the portal. Killian looked down at the mermaid beneath him, then at the SunRock a few dozen meters away. The King and Queen were there, as promised. Emma did not seem to have noticed them yet. “I brought you to your stupid SunRock, now I want my payment. You have wasted enough of my time.”

“Calm down lass, your payment is coming.” Killian jumped down into the water. Emma turned, suddenly noticing the mermaid guards around the nearby rock.

“What is happening?” Emma panicked. “Where did you take me? What did you do?!”

   ~   ~   ~   ~ 

Emma prided herself on being a fast swimmer. But she was carrying a bag of diamond necklaces, which did not necessarily improve her speed. She knew the neighbourhood well, she and Neal had made sure to discover all the best hiding spots before attempting their heist. But something had gone wrong, and now she was being chased by a whole police force. They knew. They knew she was coming. It was Neal, it must have been him. There was nobody else that knew of their plans. And why else wouldn't Neal be waiting at their rendezvous point? He had betrayed her. Emma had no time to wipe away her tears as she turned a corner, and another one. She was fast, but the mermaids chasing her were faster. Before she knew it, she was locked up. One and a half years in prison. No probation. From that moment on, Emma had decided never to trust anyone again. She had become a bail bonds mermaid, chasing cheating husbands and stealing business managers. But, even though her job got her into constant contact with the police, she never trusted them. Or anyone. Ever again.

   ~   ~   ~   ~ 

Calm down, lass, calm down!” Killian saw the panicked look in Emma's eyes.

“Where did you bring me?” Suddenly, a knife was pushed against his throat.

“Technically,” he answered, trying to stay afloat without pushing himself further into Emma's knife, “you brought us here.” Suddenly, a two faces dove up out of the water next to them A man and a woman, looking at her with an emotion Emma could not place. Emma glanced at the crowns firmly placed upon the mermaid's and merman's head. She lowered her knife and awkwardly nodded at them.

“Your- Your Majesties?”

“Emma?” the woman replied, her voice disbelieving.

“How- How do you know me?” Suddenly, she turned around to face Killian, again pointing her knife at him. “Is this because of your ridiculous notion that I am some lost princess, just because I have a mark similar to that of the royal crest?”

“So it is true?” the merman looked at her incredulously.

“May we- may we see your mark?” the Queen added, pleading. Hesitantly, Emma held out her left arm. Before she knew it, the Royal couple of Atlantia engulfed her in a tearful hug.

“What is happening?”

“You're our daughter, Emma.” the teary-eyed Queen replied.

“No.” Emma pulled back. “I am an orphan, found in a kelp forest. I am not your child, I am sorry for wasting your time.' Emma started to turn around. The King held out a silver trinket. A tiara.

“Please. Just put it on, and you will understand.”

“I am sorry, Your Highness.” But before she could dive, the crown was already placed upon her head and everything went black.

 ~   ~   ~   ~

A black-tailed mermaid, crashing a Royal wedding. “ I will destroy your happiness if it is the last thing I do.”

Black waves and a mother's cry as a baby is swept away.

Orders shouted at soldiers, to search each and every realm.

Royal visits to each on-land country, asking for their daughter.

Promised rewards, a captured SeaWitch refusing to talk.

Tearful nights, political advisors stating the hopelessness of the situation.

Requests to stop the expensive search, a vetoed protest by the King and Queen.

False information and deceptions.

A twenty-eight-year-long search for their missing daughter, for the lost princess of Atlantia.

For her.

   ~   ~   ~   ~ 

Killian Jones smiled and turned as he saw his blonde saviour embrace her parents. “Get the anchor, Smee.” he said, after climbing back aboard.

“But Captain- the gold? Treasure? Reward?”

“We're going, Smee.' Killian turned and started shouting commands to his crew. He knew he would be welcome at the royal mermaid family at any time. And, if he was honest, he would not mind getting to know the newly found princess a bit better.

[pocketfulofrogers]

Haunted Woman, Broken Lover

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: There’s not much to say. You’re a dark and twisty assassin that Fury would rather pretend didn’t actually work for SHIELD, and Steve Rogers is definitely not that. Then again, no one is inherently good or bad.

Notes: Smidge of smut sprinkled in. Still trying to get comfortable writing it. Part 1?

They call you a ghost. It isn’t for the way you seem to slip through walls or the way you look at death as a reflection. It’s the hollowness of your eyes that earns you the nickname. Hazed over orbs coated in grey.

Clint asks you if they’ve always been that color, you tell him you can’t remember anymore.

Fury lets you run your own thing after you agree to attach yourself to the badge. He’d rather not know how exactly you get the job done, so long as you’re on their side.

You’re solo most of the time, it’s better that way.

They learn quickly how deadly you are, leaving your enemies questioning the validity of your existence and holding the same vacant stare as you. It wasn’t just physical injuries you specialized in.

The first time you meet Steve Rogers is an accident. You have a rogue Armenian scientist tied up in his basement. He had been about to run when you appeared at his kitchen table. For a moment, you think a heart attack may get him before you can.

You’re sat before him, leaned forward with your tools on a bench beside you. A small blade aching to break skin sits hot between your fingers, but so far, your words have been enough. Steve opens the door, barrels down the steps, and stops in his tracks. You lock eyes with him and see something hauntingly familiar within the blue.

Something inside you shifts.

He takes one look at the scene before him and shuts it down immediately. You slip away when he calls it in, leave no trace of your existence except for a long thin line gushing red from the scientist’s throat.

Steve find’s the plans for a chemical attack on his desk that night and where to find each accomplice wrapped in a pretty bow of nylon. Alive, your note assures him.

“She’s like a cat. Brings home dead things to show her affection.” Clint says one day. You promptly shove an elbow in his gut.

He learns how to spot your work past blubbering grown men and catatonic stares. Natasha tells him you hold your liquor well, Clint comments on your gambling abilities. He asks if your eyes are naturally that color, they tell him you don’t like to answer that question.

Later he asks Fury how they found you. He’s not sure how you became what you are today, but he knows this world has not treated you well, yet here you are, working to protect it regardless of what had been done to you. That’s the only reason he didn’t order Clint to take you out.

“So, she’s good?” Steve asks.

Fury pauses for a moment. “For our sake, I hope so.”

The next time you see Steve Rogers you’re slinking through the Triskelion halls, trying to stick your nose somewhere it probably doesn’t belong. He bumps into you, grabs your arm and your side to steady you. You know he can feel the scars beneath the thin material of your shirt and jump from his touch.

He shakes it off. “Tell me,” He starts. “Do you have an actual name or are you really just a ghost.”

You think for a moment. “Y/N.” He raises a brow, both your voice and an answer surprising him. “What, were you expecting a cryptic answer on the relativity of life and death or something?”

He chuckles. “Guess not.”

A moment later, he gets distracted, turns a way for a second and then you’re gone.

“Yeah, she does that.”

You continue on your path, leave him the gift of a solved problem on his desk sometimes. He sets up cameras and lasers, trying to catch you just once. It takes him a few months to realize the janitor drops the files and notes for him. You and Natasha laugh at his expense.

He starts to leave files in various places he knows only you could find. The worst of the worst. Men and woman he thinks you’d be happy to cross off. You can’t tell if he leaves them for you, or because they’re just terrible people. Either way, the change in narrative surprises you, but you never bring it up. You’re the last person that would ever judge someone.

Natasha taunts him over it.

“It’s a modern day love story with an assassin twist.”

“Why not that one?” “She doesn’t like Oklahoma.” “How do you know that?”

“She sent booze as thanks for your last tip. Are your cheeks seriously red right now, Rogers?”

Eventually, you concede, stop leaving him only the locations of gift wrapped bodies with detailed lists of committed crimes. Complete with proof, of course, you weren’t lazy. You start to send him alive leads, people that can be questioned. Sometimes they’re unharmed, usually they’re mostly coherent. He’s surprised by the change in narrative, but he never brings it up. Sometimes people change, but that was none of his business. 

Natasha is sure to point it out, consistently.

“You see him more than anyone else.” “False.” “…” “He’s here more than you, so it’s only by default.”

“Wait, you left that guy alive?” “Steve needs to question him.” “What about that one guy I needed answers from?” “You didn’t say please.”

“I’ve known you longer.” “He leaves me sex traffickers.” 

When a body comes up dead that shouldn’t have, your signatures blatantly displayed, they send him to bring you in. He doesn’t believe for a second you could kill a kid, but he’s the only one who can get close enough. Fury’s only half sure you won’t kill him. 

You battle with the idea of running, knowing they’ll never find you if you don’t want them to. You saw the evidence, you knew you were screwed. Fury told you from the very beginning that if he ever sensed you had turned, he’d take you out. No warning, no questions. Still, you wait patiently in your living room.

The window by the fire escape opens and Steve slides through, tip toes his way in and around the corner only to find you sitting there, an amused smirk tugging your lips.

“What calf exercises do you do? They look fantastic.”

He rolls his eyes and catches site of the artwork around him, the soft whites and greys of your walls and furniture giving spotlight to their colors. He never even considered you could have a home. You follow his gaze and shrug. Assassins can have taste too.

“The diplomat’s son, did you kill him?” He asks. You watch him silently. “Fury thinks you did.”

You walk slowly towards him, watch him curiously and tilt your head. “And if I did?” You prompt.

“I have orders to bring you in.”

You’re a breath away now, gliding your fingers along the Kevlar of his arm and trailing your way to his jaw. You trace his collar with a fingertip, watch as the pulse of his jugular quickens. You look up at him and he swallows thickly.

“And if I don’t want to?” You graze tentative fingers along the edge of his jawline. “Tell me, Captain, would you kill me?”

He hopes the eagerness in your voice is misplaced, the envy misinterpreted. Or perhaps the girl who surrounds herself with death does it with the idea that it may one day take her. 

You don’t give him the opportunity to dive into that rabbit hole.

When you place your lips on his, soft and remnant of something sweet, he can only taste the brilliance of life. He wraps himself around you, slips in his tongue when you’re startled by his sudden switch. You thought you’d leave him shaken enough to slip away, disappear with the rising sun.

But now? Now you’re just as hungry for him.

He carries you, lays you across your bed. He runs the pad of his thumb along every scar left behind by a blade, places a kiss on each one from a bullet. You knot you fingers in his hair as he drags his tongue up the inside of your thigh, scream his name when he brings you higher than you’ve ever been before.

When he slides into you and stretches you deliciously so, you allow yourself to feel just this once. He catches the shift in your eyes, convinces himself his mind is playing tricks on him when the grey haze appears to fade. 

He moves slow before he finds his pace. You dig fingernails into his back and trail them down hard enough to make him hiss. He nips you from shoulder to jaw, hips rocking into you, and you swear nothing has ever felt this good.

You lay there in silence, sweat coated limbs still entangled. He sighs heavily and you just know he’s about to ruin the moment.

“Stay.” You whisper. He looks down at you wrapped around him. “I’ll go with you in the morning, just stay tonight.”

He tightens his grip on your bicep and nods. “Ok.”

You’re still awake when dawn breaks, you had gotten lost in the simple rhythm of his heartbeat. A dream that one day life could be even just an imitation of normal. The thought makes you sad more than anything else.

You slip from his arms, grab a bag, and pack the essentials. Watching him sleep, he seems so peaceful, so good. You ache to wake him and stick around long enough to fix this mess. He deserves that.

Could you do it? Forget your past and pretend to be anything other than the hollow shell those before carved you into?

Ah, but this was your MO. Slip away in the dark when things took a turn either way. ‘Flight risk’ has always been written on the back of your eyelids. You weren’t quite sure why you felt you owed Steve more, but you did.

He awakes to a bright sun and a cold spot beside him. There’s a torn piece of paper where your head should’ve been. He brushes his thumb over his name and opens it. It states your innocence and exactly who he should be looking for, where to find them. At the bottom is a separate line. 

