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chocolate-parfait · 3 years

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Yay, askbox is open! I hope that means requests too, if not please ignore this and sorry. But could I request another angst? Could I please ask for headcannons for Dazai (and the others could be either Theo, Vincent, Leo, Comte, Will or Arthot, you can choose two, 'cause I can't XD) who find their S/Os suicide note? You can take it wherever you want from there. Thank you so much, love your works <3 Have a grwat day!

Hi @robin-the-enby !! I'm happy to see you in my inbox again, and although this took me embarrassingly long (my procrastination tendencies and school got the better of me :,)), I'm more than happy to provide something that will help with your coping! Despite it all, I hope that you'll get better soon and hang on a while longer. I'm sure this prolonged pandemic has had negative effects on most people's mental health, but remember that we'll get through this in one way or the other! Stay strong and keep fighting, if it gets too much don't hesitate to take a break and go easy on yourself❤

Halfway through I realized I was writing scenarios instead of simple headcanons ,, I was too engrossed in writing to realize it oops 🧍‍♀️ 🧍‍♀️ 🧍‍♀️

Finding MC'S suicide note - Ikevamp headcanons (Dazai, Arthur & Leonardo)

(TW; suicide / mentions of self-harm / major character death / blood)

(CW; slight and inaccurate spoilers for Dazai's past)

For those who'd like to avoid specific contents, this is what I wrote for each suitor:

Dazai - MC is unconscious and bleeding, I didn't specify whether they survive or not

Arthur - MC is stopped before they can do anything, survives

Leonardo - MC isn't stopped in time, dies

Dazai

It was as if history was repeating itself. The message, the bloodied sheets and the unconscious body. The only different thing was perhaps.... him. It was a him that had experienced true happiness, a him that had learned forgiveness, a him that knew better than retort to suicide as a way of repentance. And yet... was it not enough? Dazai's mind swirled with the pungent thoughts of his own fate as he ran with your body in his arms. He ran, and ran, and ran, passing by a seemingly endless succession of hallways and wooden doors.

Never before did he wish your room was closer to Arthur's, as he felt your body grow colder and his clothes dampen with blood with each step forward. And yet the stars that were now adorning the night sky's black cape, seemed to be offering their compassion to him, for when Dazai burst into the writer's room he saw him sitting at his desk, completely sober and still functioning in the middle of the night.

Arthur slightly turned in his chair, and as he was about to comment with displeasure how rude it was of the man to come into his room completely unannounced, his mouth was left agape and eyes wide open, wordlessly staring at your limp and seemingly unmoving body as the smell of blood hit his nostrils in mere seconds.

"What in the Heavens happened-?!" Arthur abruptly stood up, leaving his half-finished manuscript forgotten on the table, rushing closer to check your pulse. The two novelists had never liked each other, a difference in life choices maybe, but it surely was not a hate that could surpass even the most perilous of situations, particularly because you were an outsider to their rivalry. As such, Arthur did not hesitate to put to good use all his medical knowledge, carefully rushing through every step to avoid the worst.

Seconds slowly transformed into hours, although Dazai was convinced time had stopped ever since the moment he had found you on your bed, utterly frozen in a state of unconsciousness with a crumpled letter of apologies laying on the bloodied sheets. The only thing that perhaps gave him the slightest hint to time’s passing was the way he could feel the blood on his chest and hands grow drier as the night morphed into the day.

As the first rays of light poked from behind the thick curtain of the doctor’s room, Dazai sat by his bed, right next to you, silent and outwardly calm, although dazed in the raging storm inside his heart.

Perhaps this was what Destiny itself had decided for him. Perhaps it was wrong of him to blame casualty instead of himself. His old, stupid self, who hadn’t learnt a single thing from past mistakes. But as his fellow vampire’s warm hand came to rest on his shoulder, Dazai decided to delay all judgment about his negligence until the Gods determined your fate.

Arthur

Staring at the familiar handwriting, Arthur felt his whole body grow numb, as if someone had thrown him in the darkest depths of the ocean, leaving him to suffocate under the overwhelming weight of the waters above.

He had noticed the worsening of your symptoms, but he had never imagined you'd go to these lengths. He had gravely underestimated your condition, and he could already hear the old ghosts of his past laughing at him, pointing their fingers while mocking him. But now, he had no time to worry about his own lack of foresight; his priority was getting to you in time, so that all could be fixed, hopefully.

Scanning the writing on your tear-stained note, his brain started listing all the possible places where you could've gone with a speed that would leave speechless even Sherlock Holmes himself. The writing was hurried and scrambled, meaning that it was a sudden decision. The city was too far away and bustling with people that could interfere, so it was an unlikely location. As he was running around the mansion in search of you, he passed in front of the terrace on the last floor; there, he saw your clothes swirling in the wind, and your figure standing on the stone railing.

He almost crashed against the glass door as he launched himself forward with extreme speed. You were there, looking down and slightly trembling. You were scared, as it was normal, but if death frightened you so, then what pain would be so strong to push you in its embrace? To drive you away from his warm arms and into the eternal darkness? Was such a painful experience worth the possible relief?

"MC!!!" Arthur shouted out of instinct with his whole lungs, like a volcano erupting in all its fury. A few steps later and you were falling backwards, your back colliding with his chest as he harshly pulled you to him. It all happened so fast that you didn't even have the time to turn your head and look at him. Now that you were on the ground, safely locked in his embrace, everything slowly sank in.

His voice came out choked and trembling. "W-what were you thinking-?!" He was trying so hard to hold everything back; the tears, the sobs, the anger in his voice. He was angry at himself, and you were not the target of his resentment, but he realized that it could be easily misunderstood by someone in your situation. Taking a deep breath and turning you around, he stared deeply into your pained eyes, softening his iron-like grip on your forearms.

His voice now steadier yet gentle with affection and worry added:"Love, I'm sorry for not noticing all of this sooner. I'm sorry for not helping you enough. Still, I want to be of some use to you, I want to be there for you.” A sharp breath interrupted his speech, maybe from him, you or perhaps both of you. “…So please, please rely on me; whenever you feel like you can't do it anymore, whenever you feel like you have enough of life, give me the chance to help you."

Seconds later, you burst into tears, sobbing confused "I'm sorry"s in the crook of his neck. Arthur slowly caressed your hair soothingly, as his heart continued to painfully hammer against his chest. He knew this was not going to be an easy nor a short journey; it was going to take time, and it would be hard, but he wouldn't give up on you no matter what. Through thick and thin, the way you did for him, he was going to support you the whole way.

"I love you more than anything in the world, MC." he added at last, hugging you tightly.

Leonardo

The deafening sound of crickets did not reach the man’s ears. He couldn’t hear anything but the fast pumping of his own blood in his veins. A heartbeat that had never and would never stop; stronger than anyone else’s, but also alone. The sound of his heart was utterly lonely, the only one under the white gazebo, now shrouded in the darkness of the night.

How much he would give not to hear it anymore, to put an end to it right then and there. But he couldn’t. And as Fate loved torturing him endlessly, he was now once more deprived of a person he loved. But this time was different than the countless others before. He thought he had gotten used to the company offered by Death herself, and it had been long ever since tears burned within his eyes, as if made of fire.

Between his arms laid a lifeless body, utterly still and deprived of any warmth. It seemed like mere moments had passed when Leonardo was contentedly caressing your hair as a tired yet relaxed sigh fell from a pair crimson lips, which whispered some loving words before blooming into a smile. Now, they were pale and slightly agape, a cold frown sculpted onto the body’s face. Perhaps he had gotten so used to the passage of time that he did not pay it more mind. Perhaps all his memories took place too long ago, and perhaps things had changed considerably from those happy moments you shared.

Leonardo’s expression subconsciously mimicked your own, one that would remain in his mind for who knows how long, and he did not dare to move away, sitting there with you for the very last moments of his eternally long life. He tried not to think about the way his heart lurched in his chest like a ship at sea during a storm when he found your note. Your handwriting, calm and precise as if it was a decision you had made long ago; where was his mind wandering off to while you were deciding to seal your own fate?

Silently strangling all those whirling thoughts in his head until they died down, leaving him in a deathly silence, he lovingly bid you farewell with a final kiss to your lips.

“Hopefully, we’ll meet in another life.”

“Next time, I won’t let this happen again”

Suffering was human, but he had learnt all too well how contagious pain could be. And yet, he now found himself isolated in his grievance, for you weren’t with him anymore.

#my writing #answered #ikemen vampire #ikevamp headcanons #ikevamp scenarios #ikevamp dazai #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp imagines #leonardo da vinci #arthur conan doyle #osamu dazai

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melodious-tear · 3 years

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A ghost in the neon light

Music pulses through the stuffy room, the throng of people moves like one body in the flashing light, almost weightless, arms up, hips swinging, shrouded by the haze the smoke machine breathes out in spurts; it is long after midnight, the club is full to bursting point.

Drunk on the atmospheric sounds, Lan Xichen dances in trance, eyes closed, the heavy bass messes with his heartbeat; his body moves on his own, the daytime strains wash away and leave a soothing haze in his mind. Now and then, an arm brushes his lightly, his leg touches another, a shoulder nudges his back unintentional, sometimes purposely and a little bolder to make him turn around.

He rarely goes home alone at nights like this. Extending the rush and the distraction for a few hours, maybe followed by a little comfort – this drug is the only one he allows himself. Mostly, he regrets it in the morning when his uncle looks at him in silent disapproval, an Again? in his frown; his younger brother just puts another place setting on the breakfast table when he notices a stranger’s pair of shoes in the hallway. Wangji never comments.

Lan Xichen is not proud of himself, even less since this became a habit recently. He is working hard and pushing himself, maybe too much, but what was meant to be a relaxation and a small escape from the shallow life he leads, feels now more like a too tight suit he has wrapped around himself and can’t get out of it anymore without ripping it apart.

He lets his eyes wander. As usual, he attracts interest quickly and without effort; wide smiles and shimmering teeth, exposed necks with small traces of sweat, waving arms and coy dancing moves draw his gaze, but it doesn’t linger. He is not picky and still not tempted to take it further today. Instead, he feels surfeit, bordering on disgust, and brusquely, he makes his way through the crowd to the bar. While he waits for his soda, he watches the room in the mirror, and it takes him a moment to recognize himself in it, fragmented as he is in the flickering light.

Next to his own, Lan Xichen spots the image of a familiar young man and instantly freezes. He hasn’t met him, but he saw him in unsettling dreams so often, a sad and angry face and a hand that always slipped from his grip whenever he tried to hold on, and then the man faded into a black fog, every single time. And now he is here. Is he coming towards him, or is he moving away? The cold strobe light gives him only split seconds to observe, and in the dazzling flashes huge, black eyes stare at him, pale lips move, the words are eaten by the music shrilling in Lan Xichen’s head. Is he sleeping right now?

In slow motion, he turns around. The man is gone.

No, not again, Lan Xichen thinks and stumbles forward; he pushes the dancers away, rushes around, almost in panic – it is no use, the man disappeared. Exhausted and with his heart racing, he finally gives up, shocked to the core, trembling and on the brink of tears. He somehow finds the way back and spends the night standing by the window, numbly waiting for the figure to appear in the glass like a frail outline next to his own reflection.

This morning, there are only worried glances; Lan Xichen brought home a ghost.

* ~ *

He barely sleeps or eats for days and keeps locking himself in his room. He has to work his chamber symphony and to prepare for his next concert, but can’t concentrate. Every night at dusk he goes back to the club, and every morning he comes back a little more worn down. Wherever he spots a person in the corner of his eyes, Lan Xichen thinks it is him, and he isn’t even sure anymore if he really saw a person that night. Maybe he is slowly going insane. Maybe ghosts are real.

Out of the blue, he remembers that piece he once wrote, a melody he thought he heard or even dreamt and put it on paper in a fever. At first, he was content, it came out exactly as he recalled. But it was not right; something was off, a dissonance, and it drove him up the walls that he couldn’t find out what it was.

Lan Xichen stares at the sheet he found in a stash of other unfinished work; he is so sure that this music has something to do with his encounter, and he still can’t make sense of it. Hours later, his brother finds him, sitting at the piano, face buried in his hands. Lan Wangji tries to help by collecting the sheets of music that are scattered all over the room and silently waiting if his brother wants to talk to him. He doesn’t.

Even if he wanted to talk, he wouldn’t know what to say without sounding like needing therapy. How could he explain that he knows he is finally on the track to find out why he felt somewhat incomplete all his life, since he never even talked about his dreams. And even though he’s utterly confused, he is not scared, and, now and then, other pieces surface, happier ones that fill him with warmth and joy. Only once, he en passant asks his brother if he believes in soulmates; to his surprise, Wangji startles and then slowly nods with a slightly painful expression.

After another week, the ghost is back, standing in a corner in front of the club, waiting. Lan Xichen blinks repeatedly, expecting for him to disappear again when he comes closer; but he doesn’t, and he looks as confused as himself as if he is thinking just the same. Lan Xichen reaches out, carefully and hesitant, almost sure to feel a cold whiff and to hold nothing but air.

Instead, there is a real hand, warm and soft, mirroring his amazed touches. The eyes that always stared at him so hollow, are full of life and anticipation, and finally, Lan Xichen can hear the words: It’s you. You’re real.

On impulse, Lan Xichen puts his arms around him; the name that was on the tip of his tongue for so long, finally took shape. A-Yao, he whispers and pulls him closer. They stand like this for minutes, unwilling to let to and absorbing the new and simultaneously acquainted feeling of this embrace.

He wonders how many times they went through this, for how long they were trapped in an endless circle of finding and losing each other again, and for how long they will have to go on like this, haunted by the memories of their first life. Right now, they only can create new, happy moments and, hopefully, one day they will be able to delete the dissonance from their melody and rewrite it on a blank sheet.

#since I posted all my shorter fics on tumblr this should go here too #the untamed fanfic #lan xichen #meng yao #jin guangyao #xiyao #short fic #my fanfic #a ghost in the neon light #i was SO close to make this sad but now i'm glad i didnt :))))

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lulzyrobot · 5 years

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Pokemon Dynamorph AU Masterpost

Based on THIS POST

The short of this AU is that the climax of the Eternatus fight had an even more profound effect on the Galar region and its people. The excess energy made people fuse with their pokemon! Oh boy! So below the cut I’m going to outline all the ideas behind this AU thanks to everyone’s asks showing an increasing curiosity about all this! I’m used to writing original content, nothing based on an existing property so bare with me…

Events Leading Up to The Dynamorph Event

So for this AU, the events of the game leading up to the Eternatus conflict are the SAME except for some details.

Gloria/Victor and Hop never encounter Zacian or Zamazenta. The Rusty Sword and Shield were lost to time.

When Leon goes to confront Eternatus, he is joined by everyone up on the roof. The Gloria/ Victor, Hop, Bede, Marnie, the Gym Leaders (minus Opal because she’s back in Ballonlea enjoying retirement.)

This confrontation happens AFTER Gloria/ Victor beats Leon, for simplicity’s sake.

So when everyone confronts Eternatus, thanks to Rose’s eager impatience to do good for the Galar region, they are unable to stop it properly since Zacian and Zamazenta are nowhere to be found. Instead, the combined efforts of everyone force Eternatus to flee.

But not without releasing an overwhelming blast of Dynamax energy.

The blast rippled throughout a portion of Galar, and had a chain reaction with power spots and the dens of the Wild Area. When the dust settled, the pokemon everyone had out that they were using in the big fight were...gone. Not in their pokeball, just..gone. Naturally, people assume the worst but they have a lingering feeling that the Pokemon are still...here somehow. But they don’t know why. So when everyone’s calmed down, and clean up begins, they all go their separate ways.

About a day passes, and then it starts to happen. From the time of the blast and when the changes start to happen externally, everyone experiences some oddities superficially (better hearing, acute sensitivity to stuff etc.)

Leon was in his newly acquired office and the just obtained Battle Tower. He had the blind closed, sat in the darkened room thinking over everything that happened, and his loss of the Champion title. When the changes started happening, he nearly burned the office, leaving claw marks in his desk, the floor, and the walls. The noise attracted someone from the Battle Tower staff and he yelled at them in panic to call Sonia. His own phone started ringing. It was Hop.

Gloria/ Victor (I separate them cuz it's more of a ‘who you imagine in this role.’ Can only have one Champion) were being briefed on Champion duties and what that entails. It’s a boring meeting, but they excuse themself to go to the bathroom. In reality they duck away outside to just get a breather. They suddenly feel a sharp pain and start to change, probably biting into their arm to muffle any scream to prevent causing a scene.

Bede headed back to Ballonlea, distraught that Hatterine was nowhere to be found. He wanted to distract himself by continuing his gym leader training, but Opal sat him down for some tea to talk about grief and loss. She’s way older and definitely has experience in that field. What she doesn’t have experience in, is what to do when your protege starts growing traits of a pokemon…

Hop, after that whole ordeal, missing Dubwool, and having lost the gym challenge just had so many feelings to vent out, he wanted to just scream. So he heads deep into the Slumbering Weald to just scream out his frustrations. When he sits down after tiring himself out, his changes start happening. In pain, scared, and alone, he calls Leon.

Marnie went back to Spikemuth with Piers. Team Yell welcomed them with open arms and gave them the idea to have a tribute concert for the pokemon they believe they lost. Marnie declined, electing to stay at home and be alone for a while. She didn’t want to be around people right now. Then her changes started happening, and she uncontrollably let out a burst of electricity, causing an outage in Spikemuth.

Piers, meanwhile, was setting up for an impromptu concert. He dealt with his feelings by doing literally anything to distract him from them so yelling into a microphone for a couple hours seemed like a good idea. Just as he was about to test the mic, a huge power surge came from his place and shut down all of Spikemuth’s power. Concerned for his sister he runs off stage, taking alleys as a shortcut. In his adrenaline he doesn’t even realize his changes started until he tripped over his own new claws and writhes just outside their place.

Raihan, being in Hammerlocke, wastes no time in helping with the clean up. While at the highest point in the city, he and his gym trainers were hard at work. Until Raihan collapsed, trying to hold himself up with his broom. His trainers looked on in concern and horror as he began changing, even starting up a sandstorm in the process. As a result, one trainer almost gets pushed off the roof but, bearing through the pain, Raihan leaps in and grabs them in time.

Gordie and Melony head back to Circhester. On the way, they had talked a lot about their issues and gripes that had torn a rift in their family, in earnest. The assumed loss of their pokemon worked as good common ground to remind them about the importance of family. They were both at Melony’s home when it happened. The heat and cold put a completely new kind of barrier between the two.

Bea wanted to get her mind off everything that happened by training in the outskirts of Stow-on-Side. She pushed herself too far, and her pokemon urged her to stop. But she fought them off. At first with difficulty, but then as her changes happened, more easily. Her pokemon backed off and started looking for help.

Alister, figuring that his Gengar maybe wandered off on its own again, headed to the graveyard during the night. One of Gengar’s favourite spots. For a moment, Alister thought he heard Gengar’s chuckle and it’s cry but turned to see nothing. Something compelled him to look down at himself and he could see himself becoming translucent and a suspicious shade of purple. He had always had an affinity with ghosts but becoming one was something else entirely. Ensue panic attack.

Kabu returned home to quietly meditate and think rationally about everything that happened. In a trance-like state, he could feel Centiskorch right there next to him. He felt at peace. The smell of burning snapped him out of it, however when he realized he, as well as a good part of the room, was on fire. He quickly escaped, realizing the fire didn’t hurt him.

Nessa just wanted to be alone, so back at Hulberry, she walked along the docks, shrouded in early morning fog. Her changes started happening, but she really only felt itchy as the scales came in. Upon checking her phone, did she herself in the screen’s reflection and freak out.

