#my urge is to give her scars but she does not have any bc of capitol stuff

[aldoodles]

I’m rereading the Hunger Games for the first time since I was 13, and it is making me so sad. Anyways, here is the best girl 🧡

[stwaidwen]

HIIII im new to this sideblog so i actually dont know ANY of ur ocs yet!!!! do u have a crash course for them pretty please

I should REALLY have an OC page oh my god. Absolutely tho! Putting it under a read more bc it's so hefty.

BG3

Serendipity, or Sera for short, is a tiefling druid about to turn 30 during the events of the game. In my setting, there's a hidden city in the desert outside of Faerûn called "Gate" which functions as the 0th circle of hell. Tieflings in this city are subjugated and oppressed by higher and more powerful devils. Sera's parents conspired for almost a decade to orchestrate their family's escape, and when she and her twin brother (Ty, short for Unity) were 15, Sera's family finally managed it. They have been functionally on the run through Faerûn ever since, alternating between living in the wilderness and stopping in large cities, where her father taught her the basics of druidic magic, being a druid himself. Sera and her brother are best friends, and for a significant part of their lives, were incredibly co-dependent. They would go everywhere together, and Ty went through a period when they were still living in Gate where he couldn't sleep unless they were sharing a bed. When they hit about 22, Ty had reached a point where his mother had imparted all her skills as a rogue, and as Ty's affinity lay more with ranger-focused abilities, he decided to leave home, and join the Harpers. Sera initially took the decision very badly, but came round to the idea, and she gave him one hell of a send-off. The space enabled both of them to grow and develop, and to discover who they were without the other. They remained incredibly close, writing to each other regularly and aiming to meet up once every couple of months. Sera's parents eventually moved to Waterdeep, because the large city held great opportunities for them, both as a diplomat and assassin respectively. Sera decided to stay in Baldur's Gate, in a small house-share in Rivington. She enjoyed her life there immensely, but the wilds continued to call to her, and when she got picked up by the Nautiloid, she was on her way to the Emerald Grove, eager to continue her druid training. Sera is autistic, wears her heart on her sleeve and has a very strong sense of self. She is confident, passionate, and makes a great effort to choose kindness wherever possible. She can also sometimes be very immature, after essentially having her childhood stolen from her. She relishes in causing mischief, has very little regard for authority and has absolutely no qualms about speaking her mind, even - or especially - when it is likely to cause trouble. Whilst on the run, her family evaded capture because they relied on the goodwill of strangers to not give them up, and as such, she values allies more than anything in the world, and considers turning on your allies to be the ultimate betrayal. After a somewhat rocky start, Astarion grows to love her deeply, even if her penchant for altruism gets on his nerves. She teaches him that world is not inherently cruel, and he teaches her that being selfish sometimes is okay. She eventually proposes to him and they are married under the full moon. Her main party is Gale, Shadowheart and Astarion.

(Dark Urge spoilers ahead)

Aviv is my Dark Urge Paladin. When she wakes up on the nautiloid with no memories, covered in scars she doesn't have any context for, Aviv is absolutely terrified. She focuses on getting off the ship, and greatly appreciates Lae'zel taking the lead. When she wakes up on the beach, still with nothing, she frantically searches her pack for something; anything. This is when she finds the written oath she swore as a Paladin. She recites it over and over, until she feels a little less alone. This becomes something she does regularly over the course of their adventures. It becomes something to cling to. A fraction of a life lost. When she does finally remember who she was, it went a little like this: Aviv was the head of the cult of Bhaal in Baldur's Gate. She was revered and worshipped, trusted with only the most secret of missions and marks. She also despised most of the ritual and ceremony, because she believed it childish, tacky and unnecessary to venerate her father, but Bhaal's followers needed performance. However, she was not a wholly willing participant. Bhaal's hold over her was incredibly strong, but wavered, and during these periods of clarity, Aviv would attempt escape. It was during one of these spells that she found her way to an order of Paladins and swore an oath of vengeance, so that she could at least attempt, on some level, to combat some of the evil she was putting into the world. She was also, during this time, tasked with infiltrating the high society of Baldur's Gate and spreading terror amongst its members with some very strategic murders. This is where she met Enver Gortash. Their attraction to each other was instant, though Aviv made him work hard to woo her. He came to accept that she would often disappear for a month or so, and then return. He did not ask for an explanation, and she did not offer one. He was furious after Orin attacked her and left her for dead, and elated when he discovered she still lived. When Aviv finally battles Orin in the temple of Bhaal, she rejects him, willingly accepting her death. But Jergal has other plans, and she rises anew, free of her father's chains. Aviv is mostly very gentle and soft spoken, and people often underestimate her, or outright dismiss her as an opponent because of her quiet demeanor. She uses this to her advantage, particularly in high society politics - Enver always affectionately referred to her as a viper - but this is largely a performance, and on the battlefield, she transforms into an unstoppable, unforgiving force. During Act I and Act II, her friendship with Gale develops into a romance and by the time the party reaches Moonrise Towers, they are hopelessly in love. Act III however, complicates things. Gale's desire to pursue godhood, and Aviv's past catching up to her at the speed of a freight train both put extraordinary tension on their blossoming relationship, and I still haven't decided if they will stay together or not. Her main party is Gale, Lae'zel and Karlach.

Pillars of Eternity

Shachar is an 70-year-old (about 35 in human years) elf rogue from Old Vailia, who sought to rebel against a tyrannical ruler that held her state under martial law. The rebellion was crushed and she barely escaped with her life, fleeing through Aedyr to the Dyrwood for safety. Initially she thinks becoming a Watcher is awful, and she spends half the first game desperate to cure herself and return to her old life, but by the end, she's much more at peace with herself. In the intervening five years between 1 and Deadfire, she's very happy at Caed Nua, and thrives as leader of the new settlement. She's sarcastic, happy-go-lucky, and does not suffer fools. She doesn't enjoy violence but will not hesitate to take life ruthlessly to ensure her and her friends' survival. Very early on, she develops a deep, romantic attraction towards Edér, but does not act on it, and does not tell anyone about it. Her best friend is Hiravias, as both of them have a very similar sense of humour and outlook. During Deadfire, she's even quicker to temper, furious with every God, and absolutely HATES boats. She very quickly makes an enemy of the Royal Deadfire Company, and Maia is only on her ship for a month or two before Shachar demands that she leave. She and Tekēhu form an intense bond, and in the moment they meet, are absolutely perfect for each other. They share a bed, and their burdens, and believe the other to be a soulmate, but are very content to go their separate ways at the end of the game, their time together and needing each other now at an end. It is only by watching her and Tekēhu together that Edér realises he's in love with Shachar, and upon hearing they have split up, makes his move on the way back to the Dyrwood. Her main party in game 1 is Aloth, Edér, Pallegina, Hiravias and Sagani, and game 2 is Aloth, Edér, Tekēhu and Xoti.

Ziva is a human priest of Eothas, who was a slave in the Deadfire Archipelago as a child and freed by the Children of the Dawnstar. She is VERY young, barely pushing 20 at the start of the first game, and really struggles with the expectation and pressure put upon her by becoming a Watcher. Edér steps into the role of big brother, which helps him heal from his conflict with his own older brother. Aloth as well, and Iselmyr especially, also step into a role as her protector, and by the end of the first game she has really grown into a confident young woman. She is deeply religious, and still takes time to pray to Eothas every day at dawn, even though it could get her killed. The second game is very complicated for her, and a lot of the confidence she found in the first game is stripped away, as she is essentially forced to go back to the place where she was enslaved. She finds a very close friend in Serafen, however, and he always finds ways to make her laugh. She is very quiet and soft spoken, is very squeamish and has a strong affinity for dogs. Her main party in game 1 is Aloth, Edér, Grieving Mother, Kana Rua and Sagani, and game 2 is Aloth, Edér, Serafen and Tekēhu.

D&D

(art by my fabulous bestie @glamfellens)

Nina Riordan is my current main character. She is a human artificer, homebrewed subclass, in her early 30s. In our setting, all magic use has to be registered and practiced with the permission of The Dimensional Eye (or just The Eye), including healing, which means many common folk could not afford those services. In the small town where Nina and her husband lived, she defied the eye by recreating magical healing with both science and herbal medicine, and this pissed a lot of people off. One day when she was collecting herbs in the woods, the Eye killed her husband and burned down her cottage and she's been on the run ever since. She made her way to a city called Fortune's Cove, where she ended up apprenticing under a famed artificer, Slim Chance the tiefling. After about two years, they had a very amicable parting (and keep in regular contact) whilst Nina moved on. She made her way to Okovo Bay, the biggest city in the region, and set up a small, free underground medical clinic in the poorest district of town, living off of donations and bartering for favours. We've just finished up the first arc of our campaign, and her clinic has grown into a small community centre and soup kitchen as well as a medical clinic, but Nina has drawn too much attention and now has to make the decision between taking a stand and systematically dismantling the Eye, or leaving the party and going on the run again. She's fiery, blunt, pragmatic, scarily intelligent and often very vindictive. At the moment she's at the start of a long, bloody path of vengeance that she has the arrogance to believe is not going to corrupt her, and will also not fix the aching void of grief inside her, no matter how much she hopes it will. Her greatest fear is that her husband is still alive, that the body she saw was not actually his, and that they will reunite but he will reject her. She would rather be dead than alive in a world where he is also alive but not with her.

Fallout New Vegas

Ari Schultz is a Jewish woman who is trying desperately to reconcile her faith in the face of being born into the post apocalypse. She believes firmly in the power of community and will not hesitate to remove anyone who threatens that, be it raiders, Legion slavers or Mr House himself. She helps as many people as she can in the wasteland, in return for a little food, a good story, and if possible, a place to sleep. She gets on really well with Veronica and Raul in particular, and her and Boone eventually start a romantic relationship, as Ari's explicitly Jewish outlook helps him overcome a lot of his guilt for Bitter Springs and forge a path forward, but this relationship is very slow burn, and takes about 3/4 of the game to come to fruition. Her chosen weapon is a baseball bat, and she takes great pleasure in bladdering people with it, and spends a lot of time maintenancing it. She's a fantastic cook, especially around a desert campfire, but doesn't really trust or use technology. She spares Benny, saves him from the Legion, and invites him to come and help her run the Strip post-game because she has no idea how to run a business, and they eventually become very close friends. She chooses the independent route and invites the Followers of the Apocalypse to set up inside the Strip in the old NCR base. She and Boone move into the Lucky 38, and she sets up a Synagogue in Freeside. Alas, I don't have any screenshots of her.

[grimalkinmessor]

Hmm, yeah. The way Hori wrote Hawks feeling guilty, it's like he doesn't see his parents as abusive. I mean, we even get a whole narration from adult Hawks saying he just saw them as "broken people" that he couldn't help. But I think, at the very least, he...psychologically feels some distance towards them because some internal part of himself does recognize it as abuse, even if he hasn't reached that conclusion himself? I say that because he says he was fine with cutting the relationship with his mom when his name was taken away, and he even though he's sad she ran away and that he couldn't face her, he's also relieved. He's free of his shackles now. Just that realistic feeling of when you're scared of making choices so when your life goes to hell and the choice is made for you, that you go "oh well, it is what it is" he doesn't have to feel guilty that this resulted from his hands that way, and secretly take comfort in the freedom it offers. As for the HPSC, he may not be actively working to shut them down, considering all that they use to control him with his mom, his criminal father, his literal lack of a legal identity before them, and his desire to help people, he's happy about them being shut down because "there's no one to give me orders anymore." And RE: Shouto and them not exactly singing Endeavor praises. I think Hawks comes to that conclusion of things being different now, because he has that flashback to Shouto, because Shouto chose to intern with Endeavor like...three times now? So maybe he doesn't fully hate his guts. But when we see him visit the TodoFam, he puts his arm around Shouto and asks, "was this scar also Endeavor's doing?" he says "Endeavor" as if he's speaking generally to everyone in the room, while giving him The Look, before frantically backtracking with wide eyes and a "oh shit" expression when Rei says it was her, so hey at least he's considerate and open to changing his theories if he was wrong about Endeavor changing?

Hori puts a lot of thought and layers into all of his characters, for sure. Though you're right on the fact that he glosses over several issues bc he either doesn't think about them or thinks they're fine—don't even get me STARTED on the treatment of Quirkless people I can rant forever—and that neglect and verbal abuse might not even cross his mind as actual abuse.

I think I've said it before (I might've even said it in the post you're referencing but tbh I have the memory of a goldfish) but I'm pretty sure that Hawks's primary coping mechanism is avoidance and denial. If he just yeets it far enough out of his brain that he doesn't think about it then it can't hurt him.

I say this mostly because this is also one of my biggest coping mechanisms, and I recognize a lot of Hawks's mannerisms as something I personally do when I'm trying to justify things that I know either aren't true or aren't right. And you're right—I have noticed him start to address the things that he's been avoiding, BUT he has yet to address the one that seemed to urge him to confront some of those truths in the first place.

I said it in a different ask (and I apologize for a bit of misinformation there, it had been a while since I read the manga chapters and I forgot that my Twicehawks brain didn't just,,,make some of that shit up) but Hawks doesn't seem particularly affected by Twice's death. Which, if the future chapters are any indication, we will be seeing that change soon and I can't WAIT—but I digress.

Hawks killing Twice was the ultimate catalyst for his sudden will to address his own thoughts upfront.

Everything spirals for him after he kills Twice. Dabi roasts his wings off, his mother flees, Endeavor gets exposed as an abusive father, hero society begins to collapse, etc. And yes, a lot of these aren't directly connected to Twice's death...but they are in Hawks's mind.

We don't know if it's the first time he's ever had to kill someone on HPSC orders, but it really looks like it is. He stalls, he bargains, and he ultimately has to kill Jin anyway. And not only was Twice likely his first kill, Twice was someone Hawks genuinely seemed to like. He was someone Hawks spent time around and got to know before he quite literally stabbed the villain in the back. That had to have put him in a weird headspace.

Because before Twice, we see Hawks internally justifying everything and tunneling his vision onto his goals, but after Twice, we see him finally start to acknowledge the problems he's been putting off and ignoring. And just in time too, because you can bet that Lady Nagant coming into play also threw him for a loop. And learning her story—a young hero hopeful trained to be little more than a glittery government assassin, gone rogue after getting tired of the blood on her hands—would've slapped Hawks in the face with not only the confirmation that the HPSC sucks, but that he could've easily turned out just like her.

After all, he'd already killed for them once, right? Who's to say that they wouldn't make him do it again? Hell, he knows they would make him do it again.

That's why I'm so interested in how this newest fight will turn out. Why I'm so interested in Hawks specifically; because not only is Twice back on the field, but Dabi has also shown up, like a mirror of the battle of Jakku. Because Dabi is both similar and different to Hawks in that he acknowledges that he has trauma, but he lies to himself about what exactly that trauma is. Dabi knows that he has been wronged, but he's got a skewed view on how he's been wronged: physical abuse vs verbal abuse vs neglectful abuse.

And I'm highly interested in seeing how Hawks, a man who is just now coming to terms with his own problems, is going to handle that. What he'll say, if he'll repeat himself or learn from his mistakes—if he'll be able to get through to anyone in particular :)

[flowercrown-bard]

I saw @little-piece-of-tamlin‘s a tiny stupid geraskier doodle which I love with all my heart bc it’s so cute and got inspired to write a little something. I hope that’s ok

fandom: the witcher

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Modern Au

Word count: 2k

“It’ll rain today,“ Vesemir had said, “You better take a raincoat.”

Geralt should have known better than to ignore his advice. But in his defence, the sky had been completely clear when he had left the house with Ciri to take her to her friend Dara’s house.

The whole way there, she had chattered excitedly, tugging on his hand to get him to walk faster. The only time she had stopped, had been when they had come across a busker standing at the corner of a street.

Suddenly, she hadn’t been that worried about hurrying anymore and she had refused to leave until they had listened to at least five songs.

“You have to give him money, dad!” she demanded and pointed at the empty guitar case that was propped open in front of the busker.

Geralt made a grimace. He didn’t have his wallet with him – why would he, when he was just supposed to walk Ciri over to her friend and go home straight away again – but there was no doubt Ciri would argue with he told her so. And he supposed, he should probably be a good role model to her by paying the street artist, even though Geralt couldn’t help but think that his too bright smile and too happy songs were obnoxious.

The sooner he gave him some money, the sooner, he would get Ciri to continue on their way. So Geralt rummaged through his pockets, thankfully coming up with some spare change that he had forgotten was even in there and tossed it to the busker.

The pathetically few coins he had tossed were the only ones in the case. The sight almost made Geralt feel bad for the busker.

The busker’s singing didn’t stop, but his face brightened and his impossibly blue eyes lit up when he nodded to Geralt in thanks.

Geralt’s mouth went dry and he was glad that Ciri was still holding his hand, for suddenly, he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

He turned away briskly.

“Come on, Ciri, we should get going.” He gave her hand a small squeeze. “Dara’s probably waiting already.”

She pouted, but nodded. Before she turned away, she waved at the busker, who gave her a brilliant smile.

Geralt would have forgotten all about the busker, if it hadn’t started raining just as they got to Dara’s house. What started off as a light drizzle quickly turned into a downpour.

Geralt cursed silently. He didn’t even have his phone with him to call one of his brothers to come pick him up. At least Ciri had gotten inside before the worst of the rain had started.

Geralt threw a glare at the sky that had somehow turned from being bright blue to being a dark grey.

A low thunder rumbled and Geralt hurried along to get back home as quickly as he could, even though he was already soaked to the bone.

His face was set in a grim frown the entire time and he kept his eyes on the pavement before him, watching as the puddles soaked his boots.

“Hey!”

The shout made Geralt’s head snap up. His eyebrows rose in surprise without his permission, when he saw the person that had called out to him and that was now waving at him enthusiastically.

It was the busker from before, sitting beneath one of those umbrellas some cafés put up when the sun was shining too brightly.

Maybe they had forgotten to close it when the rain had started – or they didn’t care. Geralt had no idea how those things worked.

His steps faltered. Quickly, he threw a glance over his shoulder to see if the busker was waving to someone else, but Geralt was the only one on this street. At least the only one still out and about in the rain. Everyone else had fled into cafés or stores to hide from the rain.

Geralt swallowed, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, unsure what to do. He really, truly didn’t want to sit with this stranger who was still waving at him like an idiot.

But then again, the busker was sitting where he was dry while Geralt was standing in the rain unable to decide what to do, so really, who was the real idiot here?

Though inwardly he let out a sigh, knowing he was going to regret this, he walked over to the busker, sitting down on the chair opposite of him.

“Hello there, stranger. I’m Jaskier. You saw me earlier? I was the one playing the guitar.” He gestured to the case he had stowed away beneath the table to keep it safe from the rain. “I was hoping to see you again to thank you properly.” Jaskier’s smile grew so big, Geralt was wondering how it didn’t hurt his cheeks. “Guess I got really lucky that it started to rain, huh?”

Geralt scowled. “If my daughter hadn’t wanted to listen to you play for so long I would have gotten home before it started to rain.”

The busker tilted his head to the side. “Oh, if you enjoyed my singing that much, I should probably play some more, hm? As an apology for letting you get caught in the rain.”

“You really don’t –“ Geralt began, but Jaskier had already bent down to retrieve his guitar.

For a brief second, Geralt was tempted to just get up and leave again. A single glance at the rain made him reconsider and slump back in his chair.

When Jaskier began playing, Geralt had to admit that it didn’t sound terrible. If he had been in a better mood, he would have even enjoyed it, but as it was, he wasn’t very inclined to think any positive thoughts about Jaskier. It didn’t matter that his eyes crinkled at the side when he smiled while singing or that the mob of brown hair that had been so fluffy before was no plastered to his forehead in a way that made Geralt want to reach out and push it out of his eyes.

Abruptly, Geralt turned away. The avoidance of eye contact didn’t last very long. As soon as Jaskier reached the chorus of the song, Geralt’s eyes snapped back up to him.

“Why does it always rain on me?” Geralt asked incredulously. “Seriously?”

Jaskier’s tongue peeked through his lips as he winked at Geralt. “It’s fitting, isn’t it?”

Geralt grunted.

Jaskier’s fingers stilled on his guitar and he let out an overly dramatic sigh. “You’re a tougher audience than your daughter.” His eyes lit up with mischief. “But I’m sure I can find some song that you like.”

“I doubt it.”

“It that a challenge?”

Geralt didn’t answer, but he doubted Jaskier needed one anyway. The busker began to play again, giving Geralt a cheeky wink and his smile grew wider with every song that deepened Geralt’s frown.

It’s raining men.

Fool in the rain.

Raindrops keep falling on my head.

Umbrella.

Blame it on the rain.

After the third song, Geralt was ready to bang his head on the table and block his ears with his hands.

Mercifully, he was saved, when a waitress came by.

“Excuse me,” she said, looking sorry. “The other patrons have complained about your playing. And we’re not really allowed to let anyone sit here unless they buy at least one drink. So I need you to put that guitar away and buy something if you want to stay here.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s face fell and the fingers that had just been plucking the strings rubbed together in a gesture that should have probably been soothing for himself. “Of course. Sorry.”

Carefully, he put his guitar away and grabbed the menu lying on the table. Geralt should have been relieved that the playing had stopped, but the sight of Jaskier, dejected and still dripping from the rain made something in his chest twist. He pressed his lips together.

“Sorry,” he said as well and pushed his chair back, making it scratch against the ground. His skin felt icy just thinking about going back out in the rain and a small part of him felt bad leaving Jaskier alone like this. Granted, Geralt hadn’t been thinking nice things about his singing either, but it was one thing to sit there suffering in silence and another thing entirely, asking a waitress to kick Jaskier out if he didn’t stop playing.

An alarmed expression flickered over Jaskier’s face and he grabbed Geralt’s sleeve when he made to turn away.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “Didn’t you hear the thunder before? You can’t just go out there.”

Geralt shrugged, telling himself the concern of this stranger didn’t feel nice.

“Don’t have any money.”

Something shifted in Jaskier’s expression. A look of utter disbelieve and almost awe crossed his face, before he plastered on a smile that definitely didn’t made Geralt’s chest clench.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Jaskier said lightly, tugging at his arm until he sat back down again. Geralt could have easily freed himself, but for some reason he didn’t understand, he did as Jaskier bid him. “I’ll pay for your coffee.”

Geralt stared at him. “Why would you do that?”

Jaskier shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Technically, I’m just paying you back. You did give me your money before.”

Geralt blinked. “That wasn’t nearly enough to pay for coffee.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Jaskier lowered his eyes and drummed a quick little rhythm on the table. “It was nice. I could really need someone being nice to me today.”

Jaskier gave him a small smile, which Geralt returned without thinking about it. It wasn’t often that people looked at him and didn’t make assumptions. They certainly didn’t call him nice. The only people who really stuck around were his brothers and Vesemir. He was trying to do good by Ciri, but he could still hear the other parents whisper whenever he brought her to preschool. They judged him for being a single dad, for having scars that surely meant that his life was too rough to have a child in it, for having eyes that freaked out some of the kids.

Jaskier hadn’t just started smiling at him when Ciri had urged him to give him some change. His smile hadn’t faltered, despite Geralt scowling at him, despite him not responding to anything he said.

