#she cant even make a noise or cast a shadow

[longelk]

biblically accurate kaycee

[justabrunettewhowrites-stuff]

REQUESTING DARK!LUKE BC I NEED MORE FICS W HIMMMM. SO IMAGINE LUKE KIDNAPPING THE READER IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AND SHE'S JUST ALL MOODY/PISSED OFF ABT IT BUT CANT DO ANYTHING BC SHE'S CHAINED AND HER MOUTH IS COVERED SO SHE GLARES AT HIM? (FEM MC PLS BTW!)🤭🤭🤭

'Shadowed Descent'

(?)Dark!Luke Castellan x Fem!Reader

A/N:Hi lovely!Sure I can(or at least try),tysm for requesting!

As you lay in your bed, drifting on the cusp of sleep,the faint murmur of the forest outside lulled you into a false sense of security,until suddenly, you were jolted awake by a hand clamping over your mouth and a sharp, metallic scent assaulting your senses.

Before you could even register what was happening, you found yourself being dragged out of bed, your limbs bound tightly by coarse rope. Panic surged through you as you struggled against your captor, but it was futile. The figure dragging you through the darkness was strong, too strong for you to break free.

Finally, you were thrust into a dimly lit clearing, where the moonlight cast eerie shadows over the scene. As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you realized with a sinking feeling that your captor was none other than Luke Castellan-The ever so famous hero turned traitor, his dark eyes gleaming with a mixture of malice and amusement.

"You!" you hissed, your voice muffled by the hand still covering your mouth.

Luke merely smirked in response, his grip tightening on your arm as he pulled you closer. "Shh, now, no need for all that noise," he purred, his voice dripping with false sweetness.

You shot him a withering glare, but he seemed unfazed, his smirk only growing wider. "Feisty, feisty," he chuckled, leaning in closer until his face was mere inches from yours. "I like that about you."

You tried to turn away, to escape his piercing gaze, but his hand tightened on your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. "You know," he continued, his voice dropping to a low whisper, "I've been watching you for a while now. You're different from the others. More... intriguing."

You squirmed under his gaze, a shiver running down your spine as his words sent a chill through you. "What do you want from me?" you demanded, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Luke's smirk widened into a grin, his eyes glittering with dark amusement. "Oh, darling, I want so much more than you could ever imagine," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "But for now, let's just say I have plans for you. Big plans..." to which you hissed "Plans?What.plans?!Castellan!"

Luke leans back slightly, his grin still lingering on his lips as he gazes at you with an enigmatic expression. "Let's just say they involve you being a part of something much bigger than yourself," he says cryptically, "But for now, it's best you focus on enjoying the moment,darling."

You watched in horror as he approached, his movements predatory as he traced a finger along your jawline.

"You're mine now," he whispered, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "And there's nothing you can do about it."

You spat at him, your defiance unyielding even in the face of danger. But Luke only chuckled darkly, his grip tightening around you as he pressed his lips against yours in a mocking kiss.

You struggled against your bonds, desperate to break free from his grasp, but it was no use. Luke held you firmly in place, his grip unyielding as he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. "Sleep tight, sweetheart," he whispered,checking your bonds and making sure you couldn't move nor speak now,before disappearing into the darkness, leaving you alone and bound,with nothing but his laughter ringing in your ears.

[letsgetdowntobismith]

How did you even get into the sword making business?

Oh wow my first ask!! 😁 👍and actually a rather sweet story so get comfortable cause we’re going on a trip down memory lane kiddo 🙏

So growin up my parents where STRICT people, I’m talkin: 7 o’clock bed time, all work must be done before I can draw and eat, always wearing gods awful dresses with those frilly sleeves and fuckin ruffle on the skirt bottom, no going outside past 5 (and even then I had rarely left the house), no playin with the other kids as my parents always had some neighbourhood issue with their parents and the way they where raising them to be (as she puts it) ‘brutes’ , to put it simply I was kinda lonely, parents trying to turn me into a little madam so I’d ’attract a man better’ I couldn’t do ‘boyish’ things essentially. They say that they were protecting me from corruption. Pathetic excuse to get me to change who I was for what they wanted me to be. The only thing I could do so I didn’t die of boredom was draw using a sketching pad and some shitty old dried out markers my parents had found most likey on the street, and even THEN what I was actually allowed to draw was very restricting, no blasphemy, no inappropriate drawings, the only thing that I was allowed to draw where patterns. I cant make this shit up, I assume my parents thought they were patterns for a dress but I didn’t like that, I wanted them to be used for a greater purpose. I wanted to have a greater purpose.

I had a neighbour who never really showed themselves or went outside to interact with others, I guess looking back now we had a lot more in common than I thought but anyway, during the day time I would cautiously look outside my window considering I wasn’t really allowed outside much. At the time I didn’t fully comprehend what everything was in their home front, there were some tables, a couple mallets on the walls and a large stone furnace with a couple of different sized metal slabs (of course I know now these were called anvils), really nothing interesting but at night would be a different story. My room window was facing his house, as I would sleep at night id see spark past my window, sound of metal grinding and screeching and smoke would fill my room. I was always so scared of the shadows it would cast in my room, I didn’t know what the hell it all was. Parents told me our neighbour was ‘a brute’ ‘a corrupted person who would bring harm and violence to this world’ ‘up to no good’ and the list goes on. I grew to fear my the next door neighbour, I hated what they did and how my parents said they would harm people; so I would spend my nights watching the shadows on the walls whilst cowering under the bed sheets listening to the whistling and clanking from the window, though, despite the terror I felt watching the room fill with bright sparks there was always something so mesmerising about it.

I still don’t know what had come over me that one night, perhaps it was the lack of food that day, or the amount of sleepless nights I had suffered OR maybe even curiosity to help my mind relax but as I had gone to bed that night, and the noises and lights began I had decided to look out of my window for once during the night time. What followed was the moment I realised the world is not defined by my parents word.

A strix, with pale blue skin, top of their head adorned with different symbols running downwards leading onto their face, long ears pointed downwards with metal hoops hanging from random parts and as they turned to face the direction of my window their eyes, pitch black sclera with a glowing orange iris. Taking their blistered and stained hand reaching into a bucket of bubbling water and pulling out a spike before throwing it back into the fire and grabbing a mallet off the nearest wall, the once dull scenery of this workshop now shined and dazzled with bright colours of red and amber as the strix whilsted its familiar tune I’ve heard many times before, only this time it felt more comforting than scary. Every move they made was done with such grace, taking out the glowing hot metal from the ovens and smashing them repeatedly with a hammer watching as all the sparks fly out. The metal was then moulded and crafted into a long swords with fancy swirls around the handle. A new found wave of inspiration washed over me (till this day I’m not sure why but Michael’s guess was I had finally seen something new and it was exciting) as I ran to get my sketch book and pen, immediately copying the outline of the sword before drawing detailing on the swords blade.

I had awoken the next morning to my dad shouting, crying bloody murder but not from inside the house, from out side my window. Confused by this I walked over to the sound and there was my dad, MY notepad in hand, holding it up against the face of that strix from last night. “Look what you’ve done with your violent ways, exposing my child to such weapons” he should have known this was bound to happen, I mean seriously my room was right above his workshop!! But I suppose that he thought after scaring me so much I would be too afraid to do investigate what the strix was up to at night. My dad ripped the paper with the sword on it and slapped it onto the strix chest, they took the paper and started to analyse the drawing I watched as their now pitch black eyes study the paper a faint smile going across their face. I don’t think my dad was aware that I was listening because when he had walked in he told me the neighbour was going to hurt me and kill me with their weapons if they ever saw me by that window again. I knew that was a lie.

I wasn’t scared falling asleep that night, I felt nothing really. I awaited for the sparks, whistling and screeching but none of that came. Confused I once again walked up to the window now peering out at the glowing workshop with the strix sat ontop of one of the anvils eyes fixated on the drawing in their hand. “Did you draw this?” They said, such a gravelly and corse voice but one laced with intrigue and happiness. Now looking up at my window with their new glowing orange iris’s back. I didn’t know what to say really, all the terrible thoughts I had about this person because of my parents words had been completely false. “My names Orpheus, you are Runica aren’t you?” All I could do was nod my head. “That’s a lovely name, say, this is a quiet design you made.” Again I didn’t respond “Would you like to see it come to life?” They sat up from the anvil and walked over to a wooden barrel with a couple of handles sticking out and proceeds to pull out the sword that I had watched being made the night before, placing it on the anvil with my drawing beside it, unravelling a leather kit inside filled with different small chiseling tools each with a unique ending to them. Now grabbing the end of the sword Orpheus’s hand begins to glow orange as the sword begins to copy heating up the metal. Without thinking I walk closer to the window, opening it up all the way and begin sitting in the window ledge watching their every move. They tie their messy brown apron around their waist “this” Orpheus said placing their hand on the metal square “Is an anvil, I use it aswell as some other tools to be able the morph and shape it into what I desire” they reach over and grab a mallet off the table next to them “This here is a called a cross -peen hammer, you may want to take note of that, and its job is to shape the metal and this will help us get the basic blade and flatness of the sword, do you follow?” I nod my head along as I observe and listen intently to their voice. The way they spoke with such passion really changed my perspective on things, things my parents had told me about them. They aren’t doing this because they wish to bring harm, they do this because it’s art. That night I had spend my evening asking many questions, learning all different types of mallets/tongs/anvils and their purposes, whilst watching them make my drawing a reality upon that sword until the sun peered over the hills signalling morning.

That day I had spent all my time in my room, drawing new patterns only this time on different weapons. Once Orpheus had given me a showcase of all the different weapons they’ve forged I was a drawing MACHINE. Sickles,syths, knuckle dusters, flails you name it I had already drawn it. Of course I had to keep this a secret from my parents as they probably would have beaten Orpheus to death with their own tools so they had given me one of their books with all the different sketches they’ve made over the years, notes on temperatures, hammer sizes and metal quantity. During the day I would design, by night fall I was a blacksmith. Orpheus had set up a ladder so I could come down undercover, get a better veiw of their workshop and let me tell ya it’s even more magical up close once you see everything for their actual size. The anvil was almost as big as me!! After days of preparing and sketching different work for Orpheus, they would take my designs and show me how to craft them but they were always adamant on ME doing it, they would sit off in the corner on their chair observing me. In a way I’m greatful for that, at the time I was a little annoyed frankly but as I’ve grow up remembering those nights of all that hard work and heavy lifting I can look back and think, I DID THAT. I believe this was their subtle way of showing me independence, I don’t have to rely on someone to tell me what to do.

Orpheus would sit off to one side and would answer any question I asked, but there was one answer that had always stuck with me. Orpheus’ worked during the night time as opposed to the day because of the light. There was something about the sun rays that would cause their eyes to hurt and strain resulting in such pain for them, however watching the red hot glow from the metal and fire was one of the only lights that Orpheus could bare witness too, the glow provided them with the ability to see light without the strain that the sun would give off. I always thought that was rather sweet, the fact that despite their difficulty they still managed to do something they loved and brought them joy, it’s the simple things that get to me honestly.

that’s what made me fall in love with blacksmithing and forging weapons, you don’t have to follow the rules, because there are none, forging is about making your ideas come to life and testing new ideas. If it works, great do it again!! If it doesn’t, melt it down and try again, you don’t have to get it right first time and you know deep down in your heart that with a couple of changes it will work you just have to keep trying. It’s art and I will never forget when I made my first dagger, it wasn’t perfect don’t get me wrong, could have been less bumpy, the leather on the handle was overlapping to much in certain parts and the soldering was um unique to say the least but I had done something for myself for once in my life, I had control over something. I kept going, I kept pushing the limits of what’s possible and always did my best; I owe Orpheus my life, gods knows what I would be doing now if I had just stayed away from the window, I wish to continue on their legacy and create all the designs they had made in that book they gave me all those years ago.

I hope they would be proud of me.

PHEW that was a long one apologies for the ramble but when I see the opportunity to talk about Orpheus I simply can’t pass it, I’ll speak of them until the day I die 👍

[who-is-shades]

raz mini dnd 21

uh we had a non canon session for fun wont post it here but were having a little canon one here for talking. coffee shop au but freddy kruegar.

teya is using her sending stone. senna is looking after that dude in the woods. wheatley is just hugging parsley.

the guy senna set down just curls up. she asks what his name is. Daniel. she introduces herself and asks if he came from that village. yep. she says they managed to save some people, but they probably left because the houses got smashed. he gets up and stumbles toward his home. she heads back to the others.

android goes to zen and needs to speak to him privately its important. off into the forest they go. senna goes to comfort wheatley. parsley is like 'help am i doing this right?' she gives him a thumbs up and pats wheatleys back. parsley grips wheatley a bit tighter when he makes a sad noise awww.

teya looks displeased. shadow on the ground. powerful energy from the outpost. 'guess were doing this again.' senna and parsley are ready to kick ass, parsley guarding wheatley. its just spingledorf dammit. 'dorf you scared the shit outta us!' parsley sighs and sits back down.

dorf looks older, why? hes been messing with that relic thats why he looks older. learning secrets and stuff. attack on the timeline. 'why are you here?' outposts on various roads and hes been taking them out and collecting the bad energy. senna points out the gruesome shed. he claims it doesnt control robots, its corrupted. parsley tells him to fuck off. yes dorf its fresh in our minds. please just explain with words.

senna offers to walk away with dorf so no one else gets hurt. teya follows. senna tells parsley to watch wheatley, who is aiming his gun at dorf lol. 'try not to die.' 'no promises.'

he pulls out the orb and flexes the energy. wants to teach teya hmm. dorf opens the ball a little and pulls out some energy and its floating between his hands. passes it to teya. focus teya! the magic is corrupting and makes you feel sick. focus even more! she cant quiet get it so he helps. she feels fire, heat energy. an intense flame. try to seperate the energies. success! to senna it looks like bright fire is seperating from it, hard heat.

teya opens her eyes and the dark energy is much weaker and in its place is the intense energy. dorf destroys the bad energy. no idea what the energy is. primordial flame?! the corruption is using it. its the foundation of all fire magic. lightning, magma, ect. something even deeper?! senna to herself mutters prometheus's warning.

dorf squeezes it and he blows out the fire. primordial energy. the basis of everything. the world. all things. 'you are literally holding god in your hand' its way more powerful. just a sliver but immense. wait how did zorbolt get this?! he has some theories. the core of the planet has the purest energies. HE PUTS IT IN HIS MOUTH! SPIT THAT OUT! stop laughing you fucker. stop saying it tingles.

he fucking ate it why. his magic is stronger. he thought he was gonna die oh no. hes gonna give teya some if he gets more lol. hes gotta stick around so teya can take notes. time to head back. spingledorf is glowing lol. wheatley looks scared. senna says theyll talk about it later. teya spills the beans though. they dont know what that is lol.

wheatley is patting dorf concerned. zen and android are back. senna says dorf is out of his goddamn mind eating goddamn primordial magic. teya is just rapidly taking notes. oh no he has more. wheatley thinks hes gonna go mad with power, and teya wants to watch. senna has also taken out her notebook and written something lol.

parsley says they gotta babysit dorf for a while. 'well he might explode.' thanks senna. wheatley says he doesnt like dorf aww. parsley laughed the bastard. dorf says he doesnt wanna cause us trouble. senna asks for us to get tf out of here now.

teya asks dorf to cast something oh no. parsley walks away with wheatley asap. firebolt! oh its massive and powerful. a column of fire shoots into the sky. senna is having a grand time. dorf is losing his glow a little when he does that. extra reserve magic? senna quietly says they have a problem. if zorbolt gets ahold of this and uncorrupts it itll be a problem. where did he get it? using it to power some sort of corrupting force. what IS the corrupting force? no idea but its bad and...familiar.

lightbulb moment? similiar to when zen gets taken over by god. wheatley remembers it felt like a wrong hivemind. senna is deep in thought. wheatley tells zen to let god know. dont worry he knows lol. get his attention just in case lol. senna is chewing on her finger deep in thought. 'you ok senna?' 'i...need to...think.' now their talking about humans exploding and stuff.

senna privately messages teya an...idea. dorf fucking summons a bunch of doors. a palace instead of a mansion. he was just curious to see if it amplified. hope his stuff wont get wrecked lol. he magic missles a tree and they look like big shooting stars. say by to the tree.

stopping here lol

[readyforthegarden]

can you do the first kiss prompt “you just cant help yourself, can you?” with sammy <33

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the sounds of drunken kiss noises that Jake was making towards you as Sam sat down next to you by the campfire. Ever since the band of brothers had helped you move (more like go through all of your things while you and Danny loaded the rented van) and found your seventh grade year book with a sparkly pink pen heart drawn around your best friend Sam’s photo, the second oldest Kiszka loved to rib you for it.

Sam leaned down, picking up a small pebble and flicking it at his brother, grinning when it thwacked him square in the forehead.

“One day, he’ll stop teasing you.” Sam said softly. You nodded, your fingernail scraping absentmindedly at the damp label on your beer bottle.

“Well it’s been two years now, so…” you trailed off with a shrug. Sam nodded, taking a swig from his own bottle, looking around the party. You watched the light from the flickering flames cast shadows and highlight his face as he moved. His long, slender nose leading a perfect ski slope to his plush lips. The way his hair had grown out again, shining healthily in the glow of flames. Truth be told, your crush on Sam, no matter how much you touted it was just a school girl thing, it was over that summer, you barely liked him that way anyway, had never stopped. In fact, it’d grown bigger since the seventh grade.

“Do you want to know an embarrassing Jake story? Finally make it even?” Sam quirked an eyebrow towards you. You nodded, scooting closer to him as he leaned in, holding up a hand to hide his lips as he started whispering. “Jake sneezed on stage so hard in Indiana, he had a huge trail of snot hanging down his nose to his lips. I think he thought it was sweat and he kept licking at it. Finally Josh saw it and told him, but it was a good half hour of loogie-face.” You giggled, imaging the suave Jake Kiszka with a gross string of snot on his face.

“That’s disgusting!” Sam laughed and nodded as you asked if that was the absolute truth. “Rockstars, they’re just like us, huh?”

“More than you know. How’s your new job going? My mom said she ran into yours at the store a few weeks ago, and she mentioned it.”

“It’s okay.” you nodded. You told him some small details, trying to make sure not to bore him with your average job. “Sorry it’s pretty boring to hear about.”

“No it’s not.” Sam shook his head. “I like hearing about your life any time I can.” your cheeks reddened and you could’ve sworn you saw Sam’s eyes flit down to your lips before coming back to your eyes. “I miss you…a lot. Sometimes I wish you knew how to play an instrument so we could’ve fit you in the band. Then I could be traveling the world with both my best friends.”

“It’d be cool, for sure.” you agreed, feeling deflated at him calling you just his best friend.

“Yeah, but then I think about how being that close to you, all the time, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of you. We’d make everyone miserable, fighting making up, fighting again…”

“Wait, what?” You blinked rapidly at Sam as he smirked.

“You’re not the only one who drew hearts in their yearbook.” Sam winked. You felt so incredibly flustered, mouth opening and closing like a fish while your brain comprehended his words.

“I don’t believe you!” You gasped. “All this time I thought you thought of me as a sister, you broke my heart taking Jenny D. to the eighth grade formal, by the way.”

“I’m sorry. To be fair, she told me you were going with Mike S., so I only went with her because I thought you were going with him.”

“Yeah that was a mistake. He kissed me that night, my first kiss, and slobbered on me so badly I could still feel his spit on my chin after three washes.” you shook your head. “Man, you could’ve been my first kiss if we’d gone together…”

“Damn. I wish I had been. I at least wouldn’t have slobbered on you. Not until the third date, anyway.” Sam laughed, then paused, giving you a look that made it feel like everyone else around you both had disappeared. “We could still have a first kiss, though.”

“Sam, I think that boat sailed for both of us a long, long time ago.”

“Yeah but you and I have never kissed.” he smiled gently. “So if we kissed now, it would be a first.”

“Sam,” you breathed nervously.

“I know that after all these years, the first person I think of when I get home from tour is you.” he admitted. “My crush is still very much alive, is yours?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” and without another wasted moment, Sam leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. It was a small lingering kiss, but it was everything you had dreamed and imagined through the years. Fireworks in your stomach, tingles in your toes, a smile tugging at the corners of your puckered lips.

When you pulled apart, the firelight was being blocked by a figure, and you both looked up to see Jake smiling down at you both, his eyes hazy and unfocused.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” He asked, winking at you. “Man that crush is getting out of control.”

“Get lost, Jake.” Sam laughed, trying to gently move him away.

“You get lost!” Jake grunted back, not liking getting sassed by his baby brother.

“You know what, we will.” Sam took your hand, tugging you up and leading you around the other young man.

“Where are we going?” You asked as Sam led you to his car.

“A date.” he grinned, fishing his key from his pocket. “We have just over a decade of them we need to catch up on.”

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Tower

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | two

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You’re apart of the Refugee Relief Movement, an intergalactic organization providing aid throughout the systems, and you find yourself assisting at a resettlement camp in Lothal when disaster strikes, changing your life forever, intertwining your path with that of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rated: Mature

Warnings: descriptive violence, blood/injury mentioning, danger, mature language

Notes: Hi y'all, welcome. This fic is going to be set during Season 2 of The Mandalorian, and will be what I like to call ‘canon adjacent’. ALSo, this chapter is very much so Reader focused, setting up the scene and the general pacing of the story, but naturally, Din will be more and more featured as things progress. I’m a sucker for backstory and a slow burn, so ye be warned. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) I’d love to hear from you lovely little beans. Be safe out there, friends.