Life moves on and Milo had a farm to tend to. His family urged him to take a break but he smiled back at them and assured them he was okay. He wasn’t. While working was when his changes happened. His whole family rushed to his aid. And again, through a smile, he insisted he was okay.

Oleana was working feverishly on getting money together for lawyers and bail money to get Rose out of his self-imposed jail sentence. She knew all he wanted was good for the region, but he was just too blind to see the potential damage he was causing. She wanted him to have a second chance. But her changes slowed her down.

Rose, in a cell, reflected on his actions. How rash he was that he didn’t see the big picture. He should’ve listened. When his changes happened in his cell, he was horrified. Not at what happened to him, but what was no doubt, happening to the others. And probably more. What had he done? He needed to fix his mistake.

The ones present at the event were not the only ones to change, however. This was happening all over the region, closer to power spots (which includes the towns, but the morphs aren’t all as drastic) and the wild area (trainers fused with wild pokemon and went hostile. This is covered in depth in another section). After one of the quickest trials, Rose had offered to the court that instead of a full prison sentence, he spent his entire resources and wealth into funding on solving this new, now coined ‘Dynamorph Crisis.’ They agreed and the Macro Cosmos got to work.

How the Dynamorph Actually Works

Bare with me because this is where I kind of bend canon and make assumptions about things for the sake of explaining how this AU even works. So. Eternatus caused all this by basically converting things into energy. On humans, it would just tear them apart. On pokemon it would just turn them into dynamax energy temporarily. The normal situation is that dynamaxing makes the pokemon grow and change form, yeah? Well for this AU, the pokemon, seeing that their trainers are potentially going to die, decide to fuse with them to ‘fill in the gaps.’ Saving them. At first, it appears like they were able to change into the parts missing, but after a while, the pokemon traits start showing, which is my excuse for why the actual changes were delayed.

The severity of the dynamorph is dependent on proximity to the blast/ powerspot. And just personal preference if you wanted to make your own trainersona dynamorphed (which I totally encourage! It’s fun and I like seeing what you all come up with!!).

Dynamorphed trainers gain the physical traits, special abilities, movesets and odd quirks that come with the pokemon they are dynamorphed with. (Bonding with Morpeko makes you hungry, bonding with a Xatu lets you see the future, etc) Though, since the humanity is still there, they are able to curb some of the more aggressive quirks with diligence.

If the pokemon bonded is not fully evolved, applying the correct evolutionary method will evolve and change the outward appearance of the dynamorphed trainer. Normal level up are accomplished by fighting, not by age.

Since being part pokemon, the trainer is a lot more resilient and could, if they REALLY wanted to, fight other morphed trainers. Trainers feel the type weakness and resistances. They would faint just like a pokemon fight. Potions and pokemon centres would help them recover. Though death is still something that can happen.

Trainers fused with food-like pokemon are not edible please don't eat them, there's a place where the food stops and the flesh starts and we don’t need to find out where that is ok??

Normal pokemon that are caught and trained will REFUSE to attack a dynamorphed trainer unless absolutely provoked. So you can’t really have a pokemon battle where a dynamoprhed trainer is beating up a pokemon or vice versa. That’s messed up.

Dynamorphed trainers cannot be caught in any kind of pokeballs. That’s also messed up.

They cannot breed to make a weird hybrid plz stop asking.

Dynamorphed Trainers can NOT be Dynamaxed. Too much energy, man.

Trainers CAN bond with more than one pokemon, but that's where complications start to occur. The more pokemon bonded to the trainer, the harder it is form them to hold on to their humanity.

1 Pokemon = Okay

2 Pokemon = A struggle to keep humanity, but it’s possible.

3+ Pokemon = This is not a person. It is a hostile beast.

There are no legendary pokemon/ ultra beasts dynamorphed. They’re all in other regions and wouldn’t be in the Galar region when it happened so there just wouldn’t be. But if ya’ll make one with one anyway, I won’t stop you but the legendary pokemon may be too strong for a trainer to handle.

If the pokemon’s nature is different than the trainer’s than it might affect their personality. The extent of this is varied.

**No two dynamorphs look the same! If you have two trainers bonded with like...a Pikachu for example. One might get yellow fur, ears, and a tail while the other only gets a tail and the cheeks. Go nuts.

If the pokemon dynamorphed with the trainer is the opposite gender, the result is whatever you want.

Speaking of complications, that brings us to the next part…

The Wild Area Trainers

During this whole event, I previously mentioned that the Wild Area was significantly affected. Those unfortunate enough to be out camping during the blast had the chance of 1 of 3 things happening:

They dynamorphed with one of their pokemon.

They dynamorphed with with more than one of their pokemon

They dynamorphed with one or more wild pokemon Examples found HERE.

In the case of being bonded to a wild pokemon, this takes a heavy toll on the trainer’s mind as its constantly fighting with a wild pokemon. This causes them to lose their minds and become hostile, just like a wild pokemon. Unfortunately a large number of “Wild Trainers” roam the Wild Area. Their previously caught pokemon usually try to flee or stick around to protect their trainer out of sheer devotion. As mentioned before, they cannot be caught with a pokeball. But the region is working on a program to deal with this. …

How the Galar Region is dealing with the Dynamorph Crisis

Professors Sonia and Magnolia are appointed the top researchers, being granted the resources of the Macro Cosmos thanks to Oleana and Rose, wanting to atone for his mistakes. However the government, doubting Rose’s competence, sends out their own officials to oversee and make decisions. (I have no idea how the government of this region works. Is there a parliament? Is the gym league the authority? I’ll say for this AU there is actually a system of government…).

They have labs and rehabilitation centres set up to be able to study and help help dynamorphed trainers cope and eventually go back home. They are not kept there against their will. Most, anyway. The main cast were quarantined in a lab/ facility for the early stages of the crisis so they could learn/ test their capabilities in a safe environment. Shenanigans ensue. Because of this, the crisis put a hold on the gym challenge league entirely.

At first, the authorities wanted to keep this under wraps in case their morphs were an isolated incident but quickly realized that was going to be impossible. Travel to and from the Galar region became incredibly restricted. Dynamorphed trainers are not allowed to leave the region, for everyone’s safety (don’t want to risk an outburst that could harm anyone :c ), but unchanged people were free to travel once they were confirmed as ‘human’ by a mandatory test.

The Wild Area became a huge problem, what with Wild Trainers running about. Defenses were set up just in case to prevent Wild Trainers from wandering into populated areas and causing havoc, though a few occurrences still happen, what with flying pokemon and all. Eventually, a special force was assembled that consisted of consenting dynamorphed trainers that were tasked with going into the Wild Area and subduing and retrieving Wild Trainers to bring them to a more secured location to help study them and to try and find a cure. And to confirm to families the fate of their missing family member(s). The attempt is to be as humane as possible.

The special force (Do I really wanna call it Dynaforce? I feel like I’m abusing the prefix if I do), consists of all the current gym leaders, Piers, Leon, Victor/ Gloria and a bunch of other trainers who signed up who are 18+. (you don't want to send kids out doing this kind of dangerous work, I know pokemon is all about children taming powerful animals but you gotta draw the line in the sand somewhere. Gym leaders are exempt because they why not. They insisted and already proved their strength to the region. It’s an AU based off a fuckin game/ anime.) This force has two jobs:

Go into the Wild Area to subdue Wild Trainers and bring them home

Protect the towns in case any wild trainers get in.

So what happened to Eternatus if it just escaped? Theories indicate it might be living in a massive den in the heart of the Wild Area, waiting to strike again. There are a lot more Wild Trainers near this area, so excursions here are difficult.

Is a cure eventually found? Honestly this is just an AU so that's up to you. My personal answer is no. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. //Bear Grylls voice

So….this is a lot. This is just some silly AU that inspired me to expand on it for fun since you guys showed a lot of interest! I’ll edit this as I get more asks about things I may have missed, but I will be going in and deleting a lot of previous asks so I can clean up my blog a bit. I had WANTED to keep a lot of this ‘secret’ cuz I wanted to draw stuff for it. I STILL WILL DRAW for it, but realistically I don’t have the time or energy ahah. Especially for an AU of a published franchise aha.

If you want to make a dynamorph trainersona, totally go for it! Just tag me when its done! I love seeing what people do!

#dynamorph au #pokemon #pokemon sword and shield #pokemon swsh #pokemon au #dynamorph masterpost #long post

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puckrph · 4 years

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“GETTING INTO KNIVES” STARTERS

taken from the 2020 album by the mountain goats. feel free to change pronouns, etc!

CORSICAN MASTIFF STRIDE

‘ at dark we rise and find our way. ’ ‘ the land we left becomes a dream. ’ ‘ the ghosts we knew, they rise like steam. they leave some trails against the sky, all but invisible to the eye. ’ ‘ call off the search party. ’ ‘ let mourners wail by the shore. ’ ‘ we’re not coming home anymore. ’ ‘ you tell your friends you’ve seen a ghost. ’ ‘ you tell them all there’s nothing here worth dying for. ’

GET FAMOUS

‘ you were born for these flashing lights. ’ ‘ you were born for these endless nights. ’ ‘ you always knew, sooner or later, you were destined for something greater. ’ ‘ you took notes on what you had to do to get the piece of the pie that belonged to you. ’ ‘ you’ve been waiting for this ever since you were young. ’ ‘ be careful not to choke on your tongue. ’ ‘ you should be famous. ’ ‘ go on and get famous. ’ ‘ i want you to be famous. ’ ‘ all these obedient sheep. they act like they know, but they’re all sound asleep. ’ ‘ you arrive on the scene like a message from god. ’ ‘ listen to the people applaud. ’ ‘ this is what you were born to do. ’ ‘ light up the sky like a comet. ’ ‘ shine like a cursed star. show everybody exactly who you are. ’ ‘ show everybody exactly who you are. ’

PICTURE OF MY DRESS

‘ we’d smoke a cigarette as the sunrise ran riot. ’ ‘ someone’s got to break the quiet. ’ ‘ what are you doing here anyway? ’ ‘ he doesn’t want to miss a thing. ’ ‘ i’m blending in with the lunchtime crowd, trying not to laugh out loud. ’ ‘ it still looks good, i only wore it once. ’ ‘ it may be a long while before the highway decides to finally set me free. ’ ‘ i’m going to have to chase down the remnants of something special that you stole from me. ’ ‘ it may be hiding in the sunset, or in distant corners of the dawn. or maybe it’s gone. ’ ‘ i’ll say some prayers above the engine, i’ll bless everything there is to bless, run out of gas in the middle of nowhere anyway. ’

AS MANY CANDLES AS POSSIBLE

‘ when stray dogs finally catch you in the alley, you don’t consider their point of view. but when the wounds are healed and the scars are shiny, sometimes then you do. ’ ‘ time is tight. ’ ‘ when you pass me on the streets of the city by day, you pretend we don’t recognize each other. ’ ‘ the lake is boiling. the fish won’t bite. ’ ‘ no one gets too much light. ’ ‘ listen for the prophecy somewhere in the static. ’ ‘ once you’ve saddled up your pony, burn down the paddock. ’

TIDAL WAVE

‘ it’s not the destination that makes the difference. ’ ‘ everything becomes a blur from six feet away. ’ ‘ get used to this. ’ ‘ every card ever turned over remains in place. ’ ‘ not every wave is a tidal wave. ’ ‘ it’s not the mutiny that gets written down in the diary. ’ ‘ even the very proud probably die on their knees. ’

PEZ DORADO

‘ echoes from a nursery rhyme hide in plain sight all the time. ’ ‘ here you come, splashing in your summer clothes. ’ ‘ can’t resist the creeping dark. ’ ‘ we’re ready to make our mark. ’ ‘ ancient blood is patient blood. ’ ‘ we were here before the flood. ’ ‘ we are weak, but they are strong. ’ ‘ take your time. we’ve got all day. ’ ‘ say what you felt when you found us here where the waters run crystal clear. ’ ‘ one summer day in my summer clothes. the day i saw several ghosts. ’

THE LAST PLACE I SAW YOU ALIVE

‘ i’m not thinking of you. ’ ‘ i haven’t driven down these streets in years. ’ ‘ i passed the last place i saw you alive. ’ ‘ i walk the narrow path these days. i can’t see going back to my old ways. ’ ‘ i call to mind sometimes that bloody, stinking mess. us worms turn into butterflies, i guess. ’ ‘ it’s changed since you were here, or else it hasn’t. ’ ‘ it was special, it was deadly. ’ ‘ it was ours and then it wasn’t. ’ ‘ it’s only now and then you come to mind. ’ ‘ there’s a trillion things you left behind. ’ ‘ nothing really to get worked up about. ’

BELL SWAMP CONNECTION

‘ i was wandering through an undeveloped tract out near the ocean. ’ ‘ let’s see what there is to see before it’s gone. ’ ‘ somebody’s always just about to put some kind of awful plan in motion. ’ ‘ my curiosity will likely always get the best of me. ’ ‘ it’s like that one thing my dad kept trying to tell me as the twilight inched its way up on his body. ’ ‘ get out! ’ ‘ i am a child. ’ ‘ i had my face toward the sky, lying there in the sun with both my eyes closed. woke up in near darkness. ’ ‘ what the hell is wrong with me? ’ ‘ i heard a voice from somewhere out beyond the free fall, like a captive soldier trying to warn his brothers: get out! ’

THE GREAT GOLD SHEEP

‘ i’m going to do what i like. ’ ‘ i’m going to live how i want. ’ ‘ i’m going to build myself a great estate with lots of statues out front. ’ ‘ i’m going to walk the pathways of the ancients. ’ ‘ i’m going to let my name be known. ’ ‘ i’m going to see the wild haunts of this world, and carve a place out, all my own. ’ ‘ heat up the iron until it glows, burn the brand so deep. ’ ‘ you and me stand somehow above the fray. ’ ‘ i’m going to write my name on everything. i’m going to leave a lasting legacy. ’ ‘ when my body’s thrown with great force from a window, the dogs will fight for whatever’s left of me. ’

RAT QUEEN

‘ meek subjects by torchlight come to pay their respects, as foretold by the ancient texts. ’ ‘ one by one, we approached the figure in the shroud. ’ ‘ i am a faceless, nameless acolyte, here tonight at your service. ’ ‘ take my visions, make them real. impose them on the world above. ’ ‘ we’re all the dead sleepwalkers who never learned how to love. ’ ‘ look how they jump when we show up, like they’ve just seen a monster. ’

WOLF COUNT

‘ live among the starvling wolves, get lost inside the pack. ’ ‘ sing to the moon until your throat’s raw. ’ ‘ he won’t be coming back from the hunt. ’ ‘ soon it’ll be my time to go, i know. ’ ‘ know who your friends are when you need them. ’ ‘ sleep soundly with the enemy. ’ ‘ remember me. ’ ‘ i was too dumb to trade my cloak for freedom. ’ ‘ run ahead, i’ll catch up when i’m able to. ’ ‘ it’s too dark to find the path. ’

HARBOR ME

‘ clear me a space on the hallway closet floor. ’ ‘ lie to the cops when they’re at your door. ’ ‘ harbor me when i’m hungry. ’ ‘ harbor me when i’m hunted. ’ ‘ i live in fear until you come back. ’ ‘ the sound of the key is like an orchestral cue. ’ ‘ thank god it’s you. ’ ‘ harbor me when i’m shaken. ’ ‘ harbor me when i’m lost. ’ ‘ every fugitive hour leaves it mark. ’ ‘ harbor me when i’m breathless. ’ ‘ harbor me when i’m choking. ’

GETTING INTO KNIVES

‘ i retraced my steps back home, but the house burned down before i got there. ’ ‘ i found myself alone. ’ ‘ i tried to keep things in perspective. ’ ‘ i’m getting into knives. ’ ‘ i came all this way for hunger. may i be worthy of my reward. ’ ‘ you can’t give me back what you’ve taken. ’ ‘ you can give me something that’s almost as good. ’

#the mountain goats starters #rp starters #rp meme #askbox meme #rp sentence starters #askbox memes

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hartigays · 4 years

Note

8 pls bby want some touch starved boyz 🥺

8. “Can I touch you?”

it’s been one year, four months, and six days since billy left home.

not the house he lived in with neil, no. that journey commenced and ended many moons ago. years before he got his degree and went to police academy, before becoming a cop, before making detective.

see, this time around, billy left home to save the world. or part of it, at least.

going undercover long-term hadn’t been part of billy’s plan, but it’s part of being a detective. if he’s being honest, though, he’d thought any undercover work he’d do would be on a shorter time scale, maybe a few months at most.

billy never thought he’d be away from steve, from the apartment and life they share together, for well over 365 days.

and sure, the experience of taking down hardcore traffickers was a rewarding one. it was also exhausting. pretending to be someone else for so long, immersing himself in a world of crime and violence he couldn’t stop without raising suspicions, had been a lot.

there were moments when billy wanted to give up. moments where he missed the comfort of his husband, of their bed and their cats and the plants steve insists on filling the apartment with, so much that his chest ached.

but his instincts as a cop, his desire to make the world a better place in any way he could, kept him from throwing in the towel and telling his superiors that he just couldn’t take it. there were too many people being trafficked, too many fentanyl-laced drugs killing people all over the world being bought and sold, for billy to do anything less than try to stop it.

billy discovered rather quickly, however, that his desire to be a good cop and save lives wasn’t always enough to stop him from losing parts of himself while he was under. being someone else for so long has that effect.

his training prepared him for the worst of it. it gave him the tools he needed to not lose himself, or sight of his objective, completely. but no amount of psychological tools or preparation can fully prevent the effects of large-scale undercover work. it’s just not possible.

the one thing that kept billy going, kept him from losing himself in the new, dark world he found himself in, was steve. memories of his smile, his laugh. his kind heart and the endless way he loves billy with everything he has in him.

memories of steve’s gentle touch, the way he can give billy so much tenderness that it almost makes him fall apart.

the blood rushes in billy’s ears when he thinks about it. when he thinks about how it’ll feel to be in his husband’s arms again, safe and protected from the world.

sure, billy is the cop, but steve is his lifeline. his greatest protector, the one person that keeps the darkness inside of billy from eating him whole, back in high school due to his father, and today due to the toll his job takes on him.

billy both wants nothing more than to be surrounded by steve’s warmth again, and also fears it.

taking the steps one at a time, his heart pounding in his chest the closer he gets to the floor of their apartment, billy wonders how different things will be. how different he’ll be. and if it’ll change things. if it’ll change them.

there’s a moment when billy reaches their door, about to slide his key into the lock, where he hesitates. the fear floods him in an instant, cold like ice rushing through him.

it’s been so long, billy can’t help but wonder if steve still loves him. he wouldn’t blame steve if he didn’t anymore. billy has a demanding job, and it took him away from steve for longer than either of them had anticipated. and it’s not like he’d been able to call. he’d just had to have faith that steve’s heart wouldn’t wander in his absence.

billy steels himself. slides the key into the lock and twists, pushing open the door.

the apartment is shrouded in darkness when billy slips inside, his bag thudding onto the ground as he drops it. it smells the same, like the eucalyptus candles steve insists on burning on the daily. everything is exactly where it was when billy left, not a thing out of place.

and then there’s steve, standing in the space where the living room meets the hallway with the moonlight filtering through the windows spilling over his shoulders. there’s a long moment where they stand frozen in place, looking each other up and down like they can’t believe they’re really in front of each other.

steve looks almost exactly the same. moles scattered across his skin like constellations, glasses perched on his nose, the curve of his lips and the fringe of long lashes ringing those big brown eyes, and the softness of his tummy evident through his sleep shirt.

billy knows he’s the one who’s changed. he’s thinner, having lost some weight after living with scum for so long. his hair has grown out, his curls long and a bit scraggly from lack of upkeep. he even has a beard now, something he’d always kept in check pre-undercover. he doesn’t even want to think about the bags ringing his eyes, deep purple from lack of sufficient sleep.

it’s hard to sleep when you’ve seen some of the worst of humanity on the daily for as long as billy has.

billy is the first one to move, walking quietly down the hallway until he’s almost directly in front of steve, hesitating at the last step that will put him close enough to touch.

swallowing thickly, billy meets steve’s eyes. his hands twitch by his sides, wanting to reach out.