Yet, he had called Geralt over to save him from the rain. And now, even after having spent enough time with him that he must have realised that Geralt wasn’t good company, he still offered to buy him coffee as if it was nothing.

Something warm and fuzzy spread through his chest that almost chased away the cold clinging to his skin from the rain.

Geralt’s mouth was dry and he felt awkward saying it, but just this once, he took a chance. “I could pay for your coffee next time.”

“Next time?” Jaskier perked up, eyes wide.

Geralt shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “If you wanted to.”

“I’d love to.” Jaskier narrowed his eyes playfully and leaned forward on his elbows. “But maybe I should first know some things about the handsome man who just invited me out for coffee first.”

Geralt grunted, the corners of his lips twitching up. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, your name for starters,” Jaskier laughed. “And your favourite song. As much fun as it was trying to find out how long it would take you to tell me to stop, I would really like to know what to play to maybe make you smile again.”

Geralt blinked. “Geralt,” he said dumbly. A grin spread across his face. “And I would definitely smile if you played Here Comes the Sun when it stops to rain just to piss of those people in there some more.”

Jaskier let out a startled laugh that made Geralt’s stomach flip. It wasn’t often that people laughed at his jokes. His humour was too dry or just plainly not funny enough. But somehow, seeing Jaskier throw his head back laughing at something that wasn’t even that funny, Geralt wanted to make him laugh like that again.

When the rain finally stopped, Jaskier didn’t play Here Comes the Sun, but neither of them even noticed. They were too preoccupied talking about everything that came to mind. What started out as polite smalltalk had quickly turned more personal and Geralt was surprised to find out that he really wanted to get to know Jaskier better.

They talked about Jaskier’s struggle with not feeling good enough when it came to his music and Geralt’s struggles with being a single dad. It was surprisingly easy to open up to Jaskier, who didn’t laugh at him for his doubts, but told him how from the little he had seen of Ciri, she had seemed happy with Geralt.

When they finally left the café again and parted ways, Geralt promised to come by with Ciri again soon and listen to him play again.

--

A year later, they went to the very same café again, this time hand in hand. Almost as per tradition, Jaskier started signing again, though this time he hadn’t taken his guitar with him, far too eager to hold Geralt’s hand the whole time through, much to Geralt’s amusement, which only grew, when he recongnised the song.

You are my Sunshine.

Geralt knew Jaskier mainly did this to tease Geralt – teasing him with his songs was a habit Jaskier would probably never lose and secretly, Geralt loved it – but just as every other time, Geralt didn’t tell Jaskier to stop singing in irritation. No, by now, he had a far better way to get Jaskier to stop.

He leaned forward and seized Jaskier’s lips in a kiss, effectively swallowing the song.

“You were right,” Geralt said, when they pulled away again.

“I usually am.” Jaskier smirked and pressed another quick kiss against Geralt’s lips. “But pray tell, what exactly have I been right about?”

Geralt rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. “We really did get lucky by getting caught in the rain.”

[jisungsmochi]

somebody to you - hrj

somebody to you - renjun

behold,, the FINAL part of my nct dream x the vamps songs series! leaving y’all with something really wholesome and fluffy bc i’m inlove with renjun 

word count: 2.8k 

summary: huang renjun didn’t like relationships. he thought they were messy, and honestly, a waste of time. he had his whole life ahead of him, so why would he need a significant other to be happy? that was all until he met you, and thought to himself, maybe it wouldn’t be all bad...

read the rest here! 

//

I used to wanna be

Living like there's only me

But now I spend my time

Thinking 'bout a way to get you off my mind

renjun scrolled through his endless instagram feed, swiping through threads of his friends with their girlfriends. he would be lying if he said it didn’t make him

borderline sick. he was always a realist, never really seeing the point of having a serious relationship at such a young age. in his life so far, he’d probably say he’s only had one girlfriend, and it was a random girl he asked to prom so he wouldn’t feel left out. renjun was never opposed to love, he just wasn’t actively seeking it.

“dude i reckon you’re gonna like her! she’s super cool from the sounds of it, and she goes to our university!” haechan insists as the four boys sat down for dinner in their shared apartment.

“i don’t need you to set me up on a blind date. i’m capable of finding someone on my own, thank you very much” renjun rolled his eyes, fed up with the continuous discussions of his single status.

“yeah, and how’s that going for you?” jaemin chimed in, causing jeno and haechan to chuckle in response. renjun just scoffed, shoving his mouth with more food to avoid speaking further.

“give it a chance. the worst that could happen is that you don’t vibe with her and you never talk to her again” jeno tries his best to convince the stubborn boy. renjun just shrugs, his mind contemplating the idea.

“okay fine, one date. if you guys really think she’s soo good for me, let’s see how accurate you guys are” renjun snickers. he was not confident in their matchmaking skills at all, but he loved seeing them fail.

“perfect, i’ll set it up for you. just sit back, relax and be your boring self” haechan grins, tapping away on his phone. renjun ignores the cheeky boy’s comments, finishing up his dinner. his first date in over two years, this should be good...

I used to be so tough

Never really gave enough

And then you caught my eye

Giving me the feeling of a lightning strike

renjun was regretting this date already. all he knew about you was your first name and your uni course, nothing else. the boys had refused to show him any photos of you, claiming that it would be more ‘romantic’ if he fell for you at first sight...what a cliche, he thought to himself.

“how will i even know it’s her, if i don’t know what she freaking looks like?” renjun groaned, nerves slowly building up as haechan pulled up to the date location.

“i’ll point her out, okay? just trust me” renjun let out a short sigh, hands slightly jittery. why the hell was he nervous? it wasn’t like he was going to see her after this one date.

as renjun stepped out of the car, his eyes scanned the scenery.

“jeez, you guys really went all out for this date” he was amazed by the view. it was a restaurant that was by the water, multiple little boats sailing across it and the sounds of birds humming.

“of course, you only deserve the best” haechan winked, eyes looking for renjun’s date.

“dude what if she doesn’t even show up. does she even know what i look like?” renjun was slightly panicking at this point, drifting from his tough exterior.

“haechan?” a soft voice interrupted his thoughts. renjun’s eyes diverted to the owner of the voice. he felt stunned by the sight of you, dressed neatly in some jeans and a flowery blouse. you had slightly curled your hair, hands clutching to your purse as you greeted the two boys infront of you.

“hey y/n, this is renjun, your date for tonight! see you kids later, don’t get up to anything crazy” haechan chuckled to himself, shoving renjun to meet you. renjun almost clashed into your smaller frame, catching you off guard. you gently held his arms, keeping a small distance between you both.

“o-oh my bad, i-i’m renjun” he stammered, eyes meeting yours. you were slightly blown away by his looks...he was really attractive. well done, haechan.

renjun would say the same about you. even though he didn’t have a particular type, (as he found it kind of dumb tbh) he believed you could fit it perfectly.

“i’m y/n! nice to meet you” you widely smiled, renjun returning your expression as he pulled out his hand for you to shake. maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Look at me now, I'm falling

I can't even talk, still stuttering

This ground I'm on, it keeps shaking

you were currently trying to hold back your laughter as renjun recounted the story of how he caught jaemin with his girlfriend...doing the nasty, during their first week of university.

“oh my goodness! were you scarred for life?” you slammed your fist on the table, causing others around you to glare. but renjun couldn’t even focus on them, attention solely on you.

“of course! it was the first week! like couldn’t they have just waited until midterms?” renjun chuckled at the memory, proud of himself that he made you laugh so much. he must be doing something right.

“you’re really funny, renjun. some of the other guys that haechan tried to set me up with were lowkey boring. i guess he sees me as boring too” you slightly frowned, watching as renjun piped up in his seat,

“y-you’re not boring at all! you’re funny! and pretty too” he muttered the last part, not wanting you to have heard. but you did. you decided not to linger on it much, afraid to make him too flustered.

“you’d be the first guy to say that” you shrugged, taking a small sip from your glass of water.

“have you had boyfriends in the past?” renjun suddenly asked, causing you to raise an eyebrow.

“i-uh i’ve had a few. nothing too serious though, how about you?” you curiously ask in return, watching as renjun looked down to his lap. he hesitated before answering,

“i’ve only had one girlfriend before. i’m not really an avid dater” renjun admits to you, hoping that you didn’t find him lame.

“oh neither am i! we have another thing in common! i feel like relationships can get really difficult to manage, especially if you aren’t in the right headspace, you know?” you started rambling, renjun stringing along to your every word. he found such beauty in the way you articulated your words. he was so entranced he almost forgot to respond.

“i totally understand how you feel, i’ve always thought that i should live my life to the fullest before i consider settling down” he commented, causing you to nod along. you really liked his answers, it seemed like you were both on the same page about relationships. you didn’t expect to enjoy his company this much, initially agreeing to go on the date so that haechan would stop teasing you for not having a boyfriend in uni yet.

you walked alongside renjun, waiting for your roommate to pick you up.

“i had a really good time tonight, renjun. thankyou” you kindly complimented, causing renjun to become more shy (if that was even possible).

“no thankyou! there were times i felt kind of awkward, but you really know how to carry a conversation” he smiled, watching as you started to get shy.

“are you flirting with me, huang renjun?” you teased, nudging his arm gently.

“so what if i am?” he nudged you back,

“well i don’t think i’d want you to stop” you smirked. before renjun could say anything back, your heard the familiar voice of your roommate urging you to get in her car.

“oh that’s my ride. i have to get going. this was nice, i’ll see you around renjun!” you hurriedly embraced the boy, placing a gentle peck to his cheek before rushing to your roommate’s car.

renjun still didn’t say anything back to you, his body frozen from your touch.

‘no no no’ he thought to himself...he was falling for her.

All I wanna be, yeah, all I ever wanna be, yeah, yeah

Is somebody to you

Everybody's tryna be a billionaire

But every time I look at you, I just don't care

“so are you gonna tell us about the date or do we have to call and ask her instead?” haechan teased as the rest of the boys sat in their living room. renjun has a book in his hands, wanting nothing more than peace and quiet after his long night.

“gosh, will you let me finish this chapter?” renjun huffed, causing jaemin and jeno to snicker. haechan pulled out his phone, holding it to renjun’s face,

“oh would you look at that? it would be a shame for my finger to slip and dial y/n” before he could continue, renjun hurriedly tossed his book to the side, tackling the pestering boy onto the ground, holding him down firmly.

“holy shit, did you get stronger?“ haechan could barely speak, still in shock from the sudden attack. renjun slowly leans back, letting out a tired sigh.

“you two are ridiculous, let’s cut to the chase, did you like her or not?” jaemin rolled his eyes, ready to hear all the tea.

renjun looked from side to side, not liking all the attention that was on him.

“i-she was really cool. honestly yeah, i did like her. but i don’t think she’s looking for anything too serious at the moment” renjun shook his head, thinking back to your heated discussion about relationships.

“okay that sounds like a cop out excuse. i think you’re just scared” jeno chimed in, the two other boys nodding along. renjun glared at them, trying his best to maintain his composure.

“yeah, i mean, did anything happen aside from good conversation?” jaemin continued to push, renjun now becoming more reserved. of course he trusted his friends, but they never really openly spoke about their feelings like this, it was quite new to all of them.

“she kissed me on the cheek before she left, does that mean something?” renjun muttered, watching as haechan tips himself over, now laying on the ground.

“you’re an idiot, must we spell it out for you? she’s totally into you as well” jeno groaned in frustration.

truth was, renjun wasn’t sure how to properly ask someone out, nonetheless be in a proper relationship with them. he was in desperate need of help...but all he had were his three idiot friends.

“i know i don’t know her well and all, but after she left, i couldn’t stop thinking about her. is this what it’s like to fall for someone? oh god...i’m falling” renjun started rambling to himself, jaemin and jeno now rested against him, shoulder touching either of his.

“the answer is pretty clear, man. go for a second date! make the move, she might be thinking the exact same thing” jeno shrugged, trying his best to advise his friend, the best he could. renjun bidded, actually agreeing with jeno for once.

suddenly, renjun felt his phone ringing. he immediately picked it up without looking at the caller ID.

as if you were listening in on their conversation, your voice rang through renjun’s ear.

“hello? is this renjun?” you nervously stammered, waiting for a response. renjun was completely frozen, his mouth hung wide as jeno pressed his own ear closer to the phone.

“y-yes this is him” renjun finally spat out, hands slightly shaking.

“oh great, this is probably coming as a surprise to you. but i uh, wanted to know if you’d be interested in going on another date” you were able to finish, heart racing as you held the phone tightly. renjun felt his heart stop after your words, jeno shaking him gently to snap out of his daze.

“o-oh yeah, i’d be really interested” renjun replies, mentally face palming himself for sounding a little too eager.

“amazing, i’ll keep in touch” you smiled to yourself, trying your best to contain your excitement. eventually you hung up, screaming into your pillow, kicking your feet up and down. was this how it felt to actually like someone?

“there’s your chance, don’t blow it!” haechan teased, throwing a cushion over to renjun who was still frozen well after the call had ended.

‘holy shit’ he mumbled.

//

the date you had planned for renjun, involved attending the local food markets they held once a month. you thought it would be a social enough setting for conversation to not get too awkward, as well as enjoy a variety of food. renjun met you at the bus stop, dressed in baggy jeans and a blue wind runner jacket. his hair was slightly styled, some strands gelled back. it really accentuated his facial features, making you admire him even more than you did before.

“you look really good today, i mean, not like you don’t look good everyday i’m sure you do..” you shook your head at your rambling, wanting nothing more but for him to laugh it off. renjun just smirked at you, planning another witty comment to respond,

“not as good as you though” he gently guided you to walk with him, his hand travelling to the small of your back. you slightly froze at the contact, but aimlessly followed him. he surely had his way with words.

as you both tasted some amazing food, renjun found him standing quite close to you. if you were trying a sample, he would stand behind you, his chest touching your back occasionally. it seemed really natural to him, and you didn’t mind it at all. he would often touch your shoulder gently to grab your attention, or pull you along by your waist. it gave you massive butterflies that you could shake off.

“did you want to start heading home? we can walk to the bus stop together” renjun offered kindly, his arm wrapped around your shoulder as you slowly made your way out of the large crowd. just as you were about to respond, rain started sprinkling from the sky. renjun quickly moved you to stand under some shelter as the rain came pouring.

“how the hell are we meant to walk in this?” you half shouted, clutching onto renjun’s side. he couldn’t bear moving you away from him,

“let’s just run, we can’t wait for it to pass” he suddenly took your hand, pulling you along as he bolted to the nearest bus stop.

“you’re so crazy, renjun!” you shout at the boy, giggling at the entire situation. before you knew it, renjun span you around, pulling you close to his chest.

“the only thing i’m crazy about is you” he confessed, catching you completely off guard. he had a habit of making such flirty comments, but this time you felt he wasn’t trying to joke around.

“w-what?” rain was washing over the both of you, your clothes completely soaked at this point.

“i really like you, y/n. i really freaking do. i didn’t want to admit it at first because i was scared of the idea of dating. but i want to be with you. i want to be somebody to you. everyone is out here trying to settle down and start their lives, but i feel like with you we can go at a steady pace. i don’t want to rush things, incase it gets messy, and difficult. but i just needed you to know that i really like you, and i hope it’s not all in my head that you like me back” renjun firmly confessed to you, eyes never leaving yours. you slowly raised your hand to wipe some rain drops off his face, watching as he smiled into your touch. he held you tightly in his arms, awaiting your response.

“renjun, i think i made it really clear that i like you back. i was also nervous about how you’d react, considering you weren’t really looking for anything serious at first. i think we should give it a shot, we can worry about all the stress and possible fights later on. all i know is that right now, you’re the only person i want to be standing in the rain with. now can you please kiss me?” you couldn’t contain your smile as renjun leaned into you. his lips pressing gently against yours. your fingers now running through his wet hair as he held your waist firmly. the kiss started getting deeper, the atmosphere really playing into the romantic nature of it all. eventually you both pulled away, foreheads presses against eachother, softly giggling.

that was the beginning of your relationship with renjun. despite having ups and downs (as expected) you both persevered and tried your absolute hardest to make things work. renjun finally admitted to himself: falling inlove wasn’t so bad...especially when it was with the right person.

[monsoonblooms12]

Priyotomo (Ethan Ramsey x f!MC)

Summary: The Last Day at Amazon and Ethan's first day back at Boston from Ethan and Pooja's POV

Priyotom(o/a): (Bengali) Dearest, Most Beloved

A/N: Time for another hopeless attempt at poetry!! Anyway, this is my take on Dr Ethan Ramsey running to the Amazons. I really hope that this is not absolute crap and makes so sense🧡

Thank you so much to Simone for Pre-reading! Love you Gurl🧡

If you enjoyed the story, please like it, leave a comment or reblog. Your feedback keeps me going🤎

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey X f!MC (Pooja Sharma)

Word Count: around 1.8K

Rating: General

Category: Angst

Warnings: (Very Brief) Mentions of blood, fainting and drinking

Title Inspo: Priyotomo Hai - Rabindra Sangeet (Rabindranath Tagore's composition)

OTHER WORKS

Pooja

16 years.

The date was displayed with vivid eloquence by the woody beige cubes that adorned the desk, posing a match with the minimalism of the room.

It was a preposterous fact.

Glassy ambers switched perspective in a progressive motion, and they interpreted the solitary shine of the table lamp on the transparent surface.

Four glowing smiles, two tiny toddlers sat on their parents' lap.

It does not feel surreal. Neither a tale of a bygone era.

It was not her past. It was her present, her life's gears were turned by this very photograph.

Her bracelet adorned hand held it close to her heart, which beat in a meteoric rhythm.

The cacophonous tunes from the fiesta painfully pierced through her reverie, cajoling her to close the mahogany doors that lead to her cocoon.

The flamboyant kantha stitched lehenga proved to be burdensome to carry.

With ponderous steps, Pooja settled down on the couch, pulling her feet to herself.

She wanted to be ten again. Not eleven.

Terminate the time when she could be that blithe girl, rolling dices with her mother.

But there was a specific reason why the reminisces came back stronger than any usual day.

Somewhere in the remote land, in a cholera-stricken district, a summery blue-eyed man spent his days in seclusion.

And occupied the chambers of her cerebral hemispheres.

What was the pain of being left alone with only emotions as a companion without as much as a message?

She wiped her cheek, only to discover the black of her eyeliner now adorning her fingers.

She had been crying.

When? She could not feel the tears that left smokey meanders on the map of her face.

The heartbreak and the circumstances had numbed her feelings. All she wanted was an embrace.

Why did his peach lips mark her as his if this was the end in sight?

She refused to accept it. The end.

She placed her foot down, not feeling the pierce of a pin fallen down against her skin.

Drops of scarlet marked her track as she retouched the smear of her face.

Time to go and socialize.

Ethan

Of everything to look at in the shiny cellular, his eyes now traced the pristine form of the lady who now inhabited every one of his senses.

The comely picture made her look ravishing and the adamant neurons started pulling out manila folders with her memories kept in them.

No. He cannot.

The fiery golden liquid disappeared faster than it had been poured.

He had found himself on the crossroad of whether to type out the words that played in a loop in his mind or not.

I miss you!

He always chose the latter.

He had already given her a false hope.

Of a future of them.

He did not want to do it again.

Only now he realizes that it was a hope he had given himself as well when he first took that sacred form of hers into his arms.

And that he ran away. Like a coward.

Ethan Ramsey the coward.

Who could not fight for them.

Who could not fight for her.

Who could not fight for Lo-

No.

He did not let the word complete. The very thought was dangerous.

Throwing the classy cylinder he had been holding with a deathly grip, he poured the last bit of that glass bottle in him.

And walked over hurriedly, the tiny glass pieces stabbing him, to again begin the reset.

One which would never complete.

Next Day

Pooja

The ethereal moon spread out the beams of serenity all over the ceremonious night.

It was a lively affair. Merrymaking and cultural programs went on, as she stood amidst the cheery atmosphere with a sombre expression.

In front of Pooja, was the masterfully sculpted idol of the Mother Goddess, standing majestically as the centrepiece of the celebration. She was the epitome of power, the Mahisasura Mardini.

The recollections of an unforgettable past come as paper-planes drifting in a gentle air, carrying the playfulness, a child's happy smiles. A time when her mother would take Pooja to the mythological lands through her words, and they would get lost like flying butterflies in fairytale land.

The tunes of Bengali music float in the gentle air, and she hums along. The first song her mom had taught her, also for a Durga Puja function. Her mom was deeply rooted in all of them, the culture of Bengal kept alive by her. She was the reason why Pooja could become a part of a community she takes pride in.

Even now, so many years later, things don't change. They hold on to these roots like they are holding onto their life, not letting them disappear.

It feels like holding onto her, keeping her alive.

Recreating a small piece of her favourite Kolkata in Bhopal.

But the aura of calm hid like the clouds covering the sun's shine. The piercing pain of heartbreak came back, the wound untreated.

The soft sand of her life's hourglass prickles, solitary grains floating to join their siblings. The wish of them defying gravity and going back to bring the 10th year of her life had never been so strong as it was now.

The heavy jewellery tugged at her ears, letting her know their presence and the styled hair gave her a throbbing headache.

Her tiredness and exhaustion, now fuelling back in her veins refusing to let her bring back that sense of peace she experienced moments ago.

Around her people wore phoney smiles. All they cared about was unimportant Tommy rot. Not a single one of them stepped back from criticizing the others behind their backs.

It was a saga of inflated egos, of constant competition, to make the next person look inferior.

She was tired.

Of people running away, Of abandonment, Of hopes getting dashed.

Why did his thoughts keep coming back? After all, he did make it clear, didn't he?

But did he really succeed? Did his efforts head? Did his heart finally give in to his relentless demand?

Did he really forget her?

All the messages that lay not replied, unheard voicemails, she was sure he had.

But that colour of his he left on her?

The piece of his heart that was protected by her?

Would he be able to forget them?

An earthen lamp flickered in front of her, bud she did no rush to save it.

If it goes out, then let it.

Just like the never-ending load shedding of her life.

But it didn't.

It was a wish, a hope that kept it alive.

The sweet nothings he had whispered to her, the gentle kisses he lined on her forehead.

They had promised her forever.

His being enveloped her, she doubted if it would ever break.

The hope of him & her flickers every now and then, just like the earthen lamp.

But did it go off?

It couldn't.

Because there was no wind strong enough to extinguish it.

The possibility of him and her.

The realization and a blackness hit her at the same time.

And as she fell, her mind held on to only it.

The possibility of him and her.

Ethan

If the Great Thinkers from BCs before were asked if going to a beer garden after spending 2 months in another continent and a 13hr long flight was a sensible thing to do, they would have watched the questioner in bewilderment.

And he agreed. He was not being sensible, not even 1%.

The urge to see her, to gaze at her moonly face, to know that she okay.

It had never been so strong. He felt his mind would give up on him if he could not locate her today.

Not that he had stopped the forgetting process, absolutely not.

It was just a solace, a bandage to the scars he had given himself.

That she would be okay even if he was not there with her.

Focus fixed on keeping his gaze as unhurried as possible, he looked around, putting the well-trained ears and eyes to work.

And then he saw them.

All her friends clustered at a table, merrily clinking beer bottles and sharing happy glances. His eyes pierced into the scene, but he could not locate her.

