#i hope they never feel any kind of emotion that is untainted by guilt from what they were complicit in

[mahoushojoe]

i keep saying this every night because there are new horrors every day, but genuinely this night will haunt me for the rest of my fucking life.

[mollymawkwrites]

Geralt/Eskel/Jaskier: Geralt brings Jaskier to Kaer Morhen and Eskel/Jaskier get their shit together first (communication skills!!) and Geralt comes to a Realization - dp/spitroasting - the turn of seasons, contrast of bright/dark, warm/cold

... this took way too long and I am so sorry about that. As an apology, here’s more than 5.5k of feelings, pining and misunderstandings, with a sprinkle of smut (as an apology, and not at all because I have zero self-restraint). Thank you so much for the lovely prompt, I hope this lives up to expectations 💖

I’ll post the link to Ao3 in the replies when this is beta’ed, sorry if there are any big mistakes!

CW: post-Mountain break-up, smut, Geralt’s Canonical Self-Loathing.

Falling in love with Eskel is the easiest thing Jaskier has ever done.

It happens slowly, but with a certainty that Jaskier has rarely felt before. Like sinking into a feather mattress, silk sheets caressing your skin.

It was never that easy with Geralt. Jaskier fell in love with him fast, sure, but he also fell hard, had to pick himself up afterwards, bruised and bloody.

The first day he arrives at Kaer Morhen, two weeks after his rescue from Nilfgaardian spies, Jaskier is miserable. The trek up the mountain has been hard on him, but harder even was his underwhelming reunion with Geralt, who barely acknowledged him, grunting that he'd be safer in Kaer Morhen before leaving Jaskier to decide by himself what he wanted to do.

His heart aches with two years of missing his best friend, finding he misses him even more now that they’ve been reunited. He'd always told himself he didn't hold any hope of his relationship with Geralt ever evolving into something more, but getting his heart broken on the top of a mountain had made him realise he'd somehow managed to fool himself too.

So he's prepared to spend a winter avoiding his former friend, though Geralt would probably not even call him that, holing up in whatever drafty room he's been attributed, and then he'll find a new name and dye his hair a different colour and hope it's enough to fool the Nilfs. It's a hard choice to make, renouncing the name he's made for himself, the reputation he's built over twenty years of hard work and songs he's still proud of today. But it's all tied too tightly to Geralt, and neither him nor his heart will survive it. Maybe, if Jaskier the Witcher’s bard is forgotten by everyone, his heartbreak won't be so obvious.

That pathetical plan is countered as soon as he steps foot in Kaer Morhen, and Geralt's brothers and mentor introduce themselves to him. They are similar, yet so different to the Witcher he's known for more than half his life.

They welcome him, if not with open arms, at least with warmth and smiles and, in Lambert's case, snarky banter Jaskier takes great pleasure in reciprocating.

Eskel doesn't draw his attention much at first. The dark-haired Witcher is friendly, tugging Geralt in a bear-like embrace as soon as they've passed the gates, and shaking Jaskier's hand with a kind, genuine smile Jaskier can't help but return.

But over the next couple of weeks, Jaskier spends more and more time with the amber-eyed wolf, discussing music and poetry and history as they execute their respective chores. After only a few days, Eskel is the one who searches him out when Jaskier is helping Vesemir in the kitchen or feeding the chickens in the courtyard. He shows him around the keep, more than the customary tour Vesemir gave Jaskier on his first day here. Eskel is full of stories from his childhood in the keep, and he is not greedy with the details. Jaskier can sense the underlying grief when the Witcher talks about the boys who didn't make it in the Trials, but Eskel doesn't linger in the sadness and makes sure to tell Jaskier all about his and Geralt's most imaginative antics.

The Witcher's company is a delight, and a nice distraction from Jaskier's heartache. When he can't take Geralt's silence and avoidance anymore, he seeks Eskel and his warmth, bathing in the man's attention. After a month, he finds himself dreaming of tanned hands and dark hair as much as pale skin and silver strands.

At first, he feels guilty about it. Eskel does not deserve to be someone's second choice. What he deserves is unconditional, untainted love.

But as days pass, frost a little thicker on the blades of grass in the courtyard every morning, the mountains losing their warm autumn colours to shades of blue and grey, Jaskier and Eskel gravitate towards each other until they collide, softly and without a sound. It happens so naturally, Jaskier almost thinks he’s dreamt it when he wakes up one day at dawn, and instead of his freezing room, he opens his eyes to a broad, golden-skinned chest. His cheek rises and falls with the slow breaths where it rests on one plush pec, a pool of his own saliva glistening in a smattering of dark hair.

He hasn’t felt that relaxed in years, and only part of it is due to the frankly fantastic post-sex bliss he’s still basking in. There is no anxiety, no second thoughts. Eskel made sure to make his intentions clear before they fell into bed together, shocking Jaskier into silence with how open with his feelings he was. The bard still can’t help but compare how completely different Geralt and Eskel are.

They agreed to take things slow, to enjoy each other for the winter and then see where things take them. Jaskier knows he’s falling in love with Eskel, but it doesn’t feel scary. He won’t be alone once the time comes to make a decision.

It takes another week for him to move into Eskel’s room completely. They don’t bother hiding their new… entanglement, to the others. No secret can be kept in a keep full of Witchers, and neither Eskel nor Jaskier cares to pretend.

Lambert gives them shit, to no one’s surprise, and Ciri squeals in delight, the gossiping princess resurfacing for a few moments. Vesemir claps Eskel on the shoulder, before reminding all of them that they have chores to do.

Geralt doesn’t say anything.

Jaskier didn’t expect him to jump in joy, he’s not sure the Witcher is even capable of such displays of emotion, but the white-haired Witcher doesn’t even look at them, only ushers Ciri outside to the training grounds.

Over the next few weeks, Jaskier only sees him at supper. He’s gotten used to avoiding Geralt, to keep out of his way, but until then they would still meet in the hall when the weather was too bad for the Witchers to train outside, or at lunch when they would accidentally come in for a bite at the same time. Eskel and Geralt spend a considerable amount of time together, and Jaskier would often find them together doing whatever repair was needed, but these days, when he manages to escape his chores long enough to seek his lover for a stolen kiss or a quick fuck, Geralt is nowhere in sight.

When Jaskier asks his amber-eyed wolf one evening after they retired to their room, Eskel confirms what he already suspected.

“I haven’t seen him in a while, no,” the Witcher rumbles softly, a hand tracing arabesques on the bare skin of Jaskier’s back. “He goes hunting alone almost every day. He does that, sometimes, when he’s upset, though I’m not sure what it’s about, this time.”

Jaskier hums, pensive. His heart clenches at the thought of Geralt avoiding his own family. Guilt creeps on him, its long, sharp claws burying themselves under his ribs. How dare he come to Geralt’s only home, his only place of peace and acceptance, and claim a place in his brother’s heart? He’s done a shit job of fulfilling Geralt’s wish of having him out of his life, hasn’t he?

A strong arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him closer to the furnace of Eskel’s body.

“What’re you thinking of that makes you smell so sad, songbird?”

Jaskier smiles at the endearment. His wolf is generous with his affection, and Jaskier is selfish. He wants it all. But does he have any right to it, if he is taking it from Geralt?

“Do you think it’s because of us?” He asks, turning his head to rest his chin on Eskel’s sternum. “That Geralt is keeping to himself, I mean.”

Eskel frowns pensively. “I… don’t know. I suppose, in a way. But I think he’s mostly wallowing in his own self-loathing.”

“When isn’t he?” Jaskier teases.

The Witcher huffs, a sad half-smile tugging at his scars. “I was afraid he’d be jealous, or upset, hoping maybe it’d help him pull his head out of his own ass, but I’m afraid it’s buried even deeper than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I didn’t want to get between the two of you, but I know Geralt. He ain’t gonna do anything about it, and then he’ll regret it once it’s too late.”

That doesn’t make any sense. “Eskel, there’s nothing between me and Geralt.” Well, that’s not quite true. “I wanted there to be something, for a very long time, but… well, turns out I was the only one wanting it. If anything, I thought I was the one getting between the two of you.”

“Songbird, there hasn’t been anything but friendship between Geralt and I since before you were born.” Sadness clouds Eskel’s eyes for a second, and the piece Jaskier has been missing clicks into place.

“You and Geralt were together?” He asks, voice tight with emotion.

“Not sure we can even call it that,” a bitter smile twists Eskel’s scars in a painful grimace. “We found… comfort, with each other, when nothing else could give us that. But it hasn’t been like that in a very long time.”

“Why?”

Eskel shrugs with one shoulder, almost dislodging Jaskier from his position. “People change, songbird. And when you live as long as we do, well… you can’t expect things to stay the same forever. I’m glad we stayed as close as we are, despite him not wanting us to be anything other than friends anymore.”

The Witcher kisses the crown of Jaskier’s head and flicks his wrist, snuffing out the candles, a clear sign that the conversation is over. Jaskier doesn’t push, conscious this is a sensitive subject, but that doesn’t keep him from staring in the darkness for a long time after Eskel’s breaths have slowed and deepened, troubled by this new facet of the two men he loves.

Geralt’s reaction makes more sense now, why he would act so uncomfortable around Eskel and Jaskier now that the two of them are a thing. If Geralt still has feelings for his friend, then… seeing Jaskier, the man he hates and despises, whom he holds responsible for his every trouble (quite unfairly, in Jaskier’s opinion, but still), taking his place in the arms of the man he’s been in love with for longer than the bard has been alive… well, Jaskier can understand why he’d be upset.

There’s just a tiny bit of pettiness coming from the selfish, ugly part of him, that sings at the idea. Geralt broke his heart on that mountain top, isn’t it simple justice that Jaskier breaks his heart in turn?

But that line of thought is quickly smothered by guilt, and, more upsettingly, love. He’s loved Geralt for half his life now. No matter how hurt he might be, all he wants is for him to be happy. Or as happy as a self-loathing Witcher can be.

And it’s so obvious that Eskel loves him, too, now that Jaskier thinks about it. There’s a softness in his eyes and the corner of his mouth when he looks at Geralt that isn’t there when he’s around anyone else, an ease and a trust that Jaskier used to attribute to long term friendship but can only come from two bodies knowing each other intimately.

Jaskier can’t put himself between the two of them, can’t bear the idea of robbing both men of the little happiness they can find in a world that doesn’t accept them. And if he was Geralt, he would probably let Eskel down gently, taking himself out of the way and hoping the other two would get their shit together and talk, but he’s not, and if there’s a way that the three of them can find even a little satisfaction in this mess, then he’s going to try his best and make it happen.

He only hopes Geralt will listen to him.

*

It takes him a few days to work up the courage to approach the sullen White Wolf, and then another two to catch him alone, one night after dinner.

Unsurprisingly, he finds him in the stables, brushing down a Roach who seems more interested in nipping at Scorpion’s flanks than in the brooding Witcher in her stall. A wave of fondness overcomes Jaskier at the familiar sight, and he has to shake himself to remember what he’s come here to do.

“Geralt,” he says, softer than he intended. The Witcher doesn’t startle, but he tenses visibly, his grip on the brush turning white-knuckled. Jaskier lets out a trembling sigh, his resolve the only thing keeping him from turning away and finding shelter in Eskel’s arms to cry his heartache away. “We need to talk.”

Geralt doesn’t gratify him with an answer, like maybe if he ignores Jaskier long enough the bard will go away. How he didn’t learn that doesn’t work in the twenty years they’ve known each other, Jaskier has no idea.

“It’s about Eskel.” That, at least, has the merit to catch Geralt’s attention, the Witcher turning his head just enough to peek at Jaskier from the corner of his eye.

“He told me, about… about the two of you. What you were to each other.”

Geralt sucks in a harp breath. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”

And Jaskier can see this is a lie even with the Witcher turning his back to him. His heart clenches, for his best friend, despite everything that happened, and his lover, who have not allowed themselves to have what they both so visibly crave. “It does, though. It does matter. I’m not… I have no wish to keep you from each other, Geralt. I… I love him.” Jaskier chokes out, and something painful flashes in Geralt’s eyes. “And I… I…” he almost lets himself say it, bare his heart for Geralt to see, but he’s gotten too used to protecting himself, to hiding his most shameful truth. “I know you do, too.”

Geralt hangs his head between his shoulders, face hidden in the shadows, the warm, low light of the oil lamp he brought with him playing in his pale hair. “You’re making him happy. The two of you… you’re good, together. I am glad you found each other.”

“Are you really, Geralt? Because you’ve been avoiding us for weeks. It’s hurting him.” It’s hurting me, Jaskier doesn’t say, because none of this is about him. “Listen, I… I know you don’t want anything to do with me, I got that loud and clear, but if there’s a way… for us three to… to find satisfaction, then maybe…”

“Speak plainly, bard.”

Jaskier exhales, nerves making his throat tight. “You know I don’t believe in exclusive relationships,” and Geralt doesn’t, either; Yennefer and him both had lovers on the side, it was no secret between them. “If you and Eskel wanted to… start again where you left things, I see no issue with that. I want him to be happy, too. I… I want you to be happy, Geralt. You’re still important to me, even after everything.”

He’s said more than he wanted to, and Geralt doesn’t even deign to look at him. That’s so familiar it hurts. Jaskier smiles, an ugly thing full of regrets and unspoken words, and turns on his heels. He’s done his part. It’s up to Geralt to make a choice, now.

“Jaskier,” a broken voice says as a hand wraps around his wrist. He startles, and turns to find Geralt watching him with pleading eyes. It’s such an absurd sight, it leaves him speechless for a minute, and Geralt takes it as an encouragement to speak. The Witcher clears his throat. “I don’t… You’re…” the way he interrupts himself in obvious frustration, brow furrowed and lips thinned, is almost endearing. “You’re important to me, too.”

Tears swell in Jaskier’s eyes, and he tugs at his wrist to free it. Geralt lets him go without resistance.

“Please don’t lie to me, Geralt. I can take the hurt, I can take the rejection. But I won’t take the pity.” He almost spits the last sentence, and a surge of bitter satisfaction warms his painful heart at Geralt’s flinch.

“I’m not, I swear. I… I’ve missed you, Jask, I’ve missed you so much.” His voice is husky, weighed by shame and regret, and Jaskier has no doubt he is saying the truth. Geralt is a lot of things, but a good actor is not one of them. “There hasn’t been a day I haven’t thought about what I said to you after the dragon hunt. None of it was true, I… I was furious, but it wasn’t your fault. I’m so sorry.”

When Jaskier let himself dream of this moment, while walking down of the mountain or in the dark of the cell the Nilfargiaans kept him in, he’d imagined how he’d make Geralt grovel, how he’d tell him about every little thing Jaskier had ever done for him, to make his life easier, to show him how he could find happiness even on the Path.