“can i touch you?”

it’s not what billy intended to say. he’d wanted to start with how are you or are you okay or maybe even i love you so much, please say you still love me too. and it comes out rough, like it’s been a while since he’s used his voice.

steve doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even open his mouth. he just grabs a fistful of billy’s shirt, tugging him forward gently with a strangled, desperate noise.

billy’s arms are around steve in an instant, holding him tightly like he might disappear into a cloud of smoke at any moment. he buries his face in the space where steve’s neck meets his shoulder, breathing in deep. steve smells the same, like the shampoo he uses and the fabric softener he washes his clothes with and something entirely and uniquely steve.

he smells like home.

“do you want to talk about it?” steve asks, just holding onto billy right back, his fingers running through his tangled hair, gently removing any knots. his voice is soft, almost inaudible, even in the quiet of the apartment.

billy just shakes his head, squeezing steve a little tighter. “just stay with me. please.”

“always,” steve whispers, cradling the back of billy’s head like he’s something precious.

they end up in their bed when billy’s knees almost give out from standing for so long. steve undresses him quietly, without even having to ask. he gets billy’s jeans and boots off, his touch gentle and feather-light. billy raises his arms over his head so steve can pull his henly off, his eyes closed as he soaks in the feeling of steve’s hands on him again.

steve’s fingers come to rest on billy’s chest, splayed across the expanse of skin while he looks him over.

billy’s ribcage is more visible than it ever has been, and he has a few new scars from run-ins with some less than friendly people. there’s one in particular that steve fixates on, a thick, rope-like scar across his left flank, the result of a run-in with someone’s serrated knife. steve runs his fingers over it, his eyes big and sad.

“you’re home,” steve says, more to himself than anything. it sounds like a sigh of relief, like a reminder that the hell billy has endured is over. like an acknowledgement that steve doesn’t have to stay up all night anymore, worrying that billy may never come back.

“i’m home.”

billy cups steve’s cheek in his hand, their lips coming together as steve crawls into billy’s lap from where billy’s perched on the edge of the bed. steve kisses him softly, sweetly, but with enough of an edge to remind billy that steve has missed him just as much as billy has missed steve.

they fall back onto the mattress together, tangled up in each other and the sheets. they kiss until they’re both dizzy with it. until the last of billy’s clothes come off and steve’s pajamas fall to the floor. they come together like two pieces of a puzzle, relearning each other’s bodies, even though the reality is that neither of them have forgotten.

billy comes undone in steve’s arms, and steve falls apart beneath billy’s hands. it’s everything and nothing like billy remembered. everything because it’s steve, it’s familiar, it’s home. and nothing because it’s more than billy’s memories could ever supply him with. it’s so much better than the ghost of a touch billy would pull from the recesses of his mind during those long, lonely nights surrounded by people who would gut him at a moment’s notice if given the chance.

it’s when they’re laying together in the afterglow, steve resting back against the pillows with billy’s head on his chest, that they speak again. steve has his hands in billy’s hair again, running the strands through his fingers while massaging his scalp.

“don’t leave again,” steve says, pressing a kiss to the top of billy’s head. “i need you here, with me.”

“and i need to be with you,” billy tells him. and it’s a promise, because no force in this world could make billy leave again anytime soon. “i’m not going anywhere.”

they fall asleep like that, with billy wrapped around steve, his head resting over his heart, and steve’s fingers combing through his hair, his other hand running up and down the expanse of billy’s back.

things may be different with billy after everything he’s seen and done while posing as someone else. but things with steve, while ever-changing, also remain forever the same. steve loves billy with every bit of his soul, and billy loves him right back with a force that nearly shakes him to his core.

he’ll be damned if he lets anyone or anything, any situation, ever change that.

send me super sappy prompts!

#here u gooooo im real proud of this one so i hope u enjoy babes 💕💕💕💕#harringrove #my fics #ask #grabmyboner

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annoyedfanfiction · 4 years

Text

Growing Pains

angst angst angst angst

Obi-Wan x reader, inspired by Growing Pains by Maria Mena

“Have we considered,” Cody asked Anakin one evening, “That he hasn’t been, well, cared for since his Master died?” Obi-Wan was sitting a little further away from the crowded circle – not outside, but just far enough to not be touching. Anakin’s gaze followed Obi-Wan’s to his own Padawan, where she was laughing with Rex, sitting amongst the Clones. Knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder. Touch had always come naturally to him, and to her in turn. But Obi-Wan… since Anakin had grown out of his need for almost constant physical affection, so too had Obi-Wan grown away from touching him.

No one will tell you about the limit They put on how long you can grieve

“You have a Padawan to train, Knight Kenobi.” Mace’s face was hard and drawn. “There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no death, there is the Force. It is time to move on.” The funeral pyres had barely been put out. Only a week after Naboo. “He’s not doing anything wrong!” Anakin argued, eyes flashing, still bright and shiny and new to all of this. Mace looked down at him with distaste. “Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighed, flatly. Anakin grumbled something, still glaring at Mace from beside his unseeing Master. “Is that all, Master Windu?”

No one will warn you when you're winning How heavy a lost love can be

“There was a girl, once,” he answered, eventually. “I don’t know if she was a Jedi… Certainly powerful with the Force. She was the first one to make him smile, after Qui-Gon… after Naboo.” “Not you?” Cody asked, curiously. “I mean, the General has always looked at you and Ahsoka as though you’re the greatest good in the galaxy.” Anakin chuckled, dryly. “Even when he’s mad.” “We grew into that,” he admitted, memory wandering back to the cynical, but kind boy who’d greeted him on Tatooine. “But (Y/N) was something special.”

They do not tell you about the friendships You'll lose once the lights are dimmed down

“Master Windu.” Even Obi-Wan’s gaze lifted at the new voice – you, standing in the doorway of the courtyard, emerald robes billowing around you. “I’ll take it from here.” Your tone brooked no argument, but Mace still hesitated, disapproval ready on his lips. “Or perhaps you’d like to further disgrace Qui-Gon’s ghost?” He physically flinched at that, and you could not find it within you to find any satisfaction in the reaction. “I’ll inform the Grand Master,” he hissed out, whirling past you into the Temple. You descended the steps slowly, gracefully, until he was out of sight, then you were running. Anakin almost wondered if your feet even touched the ground as you hurried towards them. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” And, for the first time since Obi-Wan had carried his Master’s body out of that generator, Anakin watched tears form in his eyes. “I couldn’t get a transport, and then – oh, Obi.” You let him melt into you, hiding his tears in your shoulder. “We’ll be alright.”

How humble you'll feel about your past bliss Once the tables have turned 'round

But I wanna tell you I got through The hardest of times on my own

“That doesn’t seem like making him smile,” Cody commented, dryly. Anakin whacked him in the shoulder. “Padawan Skywalker,” you smiled at him, pulling your door open. “And Obi-Wan. Come on in.” The space was, in many of the same ways Qui-Gon’s had been, not quite the stark, blank canvas of a Jedi’s room. A small bookshelf stood in one corner, books ranging from old Jedi texts to fairytales from around the galaxy to books on political history. A cracked kyber crystal glowed on one shelf, and a rack of spices spun on your kitchen counter. A couple of cushions, faded and worn, decorated your old couch, along with a patched throw. You had discarded your robe in favour of a light long-sleeved shirt to manage Coruscant’s oppressive summer heat. “Something smells delicious,” Obi-Wan commented, his voice still quiet, but brightening. “That’s promising. But I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see if I’ve lost my touch when you taste it, Knight Kenobi,” you smiled, quickly excusing yourself, leaving Anakin and Obi-Wan in the living room as you began serving dinner. You returned, balancing three bowls as you made your way towards the wooden dining table, bare except for the small pot of blooming vormur flowers in the centre. “Is that what I think it is?” Obi-Wan’s eyes widened as he and Anakin made their way to the table. “Stewjoni dumplings,” you grinned, triumphantly, finally coaxing a true smile out of Obi-Wan’s reserved deference. “It has not been so long that I have forgotten your favourite dish.”

I made some mistakes I made a few But I learned that I am strong

“So where’d she go, then?” Cody asked. Obi-Wan stood, and met Anakin’s gaze across the fire. He offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Anakin shrugged, noncommittally. “From what I gathered over her brief stay, she wasn’t particularly popular with the Council,” he explained, poking at the campfire with a stick. “She didn’t wear the typical robes, she back-chatted, she had normal emotions. Not exactly your ideal Jedi.” Obi-Wan disappeared back into the ship, leaving the rest of the soldiers to their brief respite.

And just because it hurts Doesn't mean it isn't worth it

“(Y/N) is a Mandalorian name,” Ahsoka pointed out the next day. Cody looked up at her in surprise. “What? I know things.” “Well, yes, but…” He trailed off. “You don’t think she could’ve been that (Y/N), do you?” Ahsoka raised an eyebrow. “Which one?” “Hey!” You dropped from the ceiling, landing on Maul’s shoulders and throwing him to the ground. Satine gasped a deep breath. “Why don’t you try that on someone your own size?” “So Kyr’am lives,” Maul hissed, spinning on his heel to face you. “You really should learn what titles mean before you say things like that.” You caught his blow, red clashing against white. “And you didn’t really think a little thing like a crash would kill me, did you?” “All the better,” he sneered. “I can kill you, then the Duchess, and see how Kenobi likes that.”

And even if it stings It's just a temporary thing

“A white lightsaber is a Grey Jedi thing,” Ahsoka hummed, thoughtfully. “So it could well be her. Sounds like Master Kenobi knew her, definitely.” “Kyr’am is basically a myth,” Cody told her, tiredly. “Her name literally means “death”. But she’s really just the General’s ex?” He paused, letting that register for a moment. “How does that even work? Jedi are sworn celibates.” “I’m pretty sure the only people who follow the Code to the letter are Master Windu and Master Yoda,” Ahsoka told him, matter-of-factly, “The former because he has a rod up his arse, and the latter because he’s 900 years old and no one wants to see that.” She clapped him on the back and strolled down the hallway, leaving him gaping after her.

I'm not saying that changing Won't cost you love won't make you cry,

“You’re making a mistake.” Your old Master sat across the room from you, smaller than you had seen him in a long time. “Disgrace us you do,” he answered, not meeting your eyes. “His judgement you cloud.” “We are not the ones whose judgement is clouded,” you retorted, holding your head high. Mace scoffed. “I am not the one making this decision from fear.” You looked around the chambers – a few cold eyes meeting yours, but most gazes shrinking from your defiance. “Fine. But know this – if any disgrace is done to the Force, it is done in this room. Not in the temples of Jedha. Not in the paths of the Grey. The Sith rise and threaten us all – threaten the very societies we live in; threaten our peace; threaten the prosperity that some among us have accrued; and threaten most of all the vulnerable among us. And you sit enthroned in your precious Temple passing judgement on those of us who do the dirty work you turn a blind eye to.” You met Mace’s eyes, and a sharp smile carved onto your darkened face. “This Council shames the Jedi and all that they have stood for. And you, Master,” you glared down at your Master, who was still adamantly avoiding your eyes, “Your 900 years have made you stubborn and unseeing, and the galaxy will pay for it.”

But it will all make sense... When the growing pains subside

“Jedha,” Anakin repeated, staring at Ahsoka and Cody as though they’d each sprouted another three heads. “You want me to look for a Mandalorian cryptid who may or may not be Obi-Wan’s ex on Jedha.” Ahsoka didn’t even have the courtesy to hesitate before nodding eagerly. “Have you considered that if I am the dubious one, this may be a mistake?”

Jedha was a cold planet – a desert, plummeted into icy frost on evening, dotted by frosted mesas. Having listened to nothing but wind humming in his ears for eight hours, Anakin almost didn’t notice the eerily familiar singing floating out of the abandoned mountaintop temple.

Nothing can shield you from the silence Nights spent on his side of the bed

The inside of the temple glowed with the warmth of a campfire, the gentle soothing of a song etched somewhere in his heart. He hesitated in the doorway, images of Padmé, of the life they could have, of her dead on stony ground. Fear and hope and love and bitterness, warring in his mind, weaved into the web of the song. He stepped inside.

Praying for help to please stop crying My life just got turned on its head

Shrouded in robes of the same emerald green, you sat cross-legged before the fire, upon which a small kettle boiled. You looked up at him – crows feet crinkling around the edges of the youthful eyes in his memory, a few hesitant streaks of silver streaking your hair like starlight. “You have grown.” You lifted the kettle from the fire. The mug was blissfully warm between his frozen hands as he crouched next to the fire. You watched him, placidly, sipping your own tea. “I am surprised I didn’t find you on a battlefield,” he admitted, eventually. You smiled, sadly. “This has taken some getting used to.” You peeled back your skirt to reveal a metal foot, exoskeletal braces disappearing up into your robe.

They fail to explain how complex love is... Like why I mostly miss him as a friend

“I am not the same woman I was when you and your Master knew me, Knight Skywalker.” Your fingers tapped a mesmerising rhythm into the metal mug. “Nor are we,” Anakin countered, grinning in the face of your flat gaze. “After 13 years, I’d imagine we’d change. And certainly, this war has changed us all.” He could feel your Force presence thrumming across from him, but could not read it – a hard wall struck up between the two of you, allowing him barely a glimpse of your familiar aura. You hummed, and returned your gaze to the fire.

Or how big of a blow, it was for my ego That she might be better for him

“I admit, I am confused as to why you are here.” You refused to look up at him. “Rather than on Mandalore. Satine is everything Obi-Wan needs, Anakin.” Here, you finally looked up at him. “A pacifist, she shares his ideals but is not afraid to challenge his methods. It cannot be a secret to you that they call me Kyr’am.” There were nights you laid awake, bathed in the light of your ‘saber, not tearing your gaze from the white plasma blade for fear that when you looked back it would be stained red. “Satine cared about Obi-Wan.” Cody’s words rang in his memory. “But not for him.” You pursed your lips, searching his face. For what, Anakin didn’t know.

But I wanna tell you I got through The hardest of times on my own

Landing on Vicondor in Anakin’s M ship was a surreal experience – trees parting around you to reveal two large troop carriers in the clearing. A crowd of clone troopers lazed around the clearing, clearly taking advantage of their brief respite from the war. A small Togruta girl hurried out from among them as you stepped out of the ship. “He’s coming and he’s mad,” she warned, “You better have his girlfriend on there or nothing is going to save us.” You poked your head out, and she immediately breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m –“ “Enjoy your midnight stroll?” Her introduction was immediately cut off by the cuttingly dry question. “How are you this morning, Master?” Anakin asked, too politely. “You retired early last night, are you quite well?” Peaking out from between Anakin and Ahsoka, you saw Obi-Wan narrow his eyes. “What are you up to?” Anakin failed to suppress a grin. “A Padawan of yours, up to something?” you asked, feigning incredulity, “What’s next, Master Windu smiling?”

I made some mistakes I made a few But I learned that I am strong

“Obi-Wan, you’re my best friend,” you told him, sternly, “But if you don’t sit still while I heal this so help me I will throw you back out there with the Fyrnocks.” “You wouldn’t dare,” he protested, nevertheless restricting himself to wincing at the anti-septic. “I dared to learn Jedha dark transfer. I dared to look Master Windu in the eye and tell him to pull the rod out of his arse. Don’t think I wouldn’t dare dangle you down there as bait, you reckless fool of a Jedi,” you scolded, the light glow of Force-healing now flitting around your fingertips.

And just because it hurts Doesn't mean it isn't worth it

“If I’m a reckless fool of a Jedi when I know I have one of the best healers in the Galaxy available,” Obi-Wan demanded, hauling you into his arms, “What does that make you?” Somewhere in the woods behind you were his men. Your men. Cody. Blasters dropping from their last shots – on their General. What choice did you have?

And even if it stings It's just a temporary thing

“It’s over, Anakin.” Mustafar burned around you, but you couldn’t focus on the battle. “I have the high ground.” Sweat streamed from your brow as you knelt over the frail body beside you, belly still swollen with the children she and Anakin should have raised together. Darkness flittered from your fingertips, and she gasped, eyes flying open. In an instant, you were carrying her to the ship. Weak, drooping, but still breathing.

And no one said that changing Won't cost you love won't make you cry,

The boy fretted in Padmé’s arms as you cradled the young girl – well fed, content, and drifting off to sleep. Blissfully unaware of the image haunting behind your eyes, behind Padmé’s, behind Obi-Wan’s. Anakin, broken and burning on that stony ground, eyes burning yellow.

But it will all make sense When the growing pains subside

Tatooine blistered before you all – a baby cradled in each of Padmé’s arms, your hand fixed on the hilt of a new songsteel blade you had gambled for while Obi-Wan bartered a price for a speeder to get you out of town. Lightsabers were too obvious – just a heavy weight, now, hidden beneath your emerald robes.

And just because it hurts Doesn't mean it isn't worth it

You sang Padmé to sleep that night, the twins tucked into a makeshift cot beside her bed. She was so young to have lost so much. Her parents. Her planet. Her husband. The Republic. And yet here she was, still fighting. For something. Something better. Something brighter. A world she could somehow see, behind all this pain, all this evil. A light that still shone in her eyes.

And even if it stings It's just a temporary thing

“How did I go so wrong?” Obi-Wan leant into your side, staring up at the ceiling. “I failed everyone. Qui-Gon. Satine. Anakin.” “You never failed me,” you countered, fingers sifting through his hair. “And it was the Order that failed Anakin. The Council.” You reached over and turned his chin so that he was looking at you. “You did the best you could for him. It was not your responsibility to protect him from the people responsible for helping you both.”

And no one said that changing Won't cost you love won't make you cry,

“If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.” Obi-Wan didn’t move, lightsaber holding Anakin’s steadily. You could hear Anakin scoff beneath the mask, and he struck forward. “No!” Luke. Obi-Wan fell. Immediately, the troopers turned, firing. You wondered if Anakin realised how your stomach churned at the sight of the familiar uniforms, almost expecting Cody’s smile, Rex’s sharp bark of laughter. You snatched up Obi-Wan’s lightsaber, clipping it to your belt, and ducking under Anakin’s blade as he struck at you.

But it will all make sense When the growing pains subside

“Run!” You could hear Obi-Wan shouting to Luke as your blade met Anakin’s. “It didn’t have to be this way,” you told Anakin, countering his next strike. “(Y/N)!” Leia shouted after you. You could hear the Falcon’s engines whirring in the background. “Go!” you yelled back, vividly aware of the rapid blaster fire around you. “We would’ve fought for you. We would have died for you.” “Shut up,” Anakin breathed, and you could almost hear the crack in his voice beneath the mask. You smiled, bitterly. “We loved you.” He thrust his ‘saber into your chest and the breath choked out of you in a shuddering gasp.

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agoodgoddamnshot · 5 years

Text

Soldier, Poet, Queen [E] - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif isn’t mine]

Originally posted on my AO3 account

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Ciri looks across the table. “Jaskier, help me.”

The bard looks up, a spoon halfway to his mouth. “I’m not getting involved,” he says airily, continuing with his dinner.

Geralt snorts. “That’s a first.” The Witcher grunts as a swift kick lands to his shin underneath the table.