A step or two brought him close, the desperateness making his heart go crazy.

But the conclusion shattered every bit of sense and calm, dissipated the hope of getting to see here.

She was not here.

His face fell like someone who had lost the thing they hold the closest to their heart.

She, really, was not here.

He really wanted to ask the residents sitting at the table in question, to get some, any, news on her.

But his rational mind still existed, and it was the only thing that stopped him from going haywire.

She was not here.

He took out the notorious cuboid chiming in his pocket, full of satirical typed phrases his cerebrum refused to decrypt.

But it was adamant to get his attention.

A scoff escaped like a habit.

As if anyone could be powerful enough to take his attention away from her.

He was caught in a maze of her memories, his time in the continent thousands of kilometres away and the ghoul of feelings chasing him deeper into it, making him yearn for her solace, the moistness of a forlorn kiss on his forehead, the gentle swipe of a thumb to take his tears away.

His way was lost in there, every turn making him end up more challenged. But even if he did not want to, he had to find the way out.

His soul was like a thorn who could only hurt the tender flower that she was.

What he did not realize was that she was a rose, her being was amidst thorns.

She had the power to beautify them.

The click of the turn-on sound, brought him back to the piece of work his fingers were creating on the light emanating screen.

And in seconds that passed too fast, he saw his heart's treasure,

She was here.

Not in footsteps & whispers.

She was here.

Not in touches and kisses.

She was here.

Not in muscle and bone.

But in labyrinths of his heart, in filmstrips of his memory, in sensations that made him go wild,

She was here.

(With him forever, she was not the one to leave his side)

PS: I HC the end of 1st year of their residency being in Sept-Oct, which is the time of Durga Puja in India. And since Poo is half Bengali, and she never misses any tradition involving her mom's side of the fam, so she would not have been at Boston then. (Or take it as an excuse to increase angst potential) Anyway, Thank you so much for reading and I hope you have a great day ahead! Love, Manamee🧡.

Tags (Please let me know if you want to be added or removed or if I forgot you I feel like my brain has short-circuited and I forgot someone):

Perma: @gkittylove99 @neotericthemis @udishaman @aestheticartsx @twinkleallnight @schnitzelbutterfingers @sophxwithers @sweatyrysconnoisseur @nikki-2406 @choicesfanaf @trrfanaddict @starrystarrytrouble @gardeningourmet @parkbarks @mvalentine @lovablegranny @mercury84choices @helloayz

Open Heart (All fics and edit): @lucy-268 @maurine07 @bellcat2010

Ethan x Pooja (fics): @aleynareads @stygianflood @choicesaddict5 @mysticaurathings @jamespotterthefirst @ilikemenbutonlyethanramsey

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

[whumpinggrounds]

Gotcha Day

my first non-Febuwhump piece of writing! here goes :) this is set before the last day of Febuwhump (You Have To Let Me Go) and i mean i really don’t need to explain much i don’t think bc it’s fairly self-explanatory but i am nervous so. yes

tagging @shapeshiftersandfire and @killtheprotagonist ! lmk if you want to be added/removed from being tagged it is a lot a lot of content so sorry about that

CW: lady whump, pet whump, dehumanization, memory loss, discussion of scars, past burns, implied non con,

Director Hammond’s office is much like the Director herself – alternately welcoming and terrifying, depending on what mood has struck her. Today, the curtains are open, the room is filled with light, and the Director has a bouquet of flowers on her desk in a vase. That’s good, right? All of that is good.

Mara still feels the nerves in her stomach buzzing like a hive.

“I don’t want to drag this out,” the Director begins, and Mara’s heart sinks. It’s some polite dismissal, something like that. There’s a self-satisfied little smile playing around the woman’s lips, and Mara tries to brace herself, folding her hands neatly in her lap and staring down her doom with icy eyes. “We have decided to let you train her. 067493.”

Stunned, Mara stares at the Director. There are no words in her mouth, no words in her head. She wants to speak, knows she should speak, but she can’t. An incredulous smile starts to curl up her face.

“Now, before you get too excited, there are some conditions.” Despite her lecturing tone, there’s a smile on the Director’s face – probably because of Mara’s huge ferocious grin. “She’s not your pet, technically speaking, not until the trial period is over. Obviously, she’s coming with what we call a factory defect, so you got very lucky there, otherwise we’d never let her go. She’s not fully trained, but honestly, Ms. Langford, we’re not going to spend the money and time to finish out the training on a model that we’re essentially giving away.”

“Yes.” Mara’s head is nodding on her neck like a bobblehead. “Yes, okay, that’s fine. That’s okay. That’s so okay.”

Amused by her eagerness, the Director nods. “Good. Now, primarily, Ms. Langford, we want to explore two things with 067493, and we feel that gifting her to an employee, while highly unusual, will give us an opportunity to answer some outstanding questions.”

“Okay.” Mara’s heart is racing. God, she feels like she’s going to pass out any second. “Okay, so, so, um, what are those questions, then? The things…what it is you want to, um, explore?”

The Director smiles at her, fondly, warmly. “First of all…” she pauses for effect, “some of the higher-ups loved this therapeutic aid idea. If it’s workable, there could be a strong market there. Of course, we’ve been trying to work a caregiver angle for a while, but the medical stuff is often just too complex for pets. This emotional approach could give us a very similar sector, but with none of the concern about pets operating medical machinery incorrectly.”

“Y-yes.” Mara’s breathless, dazed, struggling just to keep up. “Yes, definitely-”

“Now, not everyone is convinced, but enough of us think that it’s worth a try. Which brings us to our second objective.”

Here, the Director pauses long enough that Mara can stop focusing on her breathing and look up inquisitively. Finally, tentatively, she prompts her superior. “Ma’am?”

The Director shakes her head as if to clear it. “Yes, well. What we are interested in is…is…” she purses her lips, clearly wondering how to explain. “Pets who may end up living with someone they know or recognize from their former life. As you know, pets are prone to false memories.” Mara nods dutifully, despite knowing full well there’s no such thing. “We want to see if our Boxies can be taught and trained in such a way that they can be…reintroduced to their old life, or one like it, while maintaining good behavior and accurate memory blocks.”

“That sounds…” Mara swallows. “That sounds…difficult.”

“Indeed.” For the first time, the Director looks grim. “Of course, that’s exactly what you’re attempting with 493, and if you could pull it off…we’ve had some interest. People who want to…serve their loved ones in a more straightforward and simplified fashion.” For just a moment, Mara tunes out, thinking with a sort of horrified fascination on the kind of environment that would lead to someone wanting to erase themselves while staying where they were.

Or, even worse, Mara pictures someone coming in asking for a loved one to be erased, returned sweet and pliable and empty. She barely represses a shudder. Ignorant of Mara’s internal monologue, the Director forges on.

“We are proposing that you take 067493 home as your Domestic. You will be responsible for making her into a…a prototype, essentially, for this therapeutic aid program. You will also be expected to report any aberrant behaviors that could conceivably result from…ah, memory confusion.”

“I can do that.” That all sounds absurd, and difficult, and unfair, but Mara doesn’t care right now. All she cares about is getting Jude and taking her home and, and having her. Having her back.

“We’re going to allow you an adjustment period, and then we’re going to ask that you bring 067493 in for regular checkups, where we’ll be looking for signs of this memory confusion, as well as updates on your progress.”

“That…yes, that sounds very doable.”

Once again, the Director smiles fondly across the desk at her, and Mara has a funny, frightening feeling that she’s become Barbara Hammond’s newest little pet project. “I believe that it is, Ms. Langford. Despite the cosmetic defaults, she seems like a sweet thing. I can’t wait to see what you do with her.”

___

When Handler Collins leads Jude out, Mara’s heart about stops in her chest. There she is. There’s Jude. There’s…Jude, and not Jude.

A pair of black shorts, a WRU white t-shirt over skin that’s much paler than last time Mara saw it. Her stocky frame diminished, all her old rugby muscle losing or lost. She looks like...Mara hates the cliche, but she looks like a ghost of her former self, literally. Skinnier, paler, a whole lot more haunted. Her hair, her hands, the freckles and the way she walks just a little pigeon-toed – that’s Jude, that’s Jude all the way. The flat, false calm in her face and the fear in her eyes…that’s someone else. Swallowing, Mara clasps her hands together in front of her, trying to quell the urge to reach for her girl.

“Here she is!” Handler Collins throws his hands out grandly from his place beside the boxgirl. “All yours.”

“Wow,” Mara manages. “Uh…wow.”

Collins shakes his head. “Wow is right. But, hey, wait – you want to check the damage?” He’s still grinning, like it’s no big deal, like it’s all a joke. Mara sucks in a deep breath. The-the Box Babe in front of her is wearing a t-shirt, but Mara can see her cracked reddened palms and wonders what the thin cotton over her chest is hiding.

“I…I guess, yeah. I mean, I’m taking her either way,” she mutters, trying for a joke. Collins is more than happy to laugh at her.

“Shirt off, 493.”

Hesitantly, the trainee obeys, darting a wide-eyed glance at Mara as she does. The cotton goes over her head and oh.

Oh. There, on the right side of the girl’s chest, is the burn, red and angry and raised, covered in blisters. The scarring is worst on her collarbone, but the pink, stretched, destroyed skin crosses her neck below the line of her collar in one direction, creeps toward her armpit in the other. Mara’s horror must show on her face, because the girl flushes, looks down.

“That’s um. That’s pretty bad.”

Handler Collins shakes his head. “You don’t have to tell me. Fucking Underwood. Fuck.” He spits on the ground near the trainee’s bare feet. “She’s finished the antibiotics she’s supposed to be taking. The vet thinks she should be set. Just uh, she’s got this stuff she’s supposed to spread on it.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Mara can’t stop staring at the burn, at the way it glares out, crimson and furious, from Jude’s pale, freckled skin. With effort, she tears her eyes away, to the downturned head of the waiting boxgirl. “Put…uh, put your shirt back on.”

The girl obliges quickly, and, Mara imagines, gratefully. She’s too well-trained to even wince when her movements stretch and ripple her healing skin. Mara’s eyes move hungrily over her face, her skinny body, searching for the parts of Jude she recognizes. The girl keeps her eyes on the ground but her cheeks go pink under the scrutiny.

“Doc, I gotta say.” Collins is shaking his head, and reluctantly, Mara turns her attention to him. “I don’t know how you got this one past the Director. I mean – a Box Babe for free? After what, ten months of working here?”

“Fourteen,” Mara corrects, a little too quietly. She clears her throat and tries again. “Over a year, Handler Collins.”

Rolling his eyes, Collins dismisses her with a flap of his hand. “A couple months, a year, whatever. A matter of months and you’ve got yourself a bonus worth tens of thousands? You must’ve shrunk the Director’s head to get her to agree to this one.”

Mara manages a tight smile for him. “I’m definitely…I definitely feel lucky.”

Leaning in, eyes gleaming conspiratorially, Collins puts his mouth near Mara’s ear. “You have good reason to feel lucky, Doc. Me and the guys – well, you’ve given some good advice, these past few months. It’s helped. And business is up. Company’s talking about padding the paychecks a little, and you’re a part of that, you know?” He gives her a hearty slap on the back and Mara forces a smile. “You’re part of the team! And the pet’s a gift from the company, but we thought, hey, why not a little something from us handlers, for our good doc?”

A shiver runs down Mara’s spine. “What…” she wets her lips, tries to sound amused, curious. “What did you do?”

“We only had a week or so to do it. Director Hammond decided so late, and all. But, but look, we crammed in some Romantic training, just for you.” Collins’ leer is too much. “None of the positions, of course, that shit’s extra, but a few of the lines, a few, ah…habits you might like.”

Mara thinks about him touching Jude and wants to tear the grin right off his face, wants to snarl and scratch and chew him out right there. Instead, she finds the girl’s eyes, searches there for some help, some hope, some recognition. Anything.

Her new Box Babe looks back at her with eyes that are flat and dull and empty.

[emy-loves-you]

The Prince, The Knight, and The Assassin Chapter One

The Assignment

Inspired by the amazing @kawaiikat54

Here’s the summary I wrote for AO3 bc I’m very proud of it:

Janus has never had a good life, raised to be a perfect assassin for the Dark Kingdom. Even though he hates his life, he follows all of his orders and does what he can to protect his little family. But what happens when he's given an order he can't follow through?

Patton is the Prince of the Light Kingdom. His family sees him as just a pretty face, a bargaining chip for peace between the two Kingdoms. He's given up everything for his Kingdom, even his chance of being happy with the love of his life by being forced into an arranged marriage with the High Queen of the Dark Kingdom. But what happens when he's kidnapped by someone who's lived through more horrors than Patton could ever imagine?

Roman is the personal knight and lover of Prince Patton. At least, he WAS Patton's lover, until they broke up so Patton could marry the High Queen. He hates having to pretend that he no longer feels anything for the Prince. But what happens when Patton disappears in the middle of the night?

What happens when the stars align just right? When a tortured soul refuses to kill? When family and duty are abandoned over love? When pain and anger override all thought? When three men, destined to be apart, fall in love?

Masterlist | Chapter Two

Warnings: Child assassins, child abandonment, I’m pretty sure this counts as child slavery, mentions of murder, mentions of torture, these characters will suffer

Two steps to the left.

Clash!

Feign a jab. Step to the right.

Clang!

Opponent is leaning heavily on his right foot. Most likely hurt his left. Jab near his right, make him lean back on his left. Swipe your leg out from under him-

“Oof!” The small figure fell to the floor, going to roll out of the way only to be stopped by the tip of a sword against his neck.

Janus glanced out of the corner of his eye to see the instructors leaving and relaxed minutely, stepping back. Evaluation over. Must have passed if we're not punished already. He put his sword away and held out his hand for his smaller opponent to grab. "Acknowledging your weaknesses will get you killed. Even if your foot has been crushed to a pulp, you need to put just as much weight on it as you would your right. Ignoring your pain, if only for the few moments of your fight, could be the difference between killing and dying."

His pupil nodded, grabbing the offered hand and pulling himself up. He dusted the dirt off his clothes and followed Janus back to their room, doing much better to hide his injured foot than when they were sparring. The room was small, more comparable to a closet than a bedroom in terms of size. But because of Janus' status, the room only houses three instead of the standard seven, so they wouldn't complain.

His pupil, Virgil, stepped into the room and immediately sat down on his cot, cradling his injured foot. Janus sighed and pried open the moldy floorboards, grabbing the small medkit hidden he’d stolen months ago. Virgil saw the medkit and shook his head "m fine."

Janus frowned, kneeling in front of him. "You obviously aren't, now let me take a look at it." He lightly grabbed Virgil by the calf and carefully removed his sock and shoe. He took note of Virgil's wince as he examined his limb. His foot appeared to be in perfect health, but his ankle was swollen slightly.

Virgil huffed softly, turning away. "See? I'm fine. No use in wasting supplies." He yelped when Janus poked his ankle, trying to jerk back but his leg stuck in Janus' firm grip.

Janus rolled his eyes. "Just let me wrap you up and give you a painkiller, Vee." He grabbed the roll of bandages, not waiting for Virgil’s response as he wrapped his ankle. Virgil huffed and grumbled under his breath.

Knock knock-knock knock

Janus tensed up before he recognized the knock pattern, relaxing. “Come in.” He didn’t bother turning back to look as he meticulously wrapped Virgil’s ankle. He heard the door open and closed followed by a sigh.

“I knew you twisted your ankle yesterday.” The person behind him drawled. “If you had let me tend to it yesterday-”

“Yeah, I know.” Virgil flushed and looked away. “But it felt fine yesterday, and if the supervisors had seen the bandages-”

“It would’ve been a risk we were willing to take.” He finished wrapping his foot and sat up, making deliberate eye contact with Virgil as he spoke. “We would’ve hidden them under your clothes, and if they still somehow saw it I would’ve taken the blame, not you. I’m the only one here with potential access to medical supplies.” Janus was the only one who went on unsupervised missions, the others too young so they were heavily supervised.

Virgil frowned, his gaze flickering to the left half Janus’ face as he remained silent. Janus ignored it, used to people staring at the scar. It started at the inner corner of his eye and trailed just under his cheekbone, ending at his jaw just under his ear. He’d gotten it when he was 8, a warning for hesitating in the middle of a mission. The only reason he wasn’t killed on the spot was that he was a prodigy at what he did.

Janus put the bandages away and searched for some pain medication. “Did your evaluation go well, Lo?”

Logan, or ‘Lo’ as Janus had so eloquently put it, sighed. “They changed the assignment as soon as I arrived in an attempt to throw me off guard. I still managed to pass, if barely.” He knelt down next to Janus, and Janus resisted the urge to frown. They’re being a lot more strict on evaluations now. Have they forgotten that they’re doing this to children? Or maybe they want them to fail so they can be broken down more. Janus mentally shook away the thought as he handed Virgil a pill, trying not to seem too obvious.

Virgil noticed though. He always noticed the little things. “That’s the last pill. We should save it for when we need it.”

Janus shook his head. “I’ll go smuggle some more on my next mission.”

Virgil scooted back, looking away. “I told you I’m fine-”

Logan crawled over to Virgil’s side, grabbing his hand and squeezing. “Just please take the pill, Virgil.” Janus watched as Logan and Virgil stared at each other, their mini battle-of-wills adorable to watch when you ignored the context. Virgil eventually sighed, taking the pill and swallowing without water as Logan rubbed his hand soothingly. Janus watched out of the corner of his eye as he put the medical supplies away, smiling softly at their interaction. It was moments like these that reminded Janus why he kept himself alive, why he kept listening to the High Queen’s demands.

No one in the Dark Kingdom could remember a time before the High Queen’s rule. She ruled the land with an iron fist, though most of the citizens were left unaware of the true horrors that lied behind the castle walls.

Janus was one of those horrors. Raised by birth to do the one thing that he was good at anymore: killing. Janus was an assassin for the High Queen.

“Jan?” Janus looked down at Virgil, snapping himself out of thought. “Are we busy today?”

Janus sighed. “I have to go receive my new mission from her highness at sunset, but you have nothing to do until training tomorrow.”

Virgil nodded and snuggled into Logan’s side, making grabby hands towards Janus. Janus smiled, rolling his eyes fondly as he crawled onto the tiny cot. His two pupils adjusted themselves accordingly, one on each side as they used his shoulders as pillows, their hands linked together over his chest. Janus watched over them as their breathing slowed, their grips on each other and Janus refusing to go slack as they drifted into slumber.

Janus frowned, starting up at the ceiling above him. They didn’t deserve to suffer through this type of life. Hell, if it wasn’t for the High Queen’s order for the older assassins to train the younger ones as mentors, Janus was sure that they wouldn’t have lasted. They were good at what they did, but not good enough for her majesty.

Virgil whimpered softly and Janus was quick to shush him, petting his hair and wiping away his fresh tears. The kid had nightmares almost every night, and Janus learned that it was best for him to just sleep through them. If he woke up there was a chance he would still remember what he dreamed about in the morning, and Janus refused to put him through that.

Janus sighed, his mind going back to the documents he had found and read years ago. It had included information on all of the children operatives in this program. Janus had only read the information on himself and his two pupils, not having much time and deeming the rest irrelevant. Before then, they didn’t even have their real names to go by, just the codenames that the higher-ups gave them.

Virgil, codenamed Widow. Ten years old, will turn eleven near the winter solstice. Was neglected in an orphanage and later ‘donated’ to the Kingdom’s cause at almost four years old. An odd case, especially since operatives were usually initiated at 1-2 years old. Specializes in stealth and poisoning, and can blend in with almost any crowd. Can climb and run quickly, but quite weak in terms of hand-to-hand combat.

Logan, codenamed Sparrow. Turned nine near the spring equinox. Was sold to the castle at 14 months old. A natural prodigy, second only to Deceit, but tends to lose any form of stealth without Widow or Deceit by his side. Prefers to use a throwing knife and call it a day over making it look like a natural death. Is usually partnered with Widow to keep him in check.

Janus, codenamed Deceit. Turned nineteen near the summer solstice. Son of a noble who ‘donated’ him to the cause the moment he was born. First child to be entered into the program, and the oldest one in it. Raised to be the perfect killer. Completes every mission perfectly, other than the instance where he got his scar. The High Queen’s ‘favorite.’ Assigned as Logan’s mentor when he was 11, and Virgil’s a little over a year later. Can kill someone with almost anything, but specializes in swords.

Janus sighed, carding his hands through his pupils’ hair. He saw them as something akin to younger brothers, someone that he needed to watch over and take care of. But that was quickly changing. They were already so big, and Janus was dreading the day that the higher-ups would notice and kill the youthful light in their eyes. They still laughed and smiled, even if it was just in the comfort of their little room. They still cared about eachother and trusted the other to catch them when they fell. They didn’t have the same cynical view on the world that Janus did.

But that wouldn’t last forever. Janus knew they could take care of themselves now, but Janus still dreaded the day they would be forced to do so. The day that Janus was given too big of a task and didn’t come home. The inevitable day that the higher-ups noticed how close they were and started using them against each other.

Janus shook his head. It wouldn’t do good to dwell on such thoughts. He needed to live in the moment while he still had a happy moment to live in.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the sun just started to set along the horizon, Janus carefully pulled himself out from under his pseudo-brothers. They immediately latched onto each other, and Janus smiled softly before schooling his features. He quickly stepped out of the room, ignoring the chilly hallway as he walked through the castle, past the dozens of rooms filled to the brim with child soldiers.

He reached the throne room just as the sun disappeared below the horizon, not bothering to glance around the room as he walked down the familiar path towards the High Queen’s throne. He knelt down at the base of the throne, his gaze down towards the expensive silver-lined shoes in front of him. “Your majesty.”

A hand carded through his hair and he stopped himself from flinching or tensing up, already expecting it to happen. “Deccceit… my preccciousss sssnake…” The hand tugged, not quite harsh but definitely not gentle, and Janus looked up at the High Queen. She reminded Janus of a dragon, her old, wrinkly skin reminding him of dragon scales. She tended to speak softly in low hisses, but Janus was used to straining to hear what she said. “I have a tassssk for you.”

He kept his expression neutral, not showing any emotion as he droned out his response. “Anything for you, my Queen.” He bit back a shudder as she kept carding her fingers through his hair. She had once claimed to see Janus as a son to her, but Janus would never see her as a mother. She was cruel and manipulative, and only saw people as pieces to her own master plan.

“The Light Kingdom hasss deccccided to negotiate peacccce with ussss.” Janus inwardly relaxed, already knowing what she would say. This wasn’t the first time they had tried to negotiate peace, and this wasn’t the first time she had sent Janus out to deal with it. The High Queen didn’t wish for peace, or even to win her battle against the Light Kingdom. No, she craved the violence and war between the two kingdoms, the constant pain and suffering that everyone around her was forced to endure at her expense. So, she would order him to kill the light side’s politicians before they reached the meeting point, make it look like they all disappeared out of thin air-

“They offered the Princccce’sssss hand in exchange for peacccccce.” Janus barely held back his shock. Prince Patton was eighteen, and the only heir to the throne. Either the King and Queen wanted to fully merge the kingdoms (which was highly unlikely) or they weren’t wanting the Prince to rule. But that also left a much more concerning matter at hand. The Queen didn’t want to establish peace, which meant Janus’ task-

“Your tassssk isss to kill the Princcccce.” The hand kept carding through his hair, her voice calm and light, as if she was discussing the weather and not murder. “You’ll leave tonight. I’ll have sssssomeone bring you to the border. The wedding isssss ssssscheduled to occur in two and a half weekssss. I expect to hear about hissssss death long before then.”