‘Careful, Captain, or I just might be your future.’

[antique-teacups]

loving and leaving

word count: 3.1K

The thing about break ups isn’t getting over the heart ache. It’s about learning to put yourself back together later. Everyone can wallow in hurt for a bit, it’s human. You just must make sure it isn’t controlling you forever.

That’s the hard part. Forgiving that person who might have done you so wrong. Learning to love them in a new way. Understanding that they are who they are and nothing you can do will change that. Breaking up with David taught you a lot about yourself and worth.

When you were together, life seemed perfect. But not everything can work out just how you want it to. He never meant anything malicious, as far as you could tell. He just simply fell out of love with you. That was the part that scared you the most, those once endearing traits were now annoying and irritating. You still loved him. You weren’t sure you would ever stop.

But distance doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder, sometimes it takes the heart out of the equation.

You left LA because you needed something else in your life. You loved the friendships you had fostered with everyone, but it just didn’t feel like enough. You worked a job you hated in a field you didn’t care about. Data input. You wanted to write, open a coffee shop, publish a book. LA didn’t feel like it was a place for that dream.

Seattle did. It welcomed you with open arms and you instantly felt at home. You didn’t need to feign a smile and pretend you loved it. Seattle was everything you wanted.

When you first moved, David would come visit every open chance he had. Often times it was just to sit in your apartment and watch the rain come down. Ordering take out and cheesy romance movies became your perfect weekend. Till there were no more weekends with him.

As time stretched on, the distances between these visits increased. You wanted him next to you so badly some days it felt like an ache in your chest. Anytime you would reach out it felt like you were a burden. You were no longer part of that life. He was busy and had life of his own in LA, one you had voluntary left. You couldn’t blame him for not always making time for you. It still hurt like hell.

Eventually, it was like your LA life never existed. You never asked if things were over between you and David because you didn’t need clarification to understand it was. You resented him for this part, even if you were equally to blame. How easily he moved on. You struggled in LA and now that you were finally happy, and he didn’t want to be a part of your life anymore. You were truly happy, and it felt like he resented you for that. You wanted to be a part of his life, but LA wasn’t your home. You belonged here, in Seattle. But as the relationship crumbled you began doubting everything.

Illumination came quickly. Cropping up on social media were photos of the entire group. Each smiling and bright, nothing lack luster about it. Feeling the twinge of jealousy in your chest that you refused to indulge in, you closed it. He was allowed to be happy.

Truthfully, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to be together anymore. It wasn’t the fact that he closed you out of his life so easily. It wasn’t even that he was the most important thing in your life once and he didn’t give you the time of day anymore. What hurt was that you were so unhappy there. Never feeling at home, you stayed for them. You stayed because eventually you thought the feeling would go away.

The hopelessness of the situation would fade. You could finally embrace LA. That moment never came. He never saw how hard it was for you to be there. How it felt like an uphill battle you were destined to lose. Eventually, you faded out of his life totally. Leaving LA wasn’t the start, it just made you realize the truth.

Perhaps you were more committed to the relationship than he was. Would he have stayed for you? If he cared you two would still be together, right?

That was a year ago. Both of your lives had changed. You were nearly finished with your novel. Something you were extremely proud of. You loved your job, being a barista was the closest you could be to owning a coffee shop right now. You would take what you got.

You kept on his life through social media. Thinly veiled social interaction was the closest you two had gotten to actually speaking since then. When he stopped trying to keep you in his life, you let go. Letting go is easier than holding on. You loved him more than anyone else, but it couldn’t be a one-way relationship. You deserved more.

Heading back to LA came with guilt and uncertainty. Seeing those people who were once your closest confidant but now you hardly spoke to was going to be strange. Fear bloomed at the thought of seeing him. A closed book about any feelings towards each other you both were going into battle blind.

LA felt different when you finally got out of the airport. Less important, less intrusive, but just as chaotic. Seattle saw sunlight but there was something about the sun in LA that made it feel false. Fabricated. The sun was peaking, and the heat was sweltering. Hailing a cab, you pointed it in the direction of your hotel. You were in LA for a book convention. Hoping to make connections in the publishing world, you were hopeful for your writing career.

Watching as the world ran past the windows, the memories came flooding back. LA was a world of its own. A beast that will never be tamed. You remember all the nights hanging out with the group and just driving. In between the moments of unhappiness were times you were thankful for. You were thankful for all of them. But you were never meant to stay.

As the cab dropped you off in front of the hotel, you scanned the streets. Admittedly, part of you wanted to see him. Glance in his direction and see his eyes. The smile that caught you off guard again and again. The boyish grin that you fell in love with. The other part of you didn’t want to see him at all. Do not indulge in self destructive behavior you kept telling yourself.

Neither of you needed the distraction. Albeit, you still wanted it.

Lugging your bags into your room you thought about the beach. The ocean was something you could never get enough of. Even in Seattle you felt its pull, practically irresistible. So that’s where you were heading. A bit of sun and fresh air can do anyone good.

The walk was short, but the crowds were terrible. Bustlingly along like cattle waiting for slaughter, screaming and yelling, chaotic. Darting in and out to make your way around, you avoided the heaviest bits.

On a day as hot as this one, you weren’t surprised to find the beach packed. Eyeing up your favorite spot, luckily vacant, you silently thanked god for that. Stroke of luck. You brought along your journal, the book you were currently reading, “The Girl Who Never Read Noam Chomsky”, and your phone. All tucked in your bag like a tool pouch. These few things were all you really needed to have a great day at the beach. Setting them out for a photo opportunity because what millennial would miss that? You snapped the photo and sent it off to Instagram. Plopping it onto your timeline and cracking your book open, you didn’t think much more about it.

You kept your LA trip to yourself. A short rendezvous purely for work purposes, you needed to stay in business mode. Going to the beach was warranted because you were in LA. But there wasn’t much room left for fun.

You sat in the shade of the palm tree and contently worked your way deeper into the book. Stopping to write down a note or two, you were totally engrossed in what you were doing. You hardly noticed the figure standing and watching. Walking closer, you felt the presence once they were towering over you.

“There’s plenty of beach for the both of us.” You scoffed out, barely glancing at the person eclipsing the sun. Waiting a couple of beats, they still hadn’t moved. Looking back up, it feels like the wind was knocked from your chest. Granted you wanted to see him, but you wanted it on your terms.

David stood quietly above you, watching the play of emotions run across your face. He looked older, but in “way more than a year” kind of way. His eyes were still soft but there was an intensity behind them you don’t remember being there. The set of his jaw told there were feelings lingering that weren’t exactly kind.

You wanted to say something, anything in that moment. Yet all of it felt meager and weak. Blame didn’t seem quite right, and an apology seemed like admitting you were wrong. Kindness felt fabricated and anger felt misplaced. You could hardly believe that he was right there in front of you. The same boy you loved but he seemed like a different person now.

“I don’t suppose a ‘Welcome Back’ is in order, now is it?” he asked. Sarcasm dripped from his tone. Unable to decipher whether it was meant to be a cut at your leaving, you remained silent. Arguing would fix nothing, not that there was much to fix.

“Cat got your tongue or is your voice still in Seattle?” tacking on a chuckle, he was trying to lighten the mood. Moving to sit next to you, he intently watched your face. You could still see the boy you fell in love with. The boy with a heart so big and a smile to match. His hair was longer than it had ever been, falling just barely into his eyes. Still clad in his black clothes, he had to be burning up. Yet, he kept his expression cool, unbothered.

Clearing your throat and looking at the water, “Yea, I am sorry. I wasn’t sure it was in either of our best interests to call. Out of sight out of mind seemed like the best option.” It was hard to look him in the eye. The feelings you tried so hard to crush down came rushing back to the surface. Blush was rushing to your cheeks, heart pounding, palms sweating. There was a nervousness about your persona that you don’t remember containing.

You could talk about book unashamed for over an hour, but this conversation made you feel like throwing up. His sweet smell came with the wind and you found yourself breathing deep. As much as you hated LA, you loved David.

“Avoidance was always your strong suit.” David joked, bumping your shoulders together. “I am sorry.” He stumbled out. That caught you off guard.

“Sorry?” Confusion laced your tone.

The wheels were turning behind his eyes. Trying to piece together where this was going, you hadn’t the vaguest idea.

“Can I take you somewhere?” He asked, holding his hand out to you. Placing your hand in his, you could feel the warmth radiating out of him. Pulling up till you were standing, he still didn’t let go of your hand, but you weren’t sure you wanted him to. The sun was still blazing, and the day seemed even hotter, but that had nothing to do with the sun.

He led to his Tesla, even opening the door like a gentleman. Plopping your bag on the floor and sliding in, you were taken back by the elegance of the car.

Jokingly you said, “You always had an eye for expensive things.” David laughed and caught your stare. He seemed stuck in a daze almost as if he wasn’t fully in the moment. As if he too were replaying the highlights of your relationship on loop right now.

Watching the world of LA whiz past the windows, there was a familiarity settling in your chest. Your mind knew better than to let it get it to comfortable, but your heart wanted it to stay.

Breaking out of your thoughts, “What brought you back to LA?” David inquires.

“My novel actually,” A proud smile spreads across your face, “I am finally almost done with it. I came back hoping to find some resources to continue my writing. I have a publisher for my current book, but it never hurts to keep looking for other options.” You explain.

“Options?”

“Yea, you know, make sure I find the best fit. The publishing world isn’t a one size fits all kind of thing.”

“Why did you come back to LA to look?” You could hear the hope in his tone. You already had an idea of the plan he was cooking up.

“Dave…” You mumble.

“Just a trip then. Noted.” He spoke curtly. The air in the Tesla felt denser, more difficult to breath. There were things hanging in the air between that neither of you were certain enough to speak. A million things strung together will unspoken goodbyes, apologies, and strands of love.

One thing you never knew when you left was how abandoned David felt. He thought maybe it was a phase, that you would find your way back to LA. Find your way back to him. Yet, as time drug on, it seemed like you were pulling away. You became more invested in the life you had in Seattle than holding onto him. He understood you wanted to pursue this passion, but he never expected to be left in the dust.

You both felt left behind, each forgotten from the other. It was simple miscommunication. The perfect cliché for your relationship.

You let the ‘I am sorry’ churn in your mind the rest of the silent ride. You were sorry too. He brought the car to stop at the Hollywood sign, one of your favorite places to go together. He opens his door and climbs out, waiting for you to join him.

“Now would be the time in the murder mystery where the murdering happens.” You joke. Earning a small chuckle, he motions you to walk with him. The silence between you has become almost unbearable. This was never the dynamic for you two. Each harboring feelings from the other.

Reaching the best point on the lookout, he glances over to you. Swimming in his eyes is pain. Whether it was because of you, or directed at you, was uncertain. There was a lot to be said between the both of you.

“When you first moved, I was so excited for you. Granted, I couldn’t understand why that dream couldn’t come to bloom here. But, I was trying so hard to be supportive. As time went on, it was like you didn’t care about anything but your new life. It was like you didn’t care about me anymore.” David lamented.

Not what you were expecting to hear.

“David.” You whined. This conversation was steering in a direction you couldn’t control. It would tumble out of your control at some point.

“No, Y/N, I kept waiting for you to come back. I understand you have a life there, but what about all of us? Am I not allowed to be angry with you?”

“It’s not like I left to get away from you! David, I wanted you there with me more than anything. It just didn’t seem like you wanted to be there.” Exasperated, you ring your hands together. “That life, is one I am finally happy in. Isn’t that enough?” You ask.

“Why couldn’t you be happy here with me?” David asks in a whisper. You probably weren’t supposed to hear it. LA will chew you up and spit you out. LA will leave a nicotine stain on your lungs if you aren’t careful. Leaning forward on the railing, you put your head in your hands. There were a million things on your mind for the book expo, but now part of you wished you could rewind back. This conversation wasn’t the one you wanted to have right now.