As it is, Jaskier only stares at Geralt for a few seconds before tugging him into a crushing embrace. “Fuck, I’ve missed you too, you stupid Witcher.”

Geralt makes a wounded noise but lets himself be engulfed in Jaskier’s arms, tucking his nose in the hollow of his throat. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, warm breath humid against the bard’s skin. “I wanted to come looking after you, but I had to make sure Ciri was safe…”

“I am glad you did,” Jaskier says, petting the hair at the nape of Geralt’s neck. “But why didn’t you say anything once Yennefer brought me to you? Geralt, we climbed up those damn mountains together. It’s been two months since we’ve been here. I thought you didn’t… that you didn’t want me here.”

Hands twist in the back of Jaskier’s thick woolen cape. “I didn’t know how to. While we were still on the Path I was worried about Nilfgaard catching up to us, about keeping Ciri and you fed and safe, and I thought this could wait until we were here. But then…” Geralt makes a frustrated noise so familiar it has Jaskier smiling in the crown of his head.

“Words were hard to find?”

He feels more than he sees Geralt’s nod. “And once you and Eskel became… involved, you seemed so much happier. I thought I’d only make things worse, and that you deserved to move on. To… forget about me. But I do want you here, Jaskier. If I had any right to it, I’d want you by my side always.”

A breath catches in Jaskier's throat, and tears prick at the corner of his eyes. Those are words he's dreamt of hearing for so many years, and he's finally hearing them now, in a stable smelling of horseshit and hay. It's so simple, so mundane, and yet he can barely bring himself to believe this is truly happening.

And maybe it's because he is stunned, or maybe because he's done hiding, but suddenly it feels so important that he says the truth.

"Geralt, you… you must know…" he pulls back, putting just enough distance between them that he can see Geralt's suspiciously red-rimmed eyes, that he can see how the Witcher reacts to his words. "I would have followed you anywhere, until my feet could carry me no more. You know that, right? I've never been subtle," he laughs wetly. Geralt is looking increasingly confused, like he has no idea what Jaskier is talking about, and that just doesn't make sense.

Making a frustrated sound, Jaskier twists his hands in the lapels of Geralt's thick winter coat, tugging him forward slowly so the Witcher can stop him if he wants.

But he doesn't, and their lips meet, harshly enough that Jaskier hopes it'll carry his meaning even through Geralt's thick skull.

It must work, because next thing he knows, he is being ravished quite thoroughly by an enthusiastic Witcher, a hand at the back of his head and another at the small of his back, under the hem of his cape. A thumb rubs circles at the base of his spine, and he's slowly melting into a puddle of contentment, his only thought a constant stream of this is happening, oh my fucking gods this is happening.

There's little time for the realization to set in, though, as a draft of cold wind fills the stables, and a soft "oh" pushes Jaskier and Geralt to separate.

Just outside of the circle of light cast by the oil lamp, Eskel stands watching them, eyebrows drawn up in surprise. Jaskier's guts clench in guilt and he steps away from Geralt hurriedly. "Eskel, it's not-" what you think, he doesn't finish, because that is a lie, and Eskel deserves better than lies.

But there's little else Jaskier can say to justify how Eskel just found him, kissing his best friend and former lover passionately in the middle of the night, when he should have been back in their shared bed an hour ago.

He knew he'd fuck up somehow. That's so classic.

The three of them are silent for a heartbeat, the horses shifting in their stalls the only noise in the cramped space, and Jaskier wants to cross the space between Eskel and him so badly, but he knows he doesn't have the right to, and it's killing him.

Just when his agony reaches a peak, Eskel's mouth curls at the corner, softness blooming in his eyes. "I see you've gotten your shit together," he says. " 's about time."

This is so completely out of what Jaskier expected him to say that he doesn’t manage to find a suitable answer. Surprisingly, Geralt is the one to talk next.

“I’m not going to take him from you,” he says cautiously.

“I know,” Eskel grins. “I know that if I asked you you would never even look at him again.”

Jaskier spares a glance for Geralt, and a pit opens in his gut at the acceptance he finds in his eyes.

“But that would make the three of us miserable,” Eskel adds. “And I won’t do that to Jaskier, or to you.”

“Eskel, what are you saying?” If his soft-hearted Witcher is suggesting what Jaskier thinks he is…

“I don’t see why things between us should change, songbird, if you wished to spend some nights in Geralt’s bed. Of course, if you two want to be exclusive to each other,” the first glimmer of doubt insinuates itself in Eskel’s kind voice, but he keeps speaking bravely, “then I will not impose myself.”

“No!” Jaskier says, a little too loud, his hand shooting up to grip at Eskel’s wrist. Roach nickers irritably in her stall at the disturbance.

“I… I mean, if both you and Geralt are amenable, there is space in my bed for the two of you.”

Eskel’s dark eyebrow arches. “Don’t you mean in my bed?”

But his hand closes around Jaskier’s reassuringly, warm and soft as he looks at Geralt. “What do you say, Wolf?”

And Geralt is watching them both with equal part fear and want in his eyes, like his deepest desire is just in reach but he isn’t sure if it’s not going to burn him at the first touch. Jaskier extends his free hand, and he can feel Eskel tensing infinitesimally beside him, careful to keep a relaxed posture, but as worried as Jaskier that their white-haired Witcher is going to bolt out the door to a more familiar loneliness.

Geralt surprises them both by taking Jaskier’s hand with an air of firm resolution, crossing the space between them slowly until he stands close enough to share their warmth. Eskel raises his left hand, cupping Geralt’s jaw with infinite softness. Jaskier can see in his eyes the same pride he is feeling himself, at their white wolf’s bravery.

The air leaves Jaskier’s lungs in a rush when the two men’s lips meet like they weren’t ever meant to part. The contrast of Eskel’s golden skin against Geralt’s milky one is the most beautiful work of art he’s ever been given to see, and the tight heat in his lower belly tells him he wants to see more of it, now.

The two Witchers kiss for a long minute, Jaskier watching them with naked hunger and want, but for once not in a hurry to claim the attention back on himself. He makes an involuntary noise when Eskel nips at Geralt’s lower lip playfully, and two burning golden gazes turn on him. It’s so intense, so heavy, that another breath leaves Jaskier with a wheeze. A grin is spreading on Eskel’s handsome features, and Geralt’s eyes sparkle with interest.

“What do you think, Wolf? Do you think the two of us will be enough to satisfy our little bard?”

And oh, Jaskier does so want them to try.

*

Jaskier often prides himself loudly and brazenly of his carnal exploits as an Oxenfurt student and travelling bard. He’s had sex with numerous people of all genders and races, sometimes several at the same time, and has been praised for being a generous and enthusiastic lover.

Never has he been so overwhelmed after only a few minutes of foreplay.

There’s a cock down his throat and fingers in his arse and he’s trembling all over. Eskel is soothing him with a palm to his side, murmuring praise as he pushes three thick, oiled fingers to Jaskier’s prostate.

Geralt is brushing a hand down his cheek, feeling his own cock through the stretched skin. Jaskier sucks and licks with single-minded focus, moaning and wiggling when Eskel executes a particularly well-aimed thrust.

“Look at him, asking for more even when he’s stuffed full,” Eskel smugly says to Geralt as he gives a sharp slap to the bard’s arse. Jaskier yelps and jumps forward, Geralt’s cock hitting the back of his throat. He chokes and gags but doesn’t relent, breathing through his nose expertly. Geralt wipes the tears from his cheeks, the tender motion in stark contrast with his curses and animalistic grunts. It’s a contradiction Jaskier is quickly becoming addicted to.

He's so focused on his worship of Geralt's glorious cock he doesn't notice Eskel's fingers slipping out of his hole before they are replaced with the fat head of his prick. He gasps, letting Geralt's hard length slip out of his mouth, resting his temple against his hip as he breathes through the intrusion. He still hasn't gotten used to Eskel's girth, the stretch leaving him drooling and dazed every time.

They're all still as Jaskier accommodates it, testing the sensation with little clenches of his arse that have Eskel grunting and squeezing the plump flesh of his cheeks.

"'m good, you can move," Jaskier mumbles in the dip of Geralt's hip, and Eskel pulls out to execute a few shallow thrusts, getting the both of them used to the new sensations.

When he picks up speed, a hand threads in Jaskier's hair, pulling him to look up and meet a painfully tender gaze. Geralt holds him with one hand, the other grasping his own cock and guiding it back into Jaskier’s begging mouth, smearing a trail of pre-come on his cheek on the way.

It's easy to lose himself into it after that. He is full, warm and content, and he wishes he could stay that way forever, pinned between his two lovers, pleasing them with his wet mouth and his tight arse. Used for their pleasure alone.

He's only human, though, and his stamina can't compare to two Witchers'. He spills almost as soon as Eskel gets a hand on his cock, his wails muffled by Geralt's.

Geralt is caring enough to let Jaskier breathe as he comes down, cradling the bard’s face in his hands, but Eskel doesn't pull out. They've talked about each other's boundaries at length, he knows Jaskier can take more.

He's brushing his thumb where Jaskier and him are connected, hole fluttering with the last spasms of his orgasm. Jaskier whimpers at the sensation.

"Damn, you always get so loose and sloppy when you've come… do you think you could take the two of us like this?"

Jaskier's chest swells with a sob at the thought, arms trembling where they struggle to keep him up. The fingers around his jaw squeeze lightly, demanding his attention, and he meets Geralt's gaze once again.

"Answer to Eskel, pretty lark," Geralt rumbles. "Is it too much? Do you want more?"

"Yes," Jaskier manages to slur. "More, please. I want… I want both of you."

Geralt's pupils expand impossibly larger, and he bends to kiss Jaskier languidly.

He's a very thorough kisser, grunting at the taste of himself on Jaskier's tongue. Tears well up in Jaskier's eyes as emotion seizes his heart. Finally, he thinks, finally, I get to have him.

He shouts in the kiss, breaking their connection, when Eskel's thumb slips along his cock in Jaskier's hole.

The stretch is intense, even with how relaxed Jaskier is from his climax, and his arms give out, his face squashing into the mattress with a moan.

Geralt chuckles above him before gathering the weak bard into his arms, shuffling them so Jaskier is propped against his chest, while Eskel keeps opening him from behind.

It’s too warm there, pinned between his two Witchers, but Jaskier doesn’t have any complaint. Geralt resumes kissing him to distract him from the almost too intense stretch, and it works. When his breath grows too ragged, Geralt frees his lips and lets him rest his head against his shoulder for a second, lungs expanding with deep gulps of breath. Geralt and Eskel talk in hushed voices, but he can’t focus on what they’re saying, his every thought gathering around the point where he is stretched wider than he’s ever been around Eskel’s cock and fingers.

He is manhandled without difficulty, until he is straddling Geralt’s lap, Eskel still buried hilt deep in him, Geralt mouthing at his neck, two pairs of large hands roaming his sides, his back, his stomach.

“You ready, songbird?” Eskel rumbles in his ear, the low timbre of his voice piercing through the thick fog in Jaskier’s fucked out brain.

The bard nods into Geralt’s shoulder, whining pitifully.

“Did you actually manage to fuck words out of him, Eskel?” Geralt says with a hint of humour, squeezing Jaskier against him affectionately. “Might have to give you a medal for that.”

“Hm. What about a kiss?”

Jaskier smiles groggily at the sounds of intense making-out next to his ear, turning his head to admire the view. Geralt and Eskel truly are gorgeous together, skins lit by the candles, sweat beading on their foreheads, a drop rolling down the crease of one of Eskel’s scars to where his lips join Geralt’s. Their kiss is all teeth and tongue, playful and nipping, fighting for a control none of them truly cares about. It’s a sight Jaskier hopes to be graced with every day of his life from now on.

But for now, impatience is making him clench and grind around Eskel, who breaks his and Geralt’s kiss to grunt. “We haven’t forgotten about you, songbird, don’t worry.”

He cups Jaskier’s cheek in his hand to meet his lips, tasting of Geralt and himself.

There’s a new pressure at Jaskier’s entrance and he gasps in Eskel’s mouth when he realizes it’s Geralt’s cock pushing inside him. The three of them moan in unison when it gets past the ring of muscles and slides besides Eskel’s prick. They stay still, panting for a few moments, until Jaskier garbles a “move” and Eskel complies, taking the lead. Geralt, carrying most of Jaskier’s weight, is slower at the beginning, but picks up speed, moving in counterpart to Eskel, never leaving Jaskier empty even for a single second. They hit his prostate with every thrust in, overwhelming him so quickly he’s only a ragdoll between the two of them after only a few minutes of the same treatment.

Eskel and Geralt lavish his throat and shoulders with soft bites and soothing licks, meeting for a kiss over him once or twice.

Jaskier comes quickly, his cock rutting against Geralt’s toned abs, the friction barely enough to have him tip over the edge, coating the rippling muscles in thick white come. Eskel follows him rapidly, his thrusts growing erratic until he spills deep into Jaskier’s ass, whispering his name reverently in the short hair at the nape of his neck. Geralt joins them after a few more thrusts, grunting his release into Jaskier’s collarbone, goosebumps breaking over the skin of his back.

The Witchers’ softening pricks slip out of his ass and Jaskier hisses at the sudden chill of emptiness. A dribble of come drips from his sensitive hole, gaping and fluttering, and Eskel takes a sharp intake of breath at the sight, fingers coming to brush the abused flesh. Jaskier whimpers in protest, too tired to move, and Geralt shushes him with a kiss to the tip of his nose.

They bring him down to the mattress, arranging his limbs comfortably. One of them - Jaskier doesn’t open his eyes to check which - gets up and brings back a rag to clean him up and a waterskin, bullying him to drink even though all he wants is to lie down and sleep.

Finally, they all snuggle up together on the bed that is slightly too small for three grown men, the room stinking of sex.

There will be a lot to talk about, tomorrow when they wake up, but for now Jaskier buries his nose in the crook of Geralt’s neck, Eskel plastered to his back, both their hands meeting on his chest, over his slowly beating heart. Content. Warm. Jaskier drifts off with a smile on his face and a new song in his mind.

[call-me-nerdy]

Mari takes off her rose-tinted glasses

Felinette November day 5; Scars.

Nothin' wrong with a bit of angst and some fluff on the side, right?

His skin was unmarred by blemishes; untainted by wicked marks. But his eyes revealed the grotesque scars she never bothered to notice before.

-----

She saw him as he stood idly in front of immense double doors, silent as he counted the drops of water that charged at the ground. Deja vu pierced through her chest like an arrow at the sight of his regard, twisting her heart with the pain of familiar nostalgia. Her palms ached, her lips quivered – cold, trembling fists tightened around the umbrella handle. The scene felt too familiar; too uncanny.

He looked so lonely.