He nodded, ice flooding his veins. He had only killed corrupt politicians and men with no morals. He’d never killed someone so young, and the thought made his stomach churn. But he had no choice. “It will be done, my Queen.”

She laughed a cruel wicked laugh and dismissed him to grab his weapons. He left, feeling numb as he traveled through the halls, the task finally sinking in. He had to infiltrate the Light Kingdom’s castle and assassinate the crown prince. An impossible task for most, and highly improbable for Janus. If he was caught or failed his task, he would be killed or worse. And he would never see Logan or Virgil again.

Janus swept into the room, knowing that he didn’t have much time before he had to leave. He packed his weapons and gently shook his charges awake, his dread momentarily paused by their sleepy expressions. “I’m assigned to leave tonight. If everything goes according to plan I’ll be back in less than three weeks.”

The children said nothing as they wrapped themselves around Janus, holding him tight. The fact that he said ‘if everything goes according to plan’ meant that he wasn’t confident about this mission, and they immediately held on for dear life.

He smiled sadly, rubbing their backs soothingly. “I need to leave now. Go back to sleep, you have training in the morning.” He didn’t promise to come back. These were the only two people that Janus swore never to lie to, and he wasn’t going to do it now just to give them a moment of false hope. They soon fell back asleep on the cot, holding each other tighter than before, and Janus slipped out the door and into the night.

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Taglist: @bisexualdisaster106 @self-taught-mess @arodynamic-enby @sanderssides-angst @kawaiikat54 @artsy-enby09 @irritating-lady-knight @girl-who-reads @larrymalecsolangelo

[slytherinbarnes]

Sub Rosa [55]

x. die all, die merrily

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x reader

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: I mean, the title says it all, people die, there is fighting and violence. also some light smut, a lil touch of kidnapping, and some language to finish it all up.

Summary: the final conclave begins, and 13 clans fight for the ultimate prize: surviving the apocalypse. 

a/n: I AM NERVOUS TO POST THIS BC APPARENTLY THIS IS A LOT OF YALLS FAVORITE EPISODE EVER SO I HOPE I DID IT JUSTICE! the taglist for this series is open! I hope you enjoy, please let me know what you think!!!

previous chapter // season masterlist // series masterlist

March 27th, 2150; Polis

You wake to the sounds of yelling outside. 

Your eyes pull open slowly, blinking against the bright light of the sun that streams into the room from the balcony. You roll over, coming face to face with Bellamy, who is looking down at you and smiling. You give him a sleepy smile in return. “How long have you been up?”

He glances towards the balcony, before his eyes fall on you again. “An hour or so. Sounds like they’re prepping for the conclave.”

You hum in agreement. “Didn't Clarke say it starts tomorrow? I’m sure there’s a lot to be done and not much time to do it in.”

“Does that mean we have to help too?”

You laugh at the grimace on his face, clearly not excited about this prospect. “Probably.”

He sighs and starts to stand from the bed, but you grab his hand and pull him back down towards you. He looks at you in surprise as you give him a mischievous look, pulling him down even closer, until his face is inches from yours. “We can have some fun first though, don’t you think?”

He catches onto your line of thinking easily, and he gives you a look full of fire and passion. He answers your question with a searing kiss, your previous separation making you savor the kiss more than you usually do. His hands come to land on either side of your face, holding you in place as he kisses you like his life depends on it. Like he’s a drowning man and you’re a tank of oxygen sent to save him. His hands slide from your face, down to your body, sliding all over you, the feeling of his skin on yours electric. 

He pulls you closer to his body, tugging until you move to straddle him, the fur blanket sliding off of you as you do. You run your hands down his already naked chest, his shirt on you, your favorite thing to sleep in, and he smiles up at you. You tug the shirt off and toss it to the side, and his eyes roam your body with appreciation, taking you in. You have to resist the urge to cover up, knowing how much he likes to look at you, but still, you whisper, “You’re staring.”

“I’m admiring. I’m drawing a detailed image of you in my brain for later, and I want to make sure I don’t miss anything.”

His fingers trace over a few of your scars, the one on your shoulder from the arrow, the one on your leg from Roan, and the one on your side from the assassin, and you can see his eyes mapping their location on your body. You copy the motion with him, carefully tracing the scar on his side, the one you stitched up. He glances down at it, the small, jagged little scar, shaped like an uneven lightning bolt. “It is crooked. Sorry about that.”

“Don't be, I like it. It reminds me of you.”

“It looks like lightning. The perfect scar for my stormy boyfriend.”

He gives you a peculiar look. “You think I'm stormy?”

You lean down and kiss him, chasing away the insecurity that seems to creep up. “Not in a bad way. Storms are powerful, forces to be reckoned with. Sometimes they rage and crackle, but they cleanse too, and help the Earth grow.”

He smiles up at you, his face softening and his earlier insecurity now gone. “And you are radiant. Breathtaking. Beautiful.”

He kisses you in between each compliment, lingering on the last one, making it long and slow. You open your mouth, granting his tongue access, and they dance and move together in a perfect symphony. As he kisses you, you both slide out of any remaining undergarments, both of you naked and warm against each other. The usual vulnerability, and fear, that comes with being naked around another person is lost on you, because Bellamy is careful to radiate nothing but love and adoration, wanting you to feel safe and secure. 

He breaks the kiss to watch you as you sink onto him, both of you moaning with pleasure. He rolls you both, situating your body beneath his, his arms supporting his weight next to your head, caging you between them. Your eyes lock as you move together, finding your rhythm, and his other hand slips between your bodies to bring you closer to the edge. You fall first, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back in pleasure, and the sight of you sends Bellamy over right after.

He kisses you again as you come down from your high, the kiss lazy and sloppy, both of you feeling like jelly as your pleasure rolls through you. Bellamy eventually rolls off you, laying down at your side, turning to watch you. You turn to face him, smiling up at his freckled face and messy curls, “Tell me about the gods.”

He smiles, always ready to oblige, before launching into his story. “Persephone, better known as the goddess of the dead and Underworld, wasn’t always known that way…”

-

March 28th, 2150; Polis

Bellamy’s hand is held tight in your own, slick with sweat from nerves as he leads you down the hall, towards Octavia’s room. The tradition of the Final Conclave has now begun, and in mere minutes, Octavia will walk onto the stage in front of everyone, and accept the sigil of her clan, your clan, and fight until the death for Skaikru. 

When Bellamy reaches the door, he turns and looks at you, nervous, and you nod your head, reassuring him. He lifts his hand and knocks, and Octavia looks his way, quickly looking away again when she realizes who it is. “You here to give me a pep talk?”

He drops your hand and steps into the room, settling onto the couch beside her. You linger in the doorway, here for emotional support more than anything, watching Bellamy make his last attempt to save his sister. “You don't have to do this. We can find someone else to fight. “

“If I die, I die. At least I go down fighting.”

“O-”

She cuts him off immediately, shutting down his argument. “Don't. This is my decision, Bell. I know what the odds are, I don't need you pointing them out.”

You hear footsteps from down the hall, and you peek behind you, watching as your twin approaches you. Her face is set in a grim expression, not optimistic at all, and as soon as she looks up and meets your eyes, she calls out, “It's time.”

You nod, turning to pass the message along to Octavia, but she must have heard because she is already standing and walking your way. You get a good look at her make up as she approaches, the dark war paint painted over each of her eyes in the shape of an upside down “L”. You realize immediately what her inspiration is, and as she stops in front of you, you whisper, “Lincoln’s tattoo.”

She nods once, confirming your suspicion, and you see a quick pass of nerves cross her features. You reach out and squeeze her shoulder, offering her comfort. “He’s always with you, especially now, and I know he's proud of you.”

She gives you a small smile before walking past you and out the door, walking down the long hallway to the stage. You and Bellamy follow her path until you meet up with Clarke, who leads you out a side door and into the crowd, just in time to watch Gaia, Indra’s daughter, announce, “Octavia kom Skaikru, step forward.”

Octavia steps up onto the stage and ducks her head, allowing Gaia to attach a necklace around her neck. “Accept the sigil of your clan and fight with honor as their champion.”

She walks across the stage and comes to a stop beside Roan, and you and Bellamy exchange a look as Gaia begins her final speech. “Soon will begin the Final Conclave, a battle to the death within the walls of Polis. These warriors will fight until only one remains. When that warrior collects all of the sigils from the fallen and delivers them to me, they will be declared the victor. This final champion alone will tell us which clan is meant to survive in the crypt of Bekka Pramheda, and which clans are meant to perish in Praimfaya. Osir koma op daun bilaik slip daun kom bleirona, ba mafta op Won bilaik hef em op mou beda.”

Kane translates for you and Bellamy, able to understand the words faster than both of you can. “We honor those who fall by the sword, but follow the One who wields it best.”

Somewhere behind you in the crowd, someone yells, “Daun bilaik ai!”

That would be me. You all turn and watch in shock as Luna stalks through the crowd, shoving people out of her way to get to the front, and you can sense trouble brewing as soon as you see her face. “Shit.”

Bellamy looks at you, not understanding what you mean, not aware of just how bad things got for Luna on Becca’s Island. She stalks onto the stage and comes to a stop in front of Gaia. “I'm Luna kom Floukru, and I'm the last of my clan.”

“We know who you are...The Natblida who ran from her conclave.”

“I'm not running from this one.”

Gaia turns and grabs the last necklace from the bowl, turning to face the angry Nightblood. “Accept this sigil, Luna kom Floukru. But with your clan gone, who will you fight for?”

“I fight for no one. I fight for death.” She snatches the necklace from Gaia’s hands and turns and holds it up for the crowd. “When I win, no one will be saved.”

Her words immediately send a wave of murmurs through the crowd, and Gaia quickly solves the problem by dispersing the crowd and sending the warriors down into the weapons room to arm up and prepare for the battle. You, Kane, Bellamy, Clarke, and Jaha all cluster in a circle, quietly discussing Luna's arrival when Gaia comes over to your group, voice full of authority. “Skaikru! Three advisors to the worgeda. The rest of you, report to your designated safe zone. Now.”

Kane gestures to you and Bellamy, “Come on. We have to get her ready.”

Jaha reaches out and grabs Kane’s arm, stopping him from leaving. “This conversation isn't over. The death wave will be here within three days, and here we are, risking the fate of our people on a blood sport?”

Clarke corrects him, “The fate of all people, You heard Luna.”

“She's just one of 13.”

You wince, remembering when you walked in a room to save Luna from at least 6 men, only to find that she had already saved herself. And that was after being repeatedly tortured. “You're wrong. She's a Nightblood novitiate, which means she trained in combat exactly like this.”

Bellamy looks at you, misunderstanding you. “You want us to cheat?”

“No.” You look at him, shaking your head. “I only mean that Luna is the walking definition of killer warrior, and that scares me.”

Kane adds, “Besides, you know the rules. If we break them, we lose, and if we lose, we die.”

“The rules are not the problem, Marcus. The game is. Even if we stop Luna, even if Octavia finds a way to win, does anyone truly believe that the Grounders will accept Skaikru as the lone survivors?”

“Yes. The conclave is sacred, they'll honor the winner. Like it or not, we're all Grounders now.” The words tug at a memory, Bellamy standing in the middle of a circle of delinquents, convincing all of you to fight the Grounders coming your way. But Kane pulls you from that memory when he looks at Jaha, and says, “You get our people to the safe zone, we'll have Octavia ready for the fight. The rest is up to her.”

You and Clarke nod at each other, knowing you’ll see each other again soon, after the Conclave. Either as the sole clan to survive Praimfaya, or as one of 13 clans left outside to perish. Bellamy walks close to you as you follow Kane into the weapons area, leading you over to Octavia. As you walk towards her, you eye the competition, taking notes on their weapons, their fighting, anything you can gather that might help her. Kane seems to have the same idea because as soon as he stops in front of her and you and Bellamy stop beside him, he starts, “All right, listen to me. The Blue Cliff Warrior, she has two corvo blades. I just saw her practicing. She's left handed, you go for her weak hand.”

“Okay.”

You add to his point, “Plains Rider and the warrior from Shallow Valley, they're strong, but slow. You can avoid them, not to mention the black rain, which could fall at any moment, so stay close to cover.”

Beside you, Bellamy fidgets in place, turning and looking away, which does not go unnoticed by you or Octavia. She snaps, “What, Bellamy? If you've got something to say, just say it.”

“You don't need any of this. When the starting horn blows, just stay out of sight and let the others thin out the competition.”

“You want me to hide?”

“You don't need to go up against the strongest warrior from every clan.”

“I came here to fight.”

Bellamy bends down a little, matching their heights, his voice almost pleading, “You were the girl under the floor. Use that, just like Mom taught us.” 

Kane nods, “Bellamy's right. You don't have to kill all 12 warriors.”

“I just have to kill the last one.”

All of you exchange a nod, now on the same page in terms of strategy. Behind you, one of the Flamekeeper scouts announces, “Ambassadors and advisors, to the tower. Champions, to your flags.”

Kane and Octavia hug, quick and fierce, before she turns to Bellamy. They hover near each other, unsure whether they should hug, and eventually Octavia settles on, “May we meet again.”

“Damn right we will.”

Bellamy’s voice is sad, and he looks like he wants to hug her, but he’s so worried about upsetting her before the battle that he doesn’t. He just turns and starts to walk away, leaving you and Octavia alone. You don't hesitate to hug her, reaching out and grabbing her, squeezing her tight and passing along as much love and strength as you can through the hug. She hugs you back tight, almost desperate, and when you pull away, both of you have tears in your eyes, aware this might be your last goodbye. You smile through your tears, “You were my first friend on the ground, and the first person to see me as someone other than the Invisible Twin. Now you’re my people, my family, my sister. I am so incredibly proud of you.”

She smiles at you and you see her fighting back her tears, not wanting anyone to see her crying. She squeezes your arm and whispers, “I love you. Bellamy too.”

You nod, already aware, because you knew the siblings couldn't stay upset with each other long. Lincoln's death left a mark on their relationship, but that doesn't mean their relationship was irreparable. You start to answer when one of the Flamekeepers grabs your arms and pulls you away, pushing you towards the door to the tower. You turn and wave one last goodbye to Octavia, eyes watching the small girl melt into the crowd of warriors who have been fighting longer than she’s been alive. You meet Bellamy at the elevator, and his face is fallen, completely upset. You slip your hand in his and he looks over at you in surprise, so lost in his own head that he didn't even hear your approach. “What did she say?”

“She said she loves you.”

Surprise takes over his expression, then regret, and he immediately drops your hands and turns away, “I have to tell her I love her.”

But the Flamekeeper who pushed you out of the room blocks his path, pushing him back towards the elevator, not allowing him to leave. You can tell Bellamy wants to fight it and fight him, but you reach out and grab his hand again, pulling him towards the now waiting elevator. “She’s going to win, Bellamy. You can tell her afterwards.”

He nods and you ride the elevator to the top, meeting up with Kane in the throne room, just as the horn sounds, signaling the beginning of the conclave. You can hear the sounds of fighting immediately, and the tensions inside the room are high as you hear the clang of swords and the thud of fallen bodies. Minutes later, Gaia comes into the room and announces, “The first two champions have fallen.”

Everyone turns towards her, absolutely terrified that she will say the name of the warrior from their clan, and you, Kane, and Bellamy are no exception. 

“Gael kom Ingranronakru, yu gonplei ste odon.”

One of the Flamekeepers walks over to the candle that represents the Plains Riders and puts the flame out, ending their battle for the bunker. You all watch the Flamekeeper turn away from the snuffed candle and walk towards the next one, and your heart drops as every step he takes brings him closer and closer to the Skaikru candle. Bellamy whispers, “Please don't be her.”

Luckily, but still heartbreaking, the Flamekeeper stops just shy, in front of the Trikru candle, as Gaia announces, “Fio kom Trikru, yu gonplei ste odon.”

Relieved, you turn to Bellamy. “Octavia's still out there.”

Bellamy’s eyes turn towards you, full of tears, his expression breaking your heart. “I couldn't tell her I loved her, even with the world ending.”

You squeeze his hand, still held tight in yours. “Trust me, Bellamy, she knows.”

He nods and his eyes drop to the floor, lost in his head again, and you and Kane share a look. With nothing else to do now, except wait, you and Bellamy head out to the balcony with your binoculars, watching the fights alongside Gaia. Kane comes out onto the balcony as you watch the Blue Cliff warrior kill the Sangedakru warrior, and Bellamy lets out a small gasp at the sight of the death. When you turn to look at him in confusion, he nods towards Kane, and you follow him as he leads you over to the Chancellor. Bellamy’s voice is low when he mutters, “We just saw the Blue Cliff warrior kill the Sangedakru warrior with a bow.”

“So?”

Bellamy looks at you, and you remember your pre fight conversation with Octavia. You tell Kane, “So, we saw her before the fight. She didn't have a bow, she had two swords.”

“Yeah, the corvo blades.” He shrugs, not understanding your worry. “Well, she could have picked up a bow off the battlefield.”

You and Bellamy exchange a look, both of you aware that someone you know is exceptionally good with a bow, and exceptionally good at betrayal. You both step back inside the room, scanning for the Azgeda spy, shaking your head when you don't see her. Kane comes up beside you, looking between you in confusion. “What is it?”

“Echo's gone.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, Bellamy stalks out of the room, looking like a man on a mission, and you and Kane look at each other in panic before running after him. “Bellamy, wait!”

He spins around to face the two of you, annoyed at the interruption. “My sister is down there. Echo is cheating, and I'm gonna stop her.”

Kane shakes his head, “Let one of Gaia's scouts find her, and then Ice Nation will be punished.”

“They'll never catch her. Echo's a spy, this is what she does.”

He tries to walk away again but you grab his arm to stop him. “Listen to me, Bellamy, I’m with you. But running out there in broad daylight is not the way to fix this.”

“So, you think I should just stay here and do nothing?”

You shake your head, and Kane vocalizes a plan you were already starting to form in your head. “No. You wait until dark so you don't get caught. And then the two of you get her out of the fight and get back here without being seen. Clear?”

“Clear.”

-

The wait until nightfall is agonizingly long, and all you can do is hope that Octavia makes it until then, safely away from Echo’s arrows. When darkness finally blankets the city, only five lit candles remain. Floukru, Azgeda, Podakru, Louwoda Kliron, and Skaikru. 

Bellamy leads you through the streets of Polis, heading towards the building Echo is hiding in, careful to keep the both of you hidden from the view of any warriors or Flamekeepers. You’re close to the building when Bellamy abruptly stops and pulls you back behind a wall, disguised in the shadows. You know it’s too dangerous to ask why, but you don't need to, because a second later the Shallow Valley warrior comes into view. He seems to see something in the distance that you can’t see, because you watch him brace himself before a scream breaks free from the unseen force, and Luna comes running into view. She kills him quickly, easily, and just like that, five lit candles becomes four. 

Luna stalks out of view again, and as soon as Bellamy is sure it’s clear, he takes off running again, leading you the last few steps to the building. The two of you creep up the stairs slowly, remembering that Echo is up high, and when you reach the door to her hiding spot, Bellamy gives you two hand signals: push the door open and then immediately get down. You nod your head, letting him you know you understand, and then he counts you down from three. As soon as he puts his last finger down, you swing the door open as quickly and quietly as you can, before you immediately duck, Echo’s arrow landing in the door right above your head.

Bellamy runs forward and tackles her to the ground, and the two of them fight back and forth until he gets the upper hand, wrapping his hands around her neck and choking her. She is seconds away from death when you feel a knife to your throat and you freeze in place, voice frantic when you call out, “Bellamy.”

He turns and his face drops when he sees you, his hands instantly releasing Echo’s throat, allowing her to breathe. He steps away from her and the person at your back shoves you towards Bellamy, who catches you with ease, and when you turn around you really aren't surprised to see Roan standing there, sword pointed at you and Bellamy as he glares at you. “I should've known you three couldn't stay away. I heard you all the way down the street, you're lucky I wasn't a scout.”

Bellamy nods towards the Ice Nation spy. “We came to stop her.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I was only trying to help save our people.”

Roan sneers at her, “I am not my mother. I'm not willing to cast aside honor for power.”

“No one has to know.”

“You misunderstand. I will not allow your dishonor to give Luna an advantage, and you will not shame our clan ever again. You are Azgeda no more.”

Shock takes over Echo’s face, and you have to resist the urge to smirk at her. “Sire, wait.”

“You're banished, Echo, and when I win this conclave, make no mistake, there will be no place for you inside that bunker. Now get out of my sight, and off this battlefield without being seen, or know that you are the cause of the death of our people.”

She swallows hard, fighting back tears, before turning and leaving the room, sneaking out and off the battlefield, despite having nowhere else to go. Once you and Bellamy are alone with Roan, the sword comes back towards the two of you again, everything about the king threatening. “I take it by your presence here that your sister's still alive.”

“That's right.”

“If I call for a scout, she'll be executed right now.” He lowers the sword, leaving enough room for you to eventually pass. “But what fun would that be? You really think she can win, don't you?”

Bellamy smiles, looking proud. “I wouldn't count her out if I were you. She's survived harder things than this.”

“Before she dies, I'll tell her she's lucky to have you as a brother.”

“I got a better idea. After she guts you and before you die, you tell her I was the lucky one.”

Roan smirks at him and you feel Bellamy's hand slip into your own, letting you know it’s time to go. You step away first, pulling Bellamy behind you, both of you keeping your eyes on the Ice Nation King until you’re out of the room and back on the street. You begin the careful retreat back to the tower, taking a different path than before, just in case. It takes longer this way, but this path is darker, and easier to stay hidden in, and after a few minutes, you’re just outside the tower again. You and Bellamy look at each other and smile a little, relieved to have made it back without getting caught, but that relief is short lived. 

Just as the two of you start towards the door of the tower, two people jump out of the shadows, each one of them grabbing each of you, holding a rag over your mouth. The substance smells awful, and you know without a doubt that you shouldn't be smelling it, but you don't have much time to process that. You and Bellamy look at each other, both of your eyes wide in panic when you see the other in danger, and you fight against your captives. But by then, it's too late. The chemical has kicked in and you feel unconsciousness seize you rapidly, pulling you under at an alarmingly fast rate.

-

The first thing you notice when you wake is the heaviness in your head. 

It feels like someone popped open your skull, stuffed it full of rocks, and closed it up again. You try to pry your eyes open, but they feel heavy, weighed down by anchors. You groan and try again, prying them open with all your strength, closing them back again when they are met with a bright light. But then you hear someone next to you groan, and a hand brushes against yours, familiar and warm.

Bellamy.

This time when you get your eyes open, you turn his way, both of you looking at each other in shock before you confirm that each other is real. You reach towards each other, silently checking the other out, making sure you're okay. And as soon as you realize you are, you both turn and look around the room, realizing you must be in the bunker. Your eyes land on Clarke, standing at the desk in the room near Jaha, both of them looking towards you. You look between them, at the clench of Clarke’s jaw, the extra weight on her shoulders, and your stomach sinks. “What the hell did you do?”