Both of you needed answers and explanations but that wasn’t going to happen today.

“Why did you apologize? Why the sudden “I am sorry” after so much radio silence?” you ask. They often say that ignorance is better, but curiosity got the best of you. “What’s there to be sorry about? We both were changing, and it didn’t work out. That’s life David. No one is to blame here.”

Desperation clouded his features. “We didn’t try to make it work. I let you leave without even trying to make you stay. I let you walk away. But you always let me leave, too.”

“Let you leave? David, I can’t just drop everything all the time. I wanted you there. I love Seattle. I hate LA. Does that come as a surprise? I never told you because you love it here. I can hardly breath here.” David sighs, long and slow. Relief flooded in your chest. “I didn’t want to leave but I had to. I thought maybe if you saw how happy I was there you would want to come with. Looking back, I understand that was a lot put on your shoulders without us even talking about. Clearly, both of us are harboring feelings the other didn’t even know about.”

“I am sorry.” He repeats. “I am sorry I couldn’t see those things. I am sorry I was blinded by my own happiness that I never took a moment to check up on yours. Please, can we try again? Even if its just as friends?” The question hangs in the air between, but you both know the answer.

“Are we still those people we were a year ago? Do you really want to try and navigate this again? We couldn’t make the distance work the first time.” You ask.

“If it means you are back in my, I would travel across the Milky Way.” Hope blossomed in your chest. Maybe you two loved each other just enough to make it work.

[awakearcturianparadise]

Nice try...and why did I anticipate, and yet hope, that you would actually use it—and avoid stooping as much as you have—because to use that particular admonition when you should have known that I would be loathe to hear it is simply the most saddening aspect of this experience. And this is where I am supposed to use the human common parlance “you must really think I am that stupid” but as your condescension and continually insulting refrain, the disgusting snd humanly dirtiest excuses busy-ness and its malevolent application in the passive form of ‘indifference towards spiritual principles’ has been a mantra for every session well as pre 1st session phone call is nauseatingly so very anemic as a valid basis of support for mistreating the pupil who lies in proper submissive posture and exposes his belly to the dominant female wolf as a sign of respect, trusting. This posture is not meant to be seen mistakenly as weakness and will humble the teacher in awe of the divine strength of the student.

The teacher, whereby, and duly in gratitude of this honor, accepts this teaching from the powerful and genuine earnest passion of the student to actively absorb and transform the stream of knowledge. The student will soon consume and transform this nourishing data into a desire filled vortex of concentrated emotionally chaotic elementary ingredient. This is to signal readiness for sculpting in guided learning and frictionally heats the IT and sears such creations into place through interactive wavelengths donated through the inner being of both partners in trusted alignment. And the continuation with the upward vibrational cycle, as the other mutually self and other compassionate characters in a transmutation dance. And the teacher as vibrationally in compassionately tending to simultaneously other and self and therein between. and embodied now assumes the role of instructor as a equilibrium flow cycles she is driven dutifully caretaking a sacred conduit of energetic variation. She, mindful of contrast, pursues a collaborative discourse with the student through venous and arterial continuous flow and corrective monitoring.

Given the low vibrational state you have fallen to that you have soiled a profoundly eminent and imperative procedural necessity in your selfish desire to please yourself fas you saw this opportunity —adaptive parasitic energetic opportunism created epigenetically, mutatively, or through intuitive or logical physical organic neurological experience.

And in your own autodeceptive trap, the peaceful and transcendant process creates no surprise. And had you been at least somewhat attuned to the vibrational frequency of your inner being, you would not even have considered to align to the false yet lucrative prophet of the momen. And if this unconscious and unconscionable action was also a result of my own creation of substantial energy perception somehow entering in your psyche dysfunctionally teaching you to perform the sepukku of the solemn functionally vibrational spirit bond.

And so I find myself yet again in disappointment at the temerity of attempting to chastise the victim perpetrated against as if he were a woman “asking for it” by the clothes she wore, as diabolical rationale for why I was raped.

The doubt is that this us the very same classic phenomena I described to ylu previous where I say to myself I trust them that they would refrain from engaging in such hurtful behavior much less double back to abuse the already expiring corpse in a most despicable example of what you humans would term ‘cognitive dissonance.’

While I might attribute it to the utter horror, self-loathing, and soul cringing news that you could be a “people pleaser” according to a very human and allopathic and very flawed and dubious assessment tool....your need to scrub yourself raw of the notion of pleasing another—because it could only be the stigma of the organ of your birth and the wound of your flesh of shame—has led you to another extreme of paranoiac hyperbole inapposite of your greatest and most attractive asset of compassion and kindness—to something altogether hideously simian. And while you also have been endowed with physically uncanny beauty and a level of energy undiminished by brain injuries or fatigue-laden imbalances...they are heaped under the hard light of the lime kiln burning the flesh to the bone as I was unprepared and deeply hurt in a way I rarely felt not only by your tone and manner with me and by canceling within a mere two hours or less of the actual appointment constituted...as you already know—wholly unprofessional, even in coach-level politeness, for someone ‘licensed’ as such, yet allows herself not only to humiliate her client in a shameful display of arrogance to please the mother superior—and—act as inconsiderate and smug, ... as if modeling yourself on the behavior of the chestnut wig and transparently poor excuse for a saint, who feels entitled to humiliate and project her own anger and obviously self-flagellating stereotypical fashion onto those who fall outside the pack of wolves and are vulnerable states and who are ill-prepared for the crudely dismissive farce that fails to hide the thinly veiled contempt I saw immediately as disingenuous charm so obviously coupled with the need to atone through buying oneself using ill-gotten gains into the mistakenly literal high altitude exclusive club if ‘heaven’—atonement not only through her own sins of emotionally abusing THIS client and refusing in rather comically repetitive and cruel terms—to accept news that is not terribly welcomed. But in repeatedly ignoring the messenger and mistaking the placid exterior for passive lack of self worth—a common form of ignorance that the unwary and overconfident exhibit—at their own peril— and, by the by, potentially shooting herself in the proverbial foot in the brilliant process.

Your performance followed by languishing around and again returning too soon and sheltering in place—as if I were a perpetrator— in your shitbox heap of metallic gloom—just allowed me to turn the corner yo view how absurdly asinine and pathetic a creature your own creation had become — as it began to take on your features.

For I was the one caught by surprise e having yo deescalate from my silly assumptions to asdign credulity to someone who says and believes they are a divine being. But whether or not I sm of not I am open in telling that I am most likely pretending as if I were...in thd hope. Of a playful way of internalizing some of themore elegant pronouncements of the ascribed way of the nonphysical being entertaining the idea and getting into character and admitting freely my own hypocrisy.....again I had to course correct from my own Sheltering Protection of Disbelief...

...Beyond sinew or bone, it had been a lonely while since I have felt that level of undeniably sharp emotional sadness and psychic dismemberment brought forth in the form of an internal sewing needle of dread from the heart through the gut, that I had previously thought I permanently exorcised to banished catacombs—the resurrection of sorrow brought me on the brink of tears.

So while I own the part where I trust too much I will not allow this to experience to jaundice my view of your successor—that I that to cooked the beginning of injustice will not occur under my watch.

I know you have more capacity for getting bigger and if you’re surrounded by vipers and sickness it takes a great deal of self care to maintain connection with source. Your benefactor can keep you back from your mission success inevitably and I hope you choose wisely in timing the cutting of this umbilicus.

If I am to pay honor to what humans call self-respect, then you know and agree you behaved in a hurtful and unacceptable manner. And I can hardly open to a state of allowance at all with the current paradigm and this of course you also know this is your notice of breach as the goods are not arriving free on board my old and weathered Plant door. The goods cannot very well be non conforming if they never even leave the point of origin. Violation and abuse comes in many mannerisms and forms and its pathology emanates from various sources.

And I say this with every intention of assertive didactic force that the imbalance lies in your misalignment causing warping in your priorities, myopically misplaced by your perceived lack of acceptance of your proclivity for these: obsessive thoughts that pleasing others is something about which to feel shame. Yet the shame exists only in your manifestation of suffering in another who is your student as well as your ultimate messiah in achieving your mission. That is Me and our collaboration.

Release thine own distorted facets of self and ask your limitless inner being what you desire and it answers; Allow its creation to enter your experience and you shall be swept beyond your dreaming and the bringing shall occur momentous and serene.

5'-TAAAATATATATATAT beta version 4.02 PLDS Arct-Mission ID {1789’-?3”} (FaciVibratos$$Coeuro-Necro) transmit codex cyphyr-lo<u>is: hitwkfe et102T----

[elfrootaddict]

Now You Know - Chapter 5/8

CONTAINS SPOILERS - DO NOT READ ON UNTIL YOU HAVE COMPLETED DAI TRESPASSER DLC!

DESCRIPTION: Experience (my first) Lavellan’s thoughts and feelings during the final cut scene of the Trespasser DLC. Including her experience when she loses the Anchor.

Chapter 1 ¦ Chapter 2 ¦ Chapter 3 ¦ Chapter 4 ¦ Chapter 5 ¦ Chapter 6 ¦ Chapter 7 ¦ Chapter 8

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To all those in Solavellan Hell,

I have written this to not only express my emotions but to hopefully capture some of yours, too.

After completing Trespasser, and going through the hell that is the final cut scene, I had to do something. So, to help myself work through it, I’ve written (my first) Lavellan’s thoughts and experiences down during the DLC’s final cut scene.

This is my very first FanFic, so I hope it doesn’t turn out completely terrible. *fingers crossed*

Happy Dragon 4ge Day!

WARNING: Chapter 6 contains a moment of distress and gore. Read with sensitivity and discretion.

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CHAPTER 5

When Lavellan was still Keeper Deshanna’s First, her priority was always to her clan and to the elves. Whether they were Dalish, city-born, followed the Qun or slaves of Tevinter. She always held the deepest, most sincere hope that there would come a day when the elves could be what they once were. That there was a forgotten ruin that contained the key to achieving that dream. Surely the past was better than their present? The answer was out there somewhere.

But after being thrown into the role as Inquisitor, she saw both the true beauty and ugliness of Thedas. Even though Keeper Deshanna had an open mind about the shemlen, which helped her not be so narrow-minded like other Dalish elves, she still hadn’t really seen the whole of Thedas.

There is a vast array of beliefs, cultures and practices. So many different types of shemlen! They truly weren’t one and the same. After her years as Inquisitor, she realised how small her world really was amongst the Dalish. 

This world may not be what it once was. It may not be Elvhenan. But it is still magnificent. It is my home. Everybody matters. The elves are not the one and only important race. No time is more important than another. 

Lavellan wants to do right by the Elvhen and improve their lives. Solas is that missing key. He can achieve what she has been dreaming for her people. But her eyes have been opened to what Thedas contained. It cannot be destroyed. 

She can also see how incredibly torn Solas is. Does he truly want to do this? Does he even have a choice?

There has to be another way. A different way. We can figure it out together, vhenan.

“Let me help you Solas.” begs Lavellan.

With his back still towards her, he rejects her assistance, “I cannot do that to you, vhenan.” 

She thinks back to being in the Fade. Solas’s gravestone of fear read ‘dying alone’. He did not see her notice it. She’s kept this knowledge of him to herself. But nevertheless, she knows one of his deepest fears and this causes great distress in her heart.

With her voice shaking and desperate she cries, “But you would do it to yourself? I cannot bear to think of you alone.”

“I walk the Din’Anshiral,” replies Solas with distress. “There is only death on this journey. I would not have you see what I become.”

Crushed, Lavellan closes her yes and drops her head. 

I will always love you, Solas. I will always accept you. Don’t you understand? 