Lothal was a planet all too familiar with occupation.

You remember seeing a quote somewhere that read ‘Look no further than Lothal if you want to see what happens when the Empire takes control of an entire world’; and although the Imperial chokehold had loosened when the Empire fell, the planet, even all these years later, still found itself gasping for breath. 

Off world migration from the Core Worlds had been popularized since the expansion of the Imperial government bureaucracy, which brought booming business opportunities for the fortunate few, but as the rich became richer, the poor grew poorer. The Lothalites were forced out of their homes, off their own lands—refugees on their own planet; forced to resettle and relocate with nothing but the clothes on their back and the possessions they could cram into their pockets. The only heirlooms passed on from generation to generation were that of poverty, tall tales of former splendor, and the greatest of ancestral traumas: disillusionment.

The truly desperate turned to crime, and what couldn’t be solved by back-dealings and blaster fire was managed with fear mongering and the bitter flair of xenophobia. There was always a species to blame, and it was always the one who seemed to be doing better off, no matter how slight the margin. 

Greed. Fear. Despair. These are the currencies in which the galaxy trades. 

And so it was then, and continued to be, cycle after cycle. History, always finding clever ways to repeat itself.

On bad days, pollution still loomed heavy over the atmosphere—remnants of the fires from the Imperial occupation still clinging on to Lothal’s weary bones. She had been stripped during that time; gutted and strung up by her feet to dangle from the Empire’s meat hook, exsanguinated slowly, drop by drop, until she had nothing left to give. Her resources and minerals and ore and water and seed, robbed. Pillaged.

She’s free from it now, but the scars remain— the planet remembers. Her people do not forget. Like muscle memory, they all ungulate to this synthesized rhythm they can’t seem to shake, day in and day out, wandering. Forever unsettled.

The planet had always had a diverse population and had become something of a safe haven for other abandoned people fleeing their home worlds, determined to find somewhere - anywhere - for them to survive. Lothal provided that for them. It wasn’t rich or bountiful by any stretch, but it was simple and safe—safe in the way hidden things in plain sight are. One could blend into the crowd of many, unique faces, of all races and backgrounds; you could be anonymous, if you wanted. You could be free.

That’s how you’ve found yourself here in Jortho. You had been with the Refugee Relief Movement for the better part of what felt like forever, and they had transferred you to this planet not six weeks ago. You were out on rotation; the RRM sends someone new twice a cycle for the span of a month or two to varying locations to supply rations, aid with the influx of refugees, organize resettlement lodgings, and generally be of assistance when and where you could. However, your tenure on this temperate planet was coming to a close, and soon you’d be flying back to the headquarters on Coruscant before being bounced to another post somewhere out among the stars. 

You love your job. You know it’s unpopular to say, but you do. It’s fulfilling and impactful and indescribably special. The individuals you meet, the stories you hear, they’re invaluable— priceless and precious, like handmade trinkets crafted by the fingers of a child; you press them all to your heart, holding them there. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get to you— the weight of it; the plights of all of these people, all of these lives, burdening your conscience. It isn’t always painless— you aren’t immune to it. Even so, on most nights you manage to sleep easy, tucked away aboard the transport freighter you flew in on with the batch of settlers newly assimilated into town knowing Maker, at least you were doing something— anything— everything you could.

And really, to call Jortho a town would be an insult to all towns everywhere—but ‘town’ has a certain charm to it that ‘refugee camp’ simply did not, and it gave the people hope. Pride, even. That they belonged somewhere.

You suppose that’s all anyone wants. To belong. 

A feather soft gust of wind tickles the golden blades of prairie grass as the sun, bleary and tired, starts dipping from the sky. The crickbeets begin their song early, trilling, sensing Lothal’s moons still coyly tucked away, hiding somewhere along the horizon. A smile adorns your face, private and serene, as you bring a bowl of broth up to your lips, humming when the warm liquid meets your tongue. You sigh, contented, taking in the sights before you; how the dusk blurs the aromatic air, making it opaque, the shuttles docked across the way from you casting long purple shadows onto the flat plains, the snowcapped mountains in the distance bordering the cant of the planet’s surface, nestling Jortho in a shallow valley.

You feel calm, at peace, and take another sip.

An easy moment passes, and it’s the last one you get before silence stalks up from behind you.

You don’t notice it at first, like any patient predator, it goes undetected: the white noise, the nothingness— until finally, you do and then suddenly it’s everywhere. On top of you. Smothering you. Goosebumps stipple your skin and you bristle. The insects have stopped chirping. The breeze has stilled. The air hangs dead. 

And then—

Chaos.

You’re hit with a blast of crushing heat, the sheer power of it picking you up off your feet and onto your side, sending your body careening into a nearby structure. Your shoulder takes most of the blow, but your neck still snaps backwards unnaturally, the back of your head colliding with the stone wall behind you with a dull thwack. You let out a groaned cry at the impact, the wind knocked out of your lungs as you crumple to the ground.

For an instant, your vision goes white, stars popping and fusing out in front of your pupils, and it’s like you can feel everything and nothing all at once, hollow but overwhelmed, and all you want to do is close your eyes and drift asleep— Maker that would feel like a luxury, just right here on the damn dirt. And you almost do, you almost let yourself slip under and sink— until you hear a piercing scream from somewhere close. 

Immediately your eyes shoot open, desperately blinking away the blurriness that threatens to over take them, and you try pushing yourself up by the heels of your scraped hands, failing once - twice - before finding your footing. You’re shaky at first, uncoordinated and dizzy and redownloading bipedalism, before that sweet drug of adrenaline starts to course through your veins and finally, finally, you take in your surroundings. 

The ships that once stood across the field are gone, obliterated, and in their place only metal ribcages remain—empty carcasses like dead birds splayed on their backsides, imploded from the inside out, their bits strewn all around you. 

Your breathing comes hard and heavy, fighting down panic, and cloudy eyes search through the thick black smoke billowing up in stacks, trying to pin point the source of the scream you’d heard just moments ago. You cough a strained wheeze, sputtering against the charred air, and wade your way through the debris— it’s only then that you realize the magnitude of the explosion. It’s not just the landing bay, it’s half the kriffing village. The buildings that neighbored the airfield had been decimated, burning roofs and crumbling fixtures, homes collapsing onto themselves, scorch marks and shrapnel branding the outsides of the shanties left standing.

It looks like a battlefield. You’ve seen holovids of this—what war can look like, how it can ruin a people… But you’ve never had to stand in the middle of it, head on. 

Your heart drums against your chest as you break into a hobbled run, desperately scanning the area for any signs of life, up and down, left and right, straining against the waning daylight. It’s then that you hear your name, urgent and frantic, and you whip your head in it’s direction, knees nearly buckling in relief. You immediately recognize your friend Hareem, brandishing her arms at you, waving you over to her. 

“Thank the Maker, you’re alright!” the Balosar cries out, trembling hands finding purchase on your shoulders, bracing you. You don’t know if its for your benefit or her own, but either way you’re grateful for the grounding pressure; for the first time since the initial blast, you feel solid, like you won’t just float away, atomized and weightless. Worried, you look her over. A sliver of fresh scarlet blooms from her scalp, a small line trickling down past her temple, but she otherwise looks relatively unharmed. You grasp onto her wrist, squeezing firmly.

“What the hell happened?” You ask, voice low and pitched, wide fearful eyes drilling into her.

“T-There was a man-” And she shakes her head, mouth clamping shut, deep wrinkles framing her face.

“Hareem,” you reassure, giving her another squeeze. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

She tries again with a steadying inhale, “I-I saw him. A-a man. He had a device with him, and he set charges, and Maker I don’t know— I don’t know— it went off a-and he ran towards the center of town!” The Balosar is in hysterics, tears spilling down her dirty cheeks, and it takes your brain a moment to catch up, to wrap your mind around the words she’s stuttering out. 

A man. 

Device. 

Charges.

A bomb. This wasn’t an accident; this was an attack—and he’s still kriffing here. You cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing against the pale skin, smearing away the blood that’s nearly dripped to her chin. Your friend’s gaze is flighty, everywhere and nowhere, and you try giving her a smile, but you’re not quite sure you manage it.

“Hareem? Hareem. Hey, shh, you’re okay. You’re alright…” You peel your eyes off her to glance around hurriedly. “We need to find cover.”

///

You’re holed up in one of the few remaining homes on this side of the encampment, crowded into the small space with three other survivors. All four of you, packed in and silent and petrified. Unsure of any further threat, you stay completely still. Helpless. Laying here, idle, for whatever awaits you behind that feeble, wooden door. You feel like prey for the wicked, just passing the time.

Minutes inch along like this—or maybe its hours; time moves eerily different when you’re attempting to become invisible—and eventually, you almost begin to relax.

Almost.

But a new sound breaks the din, hard to recognize at first, indistinct from all the commotion outside their hut, but you hear it. You all do. The youngest of you, a teenaged Devaronian, grips onto the hem of your shirt, knuckles creasing with anticipation. You tense, spine going rigid. Footsteps. They’re slow, guarded, but they’re getting closer. You bring an arm up, for all the good it’ll do, creating a human shield in front of the boy at your side. Closer. Someone behind you muffles a whimper. Closer. A Bardottan you hadn’t even met until today let’s out the faint whisper of a prayer, lips barely ghosting over the phrases. Closer- 

and then, nothing.

They’re here. You can sense him, see his shadow sweep across the gaps in the entryway. You all hold your breath, as if the air is being syphoned out of the space… And the door is flung open, nearly breaking off it’s hinges as it slams into the inside of the house, shuttering the rickety walls with a jarring bang. 

You don’t know who looks more astonished: you four, or the Mandalorian before you, dripping head to toe in silver plated armor, pointing a blaster directly at your head.

“Where is he?” He asks, hard edged and modulated, and it’s more of a demand than a question—but he lowers his weapon all the same, holstering it at his side. You gape at him, guppying wordlessly. “Volcur X’elo. The bomber. Where?” He hasn’t moved an inch out of the doorframe but he’s still managing to loom over you, completely filling up the archway, shoulders set and impossibly intimidating.

You gulp, finally finding your voice. “In town, i-in the center of town…” Kriff, you had not idea if that intel was good or not, but it’s all you think to say. Seeming satisfied with your answer he turns on his booted heel, cape whipping behind him, leaving just as soon as he arrived. The dust barely has time to settle as the door teeter’s on its hinge, its rusty squeaks filling the void in the Mandalorian’s wake.

“Fuck,” you hiss, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, doubling forward, propping your palms up on your knees.

///

After deliberating it with your group, you all come to the agreement of braving it outside. Better to be out under the open sky than die under a concaving apartment, clambering over each other to get to the exit. After all this, at least your dignity was still partially in tact— normally, you reckon you’d chuckle dryly at that. But you don’t. 

Can’t. 

You lead the pack through the mazelike streets. The sights that once seemed so familiar after weeks of living here become like strangers to you, and you sleepwalk through Jortho, snaking down paths marred by rubble and fallen wreckage— you haven’t seen any bodies, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe you’re just too scared to notice them. Maybe they’re there, hovering just outside of your peripherals, haunting the corners of your vision… 

You keep your head fixed forward, jaw clenched.

Your feet move on their own like this, only vaguely aware that the red-skinned boy still hadn’t let go of your tunic. You forge on. Have to. You have to. Your only purpose on this kriffing planet was to help these people, to bring them aid, and if that means simply planting one foot in front of the other, then so be it. You take side alleys, double backing here and there, ducking under canopies, looping around yourself, only stopping when you catch a glimpse of beskar, the orange setting sun glinting off the surface of his helmet.

And he’s not alone.

You freeze suddenly, as do the rest, and the Devaronian bumps into you, stumbling under his lanky legs. Some paces in front of you, the bounty hunter has the other man, this Volcur X’elo, by a punishing grip on his shoulders, shoving him forcefully out in front of him; his wrists are bound and he’s fitful without the stabilization of his arms, his feet staccatoed and flailing wildly beneath him as the Mandalorian marches him forward. 

The wind shifts, and on it you can hear the bomber rant madly, only catching snippets of the vile nonsense that spews from him.“- like swine, they are a plague to the system! And they must be purged from this planet, and the next, and the next— every last filthy one!” You spare a glance to Hareem, to find her watching the scene in hypnotized horror, but your eyes snap back at the sound of something maniacal, drawing your attention. It’s laughter. The zealot begins to laugh a twisted, mocking cry that makes you want to vomit. “You might have me in binders Mandalorian, but you’re too late. You’re too late. This isn’t over!” He’s practically giggling, gleeful and demented. Disturbed. “You’ve only found one.”

Your blood runs cold. 

Only one? Oneoneoneone, one what-

The realization hits you with a punch to your gut. He’s only detonated one of his bombs. Somewhere, nearby, there must be another.

Without another word, the Mandalorian whips the smaller man around, pulling him sharply by his collar to collide with his breastplate, completely dwarfing him with his beskar frame. “Where is it, X’elo?” Nothing. Only laughter. High pitched, terrible roars. He tries again, patience ebbing. “The bomb. Now.” X’elo’s head tilts back and he howls another crowing shriek, keeping private his own sick joke, as if clutching a secret to his chest with slimy hands. 

The bounty hunter had heard enough. He clearly wasn’t getting anything more out of him, and with a quick strike, he rears his blaster and pistol whips the terrorist with it. The body drops. Volcur X’elo crumples, unconscious, blood streaming from where he was struck. You hear the Bardottan behind you stifle a cry with her fist. 

And with that, Lothal’s sun disappears completely, stealing away the last of it’s light as it furls into itself, shrinking out of sight. The dark ushers a new wave of dread, creeping over Jortho like a miasma, poisoning the very air.

The Mandalorian wheels around, searching for his heading in the labyrinth of the town. Others have gathered now, poking their heads around corners, stealing glimpses through windows. He turns, his head on a swivel. “Where is your power generator?” he demands, addressing the small crowd, but you’re all too stunned to speak. “Anybody. Generator. Now.” There’s something new in his voice, something muddled, and it takes you a moment to interpret it. It’s desperation, you realize, tinny and deep through his vocoder, and with a surge of adrenaline you move forward, furthering yourself from your group. You swallow. “I-Its this way.” Upon hearing your voice, he spins around, his visor latching on to you, and with a nod you both set out. 

“Watch him,” the Mandalorian growls past his shoulder, stepping over the bounty’s limp body.

///

You’re still not really sure how he knew where it’d be, you wonder to yourself, gravel crunching under foot as you both trudge on, an eery quiet settling over them. You’d say it was a lucky hunch, but judging by the way the Mandalorian carries himself, you doubt luck had much to do with it. 

You had led him to the power generator hub on the other side of the sad excuse for a city, traveling in tense silence, and when you came upon that tall, bulky machine he sprang into action, circling it until he found what he was looking for. The bomb. You stood back, rooted there, and after some grunting and rewiring— or maybe he just hacked at it with a vibroblade, you had no idea; his wide frame engulfed his work and you couldn’t tell what he was up to, all you knew was that his methods proved successful— the man managed to disarm the second device. You had thought you noticed his shoulders release, slumping with relief, after the red flashing lights on the rudimentary interface flickered and then went dark.

And so here you are. The two of you, bathed in the bright light of Lothal’s twin moons, their bellies hanging full in the blue-black night, illuminating the trail of blood staining the dirt beneath your boots as the Mandalorian roughly drags the body by his ankle behind him— through the exploded rubble, through the fragmented lives of the people around you, already displaced and estranged. They’ll all have to move, you think, pack up their lives, or what little is left of them, and relocate. Again. The thought sinks in you like a stone, sobering you. 

Even with the weight of a fully grown man to lug, the bounty hunter is still a few long strides in front of you and your eyes are trained on the unconscious form, taking in the way his mouth lolls open like an animal, his hair matted with thick blood, eyes rolled back into his head. You’re talking out loud before you even realize it.

“How sick do you have to be,” you mumble, transfixed. Your voice, it’s not angry; no, shock has effectively robbed you of that— it’s not anger, but bewilderment. Quivering, broken bewilderment.

“H-How hoodwinked and warped you’d have to be, how disturbed... For you to think like that. To do all... all this...” 

“Hey,” his gruff voice shakes you from your trance, and you blink up at him, tearing your eyes off the body. “Focus,” he urges, and you can only nod dumbly back at him, suddenly feeling a ripple of nausea slither through you.

The ramp to his ship is lowering as they come upon it and you plant yourself at the base, feet seeming to stop on their own accord, and frankly you’re not really sure why you’ve even followed him this far in the first place— always a step behind him as he hauled his bounty all the way through the vestiges of Jortho, across the arid prairie to where he first touched down. Maybe it’s because you feel untethered, unmoored, and all of his steeled surety is like a lighthouse, a beacon, guiding you away from the rocks. 

He heaves X’elo up the ramp and you’re left standing there, staring unseeingly into the durasteel, becoming more and more aware of the ringing in your ears. The longer time passes, the more it’s as if you’re underwater, the background blurring into the foreground, sound gargled and far away. A high pitched buzz pinches your ear drums, and it takes you a moment to realize the Mandalorian is calling out to you, trying to get your attention.

“— Dala.”

Does he sound annoyed? Kriff, you think he might... If you had your wits about you, you might be able to recognize it. But as it stands, you don’t. You’re not here, not all of you. You’re splintered. Suspended.

“Hmm? Sorry, what..?” Your mouth is as dry as Jakku— parched desert tongue darting across your cracked lip, tasting soot and ash and something metallic. Brow furrowed, you touch a shaky finger to the flesh and when you pull it back, crimson red dots your skin. 

Oh, you think, numb. Huh. 

Your eyes skitter back up to the Mandalorian, towering over you, nearly at the apex of the incline, and his stance is broad and his fists are clenched. You’re almost positive he’s glaring down at you through his visor, and you don’t even know the man, can’t even see his damn face, but you can tell he’s peeved— Maker, just how long had you been ignoring him?

A scratched noise comes through his helmet’s vocoder and his next words are clipped, punctuated. “I said, do you have a way off this skug hole?”

[raendown]

Just crawling out of my hole real quick to say that no one else used that stupid prompt generator they apparently wanted for @madatobiweek so I did it myself. The one I pulled was “blood”. 

Fandom: Naruto Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 2500 Rated: T+ Summary: If he thought really hard about it Madara still wasn’t sure if he would be able to remember what it felt like to live.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

And All That I Loved, I Loved Alone

If he thought really hard about it Madara still wasn’t sure if he would be able to remember what it felt like to live. The freedom to run, the touch of grass under his feet, the taste of anything that wasn’t plain gruel with its minimum basic nutrients, it was strange how easily the memories faded. Then again, he couldn’t even remember how long he’d been here so who was he to say how quickly memories of his previous life should fade? All he knew and all he cared about was that Tobirama had been gone for three winters now. 

This would mark the fourth when it came. Standing in line to receive his morning bowl of slop, Madara cast his eyes to what little sky he was allowed to glimpse and tried to remember the color of the eyes that used to watch him in the night. Red, of course, but what shade? What forgotten fruits and gems had he compared them to when they danced in the glow of torchlight? The air was growing cold again, frost gathering on the manacles that held him in place to sleep at night, and already Madara couldn’t recall the feeling of warm fingers pulling him close. Precious memories and they too were fading. Like so many of the others here liked to say, there wasn’t anything this place would not take from you. Some of the men who’d been worked until their fingers were little more than bone had even forgotten their own names. Madara once vowed to never let himself fall in to that state but without Tobirama everything here was so much harder and after waiting for so long he’d begun to wonder if maybe it hadn’t all been a fantastical dream.

Had he imagined the soft touches, the hoarsely whispered promises? To ask would be to risk knowing.

Several spaces ahead in line, a woman fell, body sagging and crumbling to the side. Her bowl clattered as it rolled away across the rocky ground. Madara stepped around her with everyone else as the line continued onwards, implacable, undeniable. Eventually someone would come to take the body away; he could only hope they got around to it before she bloated and filled the whole area with the stench of rot. Their unwashed bodies were stench enough - or so he’d been told by the latest additions to his work team. Madara couldn’t remember what the world smelled like away from unwashed bodies and the scent of burning metal.

They were building something, that much he knew, but asking questions generally resulted in losing blood and if there was one thing Madara had kept of himself it was that he was a very fast learner. He watched and he learned to keep his mouth shut. He observed and he learned that the guards were unkind to those who met their eyes. He listened and he learned that there really was no way out of this place. 

Maybe he’d imagined it after all. No one had ever escaped this prison, that’s what everyone said. And if no one ever escaped then either his dying mind had crafted the illusion of Tobirama to keep him sane or the man had indeed once been real only to die in making his attempt at the impossible. Madara closed his eyes, shuffling along with the slowly moving line. He supposed it didn’t matter what the truth was. Whatever the case, Tobirama was not here and Madara felt the lack of him in every cell of his body. The few memories of imagining that were left to him were precious, hoarded like secrets to be remembered in the night and soothe him to sleep, dreaming of places his waking mind could never conceive of. Giving up on those little bits of himself were all that kept him from becoming like the wraiths that gibbered in their cells at night and cackled as their bloody hands worked the mines day after day, rattling the air around them with insanity like a siren calls a sailor to their doom. No, Madara was hopeless but he was not quite ready to give in to that.

