#she just wants to hunt and track things down (which still fits the companions but still)

[extervus]

Sorry to Skyrim OC post in 2022 [<- not actually sorry] but I'm starting a new character and this one is gonna be a Skaal-born Nord Werebear hunter (as in, she is a werebear who is also a hunter. She doesn't hunt werebears). Her whole deal is that she's trying to embrace her Skaal roots (she was adopted and raised by a Dunmer and Imperial couple outside of Solstheim after her birth parents died) by becoming a great hunter. And of course she's a werebear so that's another reason she really likes to hunt. She's also gonna be a master at illusion magic because her Dunmer father had her go to magic school when she was young so she uses that to aide and hone her hunting skills. No she doesn't consider it cheating. At some point she's gonna join the Dark Brotherhood because her Imperial father had ties to them so they caught wind of her marksman and illusion skills and reached out to her. Her name is Vibeke :)

[too-destiny-panda]

Wyllvember Day 5: Wyll and your Dnd party/ First Sword

A/N: Jeez, I seem to post these later and later each day. But, as long as I post them, I'm happy. This time around I meshed my current DnD party from a capmpaign I'm in with the world of Faerun, which also made this particular fic far longer than I wanted it to, but hopefully it will still be satisfactory. As always, credits to @sagscrib and @commander-yinello

When he was cast out from Baldur’s Gate by his own father, Wyll’s world crumbled before him. He knew he did the right thing and did not regret making that pact to save his home. But he also knew his father was not to blame. No matter how angry or sad he was that the Grand Duke didn’t believe him, he knew that he only worked with the information he was given, and since Mizora magically tied his tongue, none of that information painted his son in a good light. And so, since he didn’t have enough evidence to act as a father, not with a devil right there, he acted as a leader instead.

In truth, the past few weeks have been a challenge to say the least. Even if his father did his best to assimilate him with the common folk as well as the nobles, and young Wyll himself never turned his nose up at the Lower city, or even Rivington, he still spent the majority of his life withing the city walls, and that made the fact he couldn’t come back there in the foreseeable future all the more obvious as he stumbled through the wilderness with barely anything more than the clothes on his back.

That was almost two months ago. Since then, he had taken jobs as an adventurer, each successfully completed as well as a quarry or two that Mizora had him chase down. His reputation was slowly growing, and although he was still only known as a capable and honourable adventurer, he was sure that eventually he would be known enough to perhaps change his father’s mind.

On a cloudless night, he found himself in a tavern, nursing a beer as he ate dinner, waiting for the right time of night to go hunt some monster or other. He supressed a yawn. He could never get used to the nocturnal ones, no matter how hard he tried to adjust his sleep schedule in preparation. Sure, hunting something at midnight wasn’t so bad, but having to stay awake for nights on end, tracking, investigating, and readying himself was a bit much for him. He wondered how he managed to stay at parties until the wee hours of the morning back in the Gate. Maybe it was the company? Who knows. At least he wasn’t alone for this particular monster.

He glanced around the table at his temporary companions. He has stumbled upon the troupe barely two weeks prior as they were fighting against a sizeable group of kuo’toa. Though the creatures themselves aren’t particularly dangerous, there is strength in numbers, and this particular group seemed to be ailed by some kind of affliction, judging by how careful the group was in avoiding their claws and teeth. He drew his blade, a sword his father had given him on his birthday, and was just about to jump into the fray, when in one final push, the rest of the fishmen were defeated, either scorched, sliced or slashed, some even sporting remnants of vines, while others were afflicted with necrosis so vile, he avoided looking at them for too long.

When the group noticed him, some were quick to draw their blades. Or, in this case, a staff as well. The imposing glare of the ebony skinned sorcerer, his eyes set aflame as he demanded answers on the who the what and the where. Once it was established he meant them no harm and that he was heading in the same direction as them, the cleric invited him to join their party, if only temporarily. He didn’t know why she offered, most likely out of pity, but he was grateful for the company, nonetheless. It was a rather odd band of adventurers, none of them seeming to fit with each other, the only one with some semblance of amicability towards all of them was the rogue, and even then, he sometimes seemed at loss over the money hungry paladin or the oddly lawful sorcerer. The cleric was a nice enough woman, though maybe a bit socially awkward. He had learned that despite her orders penchant for healing, she much preferred incapacitating her foes before they did enough damage to warrant her using her divine magic. The druid was… haunted, for a lack of a better word. She would twitch, her eyes looking into the distance as if she was looking at something no one else could see, sometimes even whispered denials to herself under her breath. The crown of thorns she wore added to her eerie aura. A band of oddities all around.

He gazed at his sword as it stood beside his chair in regret, the blade chipped and slightly cracked. He had been careless. In a passing scuffle with some bandits, he had recklessly swung the blade, not being attentive to his opponent’s movements and clashed the blade right on top the enemy’s shield, damaging the blade beyond what was likely repairable. The only thing he had of his father with him other than the blood coursing in his veins, and he ruined it without purpose.

It held a special place in his heart, having been given to him as his first real sword. It was too heavy and big for him then, but he grew into it and became adept at wielding it. He had spent hours practising by himself even after his lessons had ended, eager for the day when he would be able to manoeuvre the blade with barely any difficulty, if only to see the proud look in his father’s eyes and a firm nod of praise. With this sword, he had won his first duel, posed for his first portrait, slain his first monster, and most importantly, defeated the cultists threatening to destroy his home.

A he turned away, unable to look at the consequences of his brashness any longer, his attention immediately snapped back to the weapon as a soft glow emanated from it and an armoured glove retreated from where it laid on top of the hilt. He looked up at the cleric, her half-orc, half human features looking back at his with enough insight and understanding to almost make him cower.

“There. Should be as good as new but try to avoid breaking it anytime soon. Who knows how often you’ll stumble upon a worthwhile weaponsmith out here.”, she advised.

After a prolonged moment of silence as she regarded him with wise eyes, she added, “You should get some rest. The monster is likely to put more pressure on you as the youngest, so we’re going to need you alert and rested.” Her tone didn't leave room for retorts or arguments, and as the dragonkin paladin complained about the ‘squishy kid’ getting special treatment and how the half-orc ‘couldn’t keep her hobbit motherly instinct in check’, he knew that he was in good hands.

And as his eyes grew heavy with sleep, he was glad to have met the group, not even dreaming he would unknowingly pass by them, their infected, still bodies aboard an alien nautiloid, vacant minds peacefully awaiting transformation in their respective pods.

[justdonotaskmewhy]

Artemis And A Warrior (Camilla Parker-Bowles/Diana Spencer fanfic)

Disclaimer: I understand that this can be not your cup of tea. If you're not keen on this, try to ignore it. All the characters are fictional. Sorry if I hurt you. It was not my intention.

I am not satisfied with the quality but I promised to publish it to my friends here so I keep my word.

Can you spot 3 "Stranger Things" references?

1980 

The grass in the forest was still dewy before the last preparations were completed in Highgrove. The servants were hurriedly packing rifles, cartridges and boxes of food into their boots. The dogs, wagging their tails impatiently, were eager to break free in search of prey. 

Standing in the armoury, Diana was surprised to note that her hands were shaking. She thought she had calmed down by now. She was long past the age of ten, when the sight of blood seemed something sinister and sinful. She had turned nineteen last month, and now she was an old woman, a lady of years. 

But her hands were shaking. Turning her palms, Diana could see her fingers slapping lightly against each other, her hand trembling. 

"God, even my skin is pale," thought the girl with a sullen cheerfulness. 

If this goes on, she will accidentally kill one of the guests. She wanted to laugh, but her stomach hurt and her throat was dry. She wanted to run away, but at the same time she wanted to stay, to be with Prince Charles, to see him hunt. It must be so beautiful: a real prince on the hunt. 

Diana closed her eyes. Her head was spinning. She folded her arms across her chest and hugged herself as tightly as possible. Even her teeth rattled, as if the girl were standing not in her full hunting gear in a heated room, but out in the draught in just her undershirt. 

“There you are, Lady Spencer! His royal highness is already asking where you are. “

“Mrs Parker-Bowles," Diana smiled weakly. 

She couldn't say that she really enjoyed this woman's company. Camilla smoked, so she always reeked of tobacco, she swore and told very dirty stories. However, she was around and was almost the only familiar figure in this company, so it was worth being patient.

“Are you all right, darling? “as if sincerely asked Camilla. 

She had a strange look in her eyes. Both appraising and compassionate at the same time. 

“I think so," Diana shrugged. She didn't feel like talking. Mostly because she didn't have much to say. It was her own fault for agreeing to it. She should have thought about the last time she'd hunted as a child. And now it was too late. 

“Let me have a look at you.”

Camilla, like a fashion designer, carefully examined her young acquaintance. Pointing out that the gaiters needed tightening, she was satisfied. 

“The cap fits you beautifully, Lady Spencer, have I told you? “

With these words Mrs Parker-Bowles adjusted the cap on Diana's head. 

The girl became very hot and anxious for some reason. 

“Yours-s is-s-s fine too," she replied, not looking her companion in the eye. 

“Is it cold?” 

“Not much.” 

“Wrap your cloak tightly around me in the woods. Otherwise you will catch cold and His Highness will cut off my head.”

“Why you? “Diana genuinely didn't understand. 

“I didn't keep track," the woman replied, sighing theatrically, "You remember the allocation, don't you? You and I are in the same pair.” 

Diana nodded. At that very moment, Camilla took a rifle off the wall and, holding it out to the girl, said: 

“Hold it for me, dear.” 

Lady Spencer's fumbling fingers tried to pick up the weapon, but it fell from her shaking hands almost the same second. A loud thud deafened both ladies. Diana jerked because she was frightened that the gun might be loaded. Then she raised her gaze indecisively to Camilla, expecting a sneer. 

The woman did not even smile. Her whole face expressed a kind of longing, the nature of which Diana could not understand. 

“I'll have to carry your gear, my lady," the woman smiled sadly. 

“No, no, don't, please, I'm just... well, cramping. I get nervous. It's always been like this, in school too...’ 

Diana was silent before she could finish. Deep down she knew that she could not pretend. Especially since Camilla could see right through her. She is so mature, so experienced. Such a woman could not be outsmarted. 

“They'll be looking for us soon," Camilla looked down, "I'll carry your rifle to the car, though. I'll meet you in the clearing. Do you remember the position in which we are going?’

“Yes," Diana responded vividly. 

“Good. Tell Sir Arthur when you get in the car that if he says I can't ride again, I'll open a hunt for him next. ‘

Diana pretended to laugh, though her stomach was cramping with fear. 

“What if I do something wrong? “almost crying, she asked. 

“I won't tell anyone," winked Camilla, "and you're such a quick learner, Lady Spencer. Watch your breath, have some mulled wine, and remember how you and I shot at the range last month. Don't look so worried, it's only a hunt.’

*** 

“And you're not so bad with guns, dear," Camilla smiled and patted Diana on the shoulder in a perfectly friendly manner. 

The girl never particularly liked the shooting range. She was bored with shooting. It wasn't her favourite netball, where you had to run and aim while walking. No, it was silly shooting at bottles, stars, cardboard bandits and other nonsense. However, everyone around Charles seemed to be obsessed with this pastime. Even now, at Andrew's birthday party, everyone was shooting bottles. 

“Thank you," Diana nodded.

“If only you'd hit the targets instead of the space between them...”

“Or maybe I'm hitting between the bottles on purpose, Mrs Parker-Bowles!”

 “Really, Lady Spencer?” 

“Any fool can hit the bottle, but hitting right between them..." Diana continued, bursting into laughter. 

“You can make things up," Camilla smiled, "well, if you have conquered all the air around you, I suggest we join the guests in the tent.”

Camilla took Diana's palm in hers and grimaced. 

“What cold hands you have.” 

“It's the weather," she said, as if making excuses, "it's windy today, and I'm cold. And your hands are so warm, Mrs. Parker-Bowles.” 

Camilla's hands were indeed very warm and rough. They had calluses on their palms from the constant contact with the reins. There was no nail polish on the nails, and they were short, not in the fashion sense at all. Still, Camilla's hands were very pleasant. For some reason Diana didn't want to let go of her warm hand. 

“My mother told me as a child that people with cold hands have hotter heart," smiled Camilla, "do you think it's true Lady Spencer?”

 Diana trembled for some reason and could only mumble: 

“I d-don't know, hadn't thought about it.” 

“Well, come quickly, you're already shivering and I'm cold. We'll warm up in a moment. Do you remember that you promised His Highness a dance?” 

Diana did not listen, and only wished that the road to the tent and the pleasant warmth emanating from Camilla's hand had not ended sooner. 

*** 

An hour into the hunt, Sir Hugh's group, which included Camilla, Diana and Lord McFall, were on the trail of a deer. Sir Hugh, a burly, mustachioed man, expertly announced that they would soon see a doe. Lord McFall asked how the hoofprints could determine the sex of an animal, to which he was told that if there were such fools in the House of Lords, one did not wonder why the country was in crisis. 

“And I'm not going to answer such stupid questions! You dare call yourself a hunter. Ignoramus!” 

“And I have no intention of being in your company, kind sir Reindeerkeeper! If you'll excuse me ladies, I'm going another way, I don't think I belong here” 

“And you think nothing of it, Sir Idiot! “Sir Hugh roared in the back of the retreating lean figure.

The old hunter tried in vain to catch his breath and recover. He was blushing more and more with each passing second.

“Sir, are you not feeling well? “Diana asked timidly. 

“Mrs. P-Par... To hell with it! Camilla! “Sir Hugh exclaimed without opening his eyes. 

“Yes, speak up!” 

“Get Diana on the trail. You're one of the few people here I don't doubt. I'll catch up with you when I come to my senses.”

“And I've always told you not to shout like that at your age, kind Sir Hugh.”

“Damn you and my age! Go on! All the game will run away.” 

Diana thought that the deafening screams might have made the game scatter. She wished she could see Charles again sooner, and be in the warmth. But Camilla, her cap pulled down over her forehead, pushed the girl confidently toward the woods, and Lady Spencer had no choice left. 

They walked for about twenty minutes, making their way through the bushes and dead wood. It was a mystery to Diana how she could find her way in the middle of nowhere, and how she stayed on the trail. The girl's hands were already frozen and felt as if they were numb. Lady Spencer tucked them deep into her pockets and thought that if a wild beast came at them now, she would not even have time to remove the rifle from her back. 

And Mrs. Parker-Bowles didn't seem to notice the cold or the wind. She skipped briskly over the fallen trunks of fir trees and whistled something patriotic to herself. How the woman always remained in good spirits, Diana did not understand. She herself would have liked to enjoy all the social activities Charles enjoyed so much, but she couldn't bring herself to pretend that she enjoyed wandering around in the dark, cold woods with a heavy gun to kill innocent animals. 

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Diana noticed a small patch of light between the beeches. She stopped for a second and looked closely. There was definitely something moving nearby. The girl became frightened. 

“Why have you stopped, Lady Spencer?“ Camilla asked in surprise when she saw that her companion had fallen behind her. 

“Quiet, please! There is someone there.”

With a single movement of her gun on alert, Mrs Parker-Bowles approached Diana as silently as possible. Seeing at last what the girl was telling her, Camilla smiled broadly. 

“My dear, you are a miracle! This is the doe Sir Hugh was talking about. Let's come closer and have a look.”

They walked slowly, without making any sudden movements, towards the clearing and lay down next to a fallen beech. The doe did not notice them. It was a beautiful graceful creature. It seemed to Diana to be a young animal. It ate quietly, not paying attention to anything. 

Camilla smiled broadly and held out her loaded gun to Diana.

“Well, your chance, Sightseer.”

“What? No. No!" the girl protested, "I won't shoot.”

“Keep your voice down! Why not? Camilla asked in a whisper. 

Diana hesitated. She did not want to look silly and say that she loved animals, and wild animals too, and thought it was wrong to kill them. It was a straightforward way to be ridiculed, so the girl tried to be sly: 

“Sir Hugh will be upset. He was the first to see the trail.” 

“What are you talking about, sweetheart, he'll kiss you if you bring him a doe! He's not greedy at all. Don't be silly and try a shot.”

“What if I miss? Because the doe will run away.” 

“And let her run. We'll lie and say we haven't seen her.” 

“But... I...”

“I see," said Camilla grimly, "Charles was right when he said you were a spineless brat, Lady Spencer.” 

Only later did Diana realise that it was a bluff. At that moment, without thinking, she took the gun from Camilla and with shaking hands tried to take aim. More precisely, she tried to do her best to avoid hitting the doe and injuring the animal. She deliberately aimed as accurately as possible at the fallen spruce and pulled the trigger. 

Perhaps her hand shook at the very last moment. Perhaps it was the cold wind that made the girl shake. The gun turned slightly, as if by itself, and Diana stabbed the doe with one precise blow. 

The animal immediately fell to the ground. Around its head a bloody puddle had already formed, in which something was floating. The doe's eyes remained open. It did not seem to understand where death had come from. Something in the expression of those eyes made a terrible impression. It was as if the doe was asking 'Why did I die? What have I done? Whom have I disturbed?" 

Camilla was jubilant. She threw her cap in the air and shouted: 

“Hooray for Lady Robin Hood, the best hunter in the kingdom! Hooray! Good girl! Well done!”

Everything in front of Diana's eyes was blurred. She did not understand what was happening and where she was now. Why is the doe lying on the ground? She had just eaten. Will it get up now? This is just a game, isn't it? She was shooting at the tree, that's for sure. 

Why isn't the animal moving? What...? 

Mortally pale and shaking, Diana struggled to rise to her knees. Camilla wanted to ask what was wrong, but did not have time. The girl trembled even more and leaned over the ground. She was vomiting. 

*** 

Camilla could explain nothing to Sir Hugh or Lord McFall when they finally reached the clearing and saw the dead doe and Diana, green with worry. They realised that the girl had hit the target the first time. Lord McFall even noted the accuracy of the shot: Diana hit right between the eyes. 

But why Lady Spencer was sitting in a puddle of vomit was beyond their comprehension. 

Concluding that the girl had simply eaten something wrong at breakfast, they began to think of the best way to get the doe to the common gathering place, and had Camilla not shouted to them, they would have been absorbed in their occupation for a long time to come. 

“Help me get the girl out of the forest! “shouted Camilla," I can’t do it on my own, I have two guns.”

“Put the guns down, Mrs Parker-Bowles," said Lord Hugh, "let's leave them for Mr Hunter.”

Lord McFall was about to say something, but he thought back in time to continue his examination of the doe. 

Lord Hugh grabbed Diana under one shoulder and Camilla under the other. Together they moved cautiously towards the tents. The girl was shaky. She shrieked and wailed incessantly. She was talking nonsense about having killed a living creature. Mrs. Parker-Bowles only whispered sympathetically, "It'll be all right," and kept walking forward. 

After a few tedious minutes that seemed like hours, Camilla finally heard dogs barking and laughter. So they would soon reach the tents. And indeed a makeshift camp of three large tents in which ammunition and provisions were stored appeared in front of them. In the centre of the large sun-drenched clearing stood Prince Charles. In front of him stood a table with maps, and at his feet rested two partridges. His faithful friend, Harvey the Labrador, was circling him and barking. 

“Hush, mate, hush," Charles whispered, "you're not...”

His gaze fell on the people coming out of the woods. He recognized Camilla and Sir Hugh at once, but it was hard for him to recognize his good friend Lady Diana Spencer in the figure hanging over their shoulders. 

"And this is only our fifth meeting. What happens next?" “he thought and ran closer.

 “What's that? Is she... drunk or something?” the prince said in a whisper. 

“Help me," Camilla asked without ceremony or explanation.

“What?" asked Charles, still helplessly. 

“Help me take her to the car. Can't you see she's not well? “Camilla barked. 

“Is she crippled? “the prince was unsure. He did not see any blood stains on Diana's clothes. Maybe she fainted and smashed her head in? 

“Your friend, Your Highness, will give you a head start on your shooting," Sir Hugh said proudly, "first time on a serious hunt, and she hits a doe without a miss!”

Diana groaned, and Camilla hissed for the restless shooting enthusiast to finally realise that the situation was not conducive to talking about hunting. 

“Did Diana kill the doe? You mean a real one? “Charles was clearly discouraged. It made the few unfortunate partridges look pathetic. 

The girl moaned again and began to lash out. 

“No, you idiot, a toy! “Camilla couldn't take it anymore. “Don't just stand there!” 

The two of them led Diana to the car park. Camilla had never been so happy to go hunting in her own car. 

“Are you taking her to the hospital? “Charles clarified. 

“Why does she need a hospital? She needs to get cleaned up and go to bed soon. She is exhausted.”

“So back to Highgrove? “the prince asked with obvious displeasure. 

“And why are you looking so crooked?” 

“My father is about to lecture me again about being a bad host and not being able to make sure that all the guests are happy. Look at her. The servants will be gossiping for a week about how we've been pandering to young aristocrats.” 

“What an asshole you are, Fred! You’re only thinking about yourself," she said. 

“Who else would I be thinking about? “I'm thinking about you, too, and I don't need anyone else.”

“What beautiful words for a future king.”

 “Don't mock.” 

Camilla glanced at the pale, dirty girl in the seat next to her. She felt so sorry for her that her eyes tingled. This was her first hunt, she should have shot herself and frightened the doe, not forced this girl to kill the animal. She stroked Diana's palm faintly and said:

“Here's the deal. If anyone asks for you, Diana and I have gone to Bolehyde. We'll be back tomorrow. We left because we got bored hunting...” 

“Did you get bored on the hunt? “Charles asked, "You don't expect anyone to believe that, do you?”

“Say it in a way that makes them believe it. You're a prince, you'll have to lie for the rest of your life. It's better not to talk about Diana getting sick.” 

“But Sir Hugh already knows.” 

“Sir Hugh is only thinking about skinning the doe. He doesn't care about our difficulties.” 

“Gladys, be honest, why can't you just leave her to the servants? You know I can't survive without you.” 

“I'm altruistic, you know that. And you should get used to surviving without me, my darling.” 

With these words, Camilla started the engine, waved at her former lover and drove off at full speed towards the family estate. 

*** 

The road to Bolehyde was excellent. There were hardly any cars on the track. To Camilla's great relief, there were no obstacles or bumps either. Diana was still not feeling well. She had to stop twice because the vomiting didn't stop. 

The girl was sitting in the passenger seat, pale and tear-stained, with a tear-stained face and red nose. Her clean clothes were all stained and her hair was wrinkled. Diana looked more like a beggar than a lady returning from a hunt. 

Camilla kept repeating "Be patient, dear, we will soon be home," but the girl did not listen. The only thought running through her mind was 'I am a murderer'. She wanted to cry, but there were no tears left. Her chest ached and stung. Her fingers trembled and clutched frantically at her vomit-soaked jacket. 

"I killed a living thing," Diana thought, and prayed that she would die now. She was ashamed, she felt bad, she thought she would never be able to redeem herself in her life. 

At last the squat brick building appeared in the distance. Bolehyde was close at hand, and Camilla could not hide her joy. Desperately picking up speed, she sped up the driveway. If Andrew had been home, of course he would have come out to see such dashing in the old family car. 

But he was, as always, in London. 

As gently as possible, Camilla put her arm around Diana's waist and led her into the house. The girl hardly noticed anything. It seemed to her that they were back in Highgrove. In that state, she didn't care where she was: Highgrove, Boleheide, St. Helena, everything would be one solid mass of colour, pulsating before her eyes. 

Mrs Parker-Bowles began unabashedly:

“Lady Spencer? Can you hear me?”

 The girl was silent. “Your clothes are all dirty... And you yourself... Anyway, you need a bathroom.”

 Diana heard the words, but didn't understand their meaning. What bathroom? What for? 

“I'll take you and look for clothes. I'll wash this one, okay? Do you mind? Say something!” 

Lady Spencer didn't understand at all why they were looking for clothes. Are they going somewhere? Do they need to change for dinner? 

Taking the silence as a no-objection, Camilla led her guest into the interior of the house. As quickly as possible, she walked past the kitchen and the living room to the bathroom and opened the door. The room was small, but very bright and clean. Or maybe it only seemed small because of the huge bathroom, parted off by a curtain with tropical flowers. 

“I'll draw a bath and leave. Lie down and rest, okay? I'll just leave my clothes and leave again. I won't get in the way. Do you understand?” 

Diana only understood the word 'leave', and it frightened her. How so? Where would Mrs. Parker-Bowles go? Will she leave at all? And leave her alone in that bathroom? She'll do something to herself. She'll drown herself. She can't be alone with her thoughts! 

“Don't! “Diana cried out weakly. 

“Don't want to take a bath?” 

“Don't go," the girl whispered and closed her eyes. 

“Don't go?” 

Diana shook her head. 

“Are you... Are you afraid?” 

Diana nodded and cried softly. 

“I won't leave. I'll find some clothes and sit with you. Just don't cry. I don't like it when people cry.”

After pouring a full tub of bubble bath and adding oils to the water, Camilla was about to close the door and go looking for clothes, when suddenly Diana exclaimed again: 

“Don't!”

“What?” 

“The door... “

“Don't you want me to lock the door?” 

Diana shook her head. 

“Okay. Weird, of course, but okay. Look, I'll just close it up, see? It's not locked. I'll be right back.”

With quick steps the woman covered the distance from the bathroom to her room and pulled out some trousers and a blue jumper with flowers embroidered on it from the wardrobe. 

Back in the bathroom, Camilla was surprised to find such complete silence. It was as if there was no one behind the curtain, so quiet was Diana. Not even a splash of water or breathing could be heard. 

Putting the clothes next to the bath, Camilla, trying to give her voice as much confidence as possible, asked: 

“Are you alive?” 

The answer was a "uh-huh", which sounded as if it had come from underground. Camilla calmed down a little.

“I was beginning to think you had drowned yourself.”

It was only after she had said it that Camilla realised that the joke was not the most appropriate one for the situation. Diana sobbed quite childishly and began to cry silently. Even through the curtain you could see her shoulders trembling. Camilla wanted to come closer and at least caress the girl on the head, but realized that it would be too indecent for those who were not so familiar, so she just sat down on the floor by the bathroom, leaning back against the curtain, and said: 

“Please forgive me, I didn't mean to upset you.”

“I'm not upset," Diane replied in a broken voice.

“Can I help you? “the woman asked again, but there was no answer. 

Deciding it was no use trying to cheer up poor Lady Spencer any further, Camilla, having warned her that she would go into the drawing room, departed. She left the door ajar and asked Diana to come and sit by the fireplace after her bath. The girl said nothing again, though Camilla thought the silhouette behind the curtain flickered. 

As she built the fireplace, Camilla thought about how strange Diana was acting. Yes, perhaps, if you think about it, hunting is not the most humane pastime. Of course, everyone who kills an animal for the first time experiences very strong emotions. But why be so nervous? What was the point of throwing such a tantrum? It is just a doe, a common prey, an animal that does not even have feelings. The woman couldn't imagine at all that she or any of her friends would cry if they had a lucky shot at a hunt. When Camilla was fifteen she jumped with delight the first time she returned from a hunt with a trophy. Apparently today's youth was becoming more and more delicate and sensitive. And this annoyed the woman greatly. 

Looking at the clock, Camilla realised that Diana had been in the bathroom for an hour. This was unusual. Normally no one in the Parker-Bowles family spent more than half an hour in the bathroom, not even the children. Deciding to go see if the girl had done something to herself, Camilla walked briskly to the living room door and almost bumped into Diana when she opened it. 

The clothes Mrs. Parker-Bowles had found looked comical on the girl, but cute at the same time. Diana had no idea how adorable she looked in Andrew's blue jumper, two sizes too big, and the white pleather trousers Camilla wore when she was home alone. She wore white socks on her feet, an amusing contrast to the black and gold of the man's house slippers. The girl trembled and clung to the wall, though by all 

The forces tried to put a mundane expression on her face. 

Camilla didn't know what to say. She wished she could have teased Diana to lighten the mood, but listening to her sob afterwards would have been undesirable. So, smiling as kindly as possible and putting her arm around Diana's shoulders, Mrs. Parker-Bowles led her close to the fireplace, by which there were two armchairs. 

“You need to warm up," Camilla pronounced each word clearly, as if she were speaking not to the daughter of a British aristocrat but to a foreigner who did not understand a word of English.

Diana was silent and stared at one point. Her eyes were red, her nose was slightly swollen, and her lips were trembling. The girl was breaking her fingers so much that Camilla was afraid she was about to dislocate them. 

Gently taking Diana's hands in hers, Mrs Parker-Bowles said just as clearly: 

“Would you like to sit down?” 

Lady Spencer looked at her with a confused look, as if she did not know what was wanted of her. Camilla took a deep breath and sat Diana down firmly, but without making any sudden movements.

“It's a new model," she smiled proudly, "we got it for our wedding anniversary. Would you like to see it?”

“To what? “Diana asked in a weak voice.

 “Do you trust me?” 

Diana shrugged her shoulders slowly and uncertainly. She was no longer aware of what was going on around her. Camilla only nodded and, leaning over the chair, pulled on some inconspicuous button. The back of the chair immediately reclined, making it look like a rocking chair. 

The girl almost screamed in surprise at first, but when she quickly realised what had happened, she smiled a little. 

Camilla did the same with her chair and, stretching her legs closer to the fire, she closed her eyes and stretched out blissfully: 

“Do you like it? My dad loves holidaying here when he visits.” 

Diana said nothing. She tried her best not to think about anything and to concentrate on the fire in the fireplace. She felt warm and comfortable. Immediately she stretched out her legs, hoping that it was not a breach of etiquette, and covered her eyes. 

Camilla looked at the girl with satisfaction and concluded that she was beginning to calm down. Of course, crying all day long over a doe was madness. To consolidate her success, the woman asked in a sympathetic manner: 

“Do you drink tea, dear?”

Diana, who was hovering in the clouds, did not hear and asked again. 

“Would you like a cup of tea? We have real Indian tea. Not unlike these fakes.”

“Don't... probably," the girl replied. She couldn't say that she only drank coffee and that tea had made her nauseous since she was a child. 

“Why not? Haven't you been hungry since this morning?”

“I don't know," was all Diana could say. Her throat was really dry. 

“Would you like some coffee? “Camilla made one last attempt at hospitality. It was only after offering it that she realised that the only coffee in the house was an old instant coffee, last drunk by the builders who were replacing the roof. And that was six months ago.

Diana smiled gratefully and replied quietly: 

“If it's not too much trouble.”