Turning around to face Lavellan, Solas’s tone of voice changes. He is always better at suppressing his emotions than she is. Like simply blowing out a candle’s flame. 

In a matter-of-fact sort of way, Solas changes the subject, “It is my fight. You should be more concerned about the Inquisition. Your Inquisition. In stopping the Dragon’s Breath, you have prevented an invasion by Qunari forces. With luck, they will return their forces to Tevinter. That should give you a few years of relative peace.”

With her emotions all over the place, that nearly makes her burst out laughing. Why would he suddenly care about the safety of Thedas, when moments ago he declared he was planning on destroying it? And was it really ‘her’ Inquisition? Solas has clearly been using the Inquisition to right a wrong. How many spies are there? She didn’t believe herself to be naive, but now she feels foolish. She does not like to be made a fool of. 

Now frustrated, her anger helps focus her thoughts. She is still Inquisitor and is going to get as much information out of him as possible. She knows she isn’t going to get a chance like this again.

“The Qunari said the Inquisition was unknowingly working for the agents of Fen’Harel.” asks Lavellan angrily, feeling deceived.

“I gave no orders.” Solas replies promptly.

Irritated she says, “You led us to Skyhold.”

“Corypheus should of died unlocking my Orb. When he survived, my plans were thrown into chaos,” he pauses. “When you survived, I saw the Inquisition as the best hope this world had of stopping him. And you needed a home. Hence, Skyhold.”

“You gave your Orb to Corypheus?” Lavellan asks with disgust. 

“Not directly,” Solas answers. “My agents allowed the Venatori to locate it. The Orb had built up magical energy while I lay unconscious for millennia. I was not powerful enough to open it. The plan was for Corypheus to unlock it, and for the resulting explosion to kill him. Then I would claim the Orb.” 

Solas looks down towards the ground and shakes his head in disbelief. “I did not forsee a Tevinter magister having learned the secret of effective immortality.”

With a quiet and downcast voice she asks, “What would have happened if Corypheus had died and you’d recovered the Orb?”

With his face unveiling the amount of remorse in his heart, “I would have entered the Fade, using the mark you now bear. Then I would have torn down the Veil. As this world burned in the raw chaos, I would have restored the world of my time… the world of the elves.”

“If you destroyed the Veil, wouldn’t the false gods be freed?” Lavellan asks alarmed. 

“I had plans.” he answers assertively. 

Lavellan is picturing Solas as... Corypheus. He has indeed changed in her eyes. In her mind's eye she sees him holding the Orb and disintegrating the Veil. She can’t stomach the fact that, should things have turned out as planned, Solas would of been the one responsible for the chaos that ensued. 

He is so tenderhearted, thoughtful, respectable and gentle. She can hear Varric saying, “It’s always the quiet ones.”

She knows his heart. But his mind has always been a mystery. She refuses to believe that Solas is completely alone in this decision. There has to be more elements at play here. 

She can see his heart and mind battling each other. He may be good at playing nonchalant, but she knows him better than he realises. There is something he is not telling her. Perhaps if he did, he would have to admit he needs help. Her help. 

Shaking her head in disbelief, “I never thought of you as someone who would do that, Solas.”

He looks away with relief, “Thank you.” 

Solas attempts to convince her, “You must understand. I awoke in a world where the Veil had blocked most people’s conscious connection to the Fade. It was like walking through a world of Tranquil.”

Disturbed she asks, “We aren’t even people to you?”

“Not at first,” he says. “You showed me that I was wrong… again,” looking down with guilt he murmurs. “That does make what must come next any easier.” 

Despite all that has transpired, Solas still stayed to defeat Corypheus. Even though it seems pointless to her now, she always prided herself in displaying her appreciation towards others. It is something Keeper Deshanna ingrained into her.

“Whatever your reasons,” says Lavellan. “We couldn’t have defeated Corypheus without you.”

“Your doubts are misplaced,” declares Solas. “Everything you accomplished, you earned.” 

Lavellan feels comforted by his praise. She constantly craves for his approval in her decisions. He always had a wealth of knowledge and wisdom on hand. She thrives on learning from those around her and Solas had in abundance. 

Remembering his concern over the Inquisition, she has to know his thoughts on the matter. He would clearly offer sound advice that would be imperative to hear. 

“What’s wrong with the Inquisition?” she inquires. 

Solas gladly bestows his counsel, “You created a powerful organisation, and now it suffers the inevitable fate of such: betrayal and corruption.”

“It’s not that simple.” says Lavellan ignorantly. 

With an air of superiority he explains, “Do you know how I discovered the Qunari plot? The plot I disrupted by leading them to your doorstep? The Qunari spies in the Inquisition tripped over my spies in the Inquisition. The elven guard who let you to the Qunari body, who intercepted the servant with the gaatlok barrel? Mine.”

“Why bother disrupting the Qunari plot, if you’re going to destroy the world regardless?” asks Lavellan in disgust. 

He answers sympathetically, “You have shown me that there is value in this world, Inquisitor. I take no joy in what I must do. Until that day comes, I would see those recovering from the Breach free of the Qun.”

“Why?” she asks bewildered. 

“Because I am not a monster,” proclaims Solas. “If they must die, I would rather they die in comfort.” he pauses. “In any event, it is done.”

Lavellan feels indebted to him. He helped her and Thedas… again. 

“I guess we owe you for that one, too.”

“I hope it gives your people some final peace.”

Without warning, Lavellan feels her mark starting to violently pulse in the palm of her hand. Cursing the Anchor in her mind she realises she has finally run out of time. Unlike Solas, she has never had a problem admitting she needs help. She needs his help. And she needs it now.

Trying to shake away the pain, in discomfort she says, “There’s still the matter of the Anchor. It’s getting worse.”

Solas looks away with grief, “I know, vhenan. And we are running out of time.”

And just like that, the Anchor flares up and it is the worst pain she has ever felt. It completely cripples her and she is unable to stand. The Anchor even propels her body forward. She has absolutely no control. Clenching and supporting her left forearm with her right hand, she grunts and cries with agony.

Solas slowly kneels down in front of her and says, “The mark will eventually kill you. Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you… at least for now.”

Lavellan feels she finally understands his determination and conviction. Solas is a loyal servant of Mythal. He knew the All-Mother. From the Dalish tales and what Solas has described, Mythal was clearly the voice of reason amongst the Evanuris. She was wise in her judgements and loved by all who lived in Elvhenan. Solas’s loyalty to Mythal is enduring. And therefore, Solas has to see Mythal avenged and the lives of the elves restored to what it once was.

If she was in Solas’s position, she would also most likely be making the same choice. 

Their love did complicate matters. It was clearly unforeseen and something neither of them expected. 

Nevertheless, their love did happen. Their love has turned into a force unto itself. You can feel it in the air around them. It didn’t diminish in the time that they were apart - if anything, it only grew stronger. 

Even if Solas wouldn’t admit it to her or himself, she knows this is not the end. She knows him to be stubborn but she is stubborn, too. 

I may not save you today, my heart. But I will save you from yourself. I will not give up on you.

The Anchor has almost depleted all the energy she has left in her. She can feel her mind beginning to fade. The pain is just too much. 

In a desperate attempt, she cries, “Solas, var lath vir suledin!”

Looking down with remorse he says, “I wish it could, vhenan.”

Lavellan no longer holds back her tears. She has no more energy left for pretenses. Between the pain in her heart and her hand she can’t tell which one is more agonising.

Solas starts to lean in closer to her and whispers, “My love…”

Holding the side of her face in his hand, he guides her closer to him. His eyes light up with the same magic as before. Lavellan tries her best to ignore the pain of the Anchor and to just focus on him. 

She has never felt more at peace than when he is this close to her. This is where she belonged. This is where he belonged. When he finally kisses her, she can feel his yearning. She can feel his heart being torn in two. 

Should the Anchor kill her now, there would be no better way to die. She is in his embrace and that is all she could ask for. 

It doesn’t have to be this way, my Dread Wolf! You could stay! I can see it on your face!

Solas slowly stands up. With utter despair, only for her to hear, he whispers, “I will never forget you.”

Lavellan is still on her knees. The Anchor renders her powerless. She cannot move. She cannot run after him. 

He is walking away. 

For whatever it is worth, she can still use her voice. She has to try. 

With Solas almost reaching the eluvian, and with tears flooding down her face she cries after him, “Don’t leave me like this! Solas! Solas!”

Solas reaches the Eluvian. He stops. 

And without looking back, he steps through.

[aquaquadrant]

Title: it wears a mask Chapter Warnings: Minor language, nightmares Summary: Beck has a change of heart at the trainyard and takes Peter captive instead. In many ways, it turns out much, much worse. (NOT SLASH)

Chapter Seven Preview

Peter sits hunched on the bed, picking idly at the cast on his hand.

It’s been one week since the London attack. Peter knows this from the news reports. They’ve caught up to current time, now (the final death toll was one-hundred and three) so the reports are coming less frequently. He’ll go hours with the room being dead silent, then suddenly the drone will roar to life and project a three-minute news segment on his wall before blinking out again.

People are moving on, it looks like. After all, the ‘villain’ was taken down, no loose ends left, and overall it was considered a win despite the casualties and destruction. The world has other things to look at now, Peter imagines. That’s natural. That’s human.

He would’ve expected himself to feel relieved that people are moving on. That the news reports have stopped. They were hard to watch, hard to hear. But the absence of any sound, movement, or color in his cell is stark, and hits him much harder than he would have anticipated.

How twisted, that he’s been made to wish for bad news if only to take the edge off his isolation.

In the past few days, Peter has spent most of his waking moments either trying to sleep, or pacing. He doesn’t get much sleep at night because the cell is pitch black and that sets him on edge. The scattered naps he manages to take during the day don’t feel like enough to shake the weariness from his bones.

Despite his tiredness, he paces. He has to, to have something to do. The cell is a perfect square, he’s found. Five steps from wall to wall in any direction. He’s all but memorized the sound his own feet make on the concrete floor, muffled by his socks but feeling much louder than they ought to in the otherwise silent cell. It beats a rhythm in his skull when he paces, and he’s grateful it gives him something to focus on.

He feels twitchier than normal- if there’s such thing as a normal level of twitchiness. When Virgil came in yesterday to check on his stitches, Peter jumped so bad he hit the ceiling. Literally. His head is still sore.

Aside from taking care of the bump on his head, Virgil informed Peter that the reason he hadn’t heard anything from Beck recently is because Beck out travelling under a false identity. Something about conducting some shady business he wants to keep under the radar.

Fine by Peter. The less he has to listen to that guy, the better.

Except now he has no one to ask whether MJ and Ned are doing okay. Whether May is doing okay. Or how Queens is doing without him there to protect it; his school, his neighborhood. It kills him, not knowing. And if Beck was here maybe Peter could ask for some time out to stretch his legs, and figure out if the itch beneath the skin of his wrist is because of his cast or because he’s never gone this long without using his web shooters.

The people who bring him his meals don’t answer his questions, and even if Virgil would tell him, he doesn’t know. So, Peter’s left wondering and pacing, and almost wishing Beck would return already, which feels terrible because he hates Beck but it’s his only way to get answers.

Peter knows he’s in dangerous waters. It’s as clear a trap around him as concrete walls; isolating him in every sense of the word, making him solely reliant on Beck… it’s deliberate. Everything about Beck lends to the notion. He’s the kind of person who’s had his moves planned out before even starting the game. But the scariest thing is that Peter has no idea what end Beck is playing at.

It still haunts him, not knowing why Beck spared his life. On the surface, Beck’s motives are clear; he wants to be a famous hero, to gain power and notoriety. He’s already well on his way, and he doesn’t need Peter to do it.