Eventually. Some day. He knew his fate just as everyone here learned at some point. If they didn’t die from the lack of sun where their prison was sunk just below the earth’s surface then the exhaustion of their daily labors would do it. Madara couldn’t say what they were building, that wasn’t for someone like him to question, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. They could be constructing absolutely nothing just for the sake of punishment and it would all be the same to them, collapsing at the end of every day covered in sweat and dirt and their own filth. Endless cycles that began the day they arrived and ended long after forgetting that they had not always been here. Madara himself struggled to so much as envision a world outside of this place, let alone recall who he might have been, all the places he might have seen. Was Madara even his true name? Only the past would ever know. 

Shouting from one of the farther encampments rose suddenly and Madara ducked his head low in time with everyone else. Any show of interest in whatever was causing such a commotion would be taken as a desire to get involved, something that would no doubt lead to punishment. Everything led to punishment here. It took breaking and reforging in to a shell of shattered pieces to go even one full day without punishment and that was only if you didn’t count their daily labors as a punishment unto itself. The entire line of prisoners before and after him bowed their heads, eyes on their own filthy toes, watching the cold dust rise as they shuffled along in search of food. 

When the noise drew closer Madara wasn’t the only one to squeeze his eyes shut as though hoping he could disappear in to the shadows until whatever nonsense was happening had passed over them. The line moved and he moved with it. Foreign sounds echoed off the rough hewn walls around them but the only thoughts in his mind were reserved for prayers that Cell Block Fourteen would not be denied their morning meal for someone else’s stupidity. 

A flash of light made him flinch away on instinct. Long burns scars on his back had taught him years before to be wary of anyone bearing torchlight. Then it flashed again and he realized it wasn’t dancing the way a flame should. The anomaly was enough to light a spark of curiosity in him that should not still have the energy to live, canting his head in time to watch something rise and fall, catching the light as it did, something long and shining. Not creating light but reflecting it. Madara watched it rise again and the curiosity was there, if dull, to wonder at the dark substance that sprayed from its tip. Strange, he could have sworn there was nothing to dull that shine the first time it raised. The prisoner in front of him stepped forward and Madara drew his eyes away. Not his business. He knew better than to look, he scolded himself. 

Tobirama would have looked. 

It was this thought that left him open and vulnerable to a scream that shook him down to his core, different from the others because this one was close enough to reverberate through his skull, real in a way he couldn’t escape when he looked round a second time just fast enough to watch a long blade slide through flesh and bone to come out stained on the other side, cold steel parting the crest of the guards’ uniform. He wasn’t the only one who looked. Suddenly the screaming was all around him as the line scattered and Madara was just slow enough to get knocked to the ground, nearly trampled in the stampede of terrified prisoners. 

Somehow it was even more frightening from here where the constant thunder of flight knocked him back again and again, unable to regain his feet and unwilling to let his head be crushed. Madara rolled back and forth, dodging the flying limbs as best he could, and counted the new bruises on his legs out of sheer habit. At least these came without the price of blood. He’d had worse. Still, he was glad when there finally came a break in the rush, just enough space for him to roll his feet underneath him and stand. He stood to see a new world descending on the one that had subsumed him more years ago than he knew how to count.

Flashes of steel drew the eyes in too many directions at once. Blood sprayed through the air, stained the dirt and the walls and the heavy armor that marched inexorably forward. Prison guards lay dead and dying in broken heaps. One of them had been pinned to a wall by a long polearm weapon and Madara was morbidly fascinated to see the body thrashing against its own will. Good, he thought distantly, now they will know the pain we felt at their hands. 

And then. Oh and then. 

There he was.

Limned in golden torchlight with a face as implacable as the tides themselves he came, sword in hand, steel in his eyes. Madara knew those eyes. Had looked for them when his world was darkest and dreamed of them when all hope had left him. Had clung to the memories even as they warped and faded. Oh but he knew those eyes and the voice that roared beneath them. Three years apart had put muscle and flesh upon his bones, filled out the body now cased in metal, but Madara would have known him by the corner of an elbow glanced around a corner. 

Tobirama had come. Promises whispered in the dark made real. 

For all the chaos around him and the occasional body that tossed him from side to side Madara could do nothing but stand utterly still and watch as Tobirama cut a path through the bodies in front of him like they were nothing but chaff and shadows, white skin stained as red as his eyes and entirely unbothered by the death he wrought. The sword he carried rose and fell, swooped and slashed, death in the form of a dance, and Madara could not imagine that anything more beautiful could exist in any world. If there were a god then surely they had chosen this man as their avatar on earth, the instrument of their will. In every direction prisoners panicked and guards called out the alarm but in those moments as he watched the rebirth of his own dreams Madara knew safety for the very first time. 

He realized that he might by his very refusal to move stand out from the writhing chaos around them only when he felt a hand close around his throat and a fire he hadn’t known was still there inside him flickered to life. Embers long buried coughing away the dust of imprisonment, both hands coming up to pull at the fingers choking him in a protest he would not have had the strength for only an hour before. Now was different. Now when his eyes fell closed against the fading air in his lungs he knew there was something to fight for, scrabbling and kicking with withered limbs, gnashing teeth when a second hand came around to cover his mouth. The taste of blood was a triumph he hadn’t known in so long he nearly stopped moving just to savor it. 

As the world turned hazy it occurred to him that this might be the end and the thought was not a terrible one despite his instincts to fight. The awakening desire to live. So long he had spent in the darkness, so much time alone and uncertain, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that an end like this would be anything but a victory. Did he not have vindication? Proof that Tobirama was real, alive, that everything they shared had been as true as he remembered in the dreams that gave him warmth through the frosted nights? At least he would die with a kernal of happiness fluttering in his belly like something forbidden. One last grand rebellion to the ones that had made him so miserable for who even knew how many years. 

Oxygen rushed back down his throat so fast he nearly choked on that as well when the hands upon him fell away. Madara coughed through the taste of dust and blood, stumbling back until his eyes could focus again and then struggling to clear his mind, to understand what he was seeing. Shining silver and dripping red. Fear and shock and some instinctual plea for mercy all twisted together in an ugly grimace as the guard who dared to touch him spent his death throes on the point of a steady blade. When the body fell it was gone from his mind as easily as that. What could ever possibly hope to hold his attention with a face like that staring back at him with such adoration?

“You came,” Madara croaked, voice hoarse with disuse and thick with emotion. 

“Did I not promise?” Ah but Tobirama’s voice had always been a honeyed rumble, a caress upon the ear like nothing else. Time and distance had only made his tones all the sweeter. 

His fingers were gentle, even encased in steel as they were, but even if he had been rough and unthinking Madara would have fallen in to his arms just as easily. Because he had indeed promised and he was here now keeping that vow. Keeping the dreams they had spun together alive, weaving new possibilities with nothing but his steady and undeniable presence. 

Trust was not something easily come by in this place where only pain existed. It had been three long years since Madara knew what trust could feel like, the taste of absolute certainty that he could rely on anything but his own efforts. He knew it again now, after three long and endless years, resting his weight fully against Tobirama’s chest and closing his eyes. Chaos strained and flowed around them. Death rang out in echoes that flickered back against themselves over and over and over. Madara knew none of it. His world had been darkness, despair, and desperation, had been struggle, sorrow, and strife, and all of it had been worth it now to feel the arms that circled his waist and pulled him in close, the hand that cradled his neck like something so very, very precious. Tobirama had come. Whatever came after they would face it together again as they had before and that was all Madara could ever - would ever - need. 

In the darkness where once he expected to die Madara learned again what it was to live.

[aydriis]

Dolent

There was something to be said for the push and pull of waves against the grains of sand upon the beach. Twisting, caressing, molding, and shaping patterns of natural consequence in their wake of the tide. Lingering tastes of salt upon the breeze settled into a familiar feeling in the back of Aydri’s throat.

Fingers curled to grasp the sand beneath them. A movement that saw just as much fall through the cracks to return with the water's edge in a pensive manner. While there were small ticks and twitches to indicate that Aydri was sitting there--The woman beside her hardly moved from the curled position that was taken up the moment the two were on the beach.

The passive silence carried on from the sun beginning to touch the horizon and into the murky dusk that began to creep along with the incoming tide. It was one matter speaking to a kin who hadn’t been seen in a long time.

Another matter entirely if they were thought to have been devoid of life.

“How can I help you, Mylanea?”

Parted lips echoed out reproachfully. If one were not close, it could have easily been mistaken as a whisper of the tide spray.

Dully gleaming hues barely held any reflection of the fading light that began to cast longer shadows. They stayed fixated on the line where the ocean and sky met in a wandering gaze with a small spasm running through her hand being the only signal that she wasn’t a statue.

“Solace of mind...I cannot achieve such. Glimpses of shards...Essence of what has desperately tried to break through fades each passing shift of the sun. It is not long now.”

A flash of indignation and disdain snapped Aydri’s head towards Mylanea, gritting her teeth. Partly at the woman, yet it felt more so to the meaning behind words spoken. The moments over the past few months had built up a frail, yet developing trust. Bits of personality and a mirage of what once was had begun to branch out. A small victory against the forces who’d seemingly conspired against the odds towards them. In that moment--It all felt to be crumbling.

“You’re goin’ to give up so easily? Let them continue to take away from your own chance at fate after everythin’? I refuse to believe that. We can help you, Mylanea. I want to help you and---”

“Aydri’lyssa.”

The slow cant of Mylanea’s head and the sudden tone shift that asserted a sense of desolate pleading saw Aydri quiet imminently. It was rare that the woman ever garnered such a tone, and it saw a sharp twinge of unease cross through Aydri. The two stared at one another in a creeping silence that blocked out the rolling waves before them. 

Small noises of cloth shifting saw gloves that were never removed finally slide off. Even against the fading light, the swirls of unnatural, inky darkness that trailed from nails all the way up past Mylanea’s elbows were clear. Thick veins of the same hue branched out from the end like a creeping vine towards her shoulders. Cracks of red from dried blood and now wet ones beginning to form could be seen.

“Ukushona.”

The strange language was immediately recognized. A myriad of emotions flickered through Aydri’s expression to the word--the meaning. 

Death.

Contorting into dread and confusion, teal strands began to whip in the breeze with a firm shake of her head. Words began to pour out in a river of compelling thought and disbelief.

“They...They are gone. It was all destroyed and we..we saved you. If...If I had known that you still existed outside the depths of my memories and mind, I would have come straight back. Burned the entire place to the ground and shred them apart if it meant that we’d be alright. I’m still going to help you, Mylanea. There are people here that have more ability than I currently do. Those that wish to see you better just as much as me….It’ll be alright. We will--”

The tangent of words that edged onto hysteria to perhaps try and calm herself halted when an inky hand gently rested against one of Aydri’s shoulders. Creases of distress along her wavering eyes stared back into Mylanea’s dull, yet forlorn ones.

“I succumbed the day I was slain. What is left...are fragments. Pieces that cannot be mended and will soon enough wither alongside the shadows that trail behind us. You saved pieces of me...But I am still to fade, sister.”

Numbness accented by a thick, almost choking swallow held back the onset of turmoil that threatened to rise up from Aydri’s throat and spill onto her cheeks from her eyes. Her head continued to shake, a hand of her own placed over Mylanea’s.

“But you are here...with me. With us. I can sense your soul--They don’t control you anymore!”

Mylanea’s lips turned into a soft, tormented flicker of a smile.

“It is not them. I have...chosen this. For so long, I was merely a vessel. An asset to inflict suffering and plague the minds of innocents. You know it too well as I do. I am trapped in this body...A waiting game to tip the scales. My purpose was...to kill you. Kill all others by your side as the Temple fell. This…”

The words trailed as an arm lifted. Droplets of blood fell softly to stain the sands below.

“This is what was meant to be used. Its course is already...streaming through my veins. Each day is not only a prison of the mind...but a prison of pain in all aspects of the word. It is made bearable….By you. By our family...and the hope of those to come.”

Her hand gestured to the ever growing bump of Aydri’s stomach--The latter woman opened her mouth for more protests but stopped once more. Mylanea’s gaze narrowed purposefully despite the anguish that flickered behind her hues.

“It is not over. Even now...They are seeking to continue past the Veil and bring the chaos and destruction that He wishes. Anything and everything..will be used as a ploy for the upperhand. Me...and perhaps even your children that are to come. I have resolved...to bide my time. If I am to fade and continue to suffer until that time arrives...Then I shall make them suffer too. Not only for what they’ve twisted my body and soul into...But for you, Aydri’lyssa. For our mother. For our father. For every soul they have destroyed.”

A choked sob of opposition couldn’t be held back as Aydri clenched her jaw and sniffed. If everything that had resembled a victory in the past was crumbling….It was devastated now. The resolution in Mylanea was firm. There was no dancing around the fact that they both knew now exactly what had to be done.

Could she even bring herself to accept it?

“I can’t let you do that, Mylanea. You don’t deserve to suffer anymore. Let us help you--We’ve defeated them and set them back once. The next time, they will be decimated. Don’t...Don’t let yourself perish because of it.”

A rare plea croaked from Aydri’s lips. The gentle squeeze against the hand that held Aydri’s shoulder was the only indication that Mylanea began to slip away and stand from the sand. The soft, flickering smile stayed as she gazed at the woman.

“I know you will, falore. This is the path that I have chosen….The first choice I’ve had in thousands of years suffering repression. All I ask...And even plead to you...Is that you respect that. It is of my own will and something I truly believe to see through. If it brings all of them down...I wish for nothing more.”

Fading steps marked Mylanea’s departure towards the family home while her words echoed on the sea breeze and barely marked above the growing swell of waves. Rumbles of thunder on the distant horizon marked the shift of cooler winds and rising of the tides before Aydri’s form.

Gathering herself up to sink her feet into the sand with each step, she eventually stopped when the water pooled around her ankles in a cool embrace. The growing winds whipped teal strands around with a few clinging to the tears that were beginning to stain her cheeks.

Aydri screamed into the night.

[ilikeyoshi]

prompt 8 for ffxivwrite 2021!!! kinda!!!! i cant exactly say this suits the prompt but it reminded me so much of lyse when i saw it i just HAD to write something with her and l'aiha!!! my two ala mhigan refugees finally seeing the chance to save their home..... fucks me UP BRO

stormblood spoilers, 900 words

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

a·droit

/əˈdroit/

adjective

1. clever or skillful in using the hands or mind.

"May I join you?"

Lyse blinked out of her meditative stupor, staring at nothing in particular until she remembered the speaker. She looked and found L'aiha, up with the sun as always. She and Lyse had always been similar in that way; early birds, as it were.

"Oh, Aiha! Sure!" Lyse said, impulsively scooting aside as if there weren't plenty of room in the dusty grass patch, identical to all the others around Rhalgr's Reach.

L'aiha settled down next to her, tucking her feet underneath herself as Lyse did. The waterfalls rained heavy in the distance, a comforting white noise in the shadowy dawn that encompassed the canyon.

L'aiha closed her eyes, taking it all in. Lyse watched her, a sudden uncertainty bubbling in her chest.

"You never told me you were from the Lochs," she said.

L'aiha didn't open her eyes. "I did not tell anyone," she confessed. "There are... things about my past here I wish not to invite into my present."

"I mean, nothing's as bad as the Garleans or those Skulls, right?" Lyse joked.

L'aiha frowned though, and Lyse feared she'd struck a very unfortunate vein of gold.

"Wait, you weren't like a conscript, were you—"

"No!" L'aiha gasped and laughed. "No, I—I do not like to talk about it. It is an issue among we Seekers, and outsiders tend not to understand..."

"Oh?" Lyse said. "Well, there's nothing you could say to make me think less of you now. And I like to think I'm pretty savvy with Seeker culture thanks to Naago."

L'aiha considered, and after a long pause said, "I killed a Nunh."

"Oh—" Lyse gaped, then inhaled sharply. "Oh, uh—yeah, yeah, that's a pretty big deal, isn't it?"

L'aiha only smiled. Lyse could sense her anxiety though, and shuffled a little closer.

"So... What'd he do?"

"What do you mean?"

"You killed him, right?" Lyse said. "You must've had a good reason. I know you'd never hurt someone you didn't have to."

L'aiha frowned again. "... He was going to kill Khilo."

"Oh. Yeah, that tracks."

"We were—" L'aiha took a deep breath. "Last I knew, the L clan here had struck a bargain with the Empire. If the Seekers provided conscripts, the Empire would more or less leave them alone."

"Shit."

"Khilo and eventually myself were working to oust our Nunh," L'aiha continued. "We believed if we could cast him out, we could move the rest of the clan away from such life-for-life callousness... But Khilo was caught."

Lyse clucked her tongue. "And this Nunh dude was going to kill him for it, so you killed the Nunh guy first?"

"More or less," L'aiha said. "... It was an accident. I didn't even know I had an affinity for magic before then."

"Hey." Lyse softened her voice. "You saved your friend from a real bad guy, right? You don't have to feel bad about that. I know Seekers are real stuck up about their Nunhs, but—sometimes a leader isn't a good person. Hells, the Empire occupying Ala Mhigo are proof of that, right? And the Mad King before them. And that Ishgardian archbishop you walloped! Sometimes leaders just SUCK."

The words struck L'aiha as funny, startling a laugh out of her. "... Please do not tell M'naago?" she asked. "I can only assume I am still a fugitive to the Seekers of Gyr Abania. If she knew who I really am, she might... be forced to act."

Lyse pouted. "Naago's smart, she wouldn't—"

"I believe you," L'aiha said. "But this crime—she would be in danger herself, if she knowingly kept it from her clan."

"Gods, okay. I get it." Lyse groaned a little—not at L'aiha, but the situation itself. "Listen—we're going to free Ala Mhigo, okay? You and me, daughters chased from our home. We'll take it back, and I'll fight tooth and nail to make sure it welcomes us both. Okay? We'll clear your name."

L'aiha stared at her, stunned. "Lyse—"

"That's a promise!" Lyse said. "We'll do it together!"

She held up a little finger. L'aiha stared at it. "Wh... what is this."

"What's what? Oh! It's a pinkie promise! Look, you just—hook yours in with mine like this, see?" Lyse guided L'aiha's own pinkie to join hers. "And now we've made a promise! No take-backs!"

L'aiha laughed again, her grip becoming surer. "Thank you, Lyse."

Lyse beamed, and then seemed to falter. She said, almost embarrassed, "I'm glad I'll have you with me. I feel like, while I was still hiding in Yda's shadow, I never really got to meet you. But you're at least as awesome as everyone says, if not more!"

"L-Lyse, please—"

"I mean it!" Lyse said. "You've always been stronger than the pain and the loss, and—and sometimes I think I wanted to model my own strength after yours. Now I feel like I really can."

Their fingers still interlocked, L'aiha nearly didn't know what to say. She finally smiled, a warmth spreading through her.

"Yda would be proud of you, Lyse."

It was Lyse's turn to stare, shocked—and then cracking with a wet sort of laughter. She hastily withdrew her hand to wipe her eyes. "I—I hope so."

The sun rose, its light slowly filling the canyon that comprised Rhalgr's Reach. Though the chapter had just begun, L'aiha found hope in Lyse's resolve.

Together, they would free their home.

[clintbartonswife]

give me back my heart you wingless thing

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier, Essi Davern, Cirilla Summary: Jaskier’s not a defenceless maiden by any means, and when he’s surrounded by friends, the bard could do just about anything. Notes: hurt!jaskier, Essi is like a sister to Jaskier and you cant convince me otherwise, chosen family, post episode 6, whole fic based on an idea I got whilst listening to The Horror and the Wild by The Amazing Devil.  (Oczko is Essi’s nickname in the book) masterlists

He flees back to Oxenfurt. 

Of course he does, for where else would he go?

With the vicious words biting at his back, he makes the journey in a few weeks, playing in every tavern along the way with a new determinedness in his eyes and strength in his voice. 

He locks up the pain and tears until he knows he is safe, arriving on Essi’s doorstep with lute in hand and a face that spelt out heartbreak.

“Oh Jask” she sighed, opening her arms wide, letting the taller man fall into them, the instant love and affection proving too much for him.

“Missed you” he mumbled, voice thick with tears when he eventually pulled himself together enough to move from the doorway and into her apartment.

“Well you’ve known I’ve been here for a while, could’ve come to see me whenever you wanted” she replied sassily, the familiar banter relaxing Jaskier.

“I should have”

At the morose tone of his voice, Essi raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms.

“I know that tone - wine or rum?”

Jaskier let out a shaky laugh, collapsing onto one of her chairs with a small smile, “how about both?”

“Oh so it’s one of those”

He simply huffed, the burning pain in his chest easing slightly as they slipped back into their old ways, a warmth slowly replacing it.

Essi, a few years younger than Jaskier yet in the same years as him at Oxenfurt, had quickly grown on him throughout their tutelage. The two became fast friends, and Jaskier could say with a confidence that she was the only person in the school whom he didn't try to fuck.

They had bonded over shitty family relations and their love for music, and within the first few months Jaskier was calling her the little sister he’d never had - a closeness and trust between them that he had never had with anybody before.

“Here,” Essi said, passing him the bottle of red wine, “I got the good shit out for you”

“You flatter me” Jaskier grinned, popping the cork off and taking a deep swig. He watched Essi do the same to the rum bottle, burrowing further into her chair as she levelled a surveying stare at him.

“Who was it this time?” she eventually asked.

He giggled wetly, eyes blurring with tears as he remembered the words that he was running from, “The Witcher”

“Jaskier”

“I know, I know. ‘Witchers don't feel’ and all that bullshit” he took another deep swig before continuing, “But I thought he was different - is different - he, he cared, just not for me”

Essi frowned as the tears began to fall down his cheeks, though knew better than to interrupt him when he was opening up.