Ciri huffs, folding her arms tightly over her chest. It’s in moments like these that they’re both reminded how young the girl is. She’s a child. A bowl of stew sits in front of her, somewhat forgotten about. Geralt nudges it towards her. She takes a moment to glare at the Witcher before begrudgingly picking her spoon back up.

A troop of soldiers have taken up most of the rooms in the town. They’ve been called on by a neighbouring lord, intending on heading south to stop Nilfgaardian movements. It’s been almost a week and a half since they’ve heard anything about the southern kingdoms and how they’re fairing. It’s been even longer since they heard whispers about what the Nilfgaardian armies are up to. Still, they’ll keep moving north with the other refugees – all keen on putting as much distance as they can between them and the chasing fires.

Kaer Morhen is still a few leagues away. Winter seems keen on settling over the continent within the next couple of weeks. Snow has already started capping the mountains and hills. It won’t be long until it’s blown downwards; animals will be housed in barns and crops will long be hauled in. The roads will be frostbitten and hard, but empty. No one will try and travel in the cold.

The tavern isn’t that busy. Most of the soldiers are out back, sharpening their swords and fletching arrows. Geralt can hear the squeal of metal against whetstones, even through wooden walls and the soft chatter of those inside the tavern.

“You said it yourself,” Ciri mumbles, swirling her spoon around the stew. “I’m going to have to know how to protect myself.”

Geralt grunts. “And you can learn that in Kaer Morhen.”

“Which is still leagues away!”

“We’ll be there by the end of the week,” Geralt says shortly.

Ciri sighs, defeated. Jaskier can’t help but chuckle. “You’ll make a fine warrior, princess,” he offers.

Geralt frowns at him. Speaking any part of Ciri’s identity into the world seems like an invitation for bad things. He doesn’t know exactly what happened inside the walls of Cintra, or what happened in the week after the city fell, but he does know that not a lot of people mourned the Queen’s death. He’s heard her be called all sorts of insults on the roads. So Ciri is Fiona, and the fact that she is what she is, is only known to them both.

A small smile ghosts Ciri’s lips at the compliment. Geralt nudges her shoulder. “Eat,” he orders. “We’ll move out in the morning, so get as much food and sleep as you can.”

Kaer Morhen is both everything he expected it to be and nothing like it at all. A heavy wooden gate groans open as they approach. It’s a large keep, made up of slate-coloured buildings backed into the face of a mountain, shrouded and shielded by the hills around it and a thick, cloaking fog. Roach knickers softly, throwing her head back. Geralt gives her a soft pat on her neck. Jaskier catches the movement out of the corner of his eye. She recognises home.

A faint figure of a man slips out between the gates. He had a hand on the pommel of his sword, but it drops as soon as he sees them walking towards the gate. Even with the wind howling, Jaskier hears a deep laugh echo. “Well, I don’t fucking believe it,” the man spreads his arms out. “The White Wolf has returned for the winter!”

Roach halts. Jaskier helps Ciri down first, adjusting the girl’s cape around her shoulders and neck as a particularly harsh wind blows through. Geralt drops down from Roach. His feet have barely touched the ground before the man has him gathered in a tight embrace. Without the fog clouding his vision, Jaskier takes the man in. He’s the same height and build as Geralt, but his hair is cropped and auburn.

When they pull away from each other, the man claps his hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve heard all sorts of stories about you!” he laughs.

Geralt pats the man’s arms “Is Vesemir here?” he asks, his expression stoning slightly.

The man nods. “Aye. He came back from market a few hours ago.”

Geralt hums. “I have something to discuss with him.”

The keep sprawls for what seems like miles in all directions. He can imagine what it must have been like, with countless boys in varying stages of life living within these walls. The stones around him contain memories, he’s sure. Now though, only a handful of hallways are lit by faint candlelight. Banners and tapestries have frayed edges, but still cling desperately to metal railings keeping them up.

As soon as they stepped foot inside the main keep, they stood in front of an elderly man with a scowling face. Geralt stiffened slightly. “Vesemir,” he inclined his head. Jaskier watched him out of the corner of his eye. Vesemir’s eyes – amber, though not as bright as Geralt’s – flickered over to where Jaskier and Ciri stood. His jaw tightened.

He inclined his head – a silent order for them to follow.

Jaskier will be sure to wander and explore later, but he learned that Kaer Morhen is bigger than it appears. A courtyard, kitchen, dining hall, library, and armoury – to name but a few rooms that he can see. Geralt told him countless stories about the keep and what there is in it. But after seeing it from the outside, how it scales up a mountainside, he’s sure that there are more things to find. And he isn’t really sure what other thing will occupy his time while they spend the winter here.

Ciri stays by his side. Jaskier glances down, watching them fall into step with each other. The Witchers walk together, a couple of strides ahead. Vesemir is silent: but Jaskier has lived too many years with Geralt to know when a person is brewing something like anger in them.

Jaskier squeezes her hand. A silent question. Are you alright?

She glances up at him. She nods after a moment, but tightens her grip on his hand.

They’re brought into a meeting space. A large hearth is at one side of the room, being stoked by who Jaskier presumes is Eskel. Geralt mentioned the names of his brothers before. The Witcher doesn’t look up from prodding the fire, hoping for the newest block of wood to catch. The man from the gate – Lambert, Jaskier learned – takes a seat near the fire. He kicks out with a leg, hitting Eskel’s calf. “Move, you oaf,” he says. “The heat can’t get out with your fat arse in the way.”

Eskel scowls at the other Witcher, but sets the poker back against the hearth. Vesemir watches all of them flood into the room. Jaskier takes Ciri to one of the many armchairs near the fire. She’s been trembling with the cold for the past couple of days, no matter how many layers of clothes she gets on. Jaskier gestures to the ties of her cloak. “Let’s get this off,” he says quietly, dropping down on one knee when she settles back into the armchair, “or you’ll overheat.”

“Are you stupid, boy?”

Vesemir’s voice is a harsh thing. Like a sword against metal. Jaskier glances over just in time to see Geralt wincing, looking down at his boots. He picks at some flaking skin around his fingernail.

“Forces like that of the Law is as ancient as time,” Vesemir growls. “We don’t interfere with it!”

“I didn’t think that-”

“-Too right! You didn’t think.” The man’s head snaps over to the other side of the room, looking at the other two Witchers.

Something shadows Eskel’s face.

Jaskier doesn’t have the heart to tell the eldest Witcher that, technically, Geralt invoked the Law twice. Both times, the end result was Ciri ending up being entrusted into his care. Whoever it was that ruled over the universe, a pantheon of gods or something else entirely, it was very keen on getting Ciri and Geralt together. Those two threads of fate are so entangled together now it’s hard to see where one ends and another begins. But looking at how small Geralt looks now, practically curled in on himself as Vesemir launches into another “lesson” about how destiny can be a treacherous, unyielding bitch, Jaskier bites his tongue.

It’s not to say he’ll store that piece of information away for later, for if Geralt happens to step out of line or be a particular pain in the arse.

Ciri stares down at her boots. Jaskier takes one of her hands in his. Even bundled in a heavy, woollen cloak, a scarf, and gloves, she still shakes like a leaf. He rubs their hands together, warming them up.

Behind them, Geralt tells Vesemir and the others about everything that had happened: from invoking the Law all those years ago in Cintra, to finding Ciri in a forest clearing over a decade later. Vesemir glances over to them when Geralt mentions Cintra. Something shadows over his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. An entire kingdom is without a monarch. He’s pretty sure that Cintra has fallen entirely. It’s not something that’s ever brought up. They can only imagine what Ciri went through when being taken out of the city.

There are brief moments, mainly during the night, when she’ll wake up because of a night terror. One of them is always nearby, gentling and assuring her that she is safe, and nothing would come to harm her.

And they were always so mindful. Neither of them used Ciri’s name while out in the wilds. She had told them both that she had called herself Fiona to a handful of Cintran refugees in the days after the fall of the city. It was a name that stuck. Gods only knew where Nilfgaardian soldiers were at any one moment, and if they had riders or spies heading up through the north, rooting out where the princess may have gone.

Something cold settled into Geralt’s bones one day: when he knew that Cahir or whoever it was leading the southern front wanted to get their hands on Ciri. Geralt always seemed quieter after that, more protective of the girl from just about anyone who wandered a bit too close. Ciri couldn’t walk anywhere without the Witcher being an ever-present shadow, always just an arm’s reach away. Jaskier gentled him as best as he could; but he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel the same way.

Apart from wandering the halls of the keep, taking stock of how many rooms there are and what they’re for, Jaskier finds himself with nothing to do. The Witchers make idle conversation with him: mainly asking about the ballads he has written throughout the years. Eskel laughed into his cup during dinner. “I couldn’t go to any town in the south that didn’t have a bard singing one of your creations,” he said after gulping down a mouthful of ale.

“Imagine what it was like living with their creator,” Geralt mutters. Jaskier sends him an affronted look, but ultimately goes back to his own food. Something small and mumbled may slip past his lips about ungrateful Witchers and how he made them all famous, so they can keep their coin to themselves.

He strums a couple of chords, staring up at the wooden rafters above him. Inspiration has avoided him throughout the past couple of weeks. But then again, the Continent has enough of his songs circulating around. And Geralt was never short on contracts offered by most villages and towns they passed through. He only stopped taking them once they came into possession of Ciri. They had enough coin between them to take time off, making sure that the girl was safe.

In the time they took travelling to Kaer Morhen, they made sure that the coin they did have stretched as far as it would go. They stayed outside of cities and towns when they needed to – the road, although rough and cold, is safe when winter starts to roll in. They only bought food that they couldn’t hunt for themselves. Sometimes people would offer them a loaf of bread, or half a wheel of cheese; people that Geralt did jobs for once, still thinking that they needed to repay the Witcher as he passed by their homesteads.

The balcony looks out on to a large dirt courtyard. Some stables are nearby, with Roach and the others’ horses happily feasting on hay and oats. Training dummies stuffed with down-feathers, and with makeshift armour on their heads and chests stand at attention around the outside of a large dirt circle. In the middle of it, Ciri, armed with a wooden sword, watches Lambert teach her how to hold a blade properly.

Jaskier casually plucks at a few more strings, idly humming a tune to himself. Beside him, Geralt sits forward in his own chair, looking down at the courtyard.

Lambert nudges her foot with his. “Keep your feet anchored, lass,” he says, bending his own knees slightly. “If your centre is low, enemies have a hard time knocking you over.”

Ciri nods, mirroring the Witcher. It takes a couple of tries for her to navigate how to stand, how to step back, and fall into the stance again. It’s made even more difficult when Lambert reminds her that she has a sword in her hand – although wooden – and should be held in a certain way, and positioned correctly in front of her.

Jaskier makes a face. He can’t count the number of times he called Geralt’s sword fighting dancing. And it does look like it, even now. Ciri stumbles over herself occasionally, huffing when Lambert corrects her. It seems more complicated than what most people seem to do: grab a blade’s pommel as tightly as you can and just start swinging.

Geralt arches his neck, watching the girl and his brother closely. He doesn’t blink. Or at least, Jaskier doesn’t think he does. He looks at him out of the corner of his eye. A slow smile spreads over his lips. “If you’re that concerned about her getting hurt, then you really have to rethink about what you’re letting her do.”

Geralt makes a sound in the back of his throat. Jaskier sets his lute aside, reaching out for one of Geralt’s hands. The Witcher doesn’t pull away; he could if he wanted to, Jaskier always gives him the option to. But he smiles faintly at the way Geralt’s fingers lace with his, squeezing slightly. He still stares out on to the courtyard, watching both people down there like a hawk.

Jaskier traces idle, unrecognisable patterns over the back of Geralt’s hand.

Ciri manages to hold her own. She’s only been training with Lambert for a couple of days, but she takes to each lesson like a duck to water. Even when Lambert leaves, announcing that they’re done for the day, she stays behind; practising all that she’s learned by herself, or on the dummies around the arena.

At one particularly good strike to Lambert’s side, Jaskier hums. “She can hold her own,” he says firmly. Because, gods, she can.

Geralt angles his head. He doesn’t reply, but with how firmly he’s holding Jaskier’s hand, the bard can only imagine what’s going on in his head. Jaskier shuffles his chair closer to Geralt’s. “I imagine this is how parents feel,” he says softly. His fingers ghost over the back of Geralt’s hand, running over scarred knuckles.

“I’m not, though,” Geralt says after a time. “Her parent.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “She’s yours,” he says gently. His words won’t carry over to the arena; they’re too far away. But even still, he knows how sharp a Witcher’s hearing can be. And even if Lambert is currently occupied with teaching Ciri about where to strike on a body, Jaskier keeps his voice low just in case he listens in. “In a biological sense, no. You’re of no relation to her whatsoever. But family is more than blood.”

A soft hum leaves the Witcher.

Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand. “You’re my family,” he says, “as is she. And I would gladly take this family over the family that shares blood with me.”

And he’s explained it all before; his life before meeting Geralt in that inn all those years ago. Geralt listened, offered soft words of sympathy and comfort at the rehashing of a particularly harsh memory being dredged up. But the people that share his blood and last name, they aren’t his family. His family is a Witcher and his child surprise.

Geralt jolts slightly at the sound of a thump echoing through the courtyard. Jaskier blinks, looking down at the dirt arena. He watches as Ciri scrambles back on to her feet, dusting gravel and dirt off of her breeches, and running at Lambert at full speed with her sword retracted over her head.

Yeah, Jaskier thinks, she can look after herself just fine.

The hand around his has tightened. Looking at Geralt out of the corner of his eye, he snorts at the scowl firmly etched on to his face. When Ciri is, predictably, knocked down again, the corner of Geralt’s lip lifts into a snarl. “Don’t kill him,” Jaskier mutters, leaning forward to press a kiss to the ridge of Geralt’s jawline. “I like Lambert. He actually laughs at my jokes.”

Winter rolls in silently. The winds gradually get colder, nipping at Jaskier’s skin whenever he steps outside, or if the balcony doors to their room are left open. Hearths in the main rooms of Kaer Morhen are kept lit. Each Witcher takes turns wandering out to a nearby forest to bring in wood for the fires. Another saving grace is the fact that the keep was built on some hot springs deep in the body of the mountain. The lower levels, where the baths are, are always humid. With how warm the keep is kept during the days and nights, he’d be forgiven for forgetting that winter had even settled in the first place.

When the first heavy snow slides down from the peaks of the mountains, it covers everything. The arena outside, where Ciri had spent most of her time, is unusable. That doesn’t mean her training stops, though. The library of the keep holds too many books for Jaskier to count. Most of them are anthologies: studies into different types of monsters, and how best to kill them. Others concern the history of different kingdoms on the Continent.

Geralt sits with her, explaining the differences between each monster she reads about. She pipes up with a question every so often, asking what actually the difference between a ghoul and an alghoul is. Jaskier tries to hide a small smile into his journal when Geralt shrugs, saying he doesn’t actually know, or think that a difference actually exists. The others agree with him.

They’re all gathered in one of the main living spaces. Eskel and Lambert are by the fire, warming themselves after seeing to the horses comfortably stabled outside. Jaskier sits nearby, writing down aimless scribbles into a journal. Inspiration has been fleeting in the past couple of weeks; which strikes him as strange. He’s in the home of Witchers. Surely something would inspire a story.

Vesemir walks into the room, securing his cloak around him. “I’m going to the market. I’ll be a few hours.” He glances over to Lambert. “Don’t try and kill each other while I’m gone, you hear?”

Lambert splays his hands, an affronted look flashing over his face. Before he can even open his mouth, Eskel jumps in. “We’ll manage.”

Vesemir hums, not entirely convinced.

Ciri’s head pops up from her book. “Can I come with you?” she asks earnestly, pushing the tome out of her way.

Vesemir gives her a small smile. “Not this time, lassie,” he replies. “When the snow thaws and the roads a bit safer, I’ll bring you then.”

Ciri sits back with a small huff. Geralt nudges the book back in front of her. It earns him a glowering look off of the girl.

He gives them a gruff goodbye before heading out into the snow. Jaskier watches the door close behind him. “Will he be okay on his own?” he says, looking over to the gathering of Witchers dotted around the room.

Eskel snorts. “That old dog will outlive us all, lad,” he says, throwing another block of wood on to the fire. It spits and hisses, but eventually calms. Another blanket of quietness lies over the room.

It’s a comfortable one; one that doesn’t ask to be filled by pointless conversation or questions about the weather. Not the kind of silences Jaskier used to know in courts and taverns throughout the kingdoms. The Witchers by the fire seem happy enough to just watch the fire lick at the blocks. There’s a soft hum of conversation from Ciri and Geralt from across the room. Jaskier looks over to them every so often; watching with a faint smile how Geralt helps with her with the pronunciation of monster names and the ingredients for potions.

His heart swells.

Most mornings, he wakes alone. He’s grown used to the feel of a cooling or cold bed when he reaches out, knowing that Ciri has training in the morning with Geralt. What he learned, though, is that morning means as soon as the sun peeks over the mountain, when the goddamn birds haven’t even woken up yet.

But with snow still sitting over the keep, forcing everyone to stay inside for fear of freezing, now he wakes up to a warm figure behind him. Or on him. Or curled around him.

The first beams of morning light start to crawl over to the foot of the bed. Jaskier watches them, listening to the soft intake of breath behind him. Lying on his front, he’s effectively pinned to the bed, unable to move. Not that he would, of course. He likes Geralt claiming one side of his body as his personal pillow. He likes that the Witcher’s head is resting beside his, that his arm is flung over his back, curled around his waist.

He wouldn’t move even if the gods commanded it.

Pillowing his head on his arms, it’s the most amount of movement he can get away with. Geralt’s breathing changes slightly, but with a small snuffle against Jaskier’s shoulder blade, his hold on the bard tightens, and he settles again.

The hearth’s fire died at some point during the night. Embers and ashes are all that remains of it. Still, though, the room is warm. Most of that heat is because of the Witcher by his side. Even with a slowed heartbeat and a cold personality, at the best of times, Jaskier came to realise that the man is a walking inferno. And if Jaskier sits beside him, or can hold on to him during the night, he can keep just as warm as if he were sitting by a hearth.

And that’s...Jaskier blinks. That’s a good idea, actually. He lifts his head slightly, looking over to the nightstand. He always keeps a journal just out of arm’s reach. He’s had too many odd dreams in his past to not document them.

Lips suddenly press against his shoulder blade. “What are you doing?” Geralt rumbles.

“Preparing for my great return to the kingdoms’ musical scene,” Jaskier replies simply, jotting down a couple of lines for what he can only presume will be his next hit. An entire season has passed by without a new song; and lesser bards around the Continent will want to have more material to sing, and their patrons will want something new to hear.

The Witcher huffs what Jaskier can only assume is a laugh. Jaskier barely gets a sentence down on the page before he bristles at Geralt’s hand starting to wander. It skims over his side, fingers as light as anything, causing gooseflesh to break out in their wake.

When Geralt’s hand slips underneath him, edging very close to his cock, he makes a noise in the back of his throat. He manages to swat Geralt in the shoulder with his journal. “I’m not one to deny your advances, but just for a few minutes, could you please keep it to yourself. I’m busy.”

Geralt laughs against Jaskier’s skin. His hand doesn’t move too far away, settling on the bone of Jaskier’s hip instead. His thumb rubs gently over it, making unrecognisable patterns into the skin. Jaskier huffs, scribbling down a few more lines.

Throwing the journal on to the nightstand, Jaskier looks over his shoulder. “Now, what did you want?”

“You always say such romantic things to me.”

Jaskier turns, or at least, as much as he’s able with Geralt’s hold still on him. The Witcher eventually relents, letting Jaskier flop down on to his back and settle down against the pillows. “I’m busy,” he repeats. “I don’t go bothering you when you’re lecturing Ciri. I have to keep myself occupied somehow.”