Camilla retired to the kitchen, praying that the coffee would not be spoiled. How can anyone drink coffee instead of tea? Instead of real Indian tea with spices, one had to look for cheap English coffee bought at the nearest shop. The woman certainly did not understand anything about the tastes of modern young girls. To Camilla's great relief she found a good coffee in the cupboard, which she had completely forgotten about. It seemed to have been brought here by her parents the last time they had been here. At least it was a coffee bean, not instant crap from a bag. 

Quickly filling the cups and placing them on the tray, along with biscuits and a couple of chocolates, Camilla made it no worse than an experienced waitress in a few steps from the kitchen to the living room and was even able to gracefully open the door with one hand without dropping anything. 

Diana sat on the edge of her chair with her head down. Her blond hair was falling over her face. One would have thought she had suddenly fallen asleep in that strange, uncomfortable position. Camilla put the tray on the table and tried to address the girl. The answer was silence. The woman asked something again. Silence again. Finally, the woman leaned over and gently diverted strands from Diana's face. Tears streamed down Lady Spencer's cheeks. 

She seemed perfectly still and not even her breathing became laboured. However, she was crying again. Camilla was beginning to get a little annoyed by this, though she was undeniably sympathetic to Diana, though she didn't understand why she had to cry all day over a successful hunt. 

The woman had no skill at all in comforting those who were crying. Especially those she had seen for the fifth time in her life. After all, what a vulgarity to be upset for so long. It was unseemly to throw tantrums in someone else's house. 

However, Camilla felt sorry for Diana in her own way. Clearly Lady Spencer had too weak nerves and she is just a pampered child. She would grow up and understand that she should not be such a crybaby, but she was only nineteen. Camilla tried to remember how she herself had behaved at that age, and concluded that, though her temper was stronger, she was just as silly as Diana. 

After stroking the girl on the head, Mrs Parker-Bowles returned to the kitchen. There she quickly picked up a bottle of good whisky (Andrew's favourite drink) and, summoning all her self-control, proceeded to the living room. 

Diana was still staring at one point. Her eyes went glassy and looked like the porcelain eyes of a doll. The girl trembled slightly. 

With confident movements, Camilla opened the whisky and, without saying a word, poured about fifty grams into Diana's cup and handed it to the girl. Lady Spencer almost dropped the drink on the floor. She looked questioningly at Camilla, but she only said: 

“Drink up, dear, it will help you calm down.” 

Diana sniffed incredulously, as if she thought the coffee was poisoned, and took a few sips. At the same second, she coughed and looked at the woman with wide eyes, surprised. 

“Famous Grouse," smirked Camilla, "the best Scotch whisky according to Princess Margaret and my husband.”

Diana caught her breath and giggled. She was feeling a little nauseous. It was very difficult to understand what was happening now and where it was going. Most of all Lady Spencer wished she could just be in silence and at the same time she was afraid that being alone in a moment of such weakness would kill her. She would surely do something to herself if she were left alone, and at the same time the woman's company was unbearable. Camilla tried so hard to distract her, tried so hard, while Diana, on the contrary, wanted to remember the details of the hunt as thoroughly as possible. It seemed to her that only through full awareness could she come to harmony with herself. 

It was as if Camilla understood her hesitation and said: 

“It's getting late and you're exhausted, it shows. If you like, I can show you where the guest room is. You can sleep and rest. Do you understand?”

Diana nodded. 

*** 

Camilla could not sleep. After pointing out to Diana where she could rest, and telling her that the master bedroom was not far away in case of emergency, she wanted to lie down and drift off to sleep. For the third hour, however, she tossed and turned on the bed and wondered how the girl was feeling now. What did she care about her? She was an ordinary spoiled child with a delicate soul. It was obvious that her parents had indulged her in everything, and that was why she had grown up to be such a sissy. And yet Camilla felt sorry for the girl. She looked so defenceless, so innocent, and the woman was in some way to blame for Diana's decision to shoot.

Why did she have to laugh at her? But there was nothing to be done. 

Somehow, inexplicably, pity crept into Camilla's heart. Some terrible feeling of longing consumed her every time she remembered Diana's eyes. Could it simply be a nervous breakdown? Or some devious manipulation? Perhaps. But it looked too natural. 

Finally Mrs Parker-Bowles couldn't stand it any longer and, cursing to herself, threw her dressing gown over her nightgown and proceeded to the guest room. 

To the great surprise of the landlady, Diana did not turn out the light. She was lying on the bed with her arms crossed over her chest. She had not even taken off the clothes she was wearing in the evening. As she came closer, Camilla saw that Diana's eyes were red with tears again. 

“Diana? “she called out in an unexpectedly timid voice. 

“Yes? “The girl answered quietly, lifting up on her elbows. 

“Are you awake? “Camilla asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed. 

“I felt sick. I slept for a while... But then... I....... I was dreaming.... “the girl trembled and seemed to start crying again. 

“Shh, just take it easy, OK? You're probably just cold, or you have high blood pressure from the coffee. Are you in some kind of pain?” 

The girl shook her head and grabbed her throat as if she was choking and wanted to scratch it to get some air. There was painful agony on her face. Camilla thought this was what agony might look like and was frightened. 

She touched Diana's forehead. The girl had a fever. Crimson spots appeared on her cheeks. 

“I'll get the doctor.”

“Don't! “Lady Spencer pleaded, -Don't, please, it's just... I've had it before... I....” 

The girl gasped. 

"Poor kitten," Camilla thought pitifully, thinking that everything that was happening was caused by faulty parenting. 

Taking Diana by the hand, Mrs Parker-Bowles said loudly: “Look into my eyes. Breathe deeply with me.”

She tried to say each word as clearly and slowly as possible. Diana grasped her palm and breathed obediently. There was a primal terror in the girl's eyes, as if Camilla were an ogre or a monster. However, after a few minutes the first symptoms of distress seemed to subside. She was breathing much more evenly, and slowly her spirits began to return.

Satisfied with her work, Camilla was about to let go of Diana's hand, when her gaze fell on something blue. A bruise was peeping out from under the long sleeve of the colourful jumper. She unceremoniously rolled the sleeve up and was horrified to see that Diana's right arm was covered with bruises all the way up to her elbow. 

Camilla looked questioningly at her guest. The girl blushed and tried to withdraw her hand. 

“ What.... “Mrs Parker-Bowles wanted to ask a question, but the words stuck inher throat. 

“ I beg you not to tell anyone! “Diana pleaded," I... It's...” 

“ How...” 

Camilla couldn't understand how Diana's arm could have sustained so many bruises. Had she fallen while hunting? Yes, but not on her arm. And the bruise would have been one. Could it be that someone is beating her? Her father? 

“Did you... I mean.... Did someone hit you?” Diana looked away and shook her head.

“You don't want to talk?”

“No.”

“But this could be serious. Is your dad hitting you? “

“I don't even live with him," Diana scowled. 

“Then how... I'm sorry, I just... I don't understand. This is the first time I've seen.... I'm scared for you.”

Diana looked at the woman incredulously, as if wondering whether she could be trusted. Camilla was the Prince of Wales's best friend, and telling her the truth could mean goodbye to attending events with him. In case Mrs. Parker-Bowles could not be trusted, of course. 

“You tell anyone Mrs Parker-Bowles? “Looking at Camilla questioningly, Lady Spencer asked. 

“Hell, no! And let's address each other by name. We've grown closer this day, probably even closer than we would have liked. “

Diana almost laughed, but quickly recovered herself and started uncertainly: “It's easier for me...”

“I don't understand.”

“I need to finish my thought," the girl interrupted, "it's easier for me to deal with the pain. I mean... I mean, sometimes I feel so bad and it's so hard that it's easier for me to...”

“Hit myself? “Camilla's heart dropped. Had she guessed correctly? But that couldn't be. Who would want to hit themselves? Now Diana would smile and say something more intelligible. 

But that didn't happen. Diana sighed and nodded. Her face contorted with a grimace of disgust and hatred. Camilla became frightened. Her first impulse was to run away, but leaving the girl in this condition was not an option. If she was beating herself, what else could she do to herself? 

“But why? “Mrs. Parker-Bowles asked, and immediately pulled herself back. Did she need to know that? 

“I was so scared today. I'm so... I... I killed a living thing. And I... I can't handle it. I'm in pain, and I wish I wasn't. I can't explain it.” 

“So that you wouldn't be hurt, you bruised yourself? “Camilla was completely at a loss to understand anything. 

“Something like that. It's just that my head is so messed up. I feel like I'm about to have a stroke. I keep thinking about....” 

“I understand," Camilla interrupted. She didn't want Diana to worry too much. 

“And when I... Well, when I…”

“I see.”

“I'm relieved. At least something makes sense?” 

Camilla nodded, although she understood only a small part of it. The only thing that was obvious was that the girl needed help. It seemed that she could not do it alone. 

“Do you want me to give you some ointment? To make it go faster? “the woman asked, struggling to get the words out. It was the first time she had encountered something so abnormal, so beyond her idea of how to deal with grief. 

“You don't have to. Not now.”

They were silent for a while. Then Camilla took Diana's hand in hers again and asked. 

“Do you want me to turn off the light?”

“Don't! “Diana's eyes rounded in fright.

“Why? Don't your eyes hurt?”

“I'm afraid of the dark," the girl said in a childish way.

Camilla tried with all her might not to laugh. It was so sweet and funny. 

“Don't you think you're a little old for this? “The woman giggled. Diana just pursed her lips and turned away. 

“Well, don't be offended. It doesn't suit you to frown. It'll give you wrinkles.” 

There was silence again. The woman unconsciously stroked Diana's knuckles and finally said 

“If you want to talk... I mean, if you need to talk and you're not in too much pain, I'm willing to listen.”

Diana looked at her incredulously. She thought she had already said more than she needed to. And yet the bitterness in her heart kept her going and she opened her mouth slightly and immediately bit her lip. 

“I can swear to you that I won't tell anyone anything," Camilla said quite seriously. 

“And even the prince?” 

“I hope you don't think he and I have anything else to talk about," the woman grinned. 

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Cheating is no good," was another childish saying that filled Camilla's heart with a strange tenderness for this lost yet ungrown girl. 

After a brief pause, Diana said in a tone as if she were pronouncing a court verdict: “I am a murderer.

“Who told you that?”

“I killed a living thing.”

“So what follows? This is hunting. Living things are killed here all the time. “

“It was a doe.”

“It seems that way.”

“What if she had had children? “ Diana felt herself starting to cry again. 

“We will never know. And even if we did, so what?”

“And I robbed the children of their mother. Like in Bambi. “

“What is it?”

“Cartoon.”

“I haven’t watched," Camilla admitted honestly. Her head was spinning. What children? What kind of living creatures? What cartoons? Why did Diana have so many strange ideas in her head?

“Haven't you ever been hunting?”

“No...”

“And they didn't take you hunting as a child?”

“I was taken once, but I fell off a horse and broke my arm. Then I never rode again. Camilla could barely keep from commenting that this was very much like Diana: finding adventures everywhere, but she held back.”

“Why, pray tell, did you come hunting yesterday? Did you realise that you would have to kill animals here?”

“I was invited by the Prince of Wales himself," Diana blushed slightly. Camilla almost rolled her eyes. Another fool. 

“But you could have said no.”

“Dad wouldn't let that happen. And besides, I really hoped we wouldn't kill anyone. Most hunters always come back with nothing. Everyone usually just talks and... Well, I don't know.”

“Got it.” Camilla sighed. The poor child. Why did she have to come here. 

“I can only console you by saying that no one will judge you. If you can, try to think about something else. It's not your fault. Did you aim at the doe on purpose? 

“No!" cried Diana, "No! And that's the point! I didn't mean to kill!”

“That's all! “Camilla said soothingly, "If you didn't mean to kill, it doesn't count. Pretend it was me who killed the doe, if that makes you feel better. I was mocking you, so it's almost true. Without me, you never would have taken the shot. “

“I don't want to make excuses for myself. “You're weird, you know?”

Diana only shrugged her shoulders and stared into the void again. Realising what was needed urgently to change the subject of the conversation, Camilla asked smilingly: “You like Prince Charles, don't you?”

Diana blushed and squeezed her eyes shut, as if the woman had just revealed her worst-kept secret. Camilla only laughed. 

“Well... Maybe just a little bit. I hardly know him, he's always so serious. But it's nice to be with him. “

“Pleasant? “Camilla jokingly interjected.

“Yes, when he's in a good mood. But now he's always so sad...”

Camilla laughed heartily. She thought she was going to fall to the floor laughing. Was Diana really in love with Charles? 

“How long have you been in love with him? “Camilla laughed outright. At the same time, she wanted to distract Diana from her sad thoughts. She would rather be angry with her than try to hurt herself. 

“That's enough! How can you like someone you've only seen a couple of times? 

“You mean you don't like it?”

Diana only rolled her eyes.

“I don't like anyone at all," she scowled. 

“How strict. Then why are you accepting all these invitations?”

 The girl did not answer. Deep down she knew that she was trying to deceive and Camilla, and herself. Yes, the prince was handsome, clever, noble, but she felt so stupid and so ridiculous around him that she wanted to run away and hide as soon as possible. 

“I don't know. I just don't want to let my dad down," Diane finally let out and turned dark. 

“Does your father want you to get to know the prince?”

“I don't know what he wants, but I can't refuse him. He's always fighting. And so does Raine. “

Camilla did not elaborate on who Raine was, seeing the expression on Diana's face as she spat the name out. That seemed to be her stepmother's name. 

“What do you want? “The woman suddenly asked, wondering why she would ask such a question. 

“ Well..." Lady Spencer thought deeply. She hardly ever seriously considered what she liked, because it was as if everything had already been decided for her. 

Camilla looked at Diana sympathetically. Now she reached into the girl's hair and pulled the strands away from her forehead. Lady Spencer's hair was soft and silky, and it felt very pleasant to touch. 

“I'd probably like to dance more than anything else in my life," Diana said hesitantly. 

“In the theatre?” 

“They won't take me, I'm too tall.”

“Cabaret then? “Camilla laughed. 

“For my father to disown me? No way.”

“I've never seen you dance," Mrs Parker-Bowles said absently, thinking she was saying it to herself. 

“I move terribly, like a real elephant!”

“That's not true. But well, if dancing didn't work out, what else would you want to do?” 

“I like children. I could work in a kindergarten all my life.”

Camilla did not say that an aristocrat should not spend her life wiping her children's noses, but decided to refrain from doing so. 

“Well, that's very nice. Would you be queen if the prince asked you to marry him?”

The woman was still having fun. Diana almost took offence. 

“No prince will ever propose to me, and I will never be queen!”

“What makes you so sure? “

“I'm stupid, I'm ugly, I'm not right in the head, I can't do anything on my own and generally I... I... I have... “

With these words, Diana suddenly burst into a torrent of tears. The pain she had accumulated during the day burst out. Her face twisted ugly, and her pale cheeks became bright red. 

Camilla was mortified. She had no idea that a silly, meaningless joke could upset her so much. After all, she was just trying to make fun of Diana, why take everything so seriously? 

However, she felt very sorry for the girl. She still did not understand anything of Lady Spencer's heartache, but she could see that she was very ill. 

“Hush, hush, baby, forgive me, don't cry. Who told you that?”

Camilla wiped tears from Diana's cheeks with her palms. 

“Everyone...” 

“Who is everyone? “

“And my father, and Raine, even my grandmother. Everyone demands something from me, and I always do everything wrong. “

“What are you doing wrong, little angel?”

“For example, I couldn't even pass my exams. “

“Half the population of England can't pass them in and are fine with it. I hope you're not serious. Look at you, you're such a beautiful young lady. All the doors are open in front of you. You can do whatever you want in life.”

“Of course," Diana muttered, sniffing her nose, "I'll marry some boring landlord and he'll make me do things I don't want to do.”

“You don't have to. You could marry a young nobleman if you wanted to. You have a boyfriend.”

Diana shrugged and answered shyly: “No.”

“But you had, hadn’t you?”

“Never.” 

Camilla was confused. She could not imagine not having a suitor at nineteen. 

“And why? “the woman asked, as if she was talking to herself. 

“I'm not pretty and there's absolutely nothing to talk to me about," Diana repeated and cried again. 

Mrs. Parker-Bowles, during the whole conversation, was trying to understand how she felt about the girl. She could not understand why her self-esteem was so low, why she had to beat herself up if she felt bad, why she had to take everything people said for granted. At the same time, Diana seemed so timid, so defenseless. For some strange and seemingly incomprehensible reason, she wanted to be protected and supported. Although Lady Spencer's suffering seemed largely far-fetched and frivolous to Camilla, the suffering was real, and it needed to be addressed. 

“Diana?”

“Yes? “said the girl, sobbing. 

“Can I kiss you?”

Lady Spencer nodded, sighing and clearly not understanding what she was being asked. 

Almost automatically, Camilla ran her fingers through Diana's hair. The girl opened her eyes and looked at her carefully. The woman leaned a little lower, as if trying to examine something, and carefully wiping her face from her tears, touched her lips to Diana's lips.

It was a perfectly innocent, childlike touch. Tender and fleeting. She even thought it was just a figment of her imagination. Because it was impossible. Why would Camilla need to kiss her? She was married, clearly not interested in such a relationship. Was this some kind of fantasy? Just a dream? 

Camilla blushed and cursed at herself with all her might.

"Idiot! Lousy idiot! How am I going to look her in the eye now? How am I going to explain this to her? Tell her I don't know what came over me? Or that I've been carefully hiding my feelings? What the hell are my feelings?! I don't even like her." 

Before Diana could open her mouth, Camilla ran out of the room. That night neither of them could sleep. 

*** 

At eight o'clock in the morning, Diana walked uncertainly down to the living room. The house seemed deserted. She even began to think she was a ghost. 

At last there was a clattering of dishes and a strange crackling sound from the kitchen. Calmly, the girl took a deep breath as if she wanted to dive into deep water and, knocking, opened the door timidly. 

To her surprise, Mrs Parker-Bowles greeted her with a kindly smile and offered to have breakfast with her. However, the woman's hands were shaking slightly and there were small knife cuts visible on them. Diana obediently sat down and tried to concentrate all her attention on the oatmeal and omelette, though she knew it was useless. She could feel her face and ears burning and her teeth chattering. Camilla couldn't help but see it. Although the woman herself was not in the best of health. Even Mrs Parker-Bowles' neck had turned white. She tried to convince herself that there was nothing wrong, that it was an accident, a small mistake, but it was getting harder and harder. 

"I don't love her. It's obvious. She doesn't love me. It's even more obvious, because she hardly knows me. It was an accident. And even if it wasn't? The usual friendly goodbye. But we are not friends. And we will never be friends. What a fool I am!" “Camilla thought, twirling the teaspoon in her hands. 

Finally Mrs Parker-Bowles could not stand the silence and broke it. 

“Forgive me.”

“I don't understand..." Diana began, but was struck down by the woman's gaze. 

“You understand perfectly well, stop pretending.” 

“I... I have nothing to forgive you for, Mrs. Parker-Bowles," Diana said feelingly. 

“Of course you are. Of course," Camilla muttered, raising an eyebrow questioningly, "and I thought I told you to call me by my first name.”

“I thought I was only allowed to do that yesterday.”

“You thought wrong.”

They were silent again. 

“I was very pleased. I mean such concern. It's the first time I've seen that," Diana began, but Camilla interrupted her at once. 

“It's obvious you've never seen real care in your life.” 

“Maybe," Lady Spencer sighed, "and still, thank you! That's more than anyone has ever done for me.”

“How unlucky for you. Ease my suffering.”

 “What?”

“Answer  a question: have you kissed anyone yet? “Camilla blushed slightly. Deep in her heart she hoped that Diana would say that she had kissed a boy and that it had been a long time ago. Maybe that would make the woman feel better? But the girl answered simply: 

“No, never.”

“Why is that? “Mrs. Parker-Bowles asked muffled, turning to herself. 

“All boys are so stupid. I don't understand them at all. They're always talking about such nonsense and they want to kiss all the time. It really scares me," Diana admitted honestly. 

It was all so innocent that Camilla's heart clenched involuntarily. The girl was either a saint or a madwoman. How could she get to nineteen without kissing someone? 

“Why aren't you afraid now?”

“Because it feels really good.”

Mrs Parker-Bowles had absolutely no idea what to reply to this. 

“Well, now you and I both know a terrible secret about each other. I suggest we promise to take them to the grave with us and be good friends. I'm sorry for my behaviour. I don't know what came over me.”

Diana wanted more than anything to say that there was nothing to forgive, and that there was nothing shameful or wrong about it. After all, all girls kiss on the cheek all the time. However, she herself was aware of how lame that would sound. Diana felt that it was much more complicated and deeper than that. Camilla was hardly in love with her, after all they were not in some kind of love affair. But she liked her, or at least was sympathetic to her. Although there could be no reason for that. She is stupid, ugly, crying all the time. 

Camilla, on the other hand, was thinking about how to get the smell of Diana's perfume and the thought of her soft lips out of her head. 

"And the mother of two children is doing it. It's just a molestation.”

“Have you been told that you are a very kind person? “Camilla asked. 

“Sometimes they say. “

“Only a kind person could care so much about an animal. I'm sorry if I offended you yesterday. I didn't mean to.”

“I'm not offended!” 

“We'll have to go back. They're probably expecting us back by now. Tell them you're not feeling well. Stephen will take you to London.”

Diana wanted to get a word in, but she couldn't. 

“Your clothes are in the bathroom. If, in case...”

“Wait!" the girl exclaimed.

“Yes?” 

“I should say thank you.” 

With these words, she moved closer to Camilla and hugged her tightly. 

Such a display of affection was unexpected for a woman. No one in her circle had ever been so vulgar. Though she could hardly speak of vulgarity or propriety now. Giving in to her desire, Camilla gently nudged the girl around the waist. 

“Do you have my phone number? “the woman asked.

“No.”

“Write it down. Be sure to call me when you get home. Okay?”

 “Yeah. Maybe I should give you my number.”

“Of course. 

After exchanging phone numbers and completing their preparations, they quickly jumped into the car and drove back to Highgrove at full speed. 

*** 

Prince Charles was in a state of distress. Not only had Camilla gone home, leaving him alone, but she hadn't even picked up the phone. Of course, there were many guests and that alone would have distracted anyone from their gloomy thoughts, but Charles ate poorly, took no part in the conversation and only perked up when he saw Camilla's car from the dining-room windows and then her herself. 

He was as excited as a child and almost rushed to greet her, but he remembered that they were not alone. And indeed, the guests looked curiously at Camilla and Diana as they entered the dining room. The woman took a seat between the two ladies and, apologizing for being late, instantly joined in with some talk about horse racing. She did it so quickly and naturally, as if she had only been away for five minutes. 

Diana, on the other hand, was nestled in front of Camilla next to Sir Hugh, who immediately kissed her hand and called her the best hunter in the county. The girl began to feel queasy again. The pain that had set her back felt like a huge wave that clutched at her heart. Her throat tingled unpleasantly. When Sir Hugh began to bemoan the fact that Diana had not tasted the venison she had provided for the court, Lady Spencer felt a tear run down her cheek. 

“I tell you, my dear, they are all mad," her neighbour whispered to Camilla, "and her mother was just the same. You'll see, she'll show you what she's capable of. Look, she's crying again. Who in their right mind would...” 

“Shut up," Camilla muttered, looking at Diana and wondering what had happened to her again. 

“Excuse me? “the lady marvelled. 

“You don't understand anything.” 

“Do you mean to say that you understand at least something?”

More than anything, Camilla wanted to be rude and then have a smoke. But she couldn't spoil Charles's welcome, so she pretended that nothing had just happened, putting as much serenity on her face as she could. But she still looked at Diana and wondered how she could put her out of her misery. 

Finally everyone stood up and Diana, after apologising to Prince Charles no fewer than three times in a row, went outside with a small brown suitcase in her hands. Camilla followed as discreetly as possible. 

“Will you call? “the woman asked. 

“Yes.”

“You're upset again.”

“It's not even a question.”

“I'm not asking, I'm asserting.” 

“Not much at all.” 

“It's not your fault.” 

“Yes.”

“Do you understand that?” 

“I guess...” 

“No one here understands anything. “

“Then we're great company," Diana grinned, "I haven't understood anything for a long time.”

“Yes," the woman said. 

Diana turned around one last time and waved a little goodbye to Camilla. The woman smiled and saluted with an invisible hat. The smile disappeared from Mrs. Parker”Bowles' face only when the car finally disappeared from view. 

*** 

For Camilla, the next week was nothing short of a feverish delirium. She was dizzy, constantly wondering if Diana was hurting herself while she was living in London, and she couldn't even speak to anyone properly. The only exception was the children who had returned from their grandparents, but even playing with them she wondered how Diana felt. 

What at first seemed to her to be some kind of obsession grew into an obsession. So when she picked up the phone on Friday night and heard the girl's voice, she thought it was just a dream or a hallucination.

“Do you hear me? “shouted Diana. 

“Yes..." said Camilla, asking herself whether it was true or not. 

“I've already said hello to you five times.” 

“Is that so? Then hello, hello, bonjour, buenos días... Ah, shit, I can't think of a fifth.” 

“You're funny," chuckled Diana, "and can you answer in all these languages if you're busy on Sunday?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

“Would you like to meet?” 

“What makes you think I'm going to London, leaving everything behind? “

Diana was surprised to hear Camilla's sneer. 

“No, I don't think so, it's just... OK, sorry, bye”. 

“Wait!" the woman snapped, trying to hide her emotions. 

“Yes?” 

“You can count yourself lucky. My sister and I are going to London on Sunday. I can stay until Tuesday. Will that suit you?” 

“Of course! Don't you want to go to Hyde Park? We could go for a boat ride.” 

"What cheap romantic nonsense," thought Camilla, rubbing her temples. What kind of boats were there at her age? Even at nineteen, she'd never been on one with anyone, because she thought the pastime smacked too much of tabloid romance. But then again, it wouldn't do her any harm. Besides, it was worth seeing if boating was so disgusting. 

“Okay. Where shall we meet? “she said at last.

 *** 

It was a fine Sunday rain and Hyde Park was much less crowded than usual. Diana, smiling modestly, held Camilla's hand, and the woman looked around now and then, afraid that someone she knew might recognize her. Suddenly she intercepted the girl's arm in one motion and rolled up her sleeve. The skin was clean and smooth. No sign of a beating. 

“Do you really think I'm going to beat myself up? “Diana asked reproachfully. 

“I don't know about that. I was just worried," Camilla blurted out and immediately regretted it. 

“So you were worried," Lady Spencer said in a low voice. 

“Just a little bit.”

“Camilla?”

“Yes?”

Their gazes met and, pulling a strand of thick hair away from Mrs Parker-Bowles' forehead, Diana asked: 

“Can I kiss you?” 

[feralrunaway]

Yrsa

Summary: A supernatural AU from this prompt: “Berserker Captain Syverson, and ‘I want to hear you beg for it’.” from @mrsaugustwalker’s Great Writing Challenge.

Pairing: Berserker!Sy x fem!reader

Word Count: 6k+

Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, wild historical inaccuracies, mentions of slavery, SMUT, soulmates, primal sex, rough sex, oral sex, claiming/mating (consensual), dominant male, virgin reader, unprotected sex, bodily fluids, there’s probably more, just like…this fic is 18+, okay?

A/N: Okay so this prompt was originally meant to be just a quick, smutty “Hell yeah, Viking warrior Sy!” thing but noooo, I went completely off the rails with this so I’m just going to apologize in advance.  I started writing this intending an inclusive second person perspective, but I did end up including some things that will not resonate with all. This is nothing like what I usually write, PLEASE heed the warnings.  So, without further ado…let’s get weird.

———————

 “I want to hear you beg for it.”

The man leered at you, the stench of his rotten teeth reaching you even through the bars of the makeshift prison fitted to the back of the slaver’s wagon.  He cackled at your deep glare, holding the small tray of hard bread and day-old vegetables just out of reach.  

“Got us another stubborn one.  Don’t worry, pretty girl.  You’ll come around soon enough, yeah? They always get hungry eventually.” He pawed at your ankle through the bars and you growled, kicking out at him but narrowly missing, and he cackled again.  “Give it time, little bear.  You’ll be begging for me to come back soon enough.”

You bared your teeth at him as he left, stubbornly refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing you beg.  You would rather starve to death than bend to the will of your captors.

“So feisty still. Don’t worry, yrsa.  They will tire of the taunting when you give them less sport.”

You looked to the woman on your left.  Likely a great beauty under normal circumstances, her long thick braids were slightly disheveled, her fine blue shift covered in smears of dirt indicating she had put up a fair few struggles herself before adopting the bored expression she now held.  She gave off an air of strength, even in the cramped, miserable quarters of the cage. Fierce features and a regal air made you desire to lean into her strength, however feigned, but you resisted.

You huffed and threw yourself back against the bars before drawing your arms around yourself.  The late autumn chill was seeping in now that the sun had gone down and you spared a brief glance at the fire the slavers were huddled around.  You would not be jealous.  

“And how is it you ended up in this mess?  You look as if you could walk away whenever you choose,” you grouse.

She spared you half of a sardonic smile and lifted the hem of her dress enough to reveal heavy manacles latched to both her ankles and secured to a bolt below her feet.  

“They learned quickly. Stuck here for the time. Besides, if…when I get out of here, my brother will have my head for letting my axe out of my sight long enough for these brutes and brigands to get their hands on me.”

You sniffed, feeling a bit chastised for your annoyance toward the woman.  

“What about you, Little Bear?” she prompted with a smirk, looking over your attire, “You’re obviously not from here.  Did your father owe someone too much money?”

You huffed again.  “My father died when I was a baby.  My mother too.  I was taken quite far away and raised by my aunt. I was venturing into your lovely lands to find out if I had more family or any history here. Much to my current despair,” you finished, rolling your eyes.  

The two of you sat in tense silence for moments, soaking in your venomous wrath toward the men who had taken you by surprise at the last village you had stopped at for the night. Brigands, both local and foreign to these cold Northern lands.  The bottom of the barrel, operating solely out of greed for what they could profit on when pulling lone humans from their beds at each place they passed by. Violence and chaos left in their wake.

“Do you have any idea where they are taking us?” you prompted when the silence grew too heavy.

“South most likely, toward Hedeby.  There is a trading settlement there.  We won’t make it that far,” she expressed with a surety you envied.  