“Twenty two years, Oczko. I gave him twenty two years of my life, knowing that he didn't love me for most of them, and I was okay - I could deal with it because I thought that I was at least his friend” a bitter laugh escaped him then, his smile turning sharp, “turns out I was even wrong about that. Not only did he not consider me his friend, but I’m apparently a shit-shoveller who’s so bad that if life could give him one blessing, it would be to be rid of me!”

Essi let out an indignant noise, and Jaskier gestured the hand holding the wine wildly in agreement, “Exactly! So I left. I gave him his wish and I left”

The blonde took a solidarity sip of her rum, hissing at the sting through her teeth.

“You deserve better Jask” she said sternly, leaning forwards, “If he didn't want you then bugger him! Stay with me. We can write music together, like we used to. I have a few more weeks of teaching until my contracts done for the season - we could travel again, like the old days”

The pain in Jaksier’s chest all but diminished, reduced to a bearable ache.

He was home, safe. He wasn't alone anymore.

Jaskier’s smile widened even further as he danced around Essi, his fingers nimbly moving over the strings of his lute as she sang the ending of the ditty.

As they finished to roaring applause, the blacksmith in the corner called out, “Play us that new one!”

“The one of the wild!”

Essi smirked, nudging Jaskier’s hip as she retrieved a small drum, “Shall we?”

“We shall”

The two bowed again, before they both began to play, circling each other with matching enthusiasm. The bard’s smile grew as Essi began to sing, her hand tapping the beat on the drum.

‘You were raised by wolves and voices Every night I hear them howling deep beneath your bed They said it all comes down to you’

She passed the singing to Jaskier, who flourished in the limelight.

‘You’re the daughter of silent watching stones You watch the stars hurl all their fundaments In wonderment, at you and yours, forever asking more’

This song felt empowering to sing, as if he was announcing his frustration of the Witcher to everybody. His voice joined together in melody with Essi as their music built.

‘You are that space that’s in between every page, every chord and every screen You are the driftwood and the rift, you’re the words that I promise I don’t mean We’re drunk but drinking (sunk but sinking) They thought us blind (we were just blinking) All the stones and kings of old will hear us screaming at the cold‘

They halted their playing, voices carrying the song.

‘Remember me I ask, remember me I sing Give me back my heart you wingless thing‘

As they burst back into song, the tavern cheered, beginning to stomp along to the drum. The overwhelming noise drowned out the sound of the tavern door swinging open, admitting the two new travellers.

‘Think of all the horrors that I Promised you I’d bring I promise you, they’ll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child Witness me, old man, I am the Wild‘

The two began to dance, weaving about the far end of the tavern, twirling through the people until they had found a table to stand on.

‘You are the son of every dressing up box And I am Time itself, I slow to let you play I steal the hours and turn the night into day‘

Jaskier leant down, winking at one of the women sat at the table they were dancing on as Essi sang her part, only coming back up when Essi kicked the back of his leg playfully.

‘Day by day oh lord three things I pray That I might understand as best I can How bold I was, could be - will be - still am, by god still am‘

Jaskier allowed his eyes to scan the tavern, taking joy in seeing all the faces singing along. He barely stayed in time as his eyes faltered on an imposing figure sat in the corner, a smaller figure walking over to him, yellow eyes locking with blue.

‘Fret not dear heart, let not them hear The mutterings of all your fears, the fluttering of all your wings Welcome to the storm, I am thunder Welcome to my table, bring your hunger‘

Communicating with Essi through eye contact alone was something they had learned early on in their friendship, and soon her eyes had found the Witcher. 

‘Think of all the horrors that I Promised you I’d bring I promise you, they’ll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child Witness me old man, I am The Wild‘

She gave Jaskier a small nod, moving to position herself in his line of sight, blocking the Witcher’s view.

‘Remember me, Remember me, Remember me, Remember me Remember me I ask. Remember me I sing‘

He took the next verse as time to desperately figure out what to do, until he realised that he had to do nothing. He was here first. The Witcher should leave if it bothered him. With this new confidence, he nodded at Essi once more and sang with even more passion than before.

‘Think of all the horrors that I Promised you I’d bring I promise you, they’ll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child‘

He jumped from the table, Essi close behind, moving through the crowd once again, this time doing a full circuit of the room. Jaskier winked at a few patrons as he passed, making sure that the Witcher could see it - could see that he was unbothered.

‘Witness me old man, I am the Think of all the horrors that I Promised you I’d bring I promise you, they’ll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child Witness me, old man, old man, old man, I am the‘

Finishing with his back against Essi’s, he broke out into a wide grin once again as the tavern applauded once more. She laughed, giving Jaskier a quick hug before collecting their coin with a bow.

“That’s all for tonight folks, thank you ever so much for being such a wonderful audience” she called, tucking their pay into the pouch on her belt, before grabbing Jaskier’s hand and guiding him over to the bar.

“Great performance again” the barmaid smiled, passing them their ales and dinner, “haven't seen the tavern this full since last yuletide”

Jaskier laughed heartily, taking a sip of his ale, “You’re too kind”

Essi smiled at her, before turning to face Jaskier, voice low.

“So that's him?”

“Yep. I don't know who’s with him though. Cant be Yennefer - she’s taller than that”

Essi scoffed, taking an angry swig of her drink, “I could go over there right now and slap him”

“Yeah, and hurt your hand? We need that”

Essi just narrowed her eyes at him playfully, slapping his chest lightly.

“What’s the plan then?”

“We were here first” Jaskier shrugged, “If he doesn't like it then he can leave”

She grinned at him then, lifting her cup up in a cheers, to which Jaskier copied.

“That’s right. Now, lets eat and then we can go to sleep”

Their meal was interrupted as a shadow was cast over them, a person looming behind them.

“Witcher” Jaskier greeted coldly, not looking up from his meal.

The man ‘hmm’ed in response, making the bard roll his eyes. Giving a quick look to Essi, he turned around, coming face to face with Geralt for the first time in almost a year.

“We were here first. We are not leaving. You can go if you want”

He then turned back to his meal, ignoring him until he went away, not realising how tense his shoulders had become until they dropped.

Essi placed a comforting hand on the back of Jaskier’s neck, rubbing at it until all the tension had gone.

“You’re ok” she whispered, “We’re ok”

Geralt wouldn't admit it, but he was lonely.

He had regretted sending Jaskier away with his harsh words, though what he regretted even more was how long it took his to realise it.

By the time he identified the hollow ache in his chest as loneliness, it was far too late to find the bard - months too late, his tracks long lost on the mountain path - not to mention the war that had begun to rage North, too close to Cintra for Geralt’s comfort. Ciri had to come first.

So, he pushed his feelings aside, determined to find his child surprise for the first time in his life, a steady urge to protect her pulling at his whole person until he found her, running through the woods and in to each other’s arms.

The lonely ache faded slightly, though even Ciri’s presence couldn't stop the sharp pain that ran through Geralt’s chest like a dagger whenever he heard a lute, or the suspicious sting of restrained tears when they passed a field of Dandelions.

It was only within the last few days that the lonely feeling began to grow again, confusion brewing in the White Wolf.

Confused wasn't the right word for it exactly - it was more like Geralt’s whole body felt like it was off-axis, screaming for a missing piece.

Ciri had noticed his odd behaviour earlier that day, “Are you alright Geralt?”

The Witcher had assured her that he was fine, but the familiar feeling of the thread of destiny was pulling at him again, guiding him towards a small town just North of Ard Carraigh.

The second they neared the tavern, he knew that fate was playing a cruel trick. Jaskier’s voice rang out, loud and true, melding beautifully with a female’s. The implication was enough to make him want to run away, but he could tell Ciri was too tired to travel any further for the night.

“Are we going in?” Ciri asked, taking Geralt’s hand in hers as they walked away from the stables, “I’m quite hungry”

Geralt nodded, steeling himself before opening the door, veering off to the corner table almost immediately, eyes resolutely glued to the floor.

He could feel Ciri’s concerned gaze on the side of his face, so he placed the coins in her hand and gestured for her to go and order the food. Ecstatic with the trust he had just given her, she went over to the bar.

Geralt made the mistake of looking up, only for a moment, the breath being punched out of his lungs as golden eyes met cornflower blue.

Within an instant, the longing that Geralt had pushed aside the past year came rushing back, tumbling over Geralt like water poured from a bucket. He wanted, Melitele he wanted his bard back.

“Geralt?”

He grunted in response, eyes not moving from the bard, even as the woman moved to stand in front of him, blocking his view. 

He absentmindedly registered a meal being placed in front of him, Ciri sitting down on the bench beside him, following his eyesight.

“Theyre good” she commented, “I’ve missed music -”

Her voice trailed off, eyes widening as she caught sight of the bard’s face as he weaved in and out of the crowd, “That’s Jaskier! He played at my birthday feast every year! Geralt we’ve got to say hello!”

The jealousy that had been brewing beneath his skin as he watched the bard flirt with the patrons dissipated as sudden panic gripped his heart, turning to face Ciri immediately.

“We cant risk it” He almost growled, “We don't know if we can trust him”

The Witcher almost flinched as the words came out of his mouth, not believing his own words for a second. Ciri accepted them with a huff, tucking in to her food.

“He wouldn't turn me in” she eventually said, voice stern, “I know he wouldn't”

Geralt sighed, taking a large bite of his food, giving him some time to mull over his words, “We cant be sure”

“Then check”

He barely restrained a laugh, the little lion cub sounding more like her grandmother by the day.

“When I’ve finished my dinner, you go to the room. I will talk to him”

Ciri smiled, spirits back as she returned to her plate with renewed gusto. 

When he approached the bard later, he barely restrained a whimper at the cold greeting, embedded with the barely-there scent of fear.

“Witcher”

Brain scrambling for words he could use to fix the situation, internally reeling from the new knowledge that Jaskier was afraid of him, a hum escaped his lips instead. At that he whipped around, levelling him with a blank stare, eyes void of the affection he was so used to seeing.

“We were here first. We are not leaving. You can go if you want” he stated coldly, turning back to his food, the blonde next to him giving him a glare before returning her attention to his - Jaskier.

Geralt didn't know how long he stood there, frozen with disbelief and grief, but he knew he must have left at some point, as here he was stood in front of Ciri.

“I’ll try again tomorrow”

The next morning Jaskier awoke, Essie’s head resting on his arm.

The two of them had been sharing beds to save money on their travels, glad to be together again. Of course there were some nights where Essi went home with a local - who had been threatened by Jaskier beforehand - meaning Jaskier had the room to himself.

Still, the bard never tried to enchant any admirers. He would tell Essi it was because he was finally happy in himself, not needing any praise as he once did. While this was technically true, Jaskier still couldn't fathom the idea of being with anyone, for fear of breaking his heart again, this time to the point of no repair.

The bard slipped out of the bed, Essi grumbling as she repositioned herself, splaying out on the mattress like a starfish. Jaskier let out an affectionate snort, shaking his head as he put on his boots.

“Morning Mary” Jaskier grinned, sliding onto the barstool, “Could I get two breakfasts please - oh, and some fresh water if that's alright”

“Of course darlin’“

He gave her another smile, watching her retreat to the kitchen.

“Jaskier?”

The bard jumped slightly, turning around to face the Witcher, “What do you want?”

“I-”

He was cut off by Ciri, rushing past Geralt with a smile, “Jaskier!”

“Princess!” he gasped, sliding from the bar stool and kneeling, opening his arms for her to rush into, hugging her tightly, “I was so worried when I heard the news about Cintra”

“It was scary for a little while, but I found Geralt” 

Jaskier smiled at that, “Smart. He’ll keep you safe”

Ciri nodded, turning around to fix Geralt with a pointed stare.

“Here’s your breakfasts Bard” Mary called, placing the tray on the bar.

Jaskier stood back up, grateful for the excuse to leave, “Thanks, love”

He missed the way Geralt frowned when he noticed the two dishes, simply sending the pair a small smile before he returned to his room, tray in hand.

“Essi, open up!” 

The blonde opened the door with a disgruntled sigh, expression brightening at the sight of food.

“You’re a gem” she beamed, ushering him towards the bed.

Letting out a laugh, he placed the tray in the middle of the bed, sitting cross-legged beside it.

“What prompted this?” she asked, taking a bite of egg with a raised brow, “Normally I can never get you out of bed this early after a performance”

Jaskier scoffed teasingly, “Like you’re any better”

“I am so!” Essi screeched, diving at Jaskier (careful of the food) and landing on him heavily, punching an ‘oof’ out of the man, before beginning to tickle him mercilessly.

“Ah! By the gods have mercy!” he wheezed, body squirming under her ministrations, “Essi I swear to Melitele!”

Essi just cackled evilly.

“Why didn't you say anything!” Ciri demanded, crossing her arms.

Geralt just angrily huffed, moving to walk back to their room, stopping in his place as a small hand wrapped around his wrist.

“Why did he look sad?”

“Ciri..” Geralt warned, fists clenching as he tried to force down the emotions that were beginning to bubble below his skin, his mind still stuck on the two breakfasts.

“Why was he sad Geralt?”

“We need to leave” he said instead, moving towards the stairs again. 

His footsteps faltered outside Jaskier’s room, happy squeals and laughter drifting through the door and into the hallway. The knife of jealousy stabbed through his heart again, and he found himself frozen to the floor.

“Oh - you love him”

He looked to his left, Ciri stood there with a pitying look on her face.

“I don't love him” Geralt grunted, walking back to their room with far more speed than normal.

“Yes you do. It’s okay that you do...” she trailed off, levelling him with eyes that felt like they were reading his soul, wise beyond her years, “If you love him then why is he sad? Is it because you left him?”

“Ciri. Stop”

“But I don't see why -”

“Ciri”

His hands were shaking as he tried to buckle up his potion bag, her incessant poking finally pushing him over the edge.

All the withheld pain and longing crashed into him, the jealousy making his skin burn. Scrunching his eyes shut, he stood still, breathing deeply as he let the emotions wash over him. 

Ciri’s presence at his back made him tense slightly, breaking through his concentration, “I’m sorry - grandma always used to say that I didn't know when to stop”

Geralt took a few more stabilising breaths before turning to face her, “Don't apologise for being right” he said, avoiding her eyes.

Ciri frowned at that, confusion clear in her face, “But - why weren't you with him if you love him?”

Taking a shaky breath - something which had Geralt feeling more vulnerable than he had in years - he sat on the side of the bed, clasping his hands on his lap.

“I said some things to him, terrible things, and he left. It was nothing he deserved...” Geralt sighed again, wiping his hands over his face, “I was angry - at Yen, at the world - and I let that all out on him”

They were silent for a few moments, “Did he love you?”

“I don't know” he laughed, bitterness rising back up his neck, “I don't know”

It wasn't until later that afternoon that Jaskier saw the Witcher again.

He was in the stables, talking lowly to Roach as he stroked her mane lovingly, Ciri sat just outside picking wildflowers from the grass.

The familiar yearning took a strong grip of his sternum, squeezing harder the longer he allowed himself to look.

“Jaskier!” Ciri called, spotting him, “Jaskier come over here!”

The bard cursed silently, slapping on a smile as the Withcer’s head whipped up at his intrusion.

“Hello princess”

She shook her head, leaning closer to him, “When we’re around people we don't trust my name is Fiona” she whispered.

“Ah, my deepest apologies, my dearest Fiona” he smiled, giving her a deep bow, “Why did you call me over here?”

At his question, she brightened, offering him a dandelion that she had picked. As he tucked it behind his ear, she gestured for him to lean down again so that she could whisper in his ear, “Geralt really wants to talk to you but he wont ask you himself - I think he’s scared”

Jaskier almost scoffed at that, pulling away, when she gripped the sleeve of his jacket to keep him in place, “He was really upset this morning. Please just speak to him. Once”

The bard levelled her with a glare, knowing he was weak to her demands, and sighed, “Very well”

He took a steadying breath before entering the stables, deciding to lean against the door and just watch Geralt until he was ready to talk. He knew that the Witcher could sense him there, so felt no guilt watching him.

Jaskier’s eyes followed the Witcher as he finished brushing Roach’s mane, no longer talking to her, until eventually, back still turned, he spoke.

“Jaskier”

“Geralt”

The older man huffed a laugh at that, “Oh, so I’m not ‘Witcher’ anymore?”

Crossing his arms, Jaskier remained stood where he was, “I didn't know if I was allowed to use your name anymore - Melitele knows you didn't want me in your sight last time we spoke”

At that Geralt turned around, hurt swimming behind his golden irises.

“I’m sorry”

The bard blanched at that, “Excuse me?”

“I said I’m sorry” he repeated, his fists clenching at his sides as he forced himself to speak, “I know I hurt you - something I swore to myself I wouldn't do - and I sent you away, but Jaskier I missed you so much”

Jaskier tried to bring up the anger that used to swirl around his soul at the very thought of that conversation, but all he could feel now was the overwhelming longing - so much so that he could hardly breathe.

Geralt continued, “It took me a while to understand that - that I felt lonely. I- I missed your laugh, your voice, your stupid lute strumming …”

In that moment Jaskier knew. He knew what Geralt was trying to say and the feeling screamed at him until he moved towards the Witcher, close enough to look into his eyes and drown in the golden pools.

“Say it” he whispered.

“But the girl?” he sounded confused, hurt coming through his persona again and Jaskier wanted to laugh at the sheer confoundity of it all.

“That’s Essi and she’s like my little sister” Jaskier smiled, shaking hands moving to cup Gerlat’s jaw, “Say it”

“I -I love you”

Moving faster than he ever had in his life, Jaskier closed the distance between their lips, swallowing Geralt’s noise of surprise eagerly, melting against his hulking form as strong hands settled on his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

When he pulled away, chest heaving and lips swollen, he rested his forehead against that of the wolf’s gently.

“I love you too, my dearest Geralt”

[noxtms]

IN CHARACTER DATE : december 9th, 2020. SYNOPSIS : the answer to the question of where is percy weasley.  TRIGGER WARNINGS : abduction & blood, torture implied. 

and the panic sets in like this : slow and brutal, tar - thick in the back of his throat when he realises that he can’t move his hands. ( it comes as a double edged sword of terror and dread ; there is nothing he can do. PERCY is acutely aware of something sliciing neat ribbons into the flesh of his wrist, of the way blood trickles lazy rivers down his hands. ) hues haven’t quite been able to focus / devoid of either contacts or the glasses he only wears when he’s alone, percy’s never felt quite this helpless before. bound to god knows what and barely able to see : he cuts a desperate, sad image. he’s too afraid of the way the noise might ricochet in the silence, the way it might snowball into a sob that’ll wrack an attenuate ribcage. god, he feels exposed.

( and despite it all, he’ll cling to ludicity : he knows that screaming, begging, yelling won’t do him any good. crying out somewhere at the back of his mind, the sickened thought : this isn’t good. someone wants you dead, and if you scream you’re more likely to die. you cannot afford your mother another dead son, another casket her frail shoulder cannot possible bear. in the face of abject misery, you resolve to stay silent / complacent in your own disappearance. that’s if they notice, what if they don’t notice, what if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it scream --- )

somewhere, a rustle in the dark, and resolve crumbles. it can’t be helped. “please, help me, please.” 

four words & suddenly it’s a performance / mask down, lights up, camera set, action. all the world a stage and the space is now a grandstand, one that amycus intends to milk for all it’s worth. he comes to life as if it’s that note of desperation that he’s been waiting for, puppet on string. he pushes wide the door of the room the other is held in as if it took force to burst inside, his chest heaving from imagined exertion, his wand clutched too tightly as if he’s ready at any moment to defend them from unseen terror. he looks equal parts terrified & frantic, as if he doesn’t know what’s around any shadowed corner and he wants to get them out of there as quick as possible. 

of course, his steps falter immediately. a true rescuer wouldn’t hesitate to release the bonds holding the other in place, but AMYCUS holds back as if assessing a situation that needs no assessment. there’s a waver to his voice. “percy weasley. merlin’s beard... your family will be so relieved you’re alright.” he feigns a look over his shoulder, all the better for appearances. “i don’t know how much time i have...”

he’s begging. one sound from them and he’s already pleading, as if the sound in the dark is a savior, instead of specters plucked from ephilates of a tired generation. perhaps it would be a mercy to cut to the chase, but the carrow twins, well, they’re known for playing games. that’s all this is, isn’t it? their way of playing god by toying with percy like he’s little more than a plaything in the hands of spoiled children.

ALECTO lingers behind as amycus enters the room where the weasley is kept, falling into her own role. “did you find him? do you need me to come help?” her distant voice slips into the overlap of breathless apprehension and uncertain hope, the cadence of a rescuer watching for the return of the monster under the bed. languid are her movements as she paces, wand tapping across knuckles. “you have to be quick!” 

if foreboding was a tight knot in the colum of a constricted throat earlier, it’s the cold tendrils wrapped tight around flesh now. solace would’ve been a warm blossom through limbs if PERCY wasn’t so brutally aware of who his supposed rescuers are : he’s no fool. the carrows’ faces have snarled up at him from posters since his days at the ministry, and a new wave of trepidity rolls right through a quaking, bound frame. ( as hard as he tries, there’s a buoyant little squeak from the backburner / “what if they’re here to help?” he’s many things but an idiot isn’t one, he knows that no good can come of the pantomime he’s found himself embroiled in. there’s nothing resembling hope in the scene that has begun to unfold. it’s strange, really : the brunt of percy’s heartache is borne of worry for the family he’s convinced he’ll leave behind. own mortal peril is LESS of a concern than their collective grief / he wishes, in these strange moments that he’s sure will be his last, that he could apologise to molly and arthur. sorry mum, sorry dad. you deserved better than this. )

“where am i?” he’ll try to amplify the modicum of bravery that’s set into his tongue, but it wavers / intonation gives way to distress and percy sounds like a fucking child, so far removed from his near-thirty years. “how long have i been gone?” 

he’s more intelligent than they’ve given him credit for. there’s a spark of recognition in those wide, fearful eyes that couldn’t be DISGUISED if he had the forethought to try, and AMYCUS is almost colored impressed by it. the emotions rolling through him - terror, dread, uncertainty, grief - were so powerful in origin amycus had trusted in a cloud of doubt thrown over their faces, but percy weasley is not as much fool as the family name implied.

he casts a glance towards his sister, the sort they don’t need to couple with words ( it’s an old wives tale that all twins can communicate by thought, but the carrow twins are an old time terror, aren’t they ? two little children born to blood, lying awake in the dead of night and learning each other’s faces better than they knew their own ). it says he knows, even while the tiny smirk that pulls at the corner of his lips says, but we can work with that. 