Marinette stared at him from her spot, pensive. Adrien, by all accounts, looked absolutely normal – his posture was straight as the days before; his clothes were identical to yesterday and his passive countenance was the same as it always had been. But then why, she thought, why does he seem so different? Marinette never thought of Adrien as a lonely person, what with the attention and admiration he always recieved in class. And never in Marinette's whole career of lovelorn pining, had Adrien ever changed a single thing about himself. Not his hair, not his style of clothing, and not even his model-perfect complexion.

It didn't occur to her until she saw his eyes.

His skin was unmarred by blemishes; untainted by wicked marks since the day she fell in love. But those eyes... Dear lord, those beautiful green eyes that drove her over the edge every time she saw them. Those eyes that nudged her to fall into tragedy on that faithful day in the rain. Those eyes that she once coveted to the point of a malicious obsession,– that drove her mad with envy whenever someone else wanted them for their own. Those eyes – no, Adrien's eyes were morose under his hair. Disturbingly distant as he stared at the raindrops that fell on damp concrete. His eyes revealed the grotesque scars she never bothered to notice before, throbbing red and infected with every emotional anguish he had endured.

Oh, how she had been so cruel.

Marinette hated many things in life – she hated many things about herself. She hated being so clumsy and worrying the people she loved with the purple bruises on her skin. She hated how she always took it upon herself to deal with responsibilities that were never hers to begin with. She despised being a damn liar to her friends and family, even if it was for the sake of secret identities.

And most especially, she loathed being so selfish when it came to her desire for Adrien Agreste.

How many times had she sabotaged other people to preserve a love that never existed? How many people did she betray, regardless of their innocence? There were far too many to count – too many people she had hurt. She had been the catalyst of far too many cursed butterflies – had been a vessel of the toxicity she sought so hard to eradicate. It lit her up with raging hellfire and devoured her from the inside out.

Marinette was burning.

It burned. It scorched. It punished. It hurt. Her hands felt heavy with blood. Cruel voices whispered betrayal into her ear, accusations of crimes that Marinette couldn't deny. And suddenly, her conscience weighed heavy on her shoulders.

She couldn't go on like this.

She was a horrible friend in the countless times she ditched preplanned events just to stalk Adrien. She was an insensitive classmate when she seized opportunities that her classmates deserved a lot more. She had been a terrible lover when she prioritized her happiness over Adrien's smile. Unjust, naïve, and obsessive, Marinette almost laughed, How did I ever hope that he would be happy with me?

She had been so blind to his pains. A perfect image to uphold, his lack of freedom, and downtrodden by a neglectful father that pushed arduous responsibilities on his back. The daily akumas only rubbed salt on his wounds, – seeing so many of his friends become victim to Hawkmoth's manipulations. It was a miracle that Adrien still had the resolve to smile everyday.

Marinette peaked another glance his way, sighing.

God, she loved that boy. Her heart still beat frantically whenever he smiled her way, – her cheeks still reddened with his every compliment. Beautiful Adrien. Sweet, kind, and talented Adrien. How could she not love him? How could she simply ignore a boy who's goodness knew know bounds? One would be fool to hurt him.

Just like she did.

She loved him. She loved him so much. and she would continue to love him. Even if...

Even if it wasn't her to make him happy.

Marinette strode over to him, a black umbrella shielding her from the rain. Puddles broke with her every step. Adrien noticed her arrival, smiling awkwardly as he waved at her.

"Five PM is a bit late to still be in the school, isn't it?" Marinette forced herself to smile.

Adrien laughed, "It is, but the Gorilla is on leave today, and Nathalie won't be arriving until Seven." he grinned. "But don't worry, It's nothing I haven't handled before."

Marinette's heart clenched, had it always been like this?

"Don't you commute?"

Adrien ran a hand through his hair, "I do, but I'm not particularly equipped right now as you can see." He admitted sheepishly.

"Oh." Marinette's mind blanked on how to respond. Silence surrounded them with deafening volume, only broken by the pattering of water on the floor.

"Hey, doesn't this feel a bit familiar?" He finally said, looking to the sky in fond memory.

Marinette inhaled shakily, "It is."

"It's the day we first met, right? When you got trapped inside the umbrella?" Adrien tried to lighten the mood, albeit a bit poorly.

Marinette remembered that day well, – the memory burned deep into her mind. It was the day fell head-over-heels for the blond in front of her, and it was also the day she first embarassed herself in front of him.

"I'm appalled you still remember! And that you brought it up." She mustered all of her strength to reply, a cheeky grin on her lips.

He perked up at her reply, "Hey, hey! No harm, no foul. It was pretty adorable, honestly."

She faked a dramatic gasp, "Flattery, Agreste? Don't try to butter me up for croissants!"

His laugh was music to her ears, "I wasn't! It was the truth, cross my heart." Adrien drew a cross on his chest.

Marinette fought a blush from appearing, her heartbeat was starting to pick up it's pace. She gulped, "S-speaking of that day, remember this umbrella?"

"You brought it? I haven't seen it with you until today." His eyes widened at the sight of his black umbrella in Marinette's hands.

"I had a hunch about the weather." She said.

"I never knew about your clairvoyance." He teased back, a childish joy on his face. Marinette's never seen him like this before.

"You don't know a lot, Agreste." She quipped. She wasn't sure if her words were wholly jokes.

"Well," Adrien looked conflicted, "I do want to get to know you."

Marinette frowned, "Is that so?"

"Uhm, yeah! Sorry if it sounds a bit rude, but I can't but get the feeling that you're always scared around me." He admitted. She couldn't stand the hurt in his voice.

"Really?" Was all she managed to say.

"I mean, you always seem to run away whenever I enter the room. You stutter a lot, and Nino and Alya refuse to tell me why. " Adrien rubbed the back of his head with a sheepish expression. Marinette's chest hurt even more.

"I'm sorry that you felt that way. It was wrong of me to make you feel unwelcomed." Marinette's hold on the umbrella tightened, her palms ached with guilt.

His eyes widened, "Oh, don't apologize! I just thought that I did something wrong, but I never really had the chance to say sorry."

"Say sorry for me being a coward?" She laughed bitterly.

"No! Well, I uhm... It's just that we never get to talk like this! I kind of envy Alya because of that." He admitted. "You always seem so comfortable with her and the others."

Marinette glanced at him, his expression was that of a kicked puppy. "Well, I'm sorry for running away from you all the time." She started, "And, if it helps, maybe we can start over?"

"What? Really?!" Adrien looked so hopeful. Marinette's heart melted.

She nodded, smiling. She extended her hand towards him, "Hello, stranger. I am Marinette Dupain-Cheng, an aspiring designer, baker's daughter, and can totally beat you in Ultimate Mega Strike 3." she ended with a smirk.

"Hi, Marinette." He started, unsure in his words. "My name is Adrien, I love anime, croissants and I hate stinky cheese." Marinette suppressed a coo at his cute introduction. Adrien smirked back, "And it's me who can beat you in UMS 3."

"Let's test your theory next time, then you'll treat me to a milkshake when I win." She challenged

"No way! You'll be the one getting me croissants when I kick your butt!" He laughed. Marinette joined him with a fit of giggles herself.

She felt... lighter somehow. She felt better than before.

When their laughs died down, Marinette extended the umbrella in his direction, "Here,"

Adrien looked at her, confused.

Marinette giggled, "It's getting late, and your house is already pretty far away." She toom his hand and placed the umbrella habdle into itm

"Marinette, I can't–" he frowned.

She deadpanned, "Adrien, I live a few feet away from the school, you need it more than me."

"But I–"

"If you fight me on this, you won't be getting any croissants tomorrow." Adrien reluctantly took the umbrella at the threat, avoiding ger gaze. Marinette sighed, satisfied. "Good. Now hurry to the train station before you get sick."

Adrien looked her in the eyes again, "We'll talk tomorrow, right?" he asked hopefully.

Marinette smiled, "Of course."

He stared at her. He looked happy.

A moment passed before somehow, somehow, the umbrella closed and trapped Adrien inside of it.

"Mmpf!" He yelped.

Marinette burst out in laughter, clutching her stomach. "At this point, I think your umbrella is cursed to trap people inside it on rainy days!" She gasped out. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen." Kneelibg down, she pulled the umbrella open, revealing a very flustered Adrien

"S-sorry about that!" A blush coated his cheeks, his stutter was adorable too.

Marinette snorted, "You shouldn't be the one apologizing, you dork!" She pulled him up on his feet.

"See ya," She said, opening the umbrella for him.

He took it in his hands, "Y-yeah." Adrien stuttered out, before rushing out of the school gates.

Marinette watched his retreating figure, a sigh escaped her lips. Her shoulders felt lighter, and she breathed much more freely.

Then why did she feel so empty?

It was only after he left the school grounds when she felt a tear kiss her cheeks.

Then another.

And another.

Until she dropped down on the floor, wracked with ugly sobs.

She wasn't rejected. Nothing hurt. On the contrary, her chest felt more numb than heartbroken. Then why on earth was she crying?! It didn't make any sense at all. She tried to wipe away the tears that fell, but more replaced them every time. Her shoulders trembled up and down, she bit her lips to keep them from shaking.

"Marinette, everything will be okay." A tiny, feminine voice assured, a small hand rubbing the shell of her ear in comfort.

Marinette gasped through the sobs, "Oh, Tikki. Why am I crying? Why is it so numb?! I shouldn't be crying!" she wailed, her hands cupping her face.

"It is perfectly normal to mourn a love that you let go." A different voice chimed, calming and rational. Marinette recognized the speaker to be Wayzz.

"I d-don't understand!" She hiccuped.

"I'm sorry..." Wayzz said, guilt laced his tone.

Marinette heard footfalls approaching her direction, splashing with every step. She swallowed her sobs and frantically tried to wipe her tears away as the teo kwamis hid inside her bag.

"Hey." A familiar voice gently called, – Marinette knew it all too well. The tears stopped falling on her cheeks. She looked up to meet his concerned eyes.

Felix.

"Hey to you too." She weakly greeted from the ground.

Felix frowned, "It's raining, you should go home."

She chuckled halfheartedly, "I kinda gave my umbrella away."

"Here, stand up. I'll walk you home." He offered his hand. Marinette took it gratefully, and pulled herself up.

She waved her hands, "It's really fine, Fé. You might get home late. I already sent Adrien home."

He clicked his tongue, "And leave you on the floor? Come on now, you live nearby anyway."

Marinette laughed, "You won't take no for an answer, will you?" she grinned at him. She knew him too well.

"No."

Smirking, she relented, "Alright, I accept, my Knight with too much hair gel."

"I might just splash you with rain water." Felix rolled his eyes.

"I'm kidding!" She snickered, taking his arm under the umbrella.

"Hey Fe,"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

------

OKAY SO I'M EXTREMELY LATE, SO WHAT.

Everyone loves a good umbrella scene. Especially since It's a reverse umbrella scene. And even better, it's two umbrella scenes in one oneshot!

And yes, Adrien does develop a crush on Marinette after this, sue me.

So a lot of thought went into this, like Adrien and Marinette's 'introductions' to one another. Marinette presented herself with her full name, while Adrien only said "My name is Adrien." Additionally, Adrien told Mari that he liked Anime, croissants and hated stinky cheese. He didn't mention any activity that his father made him do, like fencing, piano and chinese. Take that as you will.

Oh, and the reverse umbrella scene was very on the nose, but a really poetic way to show Marinette moving on from Adrien to become a better person. And a way to make Adrien like Marinette to fulfill my Marichat dreams, but I digress.

And next, the Felinette umbrella scene. So, Felix wasn't very involved with this one. But, I decided that as opposed to Felix giving Marinette his umbrella, they share it together. This is for a number of very obvious reasons, but mainly because it's cute.

Anddd, I have noticed a pattern with my stories. I tend to have very blunt titles, and weird epigraphs in the beginning. Just wanted to put that out.

[056crowshit6556]

Wow! I just wanted to tell you how deep and profound your mitzi / mordecai analysis is, yes, I hope it's good to ask but I don't understand the part of projecting of each other and facade? (Sorry, English is not my first language).

Hey! It’s no problem. Your English is just fine, hopefully I can answer as clearly as possible.

So, what I see in the characters of Mitzi and Mordecai is a sense of loss and disillusionment. It is difficult to see your ‘savior’ as anything but good, so I get the sense that they both view Atlas in an untainted light. Someone who is good and devoid of doing wrong (perhaps he did do something wrong, and that caused things to “visibly deteriorate”, which sadly led to his untimely death). But it is difficult to let go of someone who has changed your life for what you perceive as the better. That’s how I see Mitzi and Mordecai dealing with their loss.

Coming from someone who grew up with two older brothers, a younger sister, and a younger brother (I was the middle child in a family of five siblings deep in the poorest parts of South Carolina, I apologize for getting off-topic, but that upbringing is laden with all sorts of stories lol) I get the hunch that siblings tend to project feelings, emotions, inadequacies, or insecurities onto each other. I suppose it was my personal experience, but I saw “projection” being exchanged between Mitzi and Mordecai, because I assumed they had a sibling-type relationship. I saw them exchange their guilt and sadness over Atlas’s death in the car scene. It’s easier to express those things outwardly than to examine them inwardly. I regret doing that to my siblings, and I get the hunch it’s something that happens between siblings in a family vying for attention, or some kind of recognition. 

Thinking about it, I don’t know if ‘facade’ is the right word I should have used for the post, but I’ll explain why I used it. Facades are created in relation to the people we admire most. I don’t think this is necessarily the case all the time, but it’s effective in storytelling. I think the characters of Mitzi and Mordecai identified themselves so closely with Atlas that they never fully got over whatever happened in their past (I think it’s striking that Mordecai lost both his father and little sister, but has yet to reveal any grievance over such a thing, and perhaps Mitzi has lost something close to her that she has not yet incorporated into her psyche). Perhaps, Mitzi and Mordecai never grieved the death of Atlas in a ‘complete’ way. The full stages of grief are not bogus, I think they’re pretty realistic. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. And it begs the questions: Is there anything they could have done better? And perhaps Mitzi and Mordecai ask themselves this question, but instead of fully accepting it, they project it onto each other. As in, “He could have prevented this” or “She could have been there for him”. Very difficult emotions to deal with, so they place those feelings onto the other. Placing blame onto another is easier than accepting those emotions– it’s hard…maybe I’m exhausted and that’s why I’m saying it, but maybe we can never fully accept loss. It’s an existential part of being human. It’s like weight we carry.

Maybe they built up personas or facades that served Atlas best, and then after he died, those personas became challenged. Deteriorated. Masks aren’t meant to last forever. They aren’t even meant to last a lifetime: we are constantly changing, which is a blessing I believe. So I figured that sometime, sooner or later, Mitzi and Mordecai’s masks, or facades, were going to deteriorate. Hell, I think Mordecai’s composure is already starting to break in the comic’s story. He’s acting a little off-kilter than he was at the story’s beginning, a bit more stressed. It’s interesting to see. I want all the best for both Mitzi and Mordecai, but I can’t help but feel like they’re going to get themselves into some trouble. It makes for a good story and I’m looking forward to seeing how they navigate themselves through it.