  ---------------

Asbjørn Syversson stood before the forest’s edge, observing the small caravan. For the last seven days the Berserkir warriors had tracked the thieves, the last three of which they had kept them in their sights.  Three days of concealment among the trees, observing their soon-to-be prey.  Three days to delve into the rituals so vital to communion with the bear spirit within.  To prepare for battle.

The brigands had stolen the king’s sister from the village she had been visiting.  The idiots had no idea who they had among them, the danger they had placed themselves in.  The king had called upon his Berserkirs to retrieve her and punish the men.  They had no idea the hell that was about to rain down upon them.

Syversson shifted on his feet, suppressing the straining beast within.  Something was different about this hunt.  Something that scratched at his skin, woke his senses. A…scent in the air, one that got stronger as they narrowed the gap to the traveling party.  

His men, sensing his tension, rose to their feet behind him, readying themselves to allow the bear spirit free reign of their bodies.

“It is time.”

 ------------------

“There, now you look like a proper Northwoman,” your companion laughed as she finished braiding your hair.  You had learned her name was Bodil.  She had quickly found that maintaining conversation was a fine way to distract you from your anger long enough to convince you to eat.

“Mm.  Just in time to be sold like livestock.  We seem to be getting closer to our destination,” you remarked glumly.  “I’m sorry your hope of a rescue did not come true.”

Bodil chuckled.  “Oh hardly, my sweet friend. They’ve been tracking us for days.  I’m surprised you had not noticed them yourself.”

“I am no tracker.  How was I to have noticed?” you replied, a sudden bloom of hope erupting in your chest.

She hummed in reply, avoiding answering.

Your eyes skimmed the perimeter of the camp as the brigands prepared their evening fires.  You saw nothing out of the ordinary.  Perhaps Bodil was just being hopeful, imagining a rescue that would never come.  Or perhaps she was telling you such things to ease the worry in your heart until you reached the trading settlement.

“Rest now,” she said, obviously sensing your doubt, “They will come soon.”

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

You jolted awake to the sound of a deafening roar.

Disoriented, you cowered to the corner of the pen, trembling.  

“Do not hide girl,” Bodil said.  She turned to you, grinning like a madwoman, her eyes alight and fierce. “You will not want to miss this.”

You crept forward slowly and looked out between the bars.  The camp was in disarray, men tearing themselves from their sleeping rolls to gather weapons, their countenances dripping with fear.

Another fierce roar vibrated across the land, and this time through your chest, down your spine, and down even to your toes.  Your heart pounded.  Your hands gripped the bars and you pressed forward to see.  When your eyes fell upon the source of the brigands’ fear, your mouth went dry.

Perhaps ten men (if you could call them that, for they were the largest men you had ever seen) approached the camp at a swift pace.  They wore no shirts, not a stitch of armor amongst them. They were bare from the waist up save for the skin of a bear draped across their shoulders, some with the pelt covering their own scalp and the face of a bear hanging over their foreheads.  Every one of them thick with muscle and their eyes completely feral.  These were more animal than man.

“What are they?” You asked, hating the tremble in your voice.

“Berserkirs.  My brother’s prized warriors.  Our most fearsome defenders.  The spirit of a bear resides inside each of them.  Part man, part beast.  And very entertaining, if you understand me,” Bodil’s eyes were alight with both humor and fervor.  This woman must be insane, you thought.

Their leader charging in the front of the group let out one more deafening roar, his almost-fangs on full display, the corded muscle in his neck pulsing beneath a thick tangle of beard. The sound rang through you again, causing every nerve of your body to leap to awareness.  Then they descended upon the camp.  

Axes and swords swung high, arcs of blood following in their wake.  Some did not even bother with weapons, tearing into their foes with their bare hands.  Men…well, parts of what used to be men…were thrown to and fro in their battle fury. An errant arm smacked against the bars of the cage that separated you and Bodil from the fray, before landing in the mud with a thump.  You yipped in surprise, falling back onto your rump.  The sound drew the attention of the man nearest you, their leader. His inhuman eyes locked onto your face momentarily, sending a jolt of lightening through your senses, before he tore his gaze away and back to the slaughter.  

You turned toward Bodil to see she was still smiling, battle-lust strong in her eyes.  Her fingers moving of their own accord as though she wished she was participating as well.  Not that she would have had much to do, as the battle was quite brief, and soon you found yourself staring over a campsite of slain men.  The Berserkirs stood breathing heavily amongst the bodies, each one of them covered in a spray of blood.  

Their leader locked eyes with you again before moving closer.  You felt rooted in place, your chest heaving.  

“Asbjørn, son of Syver. Leader of my brother’s warriors,” Bodil identified as he placed his hands on the bars.  He seemed not to notice the introduction, eyes roaming over you. He sniffed the air slowly.  He may have been the most beautiful, most terrifying man you had ever laid eyes upon.  His bare chest was covered in thick curls of hair that trailed down his stomach and below the waist of his pants.  Your view felt locked upon him, drawn to his handsome features.  As your eyes trailed back up to his face, he cocked his head to the side slightly as though in question.  Suddenly the muscles in his chest and arms bunched, and the bars were torn away with a resounding crack that jolted you to your core.  

“Yrsa,” his deep, gravelly voice caused an involuntary shiver to run down your spine.

“What does that mean?” You asked, unable to take your eyes off the formidable creature devouring you with his gaze.  You felt a heat blooming in your lower belly the longer he stood there, drinking you in.

“She-bear.  His spirit recognizes yours, I gather.  Have fun with that one, my little friend,” Bodil grinned wickedly as another of the men came over and hacked open the chain of her manacles with an axe and she leapt from the makeshift cage.  

“B-but Bodil! Wait!” you tried, but she was already walking off, pausing only to pull an abandoned axe from the chest of a slain man and jauntily following the men who were now stripping the camp of any valuables and making their way back to the woods.

You had no option but to turn your attention back to the very intense, very intimidating stare of the warrior blocking your own exit from the carriage.  Had this been a rescue only meant for one?  It only occurred to you in that moment that you were still a stranger here.  One who had been meant to be sold as property.  Would these men have a similar intention?  Perhaps you were quite stupid in that moment, but the thought made you angry, so you returned the intensity of his stare with a low growl in his direction.

To your complete and utter bemusement, it drew a slight smile from the man.  He reached out toward you and you flinched back, earning a sharp look from him.  But instead of his hand harming you, he simply ran one of your braids over his open palm in a seemingly reverent gesture. He then leaned in closer, his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathed in your scent.  He hummed low in his throat, causing you to clench involuntarily.

It was then you lost all your senses.  You dove under his arm out of the carriage and rolled through the mud to your feet, taking off at a sprint.  To where, you had no idea.  You likely had no hope of outrunning the man or his party, no idea why you even were. It’s not like he had harmed you, quite the opposite in fact.  But the loss of control over your own reactions in combination with the brutality of the battle you had just seen take place had your primal instincts running high, so your only thought was to flee.

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

Syversson watched you scamper away like a frightened rabbit.  He tamped down his instinctual urge to give chase.  You wouldn’t get far in these unfamiliar woods.  

He walked back to the woods to the camp where Bodil and his men waited, using the time to wrestle his own bear-spirit back into submission.  He’d never felt anything remotely similar to the feeling that had clawed through his body when he laid eyes on you.  Raw, fierce, visceral desire.  Not just of the flesh, but an impassioned, soul-deep hunger had overtaken him.  He needed to know you.  Taste you.  Feel your aromatic, soft skin under his fingers.  But more than anything, he desired to mark you.  In every way possible.  To dominate and make you unquestionably his.

Tense, he crossed the final distance into the woods to where his men would camp for the night.  Several pairs of half-golden eyes trained themselves to him as he approached, fading back into their normal hues as the men’s own spirits returned to the forefront of their consciousness.  

“Return the shield-maiden to her brother.  I will join you in the great hall in one week’s time,” was all he managed to grit out, before turning to gather his own sparse belongings and setting off in the direction you had run, Bodil’s knowing laughter fading into the forest at his back.  

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

So stupid.  Absolutely idiotic.  You had made a mistake.

You had always had a fondness for the forest back home.  You spent inordinate amounts of time trekking and exploring the trees near your aunt’s village.  You had thought you would be fine on your own.  How wrong you were.  

These Northern woods were thick, unfamiliar, and disorienting.  And so cold.  You had wandered for nearly a day and a half and not found your way out.  Completely lost and frightened, you sat down on the trunk of an overturned tree to soak in your own despair for a while.  Fuck.  You shivered, your kirtle was half soaked with frozen mud.  You needed to find shelter or build a fire before the sun set or you would freeze in your sleep.  You needed food.  And you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching you.  Giving yourself a mental shake, you stood and made to trek on.  

An hour later you found yourself standing at the mouth of a cave, the darkness inside both intimidating and inviting.  You wanted desperately to shelter inside and begin building a fire with the wood you had gathered.  You crept inside the mouth of the cave, moving slowly.  Once inside, you placed down the wood and set to work stacking it and preparing the fire, your unease drifting away as you worked.  Relief hit you as the first small flames began licking up the stack of wood and you held your hands toward it to warm them as you knelt on the stone ground.  

Within minutes your frozen fingers had thawed and you began wondering whether it was worth the effort to find food to gather as darkness began to fall outside.  Perhaps you should sleep and worry about finding food in the morning light.  You raised your head to assess the best place to lay yourself near the fire, and found yourself staring right into a reflective pair of eyes.

You gasped and fell back, scrambling away from the large grey wolf staring at you from across the fire.  It began moving closer to you, its lips pulling away from its teeth as it paced slowly in your direction.  You racked your mind, desperate to think of a way out of this situation as the animal drew nearer.  Was this it?  Rescued from slavers only to be eaten alive by an angry denizen of the forest?  Your fear of the Berserkirs seemed ridiculous to you now.  What you wouldn’t give to have that feral strength present in this moment.

You tried to slowly scoot yourself closer to the fire.  If you could just grab hold of one of the flaming logs, perhaps you could scare the wolf away.  At a snail’s pace, you crept your arm along the stone ground, reaching, leaning. Your fingers finally closed around the base of one of the torches and you tugged it lightly toward yourself. Weapon in hand now, you pulled yourself back just as slowly, desperate not to attract the wrath of the creature in front of you with any sudden movements.  

But just as you brought it near, your plan was foiled as the stacked wood from the fire collapsed, popping and crackling as it sent a plume of embers flying toward both yourself and your adversary.  The wolf, agitated and emboldened by the sudden commotion, launched itself at you. Its jaws agape, the mass of fur and claws signaled your bitter, sad end.  There was nothing left for you to do but scream your last rebellious cry at the world as you swung the torch toward your own doom.  

But you never made contact.

A roar reverberated through the stone walls of the cave, and something much larger and more furious made impact with the creature, throwing both itself and the wolf past the burning mess that was your fire.  Two bodies made impact against the stone, growling, tumbling.  Yips and roars of pain could be heard as your eyes made out the color of a man’s flesh tangled against the grey fur of the wolf and the deep, sanguine rivulets of fresh blood.

Syversson.

You watched, frozen, as the absolute beast of a man tore into his adversary.  A battle between two animals took place before your eyes, fear and pity warring in your heart for both combatants.  Another pained yip tore through the air and the wolf was thrown from the man.  Clearly taking it as a signal to its defeat, the animal began a limping run toward the mouth of the cave.  The man shot to his feet, clearly intending to give chase, but you had seen too much. You shot up to intercept him, and pressed both hands against his chest.  

“No!  Please, no.  It’s gone. Please.”

You were sure that he could easily knock you aside, but not much could be said in favor of your sense of self-preservation lately anyway.  But to your surprise, he halted.  His near-golden eyes slowly swiveled to your face, then down to where your palms lay firmly against his sculpted chest.  His massive ribcage expanded with a deep breath, which he expelled as a firm chuff in your direction, clearly intending to signal his displeasure. Your knees weakened considerably at the action, but you stood as firm as you could, setting your jaw and glaring into his eyes.  

His eyebrows drew together as he observed your actions, his muscles dancing tense underneath your hands. It was obvious he was fighting for control over the beast inside himself.  A low growl rumbled from deep within his chest, making your toes curl against the rough stone floor.  Your now trembling fingers pressed more firmly against him in an attempt to guide him back.

“You’re hurt, please.  Let me help you.”

His eyes traveled to where yours indicated, a deep gash across his shoulder that now sluggishly leaked blood. Your tone was clearly soothing enough for the large man, because he relented, allowing you to push him back toward the rough walls.  Guiding him to sit, you quickly tore and gathered what clean cloth you could from your underdress, the over being still covered in now-dried but only slightly less frozen mud from your journey.  You carefully wrapped the cloth around the wound and up under the pit of his arm before tying it off.  You prayed to the gods you would be able to find clean water soon to wash it, but this would do for now.  He never once winced with your ministrations, just monitored your face continuously with those eyes that were slowly fading from gold to a striking blue.

“Are you…are you human again now?”

He chuckled at that.  “Yrsa, I will never be fully human.  But my bear spirit has settled for the time, if that is what you mean.”

“Why did you follow me?” you asked, “Do you mean to sell me like those men did?”

A fierce anger overtook his features at that.  

“Sell you?! Never! I followed you because you are mine.  Your spirit calls to mine, do you not feel it?”

You felt something, sure. But what was he talking about? Whatever you felt was surely just part of all the fear and exhaustion and bafflement at the entire situation you had found yourself in.  “Y-yours?  I don’t understand.”

“My mate.”

“Your…what? I don’t know what you mean,” you found yourself intrigued, but instincts had you moving back from him.  You wouldn’t run this time, no.  He had proven to be no harm to you, but you also weren’t sure what this mate business was all about and you weren’t sure what his intentions toward you were because of it.

“Perhaps it would be better if I showed you,” he said with a smirk, unfurling his legs and leaning forward toward you.  He was an imposing man, all muscle and fur and gleaming teeth.  Your breath quickened as he towered over your sitting form, moving closer until he hovered right above you.  He sniffed at your hair, your neck, causing shivers to run the length of your body.  You found yourself overwhelmed and unable to concentrate on anything but his own musky scent; earth, salt, and the coppery tang of blood lingered around him. Something primal within you reacted to it, causing you to inhale another deep lungful as your core clenched and you pressed your thighs together.  His arm reached out, and you unconsciously braced for whatever he was about to do to you.

He grasped one of the logs from the fire and smirked at you again, then set himself to rebuilding the mess that had become of your makeshift camp.  You watched, confused.

“You’re mine.  Your soul was meant for mine.  And mine for yours.  I do intend to show you that, in many, many pleasurable ways.  But most importantly, I will take care of you.” He gathered the furs you had seen him don previously and arranged them by the fire.  “Come.”

You stared, unmoving.

“It is cold.  You are shivering.  Come.”

Your mouth gaped slightly.  

“I-“

“Come.”

Your body drew you to him, unbidden by your own will.  As though some soul-deep part of you begged to obey his command.  You lay yourself down, stiffly at first, though you relaxed as you drew closer to the warmth of the fire and furs.  Feeling nearly delirious as your own body and desire betrayed your stubbornness.  Perhaps this is how it ends, a small part of your psyche whispered.  Perhaps this is how it begins, whispered another.

“Yes, yrsa.  You are safe now.  Lay with me,” he whispered in your ear as he enveloped you in his large frame and drew the furs around you both.

And oh if his skin wasn’t deliciously heated against your own, which up until that point you had subconsciously feared would never be fully warm again.  Fine tremors wracked their way up your spine as you allowed yourself to relax into the feeling of him pressed up against you.  His massive, muscled arm came around you, the pressure just enough to make you feel tender and encapsulated without feeling trapped.

The sound that rumbled from his chest as he felt you relax against him was both delicious and foreign at once. The deep, guttural hum seeped into your muscles and bones like the drum of a war march and the tranquility of a summer rain simultaneously.  Could you reach euphoria from a single sound?  

 Your eyelids sunk heavily as your pupils reached a zenith.  A final shudder listed lazily through your being as you were drawn deeply into unconsciousness, feeling wholly, irrationally, for the first time since you were a child, that you were well and truly cared for.

_____________

It wasn’t until the dead of the night, when the fire had burnt itself down to embers, that you awoke.  

You weren’t sure of the cause at first, until that blissful hum penetrated into your half-lucid mind. The son of Syver remained stationed in a protective cocoon around your frame, though he stirred now, the movements of his deep breaths pressing him against you.  As if he sensed your return to the world of the living, he nuzzled against your hair. No words needed spoken as you cued into the change in him.

Heat,

weight,

…need.

Any slight movements of your body caused you to press against that ardent need.  The errant desire that pulsed through you at the realization caused your head to lull back against the firm wall of his chest, a low moan escaping your lips.  That was all the encouragement he needed.

His large hands began to roam your body, causing all concerns to flutter away like petals of spring flowers blown in a heavy wind.  You were suddenly devoid of all but a certain theme of awareness, drugged by the touch and vocalizations of a near-stranger.  One who was no stranger at all, you knew deep down, for you were aware of who he was, regardless of any stubborn desire to rationalize.

You sensed the tension in him. The rapturous fury held leashed. The strength with which he held himself at bay did nothing but add to the heated desire building within you. This was part of you, you realized. A deeply dormant, visceral need contained in your soul which you had only just realized.

“Please.”

A needy whisper.

He groaned, muscles tremoring.

“Are you sure, yrsa? For I will not hold back once I have started.”

His proclamation was emphasized by a firm grip of your fleshy thigh, the painful pressure causing you to gasp.  

“I have no desire to be gentle with you.”

You moaned again.  “Please!” came your desperate, breathless consent.

He growled his approval against the skin of your neck as you were roughly rolled to your back.

His tongue darted out from between his thick, plush lips as it traced your collarbone.  You arched upward toward his hungry form, pressing your chest against his as his body drew over yours.  

“Your scent…your taste. It’s intoxicating,” he rumbled as his mouth further explored your skin.  He moved up, capturing your mouth with his. He was not a gentle man.  It was an almost furious kiss, stealing the breath from your lungs as his tongue pressed between your lips and began to battle your own for dominance.  His heavy frame pressed into you with the most delicious weight, settled between your legs as he rendered you nearly thoughtless with his mouth upon yours. He pulled back, his chest heaving, and you nearly followed his mouth in desperation for more.  “I must taste more of you,” he rasped harshly.

Rough fingers tore asunder the top of your shift, your small noise of protest only seeming to encourage him further as he greedily palmed your breasts.  Each of your nipples was laved in turn, sucked into the warmth of his mouth, causing your body to undulate against his as a torrent of sensations flowed through your form and straight to your core.  The urgency emanating from him did not allow him to stop there though.

His tongue and lips danced down your body, his beard tracing a burning trail along your skin, setting alight parts of you that you hadn’t even been aware could burn.  You were desperately near begging when he finally pushed your skirts up, his eyes drinking in the sight before him.

“So. Beautiful.”

His words alone were enough to send a river of arousal dripping from you, but the awe present on his rough, handsome features nearly threw you over the edge before he had even touched you. Never had you thought your body was capable of such desire and need.  A small whine escaped from you, causing his attention to finally snap to its target. As he lowered his face to your apex, you instinctually pressed up toward him.  The hum of approval that fell from his lips as they met your wet heat vibrated through you and nearly made you delirious.  His hands gripped at your thighs, the painful pressure only adding to your euphoria as his tongue pressed against you, lapping at your sweet folds rhythmically, firmly. It felt as though he were sending waves of pleasure through you, building to larger and larger cascades until they crested over an unyielding shore.  You had never felt anything of the sort, and were nearly blinded as the pressure building within you snapped and you cried out in bliss, shuddering against him, though his hands held your hips firmly in place.

He rose back over you, one arm holding his weight from crushing you, the other reaching a hand to wipe his beard.

“You are…the most delicious, most amazing woman I have ever tasted.”

You had no words to offer in return as you fought to catch your breath.  You stared up into his eyes as they devoured your countenance.  The beautiful azure was slowly being tinged by gold.  You watched in absolute awe as the stain wandered across his vision, not fully, but enough to tell you he was being consumed by instinct.  The sight shook you to your very essence, and your legs spread unconsciously as your desire built again.  His low growl signaled to you that his desire was just as strong, reverberating through your bones, sinews, and to your very core.  His lack of movement told you that he was still containing himself.  Waiting for your permission.

He had it.  He had that and more.   Whatever this was between you, you wanted to let him in, to let him own every inch of you.  You reached up and began unlacing his breeches, his impressive length pressing taut against the leather.  As you pushed the fabric open and down, over his hips, he shuddered, muscles bunching in his arms and chest as he fought his own instincts long enough to let you lead this small part of your impending union.

His revealed anatomy astounded you, your lips parting slightly in awe.  It was somehow the most beautiful and frightening thing you had ever laid eyes upon.  His heartbeat thundered visibly, apparent in the pulsing veins that wove thick and proud around his girth.  You reached out and lightly, hesitantly traced a finger along one.  His growl deepened significantly, pleasure and frustration spilling out of him in the waves of sound.  You looked to his eyes, pupils lust-blown and dark amongst the blue and gold of his irises.  One moment suspended in time as your eyes met.  There it was.  That mystery that linked your two souls.  Your mutual desire, care, and need hung like a tether between the two of you, stretched taut.  He saw the change in you as you recognized it, and with that, he moved.

Lining himself up with your entrance, he pushed his hips forward slowly.  The intrusion was vast against your untrained walls.  The stretch, despite his preparation, was both painful and pleasurable and you keened as he pressed into you, inch by deliciously torturous inch, tearing asunder your resistance.  Your fingers clawed for purchase against his chest as he bottomed out within you, his moan of pleasure furthering your descent into a near-feral woman.  He allowed you a mere moment to adjust before the dam of his control finally broke, and he drew back and began to thrust into you in earnest.  

You cried out as his pelvis rocked against yours, his length jutting into your core, his ridges burning friction against your soft walls.  The painful pleasure of his rigid lust consumed you, ate up your thoughts until you were nothing but a being of pure, animalistic sensation.  His face pressed against your neck, lips giving way to teeth as he marked your body as his.  His rutting form enveloped you, skin pressing against skin, the coarse hairs of his chest creating further friction against your exposed breasts and nipples.  As you cried out again, he pulled out completely.

His strong, calloused hands moved to your hips, flipping your body with ease onto all fours, and he slammed back into you without hesitation.   You barely held yourself up as your body tremored all over.  One of his arms snaked around your middle, holding you in position, as his other hand drew a possessive line down your back.  This was it.  This beast of a man would own you completely.  Mesh his own soul with yours.  And you wanted it so badly you ached.

His hips hit hard against you as his thrusts became impossibly stronger.  The punishing rhythm he set made you feel as though you were being torn apart and put back together anew.  His hand tangled in your hair, dragging you by a fistful up against his chest. He pressed his lips to your ear, his ragged breaths skimming pure bliss across your skin, causing your eyes to roll back behind closed lids.  

“You are mine.”

His grunted proclamation built the burning intensity in your womb to a blazing inferno.  Set fire to your soul.  You doubted any other words could ever cause such passion to flame within you. But as his next words left his lips, you learned otherwise.

“I.”

His thrusts grew erratic. You felt him swell within you.  

“Am.”

Your walls clutched him. The head of his cock slammed against your cervix.

“Yours.”

You fell apart.  Fell to pieces.  Your vision went white with ecstasy as you shuddered around him and screamed out your bliss.

His accompanying roar tore you asunder.  He set his teeth into your neck as he came with a final slam of his cock into your abused hole.  You could feel his hot seed spilling against your battered walls, soothing the delicious ache.  Your trembling legs gave out below you and he eased you down to the fur-covered ground, collapsing beside you after he softened and pulled from you.  You could feel his warm fluids dripping out of you and you shivered.

Syversson pulled you to him, turning you to rest your head against his heaving chest.  His hand dipped down between your tremoring thighs and he ran his fingers through your gathered essence.  A sigh escaped you as he touched you.  Pulling his hand back up, he pressed his fingers against your lips, nudging them open.  You laved your tongue around and between them, gathering every drop you could, sucking them clean.  His softening manhood twitched at your actions and he groaned, pulling you up to kiss you.  Your tongues danced around the taste of each other’s pleasure.

When he pulled away, you lay your head back down on him.  

“Rest again now, yrsa. Tomorrow we begin the journey back to the great hall.”

His deep breaths had almost instantly soothed you into a near-slumber, but you had at least the energy to ask.

“And what will become of me when we get there?”

He closed his own eyes and smiled.

“We will go before the king, and I will make you my wife.”

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A million hugs and smooches to @thelastsock for betaing this for me.

(Dec 11, 2020)

[djarinsbeskar]

PREQUEL ARC: PART 3 - THE BOUNTY

A/N: Part 3 of Stitches has arrived! This chapter was difficult to write, I'll be honest. And I'd really appreciate any feedback if it doesn't read as well as the first two chapters or doesn't make sense or is boring etc. etc.

This is the penultimate prologue chapter, with the story very much shifting to surround the dynamic and growth of the readers relationship with Din so if you can hold out for me just a bit longer, I promise, I'll make it worth the wait. You know what I'm talking about friends.

Pairing: Din Djarin/Fem!Reader

Word Count: 7k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: None

Summary: You encounter Mando suffering one misfortune after another.

AO3 | Stitches Masterlist | Main Masterlist

9 ABY, on the Hydian Way.

Din prided himself on the strength of his principles. An unwavering certainty in everything he did that gave him a modicum of peace as he wandered throughout the galaxy amidst wars, rebellions and the chaos that ensued in their aftermath.

He was certain when he took the Creed, when he sacrificed a future for himself in service of the covert; something he had never regretted to this day. He had never regretted any bounty taken; unmoved by pleas, promises or threats. Neither tears nor anger could sway his resolve.

Truly, he could count on one hand the things he regretted in life; the job on Alzoc III, challenging a fully grown Mandalorian to a fight while still a hot blooded, angry teenager, and not trying to pull his parents into the bunker where they had hidden him from Separatist droids as Aq Vertina was invaded.

In his line of work, there was seldom room for self-doubt. Inner conflict led to hesitation, which could be a death sentence for a bounty hunter.

And yet, as he came out of hyperspace, that unfamiliar gnawing presence in the pit of his stomach began to rear its’ head again. The job he had accepted was… dubious, to say the least.

Din snorted in self-deprecation; most of his jobs were dubious in nature.

What brought on this unnatural doubt, however, was that this was a job for Imperial remnants. Din wasn’t a fool; he knew half the jobs he had taken in the past could have been traced to the Imps if he cared enough to look, but taking a job from them personally… well, he didn’t know how to feel about that just yet.

He pondered the feeling in his stomach again and frowned. Was it doubt… or instinct? Instinct was his most trusted companion as he travelled through space alone. A tickle at the back of his neck, a wary step forward, even a flash of electricity down his spine; those were only some of the ways that instinct spoke to him. And he always listened.

An uncomfortable feeling in his stomach though? Never that.

If it was instinct, then he was going against his very nature in ignoring it. If it was doubt, based on some misguided sense of morality in dealing with the empire… that he could deal with. He could smother doubt with control and consistency; going through the motions of a job brought security and familiarity. Sooner or later, that doubt would make way for a stoic acceptance, a state that had gotten Din through some of his roughest years.

His eyes were drawn to his shoulder, where the glint of newly crafted beskar shone in the gentle lights of the cockpit.

A down-payment…

“Makers Helmet…” he groaned, running a gloved thumb and forefinger across his tired eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on as the pressure at the back of his skull increased due to the loop his thoughts were going in.

A job was a job. He circled back to his original thought that had led him to accept the clients offer. A job with a bounty greater than anything he could have ever hoped to receive in his lifetime, let alone in one go. It was mere sentimentality and conscience getting in the way of good business. That beskar could not only provide him with armor to reaffirm his loyalty to the covert, but assistance and support to the foundlings and those who raised them.

His resolved steeled. He had never regretted putting the covert before himself, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Turning his attention back to the navicomputer, he scanned the co-ordinates that his most recent lead had pointed to. He had hunted the trail of his latest bounty to the general direction of a vast area of space that straddled the outer reaches of the Outer Rim and halted as it reached Wild Space. There was nothing to stop the bounty from being in those unexplored parts of the galaxy, and if the tracking beacon led him that far, he would have to be ready. With no spaceport on any of the planets he had seen dotting the area on the navicomputer, he thought it wise to refuel and gather provisions should he be there for any prolonged period.

As he lazily assessed which planet to land on, his eyes were drawn to a familiar name. A memory brushed against his thoughts. Not necessarily a pleasant one, but not entirely unpleasant either. For the sake of fairness, Din scanned the planets surrounding the one he pondered; some were equally as well equipped for his needs but the majority he had not been on in years if ever. Somewhere he knew, even briefly, gave him more comfort than the unknown.

At least, that was what Din told himself as he punched in the co-ordinates of Dandoran, the flicker of warmth the memory brought him was something equally as unnatural as the doubt coiled in his stomach.

Bantha balls, maybe he had been poisoned again...

Din tossed a few credits to the human female who received the Razor Crest into the hanger she was managing.

“She needs to be refueled.” Was all he said as he made his way out of the hanger and into the not unfamiliar streets of Mynock. It didn’t look like much had changed in the several months since he was here last; the place was still crawling with a mixture of criminals, bounty hunters and people who just didn’t want to be found. All in all, a good example of most Outer Rim cities.

Mynock had two main pedestrian streets that ran for over two klicks and intersected at the middle. From what he could tell, all legitimate business ran from those two streets, the further into the alleyways and twisted lanes that branched off those two streets one ventured, the seedier the business.

From what he knew, the practice you worked at was on one of these main streets. He paused, causing a few disgruntled pedestrians to have to jerk to a halt and make their way around his imposing frame. He was not here socially. He was never anywhere socially. He shook his head; between self-doubt and sentimentality, the tight leash he usually kept himself on was looser than he remembered and he had no idea just when it had started to slack.

That could not continue. But being aware of a problem allowed him to deal with it. So, with a greater sense of fortitude, he mentally choked any distracting feelings beyond the determination to collect this bounty. That included the somewhat interesting possibility of seeing you again.

Thankfully, Din only needed to stick to the main streets. The road was flanked by stall upon stall of foodstuffs, clothing, trinkets, ammunition and what looked to be a husbandry of Massiff dogs. The large, reflective eyes turned to the Mandalorian; all bared fangs and hostile snarls. An understandable response by most non-sentients when a Mandalorian had no real physical cues they could read, being as covered as they were. Until he lifted his hand for the one closest to sniff, they could only assume he was a threat.

A sniff was usually all it took however, before the snarling stopped. Din brushed a hand over the scaly head as he continued on his way to collect what he came here for.