“you’re just outside of swindon,” he’s turned back to the other now and his expression is back to faux care, back to something that resembles genuine concern - all it misses, now, is the added note to a purposely trembled voice. amycus abandons this, now, going for confusion above flawless PERFORMANCE. “that isn’t a detail you need concern yourself with, percy,” long enough for the questions to start, yet not long enough for the printing presses to begin churning out the missing poster. amycus does not make a show of dropping the facade, once and for all : it is simply there, and then not. “the question is how much longer you have to stay.”

the hope in his voice gives way to an ill impersonation of courage, and ALECTO finds that it sounds little more than that of a child’s mettle. her brother looks to her and she reacts with a quirk of her brow, a casual cant of her head. ( he does? how boring. ) when she steps from the penumbra cast by the empty, unlit room she was waiting in prior, she looks a touch uncanny, with cheeks just a bit too hollow and pallid skin just south of a typical color since leaving azkaban. almost normal, if not for the little things. “quite ugly place, really. don’t know why anyone would wish to come here.” words border a taunt, an almost cloying thing on her tongue. only a matter of time before they figure him gone, and she’s called to work. certainly just enough of it to begin pulling at threads, to the start of unraveling it all. she takes a step or two forward, and it’s like she clisk into something, a return to herself maybe, when she falls into place next to amycus. she plays off of him. “and how long it’s going to take your family to notice. any guesses? no?” 

it comes and goes in waves : the startling clarity that chills him right to the bone ( i am going to die at their hands i am going to die here i am going to be another tragedy upon the family name oh god mum i’m so sorry i’m so sorry- ), and then the hysteria that crowds his throat, makes him want to laugh in sheer delirium. it is altogether surreal, to feel your pulse running cold one minute and chruning something intemperate in your ears the next / PERCY weasley, alone with the carrows. fate has a funny way of rolling the dice, only to leave you stinging when you lose.

“what do you want?” ( an altogether practical question / percy’s never been one to sit around, wait it out. their histrionics do nothing for a choleric captive ; not when blood is still running thick rivulets down palms of his hands, when he’s bitton so hard at a lower lip that it too glistens crimson. there is a trace of it on his canines. he doesn’t know. ) “i don’t have anything you’re looking for, i swear.” 

AMYCUS is a predator circling prey as he moves further into the room and closer, still, to percy. alecto joins him and only near to his sister does he feel - in an odd way, confident enough - to crouch at the others level. "don't insult yourself or our intelligence," it's funny, the contrast : his expression is cold but his voice is almost velveteen, low & warm & in any other setting, any other situation, nice.

"you aren't the only person with the information that we need, percy. you're here because ronald and ginevra aren't, but don't doubt in our willingness to abandon you here, alone, and finally introduce ourselves properly to your brother... or reunite, with your sister." he smiled. again : pleasantly. if not for the context of carrow, amycus would be nothing more than a professor expressing interest in catching up with an old student. "i promise that you don't want that to happen, and to stop it, all you have to do is tell us what we want to know."

pulse throbs something fierce behind eyelids, violent underneath the sacrum of his throat, helpless in the way he cannot move. “don’t you dare touch them. don’t you dare.” ( his heart beats a little faster at the mere mention of younger siblings. all those years spent chastising, picking at them, far too overprotective and never as kind as he should’ve been : symptomatic of a love that doesn’t know vernacular confines, that only knows the kind of rage that builds an inferno behind gritted teeth when they’re referenced like that. ) clever wizard that he is, PERCY can only kick out ; nearly loses his balance, almost topples his little prison over. it’s an adrenaline rush he needs / the kickstart he needs to spit another falsehood like a loose, bloodied tooth.

“i told you, i don’t know what you want.” and to some extent, he doesn’t : captor keeps mentioning information that he doesn’t understand. “nobody told me anything.” feigned reticence suits him ; percy makes a wonderful liar, all bruises and swollen despite the way lies make his stomach twist into sailor’s knots. 

there’s a roll of dark irses, a testament to patience lost during her time in azkaban. “you’re right, how can you be so sure you don’t know without us even asking?” cadence borders something sing-songy, something sweet enough to rot. long strides bring her around his chair, where hands push down on the back, balancing what he had almost thrown askew. the legs are strident when they return to hardwood floor. percy’s boxed in by them both, now, and though wands aren’t drawn, they don’t need to be to prove a point. “it’s easy, percy. where is harry potter? his body, his things...” ALECTO paints an almost innocent picture with wide eyes and relaxed posture as she lingers over his shoulder. “and a little tip --- we don’t take too well to being lied to. my ideal day may not be spending time with the most boring, self righteous weasley, but like amycus said, we can just as easily go to one of the other, hm, is it six of you now?” 

and the thing is, every fivre of an aching being is straining against this ! the hard line of a jaw is stiff with muscle, and yet it happens anyway : in light of alecto carrow lingering over his shoulder, circling like a vulture, PERCY laughs. it’s entirely humourless, dry and barked into atmosphere so tense you could carve it, but it happens. ( for what it’s worth he regrets it immediately / urge to be violently sick follows it, but he’s able to swallow that one down. )

“you think they told me where his body was? jesus fucking christ,” ( muggle london has fouled up that mouth --- ) “you can’t possible think they told me that.” hysteria is a slow bloom that’s spreading through blood and bone alike, deadly in the way it seems determined to swallow him whole. “every bit as fucking daft as she is, you two, thinking they told me anything. fuck.”

percy knows the price, knows it intimately before he’s even spoken. you don’t leave something like this unscathed, something like this without the battle scars to prove it. he knows, deep in marrow, that he isn’t leaving this alive. shaking, terrified, quaking with nothing but sheer fury, he steels himself for the bloe before it even arrives. this is what happens when you lie, when you laugh. this is what happens, and so it goes. 

the carrow twins move deliberately. they move as one. where one pushes the other pulls ( like opposing magnets, still connected in some indescribable way ), always compensating for the other on little more than blood instinct. alecto crosses to steady percy and amycus - in what is almost bored glory - rises, only then, to his full height. she leans left, he takes a step right. she focuses upon their charge, AMYCUS allows his attention to float. he undoes the buttons of his sleeves, both rolled up slowly to expose arms that are mottled by stark white scars & marred by one recognisable tattoo.

"percy, percy, percy," he clucked his tongue, caught between chilling disapproval & aching disappointment. there's a reason that he keeps using his name, as if they're old friends caught in something neither can control : a power to claiming it, an added threat. "we already know of the boys connection to your blood traitorous family. all those summers spent under the same roof, one more child for your overworked mother to wrangle... of course you know where he is. your family loved him."

"i'm sorry, percy. i know you'll tell us what we want to hear-" he sighs. gaze flickers towards his sister, an almost imperceptible jut of his chin given to urge her to stand away from the seated boy, and from his back pocket is pulled a wand that is, even without brandishing, a threat. "but we did tell you not to lie." the striking of a snake : predator meet prey.

with the reverent uttering of "crucio," amycus' wand slashes downwards.

[the-silver-tongued-devils]

little idea about golden fires and voyeurism. nsfw under the cut!

______________________________________________________

Geralt didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It was late into the evening, a winter’s chill still clutching under their blankets despite the fire, and Jaskier was blissfully quiet.

Not quiet, as in gently strumming subtle chords on his lute, or humming under his breath, or snoring in his sleep- but actually, beautifully quiet. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire, the occasional pop as a log burst apart in flames, splashing light across his eyes like scattered gold. He was fast asleep, Geralt concluded as his eyes drifted to the huddled up pile of blankets and bundles, to be this silent. Geralt could hear himself think, and not that he didn’t wish Jaskier mute more often, but it was nice. It was nice, because for the first time in long time, he could close his eyes and not have Jaskier’s music dance across his darkened vision like shooting stars. The way Jaskier’s hands tapped gently against the strings when he was thinking of the next note, biting softly on his lip. How his eyes turned almost green from their seashore blue in the fire light, his hair a scruffy mess that Geralt wanted to- ached to- run his fingers through. No, with him silent, he didn’t have to imagine Jaskier waving his hands in the air to make a point, his fingertips callused from years of playing, his skin pink and unscathed and so unlike his own hands. 

He peeked open an eye, searching for the familiar ball of blankets in the fires shadow, it shade warming his cheeks. It was made of good tinder- dry wood for once, and burned brighter than what they were used to. His hands still felt soft from the sawdust, watching the rise and fall of Jaskier’s breathing, the brown mop of his hair visible over the blankets. Jaskier looked… peaceful. He seemed to wriggle a little, turning unconsciously until the light lapped at his cheeks, his eyelashes fluttering in it. Jaskier looked as at home here, in the damp warmth of the forest, than any cold and stony castle.

Geralt was almost satisfied in looking, drinking his fill in the bard bathed in golden light when he heard it.

A faint, muffled, barely there whimper.

Geralts blood stilled, paused like a cat for any whisper on the wind. He must have misheard, he considered as the faint spell of Jaskiers breathing danced between the crackles of the fire.

Not that he ever did, a dark corner of his mind supplied, but maybe his senses had picked up on the hiss of steam, or Roach’s snores, or-

The bard tossed in his blankets, pulling them away from his face like they burnt him, and moaned.

Jaskier was now facing the fire- his skin flushed and hair sticking a little to his forehead. His eyes were tightly shut, his lips sun-bitten and pink as he hummed under his breath, in-between breaths little ah-ahs! He must still be asleep, his chest falling slowly as he reclined in the warmth, his hips canting a little under the blankets to the rhythm of his breathing.

Geralt gritted his teeth and focused on that tide, not how Jaskier bit back a sleepy smile, thrusting his hips under the blankets with a well-timed gasp. His quiet moans came like waves, and Geralt could almost feel the heat of his skin, as if he has pressed his hands to his throat and squeezed such noises out of the bard.

The air was more than silent now, his senses laser focused to creature that writhed under the blanket, panting into the night air. Jaskiers breathing hitched, his little sobs and sighs coming faster as he rutted against himself, and Geralt wondered how he wouldn’t go mad at the sight of him. How he would have to pack the blankets away, feeling them still warm, still smelling like fire-smoke, buttercups and honey cakes. The smell that had clung onto his skin, seeped into his armour, since he had started to follow him those years ago. The smell that scratched it’s way under camomile and lavender, and blood and shit and everything else Geralt found himself bathed in, and curled around his ribcage.

Geralt shifted unconsciously as he watched, and bit down-hard- on his lip as he felt a spike of pleasure whip through his nerves. He had been trying to ignore it, how tight and stiff his trousers felt whilst the loose laces of Jaskier’s breeches seemed to slip undone. He realised he suddenly felt very hot, his blood thrumming like the licks of the fire up his spine as he clenched his hands against the log he leant against.

Jaskier babbled in his sleep, incoherent little syllables that dripped from his tongue as he bobbed his hips with new urgency, his whole body rocking back and forth on the blanket. He could almost smell the crushed grass underneath him, if he tried and fuck did he try not to listen to the half-formed mutterings of: “please” and “ah” and “-alt!”

There was something else too, his veins sung happily at this new chorus; the spicy, cinnamon, sharp smell of Jaskier’s arousal. A smell that too, had lingered, this time under clenched teeth and fists as he stumbled back to Jaskier fast asleep in crumpled duvets and sweaty sheets, and the smell that was not his own painting Jaskier’s skin until the next afternoon. He hissed a little, as he rubbed the heel of his hand hard in-between his legs, biting back the urge to smother Jaskier in scents that made him his. The incensed oils he’s shine the swords with, or saddle polish, or the fine maple brush for Roach’s mane that Jaskier had treated her with one day. All these things that tasted of sweetly-bitter buttercups and honey cakes and Jaskier.

Jaskier seemed close now, his hips bouncing in quick thrusts that had the bard whining between his teeth, keeping under the golden flames of the fire and Geralt’s gaze. Tomorrow, he would wrap up the blankets like he knew nothing, like the spiced smell didn’t stick to his skin and make him run so hot that he wanted to pin the bard to his lap and fumble his fingers through the strings of his trousers until he made these noises again. Making him sing and, God’s, Jaskier sung as his rhythm began to stutter, painting purple bruises into his hips with just his hands so that Jaskier would know just how deeply Geralt wanted him.

With one final gasp, Jaskier tipped his hips upwards, smiling pink and flushed as she slowly sunk back to the ground, satisfied. Geralt unclenched his fingers, little splinters of the wood coming apart under his nails.

The fire crackled, finally fizzling out, casting its last golden dregs of light onto the Jaskiers face. He sighed, low and long, curling back up into the blankets, snoring as Geralt hissed picking the splinters from his skin.

Beyond the golden stare, a pair of blue eyes lazily peeked open, blinking into the darkness and heat, and Jaskier bit back a grin.

[carry-the-sky]

your tongue told me every lie

back on my brio bullshit! this is an old fic that i decided to clean up a bit, and then *ahem* add an e rating to. it’s set in some vague s2 timeline, because i miss s2. :/

inspired by this fantastic piece of art by @lindigo 🔥🔥🔥 also on ao3!!

many thanks to my dear friend @kastlecastles for looking this over. <3

.

The day after the cops almost find Boomer’s body, Annie suggests they take the night off, just the three of them. No work, no family—

“And no extracurricular friends,” Annie emphasizes, side-eyeing Beth as she says it, which Beth does not appreciate. She’s about to say as much, but then Ruby is emerging from the closet, holding a dress Beth has no memory of buying. It’s sleek and cherry-red, and she feels exposed just looking at it. 

“No—” she starts to protest, but Ruby holds up a hand.

“You’re wearing it,” she says, fixing Beth with a stare that chases her rebuttal back down her throat. “Don’t get me wrong, you rock a pantsuit better than Hillary—”

“Way better than Hillary,” Annie interjects, then shrugs when Beth glares at her.

“—but we’re going glam, tonight,” Ruby finishes. She hangs the dress on the door. “You’re wearing it.”

And that’s the end of that.

.

She brings the dress to work. It hangs on the back of the door to Dean’s office—her office, now, her door—and Beth feels a small thrill every time she sees it, anticipation and nerves all blended up in the pit of her stomach.

It’s not that she‘s ashamed of her body, or the way she looks. She knows her curves are sexy. She’s just not sure anyone else does.

(Beth absolutely does not think about Rio. She doesn’t think about his hungry eyes raking up the entire length of her body, or the way his tongue sometimes darts between his teeth when he’s looking at her. She doesn’t think about that night at the bar, how firm his hand was when he grasped her thigh, palmed the curve of her breast—)

Beth keeps her door wide open the rest of the day.

.

She’s utterly exhausted by closing time, but it’s a good feeling. I can do this, she thinks as she packs up, doing one last circuit around the sales floor. I can do this well.

She hasn’t forgotten about the dress, but that light and airy anticipation from earlier has evaporated, leaving her stomach heavy with dread. For a moment, Beth considers telling Annie and Ruby that she forgot it, or that it didn’t fit—but that somehow feels worse than just putting the stupid thing on, so she begrudgingly yanks it off the hanger and goes to the dealership’s bathroom to change.

The sharp fluorescent lights do nothing to lift her mood, and she scrunches her nose at her reflection. The dress itself isn’t bad, it’s just—not her.

She laughs aloud. None of this—robbing a bank, laundering money for a street criminal, sleeping with said criminal, assuming management over her husband’s car dealership—none of this is her, is it? She’s not so sure, anymore.

Be a boss bitch.

Beth sizes up her reflection in the mirror, the sleek dress with its sweetheart neckline.

Yeah. She can do that.

Beth almost doesn’t see him. She’s shoving her work clothes unceremoniously into her bag when movement flashes in her periphery, and she yelps—

“So I guess y’all don’t do casual Fridays,” Rio says, a smile spreading wide across his face as he eyes the dress, her red pumps.

Beth blows out a shaky breath. “You scared the shit out of me. Don’t you ever, I don’t know, use a cell phone?”

“Nah, I’m old-fashioned.” He’s sitting at her desk, a smirk still playing at his lips, and Beth is torn between wanting to slap him or do something else to wipe that expression off his face.

“What do you want?” she says. “We’re closing soon, which for most people would mean come back tomorrow—”

Rio quirks an eyebrow. “I’m not most people.”

“Look,” Beth snaps, “as much fun as your drive-by visits are, I don’t have time for this tonight.”

“What, you got a hot date, or somethin’?”

Beth scoffs. “Maybe I do, yeah.”

Rio just looks at her for a second, his eyes hazy even in the glow of early-evening light filtering in through her office windows. Beth doesn’t like the way it’s stirring something up in her gut, warm and slow like sun-warmed honey.

“What,” she sighs, “do you want?”

Rio shifts in his chair, legs spreading slightly. “Just wanted to see how my business is doin’.”

“Excuse me, your business?”

“Sixty-percent, yeah? Last time I checked, that’s more than half. Which means it’s more mine than yours, sweetheart.”

Anger sparks in her chest, hot and fast. Her cheeks are warm with it. “Get out,” she demands. “Now.”

Rio leans forward. “You gonna make me?”

She’s not sure how it happened, but she’s standing almost directly in front of him. From this angle, she can see the shadow that the collar of his shirt casts across his throat.

From this angle, he has to look up at her.

“You don’t scare me,” she says, her voice a low scrape of sound.

He wants to touch her—she can feel the want radiating off him, can see the lines of his tendons as he clenches his fingers against his knees. But he doesn’t move. When it comes to—this, whatever the hell it is, he’s always let her take the lead.

She should leave, now. She should—

She can’t explain what makes her reach out, what makes her brush the tips of her fingers against his arm. His skin is smoother than she expects, the muscles of his forearm taut beneath her hand.

“Right,” he says, voice hoarse. His eyes are fixed on her. “Right, ‘cause you’re the boss, now.”

And then he’s got a hand on her, his palm curved around the meat of her thigh. His fingers skate upwards, teasing around the dress’s hem. Beth feels each point of contact like a laser, every one of her nerve endings attuned to where he’s touching her.

“Annie and Ruby are waiting for me,” she breathes.

Rio’s eyes are wildfire. “So let ‘em wait.” 

His hand skims higher, and Beth spasms when the pad of his thumb slips beneath her panties. He huffs a laugh, looking so goddamn pleased with himself. “You like that, ma?”

Beth narrows her eyes, but it’s useless—her legs are quivering beneath his hands, and she knows he can feel it. “You are such an asshole,” she hisses. 

“ ‘S one school of thought,” he murmurs, the words slow and husky. His eyes don’t leave her face as his fingers graze her inner thigh, and her breath catches in her throat. She still hasn’t closed up shop, and yeah, it’s the end of the day, but someone could still walk in, someone could see—

It’s dangerous, what she’s doing. It’s bad. 

Pleasure sparks between her legs, and Beth has to resist the urge to clamp her thighs together. Her nails dig into his arm, and something bright flashes behind his eyes, something predatory. He’s looking at her like he wants to open her up, see what comes spilling out. See exactly what she’s made of.

You’re the boss, now. 

She draws herself up slightly, chin jutting out. “You gonna take all day down there?” she says, proud that her voice stays steady. “Like I said, I have somewhere to be.” 

Rio makes a noise in his throat, rumbling low like thunder, and she knows she has him. Satisfaction unfurls in her chest—and then he’s sliding a finger into her, and all coherent thought is driven from her head, lost to the rush of her pulse in her ears, the delicious stretch as he eases his way in.

It’s muscle memory that has her grasping at his shoulder, her pelvis canting into his palm to chase the friction. Rio pushes deeper, and she has to bite her lip to keep quiet. She slants her neck up toward the ceiling, her eyes shuttering.

“Like it when you boss me around,” he’s saying, dragging his finger out before pumping into her again. Beth can’t help it this time—she shudders, a soft whimper breaking past her lips. Slowly, Rio slips his finger out again, teasing lazy circles around her entrance. Beth’s hand jumps to his wrist, tugging emphatically. “Yeah,” Rio laughs, “yeah, just like that.”

“Didn’t—tell you to stop,” Beth gasps.

“Loud ‘n clear, darlin’,” Rio says, adding another finger as he plunges between the slick of her folds. Beth’s nails bite the skin on the underside of his wrist, and her stomach squirms pleasantly at his sharp intake of breath. She would die before admitting it, but the way he makes her feel, strong as steel, the exact fucking opposite of the good little porcelain doll she’s been her entire life—it’s intoxicating. She wants to drown in it, in him.