Jaha is the one to answer, sounding unashamed of what he has to say. “If only one clan could survive, it might as well be ours.”

Bellamy turns to your twin, not believing what he’s hearing. “Clarke, you agreed to this?”

“It was her idea.”

You and Bellamy share an incredulous look, before you turn it on Clarke, in disbelief of what she’s done. She sets her jaw, trying to convince herself, and the two of you, of what she’s done. “We did what we had to do.”

-

next chapter

[wordsablaze]

7~ i’m awake but still sleeping

tell me your problems (i’ll chase them away) Internal scars can be difficult to deal with but Eskel vows to heal any that Jaskier is weighed down by if it’s the last thing he does…

A/N: it’s been a while bc i misplaced my motiviation (and forgot to crosspost) but heyyy...

@random-nerd-3 @betaray-jones @w-s-kibela @in-love-with-writing002 @screaming-flapjacks @blueboobutterfly @havenoffandoms @lasaga666

previous chapter

-

Jaskier almost falls asleep on the way back.

Eskel feels it several times, feels the way his breathing evens out for a moment or so before he softly nods himself awake again. He doesn’t know why Jaskier doesn’t want to fall asleep but he’s not about to interfere so the two of them stay practically silent as they return to town.

Once they reach the stables, Eskel clears his throat. “Jaskier?”

Unfortunately, Jaskier had apparently just started to doze off again and starts so badly he overbalances and topples off the horse, landing with a harsh thud.

“Oww,” he moans, snapping Eskel out of his guilt.

Within seconds, he swings himself off Scorpion and offers Jaskier a hand, which is actually rather unhelpful because Jaskier has his eyes closed. Shuffling back a little, he clears his throat again. “Are you planning on getting up any time soon?”

Jaskier laughs weakly as he looks up at Eskel. “Can’t I just stay here for today?”

Eskel frowns, glancing over him. “You’re going to freeze out here.”

“I wasn’t being serious, darling,” Jaskier giggles, pushing himself up into a sitting position and crossing his legs, “but it’s good to know you’re capable of taking me seriously.”

He’s not entirely sure what that’s meant to mean so Eskel just offers Jaskier a smile and holds his hand out again. “Come on, let’s go.”

This time, Jaskier takes it, wobbling himself upright and taking a second to regain his balance before letting go of Eskel’s hand as if it were burning him. But Eskel pointedly ignores the strange sadness that flickers through his heart at that thought because it’s illogical to assume Jaskier would want to hold his hand anyway.

“Aren’t you going to secure Scorpion?” Jaskier asks, raising an eyebrow.

Eskel chuckles. “You don’t need to tell me what my job is, bardling,” he says before doing exactly as Jaskier had prompted, deciding that he can come back for their bags once they’ve had lunch.

He guesses that Jaskier feels the same about prioritising food because he doesn’t say anything until they get to the inn, at which point he straightens up a little and smiles. “Could we request a bath, lovely?”

The woman in place of the innkeeper raises an eyebrow at them, probably because they’re still soaking, but nods. “I’ll get someone to bring one up. Don’t get my bed wet.”

Jaskier nods seriously. “Of course not, we would never even dream of it,” he promises, leaving both the woman and Eskel to wonder what sort of dream that would be.

Either way, Eskel follows Jaskier up, both of them all but stumbling into their room. Jaskier makes a beeline towards the bed before groaning and changing his mind to sliding down along one of the walls, settling on the floor with his legs outstretched.

Eskel frowns at him, yet again wondering if there’s an injury he should know about. “You okay, Jaskier?”

Jaskier looks up at him with a strange expression. “Aside from the almost drowning?”

Eskel snorts. “Aside from that.”

There’s a small pause before Jaskier nods. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just, uh, thinking of what rhymes with ‘drowning’, and actually I might use ‘frowning’ since you’ve been doing a lot of that,” he teases.

As if proving Jaskier’s point, Eskel frowns at his words.

Which Jaskier picks up on immediately, giggling softly. “See, there you go again. Keep at it and I might have to sing about the frowning witcher’s adventures. Just a warning, though, metaphors about facial expressions are pretty challenging to get right and you’d be subject to amateurs saying things like-”

“I really don’t want to know,” Eskel interrupts, dreading to think about it.

Jaskier winks mischievously before going quiet.

As he does, an awful, bitter scent of something dark and decaying fills the room. Alarmed, Eskel makes to ask Jaskier if he’s upset about anything, but said bard grins before he can, springing gracefully to his feet. “Here, let me help with your armour.”

Eskel steps back instinctively and Jaskier falters, his smile fading. “Or I could not help you with your armour, of course. That’s always an option and I will very easily take it, no harm done. I… uh, sorry. I’m going to go… check on the bath.”

“Wait-” Eskel starts, but the door is already closing behind Jaskier, the dark scent fading along with his presence. So he just sighs and, albeit reluctantly, gets himself out of his armour, placing it in one corner as he waits for Jaskier to return.

It’s strange, he thinks, how quickly he’s taken to finding empty silence unsettling. He’s never been fond of pointless noise but a distinct lack of Jaskier makes him question how much he actually likes the silence as an alternative.

And he’s not sure exactly how long he spends questioning that but eventually, Jaskier’s voice drifts into their rooms as he re-enters, followed by two women who place a steaming bath down on one side before leaving, exchanging the softest of whispers with Jaskier before they do.

Jaskier’s smile falters again as he sees the pile of armour but he brings it back before Eskel can ask anything, gesturing to the bath. “Well, go on, darling. The water won’t stay warm forever.”

“Don’t you want to go first?” Eskel asks quietly.

But Jaskier shakes his head. “No, no. I’d burn, and a burnt bard is no good at all. The water is perfect for you so you need to go first.”

“But-”

“And of course, I need to wash that lovely hair of yours!” Jaskier interrupts, then bites his lip. Eskel resists the urge to ask anything and waits until Jaskier exhales softly. “That is, uh, if you still want me to do so again?”

If only Eskel were a bard so he could explain how much he truly wants that. But he’s not so he just nods, and thankfully Jaskier gets the message anyway.

Somehow, Jaskier’s fingers moving through his hair feel even better than last time. It’s barely past midday but Eskel could fall asleep right in the bath, that’s how soothing it is to have Jaskier take care of his hair, take care of him.

“Eskel?” he hears Jaskier whisper, promptly realising that he had actually almost fallen asleep. Again .

Slightly mortified, he clears his throat and sits upright. “Thank you.”

Jaskier makes a face. “For what?”

“For uh, for letting me use the bath first.”

But Jaskier just squints at him as if he’s being stupid. “You’re the witcher. You killed the siren. Of course you get the bath first.”

Guilt-ridden realisation pools in Eskel’s stomach.

“Wait, what?” is all he manages, staring at Jaskier in disbelief because surely he can’t think he doesn’t deserve a bath just as much as Eskel when they’d played a relatively equal part in this particular contract, can he?

But they can’t have this conversation when he’s literally sat naked in a bath so he just shakes his head and stands up to get dressed, only realising his mistake when Jaskier all but squeaks and springs to his feet, his face flushing.

“I’m going to go… soap,” Jaskier blurts, disappearing before Eskel has finished cursing.

Once more, Eskel is left staring at a closing door. He sighs heavily and gets dressed, but that doesn’t help because then he starts wondering where Jaskier is going to get spare clothes from.

When he finds his thoughts drifting back to his newfound distaste for silence, he sighs and leaves their room, hoping that Jaskier won’t hold anything against him. When he doesn’t spot Jaskier either performing or at any of the tables, he walks over to the woman from earlier. “Have you seen m- the bard that was with me?”

The woman raises an eyebrow again, folding her arms. “And why should I tell you when it took you so long to try and find him?”

Eskel inwardly marvels at how Jaskier has managed to worm his way into this woman’s heart within approximately one conversation and sighs. “I didn’t know I was meant to, he said he was going to find soap.”

She snorts. “Well he didn’t do a very good job then.”

Eskel stiffens. “Is he okay?”

Glancing over him from head to toe, she gestures behind her. “We let him stay in the kitchens, it’s not as noisy and it didn’t seem like he’d make it back to a room on his own.”

Red flags could not be flying any faster in Eskel’s mind as he frowns, heading to the kitchens himself. Most people shuffle out of his way as he makes his way to the back wall, where Jaskier is slumped in the corner.

Cursing none too quietly, he kneels down beside him, gently pulling away the blanket someone has draped over him. “Jaskier? Jaskier, hey, open your eyes for me.”

Jaskier groans, half-heartedly pushing Eskel’s hands away. “Just give me two minutes, I’ll be fine.”

“You need to tell me if something’s wrong, do we need a healer?” Eskel asks, checking over Jaskier himself and frowning harder when he finds nothing obvious. What good can he possibly be to this bard if he can’t even keep him alive and well?

Jaskier blinks himself upright and shakes his head. “No, no, I’m fine. I’m just- I’m just tired.”

Eskel can literally feel his frown deepen; he can’t fathom why Jaskier would insist on washing his hair if he was truly this tired because really, it should have been the other way around.

Someone makes a strange noise of disbelief behind him, at which point he realises he’s said that out loud and instantly stiffens, almost regretting his life choices. Almost, because the sleepy smile he gets from Jaskier is most definitely worth a second round of being mortified.

“Need to find more oils if you want to wash my hair,” Jaskier whispers, yawning.

Eskel’s not entirely sure if his heart melts or skips a beat or does some unholy combination of the two but regardless, he forgets what the whole concept of replying is for an entire minute.

An entire minute within which Jaskier chuckles softly and lets his head fall forward to rest on Eskel’s shoulder. “I think it was the siren.”

Pretending that he’s not positively delighted to learn Jaskier is comfortable enough to lean on him again, Eskel focuses on the siren. “Did she do anything to you?”

“Tried to drown me?” Jaskier offers, and Eskel ever so slightly wants to throw himself off a cliff for asking such a stupid question.

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t a very good que- wait. She only tried . She couldn’t even get you to stay quiet,” Eskel says, mostly just reminding himself because he’s pretty sure that resisting a siren’s lure has to be incredibly taxing.

Jaskier lifts his head up with seemingly great difficulty. “I’m not very good at staying quiet. But it’d be bad for business, really, wouldn’t it? What use is a quiet bard? Well, what use is a bard to a witcher at all? But that's- I mean, never mind witchers, nobody wants to listen to a quiet bard when they’re drunk or, or… what’s the opposite of drunk?”

Eskel blinks.

It seems they have a lot to unpack from Jaskier’s exhausted rambling but there’s a time and a place and in the corner of a kitchen just after having killed a siren doesn’t tick either of those boxes. And besides, he’s far too busy wanting to deck Geralt to answer any of Jaskier’s questions.

“You need to rest,” Eskel settles for, pulling Jaskier upright with him and wrapping one of Jaskier’s arms around his shoulders so he can support some of his weight.

Jaskier hums. “I thought you were washing my hair.”

This time, Eskel glares at the few people who laugh, shaking his head when they step out of his way with guilty expressions. The woman in charge out front nods at the two of them, albeit not without noting the way Jaskier is so heavily leaning on him and raising an eyebrow for the third time.

“Thank you,” Eskel mutters, because it looks like she’s expecting him to say it.

She looks almost surprised but offers him a small smile. “Meals are free of charge if you need them before you leave.”

“Too kind,” Jaskier manages to mumble before Eskel can.

Getting up the stairs is unexpectedly easy because Jaskier seems to regain his energy for long enough to reach their room, where he hesitates. “Gonna get the bed wet. She said not to,” he whines.

Eskel sighs, unable to understand Jaskier’s priorities. “She won’t mind, you’re not really that wet anymore.”

And he’s not, even though his clothes are still an uncomfortable step ahead of damp. The blanket that’d been given to him seems to have absorbed most of the water because it looks as if he’d been caught in a light spell of rain rather than dropped into a lake.

“She won’t be mad?” Jaskier asks, leaning on his shoulder again, the lingering scent of decay weakening a little as his voice fills with hope.

Eskel shakes his head. “She won’t, I promise.”

“I just need a few minutes then,” Jaskier mumbles, all but collapsing into the mattress and proving that he definitely needs a lot more than that.

Eskel can’t imagine the sheer amount of willpower it would require to resist a siren’s words for so long and overcome them well enough to negotiate an escape. By all means, it shouldn’t even be possible, but Jaskier is unlike any bard he’s ever known.

“Take all the time you need,” Eskel replies, but then frowns. “Aren’t you going to change out of those clothes first?”

Jaskier makes a face that manages to convey how much he dislikes that idea even with his eyes closed.

Eskel finds himself chuckling at that, which seems to briefly snap Jaskier out of his exhaustion. He blinks up at Eskel and bites his lip before hesitantly clearing his throat. “Would you, uh… I mean, did you bring your bedroll this time?”

Was he meant to bring his bedroll this time?

Jaskier groans weakly at Eskel’s confusion. “What I mean, darling witcher, is to ask whether you’re- well, I’m still damp and I rather like to avoid being a nuisance because that’s a title reserved for the likes of Valdo and I-”

“Jaskier, I don’t care if you’re still damp, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” Eskel interrupts, but as softly as possible because he doesn’t want to feed the awful scent that’s still lingering around them.

Jaskier smiles softly. “So would you- I mean, do I get the privilege of your company once more?”

How he’s managing to articulate so well despite his eyes drooping, Eskel has no idea. But what he does know is that he’d be an utter fool to go and fetch his bedroll. So instead of replying, he simply lies beside Jaskier, hoping he hasn’t misread things in some way.

And he hasn’t, judging by the grateful look in Jaskier’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Jaskier murmurs, curling towards him, already drifting into sleep.

Eskel exhales softly as their arms brush but nods. “Truly a privilege on my part, bardling.”

He’s still unsure what to do about this darker, decay-scented aspect of Jaskier’s personality but that’ll have to be addressed another time because, even though he’s not too tired himself and he was rather hoping for a good lunch, it’d be a crime to leave the room when Jaskier so clearly needs the rest and wants him to stay.

After all, delayed meals and damp clothes are an easy price to pay for being able to take care of his favourite bard.

-

i do apologise for the shady lore and ooc vibes but it's the best i can do for now :p hope everyone's had a good start to september xx

-

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher sideblog: @itsjaskier | next chapter

[consumedkings-archive]

@shallow-gravy jess..... jess jess jess...... where do i even begin huh? what do i even say? you are the sweetest, the most obnoxiously talented, and i just!! hm!! i just really adore you all to tiny bits and pieces. merry christmas my beloved friend, thank you so much for all of your love and support and listening to my ramblings, for loving my girl elliot, for letting me gush over diana. the list really do be endless!! i could probably wax poetic about how grateful i am to have made a friend as wonderful as you, but in the interest of time, i will just say: thank you thank you thank you! and merry christmas!

ii. a venom dripping in your mouth

elliot honeysett/john seed/deputy diana baker, the unholy trinity, in full-fledged terroristic force. this is pure self-indulgent trash, and i can’t believe this is an acceptable christmas gift to give you but i so hope you like it! 

canon? who is she. i don’t know her. herald!elliot au, largely canon divergent but like it doesn’t REALLY matter bc i don’t go into detail that much. idk man just roll with it

words: 8.8k because i’m incapable of having any Chill

warnings: naughty language, some blood warnings, mentions of past trauma. nothing super explicit but like idk when elliot and john set their sights on diana i do think they need a warning of their own lmao. also, i guess i should warn i don’t know how anything works ever and don’t come for me, don’t drag me, this is supposed to just!!! be fun!!! thanks!!!

“Who the fuck is that?”

Burke’s crossing the street with Pratt and the rookie in tow. Diana drags a few feet ahead, smoking and attempting to not be a part of the conversation, which is hard to do when there’s only a handful of them at the office anyway.

Pratt glances up at the blonde they’re about to pass. She’s propped against the hood of a jeep, the hem of her daisy dukes barely reaching mid-thigh, taking a long drag of a cigarette. He notices the head of a snake tattoo coming down her thigh. It’s hot; the air is buzzing with bugs and heat from the midday sun, and Burke can feel the sweat collecting in the hollow of his collarbones and at the nape of his neck.

From here Burke can tell she’s not looking at them—she’s looking at Diana. Hungrily.

“Elliot Honeysett,” Pratt replies, keeping his voice low, and he spits on the ground. “John’s wife. Fucking psycho.”

Ah. A Seed, Burke thinks, with no absence of venom. A Seed but with her own last name. An uninteresting but unexpected detail.

“You know her, rookie?” Burke asks, looking over at Diana. The brunette stares at him and drops her cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with her shoe.

“No,” Diana replies shortly. “I’m not from here.”

She says it like that’s supposed to explain it, like that’s going to make it make sense why the blonde’s eyes are fixed on her, and of course it doesn’t.

“I went to school with her,” Pratt offers up, and Burke looks at him curiously.

“Yeah? She a psycho then, too?”

“Nah.” The deputy crosses his arms over his chest, refusing—pointedly—to look at Elliot even once after identifying her the closer they get. “John made her that way.”

Diana’s been quiet, lighting up a second cigarette, when she says, “I dunno. To join a cult you've probably gotta have that shit in you all along.”

Burke makes a low noise of agreement. He watches Elliot wiggle her fingers at Diana in a little wave as the cluster of them nears, flashing a most pretty smile; at first glance, he thinks that the blonde looks more bubblegum than cyanide, all curled hair tucked up in a high pony and red cupid’s-bow lips and white, white teeth.

“Howdy, deputy,” she calls, Southern drawl honeyed.

Diana visibly grimaces, pointedly pushing her gaze forward and fixing it on the office. There’s a split second where Burke thinks he sees something flash across her face, but she’s stuffed it down and the sharp lines of her expression smooth out.

And then Elliot looks at him. Burke waves, but he doesn’t smile—it’s not meant to be nice, it’s meant to relay the message that he sees her. When she regards him expectantly, he goes ahead and greets, “Mrs. Seed."

I fucking know you. No surname fuckery is going to throw Burke off the scent. There are so many boogeymen and monsters in the world that don’t want you to know their name, and he thinks Elliot Honeysett might be one of them.

She doesn’t stop smiling at the misnaming, necessarily—her expression smooths out into mild amusement—and then she opens her mouth and pushes the lit end of her cigarette onto her tongue. Pratt says, under his breath, “Jesus Christ,” and Burke thinks he can hear the sizzle for a split second before it’s out, and then she tosses the cigarette to the side.

“Marshal,” she greets him, and he slows his walk for just a moment. “Lookin’ a little flush. You not used to the hot weather, honey?”

“It’s cooling off up in D.C.,” he replies, keeping his tone conversational despite the urge to punch those pearly whites in, “but I used to come here every summer. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Elliot smiles. It’s all teeth. Burke thinks about how most animals do that as a threat. “Good. I’d hate for you to be uncomfortable.” And then her gaze turns to Pratt, and she says flatly, “Pratt.”

“Honeysett,” Staci returns, and he might not have been able to sound more disingenuous, but it’s well-deserved—the blonde makes no effort to hide her disdain. She rolls her eyes, mouth twisting in amusement before she swings around the front of her jeep and into the driver’s seat.

Like he can’t resist the blatant dismissal, Pratt tacks on, “Tell the hubby I said hello.”

The engine revs. Burke watches her pop a pair of blue shades on, leaning against the rolled-down window. “Eat shit, bud,” Elliot says, and smiles just before she kisses the air in Burke’s direction and pulls a hard u-turn. The tires squeal on sizzling pavement, and she waves at them through her open window before she speeds off.

Burke watches the receding vehicle and says, “They all that peachy? Can I plan on Joseph being a fuckin’ breeze?”

“Fuckin’ whatever,” Pratt says, biting the words out as Diana swings the door open. “She’s all golden princess until you get close enough to see she’s picking the wings off of flies. Why’s she so interested in you, rookie?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Diana snaps. “I don’t know what goes on in that psycho’s brain.”

Burke grimaces.

“Might do well to find out,” he says, “before we learn the hard way.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“John.”

He makes a low noise, staring at the map stretched out before him; it’s his first mistake, because Elliot has never been very patient when she has something to say, and this time is no different. She ducks under his arm and settles herself on the table, on the map, effectively breaking his eyesight with the thing which is keeping him perfectly and completely unfocused on her.

“Do you remember what you said to me when we got married?” she asks him, her voice suspiciously light and unfettered by the usual components of her timbre—like venom, or sharpness. Elliot skims her fingers along the skin exposed by the undone buttons of his shirt.

He watches her. She’s up to something. “I remember every single thing I’ve ever told you,” he replies, stifling his amusement, “and I said many things. Which are you referring to?”

“Pick one and try.”

The neckline of her tank top brushes the bottom of her Wrath scar, the jagged lines marring what was otherwise perfectly unblemished skin. What game are you playing? he thinks, but not without affection, digging his thumb past those little shorts she likes so much. “How about... ‘I can’t wait to rip this fucking dress off of you’?”

“Try again.”

Ah, so that kind of game. Not the sexy kind. “‘I’m going to give you anything you want’?” He says it with a border of cautioning, because Elliot doesn’t cash that line in very often, but when she does it’s almost always for something big. She’s in a mood tonight, this wife of his, the kind of mood that he’d normally like to take advantage of if he wasn’t busy trying to make sure they keep eyes on the Marshal.

Elliot beams at him. “You know me so well, handsome,” she murmurs, and tugs him down by the front of his shirt for a kiss; luxurious, open-mouthed, and slick, and then against his mouth she says, “I want the deputy.”

“For what?” John asks. “Dinner? She’s been around that Marshal, who’s almost certainly here for something to do with Joseph.” When the blonde blinks at him, as if this has no bearing on her request, he barks out a laugh. “You’re asking too much.”

“You said anything.” Elliot pulls back to look at him, fingers still fisted in his shirt.

“I did,” he says, slowly.

“So,” the blonde murmurs silkily, “get her for me.” And then, as though she is the most gracious: “Consider her a belated wedding gift.”

John exhales out of his nose. He’s hard-pressed to say no to Elliot, but he’s got the sneaking suspicion that this is one of the instances where he should. It’s not like Elliot ever asks for anything that’s really unreasonable—not usually—but this? He could get her just about anyone, and she wants Diana Baker?

“For what?” he asks again, brows furrowing as Elliot undoes the rest of the buttons of his shirt so that she can drag her nails against his abdomen. “What could you want the rookie deputy for, hm?”

“Does it really matter?” she prompts, looking up at him through her lashes, and he thinks no, not really, but he knows better.

“Yes,” he replies, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. “It does matter. Really. I’m going to have to pitch this to Joseph and Jacob.”

“I like her,” Elliot says without hesitation. That’s how it always goes—John will push as long as he has to, until he doesn’t anymore, because they always give each other what they want. In the end. “And we could use her.”

He scans her face. Elliot doesn’t say she likes someone without merit. He’s come to trust that she’s got an eye for people, even if he can’t always see it—and he doesn’t see it, not really, in a fresh-in-town junior deputy that’s in over her head.

For a second, he thinks about it; it wouldn’t be the first time that they’ve allowed a third party, but it would be one of few times that she’s chosen, which is different in and of itself. If he knows her at all—and he does—she doesn’t usually pick unless she intends to keep them around for a long while.