An hour later, and Din was feeling much more at ease as he picked up the last of the supplies he thought he may need; ration packs, bactapads, generic ammunition that he liked to keep well stocked on the ship and so on. He was once more mentally compiling the information he had gathered on the location of the bounty, running through various routes in his mind that would cover the most planets in the parsec in the shortest amount of time.

He nodded his thanks at the change the Rhodian merchant returned to him and began to make his way back to the Razor Crest. If it hadn’t been for the long flick of your hair in the tie you kept it up in when you turned your head to look at someone at a stall across the central walkway of the street, Din was certain he’d have walked on none the wiser. But alas, that same higher power that had gifted him with a keep perception of his surroundings cursed him in the same fell swoop as the movement attracted his attention.

He came up short, running a mental check on himself immediately. No, no injuries. His shoulder still ached on occasion from being dislocated six months earlier, but it was a phantom pain at most these days. He was fit as a mythosaur and he wasn’t about to have that good streak ruined by getting injured in your presence… again.

Din wondered if he could escape to his ship without you noticing; he didn’t want to tempt fate anymore than he already had. Plus, awkward interactions that left him feeling frustrated both mentally and physically were not high on the list of things he enjoyed, thank you very much.

As a Mandalorian, Din expected attention wherever he went. It was just something he chalked down to being a necessary evil to live by his Creed but he had never wanted to be more invisible than he did in that moment, thinking that at any moment he would be trip into a sarlacc pit or something equally unpleasant.

But you hadn’t seen him, thankfully; much more invested in the choices at the fishmonger’s stall.

Despite his better judgement however, he paused from slipping back to his ship silently.

He was taken by the slight pink flush that rose to your cheeks at something the woman behind the stall said, intrigued by the color and what caused it. Din tilted his head slightly. He had noticed you getting flushed in frustration or annoyance both times you had treated him. It was fascinating to see your cheeks flush for a reason other than irritation and anger.

That particular thought touched a dangerous part of Din’s mind, a part that made him wander into the realm of curiosity to ponder what else might make you blush like that.

Oh, but it was a delightful color on you, and he watched longer than he ought to, a small quirk lifting the corner of his lips. The image of domesticity as you adjusted the parcels of food already in your arms to accept the fish was so foreign to his eyes and certainly not one he ever associated with you until now. It spoke to a part of him that still slumbered but began to fidget in its sleep, on the verge of consciousness.

That tentative smile that he had unwittingly been giving into as he indulged his senses by watching you, dropped the moment three males approached you. The Twi’lek was standing too close for you to be comfortable and by the rigidity of your spine, he knew you were not.

You had taken a step away from the men easily, your body language read cautious but not fearful and he knew better than to underestimate your abilities to wrangle men into whatever position you wanted them in. He had first-hand experience in that department and honestly, it wasn’t nearly as fun as it sounded in his head.

Din relaxed the grip he had unknowingly tightened on the blaster at his hip when you made to leave the stall, away from the three. He shook his head at himself; you had lived here for years. You knew how to handle yourself perfectly fine.

Letting out a breath, he was about to continue back to the ship when that same cursed perception caught the Twi’leks arm shoot out to grip your upper arm tightly, preventing your exit.

Din was behind you before he even realized he had moved.

You examined the range of fish on offer, eyes skeptically crossing off anything that looked like it had been sitting out too long or anything with more than four eyes. You weren’t squeamish by nature, but the fewer dead eyes that were staring at you while you prepared dinner, the better.

One of the few perks of Mynock, was its proximity to the Great Basin of Dandoran that opened out to one of the many oceans to cover the planet. Fresh seafood was a staple in the city and after years of ration packs between the Rebellion and Klatooine, eating fresh was a luxury you would never take for granted again. Your own home planet was mostly covered in water too; the greater population spread over countless clusters of islands where seafood was also the meal of choice for most. It was a tenuous connection but being able to cook dishes somewhat like the ones your mother made when you and your brothers were younger made it feel like you weren’t so far away.

You smiled to yourself at the thought as you pointed to the light blue colored Berbersian crabs, knowing the trawlers had come in only this morning that carried them. The claws were meaty with the slightest sweetness to their flavor that complimented most dishes. Not to mention that when cooked, they turned the most vibrant blue that their shells alone could be used for decoration and craft.

You chatted aimlessly with the fishmonger as she cleaned and prepared the translucent peachy pink fish you had also chosen for good measure.

“Busy at Biran’s?”

“When are we not busy?”

“It’s all them fights between the gangs. Folk say since the Hutts were chased out that things are better but it’s even more dangerous with the others tryin’ to take their place.”

You only gave a non-committal hum to that; you didn’t get involved in politics of any kind. Gang or otherwise.

The mindless chatter continued on nonetheless to more safe topics.

“Did I tell ye, Drea had her baby not three days ago. Another girl.”

“Poor Nej will have his hands full when they all get older.”

“I’m sure they’re dying for a boy at this point. Great excuse to keep sowin’ the crops though, ain’t it?”

“I’m sure they don’t need any excu—”

“Ever think of havin’ any of yer own? Yer well into that time of yer life, I’d say no?”

You blinked, nearly missing the bag of produce as she handed it across the stall to you. You could feel your face heat up at the direction this conversation had turned, and you definitely never thought you would be discussing your biological clock with a fishmonger over Berbersian crab.

“Well I---”

Movement from the corner of your eye stole your attention from that progressively awkward conversation and the no doubt insufficient answer you would have given as three males came to stand at the same stall, facing you. Your eyes scanned the trio sideways, not prepared to give them your attention unless it became unavoidable. There were two humans and a Twi’lek and given the way the humans flanked the large blue male; you had a fair idea about who was in charge as he sneered at you in what you assumed was meant to be a disarming smile.

The blasters at each of their hips and the emerald green coloring on the right sleeve of their jackets told you they belonged to one of the gangs the fishmonger had been complaining about not a few minutes earlier. This gang in particular, the Quai-Kisu or Emerald Dagger in Basic, were a faction that splintered off from the main Hutt crime syndicate once their influence in Dandoran lessened. Their trademark was spice smuggling but anyone with two braincells knew that they accepted the lesser charge to hide the true wealth of their criminal activity, flesh trafficking.

Suffice to say, you didn’t want anything to do with them and you most certainly didn’t want them to want anything to do with you.

“Can I help you?” You kept your eyes on them as you handed the fishmonger what you owed her when it was clear they weren’t going to leave; the woman wisely remaining quiet as she accepted the credits.

None of them responded immediately, and you wondered if this was a new scare tactic they were employing to make people anxious. The crimson hue of the Twi’leks eyes glinted as he contemplated you, running down your figure lazily before meeting your eyes again when you frowned,

“Ol’ man Biran available for a house call?” He rumbled, the sun catching the points of the filed canines as he spoke.

“I’m afraid Biran doesn’t make house calls anymore. Besides, he’s been under the weather for the last few days unfortunately.”

You reeled the lie off effortlessly, having learned over the years who Biran would tend to and who he would rather see succumb to whatever ailed them. It was a steep and difficult learning curve for you, your initial training taught you that you must do your utmost to save every life. Biran had laughed in derision, saying that that mindset wouldn’t serve you well out here. These were gangs, not the flyboys of Corellia. Saving one of their lives might condemn countless others. So while you struggled, you accepted that it was his practice and he made the rules and after over two years on Dandoran, you had seen enough victims of the gang warfare to not feel any pity when one of them suffered an injury.

“C’mon beautiful. One of our pals was injured in a… terrible, terrible accident.” The taller of the two human males, a lanky man with a neck that looked much too long and eyes that took way too much liberty in running over your body.

“There are other doctors in Mynock.” You replied steadily, “I’m sure one of them can help.”

To humor them any longer would be to encourage trouble, so you cut the conversation short and turned quite deliberately to make the point that the conversation was over, flashing the fishmonger a wan smile before turning back the way you came.

“We weren’t done talkin’ to you.”

Your eyes widened marginally when an iron grip closed around your upper arm, your free hand dropping the items in your arm immediately to click the safety off your blaster and lift it in the time it took for the Twi’lek to yank you into facing him again.

“Did I say you could lay a hand on me?” You hissed, the blaster pointing upward from where you held it close to your body towards the underside of the Twi’lek’s chin.

“Quite the little spitfire, ain’t she lads?” He crowed, amused by your action. His laughter was like shattered glass on your ears, making you want to wince, but you kept your hand steady even as your heart pounded. You received as much training as anyone when they joined the Rebellion, but your experience in actual combat beyond treating people on the front line was limited. You knew your own limitations, and that there was no way you would be able to take on all three of them.

The hand around your arm squeezed painfully and you clocked the blaster, lifting it closer to sit under the Twi’lek’s chin, “Release me. Now.”

And like most men of his ilk, he ignored you in favor of his own voice,

“From what we’ve seen, you work with the good doctor. Shouldn’t be a bother for you to fix him up. Nicer to look at too, eh fellas?” He tossed over his shoulder to the snickers of his lackeys.

“Then you can go back to target practice with your toy gun.” He chuckled darkly, leaning in where the pungent smell of his breath made you turn your head away in distaste, “That is, if we let you go at all.”

You swallowed thickly at the threat, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as your mind scrambled to come up with a solution, a way out, something. You felt the familiar sting of tears at the back of your eyes when each avenue came up blank. You couldn’t think of anything and suddenly, you felt so terribly alone in this shithole of a town on a faraway planet far from anyone who gave a bantha crap who would actually be able to help you.

Their laughter only grated on your already frayed nerves and pissed you off even more. You had fought too hard and suffered too much to let these assholes take the one thing you owned, your freedom. Your eyes flashed with anger and snapped back to the Twi’lek, ready to pull the trigger because if you were going out, it would be on your terms.

Their laughter suddenly ceased then, and you blinked. Had they copped that you planned to take at least one, maybe two of them out with you? Before you could figure it out, your arm was shoved away. You raised your now free hand to steady the blaster as you aimed it at them, but they were backing away, eyes averted.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” You growled, hiding the waver in your voice.

They said nothing in reply as the Twi’lek bared his teeth and made towards you again. One of the humans grabbed his arm and hissed something to him. You couldn’t make it all out, but you swore you heard a name you never thought you’d hear again.

Teff.

With one last growl and glare, the Twi’lek conceded to the advice of the humans and all three of them melted back into the crowds of Mynock leaving you to release a heavy breath as you lowered your weapon, replacing the safety with ease as your eyes continued to scan the street. You wanted to be certain they had really left.

“Huh, maybe they were smart after all.” You muttered to yourself, proud that you had dealt with the situation somewhat and holstered your blaster against your hip again, “Still got it girl.” You commended yourself as you stooped to pick up your dropped groceries.

A snorted, “I beg to differ” had you blinking up over your shoulder at the familiar, cocksure figure of the Mandalorian; a hand only grazing the blaster at his hip as he stood casually behind you, his head tilted down to look at you and a resounding sigh leaving his helmet when you smiled.

“Mando?”

An incline of his head was the only greeting you received before he crossed his arms across the wise expanse of his armored chest.

“One sec.”

You got back to your feet and, as if by instinct, ran your eyes over his body, “You didn’t poison yourself again, did you?” You teased lightly, realizing that you were seeing him uninjured for the first time. Well, the second time. But walking into a cantina to do battle with a Houk didn’t could in your estimation.

It gave you pause to notice things about him that you didn’t usually; the way he stood, leaning his weight back on his left foot that gave him an air of lazy arrogance that wouldn’t be misplaced in a loth-wolf relaxing in the winter sun. The strength of his thighs seems to be accentuated by the posture; one hand placed securely at his blaster. If you didn’t know any better, his stance was like an open challenge to every male around him; submit or suffer. But you did know him somewhat, and you knew that he didn’t need to lay down any challenge. He had already won the second he stepped off his ship. The wide breadth of space given to him by passers-by only highlighted that fact.

Even with every patch of skin covered, you could feel the raw power rolling off of him, or was it testosterone? Whatever it was, it tugged at a more primal instinct and ignited a slow, steady heat inside of you that made you both embarrassed and intrigued.

Okay, so you were attracted to the way the man stood. That was fine, that was acceptable. You were a warm-blooded woman in her prime who knew her desires and embraced them. Finding how a Mandalorian… stood, was just another interesting thing to add to your list of things you found attractive.

Along with a raspy baritone and penchant for trouble…

You know what, it was probably just a fantastic indication that you hadn’t been laid in a while, so you made a mental note to deal with that particular issue later.

“I never poisoned myself.” That same low, gruff voice rose to your bait so easily and you had to bite your lip not to laugh, his hand fisting at his side before he unclenched it. Probably thinking about strangling you, honestly. Now there was a thought, for later. Nope, it was definitely the recent dry spell that had you like this. And the sun. The sun always had a part to play in these delusions.

Mando seemed to figure out your game of teasing him however, when you couldn’t fully mask your smile and responded in kind,

“You’re welcome, by the way.” His voice rumbled and you were certain that if you were only a few inches closer, you would be able to feel the vibrations brush against you.

“For what?” You laughed in disbelief, “I had everything under control before you decided to strut into the fray.”

You tried to prevent the frown from creasing between your brows when you thought a little more on the situation. You had a blaster literally pointed to the neck of one of those thugs and they didn’t care. It didn’t even seem like Mando had drawn his weapon and all three had scarpered? Was there any fairness in the galaxy? Obviously not.

The unpainted helmet tilted, the impassive T-visor giving away nothing of its wearers feelings beyond the sigh that left him, “What did you plan to do? Shoot the son of a mudscuffer and have an entire gang out for blood in less than an hour? Yeah, that’s smart.” He snorted.

Your mouth fell open in incredulity, “Talk about the Jawa calling the Ewok short, you’d have done the exact same thing!” You cursed your short temper, especially when it came to the stubborn mule of a man in front of you. The fact that his voice never once rose frustrated you. It remained gravelly but soft, like the sound of pebbles and stones being pushed and pulled by the ocean you could hear from your bedroom as a child.

You were a mature person; you were proud of how you dealt with most things. But in this instance, you allowed your immature side to rear her head momentarily as you began to stalk back to the practice. A piss poor option since the Mandalorian scoffed and kept up with you easily, obviously not content with you having the last word.

“But I wouldn’t be so reckless to not think it through before shooting them.” He tipped his helmet back a little, as if he dared to look down his nose at you. Frustration simmered in your blood as your eyes narrowed at him sideways.

“I was wrong, you obviously are injured. A blow to the head this time was it, Mando? Must be hidden under that kettle you call a helmet” You let out an exasperated breath, shaking your head, “I’ve no cure for that unfortunately.”

You could have sworn you heard a soft noise that sounded remarkably like a chuckle, but it was so quiet and the streets so noisy that you were certain you were wrong.

When the door to the practice-come-living quarters for yourself and Biran came into view, you stopped short. How did you get back here so quickly? Looking over your shoulder, you realized you had led the Mandalorian on a merry chase to nowhere he needed to be. He didn’t look particularly fazed, but the small voice of guilt that sounded an awful lot like your mother had you opening your mouth before you could think twice,

“Do you want to come in?”

What possessed you to invite him in?

It was obvious from both the stilted way you asked and the drawn out, deeply awkward silence that followed. You were about to tuck tail and run inside, slam the door, and pretend you weren’t as mortified as you knew you were when he cocked his head. The movement made you pause in your escape, opening your mouth to tell him to forget about it before the words got lodged in your throat.

“Sure.” Was all he said, and that was how you found yourself staring at a fully armed Mandalorian taking up two thirds of the small settee in the living room to the back of the practice, his hands placed on each thigh as they spread a bit when he sat.

Biran, bless him, took up the last third of the same settee, unfazed by the type of man in his living room and chatting merrily about the last Mandalorian he had met over fifteen years ago.

“And that wasn’t you?”

“No.”

“Ah maybe someone you know then!”

“Maybe.”

Mando’s conversation skills were abysmal.

You didn’t have very high expectations in the first place, but watching it without being a participant, was downright comical. You hid your smile behind the glass of water you had fetched for yourself but the slight tilt of his helmet in your direction told you he had caught your amusement. For someone whose face you couldn’t see, you could practically feel his eyes narrow at you. It made the giddiness from being equal parts anxious and entertained from watching Mando try make nice with the elderly Mirialan rise again and you had to physically bite your lip to stop.

Mando wasn’t listening to Biran anymore, that much was obvious. He wasn’t even looking in his direction, more comfortable blatantly glaring at you instead. Biran was unfazed. Truly, the Mirialan didn’t need a response to have a conversation. A listening ear was sometimes all he wanted. It was a characteristic that endeared you to the him in the first place. The elderly were so often overlooked and written off, but when one only cared enough to listen, they would find themselves enriched with experiences no history book could ever compete with.

“…So how do you two know each other?”

Your attention was dragged back into the conversation so fast you might have given yourself whiplash. You blinked a few times as the Mirialan watched Mando with a clueless smile on his face, completely ignorant to the stiff body beside him.

“Coercive medical attention.” You choked a bit on the sip of water you had taken to buy yourself some time to think; coercive? That rotten---

“Ah, you were a difficult patient, were you?” Biran chuckled, knowing your methods well, “Sweet as pie if you do as your told, but the minute you resist she’ll go for you like a sand panther. I can’t imagine there was much room for bedside manners in the Rebellion, but thankfully that attitude works well in cities like Mynock.” You spluttered again, putting the glass down since it was out to get you too apparently.

Of all the treacherous--, why were you so nice to this old sod again? You would show him a sand panther when you ‘forget’ to buy his favorite tea next time you went shopping.

You seethed to yourself, leaning back in the armchair you had perched yourself on earlier, flyaway hairs from the breeze outside falling into your face which you blew away with a frustrated breath.

“Hm, a panther?” Your eyes rose as the low baritone filled the air after Biran had finished having his laugh at your expense. Mando cocked his head pensively to the side as he looked at you briefly, “More like a kitten, I’d say.” And with that, he looked away.

He didn’t bother saying anything else after that, content with letting Biran’s laughter fill the room and smother the tense silence the two of you were sitting in.

You could feel your cheeks heating up once more as you glared daggers at the tin can in front of you. Why did it feel like you were being simultaneously insulted and flirted with? You couldn’t make the distinction, so you didn’t know how to respond.

Instead, you decided to poke at a different part of the conversation.

“For someone who was coerced, you sure do find yourself on my table quick enough when you need treatment.” Your eyes ran up and down the length of his body candidly when he looked back at you, “and when you don’t need treatment, evidently.”

You smirked when the Mandalorian clenched a fist on his thigh, the third occupant in the room seemingly forgotten as Mando hissed,

“I never asked for your help.”

You scoffed and decided not to deign that with a response.

“Besides, I only stopped over for supplies and fuel.” He admitted and a treacherous part of you sunk a bit at the honesty in his voice. Seeing you was just a coincidence, like always. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air and you fought the twinge of sadness that chased you because of them.

Biran looked between the two of you before standing shakily and patting the Mandalorian on the shoulder with no hesitation, “Allow us to provide you with something extra for your travels then.” He turned his wrinkled face towards you with a smile, the deep groves of his crow’s feet increasing as he nodded to the bags of forgotten groceries, “I think our guest should try the crab. Knowing you, you bought too much as usual.”

You flushed at being caught out, were you really that predicable?

“There’s no need. I got what I came for so, I’ll be going now.” Mando stood fluidly despite his armor, and you were once again struck with how different it was seeing him injured as opposed to healthy. You felt you needed to get used to his presence all over again, with how much it filled the room.

“Thank you, for your hospitality.” He tipped his helmet towards Biran, his voice still rather gruff but laced with a polite softness uncharacteristic to him. Biran waved him off and started making his way back out to the practice when he heard the binary from his medi-droid welcoming a new patient.

That left the two of you standing in a room that suddenly felt much too small for the tension that hung around you both like a blanket. You moved into the kitchen to separate the food you would keep and the food you would give to Mando on one of the countertops, tying the bag tightly by the straps so that it stayed clean and fresh when you were done. You couldn’t hear him move, but you could feel the slight disturbance of the air when he leaned his shoulder casually against the doorframe, arms crossed enticingly once more as he watched you.

“So… what did he call you again? A sand… kitten, was it?”

“Oh, shut up.” You growled over your shoulder at him before turning and shoving the bag with two of the Berbersian crabs and some herbs you knew went well with them, into his hands.

“I don’t need these.” He held the bag out, straightening his stance as he pushed himself from the doorframe. You wisely ignored him.

“All you need is a pan. And water. And heat. Boil them and actually give your body some proper nutrients, would you?”

You explained as you began leading him out towards the private entrance of the residence, through the small kitchen and out into an alleyway that gave you an immediate sense of déjà vu the moment Mando stepped outside. The sun was still beating down and it glinted across the helmet that was becoming as recognizable as a face to you.

“In case you didn’t realize, I’m perfectly healthy.” He replied smoothly, getting his bearings as he examined the alleyway and noted the sounds from the nearby street as the direction he needed to go.

“That’d be a first.” You griped at him, but there was no venom in your words, and he knew it.

You knew he was about to leave, and the suddenness of his departure was as jarring as his arrival. You didn’t know why you felt the need to stall, and you pushed that urge down rapidly in the face of the warrior when he looked back at you from assessing the street not a few feet away.

You sighed and let out a chuckle, wondering again how this man constantly came barreling into your life, disrupting the precarious peace you had brokered while here. You might have said it was a nuisance, but deep down, you knew that he brought a breath of life back into yours every time he crossed your path, reinvigorated the aimless routine you found yourself in. It was unsettling, the way this man had wormed his way into being such a… significant presence in your life. Even after only meeting him three times and always under less than pleasant circumstances.

Part of you wanted to tell him he could stay longer if he wanted; but you knew he would refuse.

Part of you wanted to tell him to be safe; but you knew he wouldn’t be.

Part of you wanted to tell him that you would see him around; but you knew that you probably wouldn’t.

So you settled on a lackluster, “good luck on your hunt” with a small smile as a peace offering for the fraught bickering you always seemed to fall into with him. A peace offering, he seemed to accept as he lifted the bag silently and looked inside,

“Pan. Water. Heat. Right?” His own attempt made your smile grow as you chuckled and nodded,

“You got it, sunshine.”

He nodded once in affirmation while you moved around him back towards the door of the practice. For some reason, you didn’t want to watch him walk away this time. It was easier for you to leave instead. A rumble of your name from the Mandalorian had you looking over your shoulder at him questioningly, the blush that had risen to your cheeks at the sound of your name on his lips not lost on Mando. He had turned back towards you when you moved and after a beat, spoke again.

“See you next time.”

And just like that, your chest hollowed, and a warmth filled you. The weight of his words were like an embrace, a reassurance you didn’t know you needed. Had needed, for longer than you probably knew. It was something secure and encouraging in these times of change and uncertainty, and you felt yourself cling to those words like a lifeline.

The placid nod you offered him with a gentle smile was all he stuck around for. Spinning on his heels, he took off towards the streets of Mynock once more, disappearing in a flash of beskar and steel and for once, you didn’t ponder about possibly seeing him again. You knew you would.

Din settled back into the pilots’ chair of the Razor Crest twenty minutes later, running through the familiar process of flying the ship out of the atmosphere and into the comfort of space, eager to escape into hyperdrive as soon as he was clear enough from Dandoran.

See you next time?

He groaned leaned his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling of the cockpit, his brows drawn low over his eyes as he frowned. What possessed him to offer that promise, he didn’t know. Maybe it was the way your eyes had dimmed slightly when he was about to leave, or when you had wished him luck on a job he was still so uncertain about. Maybe it was the way you blushed when he said your name.

Or maybe it was just because he wanted to see you again too.

And that was the most troubling reason of all.

Din didn’t do friends, he had acquaintances and colleagues even if the term was tenuous. He had the covert and the foundlings, but he didn’t have people he actually wished to see. Never trusted anyone beyond what they could each offer one another. You hadn’t looked for anything from him, and it was unsettling. He didn’t know if he could trust you, years of training and experience told him otherwise. But from the old memories of you pressing Raquor’daan poison from his wound to the teasing friendship you displayed with the old Mirialan, his resolve softened a little.

His eyes flicked to the rapidly shrinking planet he was leaving.

Trust was too strong a word right now, but respect… he could admit that he respected you. And that alone put you on a very short list of people, one he was sure you would never truly understand the importance of.

And he was right.

You would never know the significance of being on that very short list of people, but in that moment, Din’s grudging respect for you set both of your lives on a very different course than either of you ever anticipated; one that revolved around a very special, very small, green child.

Once Dandoran had faded sufficiently behind the Razor Crest, he keyed in the co-ordinates to the far reaches of the Outer Rim and entered hyperspace and after several days of travel, he finally struck beskar when the tracking fob starting beeping as he coasted through space. He smirked behind his helmet as he changed direction and noted the closest planet on his navicomputer where his bounty was hidden.

Arvala-7.

Gotcha.

Stitches Taglist:

@geannad @ayamenimthiriel​ @sarahjkl82-blog @gracie7209​ @nova646 @pychedelic-rainbow

[id-rather-be-an-outsider]

AOT Preference: Dogs

a/n: first time doing a preference in awhile, but I want to specifically say DO NOT EVER get an animal you are not completely prepared to care for. animals are animals and will act as animals do. if they act out that’s not on them, that’s on you. animals need to be in forever homes, and it’s your responsibility to create a suitable environment for them and to not put them in situations where they could potentially be harmed or harm others. know your animal, know their comfort zone, know their needs. don’t take an animal on unless you’re ready to parent a child that never grows up for 15+ years. be responsible pet parents!

edit: just realized I used she/her for Hange so I fixed it. apologies to all my nb folks!

masterlist

Annie Leonhart

Our girl Annie would have a Siberian Husky. Strong, agile, hyperactive and able to trek long distances, they’d be perfectly suited for one another. You would be invited to tag along, of course, but you would have to keep up, lest you fall victim to the whines of an overly dramatic husky who desperately wants you to get a move on.

Armin Arlert

English Springer Spaniel, for sure. He’d fall in love with their soft coat, and their size would make them the perfect lapdog for reading, and taking long walks outside... to do more reading. Definitely a bonus that they fit comfortably between you two in bed at night, and a bonus that their little tail looked oh so very precious when it wagged!

Bertholdt Hoover

A gentle giant himself, Bertie would end up getting a Great Dane. Unlike Reiner, he’s a lot better at managing his thoughts and feelings about their study abroad trip to Paradis gone wrong. All he needs is his gigantic lapdog and you, his adoring partner. Sometimes he’d pass out on the dog in the middle of a cuddle session, and the patient thing would stare at you with pleading eyes, waiting until Bertholdt finally woke up to escape from being stuck in his arms for another hour.

Colt Grice

Colt would get a pair of Dalmatians, one for each of you. He loves their spots, their sleek build, and their energetic, yet quiet temperaments. Picket fence and all, Colt would want the happy home life!

Connie Springer

Connie would insist on having two dogs, so they don’t get lonely when you’re away from the house. He would bring home a pair of puppies with floppy ears that were adorable - an American Foxhound and an American English Coonhound. To Connie, their howls at all hours of the day, only ceasing when he falls asleep, is absolutely glorious, but to his neighbors, it’s a sign they need to invest in earplugs. Sasha would regularly steal the pair away from you so she had a full squad to go hunting with, which you wouldn’t mind since they liked the trips and got their energy out that way.

Eren Yeager

Much like how Eren picks his friends, so too, would he pick his pets. Not caring much for pedigrees, nor where a dog came from, Eren would get a shelter mix pup, probably one that’s older and been sitting there for longer. He’d sense a kinship between them - two beings looking for peace, and they’d find it in one another. The dog being absolutely adorable in every way would only be a bonus.

Erwin Smith

Commander Erwin would have a wolf-dog hybrid. He’d find the creature out in the woods, abandoned by their mother, and see the strength in their limbs despite their fear, and their resolve to survive. He would take them on as his own and together, they’d be the perfect pair of leaders, alphas in their own rights. When you became the alpha female of the household, the little beastie took to you right away, hoping that maybe you would be the one to finally grant their wish of feeding them off your plate. Of course, you never did it, because that would be irresponsible! At least, you’d parrot what Erwin said until he was gone for the day. Then, if a few bites every week fell on the floor by some magic mistake, well, who else was gonna clean it up?

Hange Zoë

Hange would have a fox! They’d be so interested by their behavior, they’d end up testing them and doing fun (and very humane) experiments on them, like exposing them to different foods, toys and puzzles, to see how they’d react. Foxes aren’t a regular pet, and they’d be fully aware of that and even over prepared to care for them, doing research years ahead of time until they felt completely ready to take one on. Needless to say, you’d be fascinated by them, but would insist Hange keep a separate, pee-proof space for the little creature they rescued so long ago. As cute as they were, you preferred your house not be ruined by their inability to potty train.

Historia Reiss

Historia would intend to get a small dog. What she would end up with, however, would not be a small dog. She would fall in love with the warm, kindly brown eyes of a giant and adopt a Greater Swiss Mountain Dog right then and there, no hesitation. In the end, it would all work out. You couldn’t always be beside her in bed, but she was always guaranteed to have an enormous lapdog by her side at all times - her protector in the throne room, her helper on the farm, and her body pillow at night. Who needs a weighted blanket when you have a hundred-pound puppy sleeping on you?

Jean Kirstein

Jean would have a German Shepherd. He adopted them when he first wanted to join the Military Police, but after he changed his mind, he still cared enough to train his dog as militantly as he was trained. It actually helped him soften up a bit (which ended up catching your attention in the end), and who wouldn’t? With those big brown eyes and floppy ears, it’s hard to resist the urge to sweet talk... and maybe, just maybe slip one or two scraps of meat under the table. No one will notice, right? Other than you, of course, who notices everything, because Jean has never been good at hiding things from you.

Levi Ackerman

We all know Levi is a clean freak and would never want a small dog that does nothing other than bark. He’d have a Standard Poodle, probably an apricot color. They’re smart, good hunters, and most importantly, non-shedding! They also are very sweet, not unlike our Captain (even if he’s good at hiding it). The one thing he wouldn’t expect, however, would be to find a trouble maker in his home. Stolen shoes, stolen ties, stolen cravats, even - somehow they would all wind up somewhere his sweet dog seemed to frequent, but they were clever enough not to be caught, so what could he do?

Marcel Galliard

A chocolate lab! They’re sweet and adventurous, as well as protective, and are absolute cuties. Marcel would love having a fluffy companion, and would take his Labrador on long hikes every weekend.