I apologize for the long post. I’ve been working overtime because of the current situation happening in the world, so being able to relax and write out my thoughts has been a comfort. Thank you for the ask!

[clansayeed]

Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 21: Come Hell and High Water

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Please, please let this work.

[READ IT ON AO3]

“Even with what you now know you would bring them here — together.”

Catching the Elders by surprise wasn’t a part of the plan for good reason; thinking they could get one over on the people who have been planning this for who-knows-how-long would just be arrogant.

Doesn’t make the sharp cunning of Elder Daniels’ glare any less intimidating.

“Do you think it too much to hope they understand why this is necessary? What part they played in the inevitability of this?”

Elder Vion remains silent; his opaque gaze observing both everything and nothing — but where does it focus?

“You remain as blind to the present as ever, Millet.” chides Daniels.

Elder Millet’s shoulders slump. The only one to show any kind of remorse — genuine or otherwise. “A little optimism never hurt anyone…”

Elder Daniels doesn’t deem her worth a response. Focuses instead on looking out over the garden party with a forced disinterest; the mask of her neutrality firmly in place.

But Taylor can see through the gaps and cracks now. To the edges that curl around her real emotions. Contempt, disgust; as though the choice to gather despite knowing the Coven’s plans is a personal attack on her careful cultivation of the future.

He’s the first to address them properly. Down the steps to the decorative gravel the Lamrian decorators sprinkled with crushed gemstone.

“Thank you for coming, Coven Elders.” He’d step closer if Nik’s steady hand doesn’t stop on his shoulder — hold him at a distance. But they can’t seem hesitant if this is going to work. “It wouldn’t be a Council party without everyone on the Council attending.”

He still has no idea if this is going to work. Please, please let this work.

Elder Millet shuffles her tarot deck like a nervous habit. Daniels steeples her claw-like fingertips together in front of her and, like an unspoken signal, Vion’s grip on his staff grows pale-knuckled tight.

Power pushes out from them in an invisible wave. Just once; but once is all it takes. He feels it, Nik feels it — everyone feels how the pressure changes in the air; how something old like the mantle of the earth tastes at the backs of their throats.

Let the countdown begin.

“Explain this little… gathering,” demands Daniels with a sneer.

Only it’s Tonya who answers. She stands on shivering legs with Vera’s help but to call her feeble would be to call the wraith itself a minor inconvenience.

She may no longer have the Touch but Lady Smoke is far from powerless in their presence.

“You’re the one who ought to be explainin’ themselves, Ophelia Daniels.”

The women stare one another down. It’s obvious every second spent standing is agony but hell if Tonya Reimonenq is going to lose even in her current state.

Vion steps forward and stays his companion’s hand. That familiar tingle of empathy down his spine makes Taylor shudder; makes him see Cassiopeia’s blood stained up to leathery elbows — falling to the ground in a drip. drip. drip.

“If the Council has an accusation, let it be heard.”

Isadora hisses from across the garden, “The gall of you, traitors and murderers…”

“Such stinging words to your claims!”

“One of many!”

“Have you witness or evidence?”

“Aw hell,” the lumbering figure of Kristof breaks the growing threads of tension by stepping forward — strangely the calmest he’s been insofar, “cut the crap, will ya? We know you’re the ones tuggin’ that hellspawn’s leash.”

It’s instinct, he doesn’t mean to. Looking away from their very dangerous guests of honor Taylor catches Cadence’s eye for only a moment before snapping back forward. They can’t risk anything longer catching the Elders’ attentions.

“Do you now?” asks Daniels coolly, “I regret to inform you that knowledge will not give your sacrifices any amount of dignity.”

“There is more at risk within this city’s borders than the dignity of the few, Ophelia.”

It must be magic; how Elric speaks clearly and is undeniably heard despite the fireworks that crackle overhead; without even raising his voice.

The sharp curve of Daniels’ smirk is a malicious one. “I will not suffer a cowering outcast to speak to me of dignity. You still breathe only because your hidden city’s wards have protected you.”

“I am not cowering now, am I?”

“The night is young.”

Anger hangs thick and stifling on the edge of every word and Taylor — god — he can feel it all.

The Coven’s unwavering conviction, Isadora’s desire for revenge, Kristof’s refusal to die anywhere but on his hind paws. The strangely smug way Lady Smoke feels like she should have seen all of this coming and the fierce protectiveness Elric projects at him without shame.

But hidden in the woven tapestry of them all is a single thread, sour and ill at ease but no less recognizable. He’s no longer a stranger to what fear feels like.

“If you would, then — indulge us the most obvious of questions;” even with the distance between them Elric, towering at least a foot taller than Daniels and her power-stilettos, looks down his nose at her, “why?”

“You’ll have to be a tad more specific.”

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?!” Kristof rages. “They’re playin’ us fer fools!” Yet his monstrous howl of rage is silenced by the elf lord’s pale hand raised; staying him.

“That may be, Jensen, but surely I am not the only one here who wishes to understand. Who wonders why the formerly reasonable Coven would change so abruptly. And why they would decide to act now—of all times—and with such vicious intent.”

“It’s not the Coven that’s changed.”

At first Elder Millet’s voice is lost, timid, on the wind. Like a spectre from the beyond there to bolster a claim. But no one misses when she stops shuffling her deck, flips over the top card to reveal a gruesome and bloodied tyrant.

The Emperor reversed.

“There have been signs more than what we witches witness. Signs in the earth and skies, in the lifeblood that runs through our city. But you — your Council — have been complacent; content to ignore them. Focused instead on your own gains and greed. We considered every option, please believe it.

“But this was the only way our city might stand a chance of surviving the coming darkness. A unified voice, when divided, would only serve to hasten our downfall.”

“If you had approached the Council — shown us the signs we so easily missed —”

“When did it become the duty of the Coven to play prophet to the willingly ignorant?!” Daniels interrupts loud and unashamed. “To the immortal and oh-so-wise faire folk, or the creatures of dark magic who should have felt the gathering storm in their bestial bones! Or to you, Lady Smoke, with ears in every room on every block.

“Admit your guilt — not that it will save you. Admit your hunger for power and wealth led you into the blind fog that the Council should have been beyond the reaches of. For the downfall of New Orleans would have been your burden to bear.”

“Had you not stepped forward and assumed some sort of divine control, you mean?” demands Isadora.

“Make no mistake — we chose this course of our own free will. Because we were the only ones left untainted; loyal to this our sanctuary city.”

Elric steps forward, not without caution. “There has been enough death, Ophelia. Stop, now, at the threshold of a fall you will not survive.”

“Every death has been and will be a necessary one.”

Something about the victory in her claim riles Taylor from the inside out. Makes the words throw themselves out of him unbidden—

“Even yours.”

It’s probably the closest Daniels has ever come — and will ever be again — to a look of surprise. A dozen thoughts half-formed on mute lips before she schools her expression complacent.

“An unseen complication indeed.”

But that doesn’t make Taylor recoil as it once did. In fact he’s kind of proud of it. “How about instead of demanding everyone else admit some imagined guilt because of your desire for power, you three do the admitting? Admit you know this isn’t the so-called only way and try to muster up a little bit of humanity— Try and feel even the tiniest bit of remorse for what you’ve done because deep down you know it was wrong.”

Nik tenses behind him. He can feel it where they’re connected; his guttural hissing thought of think about the plan, Rook.

And maybe it wasn’t how they originally hoped to get the final piece of the puzzle but maybe—just maybe—it might go in their favor.

For the first time the Coven Elders part; Daniels breaks away in even, purposeful strides to close the distance between them.

Taylor feels the way Nik tenses, readies himself for the inevitable attack.

But it doesn’t come. Not physically, anyway. Only the look the witch gives him that may very well will him out of existence.

“Your blind stumbling has gotten you far little halfling. But you’ve come far enough, I think.”

“You wanna know what I think?”

“Not particularly.”

“I think that’s not really your call. The same way I think deep down you know you’re just as greedy as you say everyone else is. You’re just pretending to think about the greater good.”

Then there’s a movement; so fast it’s a blur. A stinging pain on his cheek and a sensation akin to tears rolling down his face.

Everything that follows still comes as a surprise despite having been building in the tension on both sides. The night air harsh on his open wound and a crisp ache in his shoulder as he’s yanked backwards and behind Ryder; a leather-clad shield.

Movement in his periphery and Nik goes flying backwards. Hurled by a tornado of unseen power.

“Nik!”

“This ends tonight!” Daniels raises her outstretched arms high to the heavens. Draws clouds from nowhere and everywhere to blot out the moon and the stars. The darkness within consuming the world outside her soul.

“You’re damn right it does—!”

Katherine pulls out Nik’s crossbow from underneath a nearby folding chair; wields it weightlessly as she aims at the witch and pulls the trigger.

Daniels deflects it with little effort. Sends the bolt flying towards the outer brick wall.

Behind their companion the other Elders whisper curses into the very wind. Once-solid ground ripples like water and their influence takes hold.

The trees around them bend and twist; their natural states resisting the witches’ call with an eldritch orchestra of groans before they yield. Roots torn up and fallen leaves and broken branches coming together; an army.

“Ah hell, not again!” shouts Cal; voice distorted with the wolf already pushing against his skin.

There’s hands at his arms — Taylor looks up to see Cadence struggling to drag him backwards towards… what? Towards safety? There’s no such thing anymore.

Still he scrambles up and back. Ducks just as the windows at the back of the House shatter under Elder Millet’s will. Just as she sends the broken shards hurtling in a transparent flock coming directly for him.

Above him comes a barely-restrained cry of pain; Taylor looks up to see two pieces lodged deep in the vampire’s shoulder.

“Cade!”

“I’m fine!” Like he’s trying to prove a point he shoves Taylor backwards, stumbling; “Go check on Ryder! Keep to the plan!”

Wet tearing noises fill the clearing as Kristof the wolf pries free of his skin — Octavia right at his heels. Together they howl at the cloaked moon and take off on all fours towards Elder Vion.

But with a limber motion his withered body shouldn’t be capable of the witch fights back. Whips his staff out; sending roots from the nearest tree to his aid. They lash, sentient, at the wolves’ hind paws — one hits home and ropes around Octavia’s flank, squeezes and sends the Beta crashing snout-first into the gravel.

The Beau-Keyes Garden is in chaos but Cade is right. They should have expected this. He needs to find Nik.

Taylor takes off in a mad dash towards the hedges where the Nighthunter had been thrown. Catches the tail-end of Vera and Ivy pulling Tonya out of the fray and into the House.

A cluster of something dark scurries on the whipping wind towards them, right at Ivy’s back. “Ivy, watch it!” Voice catching in his lungs — but its enough.

Enough for Ivy to turn around with bright burning eyes at the incoming horde. Her peeled-back lips move in silent words and her hair lifts around her in a neon-tipped halo. The incoming swarm — Millet’s tarot deck — stop mid-flight; repelled by whatever curse the revenant has conjured.

The cards shudder, then begin to crumple and squeeze themselves into balls. One last flick of Ivy’s lace-laden wrists and they spontaneously burst into a dozen individual flames, hot-pink heat licking at the air and casting her ghoulish grin of glee in flickering light that burns bright before they are consumed — nothing but ash scattered at her platform-raised feet.

A hand closes tight around his wrist and pulls him back. Catches him in half a scream when he turns and sees the stern pull of Elric’s brow.

“What are you thinking; standing here exposed?! Get to cover!”

“Not without—incoming —” he pulls them both to the ground just in time for a large branch to soar overhead and crack against the trunk of another tree, “— Nik! I have a plan, remember?”

“If your life is the cost —”

“It’s not!”

“Then please, find safety!”

“I’m not leaving them behind!” He meets Elric’s eyes in a long look — ignores the cacophony around them and clasps their hands together. Can’t tell which of their palms is slick with sweat; maybe both. “I need you to trust me, Dad. I can do this.”

And they’re no longer in the midst of the fight but back in time; back to a mere hour ago when he asked Elric to trust him once; now again. “I can do this.”

The fae inhales; nods and rasps, “What do you need from me?”

Thank you. “Get the Elders on the defensive. They need to summon the bloodwraith.”

“What?!”

“You said you’d trust me!”

It’s a struggle, but Elric swallows down his protests and nods. “Very well. Find your Nighthunter; do whatever you need to prepare. Leave the rest to me.”

One last squeeze and they part. Taylor’s already halfway across the garden when he hears Elric shout strong and clear; “Garrus! Lend me your hand!” And it’s such a shock that he almost trips; almost.

Mustering up the last of his energy Taylor vaults over the farthest hedge; goes crashing into the lawn on the other side to find Nik lying limp and still.

No—no no nono…

He moves through the pain. Blinks through the tears piercing pain at his wounded cheek and pulls the hunter to lie on his back where he can check for injury—for a pulse—for anything.

“Nik wake up,” and fighting through the violent shaking in his hands is hard—near impossible—but he manages two fingers to the man’s pulse, “Nik—please please wake up. We can still do this — but there’s no way in hell I’m doing it without you.”

But he can’t tell what’s a possible sign of life and what’s his own blood pounding through every vessel in his body like his blood wants freedom. He tucks a hand under dark hair and can’t help the strangled noise he makes when he feels slick wetness matted at the crown of his head.

“Oh no—no no no…” Fuck now he’s scared to turn the man over; to make it worse. “This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening…”

And he’s not being entirely truthful — not even with himself. The plan surely could work without Nik at his side but why would he want it like that? He doesn’t — he can’t even imagine it.

Taylor looks up and around. Wildly searches for someone who can help — someone who knows more, someone who can do something. But they’re all too far.

He isn’t sure he’d be able to call out to them even if they were.

It’s an actual effort to manage Nik’s limp head into his lap. What the fuck is he supposed to do? Slap his cheek, shake his shoulders like in the movies? Only those aren’t real head wounds on film — just actors with fake blood squirting in packs like ketchup and prosthetic makeup making them look battered and bruised.

Nik is battered and bruised. There’s nothing fake about it. This isn’t a movie; they aren’t on a set and his tears aren’t eye drops. They’re real. Everything about this is real.

“Oh fuck—fuckfuckfuck…”

When he pulls his hand back to the sight of red smeared on his fingers, he almost comes undone. Stays sane only because one fleeting thought, more of a background notion really, rattles in an echo around his skull in a voice that isn’t his own.

Those who seek to change destiny never understand how to bring it closer.

His rational mind is right: this isn’t a movie. Everything that’s happened has been real—from the smallest arguments to the biggest tragedies.

Nik is real. Cal is real—werewolves are real. Vampires, shapeshifters, revenants and spirits and even witches are real. Fae are real. Fae halflings — yup, real too.