Something flashes across Geralt’s face just then. It’s gone as soon as it appeared, but Jaskier blinks. He reaches up, dusting his fingertips along the ridge of Geralt’s jaw. The Witcher lifts his head with the movement. “Are you unhappy here?” he asks, with his voice nothing more than a hum.

“What? No. Gods, no.” The words leave him as quickly as a breath does. “No. I’m happy wherever you are. And Ciri. I just need to keep myself occupied while you’re both doing Witcher-y stuff, is all.”

“I could keep you occupied,” Geralt says. The faintest hint of a smirk starts pulling at the corner of his lip.

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier blinks, “I think that was very close to something of a joke. A lewd joke. I can’t wait to tell everyone that you have finally found a sense of humour.” A smile threatens to break out over his own face. One that’s firmly kissed away by Geralt.

A moan escapes him at the first trace of Geralt’s tongue against the seam of his lips. Gods only know how long they’re like that for, lips against each others, hands mapping out leagues of skin and muscle.

Jaskier threads his fingers into Geralt’s hair, tugging on it slightly. The Witcher grunts, pulling away from Jaskier’s lips. He rests their foreheads together for a moment, before leaning down and kissing Jaskier’s jaw.

“It’s late. Ciri will be wondering where you are,” Jaskier tries, but ultimately tilts his neck, letting Geralt scatter kisses down the length of it. He gasps when teeth start to scrape and nip. If he wants to keep bruises at bay, he’ll have to get it to stop now. Too many keen-eyed Witchers have already sussed out what it is he is to Geralt. He certainly doesn’t need to parade around with a necklace of hickeys – it’ll only stoke the fire.

Geralt’s hand drifts down to his leg, lifting and hooking it over his hip. “Eskel said that he’d take her this morning,” mumbles into Jaskier’s neck.

It’s a testament to how well their bodies know each other. When Geralt’s fingers slip inside him, drenched in oil gotten out of gods know where, it doesn’t take long for his body to part and give way. Jaskier’s head rolls back, heavy sighs and moans leaving him with every graze of fingers against that spot inside of him.

And gods if Geralt would let him, he would sing about this until every kingdom on the Continent collapsed. He would never, of course. The Witcher already threatened him many moon-turns ago that if he ever so much as breathed about their sex lives to anyone, there wouldn’t be a scrap of Jaskier left to find.

And it’s always in jest. He would never tell anyone. These moments are for them. So much of their lives changed the instant Ciri collided into it. But they’ll always have this.

When Geralt slips inside of him, every trace of breath escapes. “Fuck,” he swears, curling his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, holding him for a moment. It’s always on the right side of too much, the first time they join. No matter how many times they lie together.

Geralt rests their foreheads together. “You alright?” he breathes. It’s some sort of solace, knowing that he can affect Geralt just as much as he can affect him.

Jaskier nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you can move.”

Geralt doesn’t leave him. His hips rock against his, wrenching cut-off groans from the bard. His hold on Jaskier’s leg tightens. With a quick movement, he angles it to the side, letting him get deeper. Nails scrape along his back. Jaskier angles his hips slightly, making sure that the Witcher can get as deep as possible, and every second or third thrust grazes his prostate. They know each other too well: especially what to do to make the other person breathless.

Geralt’s teeth graze his neck. His arms slip underneath Jaskier, holding him close to his chest. Geralt flips them both, settling Jaskier over him as he lies back against the pillows.

Jaskier groans. The movement only gets Geralt’s cock deeper. He slumps forward slightly. Planting one hand beside Geralt’s head, his hips start to move of their own accord. Geralt’s hands find purchase there, not guiding him in any way, but just holding on.

A warm coil starts tightening in his core. He can feel it starting, and just wills it to hold off for a moment. He looks down at the Witcher stretched out underneath him; hooded eyes, a lazy smile ghosting his lips.

He doesn’t know how long they spend moving against and with each other. Jaskier’s heart leaps to his throat at the sound of movement in the hallway outside. Heavy footfalls of other Witchers leaving their bedrooms next door. Something must flash across his face, because Geralt huffs a light laugh. “They’ll hear you if you’re not careful, lark,” he grins.

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something, but it’s cut off into a sharp groan when Geralt fucks into him that bit harder. “Oh, you bastard,” he grits. It takes a couple of minutes for the hallway outside to get quiet again. And the second it does, a chorus of moans and grunts leave the both of them as Jaskier’s vision starts to blur around the edges. His core tightens and coils in on itself. He’s close, and looking down at the Witcher, he can tell that he’s near his end too.

“How do you want to come?” Geralt breathes, planting his feet to help thrust up into Jaskier that bit harder.

“Oh gods, like this,” he sighs, leaning back and staring up at the canopy of the bed. Shivers tremble up throughout his body with every thrust down on to Geralt’s cock. It’s not enough and too much at once. “Fuck, like this. Make me come, please Geralt.”

The hands on his hip tighten, leaving what he hopes will be marks. Buried underneath his clothes, he won’t be able to move much without knowing what the damn Witcher did. And it sends shivers up through his spine.

He tightens around Geralt at a particularly well-aimed thrust to his prostate. His breath catches in his throat. Geralt sits up, gathering an arm around him and holding him close. His own cock is between them, red and leaking. Every brush of it against Geralt’s abdomen only sends him closer to the edge.

Jaskier loops his arms around Geralt’s shoulder, burying his face into Geralt’s neck. Every groan punched out of him with every thrust soaks into the skin there. When he comes, his vision whitens. His arms tighten around Geralt, holding him close as wetness spreads between the both of them.

Geralt follows not long after, with his hands at Jaskier’s hips holding him down as he fills the bard.

Geralt brings them both down to lie on to the bed. He slips out of the bard quickly, reaching out and fumbling for a shirt of his that he discarded at some point during the night. He cleans the both of them as best as he’s able, before tossing it aimlessly aside to some corner of the room. Jaskier’s breath slowly returns to him. When Geralt lies back against the pillows, lifting his arm, he crawls into the free space. He sighs at the slight thrum of soreness that goes through his lower spine.

“You’re a big softie, you know that?” Jaskier smiles as he settles against Geralt’s side. “Were you truly concerned about me wasting away in this keep?”

Fingertips run up and down each knob of his spine. A slight scrape of nail joins it. “It isn’t lost on me that you’re a bard in a keep of Witchers,” Geralt says slowly. “I worried that you might have felt alone.”

“A sheep among wolves,” Jaskier hums, resting his chin against Geralt’s chest. “I don’t feel alone. I’m with you, aren’t I?”

A small smile ghosts over Geralt’s face.

Jaskier knows the second the last of the snow has melted. He’s vaguely aware of a loud chorus of knocking against their bedroom door. He frowns, cover his eyes against the morning light coming in through the windows, and burrows back into his pillow. Geralt fairs slightly better, grunting awake and lifting his head, glaring daggers into the door. When the knocking continues, Geralt huffs and buries back underneath the blankets.

“Shouldn’t you get that?” Jaskier mumbles.

What he gets as an answer is a non-committal hum.

But Jaskier wakes fully to the door of their room suddenly flying open. “Geralt! Geralt! Geralt!” Ciri scrambles into the room, rushing over to the foot of their bed. Jaskier manages to move out of the way just in time for Ciri to all but launch herself on to the mattress.

Geralt grunts, rubbing a hand over his face. “What are you doing so awake at this hour?” he rasps.

“It’s midday,” Ciri protests, pointing to the tall lancet windows. Jaskier opens his eyes as best as he’s able and, yeah, he’s met with bright skies and a sun sitting high up over the mountain’s peak. Ciri shoves at Geralt. “And the snow is gone! You promised that as soon as the snow is gone, you would take me out hunting with you.”

“I didn’t mean the very second it’s gone, Ciri,” Geralt sighs. He frees an arm from the blanket cocoon they have around each other. Reaching out, snagging Ciri’s waist with his arm, he brings the girl down to lie down in the sliver of free space between them. She tries to struggle out of his hold, using everything she’s learned from the others to try and get Geralt’s arm away from her. But ultimately, she collapses against the mountain of pillows by the headboard of the bed, huffing harshly.

“You promised,” she says, glancing up at him. Her eyes are wide, with the faintest hint of a pout to her lips.

Jaskier brushes some hair out of the girl’s face. It’s freshly washed; he can smell the orange blossom oils she always steals from him. Ever since she started her training, she’s worn her hair back in a simple braid. One that never survives from how intensely the girl insists on training. He smiles down at her. “Geralt is still keen on hibernating like a bear, I’m afraid, little swallow. If you want him out of bed, you should have brought food.”

Jaskier barely gets out of the way of a swatting hand from the other side of the bed.

Geralt loosens his grip on the girl. It gives her enough leeway to manage to sit up, resting her back against the headboard of the bed. “I’ve gotten better at pirouetting,” she says simply, fumbling with the fraying edge of her tunic. “I was hoping that I could show you today.”

Geralt blinks up at her. “If the arena hasn’t flooded with melted snow, you can show me everything the others have taught you.”

“But you’ll bring me hunting with you first, right?”

A small laugh escapes him. “Right.”

“Because Lambert says that we need more meat for the stores.”

“I know-”

“-And Eskel mentioned something about Lambert being bitchy when he’s hungry-”

“-Don’t swear-”

“-You swear all the time!”

Jaskier hides his laughter into his pillow, as best as he’s able. He rolls over to look over the edge of the bed. For the first time in a long time, sleep-clothes stayed on during the night. Sleep washed over them before anything managed to start. He spots one of his doublets nearby. Even with just an arm out, he can feel how cold the air is. And leaving the small fort of blankets both he and Geralt managed to construct for themselves during the night is not sitting well with him at all.

Ciri and Geralt continue to argue behind him as he grabs his doublet, quickly slipping it on before the cold can chill his bones. Even with the snow gone, the air still nips and bites. The keep juts out of a mountain. Thick forests and hills surround them in every direction. Being up so high means that the air is always cold and unforgiving, no matter how much the sun shines down.

Jaskier slips out of bed. He pads over to the other side of the room, grabbing his breeches and boots. Over his shoulder, he sees Geralt start the slow process of getting out of bed himself. Ciri hops down, adjusting her tunic and belt, synching it to her waist. Her wooden sword lies scattered at the foot of the bed. Geralt eyes it as he passes. “You better not treat your actual blades like that.”

Both he and Geralt dress quickly. The Witcher grabs his blades, strapping the sheathes to their normal position against his back. Ciri gathers her own sword, pinning it to her waist by her belt.

They pass Eskel and Lambert in the main gathering room, hauling in some wood for the fire. They stack it beside the stone hearth, content to leave it for a few hours. The hearth isn’t lit. The springs beneath the keep warm the walls with their steam.

The hunting party for the day is Vesemir, Lambert, Geralt, and Ciri. Vesemir is already outside, filling a quiver with arrows and hooking it to his waist. Three bows lie on a table near him. “Grab a bow and some arrows,” he glances up at the sky. “Who knows how long the weather stays like this.” Something akin to a smile flickers over Vesemir’s face as soon as Ciri rushes past, making a grab for a bow and quiver. Lambert gets there before her, holding the two objects up above her head, just out of reach.

A laugh bellows out of his chest. “If you want it, princess, get it off of me. You know how.”

Geralt is the last to join the party. He stays by Jaskier’s side, leaning down, pressing a soft kiss to the arch of Jaskier’s cheek. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says.

Jaskier lifts his chin. A silent request for another kiss. It’s given to him as quickly as he asked for it. “Be careful,” he mumbles when they pull away.

Geralt shrugs a shoulder. “I have Ciri with me. I’m in safe hands.”

A sharp whistle cuts through the air. “None of that, now,” Lambert hollers at them, making a face at how close they’re standing. He’s still towering above Ciri, not budging no matter how hard she shoves at him. “We need to go while we still have the sun. Keep your canoodling to yourselves in your own time.”

Geralt flips him off.

The first time Ciri manages to land a hit on Geralt, Jaskier has to physically restrain himself from running out on to the arena dirt and hugging her with pride.

There’s a slow trudge into spring. The days are steadily getting warmer, although cold winds still blow through the keep every so often. Geralt came back from the market one day with a cloak in his hand, saying that although the other Witchers could handle the cold, he couldn’t stand by and let his lark shiver for one more second.

Jaskier tugs it tighter around himself, warding off the cold. His fingers are fine though, strumming a few chords on his lute. The occasional screech of a blade on whetstone joins him. Eskel is nearby, sharpening the last of his blades. But he stops whenever Jaskier’s couple of chords become lines of music. Whenever the bard mumbles a few lines, testing how they taste and sit in his mouth, Eskel keeps quiet.

Geralt and Ciri keep practising, though. She was telling the truth when she barged into their room yesterday. She’s gotten much better at pirouetting. It’s like the water dancers he used to watch as a child, whenever his father had them commissioned to perform at a party or feast. He spends half of his time playing his lute, while the other half glancing up and watching the lesson take place in front of him. Ciri dodges every strike Geralt lunges at her. She deflects every swing of a sparring sword. She doesn’t fall over or stumble, but roots her feet into the ground, like Lambert taught her to do before the snow came.

She twirls on one foot, bringing her sword around and deflecting another swing from Geralt. She grunts with the force of it. She ducks and weaves, a fierce look etching into her face with every step she has to take back to avoid getting hit with Geralt’s sparring sword.

Whether intentionally or not, Geralt makes a mistake. He draws back a bit too much for a swing, leaving his front open for attack. Ciri is quick. Before Geralt’s arm can go all the way back, drawing for an attack, Ciri lunges: jutting the edge of her sword into his chest. The point of it stops just shy of his body.

Geralt stands stock still. Arms splayed out on either side. A yield.

If it were a real fight, with real steel, she could just lunge forward and pierce Geralt’s chest. From where the tip of her sword is pointing, it’s aimed right at his heart. She could ever knick a lung on the way in.

And he’s not sure if the thought sits well with him or not. He’s proud of her. She’s learned so much over such a short space of time.

But every so often, something hits him in the stomach. The mortality of everything: Ciri is learning how to fight, but also how to protect herself. She needs to protect herself against people who would do her harm.

“Well done lassie,” Eskel calls out, shaking him from his thoughts.

Jaskier offers her a small smile when she glances over to them. “Very well done.”

He’s not going to sit here and say that it doesn’t make him feel some sort of pride to see her landing a strike – a deadly strike – to Geralt. Watching at how quickly excitement bubbles to the surface makes his heart swell: even when she tries to tame it, brushing some hair back behind her ear, and taking up her stance again. Geralt lifts his chin. “Best of three,” he says, lunging for her again.

Eskel nudges him with his foot. “I know that look,” he says softly, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Jaskier looks down at the lute in his hands, at the strings his fingers gently pluck at. “It’s nothing.”

Eskel snorts. “Aye. And I’m king of a southern holdfast.” A quiet moment settles over them for a moment. Jaskier’s dimly aware of Eskel still staring at the side of his head. He ignores the Witcher, going back to strumming a few notes and jotting down words that come to mind. It’s all nonsense. The page will be ripped out and burned the second Eskel is gone.

The Witcher sets one of his swords to the side, tossing the whetstone on to a nearby table. “I had one too, you know,” he says after a time. He nods over to Ciri. “A child surprise.”

Jaskier flattens his hand over the lute’s strings, stopping their sound. “What?”

Eskel’s brow lifts. “Geralt never told you?”

He shakes his head.

Eskel sits back in his chair, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. The forge is nearby, spitting embers and warming their backs. “I got one just like Geralt did: by asking prompting magic I didn’t understand. I saved a knight once. He was in a spot of bother, and I helped him. He was so grateful, he said I could have whatever I wanted.” Eskel huffs a light laugh. “I didn’t want anything. Well, coin would have been useful. Or food, or a place to sleep for the night. But this knight was a noble of some hold west of the Kestrel Mountains. He was pretty fucking insistent that I ask for more. And I heard Vesemir asking for things before. The wording always struck me as odd.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Give me that which you find at home, yet do not expect. I want to find whatever god strung that sentence together and give them a clip ‘round the ear. What horseshit that line is. You could get anything from it: a bottle of milk, straight from the cow outside, to a fucking child.”

Jaskier lifts his chin. “Geralt was just as shocked as you,” he says slowly. “When he realised what he did. What he asked for.”

Eskel snorts. “I can only imagine.”

Ciri continues to dance around the other Witcher. Geralt lands a hit on her, brushing her shoulder with his sparring sword.

Eskel hums. “Though I think Geralt got off lucky with getting that girl,” he says lowly, leaning forward to settle his arms over his knees. “He could have done much worse.”

Jaskier frowns. “What do you mean?”

After a quiet moment, Eskel gestures to his face. A trident of scars runs down one side, from the crown of his head to the jut of his chin. They look old, long-since healed over, but stand out against the Witcher’s otherwise pale skin. “My surprise child. Deirdre. She had blood like wildfire, that one.”

Eskel looks out on to the courtyard, though his gaze doesn’t settle on anything specific. “She had a temper like nothing I’ve ever seen. She could be perfectly fine one moment, and brandishing a blade at you the next. I never blamed her for it. The second that girl was born underneath a black sun, everything had been against her.”

Jaskier looks down at the ground. Geralt told him a story many moons ago – how he got the name of the Butcher of Blaviken. A sorcerer Jaskier wishes he could kill himself, trying to hire Geralt to kill a girl on whispers of a prophecy.

“She lived here for a time,” Eskel continues, looking down at his hands. They’ve blackened from the coals of the forge. “I didn’t know where else to take her. But she lashed out one day, cut my face into what it is now, and disappeared. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Jaskier swallows. “How long ago was it?”

Eskel lifts a shoulder. “Couple of decades, I think. When your lifespan increases like ours, you tend to lose track of time.”

Jaskier hums. Another thud sounds from the arena. Glancing over, he offers a small smile to Ciri when she announces that she was able to hit Geralt again – in the abdomen this time.

“When I heard Geralt had managed to get saddled with a child surprise,” Eskel sighs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lip. “Gods, I would have given anything to have seen the look on his face. But now I see her, and how he is with her, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what it’s meant to be like.”

“If it’s of any consolation,” Jaskier says quietly, “you’re part of her family too. All of you.”

Their training is called for the day. Ciri rushes over to the sheltered forge, slightly out of breath with small beads of sweat dotted over her forehead. “I finally beat Geralt,” she says, taking up a seat next to Jaskier when he frees up some space for her.

Jaskier presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “Good. Maybe you’ll be the one to finally beat some sense into him."

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vara-drakaina · 5 years

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Fictober Day 2 “Lost and Found”

Fictober Day 2 Prompt: “Just follow me. I know the area.” Inktober Day 2 Prompt: Mindless

Style: Fanfic (Oneshot) Fandom: Destiny Characters: Cayde-6, Andal Brask Warnings: None

Song Inspiration: None this time.

This is a short story about what I think the first time Cayde-6 and Andal Brask met would have been like. No OC’s this time. Writing in a stream-of-consciousness style is so hard, but I hope it came out alright. :)

My name is Cayde-6.

I’m certain enough about the ‘Cayde’ part, at least. The 6 is a little more touch-and-go; not sure what it means, and I’m not sure if it’s right in the first place. This “Ghost”… well, my Ghost—Sundance, she called herself—seems pretty certain of it. And while I haven’t known her for long I’m inclined to believe her.

She tells me I’m an Exo. A humanoid machine, with a man’s mind thrown in for extra confliction. I get flashes of memories… honestly, I wouldn’t even call them memories. I can see them and I’m in them, but they don’t feel like mine. More like… ghosts—with a lower-case G, mind you—: wispy, transparent, fleeting. Coming and going like loose shingles in a hurricane; probably just as dangerous too.