Marco Bott

Marco loves to look forward to the future, and he’d love to experiment with a newer breed of dog. The Catahoula caught his eye with their well-muscled body, and your excitement over their coat pattern sealed the deal. When you both realized just how much energy they had, you ended up joining Annie and Marcel on their hikes and volunteering your pup for hunting trips with Sasha, so they weren’t up all night long playing.

Mikasa Ackerman

Mikasa is the only person out of this bunch that wouldn’t get a dog - she’d have two cats, at least one being a brown tabby. Mikasa’s so dedicated to her work that she wouldn’t see herself as a person with enough time for dogs, but she wouldn’t mind caring for two soft kitties who curled up on either side of you two every night, even if they somehow always managed to have their butts in your faces when you woke up. Cats have a way of doing that.

Pieck Finger

Pieck would own a Weimaraner. Curious, cute, and a standout, they both fit the mold of “dogs and owners who look alike” with their deep, inquisitive eyes and playful, loving natures.

Porco Galliard

Like Porco, Pitbulls can appear tough and menacing on the outside. Also like Porco, pitbulls are just big babies who want to be loved on. He’d likely already have one before you two fell for each other, and his pit would see the loving nature in you and start coming to you for snuggles - which might have made Porco feel left out, if he wasn’t always in the middle of it.

Reiner Braun

Pomeranian. This man has seen some shit, and what better form of comfort than you and a tiny puffball with googly eyes? Fortunately, his Pomeranian would be unusually mellow, understanding he relied on their calm to maintain his own headspace after everything that’s happened.

Sasha Braus

Sasha would get an Irish Setter and an English Setter. She would take her dogs on hunting trips to help her track down animals, and when they got home she’d sit up for a cuddle with her two favorite pups and her favorite partner, you. Cocoa after a long day of hard work is fantastic.

Ymir

Everybody knows that Ymir wouldn’t intend to have a dog. She wouldn’t want anything or anyone to depend on her, but one day, when a band of strays would come around her apartment and try to attack her, another random dog would come from out of nowhere, fight them, and chase the rest of the pack off. Upon seeing the heroic dog injured, Ymir would feel indebted and take them in. Just until they healed, of course - then, it would be off to the local shelter for them. But then, you would drop by for a visit and the dog would love all over you. And then, Ymir would keep waking up finding the dog had managed to crawl into her bed and sleep next to her every night. And then, one thing after another, Ymir’s heart would soften just enough to let the scroungy stray who saved her life have a spot, right next to the spot reserved for you, and your family of two would grow to be a family of three. And then, you would find a puppy on the side of the road and take them home to Ymir after you moved in with her, and your family of three would grow to be a family of four. And then, when the puppy grew up, Ymir would find her laying in a closet with a litter of semi-scroungy-looking pups, and your family of four would become a family of five, six, seven, eight... and so on.

Zeke Yeager

Zeke has wavy golden locks, and so do golden retrievers. They’re also both incredibly cute, sweet, and popular. Need I say more? Fine, if I have to convince you. They also both have very kissable, kind, and meddlesome faces. Don’t tell me you don’t see it there!

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

this is not very good. you have been warned.

-

When Lorkhan dreamed of inhabiting his world, he must have dreamed of inhabiting it as Wulf. This is what Aspera thinks, watching Wulf stride through the forest as comfortably as if it were his, as if it had been crafted for him alone.

Wulf is handsome, and not only for the Lorkhan written upon him. His youth in the wilds has left him strong and muscular, his healthy diet and new civilized life on Hrothgar have made him tidy and clean. Someone has cut the mats from his hair, though he still wears it loose and long in a shiny oak veil around his thick shoulders; someone has taken a knife and shaved away the unsightly fuzz from his square jaw, and someone has clad his massive frame in long wool trousers and a fine leather belt, as if he were being made fit for Auri-el's court. But he goes shirtless beneath his trollskin cape, although the forest he moves through is glittering palely with frost, and there's still an untamed savageness in his careful silent steps, and a hint of danger in the golden sword that hangs at the end of one of his long arms, and a profound sadness in his storm-grey eyes.

He could be Lorkhan incarnate, surveying his own deeds for a span, and Aspera is as always captivated by him. Forced to assume a mortal form for this profoundly mortal act of indulgence, she sits still as she can on a bough of one of Skyrim's tall silent evergreens, and rests her chin on her knees, and watches Wulf move silent through the forest. She's as motionless as the chilly air (Kyne dares not intrude here), if her eyes could devour she's been fasting for this moment. All this time they spent together, in the Dawn era in different forms, and then in the woods not so long ago, and not once has Aspera come close to being sated for sight of him. Even now she aches with hunger. How, she wonders, can even the mere shadow of him be so beautiful?

But he's come closer, now, his head bowed and veiled by his shiny wood-coloured hair, his thick limbs hidden beneath the cape. Aspera wonders if he's aware that his walk betrays him-- he moves like something not of this world, each stride a little too long, each step a little too light for his size. He moves like his next step will be into Aetherius, into the veil of death, forever out of reach, a terrifying sort of grace. He moves past the tree Aspera perches in, and she leans forwards, eyes wide and hungry, devouring the sight of him.

Her own movement is not so delicate; with the shift the tree she perches in groans.

Wulf stops in his tracks and looks around him.

He does not think to look up (he must be getting sloppy, she taught him to always look up), but he's definitely caught the noise, and he looks this way and that, stray snowflakes snagging in his loose hair. His eyes, deep and colourless as any glacier, widen as he tries to peer through the tall narrow trees which surround him. The frost crinkles underfoot as he turns a slow circle, and Aspera dares not breathe.

"Hans?" Wulf calls out. His voice is soft, but his words rumble even through the trees.

No answer comes, so he looks in another direction. 

"Harald?”

The forest remains silent. Frowning, Wulf begins to walk again, and within moments, once again, so painfully, he's gone.

Aspera is left to slump back against the trunk of the tree, clenching her eyes shut, attempting to imprison the sight she'd so eagerly drank in. 

The loss of him from her view is unbearable; it’s as if she’s reliving the tower all over again, and each time she feels as if the grief might shatter her. She considered taking him captive, once. In her darkest moments she’s imagined keeping this piece of Lorkhan for herself, nestled close and safe deep in the heart of her realm, but she already can't stand the sadness in him and she loathes the thought of hurting him further, so she's banished the idea to the only part of her which feels guilt, and resigned herself to possessing him only in the form of these glimpses. Cold comfort, trapping his form like fire beneath her eyelid, stealing looks at him from behind Hrothgar’s walls. However, it’s all that’s within her reach, and even something so small as his silhouette in her memory is to be cherished, guarded--

A mighty heave shakes the tree and Aspera is toppling to the ground before she can even draw her daggers.

Then she stops falling, and she is in someone's arms.

Wulf never laughs-- a strange trait, because Lorkhan was always laughing-- but he has his own equivalent, for when he successfully pulls a prank, and that is a big toothy smile that burns like the sun. Said smile is burning into Aspera’s shoulders now, for Wulf has caught her on the descent and is now crushing her into an embrace, swinging her around mightily and beaming hot and triumphant against her when he presses his face into her torso.

Aspera, of course, cannot tolerate this. Aspera, of course, shouts in alarm and knees him in the stomach. This shocks him and he staggers back, and Aspera’s on him in an instant, pushing him down to the ground and wresting him into a grapple. But he's larger than he was before, heavier, and he manages to overturn them, pinning her down with his whole body, resting his forehead against her own.

"As-peh-rah," Wulf breathes through his smile.

"Wulf," Aspera replies, and flips him hard into the ground.

The blow knocks the wind from his lungs, and he lets out a hearty 'oof', but he's smiling still, his shoulders shaking with the mute mirth that's as close as he'll ever come to laughter. His eyes are crinkled happily, his hair is tangled with clumps of ice and leaf-litter, and when Aspera gets on top of him again, pinning his shoulders with her knees and wrapping a hand around his neck, he only smiles wider.

"Wulf," Aspera says again, amazed. "Did you trick me?"

"I'm Ysmir now," Wulf replies. His voice knocks snowflakes back into the air and sends Aspera’s hair fluttering.

"Ysmir? Who calls you Ysmir?"

"Paarthurnax."

As easily as if he were brushing off leaves, Wulf-- Ysmir-- rises to sitting, shoving Aspera off of him. She falls back on her rump without a struggle, only staring as Wulf shakes debris from his hair. He does not look so civilized, now, smeared with dirt and snow; she sees that he's been painted in the Atmoran fashion, with an image of a dark red gash cleaving his bare breast from collar to left nipple.

"Paarthurnax," Aspera sneers, through her nose, so that her voice takes on a mocking lilt. "Ambitious lord of cruelty. Is that who you're serving, now, little Wulf?"

Wulf frowns at her, in the way that he always used to frown at her-- taking everything too seriously, especially the jokes. “I serve nobody,” he tells her, deathly-grave. “None but myself.” 

“So what is this?” Aspera reaches out and grabs his hair, thumbing the neatly-trimmed edges.

“My hair.”

“You cut it.” 

“Hans cut it.” Flushing red (he’d always been a sensitive soul), Wulf shoves Aspera’s hand away, and even the graze of his palm feels supernaturally hot. But then the sight of her seems to rekindle something in him, a light behind his cloud-grey eyes that comes perilously close to feeling familiar, and his mouth once again splits open in a smile, revealing perfect yellow teeth. 

“Why are you smiling?” Aspera asks him. 

In reply, Wulf reaches out and clasps her face between his big palms. “Aspera,” he repeats himself, in awe. “It’s truly you.”

“Yes, it’s me. Let go of me.” 

“You’ve come back.” His palms are scratchy with callouses, smelling richly of earth. 

Affectionately, Aspera elbows his arm away, then rises to her feet. “Don’t flatter yourself, mortal. I’m not here for you.” 

Wulf ignores the lie, ignores the good-natured act of violence. He gropes around him, lifts the sword which had fallen to the side when he’d caught her, rises to his feet and stretches. He’s grown since Aspera last saw him, she can’t help but notice, not just in his considerable height; his body has filled out, his already-generous muscles now padded with a healthy layer of Nordic fat. “But you’re back,” he repeats himself, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. 

Aspera can only nod. She feels mute, breathless, winded not only by the fall; she’s being forced to consider once again that if Lorkhan ever dreamed of roaming his own world, this must be the form he would choose. The alluring seriousness of his dark eyes, the handsome downwards curl of his mouth and the sheer power betrayed by his mortal form (she recalls uneasily the strength with which he’d caught her, the magnetic heat behind his skin); as with Lorkhan, being near him feels like standing on a precipice, the temptation to fling herself in overwhelming.

He takes her contemplative silence as an invitation and seizes her hand in his own. “Come,” he bids her, “Let’s go meet Hans. And Harald.”

“Who?”

“My friends. We travel, we hunt, we’ll roam the world, like you and I did.”

“I don’t want to meet your friends.” 

“Oh.” Wulf blinks. “We won’t, then. I know where they are. We’ll go away from them.” 

“And go where? Towards the halls of Kyne’s crony?”

“Paarthurnax?” 

“Him.” 

“No, to a cabin. I left Paarthurnax long ago.” 

“Did you.”

“I told you, I travel now. With Hans and Harald.” (There’s that frown again, full of concern). “You’re mad?” 

It takes all of Aspera’s strength to wrench her hand away from him. Shaking her head mutely, she turns away. 

Time, Auri-el’s invention, does not mean much to either of them, but if one was reckoning by time they had once shared a lot of it. When Wulf was still the foundling of dragons, living alone and without language in the wilds of Tamriel, Aspera had stolen to Nirn and made herself his companion. She’d saved his life, and it had been a perfectly selfish endeavor; they had fought together, hunted together, wrestled, riddled each other, spent long nights by paltry fires cooking scrappy meals of rabbits. They had fled Hircine’s wild hunt on foot and hacked their way out of a herd of werewolves, they had crept around Namira’s corruption and looked Herma-Mora in the eye without flinching. They had shared precious moments together, moments where Aspera had forgot to feel as if something had been torn from her. And when Wulf had allowed himself to be convinced to join the storm-bitten wicked society of the Northmen, abandoning their adventures for a mountain and the mandates of Kyne, those moments had begun to seem paltry indeed.

“Aspera?”

“How arrogant you are, mortal. Asking me to return to your side, after you left me.”

“You left me. You could have stayed.”

“You didn’t give me a choice,” replies Aspera. “Was I meant to follow you, make a toady of myself for Kyne?” 

“But I left him, I told you. I’m with Hans and Harald now.” The soft crackle of frost as Wulf shifts on his feet. “So you can come with me.”

Aspera exhales. “No.” 

“No?” 

No. I’m going to the south, and we shall never meet again.”

“Don’t go. Join Hans and Harald and I. We can hunt--” 

“Typical of you. You only want me for your collection.” 

“I want you to stay with me.” 

“Haven’t I denied you enough times before, Shor? When will you learn your lesson?” 

Wulf is silent for several seconds at that, so quiet that Aspera thinks he’s left. But when she turns she finds that he’s come closer to her, and he’s still staring at her with his sad, serious expression, his eyes as dull grey as ash. 

And he comes even closer to her, painfully close, and she cannot bring herself to move away when he touches her cheek once more.

“Koraav zey, Boethiah,” Wulf says softly.

Aspera turns her head away. “I won’t.” 

“I am not him.”  

“I don’t believe you. How can you deny what you are, after all I’ve known about you?” 

“I’m not him,” Wulf repeats. One of his hands, hot despite the chill of the day, cradles her cheek, and with the other he brushes his thumb over her lips. He’s standing very close, staring seriously into her eyes with a gaze like staring into one of Kyne’s tempests, fathomless, a spark of violence beneath the eyelid. “Look at me.” 

Aspera closes her eyes and laughs a bitter laugh. “I don’t believe you.” 

“Boet-hi-ah.” 

“Do you think you know me, then, using that name? You know I won’t listen to your words, that I never have; so if you mean to say this thing to me, prove it.” 

And Aspera must have known what challenge he was planning, the single thing Lorkhan would never have given to her, for she is not surprised when Ysmir bites a kiss into her lips. 

The kiss is sweet, and tastes of ash, and burns for the beauty of it, and Aspera tries her best to bring Lorkhan’s face to mind, as if it were Lorkhan’s mouth on her own, as if Lorkhan were living and Lorkhan would have ever held her so closely, partaking of her hunger with a warm tongue and sharp teeth. It’s not exactly gentle, but she must jealously wonder where he’s gotten all the practice (who are Hans and Harald?), in the few moments before he drags her into an embrace and crushes any power of thought out of her. Later there will be time to ponder this all, to contemplate the real want behind the deed and whether Lorkhan’s memory is behind the depth of the kiss and the grasping of fingers, but for a sliver of that so-called time, somewhere between tasting ash and separating just enough to concoct a plan in breathy whispers, Aspera forgets to pretend that it’s Lorkhan she’s embracing. 

-

In a rough-shod hunting cabin, on a frigid winter night, Ysmir kneels by a straw bed and holds a sword aloft like an offering.

“What is this?” laughs Aspera. She’s perched above him on the thin straw mattress, draped in blankets like a queen. 

“It’s a sword,” says Ysmir, earnestly. 

“You’re holding it wrong, Wulf. How much have you forgotten?”

“It’s a gift.”

“Always giving me gifts. Come, get off the floor and join me again.” 

But Ysmir stays kneeling, and he might have looked a little ridiculous, naked on his knees with the blade held high over his head, if it weren’t for the deathly somberness of his eyes. “Take it,” he commands her, with no hint of humour, “It’s for you.” 

“Well, aren’t you cocky.” But Aspera knows him, and knows his stubbornness, so, without further argument, she takes the sword from his hand and lifts it in her own. It’s unlike any sword she’s seen before: the blade is golden, very thin and very long, with a slight curve to it; the balance is impeccable. When she moves her arm to cut the air with it, it flickers hotly like a candle’s flame.

She’s so captivated by the blade that she feels rather than sees Ysmir sit on the bed behind her, keeping his distance respectfully, save for the large hand that lightly cups the outer rim of her hip. 

“It’s a good blade,” Aspera declares, resisting the urge to sink back into him. The fire’s burned out ages ago and the cabin is cold, but Ysmir’s hand feels hot as any brand. “Why give it to me?”

“To know you by, when we meet again.” 

Aspera places the sword down on her bare thighs with one hand, and uses the other to clasp the hand on her hip. “Who says we will meet again?” she asks lazily, leaning back against his warm chest, so that her head comes to rest with the ear pressed just over the place where a mortal man’s heart would be. “No matter. Does it have a name?”

Ysmir bows his head, embraces her from behind, pulls her in close against that uncanny-quiet chest. And he whispers in her ear, in a voice that rumbles through the world itself: “Goldbrand.”

[sometimesiwrite]

Steady As She Goes

Part 1

Fandom: The Witcher

Characters: Essi Daven/Lambert

Summary: Lambert begrudgingly insists on escorting Essi through Velen on her way to Novigrad. On their three days' journey, an unexpected bond is formed as the unlikely traveling companions encounter one another in new light. But will they get through unscathed?

Warnings: Lambert-typical language; pragmatic killing of a small animal (not a pet, for food); sexual assault (groping, not Lambert); reference to gore, head trauma; lethal self-defence; shock/trauma response, adrenaline crash; cliffhanger

A/N: A little while ago, I wrote a little letter to Lambert (you can read it here if you’re so inclined—mind the TW). I wanted to thank him, but more importantly, I wanted to offer him a place in my heart and my brain along with his brothers. This story started from a small prompt and has since turned into a 12+k proper-ass Story. This is part 1. Please join me in joyfully welcoming Lambert to the ranks with a wordcount he deserves with a character who has also become very dear to me. 

MASTERLIST

@morethangeraskier

Essi eyed the back of her travelling companion with curiosity as they rode North toward Crow’s Perch: the tight swing of his hips still keeping tempo with his horse’s cadence; the sharp alertness at the nape of his neck as his eyes scanned their surroundings; the subtle forward tuck of his shoulders; and every muscle in his body fine-tuned and ready for action in the blink of an eye. Even his silence seemed to radiate a low buzz that tingled the air around him and made Essi wonder how many thoughts and calculations were crammed inside his head at once. She’d found it charming rather than off-putting how irritatedly he’d suggested accompanying her through Velen. There was a genuineness about his prickly outward demeanor—she felt like a detail worthy of practical consideration rather than a damsel on the road and she appreciated it. Better than most alternatives.

The fact was, Lambert had insisted. Not because she was attractive (yeah, yeah, big blue eyes, blonde hair, yadda-yadda, who cares), not because she seemed helpless (there was something keen behind those big blue eyes, and he’d known better than to ignore it), but because it seemed like the right thing to do. She’d explained she was an experienced traveller, knew the roads well, had good relationships with the innkeepers along the way. She would be fine, and didn’t want to take him out of his way. 

“Sorry. Not happening. I’m coming with you.” Why? “Bandits.” 

He would know. He’d spent the last few days doing nothing but clearing out Nekker nests and trashing bandit camps all over Velen, and the last thing he needed was the innocent blood of some wide-eyed woman-bard on his hands. “Back to fucking Novigrad,” he’d grumbled, turning his horse back North. He sighed heavily and waited for Essi to catch up, “Fuck me, I need a drink—alright, stay close on my tail for the next little while. We’re taking a shortcut.” As they rode, Lambert gave his new companion a rundown of “ The Rules”.

“No chit-chat, I’ve gotta keep focused, plus I don’t like excess noise. If I say ‘duck’ you duck. And I mean get the fuck down and stay silent. If I say run, run and don’t look back. I’ll find you later. Do your best not to panic or freeze up on me, I need you to listen carefully and do exactly as I say.”

Essi nodded earnestly beside him, her big blue eye fixed on his lips, taking in every word. He wasn’t used to actually being listened to. It was nice. A little off-putting the way she stared, but it was... nice. 

On that topic, “One last thing,” he said, turning away to watch the road and check their sides, “Don’t get any ideas. I’m only doing this because no one deserves to die at the hands of heartless assholes except other heartless assholes. I am not Prince Charming, I am not a knight in shining armour, and I absolutely have no intentions of sweeping anyone off their feet. Capisce, bard?”  

Essi smiled elusively, turning her own eyes back to the road. “Good. I’m no princess or damsel, and I’m hardly looking to be swept off my feet. As far as I’m concerned, we’re merely travelling in the same direction at the same pace.” 

An agreeable grunt from Lambert signalled the end of the conversation and the beginning of “quiet time” which Essi did her best to honour. It was difficult at first. The poet was accustomed to conversation with strangers she met on the road—where they were headed, where they were coming from, how their journey had been. But Lambert was a witcher. Her usual litany of questions were either already answered or were none of her business to be asking in the first place. She was more or less quite content to travel in silence on an average day. But this was not an average day and her mind was bursting with curiosity, which made for a restless start to their journey. 

“What’s your horse’s name?” Essi finally asked as they stopped briefly at a stream for water. She decided it was an innocent enough question with a short enough answer to risk breaking the rules. 

Lambert gave her a disapproving look, a scolding reminder about ‘no chit-chat’ perched on the tip of his tongue. To her credit, she'd surpassed Lambert’s expectations for what he’d learned to expect from bards in the category of Not Talking. She’d only hummed a little and only then when she was lost in thought, large blue eye staring into the distance. She was an odd one, this woman, with her deep eyes that blinked too slowly sometimes. But his medallion was still and he didn’t have that gut feeling that usually told him when something was off. It was a harmless enough question, anyway… 

“Royal,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Never met a noble that wasn’t a horse’s ass.” 

Essi let out snicker, flashing her pearly teeth with an open grin. He was abrasive, sure, this witcher, but he was quickly proving himself to be animated and clever. She also believed him to be kind, despite his best efforts to prove otherwise. Whether or not Essi would earn a glimpse of his full capacity remained to be seen, but regardless she found his particular brand of panache refreshing. 

"Yours?" he asked with a nod back at the small Icelandic gelding currently occupied with nibbling at some honeysuckle.

"Ginger," Essi replied, kneeling to take her turn at the stream, refilling her waterskin and drinking from her cupped hands. She stared at her saddlebag. “Wait here,” she said, striding to her horse and extracting a bundle of fabric.

“Whoa, hey, where’re you going?”

“It’s alright, I’ll only be a minute,” she assured him as she headed for a thicket.

“Nuh-uh, can’t let you just wander off and get yourself killed before we even reach the first signpost. What’s the plan, Goldilocks?”

“I’m just…”

“Just…?” Lambert gestured impatiently.

Essi squared her shoulders to him, “Going to change my dress. It’s too hot, and I would like to feel Just Right.” 

Her sharp-witted comeback earned her a raised eyebrow. It was rather warm, the witcher had to admit. Early summer’s heat glared down with the midday sun, tempered only by an occasional cool breeze from the West. Lambert himself had pulled off his gauntlets, opened his jerkin, and tied a damp kerchief around his neck—witchers were less susceptible to heat stroke or hypothermia, but they were no less vulnerable to discomfort. It was only fair to allot his companion the same opportunity.

Lambert did a quick sweep of the area. Looks fine, sounds fine, smells fine… “Fine. Three minutes.”

He stood guard in front of the only gap in the dense bushes and waited for the sounds of rustling fabric to subside. After two and a half minutes, Essi emerged, hitching up her linen sleeves. She returned her former dress to her saddlebag and extracted two slender, ornately-carved whale bone sticks which she used to scoop her long, thick hair off the back of her neck and secure it in a twist. 

Essi squatted back down beside the little brook and let the cool water trace over the tender undersides of her wrists, cooling her veins and refreshing her as the breeze fluttered the light fabric against her skin. Much better, she thought, glancing up at Lambert. This new garment was more loosely-fitting, he noticed, save for the cinch that tied around her waist. 

She looked nice—comfortable. She looked comfortable. The dress looked comfortable. 

Essi smiled up at Lambert as she stood, pressing her damp hands to the sides of her neck and ooooh it felt nice. She thought she caught the smallest hint of a smile as the breeze wafted a bit of honeysuckle their way. He still looked tired, but he seemed lighter. Something new had come into his rugged, sun-tanned face. Boyish, maybe?

“Better?” Lambert asked. He barely waited for her to answer before he continued, “Let’s get moving, I want to make tracks before we lose our light.” Essi mounted without protest and they were on their way again, quietly riding single-file until they reached an acceptable spot to settle down for the night. Lambert left the travelling poet to make camp while he hunted for some dinner. Essi went about setting things up. She dug a small fire pit with a trowel she kept on hand, gathered kindling, and stacked it neatly to the side where it could be easily reached. Finally, she dragged two logs from the underbrush and placed them on either side of the small hole. It was, perhaps, a little domestic, but the witcher still seemed tired, and he was going out of his way to give her a safe escort through dangerous territory. She’d wondered earlier about offering him some coin for his trouble, especially seeing as he was doubling back and wouldn’t have any opportunity for new contracts. Then again, she’d thought, perhaps that might insult him, make him feel like a hired bodyguard. In the end, the very least she could do was help make the experience a little nicer. She could ask about payment when they arrived in Novigrad. 

A loud whistle caught Essi’s attention and she turned to find Lambert approaching with what looked like a squirming ball of fur. Upon closer inspection, it was a rather fat grey squirrel. “Dinner,” Lambert announced, looking pleased with himself. He held the creature toward her, “Care to do the honours?” He waggled his eyebrows facetiously. The witcher had always prided himself on his capacity to read people, to pick up on the little things that others might miss, second-guess, or excuse away. So far, after nearly five hours on the road with Essi Daven, Lambert still couldn’t get a clear read on her, and he decided (for whatever reason) the quickest way was to hand her a small animal. 

Essi looked down at the wriggling creature cupped in Lambert’s hand, her eyes devoid of any specific expression. The poet could have been feeling anything: shock and horror, stony rage, remorse, awe… casual hesitation. In fact, the only feeling that wasn’t in the running was glee, and while Lambert hadn’t expected it in the first place, it was still a relief to know he wasn’t sharing his camp with a psychopath.  But what was she going to do with it, this wide-eyed, innocent-faced, prim young traveler? Probably some tree-hugger shit like let it go. 

Essi lowered her eyes to the wriggling rodent. It had been a while since she’d had to procure a live meal. She could have declined, easily, graciously, and her witcher companion would probably have shrugged and thought ‘no surprise there’. But she knew a schoolboy’s smart-assery when she saw it—the audacious victory behind his bright citrine eyes told her everything she needed to know about what he was expecting from this brief-but-loaded exchange. A shriek, a gasp in horror, perhaps a distressed stomp of her feet and fitful shake of her gilded head? 

Essi reached a slow, dainty hand towards the squirrel, enveloping the soft, furry body as Lambert mentally prepared himself to go set another snare. There was no way this bard  would ever be the type to—

Crunch.

—Lambert’s face went slack as the now-very-limp squirrel was handed back to him. 

“I wouldn’t’ve thought a witcher would be so squeamish,” Essi remarked, casually wiping her hands on her skirt. Lambert said nothing but stared at her with a look of defeated befuddlement. She fired again, her sweet, melodic voice dripping with offhanded superiority, “Was that all? Or do you need me to clean it, too?” She blinked blankly once again as Lambert gaped, even less sure what to make of the young woman who had just snapped a rodent’s neck.

“No,” he answered petulantly. “I can do it.” He pulled his buck knife from its sheath on his thigh and went about his business. He was quiet and brief with her for the rest of the evening, and she was beginning to feel her own irritation mount. She had half a mind to bite back the next time he snapped at her for asking a simple question. Though, she admitted, he didn’t seem the type to back down easily. If she prodded at him, he might decide to leave her, and they were on a different route, completely unfamiliar to her. She’d be as good bear food without his directions.

No, she decided, it was best not to go digging and let whatever it was that was eating at him subside on its own. With no assurance of peaceful conversation and nothing but the crackling of their small fire to drown out the distant howls of wolves, Essi asked if she could play quietly on her lute—not too loudly, she promised, remembering what all she knew about a witcher’s senses, how sensitive they are. She’d asked in her usual straightforward way, her big blue eyes blinking slowly at him from across the fire. A simple request, and one that he couldn’t very well deny at the risk of being a Grade A Jackass. 

Ordinarily, he would have jumped at the opportunity to claim that title, but Essi didn’t deserve that. Stranger or no, she’d been quiet and courteous, and had shown herself to be witty and good-humoured to boot, laughing at even his crassest jokes. So what could he do but bob his head from side to side and relent, reserving the right to end it if he deemed it necessary. He’d met enough bards in his time to know that his and their definitions of “quietly” were rarely on the same page of the dictionary.

But Essi kept her word, and took up a slow, gentle melody that drifted airily through the fading twilight. The witcher might even have called it pleasant, as the dusky grey shifted to darker and darker shades of nighttime. Lambert took out his whetstone and, after a few strokes along his dulled steel blade, found his mind wandering. The poet’s voice was captivating without demanding attention—sometimes clear and bright, but never piercing or imposing; occasionally breathy, but always expressive. His eye drifted to the instrument in her hands, no longer content to merely hear the music, but wanting to watch its creation. The taut catgut strings pressed divots into thick calluses on her left hand as she fingered the fretboard, her hands flexing no differently than if she were playing at full volume. But how was she strumming so quietly? Shit, gotta keep focused. Stay on task. The whetstone once again returned to steel as Lambert pulled his mind back from its daze. 

It wasn’t long before curiosity got the better of him and he glanced back to the instrument cradled against the musician’s midriff. It looked delicate. Like something that could shatter if he held it wrong. Glancing to the hand nearest him, he could now see she was using the soft pad of her thumb to strum rather than her fingernails, which were long and carefully-shaped; well-honed in that sense, Lambert mused. He’d never paid attention to a musician this closely. They always drew crowds in the cities and experience had taught him that performers on the road were just as likely to pick a man’s pocket as they were to put on a show. But this was different. Essi wasn’t performing—on the contrary, she almost seemed to be in some kind of trance. She wasn’t even looking at her hands most of the time, and from the lyrics, Lambert began to wonder whether she was making it up as she went along. It was impressive, the way she knew her instrument so well. Despite his previous feelings of irritation at having had his ass handed to him, he couldn’t deny skill when he saw it, and Essi was clearly a master of her craft. 