“I’ll consider it,” John says finally. “After tomorrow.”

A smile curves her mouth. She slides her arms around him and kisses his sternum, just beneath his own sin, revealed—a pair, the two of them, closer than just lovers.

“That’s all I ask,” Elliot murmurs sweetly as his thumb sweeps the slope of her cheekbone.

It’s not, John thinks, but he thinks it with love, because he does—he loves his wretched little viper, this monster that looks at him through her eyelashes and says things like, I want her, so get her for me.

It’s not all you ask, but that’s just fine.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Absolutely not.”

Jacob is the first to speak after John’s proposition, which is not uncommon. The eldest brother does tend to be the most unforgiving, John finds, of his wife’s aspirations; even though, between all of his siblings, Elliot and Jacob get along the best.

John heaves a sigh. “Elliot is convinced that the deputy can be of use to us, if she’s allowed to—”

“Your wife,” Joseph interrupts, “shows a great lack of self-control asking such a thing.”

John bites back the gut-instinct response—that Elliot shows the most control for asking, rather than just taking what she wants, because as a woman capable of it, she can—and instead swallows back, “She would like to serve the Project, Joseph. In this way.”

“Maybe I wanted the deputy,” Jacob drawls. “Didn’t you ever think of that?”

Turning his gaze to his eldest brother, John says, “Well, have you expressed that to our brother, Jacob?”

“It didn’t occur to me until now,” the redhead replies, feigning an air of innocence. “But now I think I do.”

He can feel his teeth grinding. “Funny, that until Elliot showed an interest—”

“Yes,” Joseph acquiesces after a moment. “You and our most holy sister may pursue the deputy by your own means, but you must—” And here he looks at John, pointed. “—let the love into your heart, brother.”

A wash of relief crashes over him; after the fucking shit show that the last evening had been, John thinks that it’ll be good to bring some good news back to Elliot, who’s been itching to get out into the thick of the madness. Even if Joseph seems to be implying he doesn’t want their typical means used, that’s fine. Open to interpretation, right?

“I want the deputy brought to heel, John,” Joseph continues. “It is crucial for the survival of not only us, but also our people, that you show you are capable of doing this.”

“Of course,” John replies, smiling. “Elliot and I would do anything for you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When the junior deputy finally comes to, Elliot is sitting across from her. Diana makes a low, vicious sound as she lifts her head and fixes Elliot with her eyes—lovely eyes, Elliot thinks admiringly, while her molars grind and the noise vibrates through her head. John’s reluctantly left her alone; he thinks he should be the one to soften Diana for her, but Elliot thinks John’s just going to push her farther away.

“Good morning, sugar,” she greets, and Diana spits onto the floor.

“Fuck you.”

“Yes,” Elliot replies sweetly, “if you behave.”

Diana’s eyes flutter for a moment, like she isn’t expecting that so soon and so fast—but certainly she expected it in some respect, because Elliot’s been purposefully obvious about her intention for the deputy, to both Diana and John. She doesn’t want a mindless convert, dulled and emptied out by Bliss and agreeing blindly.

Her fingers itch. She tugs absently at the sleeve of her sweater, rolling her chair forward as the brunette pulls at her binds.

“What the fuck did you do with Hudson?” Diana grinds out.

“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Elliot dismisses, and waves her hand. “She’ll be just fine.”

There’s a brief moment where the brunette looks at her, sweeps sharp, green eyes over Elliot and she cocks a half-done smile at her before she says, “Yeah, Joey told me all about you.”

Elliot smiles. “Only good things, I’m sure.”

“Said you’re a fucking bitch.” Diana arches a brow loftily. “A nutjob.”

“That checks out.”

Diana spits on the floor again, ridding her mouth of the blood from her rough handling, but this time she spits it out at Elliot’s feet. Elliot sighs and tucks some hair behind her ear just before Diana asks, “So, what’s the plan here, princess?”

She blinks at the deputy. She's a little pleased at the pet name, but she doesn't want to let it show. “Plan?”

“Yeah,” Diana says, rolling her eyes. “C’mon, I’m not fucking stupid. What’s the plan? What’s the dynamic? John sends you in because you’re the pretty one, soften me up, and then he comes in to finish the job and cleanse my sins or what the fuck ever it is he thinks he’s doing?”

Elliot feigns bashfulness and flutters her lashes. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Fucking come on,” Di bites out viciously. “Whatever the ploy is, get it over and done with.”

It’s no fun when you say it like that, she thinks, but she can tell Diana’s sort of at her limit—not quite, because if this was her limit, then Elliot would have greatly overestimated her—but she’s getting there. Residual Bliss still burning through her system, and for what? For her to have more of an attitude? How well she’d chosen.

“There’s no ploy, Diana,” Elliot says after a moment, leaning back in her chair. “John wanted to cleanse you his way—I told him no.”

The deputy regards her for a moment, tugging absently at the binds on her wrists. “Why?” she asks, warily.

“Because it wouldn’t work,” Elliot replies. “You can’t make someone get better. They have to want it. And I don’t think that you do, honey.”

Diana’s eyes flicker for a moment. Elliot can tell that she’s trying to regulate her breathing, trying to smooth it on the way in and out of her so that it isn’t so laborious, but it’s hard to do when there’s Bliss wreaking havoc on all of your defenses. She would know—she tries not to expose herself to that shit if she doesn’t have to.

“You’re right,” she says after minute, “I don’t want to “get better”, and I sure as fuck don’t want anything you’d give to me.”

“I don’t want that either,” Elliot tells her. “Not through any kind of religious baptism or cleansing, anyway.” She waves her hand and settles back against the seat, fishing a carton of cigarettes out of her pocket and sticking one in her mouth before she wiggles the box at Diana. “Smoke?”

The brunette regards her hatefully, silently, and Elliot shrugs before she lights her own, tosses the cigarettes onto the nearby workbench and takes a drag. When she blows the smoke out through the corner of her mouth, she says, “I don’t think we’re that different, Diana.”

“No?” Diana prompts, her mouth twisting around the words ruefully. “I could count the ways. One of us is a married to a fucking psychopathic kidnapper...”

“Colorful.”

“... and one of us also is a psychopathic kidnapper....”

Elliot smiles, but she doesn’t show her teeth, not the way that she smiles at Burke or Pratt because she wants to make them squirm. Diana rolls her neck.

“So if you don’t wanna cleanse me,” she begins, barely modulating the venom in her voice, “why the fuck am I here?”

“I like you,” Elliot says plainly, because she’s never been able to beat around the bush, not really. She’s not as sneaky as John, as brutal as Jacob, as smooth as Joseph. She’s not like any of them, and sometimes, that’s lonely. 

The deputy regards her with something close to a poison-riddled look. Instead of addressing I like you, Diana seems to take advantage of this and makes a demand, instead. 

"That Bliss shit makes me feel like garbage," she says. "Don't give it to me anymore."

"You did puke it up quite a bit, didn't you?"

Diana grimaces. She looks like she might want to say something, perhaps regarding Elliot's explanation, but the blonde waves her hand to stop whatever is about to come out of the deputy's mouth. She's not there to argue the logistics of a cosmic pull, anyway.

“I moved out of Hope County straight after high school,” she explains, “and back home to Georgia. Big city. Very exciting. I was tired of this little town and how few opportunities it had. Atlanta? That shit had so much going on.” Elliot pauses, crossing her leg over her knee.

“So glad,” Diana seethes, “that I’m getting a fuckin’ origin story.”

Elliot sucks her teeth. “Anyway, I date a shithead, I break up with him, and then he breaks into my apartment and holds a knife to my neck.” Elliot waves her hand again, because these details are so inconsequential to her at this point; she can barely remember the boy’s face, or anything about that moment except for a few key details. The color of his sweater sleeve (cream); the smell of his cologne (expensive); the paint chipping around her doorframe (small, baby blue chipping to white plaster underneath).

The brunette stares at her. Elliot takes a drag of the cigarette and taps the ash off of the end.

“I’ll spare you the details,” she continues, “but do you know what I was thinking that whole time? And after?”

Diana’s jaw works loosely, absently, like her brain is firing off neurons without needing to. “I don’t fucking know.”

“Try and guess.” She pauses, and then says meaningfully, “I’m sure you’ve got an idea of the kinds of things your mind says when you’re in a moment like that.”

When she watches Diana and smokes her cigarette with leisurely, relaxed movements, the brunette’s eyes flicker over the smoke cloud and she manages out in a wobbling sneer, “Probably something like—like that it wasn’t your fault, or some other kind of psychological-drivel to make you feel like you were in control.”

Elliot comes to a stand. The deputy’s closer than she thinks; it is about control, but just a different path.

“No,” she says, planting a hand on the arm of the chair Diana’s tied to so she can lean down. “I kept thinking, ‘this isn’t going to ever fucking happen again’.”

There’s a strange suspended moment between them. Diana’s lovely—more lovely than she’d let on, probably—but more than that, watching the deputy claw and rake her way through group after group of Eden’s Gate members, causing them problem after problem, Elliot can only think, aren’t we a little pair, the two of us?

A person didn’t get used to killing so fast unless they’d at least thought about it before. Maybe done it before.

“Do you know what it’s like, Diana,” Elliot continues, “to realize that you’ve reached a point of being able to do anything to stop something like that from happening again? It’s not oppressive. It’s liberating. Why do you think an animal stuck in a trap will chew its own foot off to get out?”

She straightens up. She wants to touch—tuck the hair away from her face, trace the lines of her face—but she won’t. Not yet. She’s more patient than John is, more willing to wait for that moment of satisfaction.

Diana says, “It’s real fucking liberating knowing Hudson’s chained up somewhere.”

“You have to stop giving a shit,” Elliot replies, “about other people’s freedoms before you’ve gotten your own.”

The brunette opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, Elliot plunges on. “We’re the same because we’re both going to get it done, whatever it is for us,” she says. “By any means necessary.”

Diana’s staring at the wall. She’s silent, and spitefully so, and she won’t look at Elliot; maybe because she knows that’s exactly what Elliot wants. In fact, that’s almost assuredly what it is.

“I want a cigarette,” the brunette says after a moment, petulant.

Elliot smiles thinly and brings her own to Diana’s mouth. More enunciated, Diana says, “I want my own cigarette.”

“It’s nice to want things, deputy,” Elliot idles. “Take it or don’t, it’s up to you.”

She does, after a moment of deliberation. Elliot drops the cigarette to the concrete floor as she breathes the smoke out and stamps it out with her foot. Diana takes a long time to blow the smoke out of her mouth, and she shifts in the chair; her eyes flicker up to meet Elliot’s, and she’s sure she can see something wicked in them.

“Animals chew themselves out of a trap because they’re animals,” Diana says after a second, not exactly the profession of attraction Elliot was hoping for. “Not because it’s liberating.”

Elliot laughs and pushes the chair she’d been sitting in back and out of the way. She picks up her carton of cigarettes from the tool bench and replies. Glancing over her shoulder, she can feel her expression softening when she looks at the deputy—soaking wet, rattling with cold and what Bliss they’d manage to pelt her with. Not much, they told her, whatever “much” meant.

“We’re all animals, deputy,” she acquiesces after a moment. “In the fucking end, anyway.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Glad you’re getting along with your deputy.”

John knows he sounds petulant. He knows, and he still can’t stop it from coming out of him as Elliot peels her sweater off over her head and drops it onto the floor. She glances at him over her shoulder.

“Green with envy looks good on you, baby,” she idles, and he feels his molars grind.

“You could play a little hard to get,” John says, trying for lofty and failing. “She’s a fucking menace, after all. She’s been causing problems nonstop, she took Fall’s End from us—”

Elliot says, “Our,” without stopping her undressing, which is two parts frustrating and one part endearing because John knows she’s trying to disarm him. She’s not stealthy about her tactics, and she doesn’t try to be.

“Our what?” he asks her, barely containing his irritation.

“Our deputy,” his wife replies sweetly. She turns, finally, to look at him—giving him her eyes, because she knows that he hates when she doesn’t—and leans against the dresser. “You called her my deputy. She’s not mine. She’s ours.”

John presses his lips into a thin line. He knows Elliot. He knows what it is she’s doing, because even though Diana has been nothing but a fucking thorn in his side, hearing the blonde say she’s ours gives him a pleasant, wretched kind of thrill writhing slick and hot in the pit of his stomach. As much as he knows her intimately, so too does she know exactly the kind of thing to keep him interested.

But it is a little different, if she’s considering sharing. If Diana isn’t her own private conquest.

“Is that so?” he asks, managing to keep his voice conversational now despite his piqued interest, sidling over to her. “I seem to recall that she was supposed to be my belated wedding gift to you.”

Reaching up, he drags his fingers along the inked scales of the serpent curved around her hip, swallowing up some of those gossamer-fine scars she had given herself and stretching down her thigh.

“Well,” Elliot murmurs demurely, “would I be a very Godly woman if I didn’t share with my husband?”

The words push the corners of his mouth upward.

“No.” He sweeps his eyes over her face. “I suppose not.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Joseph quickly comes to think that the deputy is more trouble than she’s worth. John hates when he says things like to Elliot with him still in the room, because he knows that Elliot isn’t going to cow to his brother—even though she should. It’s one of the most irritating traits of hers.

“She’s making a mess,” Joseph says, standing in their kitchen, watching Elliot with his eyes—the same way that he watches Jacob, sometimes. With wariness. “More of a mess than the good she would do us if she were converted.”

Elliot replies tartly, “It’s a good thing you don’t lift a finger to clean up a mess then, isn’t it? John does it for you, no questions asked, and by proxy, I do too.”

“If you have an issue with the way things are,” his brother articulates carefully, “then perhaps you should discuss the expectations that have been set out for you by God, with God.”

Elliot’s jaw sets. The contention sits there, her death, locked in her jaw.

Oh, John thinks, and he says, “I’ll be back.” She gives him a sharp look.

“I think that’s best,” she bites out. He knows what that means—she wants to be alone to argue with Joseph as she pleases, without having to worry about Joseph going, well, what do you think, John? Because he will, inevitably. He will, and John will have to look at Elliot and say, you know that he’s right, Joseph knows best, we’re here to shepherd.

As he descends to the lower bowels of the ranch, he stops at the bottom of the stairs.

“... do more for you than you fucking realize...”

“—refrain from speaking to me like—”

“—deserve to have this, Joseph—”

They should have taken Diana to the bunker, not kept her here. Not where there is so little space between them and her. The lack of distance lets Elliot feel close to her, and like any unloved animal, when she has something to keep, she guards it viciously. This is no different.

Diana is no different.

“You’re quite the conversation piece,” John tells the brunette when he walks into the room. She’s been with them for three days, and in that time she’s nearly escaped; unfortunately, the only exit from the basement is to go up, and she’s easy to catch up there.

The deputy regards him with a half-lidded gaze that reeks of impudence. “What’s it like?”

“Having a conversation piece?”

“Being so pathetic you have to kidnap someone to be able to have conversation,” Diana drawls venomously. The words spike a bout of irritation in him, hot and wretched, and he thinks he doesn’t know if it was worse to come down here to avoid Joseph and Elliot’s argument or if he should have stayed.

“My brother thinks you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” John bites out.

“I’m really fuckin’ concerned about Joseph’s opinion of me.” She smiles, all teeth, and the gesture strikes him as eerily reminiscent to Elliot. “So what, you’re gonna baptize me now or whatever instead?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he snaps, circling the chair that has been her home. “He doesn’t even want you cleansed. I’m thinking he’s just going to have us kill you. Stick your head up somewhere to send a message to all of your little friends in the resistance.”

Diana’s quiet at that for a minute, before she says, “Wifey won’t let that happen.”

“You—” John sucks in a sharp breath. “Don’t call her that.”

“Why not? She’s been making fucking bedroom eyes at me every second, that’s not my fault.”

Diana’s goading him, but it’s hard to see around the irritation. She’s impertinent, and impudent, and there’s nothing that he wants to do more than to just break that inside her—until she’s saying his name and begging and begging and begging. It’s the part of him that Joseph wanted him to cleanse and cut out, but that Elliot tells him she likes the best.

We’re closer than lovers, she would say, digging her nails in hard enough to draw blood, the same sin binds us.

The same sin that she sees in Diana, too. Wrath, he knows, even though he hates it.

“She has taken a particular interest in you,” John relents after a moment, though he doesn’t like to, “deputy.”

“I’m a catch,” Diana agrees. He sucks his teeth.

“My wife has always been a purveyor of wretched things.” John leans against the tool bench, narrowing his eyes. “I suppose she must think there’s something salvageable about you.”

“Is there a point?” the deputy asks, sounding tired. “To this... Monologuing? It’s very Marvel-villain of you, but I don’t have any popcorn or alcohol, and it makes it a lot less enjoyable.”

“Look,” he hisses, pushing off from the tool bench, “if we had it my way, you’d have your sin revealed and you’d be on your fucking knees begging us to keep you, you wicked little—”

“John?”

Elliot’s voice drifts down from the stairwell, and he snaps his mouth shut. She’d be furious if she knew he’d lost his temper. Maybe. Probably.

“Uh-oh,” Diana sing-songs, just low enough for him to hear, “here comes the ol’ ball and chain. Isn’t that right, buddy?”

The insinuation hangs there, between them, that Elliot is their ball and chain, and he feels his blood pressure spike. “Shut. Up,” John grinds out between his teeth, just as he hears footfalls descend the stairs above. When his wife does finally turn the corner, there’s a lovely high colour in her cheeks, and her eyes look a little wild.

“Bonding time?” she asks.

“Hardly,” John replies, just as Diana says, “Oh, you know it,” and he shoots her a look. Elliot had called her their deputy, their shared conquest, but both he and Diana look at Elliot more than they want to look at each other.

He does want, he thinks. He feels that tell-tale itch. It wouldn’t be so strong if Diana didn’t just buck against them all the fucking time, but he does want, which makes it all the more frustrating when she turns that venom on him.

“We should give the deputy a little blissful encouragement,” John remarks, turning his gaze to Elliot. “It might make her behave.”

“I don’t think so,” the blonde idles, as he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair away from her face. Oh, yes—she is furious. He can feel the tension from the grind of her molars against each other. The conversation with Joseph didn’t go well, then.

“Joseph wants to speak with you,” Elliot tells him as he runs the pads of his fingers down the column of her throat. There’s a nasty, jagged scar there—he’s trying to remember where it’s from, but he can’t.

“About what?” he says, brows pulling together.

“Wives, submit to your husband as to the lord,” she intones, the obedience in her voice cloying and all-too-sweet to be genuine, “for the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Saviour—”

“Fucking unreal,” Diana says from the chair, and Elliot’s mouth ticks upward.

“As the church submits to Christ,” she finishes, fixing John with her eyes, “etcetera and so on.”

John is filled with dread. He thinks maybe Elliot’s mouthed off one too many times—she’s never liked Joseph, never even been particularly religious, and her own heritage is such a violent mishmash of religion and criminal activity that she’s hardly got the track record for piety. Scarlet is a practicing Catholic and Ambrose’s opinions on religion are unknown, considering that he’s been vanished for so long, so it’s no surprise that Elliot views religion as something like ambiguity.

“I’ll be quick,” he murmurs, which they both know isn’t true, but he says it anyway.

“Don’t rush on my behalf.” Her eyes are dark—he can see the pupils eating away at the baby blue of her irises, and when she reaches up and brushes his hand away from her face, there is a tiny tremor in her hands.

Not good at all, he thinks, stepping around her and looking at Diana. Her eyes are on Elliot for a heartbeat longer, and then she looks at him, and he knows that she’s seen it too. She’s too sharp not to have.

As he approaches the stairs, John says, “Play nice, hellcat.”

“I always do.”

Near the top, he hears Diana say, “I don’t think you’re capable of playing well with others, princess,” and Elliot says, “He said play nice, not play fair, and I can be plenty nice,” and he feels a little surge of warmth at the playfulness in her tone. It’s a timbre that he doesn’t hear out of her often, and almost exclusively with him, so to hear it now not only makes him a little envious, but also pleased.

The deputy is a wretched, wicked thing, yes; she should be cleansed, but there is also a part of him that knows Elliot would not want her any other way, just like he wouldn’t want Elliot any other way.

And that’s good enough for him.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The deputy escapes.

It’s not a surprise to Elliot when he tells her, and he thinks maybe she was waiting for it all along, considering that Joseph had conditionally allowed them their pursuit of Diana as long as they can keep her under control; it would not be completely unfounded to think maybe Elliot gave her a way out, to keep the chase fun. To keep it fresh.

She takes Fall’s End back. She takes the fucking plane back. She takes Hudson back. She takes, and takes, and takes, and that’s all Diana Baker is capable of doing, John thinks—fucking taking, even after he and Elliot had been so gracious with her. It grinds against his patience as though his nerve endings have been exposed; it shreds the last of his control, sinks its claws into him like nothing else.

Sunrise Farm. Rae Rae’s. The Lamb of God Church. One after another, they play this game of existential tug-of-war; where Diana takes one and moves on, Elliot surges back in to take it back again. He thinks that his wife should be able to crush the Resistance under her bootheel, but he has the sneaking suspicion that she doesn’t want it to be done so quickly. And, in many ways, Diana outfoxes them with what appears to be little effort; their supply trucks get mowed down. The silos burn. Men keep dying.

These are all things that should disparage Elliot, but each time John points it out to her—“She’s wicked, Ell,” he’ll posit—she regards him loftily and says, “Well, she can’t be anything less than us, can she?”

Diana gets pulled back to them. She escapes. It happens over and over, until the lines start blurring, until John thinks maybe, sometimes, she lets them catch her—like she’s looking forward to those moments. When she’s there, at the ranch, things feel different; Elliot moves with a strange surety around the deputy, like they know each other already, deep in the marrow of their bones. Maybe, in a way, they do.

And in those moments, there’s a shift. Elliot allows her freedoms on good behavior, which run on such thin ice considering Diana herself, and are almost always immediately broken at first. But no matter how many of their things she destroys or spits on or takes, no matter how many times John finds himself disgustingly exasperated with her—he is always happy to see her back. 

In part because he knows Joseph has given Jacob and Faith both leave to kill her if they have the misfortune of coming across her, and in part because he sees the way Elliot leans into her like a flower to sunlight; her fingers ghost over Diana’s skin, and she pulls Diana into her lap and kisses her, hot and open-mouthed, and sighs when Diana petulantly sinks her teeth into her lower lip.

It draws blood, and John knows from the way his wife looks at him that it delights her.

“Wicked,” Elliot murmurs then, tongue peeking out to swipe the blood from her lip, reiterating the word that John favors Diana with the most. “Don’t you think so, baby?”

“Incredibly,” John agrees. He climbs onto the bed behind Elliot, sweeping the hair from her shoulder and pressing a kiss to the junction of her shoulder.

“How well we chose,” the blonde purrs, dragging her fingertips along the column of Diana’s throat, and he can see the goosebumps rise in her skin. Diana’s eyes flicker, dreamily, and their gazes meet over Elliot’s shoulder. She’s tame, like this—or nearly-tame, close to domesticated, at least for a little while. It’s only ever for a little while. And though they fall into a strange, tentative routine every time she’s here—even though John can lean over Elliot’s shoulder and pull Diana into a bruising kiss, until he feels her breath hitch.