When I woke up, after all the panicking and residual death-thoughts, I found a book in my vest pocket. It’s next to me now as I write this, having finally made it to what Sundance calls “The Last City.” The last dregs of humanity all gathered here under this “Traveler” for protection.

I’m not sure what to think of this “Traveler.” It seems awfully stationary to have a name like that, and when I look at it, I feel… fudgey. Is fudgey a feeling? It is now, I guess. I don’t like not knowing if that things alive or not. Somewhere deep in me—wherever this ‘Light’ Sundance keeps talking about is, I’m sure—I feel something. I don’t know yet if it’s relief or dread, but it leaves me feeling anxious. I wanna run, away from this city, outside these walls, anywhere there won’t be people telling me what to do or what my purpose is. Just find a nice tree to climb and avoid all that junk.

I haven’t looked in that book yet. Well, that’s a lie, I looked at the first page. What can I say? I’m curious. It seems to be a journal, and frankly, I don’t think I’m ready to read it yet. Maybe the “me-that-was-before-me” has some things to say to “me-that-is-now-me”—but I’m sure as hell not ready for it. Maybe he’ll offer some advice, maybe he’ll call me a dumbass for becoming a 6 in the first place. Maybe he’s right. Either way, I’ll tuck it away for later.

Sundance says that’s normal for new Guardians, which is apparently what I now am. The humans and Awoken—the bluish ones that glow, like that large bald fella across the street from me—they rarely remember anything. She says the Exo are unlucky like that. We get bits and pieces, stuck in the wires and circuitry of our being, like we’re haunted by our past selves. Apparently most Exo were soldiers, which raises more than a couple heavy questions about what my previous life’s gig was. But that’s a thought for another time.

She says my instinct to run and get away from it all makes me a hunter. I guess that makes some sense, considering the “me-that-was-before-me” was probably some sort of mercenary. “A hunter wants freedom; the freedom to roam, and fight, and rely on nobody but the knife in your boot and the cannon at your side. And me of course!” That’s what she’d said that first night, as we camped by a fire that was only there for comfort. I don’t suppose a robot needs to keep warm, does it?

That night was a bad one for memories, especially cozy ones filled with happiness and familiarity. Foreign memories of people I’d met, but never met; loved, but never loved. A woman and a boy, and the man between them, all blurred faces and vagueness. I’m sure there’s something on them in that book, but I’m not sure I want to know what I lost.

Cayde-6 set down his pen, growing frustrated with… well, whatever this is. Sighing dramatically, he crumpled the paper into a ball and shoved it in his vest pocket, stopping a moment to look at his gloved hands. He flexed is fingers and clenched his fists, listening to the dark leather stretch and creak, and the muffled bending of the metal joints beneath. It was the closest he’d ever get to having skin again.

The restless anxiety rose in him again and he chose to leave the quiet rooftop corner he’d holed up in after escaping the Vanguard. They’d talked his ear off about his duty to the Traveler and to the Last City, but he hadn’t been able to focus on anything other than getting a bowl of spicy ramen from that shop he’d seen on his way in. He also hadn’t been able to find it again. Maybe he could take another stab at it...

So he wandered aimlessly through the lower city streets, popping into alleyways or hopping onto a balcony whenever he heard a particularly excitable Guardian talking about the Traveler or the Vanguard. He’d never been much of a city man, or at least, he thought that was the case if his claustrophobia had anything to say about it. Sundance had drifted off to speak with some Ghost friends of hers a while ago, so he had no guide to ease his mindless search of the city. In truth, he wasn’t paying as much attention as he should have been if he actually wanted to find the ramen shop.

“I’ve never seen a Guardian that looked as lost as you do,” came a gravelly voice from behind him.

Cayde-6 stopped, some buried instincts within gearing up for a fight, and turned to address whoever it was what had so rudely interrupted his drifting. Instead he found only empty air, and he looked on in confusion.

“Up here,” came the voice again—rather unhelpfully, Cayde might add, considering up here could be anywhere. Whoever the voice belonged to sounded amused, and that didn’t do much to curb Cayde’s irritation.

He glanced around again, until his optics rested on a man shrouded in the shadow of a balcony nearby.

Eyes narrowed, he defended himself, trying to keep his tone light.

“I’m just getting to know the streets of my new home, I’ll have you know. I’ve always heard getting lost is the way to find the best food.”

The man vaulted over the balcony ledge, dropping down to stand in front of him. He had short, messy brown hair and piercing, but friendly blue eyes. His body was relaxed, casual, betraying no hint of malintent.

“I’m afraid you won’t be finding much in the way of food down here in the residential district,” he chuckled, and held out a hand. “Name’s Andal. What about you, New Light?”

Cayde-6 found himself trusting this man, so he shook the man’s hand as firmly as he could manage.

“Cayde-6. Truth be told, I was looking for a ramen shop I saw on my way into the city. Got me so distracted I missed everything the Vanguard was trying to tell me. Then my Ghost drifted off to gossip with friends, apparently. The nerve.” He rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment. “So yeah, I’m definitely lost.”

Andal chuckled again, and turned to walk off, “Well, just follow me. I know the area. Been here for a while now, I know how confusing this place can be at first. I was getting hungry anyway.”

“Hell yeah, I haven’t eaten since… well whenever I died, I guess. I’m starving!”

#fictober19 #fanfiction #oneshot #destiny #destiny 2 #cayde-6 #andal brask #stream of consciousness is hard

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mythicallore · 5 years

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A Dark History of The Hellfire Club

Perched atop an expanse of grassy knolls and rather charming scenery, at a place called Mount Pelier Hill, near Dublin, Ireland, is an old, abandoned stone structure from another time, standing out there defiantly amongst the elements. Today it just seems like the crumbling ruins of another bygone era, like many that dot the lush countryside here, but this place in particular had a rather colorful history and an even more haunted reputation. Commonly called the Hellfire Club, the building was first erected in 1725 by Irish Speaker of the House of Commons William Conolly, and was originally a hunting lodge then called Mount Pelier, as well as other monikers such as The Brass Castle and Bevan’s Hill. It is also well known as being one of the creepiest and most aggressively haunted places in Ireland, with a dark history that would soon transcend its humble beginnings to devolve into a world of the occult, sacrifices, and black magic.

Things begin to get spooky from the years of between 1735 to 1741, when the building was frequently used as a meeting place for the notorious Irish Hellfire Club, a sort of secret society, who allegedly used it as a venue for all manner of occult rituals, black masses, ceremonies, black magic rituals, sacrifices both animal and human, and it was generally full of orgies and wild drunken debauchery, a place of sin and depravity. Illustrating the club’s full on hedonism perfectly was their motto, which was “Fais ce que tu voudras”, or “Do what thou wilt.” Adding to the occult imagery of the club in general is that they were said to always leave a chair open for the Devil, and that their mascot was an enormous black cat.

The Hellfire Club

There are also many stories of the supernatural around this place when it was in use, the most popular being that one evening a stranger dressed all in black visited the Hellfire Club out of the rainy night. The members allowed him in, and to even join them in a game of cards. At one point a player purportedly dropped a card under the table, and when he went to retrieve it he noticed that the stranger had cloven hooves instead of feet. At that moment, it became clear that this was the Devil himself, and he stood up to go shooting up into the air, where he vanished in a ball of fire. In another tale, the Hellfire members were in the process of sacrificing a black cat, and when a priest performed an exorcism on its corpse a demon was said to spew forth from the carcass, in some versions of the tale setting the place on fire as it did. In yet another tale, club member Simon Luttrell, Lord Irnham, later Earl of Carhampton, made a deal with the Devil to give his soul in exchange for clearing his debts, and when the Devil showed up at the Hellfire Club’s front door to collect Luttrell reneged and ran away. In yet another story a local farmhand once found his way to the club and was invited in for the night, only to be found the next day babbling nonsensically and in a vegetative trance, living out the rest of his days in an insane asylum, never recovering enough to even be able to explain what he had seen, doomed to remain a drooling madman.

In later years the building would be moved further down the hill to a place called Killakee House after a devastating fire gutted it, said to have been started by lighting a person on fire during a black mass. The club’s nefarious activities continued, including allegedly kidnapping, murdering, and consuming a farmer’s daughter on the orders of a notorious member named Thomas “Buck” Whaley. In the wake of Whaley’s death the club sort of disbanded, and paranormal tales have orbited the location ever since. One of the main ideas is that the building itself is cursed. This has its roots in the fact that during the original construction of the hunting lodge there were found to be ancient cairns and an underground grave complex beneath, and according to the lore many of the cairn stones were repurposed into the actual construction of the lodge, angering the spirits in the process to the point that it is said that the roof was mysteriously blown right off the building by a mysterious terrifying force right after it was finished.

In addition to this the Hellfire Club and the nearby Steward’s House have been intensely haunted by an eclectic mix of different spirits. One is the apparition of a huge black cat the size of a large dog, said to be able to speak and to have blazing red eyes, a humanoid face, and to be wreathed in the smell of sulphur, which roams the building and its surrounding countryside. There is also the spirit of a wailing woman on fire, said to be either one of the victims of the Hellfire fire centuries ago or a sacrifice, as well as an unidentified ghost that apparently will rip off any jewelry that visitors wear, especially crucifixes. Most unusual of all is the presence of the ghost of a dwarf, believed to have been a sacrifice by the club. Interestingly, reports of the ghost dwarf have had a bit of an infusion of believability when the remains of an actual dwarf were found buried under the floorboards of the Killakee House during renovations in 1971. Adding to the ghostly party are the apparitions of an Indian and two nuns known as Blessed Margaret and Holy Mary, also thought to have been victims of human sacrifice during the club’s active years. In addition to all of these wandering spirits and entities are the numerous complaints of people having nausea or chest pains when visiting the area, and the whole place is reportedly absolutely infused with a sense of dread and despondency. Even paranormal investigators get squeamish at this place, and the Head of Paranormal Researchers Ireland has said of the Hellfire Club building:

There have been two places I have been that I got absolutely terrified and I don’t usually. The Hellfire Club in the Dublin Mountains, and Loftus Hall in Wexford. We were up the Hellfire one night, a group of eight or ten of us. We stood in a circle and the next minute there was a thud, it was like a vibration went through the whole building and all the equipment went mental. One of the guys was in the hall and he is a cynic and he said a black shadow crossed him, 100 per cent — a tall black shadow. Another guy started getting sick, and then a girl said she heard a whisper in her ear, very clear, and it just said ‘get out’. All in the course of one minute. Chaos. That was the first time ever I called an end to the night and said we didn’t feel safe.

Other paranormal investigators have agreed, such as Tim Kelley, the head of the group Irish Ghost Hunters, a crack group that uses hi-tech gadgetry, including thermal-imaging cameras and state-of-the-art audio equipment to investigate haunted sites throughout the country. Kelley’s team have been to the Hellfire Club on numerous occasions, but have been so completely assaulted by unexplained malevolent activity that they have vowed never to step foot in there again. Kelley has said:

We’ve been everywhere in the country at this stage, but the Hellfire Club is somewhere we have no intention of returning to because there’s a very sinister energy there. I know people go up there all the time, and no doubt it will be a popular destination at Halloween, but I would advise people to think twice about going there, because there’s a very negative energy there. There’s a really weird sensation as soon as you go in it and it’s something I don’t want to repeat again for the rest of my life. So it’s the only building in Ireland that’s off limits for me in terms of conducting a paranormal investigation.

The Hellfire Club building and the surrounding area have gone on to become regular features on lists of eeriest or most haunted places in Ireland, and with so many hauntings and such a morbidly dark history it is easy to see why. It is unfortunate that the history of the Hellfire Club is so shrouded with secrecy and pervaded with scary urban legends, to the point that it is difficult to unravel where the truth begins and the fiction ends. As with any remote, spooky place it has managed to gestate within it many tall tales and scary campfire stories that we will probably never know the extent to which the Hellfire Club’s depravity really sank or how much of it is true. However, one thing that is known is that this is considered to be one of Ireland’s most evil haunted places, and the reports of paranormal activity here continue.

#spooky #paranormal

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wiiidgeon · 5 years

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Totally random but I jjust remembered this and I need to type this down as fast as possible

I had like a really sick dream last night for like the first time in years (bevause I don't dream, that doesn't happen to me, what the FUCK)

And basically my mind created this super cool story in which there was something called a shadowverse but no one really knew about it since it just seems like something the citizens of this fictional mental universe made up when they were all kids, like an imaginary friend or some shit

And this shadowverse was basically this alternate world in which time was a lot slower (so say 5 hours of this world is like 8 hours of our "real" world. Idk why these were the proportions, but that's what my mind came up with) and a lot of the things were the same, but there were a ton of mythical vreatures and shit as well as people who were just like you and I, but just happened to be born in this mythical world. Oh and by mythical creatures, there's a mix of your generic ones (vampires, ghouls, ghosts, lycantropes, etc) and random ass ones like this GIANT ASS TURTLE that chased my character (myself? Idk, I'll just call her uhhh viewer {since I was seeing it through her eyes})

And Viewer, like everyone else in this world, thought that this was just something she came up with as a kid, and she had forgotten about it as she got older. That is, until Viewer was babysitting her brother for her parents while her parents and younger sister were going to watch like a baseball game I think?? And Viewer, being a performing arts and medical nerd, was like "nah, I'll watch some Grey's Anatomy with the little shit at home" and stayed back and shit.

Well her brother, who's around 5 or 6, accidentally stumbles into this little part of the wall that's shrouded in shadows and stuff. He decides to outline a doorway, and accidentally steps into the shadowverse. Viewer sees this and is like "yo what the FUCK" and CHASES AFTER HIM because HEY that's her BROTHER

And she stumbles into the same area as her little bro and picks him up like a child and is like "uh hey bro what the FUCK" and he's like "oh, yeah, this is where I go when I'm bored" anf Viewer is basically like "yeah, don't do this again mate, you don't know what could happen here, let's go" and they walk out and he promises not to go back. And then the magical doorway seals back up behind them when they walk back into their own world

Everything's fine and dandy for a few days, until Viewer decides fuck it, I'm gonna see if that was real or if I just fell asleep

So she mimics what her brother had done to a shadowy part of her apartment, and lo and behold, that shit was real

So she's like "holy shit holy shit holy SHIT" and RUNS IN after grabbing her phone and a little drawstring baggie and stuff and wanders into this badass looking place

And she wanders around this world that looks so much like her own to the point where there's a starbucks on the same corner (although for some reason it's called lunebucks or some shit like that and the little mermaid was a fae instead) and she's just like dude. Dude. This is so COOL. And then, she stumbles across these two classmates of hers from her school, but they're both not actually humans and they're both from this world?? They just prefer the other one because they have less shit to worry about in the "lightverse" as they call it

Oh and btw one's like this really really cute girl with like this cute almost bob hairstyle with two pieces braided back on each side and stuff and I think she was an elf or smth? An elf or a nymph or something

And the other one was like this actually kinda hot guy (and keep in mind, I as the writer am lesbian, so this dude would probably be really hot to a straight gal, a gay dude, or a nb pal who likes dudes) and I know for a fact that this dude was a vampire because I remember being "OF FUCKING COURSE HE IS" to myself

And apparently they were like "Oh, I didn't know you're from here mate, just thought you were human" and viewer is like "wait what the fUCK I AM HUMAN WHAT" and she runs to the restroom and she sees that her skin went from a tan to like,,, a very pale blue?? And she has like finlike ears and gills on her neck and stuff and she looks down to see fins on like the back or side of her legs and she runs back out to them and is like "haha no way I know for a FACT t h at I'm supposed to be human" and they're like "clearly, your parents didn't tell ya something, because humans do exist in this world and anyone who comes in here as a human stays as one, mate." And Viewer is like fuckfuckfuckfuckfu

And that's where the dream ended. I don't really write stuff, but I'm tempted to flesh this out and make this an actual story. Would anyone want to read it if I were to try to write it?

#not apex #writing #writing idea #writing ideas #this is what happens when i dream ig??#idk man #feels like I astral projected into another life or some shit #im not high i swear #or drunk #but seriously #should i write this?#worldbuilding #ig

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webcricket · 6 years

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Looking Glass

Chapter 24 - Heaven is a Place on Earth

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 1611

Summary: The seraph and his love settle into the relative normalcy of life in the bunker - how long will the honeymoon last? Warning for a suggestively erotic non-explicit adult situation. One more chapter remains before we bid adieu. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

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Staring into the two by two crate repurposed as luggage overflowing with stuff set on the end of the bed, the surge of a smile crests your cheeks. The gladness arises not from the realization the relatively small container holds more superfluous crap than you’ve owned in years – most of the items totally unnecessary for basic survival and impractical for travelling light – it’s the notion of putting down roots, calling somewhere home, and having the comfort of someone with which to share the physical and emotional space such a home represents that draws out the manifestation of pure delight.

Grasp sliding along the sides of the wooden box to lock into the notched handles, ginger on the roughened surface to avoid splinters, you drift a final glimpse around the stripped bunker room where you first woke up in this strange and wonderful world – the very same day you met a seraph who challenged your beliefs about celestial beings and whose kindness and persistent, although not always patient, concern changed everything.

It was Cas’ idea, moving in – air quotes implicit – with him. Practically speaking, since you spend whatever free time you have together, well, together, the proposal made sense; especially considering other refugees live crammed into storage cells sleeping on stacks of dusty file folders in lieu of mattresses and stowing their sundries on shelves lined with lore books in languages too ancient to comprehend.

“Oh, uh, sorry-” a voice pitched to tinny heights by nerves meekly announces itself from the shadow of the hall door standing ajar.

Your glance shifts to a girl burdened beneath a backpack and shrouded in stained jeans and a tattered olive-colored jacket ringed by a dingy faux-fur collar. You recognize the youthful porcelain features and furtively darting eyes of the young woman and smile warmly. “Hi, Maggie. Come on in.”

In an undertaking of momentous effort given the weight strapped to her shoulders, she strains a step inward and bends, nearly buckling to the floor with it as the backpack lands inside the threshold with a dense thud. Evidently she never caught on to the adage of packing light. Nevertheless, she survived. “Sam said this room would be open in the afternoon-” She peers at a non-existent watch on her wrist, rubs the bare flesh in self-conscious habit, and hides the whole hand in her pocket. “I-I guess I’m a little early.”

“Right on time,” you reassure. Without the fallout filtered shine of the sun, you’re not yet used to reckoning time here in the artificially-lit depths of the bunker either. “I was just clearing out.” Focus flitting to the hole in her pocket where her buried fingers fidget, you remember a magenta jacket worn once mixed in amidst your surplus bounty of belongings. “Hey, I have something you might like.” Rifling through the box, you yank out the article and toss it in her direction.

She dives to catch the fabric projectile, strokes the satiny finish, admires the color, and stares up at you; an unuttered – Are you sure? – glimmers in her wide-eyed gaze.

“I don’t really need two coats, you know?” You resettle the rumpled contents of the crate. “And the color compliments you.”

“Thank you!” She beams; the gift, along with the compliment, opens the proverbial floodgates of sociability. “You’re with the angel, right?”

Right. The skin on your nape crawls – the bunker’s a tiny place these days with so many people occupying it and every single one of them damn well knows you’re with the angel. Sam made it a point to involve you in aiding the other survivors as they adapt to this world in order to break down the barriers of your angelic intimacy inhibiting them from trusting you. You get it – once upon a time you thought all angels were dicks, too. Defensive instinct kicks in at her comment. “His name is Castiel.” You direct the grit of the answer into the tenseness of the fists grabbing the edges of the box. A sliver punctures your pinky.