The whetstone had been silent for close to a full verse when Essi looked up, wondering if perhaps the witcher was growing tired of the noise. She found Lambert closely examining the hone of his blade, and so, thinking nothing of it, went back to her playing.  It took him longer than usual to sharpen his swords. Longer still to replenish his potions and oils. He should’ve made quick work of it. Would have, too, if it wasn’t for the fact that he found the music so… pleasant. It was difficult to meditate. Not because he couldn’t relax, but because he didn’t want to stop listening. He just—there was something about… It didn’t matter. It wasn’t important. Get the shit together for tomorrow, go to bed, get up, and hope you don’t have any trouble on the road. 

Lambert laid out his bed roll and the music silenced abruptly. “Oh, are you turning in? I’ll stop now,” Essi gently lay down her lute next to her saddle bags and started to get her own sleeping mat. It was thin, Lambert noticed, as he watched her set up. His long, tired body stretched out, hands beneath his head, as he stared up through the dense oak canopy above them. 

“Thank you,” Essi said, now standing by his head. 

Lambert craned his neck to try and see her properly and resorted to propping up on an elbow. “Yeah? What for?”

“For finding us food and for letting me play a little,” she said with that same matter-of-factness that made Lambert feel both comfortable and uneasy. 

“Yeah, well,” Lambert flopped back down on his bedroll, “Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep, we gotta keep moving in the morning. I don’t want to be out here longer than we have to.” He waved a dismissive hand in Essi’s direction, and she took that as her cue to leave him alone and be quiet. 

“Goodnight, Lambert,” she murmured softly before turning and crossing back to the other side of the fire. She settled under her blankets and, after some drawn-out negotiations with a few poorly-located lumps in the ground, she was able to lie still and close her eyes. The insides of her eyelids flickered orange with the fire as it danced beside her. Before sleep took her, she heard a muffled voice from across the flames. 

“G’night, Essi.”  ---- Essi rose early, but not early enough for her travelling companion. The fire had already been doused and buried, and Lambert’s things were all neatly packed away and ready to be loaded onto Royal. Both horses were still hitched, and sleepily nibbling on some dewy crabgrass as the grey mists of early morning lingered. The sun hadn’t risen high enough yet to burn away the moisture, and Essi bundled her blanket around her shoulders against the chill. Lambert, she presumed, was off doing something witcher-y—taking a leak more like, she wagered as her own bladder complained. The moment he returned, Essi shot up from her log and headed into the trees. 

“Just where do you think yo—”

“I have to piss!” she called back over her shoulder as she traipsed into the dense wood. 

“Heh, good morning to you, too!” Lambert scrubbed his hand through his scruffy brown hair and ambled back to the fireside to begin packing and saddling the horse. When he arrived, he saw Essi’s things were also neatly packed away and stacked by her own mount. He offered a brief nod of approval before stowing his things, making quick work of the well-practiced process. By the time Essi returned, not only was Royal fully-prepared and Lambert armed and armoured, but Ginger was also mostly packed with the exception of one bag and the lute, which was cradled in the witcher’s hands as he crouched near the ground. She paused a little distance away and waited, observing as she listened to the faint sound of strings being delicately plucked.

Lambert looked up, embarrassed. “I uh… sorry.”

“What for?” 

Lambert stood carefully as Essi approached and dropped his gaze, holding out the fragile instrument for it to be angrily snatched back. The musician paused for a moment, observing this gesture of cowed humility. It was a habit, she suspected, born from decades of harsh punishment without explanation, frivolous harm without justification. Essi could sense the shame as it rolled off his shoulders, the prickly-heat of defense building under his skin. She took the lute and a swell of sadness washed through at the stark evidence of the world’s cruelty—that a man should be ashamed for a little harmless curiosity only told one story: pleasure’s not for you. 

Lambert looked up to find Essi still standing there, staring at the lute in her hands. “Did… did I…?” he pointed to the instrument.

“No,” she smiled softly, “not at all. And I’m not bothered that you looked at it. If you like, you can look at it again. I can even show you a chord or two?”

“Ah,” the witcher scratched the top of his head, “that’s okay. It’s, uh… I mean it seems like it’s good—well-made. Never seen one up-close like that.” There was a lull in conversation as Lambert ran out of things to say. But Essi just stood where she was, smiling her little enigmatic smile and blinking at him. He turned back to the horses, and motioned for Essi to do the same, “I, um, packed up your stuff, well most of it.”

Essi took the hint and followed suit, strapping the few remaining things to Ginger before mounting. After a brief survey of the area to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything, the two were off, Essi following behind as Lambert continued on his shortcut through what mainly seemed to be wilderness for the first several miles. They finally emerged at a small footpath, though, and Essi finally got her bearings. They were back in familiar territory, at least for the time being, and it was proving to be a beautiful morning. Even Lambert seemed to be in a better mood, offering her things to eat along the way, and even starting his own little snippets of conversation. 

It was an hour or so after midday that Lambert’s ears pricked at the sound of hooves in the distance. Could be soldiers, could be travellers… could be bandits. After a few minutes, they seemed to fade, and the witcher relaxed a little as the path took them into a wooded area by yet another stream, though this one was deep and flowing quickly. Better keep my ears sharp, Lambert thought as they rode along. Water’s too loud. Can’t hear for shit. They stopped next to the water to stretch their legs and replenish their drinking vessels again. The rest of the journey would take them mostly through high ground without much shade, and swampland. Any water they wanted to have with them, it was now or never until they reached Novigrad the next day. 

Lambert relieved himself against a nearby tree while Essi washed her face and, having determined the coast was clear, gave her the go-ahead to have a squat in the underbrush. He was still on the alert. It wasn’t a high-traffic area, so in theory bandits would be less interested in diverting from the main road. On the other hand, a less-trafficked area meant less chance of a hideout being discovered. But it smelled okay, although the wind was coming across the water. And it sounded okay, although the water was so damn loud. And things looked okay, aside from the fact that there was only so far even a witcher could see without trees getting in the way. 

A twig snapped in the woods behind him and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled, his hand mechanically finding the grip of his steel sword. He chanced a glance back into the woods—Fuck it, what’s the point of modesty if you’re dead? Another twig, this time from another location beyond the line of trees. There was a flash of golden hair as Essi finished her business and stood up, straightening her skirt. She turned to Lambert, ready to scold him for looking until she saw his hand on his sword. Somewhere in the near-distance, a horse whickered. The witcher lifted his finger to his lips and the poet stood stock-still, her hand slowly reaching for the small dagger at her waist as her heart beat heavily in her chest. Something rustled to Lambert’s left, and he turned, stepping quietly as he stalked in the general direction of the sound.  It wasn’t wolves or Endregas, they were too high for Drowners, too woodsy for Nekkers. 

Essi watched with interest as the witcher’s body went on full alert, his senses sharpening, his posture shifting, muscles coiling to accommodate any number of reflexes. She scanned the trees in front of them then looked back out to the road, marking the location of her horse in the event Lambert told her to run. A large horse came to a standstill beyond the edge of the woods somewhere and Lambert froze, listening carefully for sounds of footfalls or rustling clothing.The gears started to click a little faster as Lambert entertained the possibility they were being surrounded. He flicked his left hand at Essi in the direction of the road: get out of the woods. Quietly. Without a second thought, she began to carefully make her way back to the road as silently as she could, Lambert following, his eyes still searching. 

Just as Essi’s feet met the smooth dirt path, a beefy arm wrapped tightly around her waist. But the brute was foolish enough not to cover her mouth first, and Essi let loose a loud, powerful scream that a witcher would have heard at least a mile away. Lambert abandoned his methodical retreat from the woods and came crashing onto the path, fixing his eye dangerously on his target as he circled his sword around his wrist. The witcher felt a rush of angry heat flare under his skin at the sight of Essi kicking and clawing in the bandit’s sweaty grip. He was large, reeked of booze and the funk of cured meat. Essi fought the urge to gag at the stench of his clothes as she did her best to keep her mind sharp, or else risk becoming collateral damage. Her best bet: keep her eyes on Lambert.

“Hands off the bard and you might keep your head,” the witcher barked as he approached. “Can’t make any promises about your other appendages, though.” He wanted to lunge, run him through, gut him and leave him to the wargs... but it was too risky. He was holding Essi too tightly, and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t snap her neck if Lambert took a wrong step. To make matters worse, the trees were full of footsteps. Eight, maybe ten men. Hmmm. 

“Oh-ho-ho, look what we got, lads!” the bandit called to his approaching comrades as they began to filter out from the woods. “Your plaything still any good, witcher? Or have you ruined the fun for the rest of us?” The man grasped roughly at Essi’s breasts and Lambert felt his stomach drop as her eyes met his. He knew the look that was waiting for him behind those eyes, that broken terrified look of “I trusted you.” But the look never came. Those big beautiful blue eyes were steely and determined in spite of the fear he knew was churning in the background and he felt a thrill of triumph. Essi was still with him in whatever this was about to turn into. Not only that, she was thinking something, devising a plan. Lambert hoped to Gods it wasn’t something stupid. What is it, Essi? What are you thinking?

As if in answer to his question, Essi tilted her head, seductively baring her neck to her aggressor as Lambert’s options quickly decreased, the other bandits starting to close in, clearly in no rush, confident that they could easily take one man even if he did have two swords on his back and eyes like a cat. Sure boys, that’s going to go real well for you. He did a quick circle, taking stock of their exact locations before turning back to Essi, watching carefully as her hand traced up the outside of the bandit’s right leg. Yes, Essi, come on, come on, come on… 

The man rasped something foul in her ear, but all she could hear was the sound of her ears ringing and her own heart beating out of her chest as she did her best to focus on the task at hand. She barely knew what she was doing, but the witcher was watching her every move intently, and that somehow made whatever she was about to do feel possible. She felt her thumb brush the cool handle of her dagger, and Lambert nodded almost imperceptibly. Do it. 

With a swift, fluid movement, she plunged the short blade into the man’s side and he roared in pain as his compatriots mulled around in confusion, their fisstech-addled minds still catching up. Lambert took the opportunity and sliced through the three nearest him with swift, clean strokes, focusing back in on Essi just in time to see her take a right hook to the face. She fell to the ground and blinked heavily, her vision blurry and head spinning. Her fingers found a large rock as a pair of meaty hands grabbed her legs, pulling her across the rough dirt road. She scrambled and turned, bringing the heavy rock squarely to the side of the man’s head with a sickening crack. He fell limply to the ground as the poet found her way to shaky legs, the makeshift weapon falling limply from her hand. 

From out of the chaos of grunts and screams and clanging weapons, Essi heard her name, “GET OUT, GO, GO!” It was Lambert. Without a second thought she stumbled the short distance to Ginger and mounted, bolting across the river and holding on for dear life. She rode until the horse slowed, until she wasn’t sure where she was or whether the river she’d stopped beside was the same river or a different one. Essi dismounted and only then noticed that her hands were shaking. Interesting, she thought, as she was overcome with trembling and heaving sobs. I suppose this is what they mean when they say ‘fear catches us later’. She sat on a boulder and listened to the clear water, waiting for Lambert to find her.

[handwrittenhello]

where the road then takes me

Prompt: Law of Surprise Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier/Renfri, Geralt/Renfri, Geralt/Jaskier, Jaskier & Renfri Rating: T Warnings: None Summary: When Jaskier runs into a pack of wild dogs while searching for his lost hen, he's lucky that Geralt is nearby to save him. But he has nothing to repay the witcher with except the Law of Surprise, and who do they find upon returning to the farm, but Jaskier's sister, Renfri, back early from marauding?

For @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo!

(ao3 link in reblog)

--

Jaskier, eighteen, had grand dreams.

They were little more than dreams, unfortunately, because seeing as how he and Renfri had grown up fending for themselves, stuck in a tiny village on the border of Creyden, he didn’t have much opportunity to go to school or learn to play the lute or anything, really, besides tending to the farm while Renfri got… freelance work elsewhere. That was all he cared to know about it—she would leave, and return home every couple of weeks with a decent bag of coin and blood-spattered clothes, which Jaskier would bitch about cleaning. She made enough for them to live, though not comfortably—Renfri had kept him fairly sheltered, but he knew that they were one of the poorer households in town.

Which was why Jaskier only dreamed of traveling the Continent, singing songs and weaving grand tales for the commonfolk. Instead, he was stuck here chasing down their old hen again, after the coop had blown down in the storm for the fourth time. Henrietta was a sneaky fucker, already gone by the time he woke up in the morning. He cursed but pulled on his boots and stumbled out into the cold morning air to look for her.

He cursed all the way to the edge of the forest, where she’d apparently disappeared into, judging by the tracks and the few scattered feathers he found. “Damned hen. Ought to just eat you and be done with it,” he muttered, pulling his cloak tighter around him before heading into the forest.

He followed her trail as the sun slowly rose, stopping when he heard barking in the distance. Fuck, he hoped that was the hunters’ dogs—he hadn’t thought to bring a knife to defend himself with. Whatever it was, he trudged onwards, because they couldn’t afford to lose a hen. Renfri would kill him if—when—she found out.

And then he heard it—familiar squawking, accompanied by those same barks, louder. He crept closer and saw exactly what he’d feared—a pack of wild dogs circled Henrietta, one of them darting in every so often to snap at her slashing claws. She was fending them off pretty handily, actually—Jaskier knew how vicious she could be firsthand.

But the dogs would no doubt attack in force soon, and then she’d have no chance. Without thinking, Jaskier picked up a rock and threw it at the nearest one, hitting it square in the nose. It recoiled and turned its attention away from Henrietta, which was exactly what he wanted.

Unfortunately, it turned its attention towards him, which was exactly what he didn’t want. “Oh, fuck,” he spat, and turned tail as the pack gave chase.

He dashed over tree roots and fallen logs, blind stupid terror coursing through his veins. He had no plan beyond don’t get caught—and he could only run for so long before tiring. He threw a glance backward and saw that they were gaining on him—and fast.

Not looking where was going, he was taken completely by surprise when he slammed into something hard, bouncing off it and landing with an oof on the mossy ground.

Dazed and still half-blind with fear, he didn’t even notice that he’d slammed into a person until they moved, stepping over him and taking on the dogs with an easy confidence, sword swinging with preternatural force.

Two swords, armor, incredible speed and fighting skills? As the man finished dispatching the last of the pack and turned around to reveal mutated cat eyes set in a heavily scarred face, Jaskier realized who the man was. He sucked in a sharp breath.

The witcher sheathed his sword, holding out a hand as if to calm Jaskier. “It’s alright,” he rumbled, voice full of gravel. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Jaskier picked his jaw up from where it had dropped. “I know that,” he answered, getting to his feet and half-heartedly brushing the dirt off himself. “You’re a witcher.”

“I am. Usually fight more dangerous things than wild dogs, though. Also don’t usually see unaccompanied kids running around being chased by them.”

“I had to get their attention somehow. Henrietta was—wait, Henrietta!” Jaskier, remembered, abruptly spinning on his heel and dashing back to where the pack had cornered her.

“Wait!” the witcher called from behind him, but Jaskier paid him no heed.

He was gratified to see that while he’d been running for his life, Henrietta had seen fit to begin making herself a nest right in the same spot. “Oh, aren’t we cozy?” he grumbled, creeping closer in an attempt to grab her. He was almost upon her when the witcher ruined it, crashing through the underbrush behind him and sending her clucking away just as Jaskier pounced.

Jaskier sighed and turned to face the witcher, who at least had the good grace to look a little guilty. The guilt soon disappeared, though, when Jaskier rounded on him and began to lecture. “Now look what you’ve done. It’ll take me ages to catch her,” he complained, watching as the witcher’s eyes grew incredulous.

“You risked your life for that scrawny thing?” the witcher asked, amused disbelief coloring his tone.

“That scrawny thing is probably the most valuable thing we own, so yes,” Jaskier snapped. He couldn’t stand it when out-of-towners looked at him like that, like he was a stupid farm boy who knew little more than dirt and chickens. Which, to be fair, he didn’t, but it wasn’t as if he wanted it that way.

The witcher’s face cleared to something more akin to understanding—thank the gods it wasn’t pity. “Then I suppose I owe it to you to help catch her,” he said, and in the blink of an eye he’d snatched Henrietta up. Jaskier accepted her into his arms somewhat stunned.

“Thank you,” he eventually managed to stammer. The witcher said nothing in return, and they stood there for a long, awkward moment, before Jaskier realized he was probably waiting for something. “Oh! I don’t—I don’t have anything to pay you with…” he trailed off, recalling all the old adages, that witchers never worked for free. Fuck. Renfri wouldn’t be home for days if not weeks still, and the only coin he had he needed to save for the market day after tomorrow.

The witcher began to speak—what it was he was going to say, Jaskier didn’t know, but he interrupted as an idea struck him. “But I can offer you the Law of Surprise!” he suggested, recalling the ballads of children promised to witchmen. “We’ve a bitch due for pups soon—perhaps we’ll return home and you’ll find yourself with a companion to warm the long nights on the road!”

“Hmm,” the witcher replied, but it wasn’t a no, so he figured that it probably meant he wasn’t about to be forced into the witcher’s debt. Humming, he led the way back to the farmstead, the witcher a silent, hulking protector at his back.

Once they arrived, Jaskier was quick to secure Henrietta in the barn, where normally there would be pigs, but now, after sickness had taken their only sow, there was only dust and hay and the occasional mouse. He left Henrietta to her mouse hunting and led the witcher to the cottage, throwing open the door, excited to see what surprise he might find.

“Jaskier, why the fuck have you brought a witcher home?” asked Renfri, perched on the table and cleaning underneath her fingernails with one of her many knives.

Jaskier paled. “Renfri! You’re—you’re not meant to be home yet,” he choked out.

“What, you’re not happy to see me?” she drawled, eyebrows knitting together. Jaskier, helpless, threw a glance back at the witcher, who was wearing a thunderous expression. Shit.

“I—not in this case, no,” Jaskier said tersely. “Fuck.”

“Some welcome,” she said faux-calmly, hopping down off the table. Jaskier recognized the tenseness in her form that spoke of a predator preparing to pounce. Sure enough, she lunged a moment later, her knife held a half-inch away from the witcher’s throat. Jaskier yelped. “Did he hurt you, Julek?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the witcher’s face.

“No, nothing of the sort, now put that down,” Jaskier hissed, tugging ineffectually at her arm. “He saved me, in fact, and…”

“And?” Renfri asked lowly.

“…and I may have promised him the Law of Surprise in return,” Jaskier finished all in a rush, wincing. “I swear, Ren, if I’d known…”

“That’s the thing about surprises,” the witcher interjected. “But you needn’t worry. I have no plans to claim your—sister?” Jaskier nodded. “As I said before, I need no payment.”

Renfri lowered her knife, and Jaskier breathed a bit easier for it. Renfri was a formidable fighter, but Jaskier doubted even her strength against a witcher. If a fight had broken out, he’d have had to—well, not help, because he was rather useless in a fight, but it was the principle of the matter.

“I suppose I could do worse for myself,” Renfri mused, looking Geralt over critically.

“Wait you’re—Renfri, he said he wouldn’t claim you, you don’t have to.”

“And what if I want to?” Renfri answered. “He seems a decent sort. And not too hard on the eyes, either.”

The witcher, looking uncomfortable, stood there and said nothing.

Jaskier threw his hands up. “You’re insane. And you!” he said, turning to the witcher. “Are you agreeing to this?”

“The life of a witcher isn’t well suited to… companionship,” the witcher replied, face twisted. “Walking the Path is difficult.”

“And if I promise that I can handle myself?” Renfri asked, twirling her knife in one of the many tricks she was proud of. “I’m no stranger to the road. It’s Jaskier you’d have to watch out for.”

“I resent that,” Jaskier said mildly, mostly out of principle. But the prospect was too exciting to dwell on it for long—was Renfri truly proposing that they set out with a witcher? “Ren, do you mean it?”

“If your witcher is fine with it, then I don’t see why not,” she replied. “What do you say, witcher?”

“Geralt,” the witcher corrected her. “If we’re to travel together, you ought to at least know my name.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeated. It rolled off the tongue wonderfully. “Oh, this is so exciting! I’m going to write so many songs, just wait,” he gushed. “The Witcher and the Shrike—I can hear it now.”

Renfri pulled him out of his thoughts with a cuff to the shoulder. “Ow,” he said mildly. “Wait—you are planning on sharing, right?” he interjected. “Because, I mean, look at him.”

“Am I a toy to be shared among siblings?” Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Is that a no, you don’t want to sleep with both of us? Because I’ll respect that, I will, but also, not to objectify you or whatever, but dear gods please, I think my poor heart might break if I didn’t get to fuck you at least once.”

“Jaskier! Leave my Husband Surprise alone,” Renfri said, shoving him away. “Go get packed. Essentials only!”

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” Jaskier placated, raising his hands in surrender. “Don’t get up to anything while I’m gone, you lovebirds.”

As he left, Geralt turned to Renfri. “Is he always like this?”

“Yeah, he’s chronically stupid. Gets it from our father.”

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?”

“Don’t know, but it’s too late now. You’re stuck with us, witcher,” Renfri replied, looping an arm around Geralt’s.

Geralt made a show of sighing, but in truth, he wasn’t annoyed as all that. At least it would make life more interesting.

[allmights-right-boob]

Not fic: Cursed Twilight addition

So I’m about to have my BNHA rights revoked but I just finished Midnight Sun (at the time when I started writing this) and started thinking about the characters and that Rosalie and Bakugo are weirdly similar so now here I am outlining a Twilight Au that no one asked for (except me but I’m garbage) that I will never write because I can’t focus long enough to write an actual story (fun fact this outline is taking months to complete). To be honest though this is more of a background on all the characters as opposed to an outline of the Twilight story (oops) which may or may not come later. Author’s notes are in parenthesis if you haven’t figured that out.

Basically I’m replacing Twilight characters with BNHA characters, not everyone will have the same back story, it’ll be blended(future me: um so that was a lie). Everyone’s quirks are still mostly the same but as their vampire gift with some variation to fit the word. It still takes place in the Pacific north-west because I’m not super sure if there’s a place as cloudy as there in Japan besides the mountains like Mt.Fuji (but that’s more misty I think) but there’s too many people around places like that I feel. But then again I’m not actually writing this whole fic so you’re welcome to imagine them still in Japan. If I did write this as a fic I would actually do proper research to decide where to put them but meh, this is a not-fic. As it is I’m calling the town it would take place in Forks/Crossroads cause that would be a cool alternative name. The backgrounds take place all over the word but I never actually say where. My bad.

Also if you do read this I love you very much and I am so sorry, this is ramble-y and has way too many run-on sentences and is written as if I were speaking to you as opposed to an actual written story. It’s also taken so long to complete things I wasn’t sure about in the beginning become solidified later but it’s also written out of order so probably reads really bad. Again my apologies.

So the characters are as follows:

The Olympic Coven/Cullens - The Might Coven/Aizawa-Yagis

Carlisle Cullen- Toshinori Yagi

So obviously I made Toshi Carlisle because suave blond everyone loves is both of their MO. Toshi is probably around 500 years old and like Carlisle was turned while hunting vampires. I still want him to have two forms but I’m not entirely sure how to do that within the confines of the Twilight universe. Maybe he was injured in a battle where he literally lost parts of himself and can’t fully heal so he’s become weak but still can’t die? He’s a doctor but might be semi-retired because of his injury, the cover story is an undisclosed chronic illness. He’s also a part time stay at home dad. He definitely used his vampirism to help and protect humans in the past.

Probably had a coven when he was younger with Nana and Torino but Nana was killed and Torino sent Toshi away for his own safety. He may or may not have started out as vegetarian, I can see Nana as veg or only eats bad people, Torino is an eats bad guys type but will eat anyone when pressed. Toshi either started out as a vegetarian before meeting Nana or if she found him immediately and took him in he would go animal based pretty quickly, She always respected his lifestyle. Grand Torino respects it to an extent but now that Toshi is hurt wants him to drink from humans because he thinks it’ll help Toshinori heal or at least be better for his body. He was in his 40s when turned.

Esme Cullen- Shouta Aizawa

It should surprise literally no one that I’m making this Erasermight because I am soft for my boys and anything is an excuse to ship them. Shouta is honestly the person who has taken the longest to work out along with Shinsou. Like so, so, long. These two are also related, they’re cousins or uncle/nephew or something. They’re also the most different from their counterparts, probably because it’s taken so long for me to work their stories out I’ve just completely changed them from original Twilight.

So the time period is really vague with him, it’s either the late 1800s or WWI. Hitoshi was an orphan around the age of 12 and Shouta his guardian is 30-31. Either way there was a war (and I looked at the wars in the second half of the 1800s, it’s just so many wars. What is wrong with this world?) and it could have easily been the civil war (and if so they were Unionist, obviously.) But wherever he and Hitoshi lived there was a war happening and he was probably not in the army at the time, just protecting his home and neighbors. At the same time Toshinori and Izuku were in the area trying to help civilians because wars suck and they’re basically un-killable so they can help and with the chaos of everything if someone started to suspect something of them they could fake their deaths and leave. And they probably did. But while traveling through they stop in a town/village and meet Shouta and Hitoshi.

Shouta is his gruff no nonsense self and Hitoshi is a little in awe of Yagi because this is still pre-injury so he’s this huge imposing man who’s gentle and knowledgeable about medicine. Eventually even Shouta comes around to liking Yagi, who has the nickname All Might because of his strength, even though he thinks his over the top enthusiasm in front of others is exhausting. In private Toshi ends up letting his guard and persona down with Aizawa because he realizes he doesn’t have to keep it up, he doesn’t need to make Aizawa like and trust him the way he does with the others, it’s just natural the way they click. Toshi probably fell in love first, vampires fall in love fast and long and all encompassing in a way that if they were human would be rather unhealthy (and probably is anyway because this is fiction but I don’t really care because this is fiction and I relate to unhealthy love way too much). Shouta was more reserved because he is a cautious man by nature and probably loves in a similar but more healthy way to vampires, long and devoted, but he must be careful to whom he gives his heart. I still don’t think he meant to fall for Toshinori, loving a man in the time that they lived was dangerous and inadvisable if one could avoid it. But Toshinori Yagi is the kind of man one cannot help but loving.

They didn’t tell each other how they felt though. A few months after Izuku and Toshinori’s arrival there was an attack on the town, Hitoshi they found safe but Toshinori caught wind of Shouta’s scent and followed, finding him mortally wounded. Desperate to keep him Toshi turned him and split off from Izuku and Hitoshi while Shouta adjusted to vampire life. They quickly became lovers, though Shouta had a brief stint as a human blood drinker as revenge for the destruction of his village. But it started to test their relationship and in the end Toshi and his own morals were more important to him than human blood. The four of them reunite a year later and they try to keep their relationship a secret but both of the boys figure it out pretty quickly. Izuku accepts it immediately because his dad is finally with someone and is happy while it takes Hitoshi a bit of time because period typical homophobia and it’s going to take a while for Yagi to earn his trust back after turning Aizawa in front of him.

Aizawa has an erasure power same as in canon. Since he doesn’t need to blink he’s a bit op but opponents who are faster than his eyes can track and multiple opponents are his weaknesses. He’s a history teacher at Forks/Crossroads high but purposefully does not have his own kids as students. He’s a mystery to most of his colleagues who probably haven’t even figured out he’s got five kids in the school.

Rosalie Hale- Katsuki Bakugo

Bakugo has a pretty similar start to Rosalie but because what happened to her is so awful and  I have problems doing that even to fictional characters that part is different. He’s still a rich kid from the early 20th century, probably turned in the 1920s, but he and his explosive temperament pissed off the wrong people who jumped him in an alley and beat him almost to death, like actually thought he was dead so they left him there (I know this isn’t that much better than what happened to Rose but man she had a horrific end to her human life). He was around 17-18 when he was turned.

While human he had met Dr. Yagi, who was probably treating one of his parents for a chronic ailment, along with his son Izuku and his ‘companion’ Aizawa and Aizawa’s ward Hitoshi. All of the others gave him the creeps but Izuku was a relatively normal boy, a bit younger than himself and accompanied his father when visiting the Bakugos. Their relationship is pretty much the same as canon where Izuku likes Bakugo a lot and Bakugo is nothing but awful to him. They end up with a sort of ‘I hate you but you’re my best friend’ relationship except neither actually hates the other. When Yagi finds Bakugo half dead in an alley he turns him because he was weirdly fond of the angry young man and more so because he thought that the relationship between the two boys was growing into something more, he and Izuku hadn’t talked about it, as he was waiting for his son to come to him, and he didn’t have time to ask. He realizes later that no, Katsuki and Izuku are not star crossed lovers like he and Shouta but he can’t say he regrets turning Bakugo other than Bakugo’s own hatred of being a vampire. He loves his angry son okay.

Bakugo had a life goal which was probably taking over the family business though based off canon that would be fashion and I can’t see him interested in that. Whatever it was he was pursuing it with the same single mindedness that he possesses for heroism and since he can no longer achieve his goals as a vampire he resents it along with the fact that the decision to become a vampire or die a human was taken away from him. He does have a good relationship with Toshinori and Shouta even though he still acts like a brat. His cover story is that he’s Toshinori’s cousin’s son and is an orphan who they took in. He kept his family’s name.

Like a number of vampires Bakugo has a talent or gift. His is his incredibly powerful and dangerous explosion ability. He can cause explosions from his palms. So far the League has not discovered him but everyone worries that one day they will and the Might Coven will be hunted and slaughtered for Bakugo’s power.

Emmett Cullen- Eijirou Kirishima

Sometime around the 1930s  Bakugo was hunting and found a bleeding almost dead Kirishima. It was either an animal attack like canon or an accident where he fell off a cliff (that feels like something he would do). I don’t think he decided to turn Kirishima, he just smelled blood and lost control. He’s still ashamed about how he reacted to this day as he’s typically better than that around humans. Luckily the others were hunting with him and were able to pull Bakugo off. He’s never held what Bakugo did against him and his enthusiasm and friendship actually endeared him to Katsuki despite his guilt. Eijirou was turned at 19 and has never had issues with being a vampire, it sucks that he had to leave his human family behind but he loves his vampire one just as much and he got the love of his life out of it. It took awhile but Katsuki and Eijirou eventually admit their feelings and they start dating. They’ve been married a few times now because Bakugo is extra and Eijirou loves confessing his love.

With Kirishima’s gift it doesn’t work the same as in cannon where you can tell it’s activated. In fact they still might not know Kiri has a gift or if they do it’s only a suspicion. He’s just harder than the other marble like vampires. Where the others have almost certainly had mild injuries (mostly from Bakugo’s explosions) like cracks that heal immediately, Eijirou has never been injured as a vampire. At all. He’s also immensely strong, because he was as a human, and that has been enhanced but he’s nowhere near as strong as Toshi was pre-injury. His cover story is he’s a foster kid they took in and he keeps the last name Kirishima.