And if there were times where Donny wasn’t saved, or the Council did fall to the Elders and their plan, or Taylor died in the cemetery that night, then didn’t that mean there were times that Nik didn’t survive this encounter, too?

But Donny was saved. The Council won’t fall to the Elders and Taylor didn’t die that night.

He refuses to let this be the one thing that can’t be changed.

“Breathe, Rookie, breathe…” Taylor whispers, forces his voice to keep calm and his hands that cradle Nik’s skull to go still. Because he knows how to change destiny this time; he’s done it before.

He doesn’t need to feel a pulse under the man’s skin because when he closes his eyes; reaches down inside his chest he can feel something there. Dim and flickering but so very present. A flame that wants to grow; it just needs to be fed first.

If there’s an incantation he doesn’t know it. But he knows how badly he wants Nik to heal; how bright he wants to feel the man’s soul inside.

There has to be a reason he is the way he is. Why can’t it be to save Nik Ryder?

There’s a flash against his closed eyelids; bright like someone turned on the sun in the middle of midnight. A switch flicking a lamp to life; or logs thrown on a campfire to keep him warm.

And when he opens them he has to squint through the burn of brightness but that’s not a bad thing. Not where that light filters through Nik’s hair askew and tingles at Taylor’s palms. Warms them in rays of daylight soft and flecked with dust motes, wipes them clean of dirt, clean of tears; clean of blood like it was never there to begin with.

Looking down at Nik’s slackened face; searching every scarred inch for some sign of life he knows is there; treading water just below the surface.

His heart skips a beat. Nik’s eyes flutter open; awake and alive. And the sight of color and life on his face is so fucking beautiful that it makes him start to cry all over again.

Around them fades to dim night but Nik still looks up at him with a strange wonderment. Reaches up and drags the calloused pad of his thumb across Taylor’s cheek to catch his tears before they fall.

“C’mon now,” comes that familiar throaty whisper; he doesn’t have to see the smirk to know it’s there like a kiss at the edge of the man’s lips, “sure as hell you ain’t sheddin’ those tears for me, Rook, are ya?”

“‘Course not.” Taylor teases back — bends himself practically in half as he leans down to take that offered kiss because he can.

Because Nik is alive.

They part — Nik holds himself up on a wobbly arm and reaches, feels around his head where even the ghost of his injury is a fading dream. And when his fingers pull back clean and without blood Taylor’s heart stutters back to life.

“Should I ask?”

But he doesn’t even know how to start explaining what happened — doesn’t quite understand it himself except for the fact it was instinct like he’s never known. “Maybe when this is over.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Make sure you do, he wants to say; instead touches the curve of Nik’s jaw because he’s there and he can.

Reality crashes back around them; suffocates what’s left of their bewilderment in the large form of a wolf.

It comes crashing through the hedges just shy of them. Taylor peers over the protective form of Nik’s shoulder just in time to see the shine of the werewolf’s yellow eyes before they roll backwards and Octavia slumps down; limp and unconscious.

“Why the hell ain’t they summoned the fuckin’ wraith yet?”growls Nik. He uses what’s left of their cover to survey the fight; locks his sights on Elder Daniels as she pulls at invisible strings and sends a fallen branch forth to sink home in Isadora’s belly.

The vampire hisses and collapses, catches herself just shy of impalement and desperately claws for her freedom.

“They’re trying to take out the Council on their own —” Taylor cuts himself off as he searches the fray in panic for any sign of Elric.

“That ain’t a part of the plan, Rook.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Then what the hell’re we supposed to—holy hellfire!”

But it isn’t hellfire — not quite. Burns just as hot but Taylor’s pretty certain hellfire isn’t made of pitch black flame that shimmers iridescent as it races in tendrils towards the Elders; presses them against one another back to back in prowling circles that scorch the earth at their feet.

The mere sight of it captivates the entire Garden. Causes the witches to hold their combined magics out to defend their ranks against the fiery lashes.

Elric commands the stream of fae grimfire like a natural extension of himself. Raises his hand to send another wave in that raise the walls and keep the Elders pinned together.

“Accept your defeat, Elders of the Garden Coven, lest justice be swift and without mercy!”

But he isn’t alone. With sleeves rolled up to the elbow Garrus coaxes the grimfire at the witches’ heels. Sweeping movements of his arms drag the vestiges of it away from the rest of the Garden and tighter against their commanded foes.

This is it. This is their final chance.

“Where’s Vee?! It’s time!”

“Go —” Nik pushes him up and forward; makes Taylor stumble over a pulled-up root now rendered lifeless; the Elders’ magic contained in spectral fire, “— if they’re cornered, they’re desperate. They’ll call him forward soon.”

But Taylor can’t even comprehend the thought of leaving Nik’s side. Of not being there — not keeping him safe. “No way.”

“Now ain’t the time to argue!”

“There’s no way I’m leaving you again!”

“Rook.” And its just one word—one stupid little nickname he doesn’t even like—but he pushes so much meaning into it that Taylor’s feet move with a will of their own. Carry him out from safety’s cover with Nik hot on his heels until he veers into the Beau-Keyes House gone dark.

It takes literally everything in his churning gut not to follow.

Instead he breathes, stomps down the unease building inside — threatening to crest and consume him — and joins Elric in front of the Elders.

Every attempt the witches make against their ethereal prison is consumed and rendered powerless. If he didn’t know better — if he wasn’t hoping for this to be what forces their hand — Taylor might almost believe they’ve won.

“Enough fighting, Daniels. Please.”

The woman turns her head in a lash. Nothing but unbridled rage in empty eyes.

“Your persistence is no longer amusing, little pest.”

He knows his pleas are falling on deaf ears but… but doesn’t he owe it to everything they’ve lost to try?

“Look— you said part of the reason you decided to act was because the Council was so divided. But—but here everyone is! You brought them together. Can’t that be enough?”

It’s a useless question. He knows it, Elder Daniels knows it too. He can see it in her eyes.

“We are beyond the point of peace.”

“We don’t have to be.”

“Your ignorance will be your undoing.” She turns her back on him; on everyone. Joins Millet and Vion in clasped hands and bowed heads as though the grimfire is nothing more than an illusion.

This is what they wanted— what they’ve been waiting for ever since the Elders appeared tonight. But hearing the familiar incantation harmonized between them is no less haunting.

“Claw and blood, claw and bone. Bloodied flesh, endless stone…”

“They are summoning the abomination!” Isadora shouts. Her voice cracks as she gives one last violent pull; wrenches the branch free from her body and hurls it aside. “Stop them, burn them!”

But the plan isn’t to stop them. Still, Taylor understands. Feels it, too. The sickening wrongness in his gut only made worse by the familiar smell of foul and rot that seeps in like a putrid fog.

The effort it takes to hold the grimfire steady shows on Elric’s pallid face. “Are you sure about this?” he asks through gritted teeth. And he’s really not—can’t be sure of anything anymore—but that isn’t the answer he gives.

“Yes. Let them do it.”

“Soar with the zephyr, shriek with the crow. Life renewed we now bestow.”

Elric looks ahead to where the strain of their casting has Garrus ready to collapse. He gives the man a silent nod, and almost in relief and a perfect mirror they pull clenched fists apart to end the conjuring.

The grimfire eats itself from the bottom up. Dissipates at the edges of itself until the multicolored flames are only a remnant burned on the insides of Taylor’s eyelids. Beside him Elric begins to sag sideways as the exhaustion takes hold; he throws the man’s arm around his shoulder to keep him standing steady. He watches in relief as Krom refuses to let his fae collapse; catches him in strong stone arms and with unheard praises.

But the Elders continue their wicked chant; they either don’t notice or don’t care with victory within their reach.

“Arise hellbound soul! We beseech and command Fell our enemies with your cursed hand!”

Around them the wind begins to gather — pushes aside the cloud cover overhead and bathes the Garden in moonlight. Just like the last time they stood here gathered. Just like that night in the cemetery.

“Ryder!” Katherine calls; tosses the crossbow the short distance as he approaches with Vera on his heels. “We sure this is gonna work?”

Nik looks up at the sky with a grim resignation. “I think it’s a bit too late for doubts.”

As one the Coven Elders turn to face their accusers. The wind lashes Millet’s hair in tendrils and billows Vion’s robes; blows Daniels’ collar this way and that yet they remain rooted to the earth.

They stand with their convictions until the very end.

“Perhaps in number you can overpower us,” Daniels sneers, “but whatever scraps of this little front survive the wraith’s touch will be easy pickings.”

Over their heads a shadow passes over the moon. The telltale whip of burial wrappings hisses in their ears — followed by the unholy shriek they know all too well.

Daniels’ hands raise to the sky as the bloodwraith approaches.

“Come wretched creature; come accursed traitor! Pay your oath in the blood and bone of our enemies! Know no rest until our great work is done!”

The bloodwraith descends slow; places itself between the Elders and the rest as a shield grotesque. This time is no different than before — the very sight of it makes the hairs on the back of Taylor’s neck stand and scream to run, flee, there is no salvation here.

He used to think nothing could equal the void and despair where Death itself burns black in its eyes. But now that he sees them in the same space, he sees the same lifeless purpose like a stain over Daniels’ face.

But knowing what he knows now has Taylor looking at the wraith in a different way. Still with the same revulsion natural of the living to the violent dead — but he tries to imagine the face that once framed that skull as the same one from the photograph in Cadence’s office.

Familial features shared by both Tonya and Vera now twisted, warped by bloodlust and the unnatural.

And even worse — finds himself searching for some hint of the first victim to all of this madness. How could something so evil come from a soul like Cassiopeia? He didn’t even know the girl and yet those brief moments sharing a piece of her soul — her last moments — gave him a grief he felt tasked with bearing the burden of.

Behind him there’s a rustling; a bundle wrapped in cloth passing from Cade to Vera’s bare hands.

“What are you doing?”

Vion’s croaking voice breaks through the tense silence. Matching looks of wary apprehension barely restrained as they pass between each of the Elders.

Their confusion is understandable. Nothing has stopped the bloodwraith in its grisly pursuit before.

But this time is different. Whatever mangled bits are left of Derek Reimonenq’s soul feel it. Taylor feels it; behind him his companions feel it too. The Elders are just the last to notice.

“What are you waiting for?” but Elder Millet’s voice isn’t as strong as the others — her concern betrays her; “You are tasked by your summoners. Go forth!”

Hackles rise when the creature inches forward only just. But Taylor stands his ground.

“That’s not right though, is it?”

“Silence halfling!”

No, no more silence. “It wasn’t you that summoned it. Not the first time. That was Cassiopeia—you remember her?” — there’s no denying the recognition, the last bit of life that flickers and dies behind the Elders’ eye s— “The witch who you were supposed to protect and care for, who was so scared of what she could do… but cared more about thanking you for taking her in when no one else would.

“She was willing to do anything, even the thing that scared her the most. And you took advantage of that.”

“How dare you speak of such things—” says Millet. Elder Millet who she trusted, who she looked up to; who led her like a lamb to the slaughter.

“Who else is gonna speak for her? Certainly not you!”

“The girl’s sacrifice was a noble one, you will not diminish that!”

“She didn’t even know there was a sacrifice to make. Admit it,” and it’s awkward, ducking his head around the bloodwraith that hovers between them like a horrible marionette waiting for the puppet show to begin, but he has to look her murderers in the eyes because Cassiopeia never got the chance.

“You knew what you were doing was wrong. That’s why you dragged her out of her bed in the middle of the night, placated her like she was doing something good. Because it was the only way to get her to agree.”

The tiniest shame bubbles up from Millet’s direction. Makes it all the more important that he stares over that skeletal shoulder right into her eyes.

“She may not have known the extent of what we needed of her… but she did do good for the future of the Coven; for the future of this city.”

“She didn’t know because you didn’t tell her.”

A scoff drags his attention away to where Elder Daniels has rounded on her companion — a fist clenched in the barest show of restraint. “Do not lose your conviction now. At the accusations of this—this ignorant child!”

She rounds back on Taylor every inch a wraith in her own right—reaffirms what invisible tether ties Reimonenq the wraith and the Coven together with palms raised to the sky; “Enough of this! Kill the halfling first! I command you!”

The bloodwraith’s neck cranes back at an unnatural angle and it howls to the wind, bloodstained talons reaching out and forward; compelled to attack.

His breath catches in his throat and Taylor squeezes his eyes shut. He braces himself—

For the pain that never comes. The icy grasp of a fate worse than death that he still can only imagine; still must only imagine.

Peeks a tentative eye open to the sight of Cassiopeia’s severed hand stretched out in Vera’s quivering grasp.

A firsthand witness to how the small and humble sparks in Vera’s breast ignite into a blaze that consumes her soul.

“You will not.”

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Broken Wings, pt.9 (AU)

09:  Just gonna stand there and watch me burn?

Summary: Back in her original body, she must find a way to break the curse.

Warnings: angst, fluff

Word Count: ~ 2000

Broken Wings (Angel AU - G.D.) Masterlist

Lost in space and time. That's how she felt as her mind drifted with clear instructions to focus on Y/N and the first time she had seen Grayson. It felt like someone is probing her brain, picking it apart for information she could hardly collect and present in exchange for her life. It tore through her, pushing her to relive each of her past lives within seconds – not having long enough to truly find a footing and realize what's happening, but long enough to feel the hurt of every single death she'd been put to with Grayson's lips atop hers.

''Focus on a heart-shaped ring I have made for you. It will lead you home.“

Grayson's words reminded her how to find her way, shaking her head furiously to get the overwhelming pain away from her thoughts. She had to find an anchor in something, Grayson being the obvious choice. And just like that, the darkness fades, light taking its place.

Blinding light forces her to close her eyes, holding out her arm to protect her vision. But when she opens her eyes, she's no longer blinded nor is she riddled by thousands of lifetimes – just this one.

Her hands are a little paler and smaller than usual, the heart-shaped ring on her right middle finger drawing her attention first as if it was a magnet – something she looked at every day, something very dear to her heart. 

But that's not her ring. Those are not her hands.

''What the?“ She breathes out, her hands resting on her long Y/H/C hair, much longer than she remembers it to be. And that's when she realized the truth – she's no longer Caroline.

''Y/N?“ His voice draws her attention without any effort, her eyes settling on the angelic man she had loved since the beginning of time. And he's shirtless. Very much shirtless.

''Y-yeah?“ She stutters, unable to peel her eyes from his incredible physique.

Every single inch of his skin is marked with perfection, each line accentuating an ab she’d like to drag the tip of her tongue over. His arms are huge, veins visible and curving around his muscles like snakes that give his arms the power to kill. His shoulder is distinctly pointy and sharp, his collarbone just calling for her to tap her fingertips along the curve. His neck is strong and inviting, awaiting love bites along the prominent vein on the left.