She looks at her feet, blushing, apologetic. “I didn’t mean-” she mumbles, meets your eyes to express sincerity– “I meant, what’s it like? Being with-”

“An angel?” you finish the query, biting the inside of your lower lip in self-recrimination for getting riled over the friendly conversation of a curious and grateful girl. “Sorry, I just … I’ve heard some of what the others say about us. He’s a good guy and what we have, it feels really … normal.”

“Normal-” She smiles, irises wistfully glazing and rolling upward in reflection– “that sounds nice.”

Heaving the box up to balance on the slope of your hip, you clasp her arm commiseratively as you shimmy past, ignoring the shard of wood stinging your skin. “I’ve learned anything is possible in this world. You can have that now, too – normal, nice. It’s safe here. I promise.”

“Safe.” She mouths the word, swallows the syllable in wonderment as you disappear into the hallway. Spinning to study the barren beige walls of the room, seeing possibilities in the blank canvas, bending to pick up her pack and drag it toward the dresser, she says the word again, imbuing the sound with confidence of truth. Of belief. “Safe.”

Perception perked, smile snagged at the corner of his mouth, Cas follows the sweetly noted treasure of a song to the yawning entryway of his quarters; his, he reminds himself, and as of today, yours, too. He stops to watch your figure swaying in front of the dresser, humming an unidentifiable and melodic tune as you fold pieces of clothing and tuck them into the drawers.

With you inhabiting the space, the light of the room glows significantly warmer; the cold décor seems somehow cozier. The room was never one he sought out before, never a place he felt a particular connection to aside from the fact Dean deemed number 15 as officially in angelic possession when it became clear the heavenly dispossessed being had unofficially blessed the bunker as his official home base; Dean happened to be half in the bag drunk that night and the bestowment of the bedroom may have been purely so the hammered hunter could slur some smirked joke about an Inception-style movie meta of an occupied vessel occupying a room.

The muffled shutting of the top drawer and scrape asunder of the one below tugs Cas into the present. He worried asking you to stay with him so early in your relationship might be perceived as presumptuous on his part. This world may be novel to you, but as an angel the navigational nuances of a loving liaison exist in a land foreign to him – one discovered, explored, and mapped out piece by piece with every moment you share. There’s no doubt in his heart and mind he loves you; and yet, he is also learning how to love you day by day.

Heeding to the guidance of the naturally arising – albeit frequently hedonistic in origin – impulses afflicting his vessel when in your presence has proven useful. He succumbs to one such an urge now, treading noiselessly across the threshold to slot his body against yours; skimming his hands over your stomach, he sinks his stubbly chin to your neck to stamp a kiss upon the delicate skin. “How was your day, my love?”

Laughter of surprise lilting your tongue, folded tee held aloft in your fingers tumbling to the floor, you relax into his rigid physique and stretch your neck to give his ticklish affections ample and unrestricted access. “Good – great, now that you’re here. How’d it go with the ghoul?”

He groans, a vibration of breath ghosting your ear.

“That good, huh?” you tease. In the mirror mounted above the dresser, you observe him nuzzle the sensitive spot below your ear until, lashes lowering in delight, you shudder and squirm, weak-kneed with a knot of anticipation forming in your belly.

They – he, Sam, and Dean in a tag-team trio – have tried to set a routine of hunting to keep Jack distracted, to train those of the refugees who are willing to fight a different foe. No one is talking about the impossibility of returning to the apocalypse world to take Michael to task. Deep down, for all the speeches and good intentions, no one really wants to go back; and without an archangel, that door is mercifully closed.

When he lets up in his worshipful ministrations, your eyelids flutter open to meet the eclipsed blue of his reflected gaze. “I missed you, angel.”

“I missed you, too.” His fingertips test the heated waters of flesh beneath the hem of your shirt, sparking grace where they caress and a blissful aching in your nethers. “I heard you praying – perceived your longing.” The digits wander below your navel, lifting the elastic band of your shorts to stray further still. “Those prayers – they’re inappropriate as far as holy entreaties go, don’t you think?” Arching a brow, the smile brimming to scrunch his eyes and nose tells you he enjoyed every licentious word.

“Yes, Cas,” you purr, less acknowledgment of impiousness, more yearning. Fingers wrap the seraph’s wrist and push his pursuit of your pleasure permissively toward its goal.

“Dean found another case,” he murmurs and nips at the shell of your earlobe, “we leave in a few hours.”

“So soon?” You gasp the last word, thighs trembling as his fingers and their tingling grace glide home to sheath your senses from all but the seraph’s touch.

He groans again into your neck, softly speaks in a gravelly choked cadence you’ve come to comprehend is Enochian. You don’t know the precise meaning; you can guess.

Next: Ch. 25 - Corollaries

#castiel x reader #castiel x you #castiel fluff #castiel reader insert #spn x reader #castielxreader #castielxyou #cas x reader #cas x you #castiel fanfiction #castiel fanfic #spn fanfiction #reader x castiel #you x castiel #spn fanfic #spn reader insert #castiel x au!reader #cricket writes cas

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sweetiepie08 · 6 years

Text

Everything Stays (Chapter 2)

Adventure Time au

Inspired by Simon & Marcy’s relationship in Adventure Time

Héctor can’t remember how he found the amulet or why it’s chosen him, but it saved him and his daughter when the end of the world came. As he and Coco wander through the wreckage, he can feel the amulet’s power growing and trying to creep into his mind. He knows it’s slowly taking over despite his attempts to fight, but he must hang on for Coco.

Chapter 1. Chapter 2.

The shock at finding each other again was so overwhelming, all they could do was stare. Each pair assumed the other was dead. It took a minute for it to sink in that they were not looking at ghosts.

The moment passed and they rushed toward each other. Her Tío Filipe picked her up and gave her a toss, commenting on how much she’d grown. Tío Oscar embraced Papá with a clap on the back. Papá hugged him back, but was careful to place his hands on his own skin. For some reason he’d become impervious to burns.

“Did you join a boy band?” Oscar joked, a bright smile on his face.

“In the 90s?” Filipe added.

Her Papá pinched a lock of platinum blonde hair in his fingers and absently examined it before flicking back in place. “Would you believe it is natural?” He said with an awkward grin. The scattered locks of blonde now growing from his head was just one sign that something was off. His skin had also turned a shade more orange and his hands were always warm to the touch. “I can tell you about it later,” he added, sparing a glance at Coco.

“Yes, there’s so much to talk about,” Oscar said. “We’ll explain on our way back to camp.”

“Camp” referred to the little community of survivors from Santa Cecilia. Oscar and Filipe took turns explaining what happened to them before the Flash. As the Mushroom War escalated, the brothers started building a secret bunker just outside of Santa Cecelia, hoping they would never really need it. They happened to be working on it when the green cloud appeared. They started getting everyone they could find into the bunker and closed the door just before the flash went off. They stayed down there for a few days until they finally decided to check if it was safe. When they came out, they found Santa Cecelia destroyed, covered in scorch marks with strange puddles of green slime splashed about the landscape.

They’d become a wandering community since then, everyone had to be now a days. Papá’s first question was if Imelda was with them. She was not. No one had seen her since the flash. Papá looked sick.

They did mention that Ernesto was with them for a time. He hid in the bunker with them and traveled with the community for about a year. Then, he found something, he wouldn’t say what, but he thought he found a way to reverse the flash. He went off on his own to find it, and that was the last time they saw him as well.

When they finally made it to camp, Coco could hardly believe her eyes. Sure, the camp itself was little more than a series of tents and campfires, but there were people there. She hadn’t seen so many people in so long. And there were kids there! Kids her own age! Kids she could play with! She even recognized a few from school. She begged Papá to let her run ahead, and he actually did. He never let her wander out of his sight these days. Surely this must be a special place.

The rest of the day was like a dream. It was almost like she had her old life back. She got to out to play for the first time since she couldn’t remember when. And the smile Papá wore as he watched her play was real. It was a real smile.

Lately, his usual ones were fake, usually accompanied by lies like, “I’m alright,” despite evidence to the contrary. They were weak with worry and shrouded in sadness. They were frowns forcibly and painstakingly turned upside down, not that he would ever admit that. Whenever she asked about it, he’d tell her not to worry about it. Every kid knew that meant he was just keeping all the worry for himself.

Her dream shattered that night, as quickly as a false smile. After they shared dinner with the rest of the community, Papá asked her uncles to talk and they went into one of the tents. She said she wanted to go too. Papá told her everything was fine and to go play with the other kids. But everything was definitely not fine. She could tell by the way they whispered.

After they went in, she waited until she was sure they’d think she was off playing before sneaking up to the tent flaps. Right away she knew something terrible was about to happen.

“Of course we will,” her Tío Filipe said. “That’s not even a question.”

“But you’re staying too,” Oscar added.

“I wish that I could,” Papá said. He was sad; so, so sad. “Imelda would be so proud to see what you’ve done here, but I can’t be part of it. I’m slipping, I can feel it. I’ve already begun changing. If the amulet were to take over entirely…”

“Maybe it won’t come to that.”

“Maybe, but more likely it will.”

“You can’t just give up.”

“I’m not giving up. If there is a way, I will find it and I will find you all again, but this is what’s best for everyone. Before today, my only plan was to pray that I could hold on long enough for Coco to learn to survive on her own. Now that we found you…” there were tears in his voice, “at least I know I’m leaving her with family who loves her.”

Leave? Her heart jumped into the back of her throat. Papá was going to leave? No. It was worse. He was going to leave her behind.

She tore into the room and launched herself into Papá so hard he nearly fell over. “You can’t!” she cried as she clung to him. “Please, Papá! No! You can’t!”

“Coco…” he breathed. That was all he could say.

“I know the amulet made you sick,” she continued, tears streaming down her cheeks, “but it’s okay now. Tío Oscar and Tío Filipe are here. They’re smart, really smart. They can fix you.”

Her uncles gave each other a helpless look. “Coco, I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” one of them said. She couldn’t tell which. They both looked like the same blurry blob through her watery eyes and her heart pounded too loud in her ears to hear the subtle differences in their voices.

Papá wiggled out of her grasp enough to kneel down to her eye level. He placed a hand carefully on her cheek and wiped away a rolling tear. His hands were hot, they always were now, but they didn’t burn. “I never want to leave you.”

“Then don’t!”

She could see the heartbreak behind his kind, brown eyes. Somehow, he managed to keep his composure. “You know about my fire magic,” he said in his calming voice. “It’s getting too dangerous now. I need to go away to find a way to fix myself, but I need to do it alone so that I don’t accidently hurt anyone.”

“You wouldn’t hurt anyone,” she insisted. “You’re too nice.”

“I don’t want to, but if I don’t fix myself, I might. When I find a way, I will come back.”

What if you don’t? The question was in her mind, but she was too afraid to ask. She thought she already knew the answer. Instead, she threw herself into her father’s arms. He held her as she cried until she had no tears left. “Do you have to leave right now?” she asked as she regained her breath.

“No, I can stay a few days.”

“Will you play for me?”

“Of course.” He kissed the top of her head. “Will you sing my songs, even when I’m not around?”

She hugged him tighter and buried her head in his chest. “I promise, Papá.”

[-]

She was 8 when he left.

At age 10, her uncles discovered a new force was seeping into the earth. For lack of a better term, they called it magic.

At age 12, they discovered monsters, thought only to be myths and fairy tales, were making themselves known again. Her uncles theorize that the earth cycles through periods of high and low magic and magic was on the rise again.

At age 14, search parties began setting out into the ocean in hopes of finding more inhabitable lands. Some came back empty handed. Some didn’t come back at all.

At age 15, Tío Filipe was attacked by a vampire and nearly killed. Coco began training to be a monster hunter.

At age 16, a search party returned with news of an uncharted archipelago, uninhabited and untouched by the war. They began making plans to build boats and move the community to the islands in hopes it would become a permanent home.

At age 19, she lost a fight with a vampire just weeks before they were set to depart for the islands. The vampire turned her and she couldn’t go with them. She was able to control her new bloodlust just long enough to say goodbye to her uncles.

Age 20, she discovered she didn’t need blood to survive, just the color red. Also, she started going by Socorro. She just doesn’t feel like Coco without her family.

At age 25, she returned to Santa Cecilia and found the white skull guitar miraculously still intact in its case. It was horribly out of tune, but she learned to fix that. She remembered his songs and she swore to learn to play them.

Age 36, she found her Papá again for the first time. She didn’t recognize him at first. He’d been completely transformed into the Flame King.

He didn’t even look anything like the man from her memories. His dark hair had turned to a pale yellow and grown somehow even more unruly. His skin was now an inhuman shade of orange. His brown eyes were tinged with red.

This wasn’t him. It was someone else entirely. She can’t stand to look at him. She ran.

Their paths crossed again at ages 83, 154, 247, 333, 421, 518, 609, and 700. By 705, found her every couple of years. Now, at age 1000, it only takes him a few months.

He didn’t do it intentionally, at least not always. Half the time he didn’t even remember that they’d met before. Once, just once, she let on that he was her father. It was a mistake. Luckily, he forgot by the next time they met.

[-]

When he showed up at her home that day, she was ready to throw him out and find a new place to live again, as usual, but then he showed her the little red book. “I thought people might like me if I wrote them a song, and I need your help because you write the best songs,” he said as he held up the book. “Your songs are so good, I wrote them all down. I mean… I don’t remember doing that, but I must have.”

He didn’t know. Her heart twisted. He didn’t know that she sang his songs, that she played his guitar. He didn’t remember that she promised him she would.

So, she let him in. He lugged in a makeshift guitar slapped together out of wood scraps. Socorro took out her own guitar. This one she got herself to play on while the white skull guitar rested safely on its stand. She never risked doing anything that might damage it. She kept it in good shape, cleaning it and tuning it, never letting it collect dust. Every once in a while, she’d hold it across her lap and strum her fingers along the strings, but it was never quite the same as when Papá played.

She wished she’d known the Flame King would be in her house today. She would have locked it up somewhere.

Their session started off predictably awkward. He claimed he never wrote a song before. He wanted pointers from her. She almost laughed at how completely backwards he had it. He was the musical genius, not her.

She tried anyway. At first, she thought she could draw on the hours she spent watching her Papá work. She could easily see him hunched over his guitar, plucking out melodies. He was so vivid in her mind; cringing and biting his tongue when he hit a sour note, furiously erasing lyrics or notes that just didn’t fit, eyes lighting up when he found just the right word. What she wouldn’t give to have that version of her Papá here now.

A crash brought her out of her memories. She turned to see the Flame King holding the remnants of his slapdash guitar. The rest of it sat crumbled on the floor.

Her heart leapt. “Oh no, guess this means we can’t play together anymore,” she said, beginning to usher him out of her home. “You probably want to go home to fix it.”

This was great. If he couldn’t play, they couldn’t write. He’d have to go back to his molten tower and she could get a jump start on moving again. Maybe he would just forget the whole thing and she wouldn’t have to move.

“What are you talking about? You’ve got another one right there.” He pointed at the white skull guitar and her heart sank.

“Oh, I don’t use that one.”

“Why not? Looks alright to me.” He started toward it.

Socorro managed to rush ahead and block his path. “No. You can’t use that one.”

“Why not?” Steam rose from his hands.

“I said no!”

“Let me play!” His hands engulfing into flames.

“Stop it! Right now!”

“Fine!” he shouted. “I don’t need your dumb guitar anyway!” He launched a fireball at the guitar. Socorro managed to grab it out of the way just in time. The fire landed on her carpet. She stomped it out and turned back to him, fire in her own eyes now.

“Do you have any idea what you almost did?” she roared, hovering over him. “You could have destroyed it! You have no idea what that guitar means to me!”

As quickly as his temper flared, it dissolved again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he pleaded like a child.

She couldn’t look at him. It hurt to look at him. In fact, it enraged her to look at him. This pathetic creature, whatever it was, was not Papá. It couldn’t be. It might be walking around in his skin and morphing his body, but it was not Papá.

“You don’t know anything! Do you have any idea what it’s like to be around you? You don’t even remember who you are anymore, do you? Héctor?”

“Who?” The Flame King blinked his vacant eyes. Socorro searched for some trace of recognition but found nothing.

She looked around for the songbook and snatched it off the couch. “You wrote these when I was a kid!” she shouted, opening to a random page and showing it to him. “Don’t you remember?”

“I wrote music?”

Socorro let out a sigh and looked back at the book. She traced her fingers over the notes her Papá wrote so long ago. Maybe this is all I get, she thought as she flipped through the book. Vivid memories of her Papá writing and singing and playing danced in her mind. Maybe he is just memories now. That’s more than he has.

She flipped to the back and her hand froze as she came across a song she’d never seen before. It was written in various colors of ink, apparently whatever he had on hand at the time. She ran her fingers over the notes. This is him, she thought as she scanned the lyrics. It might be the last thing he ever wrote.

“What’s that?” The Flame King asked, peeking over her shoulder.

“A song.”

“And I wrote it?”

She turned to him and looked in his eyes. She could almost see something behind the haze, something familiar. “Yes.”

“Is it good?” He picked up her guitar and plucked a few strings. “Sing it for me.”

Socorro looked down at the song. She wondered if her Papá ever played it. He left the guitar behind when they left Santa Cecelia and she doubted he ever found a new one. She never heard him sing it, so if he did, it wasn’t around her. Maybe this song deserved to be played again, just once.

“Socorro, is it just you and me in the wreckage of the world?

That must be so confusing for a little girl.

And I know you're going to need me here with you.

But I'm losing myself, and I'm afraid you're gonna lose me too.”

The Flame King began playing along with her words. She watched his fingers move along the frets. He was still in there somewhere. This was indisputable proof. No one else could play like him. No one else could make it look as effortless and natural as he could. He remembered somehow. Even after he forgot his own name, he remembered the music.

“Wow, I wrote that? What’s it about?”

Her heart dropped. “You don’t remember what it means?” She turned the book toward him and shoved it in his face as something wet rolled down her cheek. “Look!”

He peered at the book and sang the words off the page.

“This magic keeps me alive, but it's making me crazy,

And I need to save you, but who's going to save me?

Please forgive me for whatever I do,

When I don't remember you.”

He didn’t know what he was saying, or at least he didn’t understand the significance of it. She could tell by his vacant eyes. Whatever flicker of her father she saw was just that, a flicker. Very little remained of him now. It wasn’t enough to fight through the havoc the amulet wreaked on his mind. She should have known better than to get her hopes up. Papá was gone and the Flame King took his place.

She picked up with white skull guitar and strummed it in tune as she joined him in the chorus. The tears flowed down her cheeks but he didn’t notice. Papá would have noticed, but he didn’t.

Still, she played on. It was her Papá’s last song. It deserved to be played on his guitar at least one time.

#coco fanfiction #sweetiepie writes #sweetiepie #coco #fanfiction #adventure time au #coco adventure time au #hector rivera #coco rivera #oscar rivera #filipe rivera #coco fandom #sweetiepie08

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seatosomert · 3 years

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March 2022 update.

Its been a while since i posted a blog here. I've been busying myself with work and some personal photography projects.

Spring is here in the UK where i live and I've a few things planned as we move into better weather and longer periods of daylight. As we move to longer days I'll be moving away from night shoots and I'll be thinking about what and where to shoot in my street photography.

If any of you have been struggling for inspiration on what to shoot, you're not alone. As the sun becomes more prevalent and as it starts to reach higher in the sky than in the winter months we know that there will be harder edged shadows cast. For me I will be looking to use this to my advantage. In street photography I'll be looking for sharp edged shadows cast by buidlings and perhaps shadows cast onto walls by people etc.

If you are looking for a specific project to complete yourself, search Google for some ideas and just type in 'Street photogrpahy projects for day time'., or something similar. Maybe search for landscape ideas, seascape, city scape the list goes on.