Alice Cullen- Denki Kaminari

Like Alice Denki spent the end of his human life in an insane asylum (I refer to it as such because these were not hospitals and more like institutions of torture). I honestly can’t figure out if mental health care was so bad in the early/mid 20th century that a 15-16 year old boy with ADHD being sent to one is unrealistic or not. I’m pretty sure it was similar to Alice where he saw something he shouldn’t and was put in it to silence him.( I should probably figure out what that was sometime) Either way that’s where he ended up and of course he had to deal with electroshock ‘therapy’ which both severely messed with his memory and sorta brought out a natural resistance and even control over electricity, so he had to receive stronger and stronger sessions. This manifested in Denki’s electric power when he was turned into a vampire.

While hunting in the woods surrounding the institution, Hitoshi spotted Denki in the window and was instantly taken by the boy with eyes as golden as his inhuman family’s. He would make trips by the asylum just to get a glimpse and eventually took a night job there to meet him against his family’s advice. When they met Denki recognized him despite how careful, and honestly far away, Hitsohi had been and instead of being creeped out he was happy just to make a new friend. They would talk as long as they could and Hitoshi would bring Denki little bits of the outside world like flowers or decent snacks. And he would take care of Kaminari when his ‘therapies’ would leave him incapacitated and the nursing staff would neglect him.

Even after his family moved away to a location where the weather suited them better Hitoshi stayed working at the asylum not willing to leave Denki to his fate there (And to note this is around the time the others realized how serious Hitoshi’s feelings are and start planning how to help Kaminari or bring him into the family. Before this they were starting to suspect but kinda thought he was being weird about a guy he saw in a window. To be fair though he was being weird about a guy he saw in a window.) One night after an ice bath ‘treatment’ Denki developed a fever and over the course of a few days had full blown pneumonia. In his delirium he confessed his feelings to Shinsou who reciprocated and decided he would steal Denki away when he knew the trip back to his family wouldn’t kill the sick boy. Of course being a poorly run and over populated institution his condition was overlooked and ignored especially since a ‘specialist’ was coming to perform procedures on several patients, aka some guy with no degree was going to lobotomize as many people as he could fit into one day. Shinsou didn't find out until he came in that night and found out Kaminari was already in the procedure room. He flipped out and killed most of the staff there and took a severely injured Denki home to Toshinori in the hopes of saving him.

The change seemed to take longer than it had for the others but does end up working, though when he finally comes to Denki is much more quiet and subdued and remembers almost nothing about his past. All he knows is his name, Hitoshi’s name, and that he loves him. He also has weird headaches periodically for decades later and slowly becomes more like himself before the lobotomy. He never fully recovers his memories, a bit here and a piece there, all moments shared with Hitoshi. He decides he doesn’t need the rest, everything he needs is here and in his future with his family.

His cover story is typically as a foster kid so he keeps his last name Kaminari. Sometimes he decides to change things up and goes as a Yagi or even Bakugo’s brother when Katsuki is feeling generous.

Jasper Hale- Hitoshi Shinsou

Hitoshi’s early years were spent in his small town or village (I think the difference is size but I’m american and I don’t think we have villages no matter how small a place is so...) Everything was uneventful up until the war, I don’t know which war, civil war in US or WWI in Europe, but around the age of 12 his village was destroyed, his guardian was turned into a vampire and he had to go live with Izuku while Aizawa learned to manage his bloodlust. During that time he and Izuku grew really close and even now they have the most brotherly relationship out of all the siblings.

So after a year the four reunite with a vampire Shouta and an overly protective Izuku and a very weary Hitoshi. Everything goes on as it did for Toshinori and Izuku before they split but now with their two new additions. Yagi gives Hitoshi the best education he can without sending him to boarding school although they had discussed it. They were in a precarious position with a human boy knowing their vampire secret and they couldn’t run the risk of news getting back to the League, the governing body of vampires run by a mysterious head known only as All for One.

Years pass but unfortunately news of the Might Coven’s human pet gets back to the League and due to past history involving Nana and Toshi, AfO comes himself to deal with the situation and brings his two most powerful underlings, his adopted son and second in command Tomura Shigaraki and . A fight between Yagi and All for One happens and AfO rips out a piece of Toshi’s side and Toshi ends up crushing AfO’s head, killing him (maybe but probably not). Tomura, who had been fighting against Shouta and Toga who battled Izuku, realize they can’t win.

Now the vampire known as All Might is pretty popular amongst his kind but the Might Coven was at the time nowhere near strong enough or influential enough to fill the void that would be left by the dissolution of the League, which would happen if they killed all three of the vampires there. So they took a gamble and spared Shigaraki and Toga thinking their loyalty to AfO was limited, since most vampires don’t form bonds the way ‘vegetarians’ seem to, and that they would be happy with their promotion. They also agreed at Hitoshi’s insistence that he would be turned so they would no longer have a human knowing the secret about vampires. So Yagi turns Hitoshi and they let Toga and Shigaraki go and continue about their lives as much as they can with Toshinori’s injury.

Just like the rest of his family, Shinsou's quirk is the same as canon. If someone answers his question he can control their minds. It’s probably a little stronger than in canon too, at least against humans. Vampires have better resistance. His cover story is the most truthful, he’s Shouta’s orphan relative. He sometimes takes on Aizawa’s last name though in this school he decided to use his original.

Edward Cullen- Izuku Midoriya

The more I plot this out the more I’m taking Twilight, stripping it down to the bare outline, and making it into something totally different. Like the only similarities are Izuku and Shoto’s relationship follows Bella and Edwards, somewhat. Izuku is the tanned skinned, freckled, green eyed boy in a family of pale golden eyed outsiders. He seems completely human even to other vampires, til you get him in the sunlight where he literally shines.

I’m not sure when Izuku was born, maybe the 1700s, but he was still the first of the Might Coven besides Toshinori. Sometime after Nana’s death Toshi finds an ailing pregnant woman named Inko Midoriya who’s bizarre husband still hasn’t come home from his business trip to a foreign country. She’s convinced she is going to die before he returns and her pregnancy is so hard and so seemingly fast but her baby feels strong enough to survive so she begs Toshinori to please take care of her son till his father returns. Inko dies before she can give birth to her baby so Toshinori takes the baby out himself as a last ditch effort but there’s something not right, not with the baby or the amniotic sac that’s almost as hard as Toshinori himself. And when the sun shines through the window Toshinori’s arm glimmers and so does the new born baby. Dread at the thought that he’s holding an immortal child wells in him but he’s never heard of an immortal child being born and he’s especially never heard of a vampire with a heart beat. So against his better judgement he takes the child and runs, he can’t wait for Inko’s husband, and he can’t risk someone seeing the child and reporting back to the League. So he and Izuku, a name Inko had picked out before her death, stay on the run for years as the boy grew until he was at an appropriate age to be around at least vampire kind. Conveniently the half vampire boy doesn’t need blood to survive and seems to have very little if any bloodlust at all. Or so it seemed.

Now some differences I’m making will be Izuku’s aging. I know Rennesme ages fast and stops when she looks 21-25 but I’m thinking Izuku either ages very slowly or stopped when he looks closer to 15-18? Probably the first one. Also I think male half-vamps have red/gold eyes but Izuku has green because I said so.

His cover story is that he's Toshinori’s son from a previous relationship. They tried to call him a foster child in the past but they’re too close and Izuku uses Toshinori’s given name and dad interchangeably. He likes to use his mom’s last name as a way to honor her. Not every school but it is a pretty common thing for him to do and he’s using it in Forks/Crossroads this year. He doesn’t seem to have a gift but he’s a half vampire, his presence is a gift.

Humans

Bella Swan- Shoto Todoroki

Time for ‘technically main character number two but I preferred everyone else in Twilight over Edward and Bella so he and Izuku get put down lower on the list’. So Todoroki and Bella’s similarities are: new kid comes to live with other parent after the parent they lived with got married. I really don’t think there’s a lot else similar? But Bella doesn’t have that much back story to begin with.

So Shoto’s parents grew up in Forks/Crossroads but moved somewhere sunnier before he was born. He grew up in a city, maybe Phoenix (almost certainly Phoenix for the name alone). His parents had an unhappy marriage but I honestly don’t think it was full on abuse, I feel like Enji still neglected them but never physically or verbally hurt anyone. And since Shoto moves back in with Rei I don’t think she gave him his scar either, I think it was an accident where young Shoto pulled maybe a hot kettle onto himself? It probably was the catalyst for his parents divorce but ultimately that was happening either way. Both parents blamed the other for his accident but I think the courts realized it was just that, an accident, maybe some negligence (I don’t really know how custody courts work and what happens when a kid gets hurt and this isn’t a real fic so I’m not researching) but either way Enji gets Shoto (maybe all the kids but Rei gets visitation, comes down for the summer like Charlie? Kids go up there for vacation and holiday? Or split the kids 50/50? No idea this is still more backstory than Bella got) Enji is still a workaholic and Toya ends up running away/leaving probably shortly after the divorce anyway and Fuyumi and Natsuo eventually leave for college and are still closer to Rei even if they lived with their dad.

So when Enji gets remarried Shoto asks to move in with his mom since she’s all alone and Enji wouldn’t be and ‘wouldn’t it be nice to just be two newly weds with the house to themselves’. He makes a very convincing case and Enji is trying to let his youngest make his own choices so he agrees. Shoto moves north and it isn’t the worst, he likes both the heat and the cold unlike his parents, Rei hates the heat and Enji hates the cold. School is weird because people actually want to be his friend; there’s a group of stoic, pale, intimidating students he’s 90% sure are vampires; and there’s a  beautiful boy who hangs out with them who looks partially horrified and disgusted by him, or like he wants to eat him alive, literally.

Renee Dwyer- Enji Todoroki (Technically)

So I ended up making Enji considerably less awful.

After the divorce Enji figures out his sexuality and eventually starts dating a much younger model who goes by Hawks after he saves him from a burning building (Enji is a firefighter). Shoto offers to move in with Rei after Hawks and Enji get married, he has nothing against Hawks and they get along as well as can be expected but they are newly weds and Enji might be going into semi retirement to travel with Hawks for his career. And the thought of being around his dad so much, who can get a little overbearing when not working, is just not something Shoto wants to deal with. Though it is weird his dad is married to someone so much younger, Shoto knows several other people in his class in Phoenix whose dads did similar and they cheated on their wives and didn’t even have a sexuality crisis in their forties so he’s letting his dad slide on this. Shoto definitely has a better relationship with Enji in this than canon Shoto but they don’t have Enji’s shity eugenics baggage here either. Overall Enji in this is just a neglectful workaholic who’s learning to work on himself with the guidance of the love of his life and is letting Shoto make his own decisions like living with his mom and this is all growth.

Charlie Swan- Rei Todoroki (Technically)

So Rei after the divorce moves back home because she hates Phoenix and hot weather. Maybe she gets custody in the summer or has Fuyumi and Natsuo since Toya took off and they split the kids? (I still haven’t decided how the custody went with those two but they don’t live in Forks/Crossroads or Phoenix so it doesn’t matter.)

After returning home she either started working at or opened up a yarn shop, I see her enjoying needle craft and she’s definitely not a sheriff type. She’s just a quiet, keeps to herself woman with a few close friends; children mostly grown and just happy to spend more time with her youngest.

Phil Dwyer- Keigo Takami

He’s a model who gets saved by Enji when his apartment burns down. He offers to take Enji to dinner and keeps offering to reward him until at Moe’s insistence Enji agrees. They hit it off and the rest is history.

Things I would have said in the tags but there’s a limit so I put the actual important stuff there and ramblings here:

It took me three weeks to finish this (midnight sun) audiobook. I literally drive for a living and couldn’t finish it in less than the entirety of my library rental time. Jake Able deserves more money.

I have read twilight three times now and it never gets easier. Yes I do have terrible taste.

I hope someone reads this. It took like three months to finish this post. I still have so much in my head. I haven’t even started talking about the League. Please ask questions, I want to actually write this but my brain won’t let me write full fics so this is what we get.

[fluffynexu]

Astralignment

and the Korribani Calendar System

Before the arrival of the Exiles the native Sith on Korriban had their own system of keeping track of time. Over the years, this became standardized and refined and is still in use by a large portion of the modern Pureblood community. Since the ancient Sith were observant beings of their world, many of the names and symbols reflected their natural environment. All of these aspects go into what is known as a Sith’s astralignment (astro-alignment).

Since the Empire runs on Imperial Standard Time (IST), anything relating to Korriban or any other Imperial world is referred by the local time of that planet.

Compare a year on  Dromund Kaas to Korriban:

Dromund Kaas (everything in standard)

24 hours/day

312 days/year

7,488 hours/year

60 minutes = 1 hour

24 hours = 1 day

5 days = 1 week

7 weeks = 1 month

35 days = 1 month

8 months (+4 weeks and 4 holidays) = 1 year

312 (standard)days = 1 year

Korriban

28 (standard) hours/day

780 (local) days/year

21,840 (standard) hours/year

70 (standard and local) minutes = 1 hour

24 (local) hours = 1 day

10 (local) days = 1 week

6.5 (local) weeks = 1 month

65 (local) days = 1 month

12 (local) months = 1 year

780 (local) days = 1 year

This roughly makes 1 Korribani year approximately 2.9 [Dromund] Kaasi years.

Calendars

The days on Korriban are annotated on some versions of the Imperial calendar alongside the standard days.

In this example, names of the days on the calendar reflect the IST. The black numbers indicate the date in IST, the red numbers represent the date of the Korribani calendar. Placement of the Korribani date indicate when that day begins in relation to the Kaasi one.

A. 00:00 is the same for both. B. 00:00 K starts at 04:00 DK. C. 00:00 K starts at 08:00 DK. D. 00:00 K starts at 12:00 DK. E. 00:00 K starts at 16:00 DK. F. 00:00 K starts at 20:00 DK. G. Loops back around and 00:00 K lines up 00:00 DK .

While seemingly complicated to some, most Sith have grown with this system of overlapping calendars and can easily tell the date by the positioning of the numbers in this format. 

There are of course, electronic versions where the date is shown simply:

Since the Korribani month is longer than the Kaasi one, the dates will continue through the Kaasi months. These next two pictures show how long 1 Korribani month is in relation to a Kaasi one.

There is also a version of the Korribani calendar that does not overlap with IST. These are used locally on the planet.

The days of the Korribani week were named after major gods from the most widespread pantheon on the planet:

Ahmuriq, from Ahmurn: the creator god.

Marseriq, from Marserha: mother goddess of the Sith.

Bashariq, from Bashara: goddess of passion.

Teraiq, from Teral: god of protection and justice.

Iskarliq, from Iskarln: god(dess) of conflict and war.

Marduriq, from Mardur: patron god of the Massassi and strength.

Rusaniq, from Rusanel: goddess of knowledge.

Zefiriq, from Zefir: goddess of the hunt.

Shumariq, from Shumari: god of the harvest.

Goruiq, from Gorul: the trickster god(dess).

Months

There are numerous constellations in the Korribani sky. Twelves of these mark the months of the year as well as going into the astalignment. The 12 major, monthly constellations all depict local fauna from ancient fables and have certain characteristics that are commonly associated with them.

1. Yuninchâtsutuyok, the jiminat and agzonûboj engaged in eternal conflict. Dedicated, ambitious, and insightful.

2. Qyalatuyok, the qyalak. Calm, sentimental, and inquisitive.

3. Badzuriqatuyok, the badzuriqash. Tenacious, practical, and direct.

4. Kaarjontuyok, the kaarjontû. Spontaneous, contemplative, and observant.

5. Tukatatuyok, the tukata. Loyal, respectful, and staunch.

6. Hatyatuyok, the hatya. Articulate, perceptive, and adaptable.

7. Lomaituyok, the lomait. Disciplined, fearless, and competitive.

8. Dzushatuyok, the dzushaj. Private, calculating, and flexible.

9. Mowhetuyok, the mowhef. Stern, traditional, and ruthless.

10. Dyaltituyok, the dyaltir. Mischievous, studious, and charismatic.

11. Jhan’dikanatuyok, the lost dikana. Creative, sociable, and resourceful.

12. Niqoituyok, the niqoit. Erudite, cunning, and free-spirited.

Years

The years are also represented by local animals. No one, not even Sith scholars or historians, are sure of the origin of how these animals came to represent the years on Korriban’s calendar. It is one of the many parts of Sith culture that have been lost since it is believed this particular record has been passed down through oral tellings.

The years are kept track of in a 6-year cycle with each year emphasizing a likely success for the ones born in that year.

Chiroik - Wealth

Wokinai - Knowledge

Natûsh - Fame

Dzenal - Influence

Litskoj - Power

Sulemish - Longevity

(ie. Those born in the year of the Sulemish will have a long life.) This again factors into a Sith’s astralignment.

In addition to the years, these 6 animals are also used for the hours on Korriban. But time is not conveyed in the same manner as Basic. While in Basic one would simply say “14:25” (or two twenty-five in the afternoon) the Sith have a much more involved way to convey time.

For example: Shyracks screech and return to their caves as the priestess prepares the altar in the hour of the wokinai.

Translates to: 07:15 local time (or seven fifteen in the morning).

As a side note, a few centuries ago Darth Feras domesticated and bred wrats within the Empire. At first they weren’t seen with much interest by her peers. But popular rumor has it that she pointed out her creations embody the physical traits of the yearly beasts.

Eyes - Chiroik

Ears - Wokinai

Body - Natûsh

Hands - Dzenal

Feet - Litskoj

Tail - Sulemish

Afterwards they quickly became a favored pet and companion among the Sith, being seen as an auspicious animal.

While not related to their calendar there is a tradition of being assigned a birth flower. For this, the Sith do not look to their skies but rather, when a child is born the placenta is buried in a pot with 12 seeds. The first of these seeds to sprout becomes that Sith’s birth flower. These 12 flowers are also used in medicine, therapeutic or preventive, for some common ailments.

Serla for headaches.

Roshal for good eyesight.

Nashkir for sore throats.

Atsudqâ for heart health.

Hyaranjat for good digestion.

Mûyoin for muscle pain.

Shasâyar for fertility.

Jûzon for blood circulation.

Ashanin for bone mending.

Qoyo for fevers.

Chisiqsanu for irritated ridge skin.

Kûsk’inti for fatigue and replenishing energy.

The last two parts that go into a Sith’s astalignment are their energies. The weekly energies correspond with 4 classic “elements” of earth, fire, air, and water. While the daily energy simply refers to day or night (d/n) in regards to when the person was born.

Combined with all aspects mentioned in this document, year, month, weekly energy, day (+energy), and flower, one can study a Sith’s astalignment.  ex. Darth Vowrawn’s astalignment factors:

The study of these astralignments is a complicated field on to its own while the findings can be very important to some among the Sith. There are specialized scholars who offer their services to the old families so that the “perfect matches” (marriage, business, or otherwise) can be set up.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

aaaaahhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IT’S DONE. i feel like frodo at mt. doom after the ring is destroyed omg... ;-;

SOOOO. i wanted, and i mean REALLY wanted, to finish this for lunar new year (for pretty obvious reasons lol)...... :,) welp. then i was like “i can do may 4″ lol NOPE. but here we are! still technically sith day? whatever. imma say I Did It. :D

also pls don’t laugh at my stupid drawings. i already know i can’t art. ok??? >,<

special thanks to @snootysith​ for giving me a bunch of sithy names and words for me to use. c: like y’all... coming up with fake words, that look and sound ok is really HARD (for my dumbass anyway)

other worldbuilding posts that are... sorta mentioned/used in this:

@inquisitorhotpants​‘s dk calendar

BOOS! x3

and some other stuff ....

but uh, yea. if you’re wondering “hang on there fluffy... did you really make a big, dumbass zodiac/astrology post??” the answer is...

yes.

yes i did... xU

but also i imagine the ancient sith had a lot of special and important dates for you know... religious things? *shrug* and over the many, many years all of this was passed down and prob altered in some way to fit into modern sith society? idk...

now imma say some things here bc i know For A Fact!!! that ppl don’t go onto original posts to read op tags on this hellsite lol.

and this isn’t me trying to sound like an arrogant asshole... but these are for some common questions that’ll undoubtedly come up:

yes, you can use this in any extent or manner.

no, you obvs don’t have to. ignore it if you want. i’ll be ok lol.

no, i’m not gonna write a long ass book with all the little details on every aspect of all the traits and then assign these things for your character(s). just make something up. that’s what i did here xD (plus my brain is d e a d from this)

yes, this is seen as a mostly(!) tomato pureblood sith thing but obvs attitudes are different between individuals. some are super into it, some could careless and think it’s all fake news, some have parents that care too much about it which is annoying and interfering with their life so they lowkey hate it lol.

no, i couldn’t do a read more bc it wouldn’t look as nice and i worked hard ok? ;-; i apologize for clogged dashes in advance.

i think that’s it? ofc feel free to hmu if you’re ok with a reply that can take anywhere from a few min to 3 business days ^-^;

[obihoekenobi]

title: sandstorm

pairings: din djarin/reader/cobb vanth

ratings: explicit

warnings: smut, threesome, unprotected sex

word count: 4,311k

What happens when a sandstorm, a Marshal and a Mandalorian turn up on your doorstep?

An afternoon to remember.

Link to AO3

You think it's a mirage at first, as you look out towards the horizon.

You straighten up from the ground, shielding your eyes against the twin sun's, as you try to make out the blurred figures.

Your Bantha, Mirta, snuffs against your arm as if to remind you she's still there. You place a hand on her in comfort, as you try to figure out if you're seeing things. You don't get many visitors out this way. The closest town was Mos Pelgo and those folk didn't often have reason to venture out from the haven their small town provided. If it could even be called that, between the Tusken raiders and the Krayt dragon.

Mirta stirs restlessly beside you, as you become aware of the wind picking up around you. Another day, another kriffin' sandstorm.

As you cast another look out, you realize the figures accelerating towards you are on speeders, dust kicking up behind them as they try to escape the coming storm.

With a sigh, you wipe your hands with the towel that hangs from your waist. You cast one last glance at your fast approaching guests, as you herd Mirta inside.

She was the runt of the litter, and just small enough to fit through the wide door into your storage room. You pull the tarp down to protect from the worst of it, as you fondly watch her settle down in some discarded blankets. You both knew it was a pretense at this point, pretending she should sleep outside. More often than not, she ended up in here.

"Behave", you say, pointing a finger at her in warning. You don't have to see her eyes through the thick fur, to know she's staring balefully at you.

You're interrupted from the staring contest, at the sound of speeders drawing to a stand outside.

Pulling your goggles down from where they rest on your forehead, and wrapping your shawl back around your head, you peel away the tarp and step back out into the elements.

Sand buffets against your exposed skin, as you try to take in the two men. Even after years of experience, you still flinch as sand rolls over you and streaks across the protective transparisteel of your goggles.

Wasting no time, you gesture the men after you, as you enter the sanctuary of your home.

You do your best to shake the excess sand off, as you wait from them in the entry way. You can't help but shake your head as you recognize who it is.

The marshal of Mos Pelgo, Cobb Vanth.

You wonder what he was thinking now, as he ducked inside your home. He always did warn you about the dangers of living alone, and here you were welcoming him and his friend into your home without a second thought.

Speaking of his friend, you send him an assessing look, as he steps in hesitantly after his companion and closes the door behind him, the noise from the storm cutting off with a shrill whistle until it sounds distant and muted. You don't see many Mandalorian out this way. You don't see many people, period.

"Much obliged, ma'am", Cobb says, easing his own goggles up over his head and shaking free the sand like a Mastiff pup. He shoots you a disarming grin, somehow managing to look dashing with his skin covered in a film of dirt.

You just barely stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

"Don't make me regret it", you say dryly, as you begin to divest yourself of your gear.

Cobb joins you in stacking his outerwear in a nearby cubby, but not before shooting a look at his friend. You file it away for later, as you watch the Mandalorian shift nervously on your doorstep.

"You don't have to take anything off, but I don't want you tracking sand inside", you say, shooting a mournful look around the already messy hallway, "you can clean up in privacy, if you go in through the door on the left".

It was a washroom, if it could even called that. It had a mirror, a stool and a sonic that didn't worked more often than not. Still, it should let him clean up without any prying eyes, if that was his problem.

When Cobb sends you a grateful look, you know you're right. You both watch the other man disappear through the door.

"He's the shy type", he whispers, jokingly, as he empties the sand from his boots. He knows the house rules after all.

"Not unlike yourself", you say, unable to contain the quip. He treats you to another blinding grin, and you're glad your face is still covered, as you feel it heat up in response.

"You know what I'm like", he says, falling into the familiar banter, "always a man of few words".

"I don't think I can keep this joke up much longer", you reply, finally unwinding the shawl from around your face, winching as become aware of the sand still clinging to your skin. You use the fabric to wipe away the excess, as you eye the other up and down.

"What happened to your armour?", you ask, as you finally realize why he looks so different. You didn't notice it at first, distracted by the blood red scarf he had used to cover his upper half. He looks strange without it, vulnerable somehow.

"It was returned to it's rightful owner", he replies easily, in that way you find so infuriating. It's like nothing bothers him.

You're interrupted before you can say anything, by the re-emergence of your other guest. You can't help but envy him, as you realise he looks no worse for wear.

"Well, come on in", you say, for lack of anything better.

They follow you down the narrow hall into the main room. Both have to duck through the door, to fit inside. You busy yourself with preparing dinner, as you let them get their bearings.

You've taken it in a million times now. From the bare walls to the rounded ceiling, the room was filled with all the necessities for life in the desert. The kitchen was where you retreated to, as you listened to the men seat themselves at your table.

"What brought you out this far?", you ask, as you rifle through your cupboards. Usually you settled for a small, simple meal, a mixture of things you had farmed yourself or traded for when you made your monthly trip to Mos Eisley.

"Well, my friend here, he insisted we had to visit, after I described the vision of the wastes".

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, this time you don't bother to hide the eye roll.

"Tap the table twice if you're being kept against your will, Mandalorian".

He makes a rasping sound from beneath his helmet in response, like a laugh that's been cut off too soon. You notice the way the Marshal's eyes flicker towards him, both of you cataloging the sound.

"Are you kidding, this guy can't get enough of me", Cobb replied, "he came all the way back to this rock to visit lil ol' me".

"I find that hard to believe", you say, as you carry a tray of simple food over. It's mishmash of dried meats and pickled vegetables, with Mirta's milk as the crowning feature.

You listen to Cobb as he recounts how the two met, nodding along where appropriate. The Mandalorian mostly let's the other man speak, though he does interrupt once or twice to curb his enthusiastic retelling. By the end you're aware your mouth is open, but you can't hide your shock.

"You were inside the Krayt dragon?", you repeat, turning to stare at the armoured man. His hand rubs almost self consciously along the back of his neck, but he doesn't outright deny it.

"I never even noticed anything had happened", you continue dumbly, "I've been so busy these past few weeks with Mirta".

"How is the old gal?", Cobb asks, and you smile in response to the genuine warmth you can hear in his voice. The Bantha had taken an instant liking to the lanky Marshal, which was part of why you had even let him into your house, after greeting the stranger loitering outside with your hunting rifle.

"Much better now but I worry about her you know", you reply, rolling your empty glass between your hands, "they're herd animals, Banthas".

"I'm sure she's just fine, you treat her like a princess after all", Cobb replies, as he rests a hand on your arm in comfort. Your eyes drop to the contact, his grip hot like a brand against your skin.

"Yeah, well, she is the head of the house", you reply, weakly. It's been a long time since another being has touched you, and feel your stomach swoop as he removes his hand.

The Mandalorian saves you from any embarrassment, by continuing to speak.

"You don't get any trouble?", he asks, and you feel your lips twitch into a smile. You can tell he's honourable, just like Cobb, already worried about your safety. There was no doubt in your mind, he would ride out into the sandstorm to slay whatever foe you could come up with. Two honourable men at your table, what were the odds.

"Don't get much of anything", you reply, truthfully.

"What about the Tuskens?".

"She's a Tusken whisperer, just like you Mando", Cobb said, interrupting before you could reply, "they respect her because of the Bantha".

The Mandalorian, Mando, dips his head towards you and it takes you a moment to realise he wants you to explain.

"My Bantha, Mirta, she's the runt of the litter. Banthas, they're a matriarchy, and when she fell behind her herd, they left her. I found her out there in the desert and nursed her back to health. The Tuskens caught wind of it and apparently it was enough to win their respect. They bond for life with the younglings, so they liked that I managed to keep her alive".

"So they leave you in peace", he supplied.

"Yeah, and Tuskens raids are about the only thing I have to worry about out here, not that I have anything worth stealing anyway".

You feel guilty, as you realize that only you and Cobb have been eating, picking away at the spread before you.

"Now, I don't know if you'll take that helmet off with your friend here, but I'm going to the fresher and if you want you can either eat in here or you can go through that door over there to eat in the storage closet. It's a tight fit but it's private".

You don't linger, though you can feel Cobb's heavy gaze on you until you disappear from his sight. You can't help but remember the last time he was here, how you stayed up all night, drinking and talking before you eventually stumbled to bed. It wasn't the first time you had slept with him, and it probably wouldn't be the last. You were sure he might have joined you in the sonic, if it wasn't for his stoic companion.

You can't help but compare the looks he had shared with you, with how he looked at the Mandalorian. You let your mind conjure the image, as you strip off your clothes. Cobb would act first, you decide as you step into the sonic. You can imagine him coaxing the other closer, voice dipping low in that way that had sent shivers up your spine when you first heard it. Still would now, if you were being honest with yourself.

After a moment of indecision, you switch the setting over so that water flows from the showerhead. You don't indulge too often, so you can't help but sigh as the cool water runs over your head.

You don't wish the Mandalorian wasn't there, couldn't grudge the company or the bright spot in your otherwise dull routine, but you can't help but wish it could be different. Out here, you were caught in a lonely world of your own creation, and very few things could break the the monotony.

After indulging for as long as you can, you switch the shower off. You shiver as you step out onto the cool stone, letting out a huff of amusement as you realize you forgot to bring in a change of clothes. You weren't used to company after all.

You do your best to dry off, and wrap the towel securely around yourself. Knowing you'll be embarrassed if you think about it for too long, you knock lightly against the bathroom door to announce your intentions.

When you hear no response, you peer back into the main room. You're surprised to find the Mandalorian alone, sitting picturesque at your kitchen table.