But nothing could compare to the flawlessness of his face. With a jawline that can cut you, a slight stubble lining it and framing his lips, cute nose to boop and brown eyes that turn hazel under the sunlight downing in his desire for her…well, Caroline finally understood the arrogant eyebrow raise and the cocky smirk he bestowed upon her and Y/N was surely a lucky lady if she got a piece of him, even for a moment before her death.

Looking like that, Grayson had every right to be confident. She loved the way he held himself upright and with dignity, light and untainted by unimaginable sorrow.

“You look a little lost there. Are you alright?” The kindness, softness in his voice had served like a tender kiss, caressing her soul.

“Yeah. I’m good. Great even.” She replied all too enthusiastically. She couldn’t believe this plan worked.

“You know I have to leave now. But I promise to return to you, my love.” Grayson stepped closer, his arms open as he wanted to embrace her.

It finally dawned on her – this is the exact moment she needs to convince him to bring her along.

“You have to take me with you.” Caroline blurted out, noticing just how different her voice is in this body, wondering if this is the kind of voice Grayson truly loves, not her raspy one.

“What? Love, I can’t. You know I can’t. This is…upstairs business. I’ve told you that.” Grayson’s eyebrows furrowed and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly as Y/N, his dear Y/N, gripped her hair like a madwoman.

“What do I tell you if you refuse?” Caroline asked, melting with a faint smile upon Grayson’s sweet lips.

“The truth. I’ll know something’s off anyways.” He stated, confusing her further.

“How? You said my soul is how you know it’s me. Wouldn’t that mean my soul being back in the original body wouldn’t change that?” She frowned, biting her lower lips softly.

“Every death marked your soul, changing your light. It started white – the essence so bright I could hardly look straight into your soul. It’s more colorful now. It shows you’ve lived many lives. So, tell me the truth.”

Caroline wondered if this Grayson could tell her essence isn’t as bright anymore. She wondered if that lessened her worth in her Grayson’s eyes. Had her colors changed his love for her over the years as well?

“If you don’t…I’ll die. Thousands upon thousands of times.” She bit her lower lip again, sensing him looking deeper into her eyes than any man had ever delved. He’s searching her eyes for the truth, a plausible reason behind the madness he believes had taken her – but all he sees is her essence, the colors dancing around it – colors he’d never seen before.

“I’m not Y/N. My name is Caroline and I’ve come from the future…You’ll be the cause for the angel’s fall on Earth and the reason for my demise for your lips are the door to death from the moment you go up there without me. It’s an endless cycle and we have to try and break it. Or at least stop it.” Caroline insisted, her panic easily reaching Grayson who believed every word she spoke but couldn’t resonate it inside his head. It was too much, even for him.

“Humans aren’t allowed in heaven, Y/N…Caroline.” He corrected himself, taking in a deep breath to clear his chaotic mind.

“So what then? Just gonna stand there and watch me burn? Because that’s what happened to Y/N. She burned to death when you laid your lips upon hers after the fall. She died each time, sometimes by burning, sometimes drowning, sometimes more subtle ways…but she dies each time. I.DIE.” She emphasized, placing her hand on his chest before she stopped. For a moment she saw an opportunity present itself, for her to taste the lips of doom she avoided since she met this beautiful man in her own time. She had an opportunity to feel what each of her predecessors have without it killing her. The curse still hadn’t taken its place.

Without a second thought, she placed a hand at the back of his neck, pulling him closer until her lips touched upon his. Grayson’s breathing quickened as did hers. His head was angled slightly to the side as his lips pressed harder and harder to hers. She was surprised to find his lips parted, craving the touch of her lips upon his as well. Their breaths mingled. Her heart fluttered inside her chest. At first, it was a delicate butterfly of a kiss, like he’s afraid she’s but a dream he conjured in his mind. Like a stronger touch might break her. When she doesn’t move away but gives into his touch, Grayson smiles into the kiss before allowing his arms to encircle her.

He drew her to him so there was no distance left between them, their lips finding each other in a kiss that stopped their minds from working. This kiss was desperate, passionate, one meant to compensate for all the pain she suffered because he loved her. He dedicated his life to being with her from the moment of that first kiss, for he knew that if he lost her he would lose himself. Barely able to separate, Caroline is the first to step back, gasping for air. Grayson groans lowly at the loss of contact, his hands stopping her from moving too far. They’re both out of breath, their lips swollen and spread into two entirely different smiles. 

But when she blinks her eyes open, she finds she's no longer on Earth.

''Shh.“ Grayson warns her to remain quiet, showing her the line before and after them, every angel making their choice. Ethan stood behind them, eyes wide as he tapped Cameron's shoulder to look at his brother's actions.

However, the next time Caroline blinks, she founds herself alone. Looking down, she can see a countless amount of angels in their fall, each screaming in their mutual terror of what's to come – of losing the only home they've ever known.

''You were wrong to come here.“ She hears a voice, but she's all alone. ''Humans can't see me. Don't even bother, Y/N.“ The voice addresses her, only to change its mind. ''Or should I say Caroline?“

''Was I wrong? You cursed me to eternal damnation and ignorance and you question why I'd come here?“ She retorted, quite frankly pissed off. She wanted more time with this Grayson – the innocent, loving, happy Grayson who didn't carry the guilt of her numerous deaths on his shoulders. She wanted more than a kiss – she wanted a lifetime.

''It's not your punishment. It's his. That's why you forget your lives. I've spared you the pain.“

Caroline chuckles, shaking her head as her hand covers her mouth to hide just how much of an angry chuckle this is.

''Spared me? I'VE BEEN LOSING MY MIND THIS WHOLE TIME! I haven't been spared. I've been torn from the one soul I'm meant to be with. My other half. I'm tortured, a slave to a curse without a way to break it.“ She tries to collect herself, hoping not to get something worse in return. She's angry, burning up, but she can't let her emotions take over.

''And you think you're soulmates? What of Amara? Or Kendra? Or even Hailey? They've all chosen Ethan. How would you choose someone else if Grayson is your soulmate?“ She found herself challenged, learning there was more than one version of her that fell for the handsome demon. She wasn't surprised...A part of Caroline wanted Ethan just as bad as they did. But Grayson was her endgame.

''True love is imperfect. It's not always about who you feel connected with. Sometimes timing, people, surroundings get involved and people meant to be together don't get the luxury of loving each other. But if he wasn't the one, what did they die of then? Are you telling me neither of them succumbed to their feelings for Grayson in the end?“ Caroline smirked, feeling as if she's made progress. Crossing her arms she felt nearly victorious.

''If I break the curse, you'll die and never return. Grayson would still live an eternity on Earth, alone. It will drive him mad as time passes...the day he can't remember your face anymore is the day he'll be a lost soul. He'll choose Lucifer and the scale will tip to the bad side. It will bring about an Apocalypse. Sure you want that ending to your love story?“

Caroline closed her eyes feeling as if her head might explode. This information...the way everything would go...it was too much. She loved Grayson more than anything and she had nothing to lose, but was their happiness, a single lifetime worth millions of lives?

''What if you let him be with Y/N? When he falls, the curse doesn't exist. Make his fate tied to her soul and the last beat of her heart would be his as well.“ Caroline tried, getting a dry chuckle as her response.

''I'M TRYING?!“ She screamed in frustration, spinning in circles as she looked for some way out.

''You've banned all the angels after Grayson even though they never had a chance to make a choice. What if you let them come home? Let them all choose again and grant them access to heaven. When I'm dead, Grayson could return to grace.“ Caroline felt herself on edge, tears filling her eyes as she ran out of options for a way to make things better.

''I have a better idea.“ She heard the voice say just as a white light blasted straight at her.

Tags: @dancerwriter​ @peacedolantwins​  @heeydolan​ @accalialionheart​   @graydolan12​  @xalayx​  @fallinginlove-16​ @deeteeeeevee​  @heyits-claire​ @riverdalesserpent​ @dolandolll​

[finalfantasyxivwritings]

Echoes of Mortality

AO3 Version

Relationship: Silence/Reader/Indulgence (OCs)

Rating: Teen

Summary: It's been a long time since the Lightwardens Indulgence and Silence have understood what it meant to be alive. Despite this, they've found feelings in but one fragile mortal who serves to remind them of who they once were, if only vaguely. It is through that mortal's kindness that they are anchored to the world anymore--and for them, the wardens would do anything to keep their mortal safe and happy

....even if it means they have to wait outside a city, allowing their mortal but a short excursion among their own kind.

More information: Silence (Samilen) | Indulgence (Khalja)

-

It’s late into the evening, though anyone may be hard-pressed to notice that by a simple glance up towards the sky. Where once-fabled darkness may have filled one horizon to the next, there’s nothing but washed out brightness that echoes across the thicket of ethereal clouds–it’s as bright as it would be at noon, with yet the only difference between the times being the mild chill on the air and a lack of people shuffling in the streets.

Despite the seeming freeze of time, mortals are yet stubborn to their habits.

‘I hate this.’

The words come unspoken from a form that stands under the eaves of a building, one of several that lay abandoned on the outskirts of the settlement, where next to nobody would think to travel–especially not when so many sin eaters were readied for any excuse to hunt. The form is humanoid, but it’s hard to pick out any detail beneath the thick cloak that covers their body.

The only point of detail that can be seen comes but in the moments when their hands slip out of the cloak and gestures in what some may know as handspeak.

A chuckle comes at a response to the silent words from the form’s partner, another cloak-covered shape that stands against the wall of a second building so close to the former that the two nameless forms are in relative shade despite the everburning light above them.

“And yet here you are,” the second form but purrs, having to duck their head slightly to be level with the first. “Though, I see not why you could hate these moments–do you not even mildly lust for the feeling of being alive again?”

‘I am alive right now,’ the first signs with motions nearly as sharp as the metal clawed gauntlets over their fingers. ‘It is mortality you speak of so fondly, which you are quick to forget all of the pain that came with it.’

“Worthwhile flaws, of course.”

A breeze flutters through the space between the two buildings, gently catching on the hoods of both shapes and offering but a glance at the faces hidden in darkness.

To the ignorant, both appear as if living marble statues. Their skin is pale, bleached completely of any color that may have once resided. It is so bright, in fact, that it gives off a vague glow, as if their very flesh is wont to revel in the very light they hide from.

The first form, a head shorter than their partner, turns a gaze towards them.

From beneath the hood, a pair of golden eyes burn as hot as the sun, irises laid upon a backdrop of ink that contrasts starkly with the empty white of their skin.

‘There is but one mortal worthy of our time and attention now.’

It’s hard to read the expression upon their face, especially when the words are communicated through silent motion alone. Still, the second form offers but another chuckle–the noise sounds inhuman, a rumble as strong as thunder that is somehow contained within their ribcage.

“You need not explain that to me, Silence.”

‘When your obsessions seem to lie elsewhere, I question that.’ The hard gaze of the now named form, Silence, turns back outside of the shaded alley. Searching. ‘I hate having to conceal my light.’

“You would do well to do it more often, my fellow warden,” says the other. “You would be far more comfortable with practice, and then you would be able to join  our dear mortal more often–how you not tire of that drab cave I haven’t the slightest clue.”

Even from beneath the thick cloak, one might even be able to see a faint glow rise and fall with the creature’s amusement.

Silence tries not to listen despite there being some vague truth in the others words. As much as he would like to deny any length of connection to his past mortal life, some habits truly could not be killed in the transformation that ascended him to he creature he is now.

A monster, some may even say, and Silence would not be one to disagree with the accuracy in it.

Still, the words yet catch on nerves. He turns his burning gaze to meet with a set of eyes, equally bright in the colors of polished emeralds. Though he is forced to restrain some level of fury in his motions for the sake of letting his light leak for form break, it’s not difficult in the slightest to see his normally-cold expression crack.

‘So says the warden named for his craven search of debauchery. Indulgence. I dare think you would even have your way with our mortal in the center of this town if they would but allow it.’

The taller of the forms says nothing, though the smirk along his snow-white lips is all the answer needed to confirm the accusation–as well as show for his infamous lack of shame in it.

It’s not worth a fight, though Silence assumes his fellow lightwarden is getting more amusement out of it than anything. As a statement, he crosses his arms within the sweet concealing embrace of the cloak, mind finally wandering back to the thoughts of the one mortal he and Indulgence were yet waiting on.

How long did they need to purchase food? Wasn’t all sustenance the same? It had been so many years since Silence had yet breathed air, so many moons since he could recall feeling a heartbeat, the warmth of the sun upon his now stone-cold flesh.

Perhaps that is where Indulgence holds truth. Maybe, in some regard, there is the faintest cloying desire to feel it again; mortality, being alive in a way that set him apart from his current twisted form. To eat and drink and enjoy the foolish notions of hope and courage and sacrifice.

Maybe, in a fashion, it is why his obsessive desire for the mortal runs so deeply. Why he frets over them, lusts for them, wants to curl his entire being around their soft and fragile form and keep the entire world from even tainting their soul with its cruel nature.

Indulgence may remember much of the good in his past life, but Silence too remembers much of the bad. The trauma, he pain, the endless cycle of death and sacrifice that made no dent in the history he sought to change. The shorter of the two lightwardens is glad that the other hasn’t yet asked about the guilt that yet lingers deep within his breast, an emotion that has never once left him no matter how long he’s existed as a blighted creature of holy influence.

It is as much his own emotion as it isn’t–Samilen Jawantal is a name he but barely remembers, just in kind as much of the man’s memories. They are there in his soulless body, but faint, like old dreams long forgotten in the hours of wakefullness. Silence is sure that his fellow lightwarden must have similar experiences to his past life as a warrior as Khalja Kahkol, but the topic has never been brought up for them to discuss at length.

And Silence doesn’t want it to disturb their mortal.

Still so gentle, so loving, so very fragile in mind and body both and yet with a glorious well of aether untainted by the twisted and deformed world around them.

They are the only reason Silence hasn’t tried to rid the emotions and memories through the spilling of blood. The only reason he hasn’t tried to cleanse the world of its sin, to swallow it entirely in the burning embrace of light. They are the one reason that mortality is yet a mystery to him, for how could such creatures birth such wonder and beauty?

For a once-man who prizes knowledge and logic and the knowing of all things he can wrap his timeless self around, the answer yet escapes him. The purpose, the reason, the point is beyond his godly grasp.

“Silence,” the sound of Indulgence’s vaguely inhuman voice catches the warden’s attention, pulling him from deep in decade’s old thoughts. “I believe they are finishing their lovely little errands of sorts. I can sense their sweetness growing closer.”

‘Then let us leave this place,’ Silence motions with his hands, the vague shape of Miqo’te ears flicking somewhere beneath the hood. ‘I grow weary of being near such a cluster of noise and futility.’

They leave from where they are hidden, timing near-perfect as you come hurrying down the messy dirt road, a full basket clutched tight to your body and somewhat overfilled with goods.