Even using him to threaten Ned and MJ isn’t strictly necessary. Beck could easily just kill them, as much as Peter shudders at the thought. The fact that he hasn’t, and instead went through all this effort of keeping Peter locked up… it means Peter doesn’t truly know his enemy, and that’s a bad place to be.

Seeing as how he can’t fight, and he can’t escape, his only option is to play along. That’s scary, too. Peter knows what Stockholm syndrome is. He knows it can start setting in as early as three days in, and he’s been here almost a week.

And every second he’s here means that there’s no one stopping Beck’s scheming, and more and more innocent people are put a risk. Beck’s already caused so much damage, but Peter can almost sense an invisible clock hanging over him, counting down the days until enough damage is done that he can’t come back from it.

Peter thinks back to everything he’s heard about Tony’s kidnapping in Afghanistan, so many years ago. In all the time Peter knew him, he never worked up the courage to ask about that time, to ask how he managed not to lose hope during his long captivity.

Peter’s really regretting that now.

The drone roars to life, and Peter gives a violent start, his heart pounding and tremors running through his body. A projection flickers onto the wall, and the voice of the news reporter he’s gotten so familiar with starts to talk. Another report on the London cleanup. More talk of destruction, all the dead and misplaced people.

Peter tips his head back against the wall and blinks away tears.

~*~

Beck wakes up to Edith’s voice.

“Herod has reported that target is experiencing extreme distress.”

Blinking awake, Beck sits up and fumbles for the glasses on his bedside table. The hotel room is pitch black, the only light coming from the digital clock that he accidentally smacks off the table. It clatters to the floor, where the time ‘2:54 AM’ beams up at him.

Beck manages to get the glasses on his face without poking an eye out, wishing for the convenience of his suit. But travelling incognito requires discretion, and the glasses are the most casual, easily concealed host he has for Edith. Maybe he ought to hook her up to one of those smart watches, the glasses aren’t really his kind of look.

“Define ‘distress,’” Beck mutters, rubbing his face beneath the glasses.

“Target is unconscious, heart rate is dangerously high.”

Shit. “Project Herod’s feed over my view.”

“Projecting feed.”

Before Beck’s eyes, Peter’s room comes into view. The gray-scale image tells him the lights are off, and Herod is recording using night vision; it’s late, even with the time difference between them. Peter’s in his bed, but it takes a second for the image to clear up because he’s thrashing around so much.

For a heart-stopping second, Beck thinks Peter might be having some kind of seizure. But then the audio kicks in, and he hears Peter screaming. It’s a wordless scream, and it writhes, pitching up into a wail and dropping down into a sob between breaths. It’s an electric jolt to Beck’s senses, where moments ago he’d been barely awake, he now feels like he’s been drenched with ice water.

“Put my voice through,” Beck orders Edith. “Peter, can you hear me? Shit, Edith, increase volume by five- Peter, wake up, can you hear me?”

Finally, Peter stills. He pushes himself upright, chest heaving for breath. Tears are still running down his face, and- oh goddamn it, he’s worked a couple stitches loose from his wound. There’s a panicked, hazy look to his eyes as he glances around. Must’ve been some hell of a nightmare.

Beck lets out a breath. “Jesus, kid, don’t scare me like that. I get woken up at 3 AM to find you’re practically sending yourself into cardiac arrest. Jesus christ.”

Peter blinks a few times, confused. “Beck?”

“Yeah, who else?” Beck huffs.

“Oh god.” Peter covers his face with his hands, and Beck can see them trembling. “God. You- you were alerted just because I w- was having a bad dream? What the hell.”

“Language,” Beck chides, just to spite the teen. “And yeah, Herod is monitoring your physical state just in case you try to escape or come down with a sudden affliction. It can’t really differentiate you freaking out over something like this, though.”

Peter’s still breathing fast. Every couple of seconds, a sudden twitch seizes his muscles. “I wasn’t freaking out, I- I was just- why do you even care?” He looks torn between horror and accusation, between being frustrated with Beck for seeing him like this, or frustrated with himself for being like this in the first place. “Why do you- you didn’t h- have to wake me up, you could’ve just ignored it. I’m sorry, I- no, just forget it.”

Before he’s even finished speaking, Peter’s stumbled out of bed, shaking off the sheets twisted around his leg and staggering his way towards the bathroom. He almost throws the door closed behind him, the bang echoing in Beck’s ears.

“Well then.” Beck leans back against the headboard. “Edith, go ahead and close the feed. And uh, ask Herod to put a little light on. Nightlight display.”

“Command received.”

“Thanks, hun.” Beck pulls the glasses off and sets them back on the table. He runs a hand through his hair, his tiredness returning tenfold now that the sudden spike of adrenaline has passed.

Alright, so something’s gotta change. That’s abundantly clear to Beck now. For the past several days, the daily reports on Peter have mentioned increased agitation- restless sleep, pacing, fidgeting. But this was just extreme. And yes, sure, technically Beck shouldn’t care if Peter’s screaming himself awake at night because he’s a prisoner, and Beck could just order Herod to ignore it. And it’s not like Beck has shied away from hurting Peter before- both physically and emotionally.

But he also knows that there’s got to be a purpose behind it. Getting Peter to blame himself for the London attack? Useful. Making him feel responsible for his friends being in danger? Useful. But letting him live in this twitchy, tortured state? Not useful. Quite dangerous, actually, because an unbalanced Peter is an unpredictable Peter.

If Beck had to hazard a guess, it’s the confinement driving Peter to the edge. That makes sense. Any normal person would get twitchy after a week cooped up, but a superpowered teen who’s used to swinging from buildings… yeah. Beck’s gonna have to work something out.

But… tomorrow. That can wait until tomorrow. He’s tired.

~*~

[trueloveseyeroll]

The Dancing Thief (11/13)

Summary: Pretending to be a noblewoman might be the dumbest thing Emma has ever agreed to do. And she’s not sure if meeting Lord Killian Jones made the whole thing better or worse. (Better. Definitely better.)

Rating: T (language and mild violence)

Beta: The wonderful @forget-me-not-s​

Artist: The lovely @captxinswans - check out her amazing artwork for chapter 1, chapter 2 and chapter 8!!

Word count: 4302 (62k words in total)

Chapter 1

AO3

For the past months, Killian’s life had been a whirlwind. The signs of dealings between his father and Lord Gold had made him wary, and meeting Emma had turned his world around in a most unimaginable way. Then, King George had fallen ill, which only succeeded in putting everyone on edge – bloody hell, someone had even tried to assassinate him! However, Killian hadn’t been too shocked by the attempt on his life – Emma saving him had rather overshadowed the assassination itself.

Now, Killian stood at the door to a townhouse about forty minutes away from his home on foot. Belle stood by his side, giving him some comfort in the fact that he wasn’t alone. She, too, found the whole ordeal rather strange, but simultaneously, it felt like they were at the cusp of something important. Something likely to be historical even.

“Nothing to do but knock, I suppose,” Killian said, stepping forth to do just that. He took hold of the door knocker, banging it thrice against the wood, and that simple action alone lifted Killian’s spirits. He was no longer standing in the corner, reading books or discussing politics with his friends. He wasn’t just scowling at Lord Gold from afar or confronting his father with no clear plan. No, coming here to the townhouse gave Killian a sense of control, a feeling that he didn’t have to be passive anymore.

The door opened.

Killian came face to face with Emma, and at once, all control, every concept he ever had of anything, just blew away. Her soft curls fell against her shoulders and down her back, a simple knit sweater and a pair of trousers keeping her warm. He’d seen her in ballgowns and in tight, dark garments fit for a thief, but the sight of her in such comfortable and common clothes didn’t fail to take his breath away. She was simply stunning. And as she smiled softly at him, everything seemed to settle down inside him, but in a much better way than before.

She really was turning his life upside down.

(And he couldn’t be happier about it.)

“Hi,” she said, her eyes quickly turning to his right. “You must be Belle.”

“Yes, I am. And I guess you must be Emma?”

“Yeah.” Her hand lingered on the side of the door. “Yeah, uh, come on in.”

Killian and Belle followed her inside the foyer, and he could sense that Emma found the situation strange as well. Awkward was perhaps a more fitting word.

“So, uh,” Emma began to say, but what she meant to tell Killian and Belle would never be known, as Will entered the foyer in just that moment.

“Belle! Lord Killian! Glad you could make it!” He pressed a light kiss to Belle’s cheek and Killian wondered what it might be like to greet Emma in such a way. Absolutely brilliant, that’s what it would be. He caught her looking at him, and the blush added to the quick aversion of her gaze made him wonder if she was thinking along the same lines.

Killian was quickly thrown out of such thoughts as Will made to kiss his cheek instead. In jest, obviously, but Killian kept him away with an outstretched hand.

“Were you always a coachman?” he couldn’t help but ask. Such behaviour didn’t exactly seem fitting for a man used to working with nobles.

Another man answered as he entered the room. “For the past many years, yes.” Killian recognized Emma’s steward from the balls - Robin, was it? “Unfortunately, our employer, the Dowager Lady of Sherwood was a bit too encouraging towards Will’s boyish indecorum.”

“But at least she kept him out of the worst sorts of trouble,” another voice said, this one belonging to a woman with long black hair, half of it pinned behind her head. She had pale skin and a beautiful, kind face.

Killian looked at Will, whose ears were turning the colour of his surname. Having friends discuss you in front of a lady you were halfway in love with was bound to cause a bit of embarrassment.

“And I’m sure you already know he can be a perfect gentleman when it counts,” the dark-haired woman smiled at Belle.

“When it counts?” Will repeated, offended. Belle merely laughed and said he’d been lovely so far, the compliment only succeeding in further reddening Will’s ears.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Belle,” the woman said. “I’m Snow, a former maid at House Sherwood. And you must be Lord Killian Jones,” Snow said, gracing him with her warm smile. “I’m very happy to meet you as well.”

Killian nodded in respect, returning the polite greeting.

“Emma and Will have told us a lot about the two of you - all good things, I promise - so it’s only fair I tell you what role I play in the scheme of things,” Snow said. “I’m the one who initially asked Emma to infiltrate the noble court in order to help my fiancé.”

“Your fiancé?” Killian asked, wondering if the man would be present this evening as well.

“Yes. And I’m afraid things could go terribly wrong if his identity is revealed to the wrong people, which is why Emma and Will have been so cautious. But I’m sure our trust in you isn’t misplaced.” Snow could have made the statement sound questioning or even threatening, but her words were nothing but genuine.

“And I’m sure that with all of this secrecy, you may as well already have guessed who he is,” Emma said, wryly.

“Aye, well, I have an idea,” Killian admitted.

“And do I live up to that idea?” In the doorway stood a man with longer hair than Killian had imagined, but it was the same shade of blonde, and though there was a bit more stubble than he remembered from seven years ago, the face was the same.

“Prince David,” Killian greeted, bowing his head.

“Well, exiled prince anyway,” David said. “Though I don’t mind the gesture.”

Killian heard a faint snort come from Emma.

“So the rumours of your return were true after all,” Belle said. While Killian was sure she had had an idea that she was about to meet Prince David, she sounded more awed than he’d expected. Then again, Belle hadn’t met any of the royal family before - only the book-enthusiastic nobles such as himself.

“Yes. Although the reasons for my return seem to have drifted away from the truth in most of the retellings.”

“Not here to place dung-beetles from Agrabah under the pillows of all who wronged you?” Killian asked humorously. He’d enjoyed hearing that one.

“Not all, at least,” David said. But there was only a slight hint of amusement in his tone as he stood there with crossed arms. Or perhaps Killian just wanted to think there was some amusement there.

“Right, well, moving on from the topic of dung-beetles, I think supper is just about ready,” Robin said, clapping Killian on the shoulder before heading through the door from which he’d come. Killian assumed the clap was another way of saying ‘good luck’.