Rio crooks his fingers, hitting an angle that makes her writhe. His thumb knuckles softly against her clit, and Beth can feel the tension coiling in her belly already, everything shrinking at the edges. His breath is coming faster now, jagged like the edge of a knife, and she could come just like this, but it’s not enough. Her entire body draws taut like a bowstring at the memory of his cock inside of her, filling her up—

Beth rocks forward, rucking her dress up around her thighs as she brackets her knees around him. He tilts his pelvis to meet her, pulling his fingers out, and the sound of protest she starts to make sticks in her throat as the movement grinds her against the hard ridge of his erection. Her blood sings, hazy-hot desire jolting up the column of her spine.

Beth’s hand darts to his pants, grasping at the zipper. Rio laughs softly, both palms sliding around her ass. “I know you’re in a hurry, but damn, baby.” He squeezes, the pads of his fingers kneading into her. “I ain’t a piece of meat.”

“Shut up,” she grits between her teeth.

Rio tsks, head tilting to one side. “Manners, Elizabeth.” His hands splay, fingers caging her hips. His face is inches from hers, so close that she sees the spaces between his lashes, feels his breath when he exhales. He dips his head, mouth ghosting her clavicle. “What would those PTA bitches say,” he murmurs, each word like a brand against her skin. “Huh? You think you’re just like ‘em, but here you are, down in the shit. Rollin’ around in it.” His lips drift higher, to the hollow of her throat. “Think you’re so much better than ‘em, than me. But you ain’t.”

Anger and arousal flush through her in equal parts. He’s always known how to say to rile her up, burrow under her skin like a splinter. She can’t dislodge him, no matter how hard she tries. And the thing is, he’s not wrong. Down in the muck and the shadows, she knows who she is.

He’s shining a light on all her dirty laundry, but Beth isn’t here for that. She doesn’t owe him anything, much less the truth.

So she does the only thing that will shut him up—hooks a hand under his chin, and brings her mouth crashing down to his.

It’s not soft, and she doesn’t want it to be. They trade kisses like punches—she bites his lower lip, and in retaliation his tongue thrusts into her mouth. Her hands are everywhere; sliding around the nape of his neck, curved like claws at his jawline, pressed to his jugular. One of Rio’s hands skates up her sternum, yanking her dress and bra aside so he can tweak a nipple between his fingers. The other hand fumbles with his pants, shucking them down his thighs.

She feels when his cock springs free. He jerks his hips, and Beth gasps as the tip rubs against her cunt.

Rio snags her lower lip between his teeth, biting just hard enough to sting. “You want it?” he rasps, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He brushes her entrance again, but he pulls away slightly as she cants toward him. He’s playing with her, making her work for what she wants. Making her beg. It’s what he’s always done—why should this be any different?

Fuck that. She’s gonna take what she wants.

Beth pulls at her panties so hard she hears the fabric tear. It was a nice pair, expensive, but in this moment she couldn’t give less of a fuck. She pushes against him, swirling around the head of his cock, and she feels a pinch of triumph when he hisses through his teeth.

“You want bossy?” she says, and she almost doesn’t recognize her own voice. “Fuck me. Now.”

She locks eyes with him as he pushes inside, so she sees the moment he breaks. His jaw goes slack, his lower lip plush and jutting out in a way that’s so him, so familiar it makes her chest ache.

She’s dipping into her feelings, too close for comfort. Beth shifts her weight, pushing herself up on her knees before sinking down onto him again, and the pressure in her chest evaporates. He feels so goddamn good, stretching her out the way she remembers. Filling her up, no room for anything else.

Rio thrusts into her, sheathing his cock to the hilt, and the guttural cry that rips from her throat is entirely involuntary. She bears down on him, grinding her hips in a frenetic circle, and then he’s pumping into her harder, fucking her in earnest. The wet slap of skin on skin fills her office, punctuated by the lewd noises each of them is making.

“That’s it, ma, that’s—fuck—” Rio groans. He’s grabbing her waist so hard she’s sure she’ll have bruises tomorrow, but she doesn’t care. All she cares about is chasing the warmth that’s building in the pit of her stomach.

Beth braces her arms on his shoulders and surges up on her knees. His cock slams up into her, right against her clit, and she’s so fucking close, she can almost taste it on her tongue. He rams into her, again and again, and his thumb slips between them, circling just the right spot—

Her orgasm hits like lightning, blinding heat and static. She throws her head back in a wordless cry as all the air swoops from her lungs. She can’t breathe. She can’t—anything. She can’t remember the last time she came this hard.

(Yes, she can. It was in that fucking bathroom, his breath hot on her neck and his name stuck on her tongue).

Rio is still hard, still pumping into her, his arms solid like a wall around her. He’s the only thing holding her up. She’s still coming down, but already she can feel the embers stirring again, stoked by his nails digging half-moons into her torso, his cock inside her.

Will she ever have her fill of him?

“Desk,” she pants, jutting her chin.

His hips stutter, and his brow creases with confusion for a nanosecond before he gets it. In one swift motion, he hooks her legs around him and pivots them so that she’s on her back on the desk. Beth can vaguely feel something digging into her lumbar—a pen, maybe—but she’s too boneless to care.

Rio props himself on his forearms, framing her face. His pupils are blown wide like dinner plates, his chest heaving with how hard he’s breathing. “You cheated, mama,” he pants, fucking into her so hard that something goes crashing from her desk to the floor. “Didn’t—wait for me.”

“C’mon, then,” she breathes, digging the heels of her pumps into his back to urge him on. His eyes flash, and he ruts into her once, twice—

He spills into her with a choked-off grunt, his entire lean frame quivering.

For several moments, the only sound is the two of them breathing. The sun has dipped low in the sky outside, casting long shadows across his face. It makes him look like one of those abstract paintings, something that’s not quite real.

Beth knows what’s real. She suspects that he does, too.

But none of that matters. This will play out the same way it always does—the dust will settle, and they’ll both go back to pretending. Beth thinks they could fill up an ocean with all of the things they aren’t saying to each other.

She could do it. She could break the dam, open her mouth and ask the words that are a thorn inside her, the words she buries deep so he can’t use them against her.

What is this? What are we? Do you feel the same way I do?

What now, her heartbeat says, pounding a cadence against her ribs. What now what now what now—

Rio rolls off her, tucking himself back into his pants. She feels the loss of physical contact like a sucker punch, and it takes every ounce of restraint she has not to reach for him. For a moment, she just lies there, eyes to the ceiling as she wills her jackhammer pulse to settle.

When she pushes herself up from the desk, he’s already halfway to the door. “You got a good gig goin’ here,” he says jerking his head at the sales floor, but his double meaning is transparent as glass. You got a good thing goin’ with me. His eyes dart to hers. “Try not to screw it up, yeah?”

“Speak for yourself,” Beth snarls, and she’s all iron again, tucking away everything soft and vulnerable. 

His lips twitch. “You should wear red more,” he says, deliberately looking her up and down. Even from this distance, his gaze sears against her skin. “It suits you.”

Then he’s gone.

[talltales]

                                    —HEY NOW, HEY NOW, DON'T DREAM IT'S OVER                                     HEY NOW, HEY NOW, WHEN THE WORLD COMES IN                                     THEY COME, THEY COME, TO BUILD A WALL BETWEEN US                                     WE KNOW THEY WON'T WIN                                                            anonymous request!!

NOTICE: violence (murder, mentions of cannibalism), heavy sexual content

               “i just painted my nails.”

blankly, she flicks away the blood trickling down her hand and turns it over to inspect the chipped pink polish peeling off with it. her trigger finger relaxes minutely, but her gun remains aimed at the deathly still men at her feet, staring sightlessly into the cloudless, red sky.

“i didn’t think you were that kind of girl.” the click of the clip being slatted into his own weapon accompanies his droll retort. she glances over her shoulder to find yugyeom leaning against the hood of their car, arms crossed loosely across his chest; dark eyes fixed upon the flow of blood across hot concrete.

before it reaches the tip of her shoes, she sidesteps and moves to rifle through the belongings peeking from their pockets. her gun is slipped into the old leather holster at her hip before she pulls a wallet from the closest man, “i was always that kind of girl. it isn’t my fault you never paid attention.”

she spares her companion a look and then turns back to the worn billfold, tossing the plethora of id cards contained into the summer wind, “looks like he was collecting trophies from his kills.”

“how barbaric.” yugyeom hums, impassive. his nose crinkles, however—offended by the emerging malodor of decay, “they reek. are you ready to go?”

“just a minute.”

the few bills contained within are deposited into her back pocket. discarded identification cards bearing the faces of strangers skitter across the road as she makes work of the other male’s wallet and, for good measure, plucks his half-empty carton of cigarettes from his coat pocket.

“got yours?” he slides off the hood of their old black mustang, slapping a palm against the hot metal before opening the driver side door, “because we need to start making some distance if they’ve got friends.”

“you’re a broken record, you know?”

“i’ll stop repeating myself when you start listening.”

the cool flow of a/c when she gets in is a welcome sensation. there are, after all, few luxuries left in a world that has gone to hell and dragged every survivor with it.

her thumb hovers over the radio dial out of habit, turning it on to catch nothing but muted static.

the radio broadcast had stopped four months ago.

where an endless stream of music and advertisements had once been, there was only white noise; broken only by the occasional snare laid by opportunistic hunters. assuming that there was prey left. at least the ones who would believe the theatric cries for help, transmitting on repeat in the early morning hours.

without the loose guide of societal standards, humanity turned on itself. cannibalized the weak. she hits the off button and releases a heavy breath; sinks into her seat as yugyeom starts the engine. what an ugly place to be—

to be left behind in.

“what is it?” his attention is on the road, intent as he navigates smoothly past the still-warm bodies and the last remnants of their victims, innocent things blowing away in the desert wind, “you’re thinking too much.“

“i know. i’m just wondering how many of those fuckers can possibly be hiding out here. how many people they’ve killed, and for what?” her teeth sink into her lower lip, biting down until the dull ache draws her mind back—to the scent of leather and gunpowder and the droll, knowing look yugyeom gives her, “for useless pieces of plastic? money that can only be spent in camps where they’ll be shot on sight?”

one instinct had survived the dissolution of the world, after all. people knew a wanted man when they saw one.

“you know why.” he hums, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, “i shouldn’t have to remind you.”

“humor me.”

the conversation is an old one, repeated for the sake of soothing what remains of her conscience. stubborn as it is, it comes to life in moments like these; when the adrenaline fades away and she is left with blood caked under her nails and the smell of copper clinging to her skin.

“they kill for the thrill of it.” for her sake, yugyeom answers. the words flow easily, as if he’sreciting a memorized poem; an old story told a time too many. “they enjoy it.”

“i enjoy it.” she confesses, not for the first time. she stretches as the seat allows, arching her back as her fingertips brush the roof; the telltale click of her spine realigning itself brings a fleeting sense of relief. she speaks to the spotted, hazy glass of the sunroof, “i enjoy hunting them and putting them down.”

the blood-red sky is cloudless; speckled only with the brightest starlight breaking through the atmosphere.

“so do i,” he says, and the matter is settled.

again.

—

“so wound up,” she breathes, grazing the curve of his jaw with slow, wet kisses; deft fingers threading through his hair, “i wanted to help,” rolling her hips in a hard grind, she almost chuckles at the way he twitches inside her; the way every muscle in his body seems to tense simultaneously as she darts her tongue out to taste the sweat beading above his collarbone, “but i guess i’m not—should i stop?”

her head spins, body seared by the window beneath her palm and the pressure of the steering wheel digging into the dip of her spine. but it is the ebb and flow of his rhythm that renders her breathless; makes her feel like she’s suffocating the most exquisite way.

she muffles her cries against his throat and centers her attention on the wild skipping of his pulse under her tongue.

yugyeom’s jaw tightens and the next sound that escapes is half-protest, half-groan. she feels the weight of him, pressing into her hips from contrasting directions; his thumbs scoring marks against her skin—his hips canting up to meet hers, languid and deep.

she catches his words after a delayed moment in which her mind stutters to a stop when he brushes a spot inside her that makes her see stars.

“don’t you fucking dare.” it’s quiet, so very quiet, but something in her relishes at the loss of his composure, the rare curse emerging in a growl that tightens the coil inside her. in pursuit of more, she forces herself to stop with him buried as deep as their bodies allow; clenches around him until she can see something in him snap.

it makes it all that much sweeter when he comes apart.

he is, in these moments, the only beautiful sight left in this wretched world.

—

she wears his bruises like trophies, sometimes, lounging in the backseat with her legs folded beneath her and a brush running through her hair.

he watches through the rear-view mirror, as he always does, when she shifts—clad only in a pair of practical briefs and bra. the impression of his hands frame her hips and she takes pleasure in watching his eyes wander before he realizes what he’s doing. because kim yugyeom is always composed, always in control.

except when he isn’t.

and their dalliances are less about attraction than they are about release. she swears on that.

there is a softness to his touch when he isn’t paying attention—in the midnight hours, when their only light is the blue-tinge of headlights cutting through the dark; in the moments before he cuts the engine and his hand slides from the gear-shift to grip hers. “we’re keeping this quick,” he mutters, in a way that is more order than she cares for.

she’s out of the car before he can say anything else, “if they don’t drag it out.”

her sidearm is grasped firmly with her finger hovering over the trigger, her only guide the faint flickering of a campfire in the distance—

the stench of unwashed bodies and smoke.

every step is muffled beneath the howling of the wind and the hush of sand swirling over the earth. hunting is a natural instinct, but stealth is an acquired skill. it is her contribution in their little arrangement, because as graceful as yugyeom is he is impossible to miss.

he follows behind her, well-worn boots crushing the few sprigs of grass that have survived the onslaught of an unforgiving sun. even at this hour, the edge of it lingers on the horizon; an angry crimson-gold.

“you should’ve heard her scream,” comes the distant echoes of laughter from the makeshift camp ahead, beyond the shadow cast by the tents circling the site. they are lit from within by the fire on the other side, revealing silhouettes of figures perched upon folding chairs and the prone half-body beside the fire, “i’d have kept her alive just to hear it again, but a man’s gotta have his dinner.”

it’s an old sight, but it turns her stomach just the same.

her finger itches over the trigger, and she doesn’t have to look back to feel the intent radiating from the man behind her.

two, she holds up the signal and raises her gun while sidestepping into the gap beneath the twin tents. it takes effort to ignore the scavenged woman lying in the dirt; the silver and gold ring on her left hand gleaming in the firelight. someone’s wife.

instead she steels her voice and, assured that yugyeom has his gun trained on the other man, disengages the safety. “on the ground,” it comes out with a hiss; air flowing between teeth gritted so hard she feels it in her jaw.

the sight of the duo scrambling to find her in the darkness is only mildly satisfying. no, the true pleasure only comes when yugyeom fires a warning shot that grazes his target’s cheek, and abject fear takes hold.

“who’s there?” her target. his face is buried in the dirt; amorphous cooked meat beside his head. it takes effort to hold her fire until her boot slams into his spine and the barrel of her gun finds its way into his hair; digs into his scalp.

“you don’t need to concern yourself with that. i’ve got a question for you.”

on the other side of the fire, yugyeom does much the same—nose wrinkling as the man beneath him squirms under his knee; whines incoherently about the gash in his cheek.

“what do you want?”

“you got any buddies out here?” she asks, watching his eyes flicker about wildly, as if searching for an escape. or reinforcements, as the case may be. she secretly hopes for the latter.

“it’s just us,” the man whispers, and she pulls the trigger.

an answering shot rings through the night, and she looks up to see yugyeom wiping blood from his forehead before he walks to the parked pickup truck nearby. he preforms a perfunctory search, pulling a marked map from the glove compartment and a few bills that disappear into the pockets of his jeans.

“quick enough for you?” she questions before she can stop herself, trailing after him with a contemplative look at the container sitting next to the rear tire.

he nods, placid as ever, though she can see the spark of something in his eyes—the promise of another night spent chasing a different sort of satisfaction.

this is, after all, empty work on the best of days.

“the map—“

“for later. to find any stragglers.” she watches as he glances back at the campsite; stares at the blood splattered everywhere. it’s the clenching of his jaw that makes her act upon the persistent urge to act—to reach for the gas container and unscrew the cap.

without a word, she tips it and watches the crystalline liquid soak the ground at her feet. she doesn’t stop until the canister is empty and the site is soaked in the smell of gasoline; each body drenched with it.

he doesn’t stop her.

the only move he makes is toward her, to stand at her side as she fishes a matchbook from her back pocket and strikes it; the flame dances at her fingertip for a moment before she drops it—watches the campfire swell within minutes to a blaze that lights the night sky in shades of gold.

the heat is searing—makes her feel as if she’s burning alive, but for the first time she feels satisfaction with this ugly thing they do.

purification by fire.

only the slide of his fingertips over the back of her hand draws her back; the hesitant way that he laces their fingers together and tugs her back toward the car waiting in the distance. she squeezes, and feels the heaviness in her chest lighten when he returns the gesture.

it has practical purpose; less about affection than it is about comfort.

she swears on that.

“where to next?” for lack of anything better to say, she inquires into the open air, taking her first breath of fresh air.

yugyeom seems to hesitate, and she watches from the corner of her eye as he turns the question over in his mind before he speaks. always thoughtful, always choosing his words carefully.

“i think we’re overdue for a trip home.”

[vanchlo]

The Assistant / Chapter Thirty-Three, “If It Kills Me”

A story about what happens when she can’t be just his assistant anymore, and he can no longer be only her boss. Now, can they be happy with being just friends?

Read this story from the beginning here! :-) 

Inspo tag here!

*NEW* Spotify playlist in the works can be found here, songs that inspire me for the story and have significance in the story c: 

Warnings: one brief mention of vomiting, and some mild language.

                                   SNEAKY PEEEEEEEEEEEK

“And Becky’s face consumes my thoughts, much like it’s been captivating my conscience as of recent. Rather unsurprisingly. 

There it remains for days, much like it has been. It follows me through the air as I stare out the window, floating above the clouds. It crops into my conversations, leeching any enjoyment gathered from them. I even see it in a crowd of people inside the walls of the courtroom before I deliver my closing statement. When I look a second time, I’m disappointed to find the eyes of a stranger. 

I only find a respite from longing for her face when I turn my phone off, trying to stop wondering why she won’t return my texts. That thought only sticks to all of my others during the coming week with more ignored texts, craving her voice, and sufficing for browsing her Instagram. Her face. That smile. The smell that sat in the corner of her neck. I miss all of it.”

Song Inspiration: If It Kills Me by Jason Mraz (click to listen)

            “It’s like before it’s gonna storm, you know? You can’t see it, but you can feel it, like this, uh electricity, you know?” - Steve Harrington, Stranger Things 

The warm rays hit my cheeks as my sandals pound on the pavement. I wonder how I could ever be unhappy given the May sun shining down on me, and walking from my favorite restaurant. Without fail, the blissful idea is stolen away by a swarm of thoughts dosed in reality. And a particular one that reminds me of what I need to do, despite the dread I’ve been feeling. Not even the former respite of Asher’s hug after our shared lunch can keep them away. 

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I swipe through my apps until I find the right one. Stopping in front of my gray car, I lean against the door with a huff. My thumbs hover across the screen nervously, followed by a curse under my breath. Quickly, they flit across the screen composing words in front of my eyes. Sliding into my driver seat, I stare at the screen for a moment longer before hitting send. 

I wait for the chime to come, telling me I have a new message, from him. Nervousness coats my limbs and only grows worse as the minutes tick by driving home. Waiting. But when I check my phone after walking in the door, my lock screen showing my dad and I’s smiling faces is blank. 

No new messages. 

Sliding off my black sandals, I pad through the shared living room and kitchen area before reaching my bedroom. My laptop beckons for me across the room on my desk, and I sit down before it. I hope that maybe if I don’t procrastinate this specific thing, maybe things will turn out a little better. But as I’m opening a study guide for Family Law’s final exam, I’m proven wrong. 

The chime grabs my attention immediately, making my fingers still on the keyboard. Flitting my eyes to the lavender Speck phone case, I grow antsy at wondering who the text is from. And what it says. Inhaling nervously, I pick it up and wake up the screen. The few words of a preview I see of the text cues a sour anxiousness to grow in my stomach. Bringing my knees up onto my chair, I pull them against my chest as I open the text. 

Me

Hey I’m so sorry I’ve been terrible at texting back, finals these next two weeks are getting to me. Speaking of that I realized that I have to take a final at the time we’re supposed to get lunch in a few days. I’m really sorry but can we reschedule . . . again? I was thinking in two weeks when I’m finally free from the clutches of uni????? :( 

Harry 

sorry cant love. im in edinburgh all that week for a case. lets talk about it when im back. good luck w finals xx

Sighing, I type up a short response, agreeing to that. With guilt casting a shadow over me, I return my attention to the lengthy study guide. The gross feeling in my stomach remains, and with its arrival, my excitement for our lunch date is replaced with disappointment. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks since we rescheduled it the first time, due to me messing up the dates, again. Peeking my eyes at my phone, I turn away and slump against my chair. 

It’s been a month since I saw him last, and although we’ve sent a handful of texts, they haven’t been enough for me. Skye, of course, told me that there’s nothing stopping me from showing up at his office door, but she’s wrong. I don’t know his schedule anymore, and for all I know, I’d be waiting around for him. Plus, my appearance would just yell ‘desperate!’ Sometimes, I wonder what little world Skye is tucked away into that’s far simpler, not realizing I still have to work during the day, especially more so this summer. 

But as the days drag on with chemo and radiation appointments, and lectures upon lectures, I think maybe Skye has the right idea being so optimistic. Maybe. 