He loves it. He loves the feeling of Diana’s mouth parting under his, loves that their fingers meet, tangled, in Elliot’s hair, grounding Diana to them. At night, when Elliot has contented herself with enough of a taste of Diana and John both, when they lay tangled together, Diana kept between them.

Our deputy, Elliot had said; in moments like these, it feels true.

“You missed us,” the blonde says against Diana’s neck. “We missed you, too. Especially John.”

Her eyes are sly when she looks at him, when he pulls back from Diana to regard his wife curiously. She takes the brunette’s chin in her grip and guides her back, brushing their noses together.

“Missed having both of his little vipers,” she murmurs silkily, and John sees the flicker of her tongue against Diana’s lips. “Didn’t you, John?”

Yes, he thinks, but does not say, because his mind is encompassed with the way Elliot kisses Diana; reverently, with the intent to worship. Never rushed and never urgent, only ever luxuriating in it.

At first, he and Diana get along for Elliot’s sake—as much as they can, anyway, because even Elliot is not enough of a bridge to force them to get along—but when they have the deputy, and his wife gets called away, they fall into a kind of rhythm with each other. It’s not a familiar cadence. It’s daunting, and a little jarring, the way they bite and scratch at each other for comfort, both missing their girl.

“I’m not going to stay,” Diana says then, against the blonde’s mouth, the same way that she said it into John’s mouth. Her neck and shoulders are littered with the remnants of their time together, and he wonders if the Resistance members ask.

“We know,” John says, leaning down and grazing his teeth across the fading bruise of a love bite. He drinks in the way Diana hisses and squirms. “You’ll always leave.”

“And always come back,” Elliot agrees. She noses past the hair gathering in the crook of Diana’s shoulder. 

“Like you were never gone at all.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It becomes her mantra. I’m not going to stay, Diana says every time, and every time she only sticks around for a day or more before she dissipates into the air like a wraith. He doesn’t know how long it goes on like this, but he does know that each time Joseph becomes more impatient. Each time, the act of losing her strikes a chord of panic in John—she won’t come back this time, he thinks, or maybe this time she’ll come back with more than just her, or or or—but Elliot doesn’t feed into his panic; she treats it like anything else, with the confidence that the deputy will come back. He desperately wants to keep Diana there with them, where he can see and touch and taste her, where he is certain Jacob hasn’t gotten her, but she always follows through on the promise of leaving.

“Aren’t you at your limit?” John asks, late in the evening, watching Diana from across the island counter in the kitchen. This time around, Elliot has been gone for most of the time Diana has been here, which makes it more difficult to know that her tolerance for sticking around is going to be running out soon. By the time Elliot comes back, Diana might already be gone.

“I’m always at my limit,” she replies, her idle venom more a comfort now than ever, “with you.”

“You’re a real comedian, deputy.” He saunters around the island, his hands finding her hips and his mouth finding her neck. He likes hearing the way her breath slides out of her when he does. “Though I seem to recall a specific instance in which you were not at your limit, and couldn’t stop asking me for more—”

He’s about to follow through on the insinuation, because Diana’s eyes narrow when she looks at him but she’s warm and close and he watches her gaze flicker down to his mouth, but the sound of the front doors to the house opening startles him out of the dreamy haze the brunette tends to put him in. John pushes off from the counter and walks out of the kitchen, brows knitting together at the impudence of someone to come barging in without being announced.

“Herald.” It’s one of the men, and his face cloudy. “It’s—I’m sorry, we—”

“Spit it out,” John grinds out between his teeth. He hears the sound of Diana rustling in the kitchen behind him, and then from outside, Elliot’s voice.

“Don’t fucking touch me—”

The blonde shoulders her way through the doorway as someone flutters nervously behind her. John takes in a number of details very rapidly: she’s clutching at a spot close to her shoulder, just below her collarbone, there is blood coming out of her mouth, and she’s fucking pissed.

“Get a doctor,” John barks out, just as Diana steps around him and goes to Elliot. He does, too, but mostly to clear the members of Eden’s Gate out of the room because he knows Elliot’s going to come unglued if they stick around.

“Fucking Pratt,” Elliot seethes, even as Diana’s hands go to her, trying to guide her to the couch. The blonde jerks when she feels hands on her, looking wild, and John tenses for just a second; in moments like these, his wife’s ability to differentiate between threat and non-threat is almost non-existent, and he’s suffered the consequences of it plenty of times. “Don’t—fucking—”

“It’s me, you monster,” Diana snaps. “Sit the fuck down.”

The blonde’s breathing is labored. She swallows back what he can only assume is a mouthful of blood before he says, “Hellcat.”

“I’m going,” she bites out, and then she does. Diana touches her elbow, and she stiffens, and then sits down where the brunette tells her to. When she pulls her hand away from her shoulder, it’s sticky and wet with blood.

“Jesus Christ,” Diana says, a little wrench in her voice that she quickly snuffs out. “Getting sloppy?”

“Eat shit,” Elliot wheezes. “I hate that fuckhead. Can’t wait til I—” She sucks in a sharp breath. “—til I g-get my fucking—hands—”

Diana is circling Elliot, trying to get a good look, as John grabs a first aid kid from under the kitchen sink. He keeps thinking about all of the blood coming out of her mouth; it’s not the first time he’s seen her like this, but it’s definitely not any easier, either.

“Exit wound?” the deputy asks.

“Fucking shot me with a 9 milli FMJ,” the blonde says between her teeth, “there’d better fucking be an—”

“Stop,” Diana interjects as John returns with the first aid kit, “being unhelpful.”

It’s a torturous amount of time between Elliot’s arrival and the arrival of the doctor they have for such occasions. In the meantime, Diana does what she can—she knows probably more than both of them, even Elliot with her close proximity to violence, about how to stabilize a gun wound; she cleans it and stops the bleeding as much as she can, her face set in a grim, tight expression.

The brunette packs the wound with gauze and says, “You’re a goddamn idiot.”

“Cute one though, huh?” Elliot asks, her voice a little hoarse and her eyes fluttering. “Be cuter if someone could get me some fucking oxy.”

“Save it for the doctor, princess.”

“So glad,” John manages out tartly, Elliot’s fingers loosely curling against his palm, “so glad we have your calming presence here, deputy.”

Diana regards him for a moment, and she looks about to say something when the doctor chooses precisely that moment to arrive. He doesn’t do much by way of conversation; he works silently, intensely, his fingers moving a sort of surety that comes with many years of practice, but he hardly looks at John or Diana while he works.

It’s probably odd. People know that Diana is around, but they don’t know-know, in the sense that there’s never been an official announcement or acknowledgement of what’s going on. Occasionally, the doctor’s eyes furtively flicker towards the brunette; but if he’s feeling pressed to ask, he doesn’t let it show.

By the time Elliot is stitched-up, drugged-up, and planted into the bed, the heat and bubbling fury have died out of her, the embers smothered by the painkillers. Diana lays in the master bedroom next to her while the doctor talks to him outside in the hall.

“Bed rest, minimum three weeks,” he says. “If she keeps coughing up blood, call me. No strenuous activity, no stress—”

“Doctor,” John says tightly, “with all due respect, let’s keep the expectations under control.”

The doctor grimaces. “Bed rest, three weeks. Everything else, just—try your best.”

John nods, short and impatient, and dismisses the man with a gesture of his hand before he steps into the bedroom. Elliot’s murmuring something to Diana, but the words are slurring and her voice is pitched so low beyond normal volume he can’t make it out, even from there.

He wanders to the side of the bed, sitting down on the edge by Elliot’s hip.

“What’d he say?” the blonde asks, her words slurring and her fingers tangling in strands of Diana’s dark hair. “Two days, ready—go?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Diana says irritably.

“Three weeks bedrest,” John tells her. “He thinks you have a collapsed lung.”

“Fuckoff,” Elliot groans, the words blending together.

“He also said no strenuous activity, no stress—”

At that, Diana laughs, the sound billowing out of her in a short, disbelieving bark. “Fucking what?”

“That...means you t-two have to….behave,” Elliot mumbles, her eyes flickering. “No stressin’ me—no streeeessin’—”

“Stop.” Diana sounds almost affectionately exasperated. “You are so painful to listen to.”

“—no stressin’,” Elliot finishes stubbornly, “me. Out.”

Later that night, when she’s finally drifted off into sleep and John and Diana have her settled between them, John props his head up in his hand and sees Diana still awake. She’s looking at the window. It’s open, and the late-August breeze comes drifting in, bringing with it the smell of pine and wilderness.

“At your limit?” John asks as he did before, keeping his voice soft so as not to stir Elliot. Normally, he wouldn’t ask—he would just wait to realize that Diana’s not there, and go from that point on. But it’s different, now, with Elliot like this.

The brunette turns her gaze to him. For a second, her eyes flicker over Elliot, who stirs a little.

“She always this annoying?” Diana says, instead of answering, and by annoying he thinks she means worry-inducing.

“Like it’s an Olympic Sport,” John replies.

She exhales out of her nose. They sit like that for a little while, until Diana settles back against the pillow. Elliot’s fingers are knotted loosely into the sleeve of her t-shirt, and the blonde’s breathing stutters and hitches in her chest.

“Not yet,” she answers, finally. “Not at my limit yet.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“How many days has it been?”

John’s voice breaks Elliot out of her reverie. She blinks, and realizes that she’s been checked out. The painkillers make her brain foggy, and if it weren’t for the excruciating, searing pain in her chest and shoulder, she’d just stop taking them.

The sound of the shower running in the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom trickles in through the fog. That’s right: she’s in bed. She’s in bed, and John is next to her, his fingers tracing the coil of the tattooed serpent on her thigh, the cigarette in her fingers burning for who knows how long since the last time she’s taken an inhale of it.

“Since what?” Elliot asks, looking at her husband. John slides his hand up and snags her fingers, bringing the wedding ring she sports to his mouth.

“Since our viper came back to us.”

She tries to think back that far, but it’s hard. Elliot reaches over with a wince and taps the cigarette out into the ashtray. In the bathroom, she can hear the water switch off.

After a moment, she replies, “Must be over two weeks.”

Her husband makes a low noise. She brushes her fingers through his beard, and he murmurs, “Longer than usual.”

“What are you two gossiping about?”

Elliot’s gaze flickers up sluggishly to Diana, standing in her towel, propped up against the doorway. She’s such a far cry from the girl that she was when they first got their hands on her that it’s almost easy to forget she ever existed in a place where she wasn’t theirs. How absolutely dreadful, Elliot thinks, just absolutely fucking dreadful, to think she was once not ours.

“How long we have to wait for you to come back over here,” John says easily. “Not only are you using up all the hot water, but Elliot’s pining.”

“Oh, yeah?” Diana sounds amused as she makes her way to the bed. “Poor little bed-ridden snake, aren’t you?”

Elliot laughs, because it should be absurd—it should be, that Diana is here, leaning in when Elliot beckons her, the brunette’s mouth soft and sweet against her own. It should be absurd, but it isn’t, because this isn’t the first time Diana’s kissed her like this and it won’t be the last, either.

“Every time we’re apart,” Elliot confirms resolutely, “I wallow around. Just ask John.”

“I have a hard time picturing you wallowing.”

“She does,” John says, planting a kiss on Elliot’s jaw. “She wallows around and says, when do you think our Di will be back? Does she think about us?” And then, grinning wickedly, he adds, “Do you think if I ask nicely, she’ll shove her fingers in my mouth?”

Elliot laughs, grabbing John’s jaw and jostling him. “You fucker.”

“I will,” Diana says, and now she sounds sly, and in the way that Elliot does. “If you ask.”

Pausing, Elliot feels her chest tighten a little. Mine, she thinks tiredly, glancing between John and Diana both. They’re here, and hers, and even though she told John the deputy is for them she thinks maybe they’re both for her.

“What else?” She turns her gaze back to Diana. “What else will you do, if I ask?”

Diana’s gaze flickers. Her lips press into a thin little line. I’m not going to stay, she looks like she wants to say, but she doesn’t. She just says, “You’re chatty as fuck tonight, aren’t you? Sounds like it might be time for you to pop another painkiller,” and goes to fetch the pill bottle.

Elliot settles back against the pillows and watches the brunette rifling through the dresser. This is when Diana says, I’m not going to stay, her little mantra, but she doesn’t, and John tangles their fingers together and squeezes her hand. 

The deputy always leaves, and she always comes back. She hasn’t said yes, she’ll stay, and she also hasn’t said no, she’ll go, and in this instance maybe that means exactly what Elliot wants it to.

Maybe, it means this time, she’ll stay.

[annhellsing]

Beloved

notes: more fluffy sakyo content bc that comes so easily to me, wow. rating: still teen, it’s not super suggestive. pairing: sakyo furuichi / reader word count: 1,401

“It hurt,” you say.

“You have no idea,” he replies, though you didn’t insult him by phrasing it like a question.

His back is an intricate web of faded ink in beautiful colours. A pool swirls around the feet of a geisha with eyes downcast, looking at the koi fish nipping her ankles. In her open palm is a lotus flower. 

For the moment, you only look. Touching seems more invasive than intimate, and this is the first time you’ve seen his tattoo.

It’s bigger than you thought it would be, following the entire length of his spine and stopping just below his neck. It’s hidden almost all the time, either by high-collared shirts or jackets. Sakyo hides it well, so well that you can’t help but wonder if he’s ashamed of it. It certainly wasn’t done recently.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know very much about the technique but it’s—” you cut yourself off, faltering while trying to imagine just how much pain it put him in.

“It takes forever and burns worse than anything, yeah,” he finishes for you, sounding nearer to amused than upset. He always seems to know when you’re walking on eggshells, and does his best to remind you that you’re safe around him.

“Yeah,” you parrot. “When did you get it?”

“I had to save up a little,” he hesitates, “but it was finished by the time I turned twenty-two.”

“Wow,” you reply. You don’t see him smirk. Sakyo’s got his face turned away from you, sitting comfortably on your unmade bed.

“It’s ancient is what you mean to say,” he teases. You shake your head. 

“Shut up,” you mumble, lifting your hand just a fraction. You’ve traced the lines with your eyes, now you want a little more. “Can I touch it? Can I tough you?”

“Why not?” Sakyo replies. You smile a little, and reach out.

You’re careful. And even though the ink is nearly a decade old, he still flinches when your fingers brush his back. You start at his shoulder blade, over the swirling clouds near the corner of the design. When you feel him stiffen up, you pause.

“Sorry,” he says, “it’s just been awhile.”

“Mhm,” you say, “it’s okay, baby.”

“God,” he sighs, with as much fondness as annoyance. You shift a little closer, pressing your palm to his bare back.

He’s not as inclined to flinch this time, at least. And you carefully follow the lines of his tattoo until he’s as relaxed as before you touched him. You get a little bolder when you know that he’s ready.

“Hm,” you smile, leaning forward and putting your chest to his bare back. You’re so warm. You kiss his neck and he flinches for a different reason. “My baby, isn’t that right?”

“Uh-huh,” he says, sounding dazed. “M’yours, always.”

“I love you,” you say, your lips agonizingly close to his ear. Goosebumps bloom on the back of his neck.

“Shit, I love you so much,” he exhales. Sakyo earns your soft, beautiful laugh.

“I shouldn’t overwhelm you, I’m sorry,” you say, “I’ll be careful, I know this is new for you.”

“No, it’s okay,” he’s quick to tell you, “you don’t have to be sorry, you don’t mean any harm.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all,” you say, “whether or not I mean to.”

“You couldn’t,” he replies, “just-- do what you want, whatever you want. If you’re the one doing it, then I like it.”

“You’re sweet,” you say. You kiss where his neck meets his jaw, feeling him shiver under your lips.

You move your hands slowly over his shoulders, still keeping your mouth close enough to his neck to kiss. Gently, you let your fingers wander over his muscles.

“Stop me if it hurts,” you say, “or for any other reason.”

“Okay,” he replies. He sounds sure of himself, it gives you the confidence you need to continue your downward exploration. 

Your hands wander over his shoulder blades and down his back. He’s distracted from it every so often by a soft, warm kiss pressed to the back of his neck. Sakyo waits for you to bite, or to sink your nails into his skin. It’s a reflex, but it never happens. Slowly, his shoulders relax again. He takes deeper breaths.

Far too soon, you pull away. But you’re just looking at the design again, tracing your finger over the ridge of his spine.

“You know, Sakyo—” you start.

“Huh? What?” he cuts you off, he’s not quite sure why. He misses your weight at his back, perhaps.

“She really is beautiful,” you say, your finger tracing the geisha’s left eye.

“I—” he can’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t know how. His tattoo cost more than it was worth, it serves as a permanent reminder that it’s too late to walk away from his past. Sakyo thought it was beautiful, once, but that was before he knew what it meant to have it be part of him.

“I mean it, she is,” you say. And he believes you. For whatever reason, you do think it’s pretty.

“I picked it ‘cause of my mother,” he admits with a heavy sigh. He glances over his shoulder. “It just— a samurai or an oni felt weird. I was working for her. It’s always been for her.”

“Does she know about this?” you ask.

“No, I haven’t shown it to anyone,” he replies.

“Nobody?” you continue, sidestepping his air of finality. You’ve found his stories very rarely end just because he wants them to.

“Not on purpose,” he says. You nod.

You slip your arms around him again, folding your hands over his chest and hugging him from behind. You know what you’ll find there, you’re more used to the thin-raised lines on his chest. Old wounds that have long-since healed, leaving old marks.

“And the scars?” you try. You press your cheek to his shoulder.

“She doesn’t nag me too much about them. Probably because they’re hard for her to look at,” he says. You click your tongue like you disapprove. 

“I think you’re too hard on yourself,” you say. Sakyo shrugs, though he’s careful not to disturb your hold on him.

“Keeps me humble,” he replies, so nonchalant as to be worrying. 

“They’re not hard for me to look at,” you say, but there’s no edge in your voice. Just sincerity, just the truth.

“Really, now?” he asks, caught off-guard by how easily you disagreed.

“Yes, really,” you sigh. “It’s your skin, baby. It’s skin that’s done it’s job and healed. That couldn’t be ugly.”

“You’re sappier than Arisugawa,” he teases, sounding long-suffering but still touched.

“That’s love,” you shrug this time.

“I guess so,” he says. 

“Turn a little, let me kiss you,” you continue, your hand on his shoulder urging him to listen.

He shifts, with no urge to resist when you want to lead him. It feels right, moving to face you so that you can pull him against your chest. With his tattoo no longer the focus, Sakyo feels less exposed.

You kiss him as you promised, holding the back of his head and keeping him close. It’s deeper than before, your teeth touch his lower lip and Sakyo still gets goosebumps when you carefully bite down. It doesn’t hurt, not even a bit. You do it because you know he likes that.

When you break from him to breathe, you’re smiling. Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, rubbing your thumb over his mouth to wipe away your lipstick. He’s lost in the way you look at him, with so much love it could stop his heart. What else can he do but smile too?

You hug him when his lips are mostly clean. Your palm presses to his mid-back, rubbing slow circles. He feels a little less strange about baring this part of himself to you, at the very least.

“Mm, that feels nice,” he speaks up. You’re surprised he’d admit something like that.

“Yeah? Come here,” you tell him, deciding to push your luck and move him where you want him again. You lie back on your bed, pulling him with you until he’s cuddled on your chest. Your heartbeat is loud and comforting.  “There we go.”

“Next time, I’ll be the one holding you,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

“Sure, if I let you,” you smile at him.

[scripttorture]

Torture in Fiction: Star Trek: Picard, Season 1, Episode 5

My dislike of Star Trek is probably well known to long term followers of the blog, so you might find it strange that I chose to watch and review this episode without any requests.

Someone close to me persuaded me to watch it on the basis that there is a cute Romulan. And yes, the Romulan is very cute.

But I’m not here to give my opinion of handsome TV actors, I’m rating the depiction and use of torture, not the story itself. I’m trying to take into account realism (regardless of fantasy or sci fi elements), presence of any apologist arguments, stereotypes and the narrative treatment of victims and torturers.

This contains spoilers for Star Trek Picard.

The episode begins with an ex-Borg, Icheb, being vivisected for his Borg implants. We get a close up of one of his eyes being removed. Another ex-Borg, Seven of Nine breaks into the facility, chases off the guards and the vivisector, Bjayzl.

Icheb begs Seven to to kill him which she does. She then spends the rest of the episode trying to kill Bjayzl, insisting on revenge even years after Icheb’s death.

I’m giving it 0/10

The Good

Witnessing the effects of torture does affect Seven, even if what it prompts is entirely self-serving and takes away any capacity the survivor had to choose.

Torture is portrayed as painful. But the torture portrayed is a scarring one: it leaves obvious physical evidence and these are not the sort of tortures where damage or pain is typically downplayed. So I’m not really inclined to give credit for it.

The Bad

This is one of the worst portrayals of the aftermath of torture I’ve ever seen.

In a world where the medical technology is repeatedly shown to fix almost everything there’s no attempt to treat Icheb. We’ve used opioids since around 5000 BC and there’s no attempt to ease Icheb’s pain, not even as a form of palliative care.

There is no clear indication that Icheb couldn’t be healed. He also does not clearly express a desire for suicide. What he does is say that he does not want to go with Seven or for Seven to stay with him. He does not resist Seven raising her phaser but it’s also unclear whether he can see her phaser because it’s on the side he can no longer see.

Despite this the implication is clearly supposed to be that Icheb wants to die.

The characterisation of Icheb in this moment is reliant on unrealistic tropes about torture survivors. It positions Icheb as so controlled and ‘broken’ by torture that he doesn’t even want to try and live.

I have never in the hundreds of survivor accounts I’ve read heard of someone asking to be killed immediately after they were saved.

The idea is ridiculous. It misrepresents suicidal urges which manifest sporadically throughout survivor’s lives and are not necessarily linked to physical pain. It misrepresents survivors by implying that torture automatically ends their lives, even when they live through it.

The scene is also incredibly sanitised and reliant on a lot of high tech equipment that is not typically used in torture, including vivisections. Because torture, including vivisections, does not require complex equipment. Honestly if you’re going to give the viewer a close up of the excision of an eyeball you can at least have the decency to get it right.*

While we’re on the subject, if a person is being vivisected then the torturer would have them properly restrained. A two second glance at Icheb’s restraints makes me pretty sure the actor could have got his hands free at any moment. His legs seem completely unrestrained. So why, through all the pain and screaming is he not kicking?

The narrative bends over backwards to make Seven killing Icheb the ‘logical’ choice while absolving her of any blame for it. In fact the narrative is entirely about Seven; Icheb and his torture is essentially a plot device to further Seven’s story.

And Seven’s story here is that of someone else taking action in place of a torture survivor. The torture survivor himself is only allowed to suffer and die, denied agency and motivation.

Seven’s actions in particular seem to be a questionable storytelling choice because her violent ‘revenge’ has so little to do with Icheb.

The result is a mess of apologia tropes about victims designed to justify another character’s violence.

Overall

I think this is a terrible use of torture.

Torture is used as a cheap narrative trick. It dehumanises the victim and robs him of agency.

It’s used to position his mother-figure murdering him as justified. And then it’s used to prop up a cheap revenge plot which further robs the victim of agency.

Because none of these overblown, violent theatrics are about the victim or what he wants. They’re about Seven, lashing out to make herself feel better. And the narrative supports these actions as if they constitute helping a victim that Seven killed herself.