Snow went to help Robin, but David made no move to go anywhere, still surveying Killian with his arms crossed. Killian allowed himself to survey the exiled prince in return.

Emma looked between the two, unsure of what to do or say. Thankfully, Will decided to break the silence by clearing his throat in a very non-subtle manner. “I don’t know about you lot, but I’ll be heading in the direction of the food.”

Taking Belle’s hand like the gentleman Snow said he could be, Will led her to the dining room. David made to follow them, but he didn’t seem keen on leaving Killian and Emma alone with each other. While Killian wanted nothing more than a moment alone with her - a chance to tell her how stunning she looked, or perhaps lay that kiss on her cheek (or her lips) - he thought it best to humour David, who, apparently, didn’t seem to like him all that much.

----------

Emma didn’t know her parents, and had never really known what a family was either. She’d been a part of a few thieving crews, but had never stuck around for long. The crews she had found had just never been worth staying for; getting attached was not something Emma made a habit of.

But the crew she had found in David, Snow, Robin and Will - and Ruby, too - was special. She couldn’t see herself leaving them behind easily. And when Killian entered the townhouse, she couldn’t help but feel like she was introducing him to her family.

David certainly took the role of disapproving father to heart.

Killian complimented the townhouse, and Snow informed him it was owned by her godmother Johanna, while she brought in a pot of stew. She apologized for the simplicity of the meal, explaining that their funds were small, and they had greater priorities than rich food.

“Nonsense, Lady Snow, it smells heavenly,” Killian said, and Belle agreed. Both offered to help with any last-minute things, but Snow waved them off, telling them to sit.

Emma took her seat next to Killian’s, wishing they could have had a moment to themselves. The awkward greeting in the foyer just hadn’t felt like a real ‘hello’.

Robin came in with a warm, sliced loaf of bread and a flagon of wine. He set both down on the centre of the table before taking his own seat. At the townhouse, they were all equals. Despite previous or false titles, none waited on others, but everyone helped each other.

Snow offered Belle the first serving, and soon everyone was eating, but unanswered questions lingered in the air, making for a strained meal. Emma took a few heavy gulps of wine, hoping to calm her nerves.

Finally, Killian said, “I presume I know the answer, but perhaps someone could clarify the reason you’re all in Misthaven, infiltrating the court no less?”

And so they all began explaining.

----------

“George’s illness has been a complete coincidence - whether fortunate or unfortunate, we don’t yet know,” David said at last.

Emma looked at Killian and Belle. Neither of them looked like they were about to bolt from the table, and she supposed that was a good sign. Still, she was well aware of how crazy their plan sounded. And it wasn’t much of a plan anymore - at least not a detailed one.

“It’s causing agitation amongst everyone, for sure,” Killian commented.

“About that - have you learned anything from the assassin?” Emma asked.

“He hasn’t been very forthcoming as of yet.” Killian’s grip on his spoon tightened, and Emma could only imagine what it might feel like, knowing someone out there had paid to have him killed. It certainly angered her to the point that she’d gladly knock the assassin around a bit more until he started speaking. “After a few days without food and water, however, he might reconsider his loyalties.”

“Isn’t there a way to get him talking faster?” Emma asked, unsure if they had time to wait around for a few days.

“Aside from physical torture or bribery?”

“Well, if you offered a large enough sum, and he refuses to speak, we’d know that his emplyer is either rich enough to offer more, or powerful enough to frighten him into silence,” Snow said.

“Which would likely mean Cora or Gold.”

Emma sensed those two were already high on Killian’s list of suspects.

“I still wonder what anyone would gain from your death - and what Zelena had to gain from informing Emma about it,” David said.

“Why, David, I’m flattered you think no one would prosper from my death.” Killian sat up a bit straighter, smiling widely at David.

“Don’t push it.”

“A rival of House Jones would gain from having your father rattled and without a direct heir, just as the decision of the regent is to be made,” Robin said, answering David’s former question.

“While my father has always been interested in wealth, he’s never been much for power though. I’m not sure he’d even want to be king regent.”

“Fear is still a powerful tool,” David said. “Having an important noble figure murdered would cause panic amongst the nobility, and whoever manages to calm everyone down would be favoured in an election.”

Emma couldn’t imagine anyone being better at calming down a crowd than David. Cora and Gold would only unsettle her further. Unfortunately, it wasn’t likely that everyone amongst the nobility thought so.

She finished the last of her bread, having absent-mindedly torn it into small pieces during the conversation. She wasn’t one to waste crumbs like that normally.

Snow noted that everyone had finished eating, suggesting they move to the drawing room. A pot of tea - and a few cups of hot chocolate - couldn’t hurt anybody.

Once seated in the comfortable couches, Emma in the same armchair as always, though now with Killian sitting in the one next to it, the conversation turned to the future. They still needed to figure out how David could make his appeal to the nobles, after all. At least without being seized by guards first.

“So far we’ve just been focused on sorting out allies and foes,” David said. “But it seems the time for playing it safe is over.”

Emma rolled her eyes at the way he glowered at Killian from behind his cup of chocolate.

Killian seemed to notice the snide of David’s remark as well. After all, it wasn’t the first of its type that David had thrown his way.

“I’m sorry, mate, but what is it I’ve done to cause you to have such little faith in me?” Killian finally asked, the question having weighed him down since the first scowl he’d been treated to.

David didn’t even need time to think about how to answer. “You’re a young man with a reputation for trouble - drinking, lacking propriety and flirting with every girl you see. The passions of young nobles like you can change as quickly as you can turn your heads; so in short, mate, you’re unreliable.”

“David!” Snow admonished.

“No, it’s alright,” Killian told her, although David’s words had a way of making him feel like shit. They were true after all. But only partly. “He’s just speaking his mind. And I know that’s what people tend to think of me, but they also tend to forget that losing your brother - your hero - is something only alcohol seems to remedy. And that my lack of propriety is a lack of interest in the small things nobles find so important. I’m bloody well spending my time at balls reading books on politics, discussing ideals with my mates, ideals you seem to believe in! And I’ve never felt the way I do about Emma, and I value the trust she’s put in me more than anything else, but sure, I can see why you’d think me unreliable.”

The cup in his hands was ready to break under the pressure of his grip by the end, and Killian had no clue where those words had come from. They’d just spilled out. And while he wished he could take them back, that he could have kept his temper in check, he felt a sense of relief at having let it out.

Surprise washed over David’s features, giving way to something that looked like guilt. “I’m sorry, Killian. Captain Liam Jones was a good man - and no doubt an equally great brother.”

The fact that David knew - and remembered - Liam’s preference for being called Captain rather than Lord, touched Killian in a way he never would have expected.

“Aye, he was the best man I’ve ever known. And he always believed that you would make a great king someday. As do I.”

David took his words for what they were - honesty. “And I’m sure you’ll do your best to help me make it there.”

“I will.”

----------

The evening had grown late, and everyone was tired after the hours of conversation. Inviting Killian and Belle over had been worth it though, especially after an understanding formed between David and Killian. Emma kept replaying Killian’s words in her mind, the emotions so clear on his face as he spoke. There was nothing but honesty there.

“You know I feel the same, right?” Emma asked. She’d pulled Killian aside, leading him into her bedroom for a moment alone to say goodbye. “That this... it’s so different from anything else I’ve ever felt. Good different. It’s like...”

She trailed off, incapable of describing it. Killian probably could. Growing up as a gentleman and reading all those books gave him a language like no other, but this time, she didn’t give him a chance to use it.

She just leaned forward and kissed him.

Emma doubted she’d ever tire of kissing Killian. And it wasn’t lost on her that once again, there was a bed right next to them. Her bed.

Killian was the one to pull away, but he kept his forehead against hers, his nose still right next to hers. “I probably shouldn’t push my luck too far with David by staying in here for too long.”

Emma laughed. “No, I’d rather not have to see him drag you out of here and throw you on the curb.”

But both of them were a bit too weak, leaning in for one more chaste kiss.

This time when they pulled away, Emma made sure to take a small step back, just to limit the temptation (as if that were truly possible). Killian seemed to notice something over her shoulder and he nodded towards it.

“Are those the paints I sent you?”

Although she knew the answer, reflex had her looking over her shoulder to see the paints lying on her desk. “Yeah. I never got to thank you for them - it was a very sweet thought.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Killian said, a hand going up to scratch a spot behind his ear. “But I suppose you might not paint that much after all.”

A smile got the better of her lips at his understanding. “No, I’m afraid that was one of the lies I had to tell. I didn’t really think scouring for food or shelter, or climbing buildings was a good answer for a lady.”

Killian smiled as well. “No, perhaps not. But I’d love to hear the real stories someday. Anything you’d wish to share.”

“Perhaps I should tell you the story of what really happened when I was away for those two weeks.”

Killian quirked an eyebrow.

“Some other time,” she said with a slight roll of her eyes, trying to turn him back towards the door.

“Swan, you can’t send me away with a mystery such as that!” he pouted, doing his best to sound as dramatic as possible.

Emma laughed. “I can and I will. Now hurry before David comes and throws you out.”

Killian gave her his best puppy dog face. And she had to admit, it was rather good. “How about instead, you show me your work? I see you’ve opened the paints.”

Emma’s face reddened at the thought of the painting hidden in her wardrobe. “I didn’t paint anything,” she lied. “I just opened them for fun.”

Killian saw right through her. “A really quick glimpse?”

“I threw it away.”

He just kept looking at her, and Emma knew he wasn’t likely to let it go. Maybe a kiss could distract him... but it was bound to distract her as well.

“Fine. But promise me you won’t laugh.”

“I swear on everything I hold dear,” Killian said. Emma shook her head at his antics, turning to find the painting in the wardrobe.

“Here - just a quick glimpse.”

The puzzled look on his face wasn’t really something she could blame him for.

“It’s lovely... a flower, right?”

Emma sighed. “A swan actually.”

“Oh... oh yeah, I can see-”

“Just shut up and go,” Emma said, rolling her eyes at him. He was sweet - too damned sweet.

He stepped over to give her one last kiss. Leaving her with every nerve buzzing and her knees weak, he looked just about as wrecked as she felt.

“As you wish.”

----------

With Killian as a part of the team now, Emma felt lighter than she had in weeks. Possibly her entire life. She’d didn’t sleep easier though, her head too full of thoughts. Thoughts of Killian, of the plan and the assassin starving in the cells of Keep Jones.

Still, just knowing that she’d be seeing Killian again soon - without pretences of a ball - brought a smile to her face at any moment.

And that’s when she knew she had to be careful.

Good things just didn’t happen to Emma. Her own parents didn’t want to keep her, and since then, it seemed no one in the world wanted to. She had spent years doubting that Granny and Ruby actually wanted her around, and when she’d finally come to believe it, Granny had died. Thieving crews had come and gone, people, opportunities... nothing ever stuck.

Who was to say the bonds she’d made the past few months were stronger than her bad luck?

Two evenings after Killian’s initial meeting with David’s crew, they had planned for Killian to bring over Thomas, Phillip and Eric. Killian was sure they’d support David. He wouldn’t have suggested letting them in on the plan if he wasn’t.

First though, he had to explain things on his own, as regretfully, they all still believed Emma to be a spy for someone less agreeable.

Six hours before the young lords were meant to arrive, Emma was putting on her boots, ready for lunch at The Red Wolf. When Ruby had heard there’d been a dinner with Killian, but without her, she hadn’t been too happy. Words like “betrayal” had been thrown around. No matter that she’d been too busy running the tavern anyways. But now, on top of making sure she’d be able to dine with them in the evening, Emma thought a lunchtime visit was a nice consolation.

She never made it out of the door though.

Snow came barging in, looking all for the world like she’d been chased by a ghost. Upon seeing Emma, she stopped to catch her breath. “Good. You’re still here.”

“Yes?” Emma’s gut twisted. “Is everything alright?”