“Sorrysorrysorry-” your words run into one another so that it sounds like one noise, a look of worry laden in your eyes. “I know you gave me only a bell, but there was a new merchant in town and I got distracted and-”

“Shush,” Indulgence coos, silencing your words and bringing a softness to your expression. “A few extra moments of discomfort is worth the joy it brought you.”

Silence says nothing, nor does he make any motions with his hands. You may say that the warden looks annoyed, but it’s hard to say for certain when his expression is always rather unreadable with half of his face constantly hidden beneath a mask of metal.

He but looks at you with those eyes of burning gold, ones you once heard about burning men with but a single glance. Though you don’t feel even the slightest tinge of fire upon your skin, you do feel a blooming warmth in your belly from the attention–the weight of the gaze brings forth a great many feelings, if only because you can yet sweetly remember how the creature held you in his arms the night prior, promising you in the embrace of climax that you would be allowed an hour among your people.

Mortals, as the wardens oft referred to them.

His eyes linger for a moment, then flick towards your hands.

“What is it that you’re holding, dear one?” Indulgence asks, approaching you gently, his height seeming to tower over you even when in his echoed form. Perhaps it is the fact that he cannot change the lifeless white of his skin, or the burning brightness of his eyes, things that showcase their otherness even without their size, glow and ethereal wings.

You suddenly remember yourself and fumble for words.

“Oh! That merchant I spoke about–they….they were trying to sell some flowers they managed to grow and….”

Nervously, you hold out one of your hands; clutched against your palm are but two simple flowers, old names lost to time when so rarely are they able to grow in the nutrient-scarce soil. They are half-withered, but yet they peak with colorful petals and strong stalks that allow both Indulgence and Silence to see how they must have but recently bloomed.

Silence’s eyes widen for but a fraction of a moment at the gesture, but it is Indulgence who response first; the once Au Ra reaches his hands out to gently hold your fist within them, as if he was cupping something fragile.

“Your kindness is hardly worthy for creatures like us,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded and staring at the flowers for a few moments. Despite how he touches your skin, you notice that he does not touch the flowers directly in any way. “We will find a place for them to live their last days when we return home.”

You feel heat start to gather over your cheeks, but you’re not given more than a few moments to consider the feeling before both wardens move; Indulgence takes the basket with a gentle care, while Silence pulls you into his arms though careful of the cold touch of his claws as they wrap around your form.

He doesn’t look at you as the wardens all but disappear into the light-washed lands.

Still, even as the two creatures shed their cloaks and retake their true forms, even when they appear not even minutely mortal, even as they glow in layers of ethereal light-bleached aether, you swear you can see the faintest touch of a blush somewhere along the top of Silence’s cheeks.

Though monsters as they may be, there was but a shred of who they once were still left–and moments like this prove it to you.

[sebbytrash]

Through His Eyes - Part Ten

Summary - Bucky arrives at the compound to start afresh but you and him have a somewhat colorful past, colorful being that you met him once before as The Winter Soldier and it did not go well. New beginnings, yeah? If you can learn to forgive.

Pairing - Eventual Bucky x Reader

Warnings - Guilt (Shocker), Sad stuff, the usual. 

A/N - Sorry its been ages, again, my pals. I had a big bout of writers block and then i started my new job etc (insert real life shit here) anyways, I hope you enjoy this part. will exchange feedback for nudes or nuggets

Through His Eyes Masterlist

Dead Eyes

Kind Eyes

He’s there, like he always is, above you. In front of you.

This time, he’s not alone. There’s a figure there behind him, hands him the knife he leans to you with. The figure steps into the light, the figure is you.

You scream, and cry, “Why are you helping him?”

He smiles, stands the other you in front of him and puts the knife over her heart.

The screaming starts.

The sun filters through the gap in your curtains, draws lines along the floorboards till it reaches your wall, a slice of light in a room of dark. Your eyes track it several times over till your heart beats time with it, slows to a steady pace and lets the ringing in your ears fade enough to hear your own thoughts again.

You roll onto your back and stare up at the ceiling, counting your breaths and overthinking the nightmare like you always do, have to do. It changes a lot now, of course, but this one feels closer to that guilt you’ve been fighting lately. Not the guilt for Bucky, but for that part of you that’s forever broken by him. That girl who cried herself to sleep for months, who picked angrily at the scars on her arms till they bled through her shirts and had panic attacks in dark rooms that she slept with the light on for six months afterwards. Logically, you know that she was you and nothing was making you choose between her and Bucky but the closer you got to him, the further away you seemed from the girl who fought and clawed her way out of that panic and back to you. She was why you were still here.

Guilt for him, guilt for her. Nothing is ever simple.

You’d yet to speak to him after that moment in the gym, navigate the overlapping needs with the wants and find a ground somewhere in logic and sense. Yeah, the fun stuff.

The interrupting growls from your stomach force some movement into your limbs, carry your body up and in search of some suitable clothes for a venture to the kitchen. It’s late enough that someone might have made something and that thought has you pulling on the closest lounge pants and following your stomachs hope all the way to the kitchen.

“Morning.” Sam greets you, hunched over his mountain of pancakes, already thumbing a few onto a waiting plate and shoving it towards you.

“My hero.” You declare with a flourish of hands and not so gracefully tuck in, politeness left behind long ago between you and as soon as the taste hits your tongue you sigh, a slow smile spreading in between chews.

“Sleep well, again?”

“Yeah, I guess.” You did, in some ways. The dream has stayed with you this time.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I mean, I clocked decent hours.” You say, glance up at him before continuing, “Still having nightmares.”

“Yeah, I still get those too.” He says it, reaches between you to smooth a thumb over the back of your hand, “Doesn’t mean you're not doing good though.”

You grip his palm and wrist, feel his words soothe an ache you never realised you had, “You think so?”

He smiles but it doesn’t really reach his eyes, the haunted look in them gleans the edges of it, “They never truly go away, but with time, they have less of a hold on you.”

Sam has spent so much of his time helping you through your own shit, you so often forget that he has his own stuff, too. He faces his own demons and own nightmares, turns to no one for that support on days he can’t feel the ground beneath him. You sit there, in subdued awe and filling to the brim with gratefulness that you get to know this man and get to call him a friend, both of you sitting with clutching fingers and heavy smiles across the breakfast bar.

It’s then that Bucky walks in, freezes mid-step when he sees you like he might say something, glances down to those hands still across the table and then continues passed, ducking his head and shielding his eyes from you with that hair of his. You snatch your hand back from Sam’s in an instant, trying not to think about why you felt the need to or why Bucky’s jaw clenched in that half-second before he shielded himself from view. Sam’s raised eyebrows tell you that he’ll be asking questions later but for you, he mercifully says nothing, simply continues to eat away at Mount Pancake with comfortable ease.

“Morning, Bucky.” You offer into the now weighted silence, teeth tugging on your bottom lip enough to tear at the skin.

He turns then, forced movements and gives you a smile, not the one you’ve become so fond of but a pained sort of smile, “Morning.”

He pulls a mug out and tips himself some coffee, face carefully neutral and practised precise movements as he moves carefully around the kitchen area. It’s the first time you see his neutral face for the mask it is, notice the edges of his mouth and the tightness around his eyes, wonder how you ever thought of this as his no emotion face in the first place. It has emotion if you're looking, you just don’t know what emotion he’s hiding. He gives you one last look before he heads to his usual spot. His shoulders sag when he sits, curl in on him in a way you haven’t seen in a while. You feel that dull ache in your chest again, the one you're desperately trying to ignore.

“We just gonna pretend like that wasn’t a whole thing?” Sam asks now that Bucky's out of earshot but that doesn't stop you from shushing him in a panic.

“I don’t know what you mean.” You say, stare intently at that last pancake on your plate and cut away the curves of it. Then cut away some more.

“That’s why you are shushing me then, right?” He smirks, reaching out to grab your plate from you, stopping you from ruining the pancake any further with your nervous cutting, “I could just go ask him…”

“Alright, smartass. That’s enough of that.” You shoot him a glare and consider how you might explain the weird tension and the weird reaction, not ready to hear an outside opinion of whats went down between you and Bucky, a small part of you not ready to ruin it with sense and logic. “We kissed.”

“You fucking what?” He definitely wasn’t expecting that and the number of octaves his voice climbs is staggering, your hand shooting out to press against his mouth and pinch his lips as you shush him again.

“Jesus Christ, Sam. Don’t you know what shush means?” You whisper at him, “Keep your voice down.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to drop that bomb on me.” He whispers back, that easy smile replaced with the confusion and concern you were expecting, “You wanna explain or should I start guessing?”

“Stop being so dramatic. It’s not a big deal.” You say, can’t help but glance over at him to check he’s still over at his perch on the couch, “The other night, we got locked in the weird room with all the switchboards and shit, okay? And so we talked for a bit, everything was fine until he saw my scars. I guess I’ve been good at keeping them out of sight for now and well, he freaked out. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“So you kissed him?” He asks, incredulous tone unwavering and it solidifies the decision to not tell him the rest.

“Yes.” You say again, chew on your bottom lip a bit before adding, “It made sense at the time, okay?”

He makes a noise like he disagrees, looks over your shoulder with narrowed eyes, a lingering look at Bucky like he's analysing or planning, you can’t quite tell.

“Look, it’s not a thing, okay? It’s a nothing. A non-issue.”

He rolls his eyes at your forced flippant tone, “A non-issue that had you whipping your hands off me like I was 200 degrees.”

“Just some minor… weirdness. I’ll clear the air today, it’ll be fine.” You try to sound confident, sure, like there’s not other option but to believe it. You fail.

Sam looks at you for a long minute and the silence is too loud, the need to hear his advice is stifling and pushes right up against the need to keep those moments untainted. It's entirely unbearable. “I just think your playing with fire,” He says finally, “It’s messy.”

“Look Sam, I promise it’s not. It was just a distraction, there’s no feelings.” The words feel a little hollow when you say them and you almost want to take them back, because really, between you and Bucky there was only feelings.

“If you say so, marshmallow.” He looks unconvinced, “But remember you can talk to me.”

You smile, sudden and grateful, “I know, Sam.” The secrets you didn’t tell balance on the edge of you smile.

The hours tick by in seconds, a blur of movement and polite nods as you sit in the same spot, thinking and rethinking about what to say to Bucky. Be honest with him, Sam had said.

Honest.

The truth. What exactly was the truth? Did you regret what happened? No, you didn’t. Truthfully, you couldn’t explain what happened. How your mutual pain had evolved in the moment to a mutual pleasure. How it had somehow healed and simultaneously carved a new hole in you. The never ending loop of old guilt and new guilt.

Messy. Ha!

The sole of your shoes protest as you rub it against the chair leg for the 80th time, the noise enough to stumble in through that thinking and push you towards action. The ache in your back tells you exactly how long you’ve been sitting there, your muscles sing for every single second. The path to Bucky’s room feels alien, like the path to regret or some other feeling that you can’t place. It’s a distracted sort of thing, like walking into a room and suddenly forgetting why you did. If that feeling had a physical representation, it would be this corridor here in front of you with the ominous door at the end. (The door is actually fine, as friendly looking as doors can be.)  The walls wail and the floorboards creak, or at least they do in your mind where the looming conversation is starting to feel like a jump-scare in a horror movie. You reach the door, hesitate on the knock and end up tapping a nail against the frame, the smallest version of a tap, a nothing noise. Oh well, you think, he’s obviously not here. Coward, your subconscious spits.

Just as your about to tuck tail and retreat, the door swings inwards and reveals Bucky with a very unsurprised look on his face. Did he- did he really hear that tap?

“Oh, um, hi.” You say, and then helpfully add, “I was just about to knock.”

He gives you a look like he knows that’s not true and you start to wonder if there's secret surveillance on the door that can somehow hear people's thoughts, “You wanna come in?”

“Huh? Oh, yes. Sure. Ok.” Great work, you sound a little deranged. You shuffle past him and into the room, do a half glance around but try not to look like your looking. He gestures towards the couch and you gladly sit, anything to not be standing around so awkward, trying not to be curious.

“Can I get you something to drink?” He asks politely but you don’t miss the way he looks just left of yours eyes.

“A glass of water would be great, thanks.” You smile at him, wait till his back is turned before you greedily look around, snatch up all the details as fast as your eyes will let you like they might disappear, like the details will vanish as soon as you say what you need to. You eyes snag on a box near the opposite wall, files and folders haphazardly sticking out, a few photographs peaking between the pages. Too soon, he returns with the glass and notices you looking at the box. He face turns tight as he sits beside you, looks at the box himself for a few seconds before he finally says, “It’s my past.”

It becomes clear then, what’s contained in those files, who those photographs are. You ache again, for him, for you. The constant dull ache with new carved edges. You’re all at once curious and terrified to know if there’s a file with your face on it in that box. He finally looks at you, eyes steady and resigned, like he's waiting for...something.

“I figured we should talk.” You start, and then stop because you don’t know where to begin, how to clear this.

“We should.” He agrees, sets down his own mug and sighs heavily, “I… I was having a hard time that day, and it was a little...overwhelming.” He looks at his hands as he says this, like it cost him something to say it, “I know I was out of line. I’m sorry for that.”

You take a second to measure your response, “I’m a big girl, Bucky. I can say no if I don’t want to do something.” You watch him swallow the words and their meaning, see his head incline and his shoulders sag just a bit, “I think we both can understand a bit of that difficultness and that makes us react a bit differently to each other than we would the others.”

He nods again, “I guess that makes sense.”

“It was a reaction,” You continue, “Not a very smart one, but not one I necessarily regret.” He smiles wryly at that, letting a little relief color his face.

“So, we’re okay?” He asks, wringing his hands a little but given his usual aversion to showing his emotions, it’s like he's practically screaming his anxiety at you.

“Absolutely.” Try to let it show in your smile, “We can’t overthink it. I, uh, think I need this friendship with you.” The second part you admit a little quieter, a truth even you didn’t know until you said it.

“Yeah? Me, too.” He says, quieter still. Small smiles mirror on your faces, the relief of it all clear in the color of them. You stay like that for a minute, a few more, letting his presence sooth in waves over that nervous, pained energy you’ve been carrying today. “Oh, I have something for you.” He disappears before your face catches up to the confusion.

He hands you a book, “I was in a great little bookstore yesterday and saw this. Thought you’d like it. You’ve not read it, have you?”

You blink at him a few times before you turn it over in your hands and read the title. The Song of Achilles. “Oh my god, Bucky! I’ve been wanting to read this for so long. How did you know?”

He smiles that smile, the one you’ve grown so fond of, “I didn’t exactly know. I spotted that last book you read and some kid pointed out. Said if I liked that series, then I’d love this.” He radiates all that kind hope of the gesture, it suits him.

“Thank you, Bucky. This was really nice of you.”

“You can stay, if you want, and read it. I was gonna read one I bought for myself anyway.”