If you don't mind spending a bit of money on a book, I'd recommend Brian Lloyd Duckets '52 Street Photography assignments.' He also does a specific one for black and white photography. They're inexpensive and Brian has some great ideas to insprie you that makes it easy.

I'm currently producing and compiling my fine art Street Photography, with a view to printing them in high quality photobooks early in 2023. I'm also building a new website where I will be displaying more of my images and I plan to write a more regular blog there that will cover my adventures and photos taken througout this year so keep an eye out for that.

York.

My most recent night shoot was about a week or so ago in the City of York, Yorkshire, England. This place is just so atmospheric and characterful for street photography and i have felt more of a pull to shoot at night as the street empty. It's at this time, aboput 9 pm onwards, that the streets there take on a completely different look, one of mystery and a bit of spookiness.

The guy in the tall hat and coat tails appeared from the end of the street. Possibly a host for a Ghost tour of the City. I positioned myself ready to capture his image as he came into view, but when he saw me, he stepped into a doorway and disappeared into the building inside (at least i think that's where he went lol). Check out his features, gaunt and chiselled, yet no eyes, nose or mouth can be seen. Very spooky. My favourite shot of the night that tells a story of this scene and this city that is shrouded in millenia of history. This history started pre-Roman time, and the city itself, which .is a walled city, was in fact originally built by the Romans in 71 AD.

The history of this ancient city has revealed archaeological history dating back to between 7000-8000 BC. It later became occupied by the Vikings, it's name adapting to the Norse name , 'Jorvik'.

It was later to become an important Royal centre for the Northumbrian Kings. The City prospered for centuries, despite being severely damaged following the Norman Conquest of 1066. It became the 3rd largest city in England after London and Norwich. There are reported to be 2084 listed buildings in the city and 22 Ancient monuments.

So you can see the history surrounding this amazing city and just imagine the stories that these ancient streets could tell. I'm not a great believer in the paranormal, but if there is such a thing, this place is likely to be an epicentre for such links and activities.

I've been told that at certain times of the year mist rises up into the Shambles, which is the street in the largest image above. This is usually in the middle of the night and is rare, but I'd love to see and photograph this, so watch this space.

The top left image was a house name that just caught my eye as wqe wandered the dark and quiet back streets. The lighting and the textures just drew me to the scene and so I just had to shoot it.

The top right image is a shot of my pal accompanying me on the shoot on the night as he looked up at the architecture. The bottom image is a shot taken through the window of a Harry Potter style shot that sells 'Potions', and the like associated with cosmetics and soaps etc. It's a very popular shop and it's often got a huge queue outside of it during opening times. I loved this scene for it's old worldy look. I understand that J K Rowling took inspiration for a street in the Harry Potter series called, 'Dia Gon Alley', (apologies if spelled incorrectly, I'm not a Potter fan I'm afraid).

I did shoot a few more than these, but of the 30 ish images i shot that evening, these are my favourites. They all tell a story, ably assisted by the amazing atmosphere and backdrop that this ancient city provides. It's got probably 4-5 more shoots for me before I'm done for a while. I'll most likely leave it until next winter I think when I've got more chance of capturing that misty street scene that I've previsualised many times.

For thoss interested, i shot these images on a Fujifilm XE3 using an XF 18-55mm f/2.8-4.0 lens. Its a brilliant combo and I can shoot in film simultation mode and Raw at the same time and i can apply a different film sim post shot in camera or in Fuji X Raw Studio which I use on the Mac. However, these were all shot in standard mode and I made some tweaks in Adobe Lightroom to the RAW files. I chose the Fuji over one of my Sony cameras because of the way it handles low light noise. It makes it look like film grain and so retains more details rather than smudgy digital noise.

I don't fix my images. I get them right in camera then tweak them a little to adjust the lighting such as shadows, blacks and highlights in post. Less is more for me.

So that wraps up this post guys. As usual if you have any questions or comments, please fire them below. If you're ever up in Yorkshire and you fancy meeting for a night shoot in York, get in touch. It's better in groups of no more than 3, otherwise we stand out and become indiscreet. I like to blend into the background. Anyway, alll the best and see you again soon.

Regards,

Neil.

#streetphotography #fujilove #fujifilmxe3 #fujifilmphotography #fujifilmxseries #streetsnappers #fujifilm #york #nightshoots

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chezzkaa · 7 years

Text

Kebabs & Catwalks - repost

A/N: Something ate this fic so thank you to the lovely anon that let me know it wasn’t happy. Lets try again, shall we?

Summary: Oh god, you missed him. Missed a smile so familiar you could recite the curves from memory, because it’s almost all you had left. Worlds apart and entangled in your own responsibilities, you’re desperately left scrambling to redirect the crash course. Ryan as equally frantic to keep hold of something - anything - that could say ‘I love you’ without breathing the damaging words.

wc: 3161

Your eyes sting while staring out onto the street, fingers drumming with thick absentminded thuds against the wheel as people pool from the building you’d recently escaped. Rivers of sparkling diamonds and luminescent fabrics shimmer with the immaculate crowds drifting away; peals of laughter throbbing with their footsteps to wander across the pavement and choke the surrounding bars. No attentions paid to the filth coating the paths, cigarette butts joining the hopes and dreams lurking in the gutters; internal screams of the less fortunate dusted in glitter.

You try to block out the throngs as they pass by the car, ignoring the nails sliding across the bonnet and disapproving looks piercing through the window. You loathed the haze of these events. The early morning hours releasing the higher class onto the world; drunk on self worth and bubbles. How must it feel to live without a care? To live every minute for pleasure, rushing with the bright lights darting past so fast you could never grasp them. Envy wasn’t the right word, but it was close.

Sympathy, knowing their world – a realm where there’s no darkness and no pain – would shatter in someone else’s hands. Someone like you. Bitter and desperate, scavenging as much as you could to siphon away and subdue the ugly responsibilities threatening to cry for attention. Cloak the fear and plug the expenses; hoping word of your mother would never come. The high and mighty being robbed of their riches was nothing compared to the way society had robbed them of their humanity, leaving nothing but a counterfeit illusion in its place. Beautiful and mesmerising but eternally hollow. Nothing more than shells left to rattle through life without goals or direction, without an understanding of pain and loss that wasn’t gold plated.

Normally you’d stomach it, put on the confident alluring smile and don the garish dress like you belonged, like you shared their sparkling positivity in a world falling apart; but not tonight. Nor any time in the past two months. The air had been far too heavy, suffocating just enough to leave you gasping. Every step forward pushed you further back, knees crying out and trying to buckle; body wanting to hurtle to the ground and let out an almighty scream of defeat. How much longer could you continue to construct a future out of broken pieces? Their edges wicked sharp against your skin, memories dripping from the cuts while patch together something you should have abandoned long ago.

Perhaps the right word was envy.

You were jealous of how easy breathing was on the other side, how simple it was to dive into a pool of naivety and drown the sorrow away with a sip of something fizzy. You wanted nothing more that to spend a night free from the nightmares, have a morning that didn’t ache in the centre of your chest. You craved an hour where you didn’t have to think, desperate for the feeling of a comfort only arms could bring. You didn’t want to avoid the ringing phone for fear of bad news, couldn’t stomach the path you were left to spiral into. What wouldn’t you give for a moment’s peace? A need to indulge in something so incredibly inhuman it might stifle the screams of your mind. The tears feeling like they’re constantly falling; but never seem too. Just something to stop the world turning, just an instance where things aren’t moving too fast while you’re stuck in one spot, feet welded to the nothingness. You just needed him, just… just some form of him.

You shift in the abrasive driver’s seat, mind wandering sluggishly to the night you’d ghosted through, haunting a world that seemed far too bright. None of it made sense, the throbbing lights and words having formed a pile of gibberish at your feet. The memory of your thighs plastering to the seat at the edge of the catwalk sears through your sleepy mind, an incredible contrast against the course fabric now tracing impressions into the skin – and the only sense of reality you’d experienced in hours. Sat alone in your stiflingly warm car the night spins, a nauseating ache stretching along your shoulders as exhaustion recites sonnets across your ribs.

Behind your closed eyes the looks of disdain from designers and investors burn in the darkness, unpicking the pieces of your life you’d managed to stitch back together, edges fraying to pull apart. You’d done your best, unaware that the elegant cocktail dress you’d slipped into had no way near enough glitter mask the fact that you didn’t belong. Your bare legs had screamed for unwanted attention; shrouded in enough sheer floor length fabric that retiring the dress could see you with a new set of curtains.

Your eyes flick to the car mirror to break the stream of thought, frowning at the dark circles and their refusal to be subdued. You painfully recall the frustration left rattling inside, planted in the centre of your bedroom and staring at your body; so exhausted and so close to tears that anything would set the tears rolling. You hadn’t gotten better over the course of the night. The lights of the street chasing hollow shadows across your cheekbones; lips forming a thinly pressed line at the thought of picking up another paper and continuing the pattern.

You were far too empty for the airs and graces, the words crammed into textbooks nagging every waking moment and joining the anxieties plaguing you during sleep. Every day left you trying to juggle your studies and family, your night life overtaken with need to cover the expenses of the lives you were responsible for. Everything was pressing so hard against your shoulders they creaked. You couldn’t count the times you’d fallen asleep with your cheek pressed against a page, slumped against your desk. Didn’t want to think about how often you’d drifted off to the sound of Jon’s tears dancing with yours through the phone.

How long had it been since you’d slept in your own bed as opposed to the couch?

The desk?

The car?

Ryan had gone past the point of rousing you, struggling to lift his own head let alone carry you inside. If he didn’t curl up at your side or slump in the carpet by your feet he’d instead let you to sleep where you fell, a blanket draped across what he could. It was one of the few signs he existed, a persistent memory that just wouldn’t leave you to wallow, a spectre you’d see from the corner of your eye. Without fail there’d be a cold cup of tea left in the kitchen when morning finally rolled around, a parting gift and apology haunting a world neither of you truly had time to fit into anymore.

Your schedules rarely coincided. The jobs, study, and crime cancelling out free time and dictating ridiculous hours; responsibilities steering you further away from him. He was no different, left to spiral through a world he had no grip on, following the motions for fear of defiance; because what would happen to the two of you then? Try all you want, you were lucky to see Ryan more than once a week for longer than an hour at a time. It was a constant drain, the world leeching what little life you had left. Hours ago you’d frantically photographed textbook pages on your bedroom floor, throwing on what you could to rush out the door for the two hour trip. A block of time opening with the opportunity to finally see him; even if it meant you were to divert your eyes between designers and work.

You’d do anything to see that man smile, your presence at the show having meant the world to him after being absent for so, so long. Against your closed lids you could still see his face lighting up, eyes falling to the uncontrollable beam you’d returned; pride having hammered in your chest. The distance had been straining for you both, but surely it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Even the sight of him stung, mind desperately trying to steer from the emotions that had caused so much complex pain, lashing against the part of you that needed him. Every smile that decorated his lips sent your heart fluttering, the delight in his deep shimmering eyes sparking the gasoline running in your veins. Even now the thought of his excitement and fingers twitching out to subtly wave as he continued along the stage made you ache, overwhelming your body and pressing against your shoulders until there was nothing else to do but feel.

The sound of the passenger door opening drags away the thoughts you’d lost in the crowd, Ryan slinking into the seat with a tired sigh and puffy eyes. You offer him a comforting smile, heart squeezing as he removes the hood hiding his weary face, makeup and defeat caught in the waves of his hair. Streaks of red and silver cut as sharp as blades across his cheeks, relief and exhaustion gushing to fill the car and engulf you in confusing ecstasy. He leans back, head against the seat before his eyes drift closed, gentle rasp forming a groan in the back of his throat while his fingers find your own.

Reaching out your remaining hand to brush away the loose strands of hair, you. At your touch his eyes peel open, thanks swimming in the crystal blue depths as they meet yours, a sleepy smile pulling lopsided across his lips.

“Hey there,” you breathe, fingers brushing the strong line of his jaw reassuringly.

He lets out a chuckle, running warm against your knuckles, “hey, you made it.”

“Of course,” you smile, skin dusted with an orange glow as the interior light fades with your worries, if only for a little while. “I told you I wouldn’t miss this one.”

He nuzzles unconsciously against your fingers before realising he’s indulging in the guilty need for you, catching himself with wide eyes and a clumsy plough forward to distract the joy his heart felt; fearful of falling back into damaging habits. “I was sceptical, I’ll admit it.”

“Understandable, I’ve been a shit recently.”

“You’re a shit all the time,” he grins, the expression becoming difficult in his sleep drunk state, “I expect nothing less.”

“Well, I’m gonna kick the habit,” you state firmly, the hope in Ryan’s eyes leaping as high as your heart.

While retracting your hand you can’t help but sympathise – he looked almost as tired as you felt. You could almost trace the progression of the day and anxieties of the year with each slump and curve. The world had dragged him down and held on, constantly throw trial after trial into his path to leave him stumbling to stay standing. You’d never met someone more dedicated or more determined than Ryan, everything he did building towards a brighter future; even if it meant steeping his past in an inescapable darkness.

“You did amazing, Pooky,” is all you manage, eyes searching the lines of his face and the bump of his nose, face seemingly chiselled every day into a deep brooding whenever it settled.

“You’d be surprised how exhausting a catwalk and heels can be.”

Laughing you start up the car, manoeuvring through the groups lingering in the road, trying to leave your concerns behind.

“But your calves looked so good,” you giggle, casting a quick sideways glance and catching the smile he made no attempt to suppress.

“Hell yeah they did.”

“You hungry?” The question almost seems pointless after the monumental growl of his stomach, Ryan’s smile turning sheepish as it widens.

“I’m always hungry.”

“Its 1 am, what crap are we clogging our arteries with this time?” He runs a scarred hand through his short hair thoughtfully, ruffling the back to leave it spiked and messy.

“I want… kebabs.” You raise a delicate eyebrow while redirecting the car, wheels tugging against the road as you curve with the corner to exit the city.

“like, truck stop kebabs?”

His eyes light up at the suggestion, exhaustion ebbing away while he nods, “is there any other kind?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” you laugh, pulling to a stop to let a gaggle of well dressed women cross, their eyes passing over you to settle on Ryan; recognising him from the show.Before they can continue approaching the window and push Ryan further down in his seat you’re peeling off, whisking him away and leaving them in the spots of rain beginning to fall.

“I passed one on the way here,” you muse, signalling to enter the relatively empty line of traffic leading away from the throbbing lights and constant life of the city, zipping between the larger cars with ease and grace. “The whole place just screamed greasy.”

“It sounds perfect, put it in me.”

The fond warmth grows in your chest while you laugh; settling into the relaxed comfort that always engulfed you whenever Ryan was around. No matter what you’d been through, nor how long it had been since you’d actually sat down to talk; everything was always easy. Never running out of conversation, but that didn’t mean silence was uncomfortable. More often than not you’d simply curl into each other in the soft quiet hum of your apartment, needing nothing but the company to ease the day’s pain. As you’re thinking Ryan slowly drifts off, eyes fluttering shut and incredibly full eyelashes brushing the tops of his pinking cheeks. In sleep all stress melts from his features; then all that’s left is long drive filled with Ryan’s soft snores and a stinging light rushing overhead.

“Garlic sauce?”

You nod vigorously up at the vendor, his slick smile as greasy as the food, though warm and friendly. “just load them up with everything you’ve got.” He laughs, piling on as much cheese and meat as possible, littering the piles with onion before beginning to wrap. Shrugging up the sleeves of Ryan’s coat as it slips from your shoulders, you’re on your tiptoes to swipe the diet cokes the man offers; passing them to Ryan’s waiting hands.

“I’ll find us a spot,” he states, casting his eyes across the empty parking lot surrounding the truck stop and kebab station. You point, finger barely protruding from the coat’s cuff to a grassy bank by the side of the road.

“Try by the fire hydrant.”

“Ah, the fire hydrant, the classiest of date spots,” he teases, the remaining makeup splattering his cheeks sparkling as bright as his smile while he heads over; your words chasing after him.

“You wish you could score a date with me!”

“I really do…”

His admittance plays havoc as you turn to accept the two kebabs, skin running cold and restless in the cold breeze chilling your nose. Thanking the vendor you try not to think of your relationship with Ryan, yet the memories rushing through your mind far too fast. Moments of pure, utter joy shifting to fearful anger as life races by with the passing cars; nipping at your heels while making your way to Ryan, his back to you and face tilted to the star spotted sky. The first and hopefully last dangerous blows of intense emotion had seen your lives torn apart, the two of you still attempting to gather up the pieces and create a different image as opposed to the romance you’d envisioned.

Having Ryan in your life was worth it, even if every moment was potentially painful. The two of you would constantly orbit back to each other without intending to, and it wasn’t for a lack of trying. Somehow you’d always end up in the same obscure place at the same unusual time; and you’d eventually been forced to accept it. You we’re stuck with each other, left to battle with the dangerous emotions and chaotic possibilities. Trapped to face the man you loved, unable to speak the words for fear of the uncontrollable dangers of jealousy, anger and disdain that inevitable tore you apart.

Settling down beside him you offer the kebab, his fingers rolling it in his hands to warm his palms. Shuffling closer your sides pressing together as you peel away the foil, smell removing the lining off your stomach, “he made yours extra oily.”

“My hero,” he beams while holding the kebab out to you for a toast; chuckling as you reluctantly lower the food and hover beside his.

“To us,” he cheers, an earnest smile on his face and an admiration locked in his eyes, stretching your heart uncomfortably.

“To a future that’s a little less chaotic.” A tap of your meals sees him delving in, satisfied hums resonating in his throat as the greasy food touches his lips. Following without hesitation you take the first bite, garlic hitting hard and cheese nothing more than a rich afterthought.

“You know,” he notes between mouthfuls and sips of diet coke, face yet again turned to the stars, “you’re too young to be this busy.”

“You act like you’re ancient. I mean, yeah I’m 20,” you grumble, bumping shoulders, “and I couldn’t agree more, but that’s not the point.”

“God,” he sighs reminiscently, thinking back with fondness, “what was I even doing at 20? That was like, 5 whole years ago.”

“Those whole years really make a difference, way more important than regular years.”

“They really do.”

“I reckon you were waiting for me,” you joke, smile teasing across your lips as he shoots you an amused glare, “that or being a huge nerd. Wait, you’re still a massive fucking goof.”

“Ouch,” he mocks, swiping a stray piece of meat from your kebab, chuckling at your protests. “You know, honestly not much has changed since then. Same routine, I wash the blood off my hands one at a time, just like any other psychotic monster.” You raise an eyebrow questioningly, his eyes falling to meet yours. “Well, I mean things are a lot less lonely and I don’t murder for the sake of it anymore. I’ve got you now. You help hide the evidence.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

“Were do you think we’ll be in another 10 years?” His question surprises you, soft tone caressing an idea so fragile that you’d hadn’t considered it since the emotional explosion that ripped away your dreams; shattering your last 10 year plan to pieces.

“I don’t know,” you admit while resting your head against his shoulder, continuing to pick apart you meal, “but I hope to still be annoying the crap outta you.”

“I hope so too,” he agrees, turning to rest his chin atop your head, warmth radiating from his neck across your skin, “maybe we could retire somewhere abroad?”

“You want to live in a holiday destination?”

“Yeah,” he pulls away to wave his kebab at you, hope still somehow worming into his expression despite the odds threatening the future.

“Thinking maybe Greece?”

#achievement hunter #ryan haywood #ryan haywood x reader #jeremy dooley #gavin free #jack pattillo #geoff ramsey #michael jones #trevor collins #rooster teeth #cinders #embers series

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