“Is everyone else here, too?” Snow asked before having time to even register Emma’s question.

Emma nodded. “In the drawing room. Snow, what’s -”

But Snow had already left for the drawing room, and Emma sensed she’d get her answers if she followed. From the look on Snow’s face, however, she was sure that things definitely weren’t alright.

She hadn’t made it past the doorway before Snow spoke to all of them.

“King George is dead.”

  ----------

  King George is dead. The words echoed in Killian’s head and all around him, as no one talked about anything else. Servants whispered in the halls and the guards exchanged concerns for the future.

The king was dead, and there was no one to replace him.

Just two days ago, Killian had been sitting in a townhouse, trying to make plans for Prince David’s appearance at the council meeting. The meeting that would determine the future of the land. But now, the meeting had never been held, and people were already panicking.

Which, of course, was the perfect opportunity for Lord Gold.

Killian sent word for his friends as quickly as possible. There was no time to wait for dinner plans - they had to make real plans, important plans, and they had to do it before Gold managed to convince everyone that a quick vote with himself as the winner was the best course of action.

Killian would rather die than see that crocodile on the throne.

With the prince’s permission, Killian had told his friends about David and his hopes to take the throne - and Emma’s part in it all. All three of them had apologized. Especially Eric had been rather guilt-stricken. Killian wouldn’t deny that he took pleasure in seeing his friends so regretful, be he knew holding grudges against his best friends would be a terrible mistake. They had only been trying to look out for him after all.

And now, together, all of them would try to look out for the future of the country. They had the chance to turn George’s death into something truly good - a future where the land could prosper, where the people were given choices and support. A future where less people had to live the way Emma did.

They gathered in the townhouse, the drawing room soon becoming terribly crowded with nobles and commoners, all united in one goal. Killian sent word for his friends amongst the knights and the guard; Phillip, Thomas and Eric did the same. They sent for Aurora and Ella, the young lady Grace and her father, Lord Jefferson, as well. Ruby and her barmaids did everything they could to spread word amongst the people, to walk the streets and shout for King David.

There was so much to do, so much uncertainty and danger to face, and so little time.

But surrounded by friends and strangers who wanted nothing more than the good of the people, Killian had to believe it would work. He was a born pessimist, so perhaps Snow’s speeches were getting to him, or perhaps it was having Emma at his side that made him feel invincible. It mattered not. The only thing that mattered was that David succeeded.

[princesssarcastia]

Let the past die? I think not

Almost a year ago, I posted a little plot bunny about Rey, Luke, and Force visions.  It was hella weird and kinda stream-of-consciousness style, which I don’t usually like? I heard that line from Kylo Ren, “Let the past die; kill it, if you have to,” in the trailer for Last Jedi and basically thought wow, fuck you, and then wrote a story specifically about the force also saying fuck you kylo ren, the past will never die. 

And then that little plot bunny grew legs! This time with more original thought from me.  So, in honor of the new trailer, part two of force visions: in which Rey thinks about Luke, figures out what she wants, and gets a teacher...sort of. Some spoilers in the tags.

Rey is used to being alone; she’d been alone all her life before BB-8 came to Jakku.  That doesn’t mean loneliness doesn’t ache inside of her, make her long for companionship, comradery, to be part of a larger whole. A family.

The only time it ever eased was when she had been with Finn–or Poe, in the brief time between Starkiller and here.  Finding Luke had given her hope she could ease it again, with someone else like her. Echoes make their way to her through hernotherother, telling her the feeling isn’t wrong, just misplaced.  

She knows Luke is at peace here; not happy, no, but the quiet solitude soothes his restless mind. Her presence does not.  It reminds him of burning, the New Jedi temple is burning, bodies scattered across the floors– the clone troopers advance through the temple, slaughtering the sick and the weak and the young, the only ones who remain, while their commander marches to the tallest spire and finds–

The memoryvision cuts across her mind, shattering what little peace she’d earned in trying to meditate.  It keeps happening: flashes of the past being drawn out of the deepest reaches of her memory, memory that isn’t hers yet is, because everything is hers, now.

Sometimes it’s her own words, or Luke’s.  Her thoughts; his thoughts.  Once she touched the R2-D2’s dome and the resulting wash of memoryvisionlovelosspainis enough to bring her to her knees. Every time it happens, they settle into her mind, and it feels right, like fixing the wiring on her speeder; like pulling parts from the starship wreck in the desert.  Finding something worthy of keeping in the devastation of the past.

She just wishes she weren’t drowning in the emotions tied to them.

--

Rey seethes and grows to hate Kylo Ren more every day she stays here.  For Finn, who still hasn’t woken up (she’ll know when she wakes up; and this certainty in herself shakes and amazes her), and for the damaged man who is supposed to be her teacher.

There are memoryvisions in her head of a boy, one who was born from pain and darkness and love and lived with his heart filled with the lattermost.  He loved his father despite all that he’d done; he loved his sister from the moment he met her; he loved the galaxy, he loved his students; he loved Ben, his nephew.  It was the last that had broken him, in a way that pulled at her mind until–

the fumes from the magma river swirl thickly through the air, but this isn’t what he’s choking on.  Darkness lies burning on the shore, and his soul is tearing itself apart. You were my brother, Anakin! I loved you.  Even then, though, the Temple hung ruined in his mind, and so he turned away; he was not feeling merciful–

Kylo Ren betrayed someone who loved him so deeply in pursuit of a false idol, of power, and once again the galaxy was thrown is darkness because of it.  Luke, the last Jedi in existence, allowed his grief to swallow him up and fled into exile like his masters before him.  He allowed his fear to smother him and refused to teach her any more.

Sometimes, she could do what she had done on Starkiller Base: close her eyes, allow the call of the Force to wind through her, and open them again armed with knowledge and skills she hadn’t had before. But it wasn’t enough.  She needed a teacher.  A real one, not the corruption Kylo Ren offered or the hesitant half-truths that were all Luke could give her.

The more frustrated she became, the more the center of the island called to her.  An ancient Jedi temple’s ruins lay at its core, uncorrupted by anything but time.  Still sacred and hallowed.

Luke turns away from her, speaking of his own fear and despair at her power.  It isn’t the first time, but for a brief moment Rey’s chest tightens and her fists clench and it’s hard to breathe.  This isn’t what she wanted.  

So, she closes her eyes for a moment, reaching out with the Force (one of the only things Luke was willing to teach her) for what she does want.  She isn’t exactly sure what that is, but–

The ruins call to her, waves of tranquility and history and power; come, come and see; find what you seek.

Rey opens her eyes and starts towards them, leaving Luke standing in her wake.

Scavenging wreck after wreck in the desert left Rey with a keen sense of space.  The old Star Destroyers were huge, gaping maws under the hot sun, easy to get lost in if you couldn’t sense their borders, how big they were on the inside.  But the cavern she was in now…

Rey had watched this island appear in the viewport of the Falcon; she’s been training here for weeks. She should know this place by now, know its edges and size.  And yet it seems–impossible.  Too big for the rock that contains it.

Sunlight filters in from above, a hole she hasn’t found from the other side yet.  Looking around here makes shivers ripple through her shoulders, makes something inside of her always been there then I was there has been an awakeningawake hum contentedly.

Strands of a massive stone carving stream from the center of the far wall of this place, like waves of solar energy from a sun.  Something about the pattern is captivating, hypnotic.  Tranquility in disorder, or– harmony.  Harmony from chaos.

There is no clear path to the stone plateau, so Rey makes her own.  Her fingers find holds in the rock, and where there are none the Force nudges her, surrounds usguides her. Power leaks into her limbs, letting her push further than should be possible, with more strength and balance than she knows she has, to the next hold.

When she finally reaches it, the sunlight has changed.  Everything in the chamber glows with it, and her breathing echoes across and then back to her.

A collection of flimsiplast lies just off-center, bound together in a way that Rey knows is ancient. She crouches down next to it, her hand reaching out to brush against the symbol on the cover.  Golden, with lines so intrinsically familiar to her it aches, feels like the comradery and family she seeks.  

The Balance, the Force whispers to her with her own voice, and Rey closes her eyes.  Her legs settle comfortably underneath her of their own accord, until she’s kneeling in front of the symbol, her other hand resting on her thigh.

Breathe, Just…Breathe. Luke’s voice, another memoryvision that fills her with regret because this beautifully kind man used to be a teacher, filled with patience and guidance the galaxy sorely needs, but now lacks.

She takes his advice, even if it wasn’t meant for her.  In, out. In…out…. i  n  . .   .

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Her eyes drift open, and she finds herself bathed in the light of a fire, instead of a sun.  Rey breathes, and feels hernotherother pulse through her veins in the place of her lifeblood, slowing any panic she might have felt.  A strange figure sits across from her.  Rey breathes and knows them.  Not their face or their name, but their self.  Light personified.  Ferocious. Burning.  Loving.  Sorrowful. Powerful.  

Curiosity breaks through her calm where panic couldn’t.  “Are you a Jedi?”

The being smiles at her, compassion with a predator’s teeth.  “I am no Jedi, young one.”

Her words ring out like a canticle in the Force, and Rey waits for another vision of things long past to overtake her.  When nothing happens, her curiosity grows, swirling around with the peace the Force is providing her with, balanced.

“Then what are you?  A teacher?”  She looks more closely.  The woman’s montrals let her tower over Rey, even sitting as they are.  Her hands rest on her own thighs, mirroring Rey’s position exactly.

“Sometimes.  Sometimes not,” the woman says, and Rey feels exasperation mix with her curiosity.  She sees the other woman’s smile take on an edge of humor, and suddenly there is a vision in her mind, except– no.  Not a vision, shoved into her head by the Force, but memories shared with her, offered for her to take or leave.

The kindness of it makes her beam, and she takes it gladly; Yoda is amused beside her, and she lets herself be amused, too, instead of embarrassed, and holds her lightsaber up to the younglings.  This weapon is your life; don’t lose it–

Rage, terrible and powerful revenge is not the Jedi wayovertakes her.  Her ‘sabers lash out in a whirlwind of death, and bodies fall to the ground just moments after their heads–

She stands, darkness before her: I am no Jedi.

“Ahsoka,” Rey murmurs. Daughter, the Force murmurs back.

Ahsoka grins at her, age crinkling her eyes.  “Rey.”

They sit there for a moment, each studying the other closely.  Rey notices her lightsabers hanging from her belt, feeling them thrum in tune with the teacherwarriorwolf.  “Can you help me?” She asks.

Ahsoka shifts until her legs are crossed in front of her and rests her hands on her knees, and Rey finds herself mirroring her position now.  “Perhaps. That depends on what you want.”

The warm light from the fire flickers, pulsing at Rey and reflecting in her eyes.  “I need someone to show me my place, in all of this.” She gestures around them; not to the cavern, but to the Force.

Ahsoka exhales a laugh. “I know this isn’t the answer you’re looking for, but…” She angles her head to the side.  “That all depends on you.  Your place is your choice, just as everyone else’s place is theirs.”

Unbidden, Kylo Ren appears in her mind’s eye, running through Han with his lightsaber.  Rey’s hands tighten into fists and now fury joins the other emotions, altering the harmony within her without erasing it.  Ahsoka’s face smooths out, as if she sees what Rey is remembering.  She probably is, now that Rey thinks about it.  

No elaboration comes, pulling more exasperation out of her, but instead of voicing it Rey seeks the answer on her own.

First, she reaches out into the Force, but its answer is the same as Ahsoka’s: blank, uncompromising potential.  She pushes harder, looking for threads of the future, threads she has seen Jedi manipulate in her visions, but the Force pushes back, gently.  No, it whispers.  You.  You decide.