The narrative doesn’t suggest that Seven took any action to protect other people in Icheb’s position or did anything concrete to prevent others being victimised.

For me the worst part of all this is the way the story uses a torture victim as a prop. Icheb could have been dead for the entire story and narratively nothing would change. There’s no engagement with torture as a real atrocity or with survivors as real people.

And if it has no real impact on the story then what on earth is the point of using it?

I’m told it was partly motivated by some form of behind the scenes skullduggery to do with fan preferences and the original actor.

That is all very well, but a character can be definitively written out without apologia of any kind. Something as simple as framing the scenario so that Seven arrived too late and Icheb was already dead could have avoided most of the issues I raised.

Torture can be used to write characters out of the story. But not like this.

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Disclaimer

*For anyone interested two parallel scalpel cuts downwards on either side of the eye are often sufficient to loosen and remove it in the way this scene was trying to show.

[littlemisssquiggles]

Hi! So I know that at the beginning of the vol Whitley stans were very adamant about NOT having Whitley a villian but right now I'm a little open to the idea. His set up could go down the villain origin route and it would likely make a lot of sense. We didn't want Whitley to be a villain bc we thought he would be written as a mini Jacques. What would your thoughts be if Whitley was turned a villain, but bc of what's happened to him, and not bc he's a mini Jacques? Do you think it could happen?

Hello anon-chan. Here’s the thing with that idea. I used to be open to thethought of Whitley potentially playing villain…but only as an accomplice to Jacques in his crimes. 

Once upon a time, I shared a Whit-tyheadcanon describing a scenario in which Whitleyhad unlocked his Schnee family semblance, giving Jacques a golden opportunityto exploit his son’s newfound abilities and his grandfather’s powerful familybloodline for his own selfish gain. Since the World of Remnant episode on theSchnee Dust Company teased a secret criminal underbelly connected to thebusiness involving nefarious schemes against competitors and abuse of Faunuslabour, I was banking on the story delving more into that for Weiss’ side ofthe story for the Atlas Arc.

Unfortunately, the PLOT for V7 neverreally touched upon the topic of Faunus abuse or any of the other crimes of theSDC.

As a matter of fact, all that was previousestablished groundwork seemed to have been rolled into Jacques one plot to workwith Watts in order to gain a seat for himself on the ruling Council of Atlasand…that was it. Sure, we got to see Jacques get his just desserts by beingarrested but that was mostly for assisting Watts by granting him access toAtlas’ and Mantle’s key mainframe. Even now, there still hasn’t been any moreproper acknowledgement of the Faunus abuse under the SDC as teased last seasonby Adam Taurus’ revealed scar.

The conclusion with Jacques is anotherexample of the PLOT providing the audience with an outcome without anot-so-good build up to it. It’s like eating a cheeseburger without the meatand cheese. All you get is the two dry buns. While it’s edible and serviceable toyour hungering appetite, it’s still not as good as it could have been if youhad the filling to complete the full burger you were expecting; y’know what Imean? This is how this subplot felt to me. I got the intriguing beginning andthe befitting ending but the middle that should’ve better sold ending for meleft more to be desired, in my opinion. But that’s just me.

Anyways, going back to Whitley, why Ibring up the Crimes of the SDC, I was originally opened to the idea of Whitleytemporarily playing the villain role as a means of helping his father. Heck Ieven had one idea that I never shared in which Whitley was blackmailed intohelping the villains capture our heroes as a means of protecting his familyinclusive of his father.

However given how the show has wrappedup this subplot, I’m not for Whit temporarily playing villain anymore. What Imostly wish for Whit right now is for himand Weiss to reconcile their relationship and start things on a new page. With the PLOT having Willow urge Weiss to look out for heryounger brother, I’m banking on them delivering on that; possibly going forwardtoward V8.

Like imagineif…by the end of V7, with Jacques now inthe custody of the authorities charged for his crimes, Willow decides to checkherself into rehab so that she could finally get help for her alcoholism. Sonow with all of his family leaving him behind, Whitley is even more alone thanhe ever was before and it takes a toll on him emotionally. During this time,Weiss attempts to extend an olive branch to Whit. However each time Weiss makesan attempt for her and Whit to finally connect, Whit shoots down Weiss’propositions; metaphorically slamming the door on the two potentially sharing agood relationship. I likedthis idea since it synonymously hearkens back to the timeduring V4 when Whitley extended help to Weiss only to have her use hersemblance to slam the door on his face. While I know Whit approaching Weiss backthen was right after she had been punished by Jacques and accused him ofmanipulating her, nonetheless, I’d still like to think that Whit genuinelywanted to help his sister back then only to have her refuse him.

So if Weiss were to do the same withWhit right now, I’m certain he would slam the door in on her. As a matter offact, I can even picture Whit being less willing to have any kind of associationwith Weiss especially since she was the one responsible for their father’simprisonment.

Instead of there being a villain subplotwith Whit, I’d much rather watch Weiss try and be a better, more supportive bigsister for her little brother and have the plot focus on her working to repairtheir bond; possibly even with flashbacks to their childhood together.

Plus I don’t want Whit to be a villainsince it would more or less lend to the impression that folks originally had ofhim. As a Whit myself, I’d like to believe that part of the reason why Whitleystans don’t favour the villain angle with him is because it plays into the FNDMassumption that Whitleywas going to turn out exactly like his father–-as you said, a mini-Jacques Schnee.

It is for this reason why I fell inlove with the idea of Whitley unlocking his family semblance. It could give himsomething to connect with his sisters on since Whit’s original belief was thathe was exactly like their father. It’d be interesting if in the end, Whit isactually no different from his sisters as he shares in their power. Who knows?Perhaps this could’ve even lent to Weiss training Whitley on how to use hispowers, similar to how Winter taught her.

I’d also loved to think that growing upWeiss was also trained by her grandfather: Nicholas Schnee. As a matter offact, I like the idea of Weiss originally being trained on her powers by Nickbut after he passed away, Winter—who had already joined the military at thetime—returned to take over her sister’s training in Nick’s place and that’show the two were able to bond.

I also have this idea in my head where whenWhitley was younger, he used to be more like Nicholas in terms of personalityand thus this lent to him and Weiss originally being close as children untiltheir father forced a wedge between them the instant Nick has passed away. Orsomething like that. I just thought it would’ve been nice to see Whitley beingtrained to use his powers, gaining a different impression of his family powerand his sister’s desire to become a huntsman. While Whit still doesn’t become ahuntsman himself, his main takeaway ends up being his newfound appreciation forthe huntsman and what they represent as inspired by his older sister. I likedthe idea of Whitley taking over as CEO of the SDC but through his time withWeiss, he is reminded of the side of him that had more in common with NicholasSchnee than all the Schnee Siblings. So basically the SDC undergoes a return toform with Whit as its new head; mirroring the same level of brilliance andcompassion that his grandfather once had. That’s one idea.

As a Whit, part of the reason I eventuallylatched onto his character was because I felt sympathetic toward Whitley. I never really pegged him as the manipulativelittle bastard that the PLOT wanted me to believe he was after V4 especiallysince I reviewed that whole volume and realized that Whitley had done nothingto deserve the backlash he received from both his sister and the FNDM.

I always liked to idea of Whit beingmore of a misunderstood character and even now, I still believe that. If I had to picturethe villain card being played for Whitley, I can only see it from the angle ofWhit being a pawn— manipulated by other more antagonistic characters preying onhis vulnerability and insecurities surrounding his relationship with his familyto use Whit to achieve their own selfish desires. At least as a pawn Ican still empathize with Whit over him just going flat out evil.

This is why I liked my original headcanon of Whit unintentionally unlocking his own abilities and Jacquestaking advantage of his semblance to bank on more success for himself. But sinceJacques’ out, so is that idea. 

The one concept I’m willing to chum up to now asan alternative is one where an emotionally vulnerable Whitley; starved forproper support and attention by the women in his life, is seduced byNeopolitan and manipulated into helping her and Cinder somehow.

I’m still waiting for that so-called “super-duper irredeemable thing” that Neo does to shock the FNDM that was teased last V6. Still notsure where folks heard that rumour but I’m waiting on it. It’d be interestingif Neo gets her mittens on Whit and preys on him especially if he is very vulnerable right now.

I don’t know how old Neo is supposed tobe. I keep hearing people imply that she’s supposed to be young, probablyaround the same age as our young heroes. Cinder even called her ‘girl’ backin V6. If I had to guess Neo’s age, she’s probably around 18-19 years old for theyoungest.

And if I had to guess Whitley’s age, I’vealways pegged him as being around the same age as Ruby. Some folks peg Whit tobe closer to Oscar’s age but for me, I more placed Whitley between Ruby and Oscarleaning closer to Ruby’s age. So if Ruby’s currently 17 years old, I peg Whitto be probably be around 16-17.

That being said, I’m picturing ascenario where Cinder convinces Neo to chum up to Whit; play into using herfeminine wilds to makefriends with Whitley especially now that he’sall alone with not even mommy dearest to really look out for him. Not saying this willbe a possibility. I mean I can’t even picture a prospective PLOT motive for Neoand Cinder to even need Whitley.

Outside of Ruby, the only other personI can picture Fire andIce-cream targeting is the Winter Maiden. Andunless the hospital facility Fria is currently housed in is somehow connected tothe Schnee Dust Company then I can’t really see a reason to have Whitley beaffiliated with Neo and Cinder. If Weiss Schnee had been Neo’s target insteadof Ruby then I could’ve easily seen Neo getting to Weiss through manipulatingher little brother; sparking furthertension between the Schnee Siblings.

However that’s not the case. I dunno.

I think for now I’m just going to stickwith my earlier aspiration. Just having the PLOT more focus on rebuilding Weissand Whitley’s relationship and let that be the focal point of their conjoinedstory. Toss in the idea of Whitley unlocking his semblance and being unable tocontrol his powers leading to Weiss having to help him get that under controldespite their tension and that could be a cool subplot to see play out. I’drather that than Whit being a villain entirely.

A pawn, maybe. But not a villain. Even with all that’s happened to him now, I wouldn’t expect that of Whit. That’s my verdict anon-chan.

~LittleMissSquiggles(2020)

[smokingtomas]

Could you make a headcanon on the girls and boys (you can make them in couple directly) of Shokugeki who go to pick up their children at school? I personally see Erina draw all the attention to herself when she walks elegantly to school and Megumi bring cakes or food for the other children, I also see Alice a little in the same case as Erina, but more extreme... Thank you if you do it ^^

Awww this is such a cute request! Thank you so much for requesting it  ❤️ I think as I go along writing this, I’m going to focus as well on what they are like as parents and their parenting styles from my perspective as a teacher. Well, a preschool teacher.

Sorina:

Soma is the one who is seen often dropping off and picking up their kid at school.

Would say, “’Sup kiddo!” to greet his kid when he picks them up.

He has an adorable secret handshake with their kid and will hold up his palm or fist which his kid would respond to each time they separate or meet at the door of the class.

Soma is very interactive with the kid’s teacher. Would even crack a joke or two. He also knows their names, but wouldn’t bother attending a parents workshop bcs his schedule doesn’t allow him to. And lbr here, he would sleep through it.

Erina, on the other hand, rarely drop off or pick up their kid. But boy, when she shows up, the world stops. Everyone at school would stare in awe of her presence and grace (If you’ve seen Blake Lively on A Simple Favor, you’d know her vibe).

Makes people wonder how someone as poise as her would settle down with Soma who is the opposite.

Often smiles and thank the teachers, also hopes their kid hasn’t cause any trouble.

Lol you think her schedule would allow her to attend parents workshop?

If their kid is performing at school though, Soma and Erina would take a half-day off to see it and be proud parents. They would take adorable pictures together with their kid dressed in elephant costume.

They too would take a half-day off for Parent-Teacher Conference to see how their kid has developed through the semester.

From these events, people know that Soma and Erina actually complement each other.

Oh, and have I mentioned their kid always has the best lunch?

Takumegu:

Despite being a CEO of her successful ryokan and restaurants, when dropping off and picking up their kids, Megumi looks just like a humble housewife who is lovely to everyone around her

Bows to teachers a lot of times, saying thank you a million times for looking after their kid

Megumi is a very generous parent. Would bring extra homemade cookies or onigiri for their kid to share to the whole class– she always teaches their kid the good of sharing the love.

She sometimes invite the teachers to her and Takumi’s restaurants’ event or a complimentary stay at her ryokan during summer break.

Takumi drops off and picks up their kid equally often, sometimes they do it together (this kid is surrounded with so much love it’s insane).

Nearly every female teachers have a lowkey adoration for him because of how gentle, polite, and soft spoken he is. And to top those things off, he is G O R G E O U S.

Takumi likes to give their kid a piggyback ride to class, while Megumi simply hold their kid’s hand and give them a kiss on the cheek.

They would basically do anything for their kid. If their kid is performing, Takumi would bring out his camera,  take gorgeous pics and record a video of their kid. Unlike Sorina who only take half-day, takumegu would take a day off, shut of their phones, and just enjoy a proper family day.

They also take turn attending parents workshop regularly, though they occasionally go outside to make a phone call or two, they are trying to make a good parenting team.

Eirin:

Guess who is the worrywart parent? Yep, you all know it.

Eishi drops their kid at school with a big kid’s backpack filled with all the necessities like jacket, sunscreen, meds, extra snacks, two sets of clothes, a pair of sandals, a pack of diapers, and a drop of Jesus’ blood, obviously.

He never forgets to tell the teacher, “Can you please make sure to apply an extra layer of mosquito repellent before he plays outside and if he’s got a mosquito bite make sure to apply the essential oil I’ve put in his bag. Please don’t forget to peel off his apple before he eats them but please leave 0.5 centimeter of the stalk so he can–”

Eishi also takes parents workshop seriously. Always sits in the front row and actively asking a lot of question also shares parenting tip to the other parents.

Meanwhile, Rindou besides being the chill parent, is unbothered about parents workshop. “Google exists for a reason??”

And if she’s the one dropping their kid to school, all the teacher would find in his bag is a lunchbox and an extra t-shirt.

She would be the one encouraging their kid to play in the mud and jumping really high on the trampoline. She sometimes would leave him hanging on a monkey bar while she plays Candy Crush. Yes, she would want their kid to grow up fearless and take risks.

Eishi always has the urge to protect their kid. He’d want their kid to grow up cautious with precision.

This different parenting style caused them to argue in front of the teacher during Parent-Teacher Conference, blaming each other for her carelessness and his overprotectiveness.

But oh, they were so proud when they see their kid perform and took on a leading role as a little Indiana Jones.

Ryoali:

Alice is that mom who would insta-story their kid walking out of the class and reaching out to her arm when school’s out.

“Cmooon, say bye to your teacher, sweetheart! We’re not going to the grocery shop until you do so~”

Yes, she may show up at their kid’s school looking all flashy with faux fur coat and gold hoop earrings, but she’s actually pretty down to earth.

Despite her tight schedule, Alice is actually the class/PTA mom. She spreads information to the other moms, and will happily reply to teachers’ chat with emojis and calling them ‘Loves’.

She would follow their kid’s teacher on Instagram and tag them in their kid’s pictures or videos.

She skips PTA meetings most of the time and would rely on other PTA mom though.

Also wouldn’t bother attending parents workshop because she thinks she got it all handled.

Ryo is the dad that only shows up when their kids perform on a larger scale and during Parent-Teacher Conference.

If it was Ryo who drops off their kid tho, he doesn’t bother socializing with the teachers. He would just be rustling their kid’s head and said, “Bye. Mommy will pick you up.”

But behind his cold exterior, he would be the one helping their kid with homeworks or practicing the dance or the song before the kid’s performance.

He also always make sure their kid eats well and balanced with delicious bentos he has packed.

Akisako:

Hisako is PTA mom #2 Alice always rely on because Hisako always attend the meetings.

No one knows how she managed to do PTA responsibilities while having businesses to run, but she does it so well.

Often times, if Akira is the one to drop off their kid, Hisako would be the one to pick her up and vice versa. It all depends on their schedules.

Akira would teach their kid to be independent. He would encourage their kid to walk to class from the front gate on their own at a very young age. Hisako would at least say bye at the stairs.

Akira doesn’t interact much with the teacher, but would converse every now and then if being asked if it concerns their kid.

Hisako is generally more warm and would tell the teachers if their kid has been telling stories about them.

But if their kid comes home with a scar, she could panic and text the teacher a bunch of question like what/who caused it, if it had been treated, and if their kid shows any signs of other discomfort, etc.

She’ll shut up if she has got a satisfying answer though.

Akira would be the one attending parents workshops and actually pays attention. Not that Hisako wouldn’t, but she gets distracted easily when her phone beeps once. They often attend it together.

They love watching their kid performs. Hisako would sit in front of the stage with other mom and recording every move while Akira just stand or sit proudly in the back enjoying how cute their kid is.

[incubae-fics]

Selfish Or Unaware [AU!Raestrao]

Pairing: AU!James x Female!Reader

Warning: Cursing, mentions of dark and or traumatizing things (could be triggering, please read at your own risk, especially if you have not read my brief decription of said AU)

A/N: Reader is based loosely on someone, hurr hurr, I tried to be vague but y’knoww. Also, one or two interactions with one of his brothers is from a previous stand-alone (An AU!Sam one). Can’t link shit bc tungle is dumb. also yayyy for random shiitt

The life James has led so far was far from a good one. He’s seen things, done things, that no one should have. He’s aware he suffered far less physical abuse than his brothers- in fact, he’s horrifically aware of it. He knows he was the favorite- that he would have been the one to have the throne and rule over everything their bastard father had. He knows, and it haunts him. It haunts him because he shouldn’t feel how he feels. He shouldn’t have yearned so strongly for freedom or.. or for her.

He yearns for things he knows he doesn’t deserve- especially with how he’s acted. He’s aware of how he’s made her feel- how he hurt her and the friend she holds dear. He was cruel and nasty. His words could rival his brute brothers attitude.

Yet he still yearns and wants- he craves, and it’s so odd to him. He’s never truly felt his incubus urges, not unless he was absolutely starving, and even then, it was simply an annoyance. However, this wasn’t an incubus urge this was.. it was just a selfish want- a terrible need. A need that would never die- she captured a part of him he was certain had died the day of his thirteenth birthday. A part that only ever existed because his sweet mother allowed him to indulge in sweet stories. Sweet stories humans would call fairy tales.

It’s the only thing he wishes she’d never done for him.

If she hadn’t, perhaps his entire world wouldn’t have flipped how it had that day.. or at the very least, it wouldn’t have scarred him quite as deep. He hates that it scarred him at all. It was a normal incubus thing- it was supposed to be a gift but..

It still gives him nightmares- everything does. It’s why he hates to sleep.

Every night, cold clammy hands grasp at him in sickening manners- sickly sweet voices whisper uncomfortably close in his ears. They claim to want him, they promise to feed him well. They swear to be perfect brides- swear to give him all he wants. Others he just hears agonized screaming and the cracking of a whip- he’s thankful for the mercy of darkness in those nightmares. He’s seen that sight far too much to be able to bear watching it every single night.

He hears those screams often though, if not agonized at night, they’re angry during the day. Thankfully the cracking whip is long gone- but scars forever remain.

The nightmares are proof of how undeserving he is, though. He stood by and watched while his own brothers were ruthlessly abused and terrorized. Allowed himself to indulge in peaceful and sappy sweet stories while they cried out and bled elsewhere. Allowed himself to be sickened by what should be normal- yet has the audacity to have wanted freedom. As though he deserves it, yet he gained it anyway.

So of course, his newest want was just disgustingly selfish. Horrific simply in thought. As if she’d want such a man? Such a cowardly and selfish prick?

Even Sam, who was caught up with his own insane wants, laughed at the thought.

“You told me I couldn’t get what I want- that it’ll never happen, so what makes you think you’re so damn special? You were the favorite back there, but not here. Fuck off.”

That was the end of it. Sam was right, and he was a fool to even think of telling him. Of course he’d lash out. He’d only told him his own so called ‘love’ was merely infatuation and would never come to fruition. James was projecting, but wasn’t aware until later that night. He refused to admit that he was.. envious. The love Sam felt, the want he had, it could easily be mutual. He could see it- could sense it, and it was damn well deserved. James knew Sam deserved a love after all he’s been through. He deserved a happy life, for the rest of his life and he knew the one he’d found would give him that. It was just a matter of time and proper circumstance.

James, however, wasn’t so lucky. He had a hand in his brothers abuse. Their blood stained his hands. He was of no help- Sam was the only one to offer up proper protection by taking the brunt of everything. James was too fearful of death to do a damn thing. He’d seen what his father had done to his own blood- to sons he had made, so whats to say he wouldn’t do it to James, ten-fold for disobeying? He’d come close but once, and he only ever relived it in bad night terrors once in a blue. It was buried so deep, he couldn’t remember it properly if he tried.

So why would she choose to give him such warmth? To adore him like in the books he’d read? Why would she hold him in a way he’d never craved before now? He wanted her near often- liked to hear her sweet voice when she spoke about things she enjoyed. He loved the joy in her eyes when she saw her favorite color anywhere or in anything. He adored seeing her with her friend- how hard she’d laugh and how bright she’d look.

It was bittersweet only because it hurt. He wasn’t the cause of her happiness. He didn’t bring anything good to her life, she probably only tolerated him now because he mustered up some sorry apology..

Her laughter rings throughout the kitchen, bubbly and bright. A sound that used to irritate him when he was working in the dining room. Now it was welcomed and something he enjoyed after a long days work. Nothing really uplifted him more, or in such a bittersweet manner.

She was enjoying time with her friend and his childish brother, Matthew. He’s sure he heard them say something about sweets- but then again, he’s certain it’s always about sweets. It seems so fitting with her, the sweetest woman must surely love sweets. He never really pays any mind to what they’re doing or saying, he only captures bits and pieces.

However, when he hears something about some other man, his interest is piqued. Surely, they mean a man in a friendly manner. Or maybe some man from her friends job- something that won’t fatally wound him deep down. James isn’t wrong often, but when he is, it’s almost always at his own expense.

The words come out softly and with a giggle, “I dunno, maybe you should take him up on his offer? He seems sweet and you deserve something like that.”

Deserve something like that..

He loathes how his heart sinks. Absolutely seethes at how he feels envious of a complete stranger. Negative and gut wrenching feelings coursed through him. He hate how strongly he felt over this- how wound up she had him in less than a year. He hated how the very thought of this burned him, he had no right to feel anything. She wasn’t his to love and hold and want. She wasn’t his love to keep near- she wasn’t his anything. He’d ruined all chances.

He ruined one now, as he assured himself that he’d move on. That he’d live through the pain.

He was awfully unaware of how she’d turned the idea down.

Completely oblivious to how she sometimes looked up at him. Couldn’t see the smiles she hid and the looks she kept amazingly subtle. Her feelings were buried deep, only for her own protection. She didn’t really want them, they just came about on their own. If he’d just let her in- let her see, why he was so closed up, he’d gain what he feels he doesn’t deserve. He’d see how he really isn’t to blame. How he did what he had to to keep himself alive and keep his brothers from dying at an early age.

He was abused just as much.

He was not selfish, and she adored him..

He was just unaware..