+

Over the next few weeks, I see him at almost every corner I turn, and it hurts more than it should after all these weeks. The ignored texts shouldn’t feel like a fresh stab wound when I see that Scrabble box in the family room, get on that very same lift, or walk past the nurse’s station I found him leaning against that morning. Nothing compares to the piano and the pang I feel in my chest at the sight of it. It comes every time I walk through those doors and am reminded of the intimacy held on those keys. No, it didn’t get easier after the first time being back there with my dad, or the fifth time. Avoiding that gray sofa like the plague only reminded me of the texts I sent him that went unanswered. I can’t blame him though, because like a bitch, I took a week sometimes to reply to him. 

The tight feeling in my chest only feels heavier as I sit on the plaid couch in my childhood living room. I can’t even enjoy watching FRIENDS like I used to be able to, as their faces bring forth the sound of his laugh. It pains me to turn down their voices as I dig my phone out from under the cushions. I try not to let it get to me when I, once again, find no new text messages. My attempt is futile and it only causes me to take longer to open the phone app. By now, I know his number by heart, but my shaky hands cause me to mess up a few times. 

Pressing the phone to my ear, all I can hear is its ringing and the pounding of my heart. As the seconds drag on, I’m almost certain I’ll hear the voicemail next. But then I’m pleasantly surprised, although the bitterness in my stomach blossoms. 

“Hullo?” His gravelly voice pulls my lips into an instant smile. Rubbing the back of my neck anxiously, the words fall from my lips hurriedly. 

“Hi, Harry.”

“Hey, how’s it goin’?” he responds curtly, a clattering noise heard in the background before he mutters a ‘shit.’

“I’m sorry, did I call at a bad time?” I ask quickly, regret filling my veins. 

“No, yer fine. ‘m jus’ makin’ dinna.”

“Oh um, nice. What are you cooking?” I inquire, twirling the braided silver ring on my pointer finger. Swallowing, I wait to hear his molasses drawl again, like music to my ears. 

“Jus’ a stir fry. So . . . why’d ya ring?” Harry responds, a coolness hugging his voice. 

“Um, I haven’t heard from you in a while and wanted to say hi.”

“Hi,” he hums awkwardly, followed by the sound of a door closing. Squeezing my eyes shut, uneasiness falls over me in a wave. Oddly, I wonder if all of a sudden I can’t call to say hi. “Ya, we’ve both been busy. Cases fer me, an’ prolly uni an’ yer dad’s treatments fer you.”

“Yeah,” I agree aloud, my chin falling to rest in my palm. But it leaves a second later to lose my fingers in my hair. “I wanted to tell you that I finished my finals last week, so now I just have clinical left in the fall. Oh, and my dad got to ring the bell today. He’s all done with chemo and radiation after his scans all looked good. It’s hard to believe that he’s cancer-free. His doctors will, of course, have to keep an eye on him in the future to make sure it doesn’t come back, but I couldn’t be happier.” 

“Tha’s wonderful, love,” Harry coos into my ear, the first notes of happiness heard in his voice. It begins to put me at ease, and cause me to think maybe something isn’t off after all. “‘m really glad t’ hear that- well both o’ those things.”

Unbeknownst to me, I find myself nodding along with his words as if I needed his confirmation. But his words stop there, and the sickening feeling that something is wrong settles back in. A small ‘yeah’ stumbles off my lips as my fingers form into a fist in my lap, debating what to say next. Or if I should ask what I’ve been wanting to say the entire time. 

“We weren’t able to get ahold of each other a few weeks ago to reschedule lunch. Would you still like to?” Going out on a limb, I let the words fly. 

I watch for them apprehensively, uncertain if they’ll take flight. The loud sound from his side, the subsequent shuffling, and a voice saying his name shoots them down hastily. 

“‘m sorry, I gotta go. ‘ll text ya ‘bout gettin’ lunch,” Harry remarks, his words stringing together swiftly. I barely have the chance to say an ‘okay’ before he abruptly hangs up, sewing together an unwanted thought for me. 

Tossing my phone to the other end of the couch, I fall back against the cushions. Turning up the volume of the telly, I avert my gaze back to the make-believe world I’ve always taken comfort in. As the phone call gnaws away at my insides, planting insecurities every few steps, I let the characters whisk me away. Even if their faces and familiar jokes will now never stop reminding me of him, and something I let go of that I didn’t know I had. I only feel worse when I realize that I knew then that he’d never send that text, and I think he knew that, too.

+

“Staring at it isn’t going to make it ring, y’know,” somebody states, pulling me from my webs of thoughts. 

Lifting my attention away from the black screen in my hand, I catch Myles looking at me impatiently. 

“Wha- ‘m sorry. I was listenin’.”

“Then what’d I just say?” he requests, the hand propped against his chin rising in a silent question. 

My lips fall apart to welcome my voice, but nothing comes out. Shrugging, he receives his answer and replies with a disapproving glare. 

“Hare, this is important stuff. We’re leaving for Edinburgh tomorrow for the case, it’s a huge one.”

“I know, My. Jus’ repeat what ya said, please,” I huff, batting a hand at him. His eyes roll into the back of his head when he leans back in his leather chair. 

“I swear to God, Harry, I-.”

“Stop,” I retort, growing annoyed. 

He plays with the point of his quiffed blonde hair before clearing his throat. Although I try to listen the second time around, my gaze is lulled back to my laptop screen. My fingers itch to touch the keys and type up words, and when Myles begrudgingly answers his ringing phone, I find my chance. Sliding my silent phone into my pocket, I click on the blue thought bubble, only to be met with disappointment. Brushing it away, my fingers fly across the keys and my words are sent with a soft hum. Soon, Myles hangs up the phone with a perturbed sigh and resumes the conversation we were having. Again, I try to return to the bubble we share and the words that occupy it, but my mind is consumed with the anticipation of that coveted ding. And with Becky’s face, much like it’s been captivating my thoughts as of recent. Rather unsurprisingly. 

There it remains for days, much like it has been. It follows me through the air as I stare out the window, floating above the clouds. It crops into my conversations, leeching any enjoyment gathered from them. I even see it in a crowd of people inside the walls of the courtroom before I deliver my closing statement. When I look a second time, I’m disappointed to find the eyes of a stranger. 

It crowds my mind when I wait for the boarding call, tapping my fingers along the screen and watching the words be sent off. I only find a respite from longing for her face when I turn my phone off, trying to stop wondering why she won’t return my texts. That thought only sticks to all of my others during the coming week with more ignored texts, craving her voice, and sufficing for browsing her Instagram. Her face. That smile. The smell that sat in the corner of her neck. All of it. I miss all of it. It gnawed away at me slowly, and terribly, burying doubts beneath my defenses. They sprang up when I least expected them, and when I thought about sending just one more text. A few words wouldn’t hurt anything, I thought, but at the same time, I distrust the ultimate impact they could have. 

The pounding jars me from my reverie, bringing me to my feet slowly. Padding past the television and kitchen area, a yawn jumps from my lips. Another pound lands on the door, dragging my brow into a knot. 

“Oh, shuddup!” I exclaim in disbelief, wrapping my fingers around the smooth metal of the door. Yanking it open, I find the grinning bearded face of my mate standing on my stoop. “‘m not goin’, Rore, I already told ya this.”

“C’mon, Harry, I’ll look like a right idiot being there all alone,” Rory responds, his steps telling me he’s following me inside once I turn around. “Help a mate out here.” 

“Ya, ‘coz ya were so helpful tha otha day when I asked ya t’ consult with me fer the Starkey case.” Scoffing, his words pause between his lips as I fill a glass of water from the attachment on the fridge. “Why’re ya goin’ anyways, since it sounds like sumthin’ yer dreadin’? And since when d’ya even go t’ these sorta things? Last place I thought ‘d see you at, Rore.”

“I don’t, but it’s for me sister’s showing. I can’t miss it, she’s me baby sister. I’d hear about it from me mum for weeks.”

Snorting, I have to pull the glass of water away from my lips. 

“Hope ya bloody choke on that water, mate,” Rory scoffs, only making me laugh harder. Water flies from my lips as I’ve forgotten the glass on the marbled countertop. “Are ya coming or not, Harry? Ya know it’s a good place to pick up chicks, too. They blooming love these art gallery places.”

Recovering from my fit of giggles, I turn my head to find Rory waiting with the question in his eyes. He huffs and riffles a hand through his tousled blonde hair a few shades lighter than that which covers his face. Shaking his head, he wiggles his head at me. 

“I’ll consult with you on the next case, or even give ya first pick,” he whines, folding his hands together under his chin, as if he’s praying. 

“‘m yer bloody boss, I always get first picks,” I murmur, a smile cracking at the end of my words. 

“Oh, fuck off, would you?” he spits, pushing at a chair in front of the seated bar attached to the kitchen island. Clucking his tongue, he messes with the collar of his navy blue blazer thrown over a bloody Zeppelin shirt. Yeah, you sure look artsy there, Rore. But with the next words that fly from his sailor’s mouth, he pins me down. “What’re ya gonna do here anyways, sit and watch the bleeding telly all in your lonesome when ya could be with me getting damn a date?”

Biting my lip, my house slippers come into my view and when Rory’s eyes find them, a laugh explodes from his lips. “Go hurry up and bloody change before you’re too far gone, mate. I’ll be in the car,” he titters before his voice falls with a delighted sigh. Delight found in my pain. 

“Two cases, Rore. Any two cases I want, ya consult with me on. Ya got it?” I argue, following on his footsteps. 

“Whatever makes ya feel better, mate. I know you'll be thanking me later tonight.” 

“Doubt it,” I mutter, watching him open the door, sure there’s a sly grin covering his face. 

I turn to jog up the stairs until I arrive in my bedroom. Quickly, I toss on skinny jeans, a Keith Haring shirt, and a mustard button up smattered with faded white flowers. I look rather artsy, I reckon, I decide as I look at myself in my bathroom mirror. It’s an easy feat when you’re standing next to wannabe Rory over there, though. After taming my hair and finding a pair of shoes, I pad down the stairs. 

“Alexa, turn off all o’ my lights,” I announce, slipping my wallet and phone into my pocket as my hous darkens around me. 

“Take fucking long enough?” Rory groans when I slide into the passenger seat of his silver Sentra. 

“Shuddup and drive, will you? So we can get this ova with.”

“If you’re gonna be an ass tonight, then just go back inside,” he almost laughs, beginning to back away from the towering walls of my house. 

“Talking ‘bout yerself, are ya now?” I quip, bringing my phone from my tight pockets, tapping in my passcode. 

“I’ve noticed, y’know,” he mumbles, barely loud enough for me to hear him. Looking up from the bright screen, his eyes don’t stray from the road. “There’s a girl, isn’t there? Or there was?” he continues, a man I’ve come to love over the last three years he’s worked with me. And somehow I thought I had fooled him, but it turns out, I haven’t. I can’t even fool myself.

“Sumthin’ like that,” I whisper, my attention straying back to the conversation lit on my screen. Another day of the ball being in her court, and she just leaves it in the bloody corner, neglecting it. “I see why ya wanted me t’ come now . . . jus’ don’ try t’ set me up with yer bloody sista. She’s like twenty.”

His hearty chuckle fills the space around us, the words of a song from Death Cab for Cutie lurking in the background. “I won’t, but y’know she’s not gonna let ya out of her sight, mate. She’s had the hots for you from day one.”

“Oh God, Rore, what’d I let ya drag me into here?” I joke, my lips curling into a nervous smile. But the smile feels good, and it feels even better when her name disappears from my screen, and I forget my phone in my pocket. 

+

“What happened to making me dinner?” I whine from the couch, crossing my left leg over the other under the comfort of my blanket. 

“That was when you were busy, and well, the other day when I was feeling generous. Not today, missy,” Skye scoffs, the sound of the fridge shutting marking her words. Something lands in my lap with a plop, startling me. 

“Wow, how gourmet. Why thank you, I definitely don’t need to make dinner now,” I joke, picking up the wrapped piece of string cheese. 

“I know you’re still going to eat it. Just eat cereal or something, you hobo. I’m going to bed at a decent time, unlike somebody.”

“Hey, it’s a Friday!” I argue, pressing the page down button on the remote, waiting for something to catch my eye on Netflix. 

“Yeah, and some of us still have a job on Saturdays!” she calls from her journey down the hall. 

“Party pooper!” 

She remains silent on the defensive line, and so does the list of boring content on the television screen. Relenting, I click over to My Stuff and press play on the next episode of FRIENDS. Relaxing into the cushions, I unwrap the cheese and slowly eat it in strings. Giggles flow from my lips watching the scene unravel in front of me, and some eye-rolls because of Ross or Monica. After a while, my legs stray to the fridge, and I return to the tan sectional with a bowl of Cheerios. The milk threatens to spill over the side when I sit up suddenly, almost yelping in laughter at the scene when Monica and Rachel lose their apartment to Chandler and Joey. The sugary Cheerios soon disappear, and the milk follows them as the episode nears the end. 

Placing my bowl and spoon in the dishwasher, I hurry back to the sofa to catch a Phoebe scene. My cheeks warm with a smile, but they soon grow cold when my thoughts have to interrupt with a memory of his face. That god awfully sweet smile adorned with his cherry lips and precious dimples. Without knowing what I’m doing, the cartoon looking app appears under my nose, and pictures fill my feed. I take a second look at a few of them that catch my attention, the angry voices of Rachel and Monica tickling at my ears. 

Soon, the search bar materializes and although it feels wrong, I type in letter after letter to create his name. I can’t remember the last time I glanced at his profile, just to catch a hint of him. Finding the profile I’ve become familiar with, I tap on his picture and wait for his profile to load. Glancing away, the tv captures my attention once more as I scratch at an itch on my leg. Yawning, I rub at my eye before it falls back to the blindingly bright screen. Blinking hard to clear the haze from my vision, I scroll down to see what new pictures he’s posted, although they’re usually few and far between. 

I find the most recent picture I recognize and tap through them. Picturesque shots from high in the clouds. His unbelievably adorable niece. Food-grams. A picture of a homemade pizza is making my mouth water and is still stuck in my mind when I happen upon the next photo, and the most recent one. The moisture in my mouth is wicked away, suddenly bone dry when the image in front of my eyes slowly registers with me. But I can’t believe it, even though I’m seeing it. I don’t want to see it, or believe it. The moisture reappears in the corners of my eyes quickly as a sourness quickly knits together in my gut. The image shakes in my hands and then blurs in my eyes, accented by the thrashing of my heart inside of my chest. 

“Skye!” I shout, the words leaping from my lips with little success. 

My lip wobbles and I feel my entire face collapse from pain, disbelief, the whole shebang. The sob screaming from my lips is muffled by my fingers coming to my mouth. 

“No, no, no, no, no,” I mutter, inhaling fast and feeling the tears in my throat. Because I can feel it everywhere in my body - the pain. In my eyes, my stomach, my hands, and my chest. The sight of Harry’s lips touching that of another girl’s sends knives into my heart, and my stomach roiling. “T-this can’t . . . ,” but my words escape me, because the multitudes of feelings punished with anguish and despair course through me. 

“Skye!” I yell again, not realizing that I’ve gotten to my feet. I stumble at first, feeling the weakness reach my legs. Her name leaves my lips wet with tears as I run past the kitchen and down the hall. 

Pushing open her door, darkness meets my eyes, and I swear in that moment it swallowed me. Hitting me, I grab the doorframe and feel my forehead fall against it. Leaning there for support, the sobs roll through me, the very reason still clutched in my hand. 

“Whaaaaat?” she groans tiredly from her bed across the room. 

But I only reply with a sob of her name, hiccups havocking my chest. My hands claw at the wall, darkness coating my eyelids. 

“Ree?” Skye asks groggily, the click of her lamp following her words. “What happened? Are you alright?” she hurries, the pillowy patting of her covers being thrown back meeting my ears. 

Her arms wrapping around me are almost numbing, and do nothing. And feel like nothing. But when I feel my head meet her chest, the slowed-down world I lived in for those few seconds vanishes. 

“Skye, I-. . . ,” I attempt, once again falling up short as tears suffocate my voice, much like they’re making me feel. Shakily, I press my phone into her hand as I try to find safety in her arms. 

I wait and then am rewarded with her intake of breath followed by a sigh. “Holy fuck,” she whispers, and retaliates by pulling me closer against her. “Come here, Ree.”

She walks me over to her bed and helps me under the covers until I’m surrounded by them, and her arms. 

“Who i-is she?” I demand sloppily, searching for something to hold onto and to anchor myself with. I’m compensated with the smooth fabric of her shirt that I cling to the back of, my head falling into her hair. The mundane scent of strawberries wafting from her body tries to relax me, but to no avail. 

“Ree-,” she begins, but I don’t let her start, let alone finish. 

“I want to kn- I need to know,” I respond, sniffling against the warm expanse of her neck. There’s shuffling next to me before she sighs, and I sense the light of my phone. Tapping prods at my hearing as I try to form coherent thoughts. 

I’m met with images of him. Harry. His dark curls, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, and the high-pitched giggle that accompanied my tickling as well as his own. The intruding memories rack my body with shaking sobs, pressing my lips together as new tears gush over them. My belly contracts with each sob, and I don’t even register the cramping in my hands from holding on so tightly. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Skye hums warily from above, pulling my head into her neck, leaving her arm there to shield me from her words. Or the image that I can’t remove from my mind even if I tried. It’s burned there indefinitely now. 

His arms in a blue button-up surrounding her and his lips enveloping hers. A smile creasing his cheeks with happiness, and spreading to those of her dark cheeks. Her curvy body pressed against his, flowing ebony curls tickling her chocolate skin. 

“Tell me.”

“Okay,” Skye caves, the tips of her fingers running marathons along my back, in attempts to calm me down. But I don’t know if the tried and true will work this time, although it has for every other, even when my dad’s life was painted with the C-Word. “She’s a London based artist, does some sculpting and gallery work locally. According to her Instagram account, anyways.”

“I asked . . who is she?” I repeat, my voice wavering under the dominance of the tears. 

“Her name’s Bailee Taylor.”

“W-what does her page look . . . like?” I request, exhaustion blanketing me, and only adding another feeling to the rest. Blinking away the tears, I try to take in a deep breath, but my memories hit me with the safety I felt in his arms. Unwaveringly. 

“It looks like they’re . . dating,” Skye announces quietly, squeezing me around the middle. The confirmation I didn’t know I’d been searching for hits me like a train, knocking the air out of me again. And all of a sudden, hatred pulses through me, asking me where to lay it. Where to feel it. “There’s a few pictures of them on her feed, looks like they met maybe a few weeks ago.” 

“Why?” jumps from my lips finally, taking a nosedive to join a sea of unanswered questions. The word shakes the second it leapt from my tongue, and somehow it hurts more than all of the rest. “I h-hate him,” I cry, my nose smushing against her skin when I try to hold onto her tighter than I already am. 

“No, you don’t,” she coos, raking her fingers through my hair slowly, and carefully. 

“I know, b-but I wish I could,” I answer, the memories dancing through my head at hyper speed. Falling asleep in his arms, and waking up in them. The tickling fight. The almost kiss. The Scrabble game. Waking up to find him waiting there in the doorway. Him coming back even after the way I treated him. Finding him standing there at the front of the lecture hall. The reprieve of being in his arms again after so long spent away from them. And then, like a wall, my mind runs into the strings of unanswered texts. The canceled lunch dates. The both of us ignoring the other’s texts, but then at the end, it was him. It was him who was awkward during the last phone call. He hung up on me abruptly, and I heard somebody else was there. Was it her? It’s possible they would have already been together by then. He said he’d text me to set up lunch, and he never did. 

“It won’t make you feel better,” she murmurs, cupping my head with her palm. The sound of tears edging at her words only makes mine come harder, and the feeling in my gut grows louder. 

“Then what will?” I beg, wondering if I’ll ever forget the taste of the salty tears. A taste I thought I could forget just late last month when my dad was cured. News that I told him, and had been impatiently waiting to do all day. “I thought I was just feeling okay again, Skye.”

“I know, Ree, I’m so sorry,” she returns, placing her cheek against mine, the first tear peeking through in her voice. “I’m sorry.”

I unpeel myself from her anxiously, kicking away the blankets before my feet land on the floor. 

“Where are you going?” she almost demands, the sound of her following me far away. 

“I’m gonna be sick,” I confess, rushing down the hall before falling to my knees in front of the toilet. The Cheerios and milk from earlier make a reappearance, along with the string cheese, and mushy contents of my other meals. 

Running a cold cloth along my face, Skye kneels in front of me, her face painted in sadness.

“How can it hurt so much, Skye, when he wasn’t even mine?” I croak, focusing on the lone tile in our bathroom that doesn’t match the rest of the flooring. 

“I think you’re wrong, he was yours, Ree.”

“I was so close. I fucked up, again,” I weep, my lips collapsing with yet another sob. 

“Don’t say that, don’t,” she insists, tucking her hair behind her studded ear when it goes every which way with the shaking of her head. “You can’t blame yourself for this.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It feels like it is. She’s so pretty . . Of course she is,” I remember aloud, breathing in quickly before the tears take hold of me once more. Closing my eyes, I reach out for her and let my head rest against her shoulder. 

“She really isn’t, Ree. A big pair of tits doesn’t make you pretty, and anyways, you’re far prettier. He could do much better, like you.”

“You’re just saying that,” I confess, trying to swallow, but my throat has tied itself into knots with the thoughts of him. And when that word falls out of bed inside of my head, I find that it can hurt worse. “I was his Becks, Skye, I thought it was right there. That it was gonna happen for us.”