Sighing, she searches the memories inside her, the ones that are hers, but not hers, and seeks the answer. Nothing comes forth, though; just pain, and suffering, and hope.  Faintly, she rememberseesknows the weight of destiny on the shoulders of a little boy, placed there by those who should have known better, driving him down a path he did not choose himself.

Rey takes the hint and releases the memoryvisions for a moment, taking a look around the chamber once more.  She recalls the feelings it evoked in her, that it still draws out of her.  A sense of purpose, of belonging.  

This place is ancient for a thousand generations.  So many had come here before her, leaving their own marks on the harmony within the temple, not unlike the harmony of emotions inside of her.  So many Jedi.

Does she want to be a Jedi? Rey tilts her head to the side, letting her eyes slide out of focus.  Maybe.  Purpose– to guard the galaxy, promote peace and harmony, even teach others like her when the time came.  Belonging– the memories in her head that weren’t things that she’d lived, but from all those who had come before her, who had lived and bled and learned and died. She could belong with them.

But then– Finn. Poe.  The General.  All those things could be found outside of the Jedi.  She could have purpose and belonging with her friends; her family, really.  The Force could be found outside the Jedi as well; Maz knew it, and Luke…and this woman before her.  Not a Jedi.  Fighting like one, meditating like one, but unbound by the shackles of millennia of tradition.

Rey–beyond all the other things–is curious.  She wants to know.  Kylo Ren shoved himself in her face, you need a teacher, and so she closed her eyes and opened herself up to the Force and called, teach me.   And it did. It taught her; she learned.

Could she– could that be her purpose? To learn the ways of the Force?

And do what with them, something whispers.  Learning is nothing without the will to use it; you will not be content to sit in this temple and learn forever, child.

The resistance base flashes through her mind: intent and will personified.  All of them, working together to defeat the First Order.  But that’s not…

She takes in another deep breath, closing her eyes as she does.  Purpose can’t simply be opposition.  A lifetime waiting amidst the burning hot sands of Jakku gave her experience with people who were defined by their hate of the planet, the people, themselves; those were the ones who didn’t last long.  You need more than hate if you want to survive.

Luke, broken; the galaxy, shattered without a government, without hope; the Force, so long asleep there was no one left to wield it.  the balance, her own voice tells her again, more intently. What balance, she thinks to herself, and it all shiftsand suddenly the universe is screaming; or, suddenly she can hear it.

LightLeia help me Obi-wan Kenobiand Poe and Finn, burning bright.

DarknessKylo Ren and his twisted seduced by the dark side of the Forceobsession with the past. With his master.

“The balance,” Rey says, out loud, and words come full circle. “I want to fix it.”

Ahsoka leans forward, montrals dangerously close to the flames between them.  “Are you certain?”

“Yes.” Rey can feel it, now: the galaxy, the Force, is out of balance, and screaming with the pain of it.  “I want to restore balance to the Force.”

Daughterteacherwolflight tilts her head back for a moment and laughs. “Well, then.”  The wheel turns, she doesn’t say, but Rey can hear it all the same.

other parts to follow!  questions, comments, compliments, concerns welcome. 

[bardofv0id]

The Bard Quest

I’ve seen a lot of confusion in the fandom about what a Bard is, how a Bard acts, and how a Bard's path to full development and growth might look, in its purest form.

Some of this is because our canon examples of Bards, in Gamzee and Cronus, are heavily afflicted and influenced by a variety of factors that strongly tint how their Class as a whole is perceived.  Some of this is just because people see the ridiculous codpiece and write the whole Class off as a joke.  As a Bard, myself, I have some opinions on this topic.

I'd like to start with some common misconceptions about Bards, then discuss how early-stage Bards may appear to lack or be afflicted by their Aspect, followed by an outline of the path a realized Bard might take.

Being a Bard means:

You are likely to spend a portion of your early life ghosting your inverse Class (Maid) and opposing Aspect heavily.  

You are likely to have a contentious relationship with your own Aspect and find some elements/expressions of it deeply flawed and frustrating.

You are still fundamentally motivated by your own Aspect, and by that conflict you experience with it.

You most likely have avoidant tendencies and are difficult to pin down firmly.

You have an immense capacity to change your own course and reinvent yourself.

Being a Bard does NOT mean:

You are a terrible person.

You are abusive, evil, or unhinged.

You are incapable of growth.

You are actually primarily driven by your opposing Aspect in disguise.

In more depth, Bards of any Aspect are likely to begin their narrative in a position of lacking or being denied the Aspect that rightfully belongs to them.  On the theme of inheritance, their parent or caretaker may be out of the picture or otherwise afflicted, leaving them shortchanged somehow. This lack or loss may also be partially of their own unconscious doing, for various reasons.

A young Bard of SPACE may be trapped in one location, with no idea of the property they actually have access to, potentially cut off from access to green and growing things, and may feel a need to avoid changes or new experiences, or perhaps expressing themselves through visual, tangible art.

A young Bard of TIME may be perpetually short on time, possibly lacking in access to machinery or electronics, and may feel compelled to avoid following schedules, making plans, or even pursuing any musical interests.

A young Bard of MIND may be denied personal choice or decision-making power in their lives, and may be told that they are intellectually sub-par or irrational, so might avoid the pursuit of logic or attempts to reason out the effects of their choices.

A young Bard of HEART may struggle to form a strong sense of personal identity or clearly recognizable empathy, and could be inclined to avoid emotional expression.

A young Bard of HOPE may not be free to pursue imaginative fancies or share their dreams, and could feel pressured to avoid expressing their convictions or wishes.

A young Bard of RAGE may be denied skepticism or doubt, expected to accept everything at face value regardless of evidence to the contrary, and could be driven to avoid the expression or acknowledgment of their own anger or fears.

A young Bard of BREATH may be restricted from pursuing their goals or barred from escaping emotionally taxing situations, and may avoid leadership roles or personal independence.

A young Bard of BLOOD may be deprived of connections or a sense of personal responsibility or prevented from putting down roots, and may avoid both making commitments and building close relationships.

A young Bard of LIFE may be prevented from growth and development in some way, whether physical or psychological, and could feel compelled to avoid healthy eating habits or self-care.

A young Bard of DOOM may be deprived of a sense of causality and structure in their life, through never being allowed to experience the consequences of their actions, and might feel driven to avoid authority or rules.

A young Bard of LIGHT may struggle to be noticed or treated as meaningful, or feel deprived of luck, and might be inclined to avoid pursuing knowledge as well as the spotlight.

A young Bard of VOID may be discouraged from asking questions or exploring potential, as well as evading attention, and may feel pressured to avoid uncertainty, secrets, or confusion of any sort.

At the same time as a Bard shies away from their native Aspect, they are likely to ghost the active creation/provision functions of their inverse Class--Maid--and express a surface interest in concepts connected closely to their opposing Aspect; Space to Time, Mind to Heart, Hope to Rage, Breath to Blood, Life to Doom, Light to Void, and vice versa.  Thus, a young Bard of Space (for example) may dabble in music, seem fixated on death and morbidity, or otherwise appear to be creating something Time-related. This shadowing of their inverse role can be quite pronounced, and in a Bard who fails to (or is prevented from) growing into their true capacity, it may linger indefinitely, leaving them very avoidant and uncomfortable around their native Aspect.

As they progress through their story, however, a Bard's superficial ghosting of their Maid of [opposing Aspect] shadow is likely to run dry and fail to satisfy them long-term. What they need, at their core, is access to their own Aspect's wheelhouse, and they are fundamentally driven to chip away at and undermine the elements of it that they dislike and find flawed, not through some deep affection for their opposing Aspect, but through powerful aggravation and dissatisfaction with the weaknesses of their own. Bards inherently understand that an excess of their own Aspect cannot rule, unchecked, and it requires balance and trimming to enable a stronger whole.

Further growth and development of a realized Bard will teach them that their Aspect itself is not only available to them, but can be an effective expression of their will, in their hands.  As their access to their Aspect grows, they are likely to be drawn to using it both to 'destroy' others and to weaken said Aspect for the benefit of those around them, when necessary.  Again, this can be reflected in a variety of ways, depending on the Aspect involved.

A realized Bard of SPACE may come to possess the understanding that vague and endless patience and flexibility is useless without decisive action, at some point. They may find a talent for artistic protest through graffiti or guerrilla gardening, unleashing their own patience and creativity to combat ineffective uses of space, or turn distance itself into a way to weaken and destroy hindrances.

A realized Bard of TIME may come to possess the understanding that impulsive action can lead to poor results just as planning too rigidly runs the risk of shattering under pressure and being unable to respond to changes.  They may turn to music with a strong message or perhaps development of devices, drawing on their ability to problem-solve and act swiftly to eradicate wastes of time, or may use time itself to crumble obstacles.

A realized Bard of MIND may come to possess the understanding that erroneous logic and poor choices are no benefit at all. They may discover a bent for satirical commentary or even teaching, with the right audience and subject--anything which enables them to strengthen and temper the rationale of others by eliminating flaws in it is likely to come more easily to them, and they may employ choices or justice to bring about defeat in those who threaten their side.

A realized Bard of HEART may come to possess the understanding that emotional theatrics and biased assumptions cannot be allowed to run wild. They may have an innate attraction toward fields of psychiatry or counseling, but not with the Sylph's brand of guidance--they are not afraid to unleash their core empathy and strong sense of self in a tactical, no-nonsense strike at the flaws they want to help others eradicate. 

A realized Bard of HOPE may come to possess the understanding that foolish naivete and false confidence are no real strength or benefit.  They may find the possibility, optimism, and faith exists within themselves to guide others to achieve their own true potential and turn their dreams into reality, or may use the enemy's own braggadocio to bring them down.

A realized Bard of RAGE may come to possess the understanding that confusion and disbelief alone cannot build anything constructive.  They may discover that their own doubt and anger can serve as a tool to reform, overhaul, and direct healthy skepticism and frustration towards appropriate targets, or that the restrictive thinking and judgments of the other side can be used against them.

A realized Bard of BREATH may come to possess the understanding that poor leadership and over-investment in badly-set goals pose an obstacle to development. They may find a talent for using their own emotional disconnect from situations and ability to inspire others to overthrow misguided leaders and eliminate muddled objectives, or may confound the direction and motivation of others to benefit their party.

A realized Bard of BLOOD may come to possess the understanding that mindless unity and commitment without question can lead to mob mentality.  They may turn to their own ability to coax promises out of people and unify disparate groups to scour away misplaced trust and simple stubbornness, or may turn their opposition into a leaderless mob.

A realized Bard of LIFE may come to possess the understanding that uncontrolled growth, unbalanced self-love, and constant nurturing can be just as smothering and toxic to development as unceasing hardship.  They may find ways to use their innate healing to prune away overgrown elements that are choking out the life of the whole, or may turn wealth, food, or physical strength into a way to weaken their party's opponents.

A realized Bard of DOOM may come to possess the understanding that unyielding, inflexible oversight and fatalistic pessimism can stifle function.  They may discover a penchant for turning their own authority or understanding of cause and effect into ways to undermine unnecessary obedience or foolish sacrifices, or employ such things as hacking or law as a means of destruction.

A realized Bard of LIGHT may come to possess the understanding that complete knowledge can overwhelm and unceasing attention can damage. They may turn their talents for calculating probability and comprehending factual information toward destroying things held up as falsely important or valuable, for the benefit of those around them, or may use the spotlight itself to burn away opposition to their side.

A realized Bard of VOID may come to possess the understanding of the harm that lies, secrets, and obscurity can inflict.  They may hone their own innate instincts for misinformation and gaps in actual evidence to tear down misunderstandings and expose secrets, or use rumors and tactical omission to weaken those who would harm their party.

I hope this helps clarify what I believe Bards are capable of, as a Class. Any other Bards out there want to weigh in on the topic? What fictional characters do you think could be classified as Bards?

-the resident Bard of Void

Header image from Bard Quest