“Ok, that sounds pretty great.” You say, because it does. It’s rare to find someone with a shared comfortability in spending time without forced interaction. He retrieves his own book from what you assume is his bedroom and flops down on his chair, legs flung over the arm of of it and flips through the pages. You watch him for a few seconds, silently delight in the relaxed look on his face and take one those mental snapshots the keep this one for later. Eventually, you tuck your legs under you on the couch and open your book to begin, a soft smile playing at the edges of your mouth. You don’t get further than the first page before Bucky breaks the silence.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You and Sam. Are you…?” It takes a second to realise the implication and you blink at him in surprise, think back to this morning when he walked in and understand where he found his way there.

“No, I'm not with Sam.” You say, and then you don't know why it feels important to clarify, “I'm not with anybody.”

He nods, looks at you with those glittering eyes, the blue in them sucks up all the air in the room till your throat feels a little tighter. You look until you can’t possibly look anymore, the unsaids getting too close to being said and dart your eyes back to the pages before you, lose a lot of minutes rereading the same paragraph until the air begins to fill your lungs again.

Sams words from earlier whisper hauntingly in your ear. It’s messy.

Well, shit.

Forever Tags:  @manawhaat @theashhole @captainrogerss @a-little-hell-to-raise  @peculiar-persephone  @captain-rogers-beard @chrisevansnco @howlingbarnes @poealsobucky @samingtonwilson @vintagevalentinexx @abovethesmokestacks @imhereforbvcky @avengerofyourheart  @carriefish-er @stormy-thomas @danijimenezv   @until-theend-oftheline  @lancefvcker  @odinhson @betheboo55 @palaiasaurus64 @raxacoricofallapatoriuspotter @johnmurphys-sass @katbird787    @sexyvixen7 @jobean12-blog  @justreadingfics @justareader @smoothdogsgirl @theliarone @aikibriarrose @timeladylaurel @badassbakers @earinafae @crushed-pink-petals @tardis-is-mine @httpmcrvel @bucky2-0 @mocking-rain @sociallyimpairedme @jezzula @bless-my-demons @ign-is @indominusregina @-supernatural-coffee-llama @alwayshave-faith @itsonlysarah @superwholocknda @shifutheshihtzu @mizzzpink @yknott81 @haven-in-writing @xtina2191 @reniescarlett @notsoprettykitty @wickedwerewolf @ayeputita @tori-medusa-belongs-to-bucky  @tatalopes23 @pineapplebooboo @mizzezm @thefridgeismybestie @memory-of-a-goldfish @supernatural-girl97 @standing-onthe-edge @ruinerofcheese @rosescentedblood @mysweetcookie99

[masshirohebi-moved]

"Unrequited" (AinaOroJiraTsu!)

Sometimes, love could build the strongest of bonds, but then,it could also simply tear them a part.

They could write the cruelest of romances, the darkest offairytales. If Jiraiya were the knight, and Tsunade the princess, thenOrochimaru had no other place but to be the villain, an evil witch, a bitterliege that wrecked havoc over kingdoms that rejected them. But evil was not immuneto the gripping hands of love, and they have placed their hopes and dreams onthat so called knight. A hero, a sun in eternal darkness, darkness the serpentwished to escape, wished for him to pull them from. Surely everyone could seejust how beautiful he was? Everyone but the princess.

She turned her gaze away from his affections, no matter how muchthe knight craved her touch and approval. And no matter how many times he sworehe’d save her, she swore twice over that she didn’t need saving- how theserpent wished he would save them instead. They could do with it more than she.But they will keep golden eyes fastened to the man, while the man watches thewoman who sights only the grave of her once true love.  

And although she found that love, death took him away. So no onegets anyone, in the cruel laughing hands of fate. And amid their little talegoes an unspoken one. A farm girl watching from the shadows. She isn’t evenmentioned in the fairytales is she? For only those with powers of glory canmake written pages. She longs for them all, would take any of their hands. 

She would give the knight the touch and approval he is starvedoff. She would give the princess a love that wouldn’t die and leave her in suchdisarray. And how she swore she could fix and mend the villains broken heartand mind. But her sentiment is nothing but a futile wish on a still star. Itwas the shooting ones that were magic, she knows, but she’s had to settle withthe ones that always watch her at night. Because shooting stars never comepast, and perhaps she is tired of beautiful things that never seek her out asshe does them.

That’s the story like version, the romanticized tale. The fourare all far less poetic however, much as eyes who don’t know them may thinkotherwise.

“Your drink ma’am,” the bartender says, cutting the vipersthoughts and bringing them back to the present. They ignore the added ma’amwith mild disapproval. But upon seeing the drink they ordered was wrong on topof it, they quickly wave another server over. A new man, who hurriedlyapproaches and adds a quick, “how can I help you sir?”

They give up with their added names, and practically shove thedrink across the table, “I ordered awamori,” they respond with a slight rasp.It’s hurried away with a bit of annoyance, as if the mess up were somehow theirfault. The evening was kicking off to an annoying start.  This wassupposed to be a classy establishment, or so false advertising told them. Aland that was untainted by politics and feuds. It didn’t matter what headbandyou wore here, but merely how high ones income was. 

While the viper still admittedly had the social skills and classof that same orphan stumbling through filthy streets, they had managed toaccumulate wealth during their pursuits of war heroism. A strange word to useon them. A noise is heard behind the bar, for they are ever aware of theirsurroundings, even in places like these.

“Jiraiya-sama, your reservation was placed for two hours ago, wehave had to give your seat to someone else,” the apologetic doorman says. Towhich a nervous and unfazed half laugh greets him. Typical of the sage, hehasn’t taken offense. Unlike the viper who had half spilled their drink on theserver who hadn’t been the one to wrong them in the first place. His presencehowever, is alarming, and they swiftly try to tug on Aina’s sleeve to get her attention.She isn’t there beside them, and their hand snatches at air. “Surely there is another table available?” Jiraiya asks with the same nervoussmile on his face, “see I have a friend coming for her birthday, she’s reallynot the type you want to turn away at the door.”The serpent muses the date briefly, the 2nd of August, ah yes… whoelse could it be.“Jiraiya,” her voice is spoken in the usual stern tone, never having much of agentle touch both in regards to demeanor and physical affairs. Tsunade standsbelow the light of the entrance way, likely wondering what his sheepishexpression is about, likely wondering why they haven’t been seated yet. Theevening for the viper however, couldn’t be getting much worse. They certainlyaren’t happy their drink was wrong, that still no one has made an appearancewith the correct one, that their friend is no longer seated next to them, thatthe bastard who has snatched her place is puffing away on an air tainting pipe,that the very same man is trying to grab their attention with as much tact as adog begging for food, that the man they had actuallywanted and had been brooding over is now here, with the woman who had stolenhis affections the first time.

A slight huff as they treat the stranger beside them as if he were a ghost,hearing his greeting, but ignoring it just the same. They look around the roomto try and find their friend, who they have decided will need to evacuate with them.The last time they had met Jiraiya at a bar with Aina, things had gone… rather badly.They didn’t want a repeat, with Tsunade added to the mix no less. They spother, and how they should have known what she was doing. It would seem a smallbird had flown in through the window, hadn’t been able to find its way back outagain. The staff had been trying to rid the winged pest by sweeping at it witha broom. But there she was, nursing it in her hands, hands the little creatureseemed quite content in.For that was her fate, wasn’t it? Those that wanted to be saved would flock toher, the serpent surely had. But just like that bird, the moment she will takethe little creature outside, the moment she will have given it a chance oncemore, it will fly away. Her goodness never repaid. They can already imagine herstare of saddened farewell. They break their thoughts for the second time, what on earth has made them sosentimental this evening? They appear at her side, and guide her behind apillar to avoid the eyes of their former comrades. Tsunade, being diplomatic,had somehow found them a table where Jiraiya’s blunder left them without one.She didn’t seem upset however, likely amused and rather self-prided that shehad managed to fix matters again. And Jiraiya merely follows her as if she isthe light in the room otherwise cast in eternal darkness. They can see just howmuch adoration lingers in his gaze. It makes them sick.“We need to leave dear,” they state, abandoning the idea of their drink as theyglance across to the two seating themselves not too far away. It’s a hopelessdance those two Sannin swing to. He’s still chasing her after all these years,and she is still mourning.They let Aina take the little bird with, as they venture outside leading heralong without much explanation. They don’t want to stir needless emotions in her.After all, she had fallen for both members at that table. If the serpent feltso very morbid after seeing only one unrequited disaster, they dared not exposeher to the double blow of two. They don’t let her stop until they are past the outsideseating area, past the public pool filled with high rising palm trees, and thenstill some until they have arrived under the moon on the coastline. There is a faint wind, a warm breeze as they wander a few steps further, thesound of the waves running up to greet them somewhat calming. They turn to her,glance down at the bird she has so tenderly grasped in her hand.“You should let her go now,” they say, for they won’t linger on these shoresfor very long. And the moment her fingers unlace from that loving hold, wingshave flurried to life, have taken to the air. Golden eyes watch honey brownones, and they see a mixture of sadness and happiness. How many times she hadgiven them those eyes, they have lostcount. And perhaps, in this moment, it is the first time they truly feel thegravity of their rejection on her. The same crushing weight placed on theirheart when Jiraiya chose loneliness over them… is what she must feel when theychoose it over her. Guilt isn’t something they feel often, if at all. But theydo find themselves toying with the emotion briefly.Before a more dawning concept comes to mind, when Jiraiya had made them feelthis way, they had left. When Jiraiya had made her feel this way, then Tsunadesoon to follow… Aina had left too. Was it merely a matter of time before shedecided the serpent was just another love lost, before she played the role ofthe bird and departed so suddenly? They don’t love her in the way she wantsthem too, but how their selfish core is loathed to lose a beloved friendbecause her emotions took a turn for the worse. It would be kinder to let hermove on, that was what one did if they loved someone. But when had the viperever known how to love?Because sometimes, love could build the strongest of bonds,but then, it could also simply tear them a part. But they’re not thehumble knight who bows his head when told to leave. They are not the nobleprincess who carries herself away with dignity and poise. They are not the kindfarmer girl, who no matter how many mistakes she makes, will correct them asshe accepts fate is not as kind as she. They are the villain, they deny, they oppose.They get what they want whether it is fair or unjust. And if they hold lovelike they held their sword, if they forged it in to a weapon… why, the deem itpossible to control the deadly and cutting edge of passion.

They take her hand gently, drawing close to place a gentle kiss to her lips,false affections they will leave unexplained. All they need to do is ensnareher, is keep her under the belief that maybe, someday, she would be the onethey chose. Cruel, truly. But so much less cruel on them.And the serpent will let her obsession grow, will nurture it like she does herplants. And if their influence turns the kind girl in to someone more villainous,why, they’ll only feel more successful in their attempts of keeping her around.They could never join her in the light after all, had no knight to pull themfrom the shadows, so they shall secure her place in the darkness of their existenceinstead.  

[janelss]

#HappySugaDay

I’m well aware that I have a mountain load of revision to do in a time too short, but in light of Yoongi’s birthday, I thought I’d take a short break and finally put my thoughts about him into words.

Min Yoongi. Born 9th of March 1993 and hailing from Daegu, South Korea. Officially, rapper, lyricist and composer of Bangtan; not-so-officially, one of the caretakers and voices of reason in a group of rowdy friends. Unofficially (but not any less recognised a title), Unpredictable Grandpa Min “I don’t give a shit what others think I’ll do what I believe” Yoongi the Sass Extraordinaire Who May Or May Not Be My Ultimate BiasTM.

I was first introduced to Bangtan via War of Hormone (and a pumped-up friend whose excitement over a comeback refused to be tamped down in the face of my lack of enthusiasm). I caught glimpses of their news as they entered the HYYH era, and around Dope I began showing interest in their music (I would always maintain that it was the music that truly got me, but sometimes I wonder if my past with Bangtan would have been different if a certain handsome “doctor” hadn’t caught my eye).

But it was HYYH pt. 2 that I was introduced to Min Yoongi, and had my fate as an ARMY sealed as firmly as the 95-line are stuck to each other at the hips.

I had never been an artistically inclined person, and there has always only ever been one form of art (if it could be called that) that claimed my soul: words. To express oneself, many have turned to the canvas of paint and colours, music and dance, shapes and sculptures, countless other forms of abstract art. Me? I stick to words. It’s where I’m most comfortable, stuck in the balance between abstract and concrete, freedom and restrictions. So perhaps, it really should come as no surprise that of the many aspects of a song, I place the highest appreciation in lyrics.

And what a world Yoongi paints with his words! Intro: Nevermind was my doorway to the complex mind of who would later become my favourite person in the world. I remember listening to the rough voice, emotions pouring into a story that I finally understood through my eyes. I can’t tell you the exact feelings that rushed through me, but I remember a vivid experience of awe, guilt, respect……and a clenching around the heart that till now, I can only put down as empathy of sorts. It was that afternoon – lying on my bed and reading the lyrics over and over and over – that Min Yoongi became my bias, and Bangtan became my new home.

All in all, my journey with Bangtan has entered its second year, and I’m still happy and contented. Less hyped, less undignified-fangirling-tendencies, but not any less in love. I still cheer for them, occasionally go crazy over them, and my heart continues to swell with pride over the littlest things the boys do. And of course, I smile the widest when it comes to one Min Yoongi.

I love that he is the perfect example of the lotus metaphor; born of mud, yet lovely and untainted. I love that despite the hardships that roughened his edges, he still stands tall and proud, and so much more humbled and kind because of them. I love that he’s incredibly uncaring of a hundred and one things, yet has his heart in all that matters. I love that he minds not what others think, so long as he stands by what he believes. I love that he exudes confidence, even when he does not have the highest opinion of himself. I love that he never once broke even when he was broken, never once lost his words just because they failed him, never once stopped believing despite giving up. I love that he has done so much, yet it will never be enough, simply because for him, ARMYs deserve more. I love that he puts his entire self and more into everything he does, loses himself in it, gives himself up to the rhythm.

I love that he shares his stories with us, painting pictures and lifetimes with his words alone. I love that he shares his loves and hates with us, his hopes and dreams and stumbles and hurt, carefully crafted into clever little metaphors and implications. I love that his words are careful and shy, yet also blunt and down to earth. I love that he is part of the music that can soothe my temper and pull at my heartstrings. I love that he has made me feel alive once more – and willing to actually live, at times – just by reading about his story.

It’s going to be his birthday in 10 minutes, but I really gotta dash, so I’ll just put this on queue. Thank you, Yoongi, for being the person you are, for inspiring thousands upon thousands in life, for doing what you love and sharing it with us all. Thank you for letting me get to know you, and changing so much about me. Happy birthday, and have a blessed year ahead. I’ll always support you, alongside the ARMYs you love so, so much. 생일추가해, 우리 민슈가!