“Oh, Ree,” she cries, sniffling against my hair when she pulls me against her. “I know, I’m so sorry . . so sorry.”

Nodding into her chest, it feels right as her necklace digs into my wet cheek. My jaw aches from clenching my teeth, and so does every other part of my body in some way. Somehow I let her bring me back to her bed, and hide me away in her arms. My head swims with questions, then fleeting hatred for him, and inconsolable longing the very next. I shed a tear for his smell, his contagious smile, that Scrabble game we’ll never finish, the churros I’ll never be able to eat again without him ruining them for me, the color of his eyes I could never forget, and the lost feeling of his lips I never got to kiss. The list miles long of things I never got to say to him, or do with him, or make him feel. Because now she does, and she isn’t me. 

“I-I thought . . that he felt the same way about me, and that somehow he knew that I loved him.” 

A whimper escapes Skye’s lips as my tears fall into her neck, adding to the puddle I’ve shed there. 

“What does she have that I don’t? Am I not interesting? Does she have a nicer body than I do? Am I not pretty enough? Was I not nice enough or appreciative of him?” I weep, the questions flowing off my lips from the recesses of my mind. My name greets my ears firmly, but I ignore it. “I was trying to answer his texts when I could, but things got so busy with uni and my dad. All the driving, the tests in both places, and I couldn’t keep dates right in my head. Maybe if I’d texted him back sooner that one time, or made the lunch date on the right day the first time-.”

“Becky, don’t do the ‘ifs’ thing,” Skye urges, pulling the covers further up our shoulders before returning to combing my hair back again and again. 

“But I can’t stop thinking about what went wrong, a-and how much I miss him, Skye. I miss him a hundred times more after seeing that picture,” I reveal, falling into her, my lips meeting her shoulder. My teeth dig into my skin and I let them, numb to the pain as the same word is too busy with my mind. “I don’t know if I ever wanna see him again.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“But I do want to, I’ll always want to. Like something inside of me will always want him.” 

+

The sunlight streaming in through the windows is the first thing I see when I awake. Ducking my head back under the covers, I pull them over me with a groan. The blissful ignorance of the first few minutes after waking up follows me, until it all comes crashing back. 

“Are you awake?” a voice murmurs, sleep clinging to it. 

“Unfortunately,” I whisper, staring into the muted light underneath the gray covers. 

“I can stay home if you want me to, I was just making some breakfast,” Skye responds, the tapping of her feet along the floor following. 

“No, don’t cancel your hair appointments because of me. I’ll be . . I’ll be fine,” I tell her, but then the tears greet me good morning. 

“Oh, Ree, I’ll cancel and we can watch movies all day, or FRIENDS. Whatever you want,” she announces. The bed falls to one side when she sits on the edge, and I feel her hand find my back. 

“Thanks, I was hoping you’d say that,” I return, turning around and sitting up to dive into her arms. “I was hoping I had dreamt it all and it was just a bad dream. But my life is the bad dream.”

“Oh, Ree,” she coos, surrounding me with her arms. “I know this is cliche and it doesn’t feel like it, but it’ll get better.”

“I don’t know about that. My life is a running joke lately because it feels like it’ll get better, and then it just gets worse.”

+

“Your birthday is coming up, isn’t it, Becky?” somebody asks. Looking up from my cupcake, I find the face of Sophie. 

“Yeah, end of next week,” I answer, picking an orange sprinkle from the white frosting to eat.

“Do you have any big plans?” my boss asks as she places her lunch in the microwave. 

“My brother and I hang out every year, we’re twins.”

“Oh, how fun! I remember meeting him once when he brought you lunch one day,” she smiles, turning to face me as she waits in front of the humming microwave. 

I just nod and dip my finger into the frosting, feeling it melt on my tongue a second later. 

“Everything alright, love?”

“Yep, just tired is all,” I fib, taking a bite of the carrot cupcake, although I’m not wrong when I think about it. Skye has been a lifesaver for the last two weeks helping me get back on my feet. Thinking back on it and all of the tears leaves a funny taste in my mouth, but I try to brush it away with a forced smile. 

“How old will you be this year, Becky?” Sophie asks, pulling out a rolling chair to sit to my right at the long table. 

“Good old 26.”

“Wow, still a spring chicken, I’d say,” she comments, bringing a quirky smile to my lips. I almost follow her laugh with mine. “Well you know what, an early birthday present from me is you can have the rest of the day off. You always do a great job, Becky, and so you deserve it.”

“Sophie, I-,” I begin, my jaw falling to the floor. 

“I mean it, go. Get out of here. Go do something that makes you happy, love, it looks like you need to,” she smiles, squeezing my arm from across the table. Standing to my feet, profuse ‘thank yous’ leave my lips before I leave the break room. 

I drive around with my windows down, unsure of where to go instead of home. Before I know it, I find myself walking into my favorite little coffee shop. I’ve always loved to hang out here with a cup, reading a book, doing homework, or just relaxing on one of their sofas. 

Soon, I sit down with a Cubano sandwich and an iced cinnamon roll coffee, my very favorite. Pulling a book out of my work bag, I crack it open to the first page, unable to remember when I last had the time to read a book for fun. The words of Ruth Ware stare back at me, slowly drawing me into a made-up world, and away from the desolate one trying to swallow me. 

Quickly, I’m grateful for the respite from the thoughts mucking up my mind. Instead I lose myself in the sentences that spin a scary story, thanking my old self for stashing something besides a romance in my bag. That’s the last thing I could even think about indulging in right now. For some reason, the mystery entices me, a genre I’ve always had a love for. I think, especially now, it’s the aspect of being able to solve a mystery, and to fix a problem. If only I could do that now, I wish silently with a spiteful snort. 

Placing my empty plate on the return area by the cash register, I return to my cozy spot on the couch and to my book. Losing my fingers in my hair, I prop my head up and open the book to where I had left off. Soft indie music trickles from the speakers as conversations float around me. Several more sofas are dotted around the large room and booths, as well as tables varying in sizes. Friends play board games borrowed from the shelf by the fireplace, and others do schoolwork or actual work. A laugh from behind the counter echos through the room, right as the bell on the front door jingles. Although across the room, I can hear the voices floating in from the sidewalk. Cars honking and birds chirping. The sounds make me itch to leave the air-conditioned room, and bring my reading outside into the June sunshine. 

The words covering the pages root me to the spot, but they can’t protect me from what I hear. It’s a voice that I know inside and out, from the shortened words to the often used words. My vocal cords soon begin to tangle into knots in my throat at the mere noise. Beneath my baby blue blouse, there’s a clobbering in my chest as the voice grows near and then stops. Instinctively, hair falls through my fingers as I lower my head, wishing to remain unseen. Unknown. 

I can’t stop myself, and there I am looking up to see that crinkly-eyed smile through wrenching tears. 

Harry. 

[downwiththeficness]

In the Blood-Part Nine

Pairing: Brasa/Female OC

Word Count: ~3,000

Warnings: None

A/N: Listen, y’all. This is where we diverge from canon and just, you know, keep going. I’m making a lot of inferences here on the relationship between Brasa and Amaru, which may or may not be supported by the show. As many fic authors have said, “fuck canon”.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight  Part Ten  Part Eleven Part Twelve

The bed was just as fucking glorious as she remembered it—or, had dreamt it. Whatever.  Lilah turned to her stomach and buried her face in the pillow, sighing in relaxation.  God, but it was nice to sleep on something other than a hotel mattress.  She wondered if he had one of those memory foam toppers underneath the fitted sheet, the bed molded to her body perfectly.  Lilah was warm and comfy.

Reluctantly, she reached over blindly to her phone and tapped it, surprised to see that she’d slept about twelve hours.  Her head throbbed a little where she’d been hit, and her hip ached, but Lilah felt rested.  She sat up and looked blearily around the room, trying to get her bearings.  

Distantly, she’d felt the bed dip beside her at some point in the night, but Brasa was nowhere to be found.  She leaned over and turned on the light, scrubbing at her face and yawning as she slid out of the bed.  

After making her way to the bathroom, relieving herself, and scrubbing her teeth, she padded back to the bed and climbed in.  She could go back to sleep, could possibly sleep the entire day away, if she wanted.  The thought was enticing.

A noise caught her attention at the back of the room, another door she’d missed the previous night. Through it walked Brasa.  She was shocked that he was wearing a white shirt, though it was customarily long sleeved.  Lilah was not shocked that he was wearing the gloves.  She made a mental note to ask him about it sometime.

“How did you sleep?”

She smiled, “Amazingly.”

Pausing near the foot of the bed, he took her in.  She was wearing a camisole and a faded pair of sleep shorts. There was very likely a bruise on the side of her face.  Her eyes felt swollen with heavy sleep.  Still, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her.

“I have been researching about...caring for humans,” he said, finally.  His shoulders canted forward as he leaned his palms on the foot board.  “You’re supposed to eat when you wake up.  Are you hungry?”

Lilah would have been touched by his words if she hadn’t been distracted by the play of muscle as he moved.  In black, most of him was hidden or cast in shadow.  In white, she could see every dip and hollow. Her fingers itched to traced the strong lines of his body, to explore what he kept in secret.

Drawn to him as if he’d tied a string around her belly and pulled ever so gently, Lilah pushed the covers down and crawled forward.  The wood beneath his palms creaked, but he remained still.  

“That’s very sweet of you,” Lilah whispered when she reached him, “To look that up.”

She lifted onto her knees so that she was more or less level with him and gave in to the urge to run her hands up his arms and over his shoulders.  His eyes were on her mouth,  a flush creeping over his cheeks and down his neck.

“If I’m to keep you, I need to know how to please you.”

Lilah very much doubted that he would need any coaching on that subject, if their past interactions were anything to go by.  For the sentiment, she kissed him softly. His returning kiss was, if possible, more soft, barely a brush of skin against skin.  More than anything, a question.  Lilah answered it definitively.

With a low moan, she threaded her arms around his neck, holding him to her, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth. Fuck, but she liked the way he tasted.  The coffee and caramel of his scent somehow deeper now that she got her mouth on him.  Dipping her tongue into him was even better.  He met her halfway, and she reveled in the way she could feel his body go tight with tension beneath her hands.

Wanting to know if he tasted this good elsewhere, Lilah broke away, using one hand to tilt his jaw to the side.  She mouthed at his pulse point, her breathing uneven as felt his throat convulse. Some inborn instinct made her open her jaw and run her teeth along that patch of skin.

Brasa grunted and both hands came up to squeeze her hips hard.  Lilah choked a scream as pain lanced up her injured side. She hissed a breath in, her hand immediately covering the wounded area.

“I’m sorry,” he said, panicked.  His hands released her immediately.

She shook her head, “Not your fault.”

“Lilah,” he warned, already touching her again, lifting her camisole to inspect her hip.

It was ugly.  Bruised in shades of blue and purple, about the span of a salad plate.  Lilah grimaced as he slipped a thumb beneath her shorts and underwear, tugging them down an inch or so.

“I hit the wall a little harder than I thought,” she offered by way of explanation.

Brasa’s eyes met hers, “I threw you into that wall.”

“To keep me from a rather aggressive interrogator, if you’ll recall.”

His gaze dropped back to her hip and he swallowed.  She could see the guilt in his expression plainly, it was painted all over his face, his slumped shoulders. She needed to distract him.

“I seem to remember a conversation about food. I’d like to get dressed and have some, if you’re still offering.”

One side of his mouth flicked up, “Come on.  There’s a back entrance to the kitchen.”

The back entrance was, in actuality, yet another hidden door down the hall from his room. Brasa guided her through a tight niche and pushed it open.  They stepped into the very back of the freezer.  Goosebumps rose all over her skin as she navigated around a few crates of produce and into the empty kitchen. Everything was stainless.  Stainless and spotless.  

“Make anything you like,” he prompted, taking a seat at the massive island in the center of the room.

Lilah was not a good cook by any means, having spent years in hotels with continental breakfasts and in diners on the road.  But, eggs and toast were simple enough.  She gathered her ingredients, trying to think of something to say.

While she waited for the toast to, well, toast, she asked, “Do you eat?”

“Food?”

Lilah shrugged, noncommittal.

Brasa folded his hands in front of him, watching her rifle through drawers, “I can, though it provides little sustenance.”

Making a happy noise when she found a cookie cutter, she looked at him over her shoulder, “What gives you sustenance.”

“Primarily blood,” he answered. Lilah had a feeling that he’d deliberately left the sentence hanging to see how she’d respond.

She carefully twisted the cookie cutter into the center of the toast, carving out a little circle in the middle.

“Like the culebras?”

“Yes.”

Humming, she reached over and set a frying pan on the stove, turning on the gas burner. While she waited for it the heat, she leaned her good hip on the counter and faced him.

“Do you have to kill when you…” She couldn’t find the words.

His expression carefully neutral, he finished the sentence for her, “Feed.” Then, “No.”

“How often do you have to feed?”

The fingers of his hands flexed outwards, “Every few weeks.  Sometimes more, sometimes less. Depends on how active I am.”

Much like humans, she wanted to say, her attention shifting to the pan.  She dropped the two slices of toast into it and cracked and egg in to the middle of each, setting the top on the pan.

“You said you’d been working for Javier for two years.  How long have been in this line of work?”

Lilah thought, “Hard to really put a number on it.  I did a little bit here and there before I really made it my job.  I’d say no less than seven years.”

“Javier sings your praises.”

She laughed, “I’ve made him a lot of money.  Pretty sure its my pull that paid off his house.”

“Its good that you’ve made a name for yourself,” he said, expression proud.

She lifted the top off the pan, the eggs needed more time, “I guess.  Although, that really wasn’t my aim.”

“What was your aim?”

Lilah gave him a sidelong glance, “Make enough to retire.  Go somewhere quiet. Maybe pick up a legal hobby.”

“A simple life.”

She repeated the statement, confirming, as she checked the eggs again.  They were nicely cooked, still runny.  Turning off the burner, she plated the food and turned to sit catty-corner to him at the island.  

Brasa eyed her meal with interest, “What is this called?”

“Eggs in a basket,” she said, plucking a fork from a bundle of them stuffed into a lazy Susan as well as a paper towel from the roll sitting next to it.

He watched her eat, eyes amused, “Is this your preferred breakfast?”

Lilah shrugged, “No idea. I usually just eat what’s available.”

Head cocked to the side, he decided, “Then, I’ll have to make sure you have as many options as possible, until you find your favorite.”

Blushing, Lilah forked another bite into her mouth, “Do you have a favorite? Human food, I mean.”

Brasa thought for a moment, “It used to be a meat pie.  Easy to make, easy to take with you.”

“And now?”

His eyes met her with a strange intensity, “Marshmallow, roasted over a fire.”

Lilah stabbed a piece of toast and ran it around in the yolk to soak it up, wondering how he’d focused on such a specific delicacy, though she couldn’t argue with him.  Roasted marshmallow was a pretty good favorite food.

“What happens if you don’t feed often enough?”

“It painful.  Very painful.  I would not wish anyone to feel as if their guts are being pulled out of them in one long rope.”

Lilah chewed thoughtfully, trying not to picture the image he was painting, “You sound like you’ve been starved before.”

Brasa made a soft noise of assent, and he looked away, “When Amaru—my queen—was displeased with me, she would deny me blood for months.  One time, she restrained me for a year, coming to my room every once in a while to taunt me.  Before she released me from my bonds, she pulled my fangs. It took several weeks to regrow them.”

Hand shaking as she held her fork aloft, the question was out of her mouth before she could stop it, “Why?”

“Because,” he replied, “I stared at her too long.”

“That is insane,” Lilah gasped, shocked at the frivolity of the punishment.

Brasa’s mouth twisted in derision, “That is Xibalba.”

She pushed her plate away, “I’m glad we’re going to close that portal.”

Before he could answer, voices filtered in from outside.  Lilah, out of instinct borne from years of reacting quickly to shifting circumstances, stood and grabbed Brasa by the arm.  She all but hauled him out of his seat and to the freezer, shushing him when he laughed.

They were in the back hallway before she could relax, though she heard shouts of ‘fucking night shift’ through the door before she could get it closed properly. Leaning against it, Lilah pressed her hands to her face and finally allowed herself to laugh. She felt ridiculous, and she was sure that she probably looked ridiculous. Still, a little bit of whatever was coiled up inside her relaxed.

Brasa took her hands and led her back to his room and through to the hidden room she hadn’t yet seen.  She marveled as the stacks upon stacks of books inside.  There were bookcases lining every wall, filled to the brim.  In the center of the room was a plush leather couch and a desk, a chair rolling chair tucked into it.

“I have work that needs my attention, but I’d like you near me. Can you occupy yourself with a book while I work?”

Lilah nodded wordlessly, already heading to one of the shelves and running her fingers along the spines. There must be a thousand books in here, most of them in languages she didn’t know.  Still, she looked for a while, pulled one here and there to either read the back or thumb through to the middle, until she found one that might keep her attention for a while.  Then, she settled into the couch to read.  

Like any good reader, she would lay in one position for a while, shifting a bit, then turn over, shift again, lay her feet over the arm, over the back.  Absently, she tugged a strand of her hair, wrapping and unwrapping it around her finger.  The story was decent enough, an easy read, until she got to the part where the antagonist was revealed to have been helping the hero all along.

“No…” she breathed, sitting up and then falling back down to lay on her back.

From her left came, “I was wondering when you’d get to that part.”

Lilah rolled her head to the side, eyes wide, “You’ve read it.”

The smile he was holding back widened, “I’ve read all of them.”

“And you didn’t warn me?!”

“Would you have enjoyed it half as much, if I had?”

Lilah stared at the book for a minute, “Probably not.”

“Well, there you go.”

She read for a while more, until Brasa pushed away from the desk and turned off the monitor.  He circled around and sat heavily on the sofa, one arm laying across the back of it.  Lilah made a mental note of the page she was on before setting the book on the floor and sitting up to face him.

“All done?”

He sighed, “For now.”

“What is it that you do?”

“I run a fairly large medical supplies company.  We contract and ship all over the country.”

Lilah’s brows came together, “Somehow, that was not the answer I was expecting.”

He waved away the statement, “My people need blood, a lot of it, and regularly.  The company hides the shipments we need to bring in to keep them fed.”

Smart and efficient.

She blinked at him, “Blood bags, that’s how you feed?”

“Sometimes, though its not,” he stopped, suddenly looking uncertain.

“Go on,” Lilah prompted.  She wanted him to tell her the truth.

His eyes shifted to the side, “Its not preferable.”

Her brain told her to let it go, but she asked it, anyway, “What is preferable?”

Brasa swallowed and looked her in the eye, “From the source is preferable.”

“Why?” She asked while her mind was shouting at her to shut up.

“Its warmer,” he explained, “thicker.  Sweeter.”

“Ah.” Then, “Why not feed from people?”

Sitting forward a little, his eyes softened, “We don’t need dead bodies piling up in a centralized location.  People will look for us.”

Lilah shook her head, “You said you didn’t need to kill to feed.”

“I don’t.  Others often don’t have the control to stop when they’ve had their fill.”

A long moment of silence passed between them and Lilah had the feeling that they’d turned a new corner.  A whole host of information had opened up before her and she wanted to know more about it, but couldn’t quite pick a route to travel on.  It didn’t matter.  They had time.

“There are donors, of course,” he continued, much to her surprise.

“Oh?”

“Some people like the feeling of allowing one of my kind to feed on them.”

She snorted, “I’m not surprised.”

His brows lifted in question and Lilah took the opportunity to pull her legs out from underneath her and scoot forward.

She touched his cheek, running her fingers up and over his orbital bone, “I’ve seen enough adrenaline junkies to know nothing is quite out of bounds when they need a fix.”

Brasa held her hand to him, turning to press a kiss to her palm.  Her breath hitched and she could feel her heart kick up at the feeling zinging down over her forearm.  He pulled her a little closer, until their knees met on the cushion. Lilah’s balance, already precarious, threatened to give out beneath the weight of his intense scrutiny. She wasn’t sure exactly who moved first, but suddenly he was kissing her.

His heat surrounded her immediately, drawing her in.  Lilah wished that she’d kept her camisole and shorts on instead of the sweater and jeans she was currently wearing.  She wanted to feel his hands, no matter that he was still wearing gloves.

A rumble vibrated through his chest, and she was suddenly on her back, one leg sandwiched between his body and the couch. The other was firmly grasped and wrapped around his waist.  His body weight dropped down onto her, pressing her hips open.  She winced and choked out a high pitched cry.

Brasa was off her in an instant, on his knees beside the couch before she could blink. She was left staring at the ceiling, bewildered.

“I’m calling a doctor.”

“No, you’re not,” Lilah countered, swinging her legs over the side and regarding him firmly.

His jaw clenched, “You’re hurt.”

“Yes, but I will heal.”

Brasa shook his head, “Let me get you something for the pain.”

“No. I don’t want painkillers. Its just a bruise.  It will be better in a few days.”

There might have been further argument, but her stomach growled.  How long had she been reading?

“I think I need to feed you again.”

Lilah smiled and nodded, “Three times a day, plus snacks.”

He gave that little half smile that she was beginning to be fond of, “I’ll keep that in mind. I’m going to the kitchen.  You stay here.”

Lilah watched him go, then leaned down gingerly and picked up the discarded book.  Likely, she’d finish it that night.  She gazed down at the cover, thumb running along the pages.  The last twenty four hours had been… strange, to say the least.  But, damn it if she wasn’t looking forward to seeing what happened in the next twenty four.