You don't have to see his face, to see the surprise written across his frame as he freezes at your appearance.

"I'm sorry, I've forgotten my manners it seems", you say, gesturing down at your lack of attire, "I don't get many guests".

He stands from his seat and for a moment you think he's going to leave, horrified by the show of skin. But then, he steps closer to you. You can see the question, as he raises his palm up slowly towards you. You find yourself nodding, even as you clench your fists at the top of towel that protects you from his gaze.

You quickly find yourself reassessing your previous assumptions, as he shifts forward with a confident ease. You swallow dryly, as his gloved hand closes around your neck. It should be frightening, having this stranger touch you, but the weight is comforting and grounding and you feel yourself quietly exhale as his thumbs digs in under your chin.

You take a moment to assimilate to each other, as he steps even closer. He's a contradiction of warm gloves and cold armour. He doesn't demand your attention, and yet he manages to block out everything around you. It's probably why you don't hear Cobb, until he clears his throat from the entry way.

"I can't leave you two alone for a minute, can I?", he asks, and you're relieved to see he doesn't appear to be angry. Instead, he seems intrigued. You can't make out who he's really looking at, as his eyes track over you both. You preen slightly under the attention, pressing closer to Mando in what you hope is a compelling image.

The Mandalorian doesn't seem perturbed by the audience, the opposite infact. He seems focused on the task, as gloved fingertips slide between the width of your shoulder blades, sweeping up the droplets of water that were making a path down your back.

"Hope I'm not intruding?", Cobb asks, as he meanders over. He waits for you to look at him properly, before he approaches you, so that you're flanked on either side. His hand tugs at the top of your towel, and you let him unravel it to the point where it hits the ground with a wet thump.

Their attention is heady, as you listen to both of their breath stutter out in sync. The Mandalorian's hand falls down to palm your breast, as Cobb presses the long line of his body up against your back. It's too much and not enough all at once, as your fingers search for somewhere to shelter under Mando's armoured front.

Cobb seizes on your distraction to leave a trail of hot kisses up the arch of your neck, hands settling firmly on your waist. You fall apart between the two of them, like a wave crashing against the rocks. If it wasn't for their tight grip, you weren't sure you would have been able to keep steady.

"I'm feeling a little underdressed", you gasp, purposely directing the words over your shoulder to Cobb. You see a flash of white teeth from the corner of your eyes. You lean into Mando, as you both watch him peel his shirt off over his head. His torso is just as lean as you remember, and you lick your lips as you watch the play of muscles across his stomach.

"Keep going". This time it's the Mandalorian, and you stiffen slightly in surprise as the words rasp past your shoulder. The two seemed locked in a silent staring contest, as his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you firmly against his chest. It should be uncomfortable, but the armour is almost soothing against your feverish skin.

Whatever Cobb sees, he continues to undress. You watch with apt fascination, as he deftly unlaces the strings of his pants and let's them pool down his legs. The confident grin is back on his face, as he cheekily kicks his boots off, discarding his pants along with them.

He stands before you both, seemingly at ease with his nudity. You can't help but grin in response, as you squeeze the Mandalorian's arm where it rests around your hips. "What do you think, Mandalorian?".

"I think he's good at following orders, but what about you?".

"I think he did a pretty decent job".

You gasp in surprise as you're suddenly spun around, hands scrambling to grasp his shoulders as his helmet looms into your vision. "I mean, how good are you at following orders?".

"I don't know", you reply, hearing how breathless you sound but not caring the slightest, "I think you'll have to test it out".

"With pleasure", he purrs.

And then he steps away. You lurch half a step forward after him, but quickly stop when he tilts his helmet consideringly at you. You let your hand fall uselessly to your side, as you watch him sit on the edge of your bed. He kicks one ankle over the other, and leans back on hands as he surveys at you both. You notice Cobb makes no move to creep closer to you, both frozen under the Mandalorian's intense gaze.

"I want you to suck him off and I want to watch".

You nod eagerly in return, as you turn towards the Marshal. Cobb looks surprised as he glances at you but he allows you to grasp his hand and pull him closer. The ground is cold and rough underneath your knees, as you let yourself sink down in front of him. It's a heady feeling, as you run your hands up the length of his thighs, feeling the muscles tense and jump under your gentle touch. Cobb stares down at you reverently, but a filthy grin spreads across his face as your eyes lock again.

You don't bother teasing him, as you grasp him in your hand. The skin is velvet soft and already hard beneath your fingers, as you trail your grip across the length of him. Wasting no time, you take him into your mouth. You're gratified when Cobb drops a hand to steady himself on your shoulder, clenching in time with each bob of your head. You take him as far as you can, squeezing your eyes shut as he hits the back of our throat.

You pull off with a choke, taking him back into your hand as you try to catch your breath. You catch his eyes again, both grinning in tandem. Keeping your eyes locked on his, you bend down to mouth at his balls, muffing laughter as at hand on your shoulder flies up to cup the back of your head. Looks like he still likes that, you thought smugly.

You had almost forgotten about your advance, but the subtle shift of metal draws your attention away again.

The Mandalorian looks unperturbed and untouchable as before, except you can see controlled rise and fall of his chest. Deciding to see how far you can push him, you slide Cobb into the back of your throat, keeping your eyes locked on his impenetrable visor. You can't help but note the way his fists clench against your bedspread with a smug satisfaction. Looks like he wasn't as cool as he wanted to portray.

It also looks he wasn't the only one, as you feel Cobb's hand clench in your hair. His teeth are clenched in his bottom lip, and you can tell he's trying hard not to thrust into the heat of your mouth. You realize suddenly, that's he on his best behaviour and not just for you either.

"Want him to finish in my mouth?", you ask breathlessly, glancing between the two.

The Mandalorian takes a moment to reply, and his voice sounds rougher when he finally does speak. "Both of you, get onto the bed".

You scramble to obey him, as you climb up after the Mandalorian. You feel like a hunter trailing after it's prey, as he settles against the head of your bed and you crawl after him. Cobb isn't far behind you, though he doesn't make a show of it the way you do.

The Mandalorian has planted himself in the centre of your bed, and after a moment of hesitation, both you and Cobb settle on either side of him. You paw restlessly at his thigh, and you notice Cobb wants to do the same, if the fists clenched by his own thigh are anything to go by.

"You want him to fuck you?", Mando asks, jerking his head towards the Marshal. You're not sure who's gasp is loudest, as the Mandalorian's ungloved hand grasps Cobb's cock and gives it a sure stroke. You have to stop yourself from jumping the two, as you watch Cobb cling to the others arm, forehead falling to rest against his pauldron.

"How do you want me?", you ask, too excited by the possibilities that flash through your mind.

"Hands and knees in front of me".

You scramble to obey, setting your hands on either side of his spread thighs to steady yourself. The Mandalorian seems reluctant to let go of the other man, but eventually he lets up his grip and gestures the other man behind you.

You're practically panting, as you wait for Cobb to enter you. Your hands are tense around the Mandalorian's knees, as you feel him brush teasingly along the length of you. You have to bite your lip, to stop yourself from begging as you look at the Mandalorian in front of you.

You can feel the plea forming, but it quickly falls away as Cobb thrusts inside of you in one quick stroke. Your head falls into Mando's lap, as the Marshal starts to thrust into you, fingers digging into the sensitive skin on your hips. You bite the meat of your arm, to stop the nonsense pouring from your lips. Your eyes well up at the dual sensations.

You're startled when the Mandalorian cups your cheek, and raises your head to meet his gaze. He gently brushes the wet strands of hair from your tear stricken face, as his thumb brushes over your bottom lip. Your tongue flickers out in response, as your mouth wraps around the appendage. His grip tightens to just the right side of painful for a moment before he releases you and starts to unclasp the belts around his waist.

Your hands scrabble to help him, though your clumsy fingers are probably more of a deterrent than anything else. He's barely finished releasing himself from the confines of his flight suit, before you bury him into the back of your mouth. Both of his hands fall to grip your hair, as he curls around you with a curse that resounds inside his helmet.

You slide back and forth with each thrust of Cobb's hips, keeping your mouth slack on the Mandalorian's cock. You sneak your fingers under the edge of his clothes, digging your thumbs into the warm skin under his hip bones, and he lets you as his helmet tips back against the head of your bed.

"Kriffin' hell", Cobb moans, as he ruts into you with increasingly sloppier thrusts. It's maddening and the best thing you've ever felt, as you they fill you from both ends. You don't know how you've managed so long without this.

You can feel the moment Cobb tips over the edge, as he goes to pull away. You throw a blind hand back to grasp his wrist as you chase your own release, seating his cock back inside you. It's the only encouragement he needs, as his grip on your hips becomes ironclad, and he grinds himself inside of you. You both come apart together.

The sight of you both coming seems to do it for the Mandalorian, as he freezes above you, hands tightening against the back of your skull. You take him as far into the back of your throat as you can, as he fills your willing mouth.

You hold him through the after tremors, pulling off with a last suck as you swallow all of his seed.

The moment Cobb pulls out, you collapse onto the bed like a puppet without strings. You have barely enough energy to wrap your hands around the Mandalorian's waist, as you bury your face into the crux of his thigh. You huff out a laugh, as you feel Cobb slap your thigh companionably, as he collapses in parallel beside you.

A comfortable silence descends over all three of you, as you try to catch your breath. You can't help but purr as a hand settles into your hair again, blunt nails digging smoothly into your scalp. One eye peered open allows you to see it's the Mandalorian's hand, and that Cobb is receiving a similar treatment beside you.

You wonder if you could convince them to fuck, during the next round. It was a challenge you were up for you decided, as you snuggled further into your new armoured companion. But later on.

[voltrontranscript]

VLD S8E5: The Grudge

Season 8 Episode 5: The Grudge

Transcript by @dragonofyang

Summary: The Paladins and the crew of the Atlas arrange to rendezvous to discuss how the Altean robeasts are able to wormhole and the destruction of Olkarion. Acxa and the Atlas crew are still getting used to one another.

[Google Doc]

Iverson: Who’s a good girl? You are. I used to have a dog like this years ago. Old Sally would follow me just about everywhere I went. I couldn’t turn around without her being there, smiling her big, drooly smile, which was actually a problem sometimes. I once tripped over her, slipped on her drool, and went shoulder-first into the refrigerator. Yeah, and that’s where this clicking came from.

Veronica: Is that why you were struggling with the pull-ups, sir?

Iverson: No, that’s because I’m old and overweight. And watch your insubordination.

Veronica: Yes, sir!

Curtis: Was the dog alright?

Iverson: She was fine, thank goodness. Yeah, that dog meant the world to me.

Veronica: I know how you feel. My brothers and sisters adopted every stray animal they could find. There was this one cat, “Flash” we called him. He hated everybody except me. Smart cat.

Curtis: What about you, Acxa? Did you have pets where you’re from?

Acxa: I never had a creature companion, but one of my partners, Narti, was bonded to an immortal cat named Kova. That cat gave her the ability to experience the world.

Curtis: Oh. That’s great.

Acxa: Until Lotor killed Narti and we had to abandon the animal on our destroyed ship so we could escape without being tracked.

Shiro, on PA: Crew, report to the bridge immediately.

[Cut to Iverson, Coran, Curtis, and Veronica entering the bridge.]

Shiro: I’ve got an incoming transmission from the paladins. Go ahead, Allura.

Allura: Atlas, we’ve managed to track down an Altean robeast.

Coran: You found one!

Shiro: Where is it? Did you engage the creature?

Allura: Unfortunately, we were too late. It attacked the Olkari and stole the remains of the weaponized cube.

Coran: Is Olkarion okay?

Keith: No. Olkarion is gone.

Coran: No.

Allura: The loss of Olkarion is devastating to us all, but we were able to acquire some vital information.

Keith: We learned from Olkarion that the robeasts have been traveling via wormhole, which leave behind unique energy signatures. Pidge created a program that can identify those signatures and pinpoint their exact locations.

Allura: We’re sending over the readings from Pidge’s program now.

Coran: Are you telling us these are all robeasts?

Pidge: We’re not positive, but they could be.

Allura: There’s more. After studying the map, we noticed the signatures all radiate from a single epicenter: Oriande.

Coran: Wait, so Honerva could be on Oriande? But I thought only worthy Alteans could get there. Could she have the Mark of the Chosen?

Keith: There’s a lot we don’t know. We need to rendezvous to come up with a plan.

Coran: The Baltuf Nebula would make a good rendezvous point for both of us.

Keith: Send us the coordinates, Coran. See you soon.

[Scene transition to the mess hall.]

Veronica: Acxa! Come join us. So, how did you meet the paladins?

Acxa: I met Keith when I was stuck in the third stomach of a Weblum. He saved my life.

Rizavi: What were you doing in a… stomach?

Acxa: Gathering scaultrite to help enable Lotor to conquer the universe.

Rizavi: I once got stuck in a ball pit when I was a kid.

Veronica: Well, what do you think of the crew? It must be a pretty different dynamic being that we don’t try to kill each other, huh?

Acxa: I suppose, but the Galra had an expression: “Combat is the searing light that burns away imperfections.”

Ina: It would appear the mood at this table has become rather awkward. Most likely due to your Galra lineage. Yep. Definitely… awkward.

[Cut to Shiro in the bridge.]

Keith: Atlas, we had some technical difficulties. We’ll be delayed.

Shiro: Copy that. How long?

Keith: We’re still assessing that. Might be a few hours. We’ll keep you updated.

Shiro: Roger that.

[Scene change to the lions approaching a black and red planet.]

Pidge: Coming up on rendezvous point, straight ahead.

Hunk: Anyone else find it odd that Shiro changed the rendezvous point to this place?

Pidge: I’m reading high CO2 and low oxygen in the atmosphere. We’ll need our suits to breathe if we go out there.

Hunk: I’m not going out there.

Keith: They’re here. Atlas, we have a visual. Paladins, get airborne immediately! This is a trap!

Hunk: It’s just like when we were caught by those pirates!

Lance: We’re about to be captured again!

Keith: Emergency ejection!

Allura: Atlas, come in!

Keith: Atlas, we’re under heavy fire!

Pidge: The Atlas isn’t receiving our communications!

Hunk: The beam has the Lions pinned.

Allura: We must have been set up. But by whom?

Pidge: Guys, we have incoming. It’s closing fast.

Hunk: We need to lose it!

Lance: Isn’t there anything we can do to throw it off our scent?

Pidge: Yeah, I’ve got an idea, but I need a minute.

Hunk: I’ll buy you some time.

Pidge: Got it. It shouldn’t be able to detect us anymore.

Lance: Then let’s get out of here!

Hunk: Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!

Keith: I need something to draw its attention!

Allura: I’ve got it!

Lance: Huh, good job, Keith. I mean, I was just about to do that, too, but that’s cool.

Pidge: I might be able to hack into it.

[Scene transition to the Paladins gathered around the drone.]

Pidge: This is Galra tech, but it looks like it’s been infused with Olkari elements. The subatomic microfilament is single modulated before it goes through its attenuator. Wow!

Hunk: So, it’s pretty amazing, huh?

Pidge: Yeah.

Hunk: Oh, look at that, it’s single modulated, not double modulated. Huh.

Pidge: Oh, shut up, Hunk! This thing has been locking onto our key encryption protocol that’s built into our suits and bayards.

Keith: How did they get that?

Pidge: I don’t know. Only a genius could do it.

Lance: Can’t we just turn our suits off?

Pidge: Negative. And if the drone had our encryption protocol, then so does that cruiser and anyone on it. If we want to avoid detection, we need to lose our suits and our bayards.

Allura: Remove our armor? In this place?

Hunk: Has anyone read the atmosphere? Oxygen low, CO2 high. We’re not gonna last long, a few hours, tops. We need our suits to survive.

Keith: Yeah, at this point, we’ll survive longer without them.

Lance: So keep our suits on and risk getting blasted, or take our suits off and live long enough before dying from poisoned air.

[Scene transition to the Galra ship hovering over the planet.]

Olkari Technician: Sending you the drone’s last known coordinates now.

Captain: We’re going after them.

Fentress: Why would we do that? It’ll risk the entire operation. We already have the Lions. The paladins have no value.

Captain: They do to me. We’re going in.

Fentress: But we--

Captain: I am the captain, and my authority will not be questioned! You do as I say, or you will spend the rest of your miserable days right here on this planet. Is that understood?

Fentress: Yes, captain.

Captain: Do not let those lions move. No one takes them until the hunt is over.

Olkari Technician: Yes, captain.

Captain: And make sure the Atlas stays put.

Olkari Technician: Copy that.

Shiro: Keith, any updates on your ETA?

Olkari Technician (as Keith): We’re finishing some repairs and about to get underway. We’ll update our ETA when we’re en route.

[Scene change to a shooting range on the IGF-Atlas.]

Acxa: I know you have little trust for me, but your constant presence is tiresome. If you have a problem, let’s end it now.

Veronica: Acxa, it’s not that I don’t trust you.

Acxa: Then what is it?

Veronica: Honestly, I just wanted to get to know you.

Acxa: By sneaking up on me at a firing range?

Veronica: I didn’t sneak up on you.

Acxa: Only because I’m always aware of my surroundings.

Veronica: Look, I’m sorry that I may have been following you around. It just seems like you could use a friend. I know it can be hard to fit in sometimes.

Acxa: I’ve spent my entire life not fitting in. I’m used to it.

Veronica: Right.

Acxa: I was an outcast, born and bred in war. The only way I survived was to become worse than my enemies.

Veronica: I don’t care about what you may have done in your past. I know there’s more to you than that.

Acxa: But some people only see Galra, and I understand why. Sometimes even I question if my people have the ability to change.

Veronica: By choosing to join the coalition, you’re living proof that it is possible. I guess I wanna get to know the Acxa who turned her life around. I have a feeling everyone would like that person.

[Scene change to the volcanic planet.]

Hawkins: They’ve abandoned their suits. Now how are we gonna track them?

Bounty Hunter: We hunt them the old-fashioned way.

[Scene change to the Paladins walking in their undersuits.]

Pidge: Are we sure the Lions are this way?

Hunk: Every direction looks the same.

Pidge: Oh, what I’d give for a GPS right now.

Allura: We cannot allow ourselves to panic. Clearly, we’ve relied on our tech far too much. We need to focus if we’re going to get out of here. Okay, I’m lost.

Hunk: What do we do?

Lance: Our Lions are that way.

Pidge: How do you know? Do you have a scanner you’ve been hiding?

Lance: No, I just looked at the volcano. It was on our left when we came in, so I put it to our right side, and that’s the way out.

Allura: You’re a genius!

Hunk: Oh, snap. Well done, Lance.

Pidge: Uh, well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Lance: Hey!

Pidge: Ah!

Allura: More drones?

Lance: No, look!

Bounty Hunter: They’ve split up. Stay on their trail. Get them!

[Cut to the Captain and Fentress.]

Hawkins: We’re on the trail of four of the Paladins right now.

Captain: Which four?

Hawkins: The Altean, the big one, the tiny one, and the loud one. They removed their armor to throw us off their scent, but we’ll have them soon.

Captain: Good. The one I really want is this way.

[Scene change to the IGF-Atlas bridge.]

Olkari Technician (as Keith): Apologies for the delay. We experienced a glitch in navigation. I will have to get back to you.

Veronica: Everything okay out there, Keith? Do you need help from the Atlas?

Olkari Technician (as Keith): No assistance required, thank you. Lance will figure it out.

Veronica: Right, Lance, the navigation genius.

Keith: Affirmative.

Veronica: How long have they been delayed?

Iverson: They should have arrived when we did.

Acxa: Something doesn’t seem right.

Curtis: Look at this. It looks like their frequency has been pinging off a decoy. I’m intercepting it now.

Paladins, overlapping: Atlas! This is an emergency! Atlas, come in! Atlas, help! We’re under attack! It was a trap!

Iverson: We need all hands on deck immediately!

[Scene change to Keith jet-packing along the volcanic planet, then the Bounty Hunter and Hawkins as they chase Hunk and Pidge.]

Bounty Hunter: You think I forgot about you, tiny Paladin? I’ll make you pay for what you did to me!

Hunk: We need to hurry. They’re right behind us.

Pidge: The CO2 is poisoning us by the minute, and we don’t know where we’re going. We can’t keep running.

Hunk: Okay. What do we do?

Pidge: We have to make a stand.

Bounty Hunter: Your brother isn’t here to help you this time. And I’ve upgraded since we last met.

Hunk: Woah! Alright, nice work!

Pidge: Found the Lions. This way.

[Scene change to Allura and Lance running through a cave.]

Lance: Okay, if my volcano logic is correct… the Lions should be on the other side of this--[grunts] Allura, get out of here. Go!

Pirate: Looks like she left.

Pirate 2: Don’t worry, we’ll find her for you.

Lance: Thanks.

Allura: The Atlas!

[Cut to the IGF-Atlas bridge.]

Veronica: That’s where the ghost protocol is emanating from.

Shiro: Hit them with the electromagnetic pulse.

[Cut to the Captain and Fentress walking in the forest.]

Fentress: Squadron Z, come in. Squadron Echo, come in. HQ, come in. HQ is not responding and the other pirates are offline. I never signed up for this!

Captain: Well, you’re in it now.

[Scene change to the loading dock on the IGF-Atlas.]

Olkari Technician: Sophisticated hacking and jamming abilities. Impressive. It’s nice to find others on my level.

Shiro: Yeah, it’s terrific. Now where’s your leader?

Olkari Technician: I don’t know. I lost her signal when you attacked. But she’s out there somewhere, hunting down the Paladin you call “Keith.”

Acxa: And who exactly is your leader?

[Scene change as Fentress gets surprised by Keith, who then stumbles into the Captain.]

Keith: Zethrid?

Zethrid: You took Ezor from me!

Keith: I don’t know what you think I did.

Zethrid: You took away everything. And now my face will be the last one you see!

James: Does anyone have the shot?

Rizavi: It’s too risky!

Acxa: Zethrid, don’t do this!

Zethrid: I knew you’d come. Now you will feel what I felt.

Acxa: It’s over. You’re surrounded.

Zethrid: You think this deters me, Acxa? I welcome death now that Ezor’s gone.

Acxa: Zethrid, I know you hurt. Ezor hurt, too. That’s why she left you. She couldn’t keep holding onto the anger.

Zethrid: Stop!

Acxa: Hear my words. Remember how we first met. We were all so full of hate and rage, half-breeds rejected by the Galra. Lotor used us. He led us down a painful path, a never-ending cycle of destruction and loss. Now’s your chance to break that cycle… with me, with Ezor. She wants you to leave the rage behind.

Zethrid: I’m too far gone. She’ll never take me back!

Acxa: Wait! Please! Don’t let the rage control you.

Zethrid: All I have left… is revenge!

[Scene change to a holding cell on the IGF-Atlas, where Zethrid and the Olkari Technician reside.]

Zethrid: You waste your time, Acxa.

Acxa: I know you’re angry, but I refuse to give up on you. And I know someone else feels the same way.

End.

[lemondropsssss]

Jaskier spends what feels like an eternity wrapped up in Geralt’s arms. He hadn’t expected the embrace to last so long, but each time he goes to pull away Geralt makes a glorious growling sound and tightens his grip and really, how is Jaskier supposed to argue with that? He feels safe for what he realizes is the first time in a long time. Geralt’s scent hasn’t changed, is still the same leather-sword oil-horse-musk that is somehow intoxicating. So he tucks himself under his Witcher’s chin and just breathes, and to his amazement Geralt lets him- no, wants him , is holding him as if he’s important, and it warms him from the inside out.

“We should get back to the house,” Geralt says eventually, voice rumbling in his chest as he pulls back and looks the scant inch down at him. Jaskier steels himself for whatever pity might await him when he meets his gaze but there is none. Just a kind of calm fondness Jaskier hasn’t seen before. “I don’t like leaving Fiona alone for too long.”

“She’s fourteen, I think she can handle a hot mug on her own by now,” Jaskier mutters, not caring that Geralt can absolutely hear him, but he steps away all the same.

Geralt grunts back, but Jaskier can tell he’s smiling. It’s all in the eyes crinkles, after all. “C’mon, say your goodbyes so we can go.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes but does go give Roach one last pat, reminding her that she is practically perfect in every way and such a good horse and better than Geralt and it’s not as if he actually walks anywhere, unlike some very good horses I could name. Geralt’s smile grows to almost-visible-to-the-naked-eye, but he soon pulls Jaskier away with a muttered, How many times do I have to tell you to stop trying to fuck my horse, and the exasperatedly fond look on his face makes Jaskier’s stomach swoop.

He’s still angry. Still sad. Still doesn’t believe him, is still waiting for the moment Geralt will turn around and leave him alone in the dust like so many times before. It will hurt when he goes, surely, but at least this time Jaskier will be prepared for it. He’s built himself a life outside Geralt, his world won’t come to a screeching halt when he leaves. And maybe if Jaskier proves he can handle himself without his scary Witcher around, said scary Witcher would be more inclined to visit. But he does like this feeling. Walking side by side again, shoulders brushing companionably, how achingly familiar it all is.

The front window is vacant when they pass, and Jaskier assumes Ciri’s gone up to bed courtesy of Bea’s sleepy tea. He’s surprised then to find the teen sat up on the countertop, potato in one hand and paring knife in the other. She has a look of fierce concentration on her face as she works carefully, the tip of her tongue clenched between her teeth. Bea is close by, up to her elbows in flour and wrestling with a shaggy bread dough while still keeping a close eye on both Ciri and the pot bubbling over the hearth; the woman is a master, and Jaskier stops to watch her with a smile on his face.

“Geralt!” While he’d been distracted by the domestic scene, Geralt had come in behind him and was now crossing the room with the softest look Jaskier has ever seen on his face.

“G’morning, cub.” Geralt presses a kiss to her temple, and Jaskier has to stop himself from staring; both at the pet name and the very public display of affection. Public being only two other people of course, but that was still rather public to Geralt of Rivia. Ciri must be used to the attention for she pays it no mind, which confounds him even more. “Julian said you didn’t sleep well. More of the dreams?” He tucks an errant lock of hair behind her ear and it’s the thoughtlessness of the motion that stands out to Jaskier.

This is a kind of casual and easy affection he’d only seen- well, that he’d only seen with him. Usually in a liminal time; in a shared bed some fuzzy between awake and sleep, or after the sixth ale of  a long night, pressed together in a dark corner of a tavern. And Geralt would sweep a hand across his, or press their knees together under the table, or curl a protective arm around his waist while they slept. Seeing that affection here, in the bright light of morning is something he wasn’t prepared for, and he takes a seat at the table lest his legs fail him.

Ciri and Geralt are oblivious to his confusion; she’s showing him how her knife skills have improved, and he’s watching her with a kind of fond fascination Jaskier’s never seen before but finds he quite enjoys. He looks up suddenly, their eyes meet, and Geralt’s expression turns to something more Jaskier can’t even begin to place. This man who gives affection freely and without pause is not the Geralt familiar to him.

It isn’t long before Bea finishes setting out a proper morning meal, and Jaskier can’t help but feel a crippling domesticity as they sit down to eat. Their breakfast is porridge with honey and cream, sausages, and the good brown bread that Bea has refused to ever share the recipe for, no matter how much coin Jaskier offers her. She doesn’t sit to eat, which doesn’t surprise him, but she does continue to work on whatever lunch is going into the pot over the hearth.

It’s a good breakfast, and good company. Ciri does wonders towards greasing the conversation, and Geralt says more than a few grunts in passing, which Jaskier considers a monumental feat. But they came to him for a reason and needs must, so Jaskier steers the conversation back towards the business that brought them to his doorstep.

“When you came to me at the University, you said you needed help. What kind? Money, clothes, food?” It’s blunt, but Jaskier would rather know now what the price for this visit will be.

Geralt looks thrown for a moment before he answers. “All of the above. We’re heading North, towards Kaer Morhen. We need,” He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the actual asking part of asking for help, “Money, yes, and winter clothes. Another mount. Fiona needs a better disguise; cutting her hair, dye maybe- maybe even for both of us.” He makes a face at that and Jaskier wants to laugh; Geralt always did love his hair. “We stand out, it makes us too easy to track. Nilfguaard is-” He cuts off, worried gaze wavering over Ciri, which she huffs at and continues in his place.

“Nilgfuaard is hunting us. Me, technically. They’ve been tracking me since Cintra. And they’ve killed everyone who’s tried to help me.” She doesn’t meet either of their eyes. “They’ll hurt anyone to get to me. Geralt is taking us to Yspaden to meet Yennefer, and then to Kaer Morhen together where we’ll be safe.” Ciri is somber and serious for a girl her age, and Jaskier notices she tucks her hands into her lap out of view.

His compassion for her is quickly overtaken by the creeping feeling of something cold sliding down his spine. Poor stupid little Julian who never learns, the voice inside him taunts, He has his child, has the great mage herself, what use is a washed up old bard to a Witcher? All he needs from you is money, he said it himself. That’s what this morning was, the idea twists around inside him and it hurts, physically hurts him to think it but he can’t stop, Nothing genuine, just a way to keep poor stupid little Julian on his leash. He doesn’t- couldn’t actually care for you.

“Right well, ah-” Jaskier’s voice is hard to his own ears, so he clears his throat before trying again. “That shouldn't be any trouble. We should ah-” His mouth runs dry and he’s just trying to get through this as quickly as possible so he can flee and maybe hide from his houseguests for a good few hours in the tub. But no, he is a mature and reasonable adult who is pleasant to his houseguests and who does not cry in front of them. Geralt is watching him closely with an odd look on his face, and Jaskier feels uncomfortably seen. “We should armor you too, you’re no use to anyone at all as a Witcher with no armour and only one sword.”

“Of no use to anyone at all?” Geralt rumbles, one annoyed eyebrow raised in Jaskier’s direction.

“The last time I checked you can still bleed, O Great and Mighty Witcher, and that shirt you’re wearing wouldn’t stop a butter knife.” For a moment they sound like they used to, and it doesn’t shatter his heart at all to hear. He clears his throat, trying to force down the hard lump of familiarity threatening to choke him. “We can get you a mount easy enough. I assume you’ll want one more Fiona-sized?” He winks at Ciri and she grins. “That shouldn’t be an issue, I have friends at the horse market who owe me a favor. Or several, as the case may be. As for clothes, we can go today to the seamstress on-”

“Pardon, Master Julian?” It’s Bea, a few paces away from the table. Jaskier knows she wouldn’t interrupt without cause, and gestures for her to continue. “You may want to dress the child down in things that look more travel-worn as to blend in. Fresh made clothes might fit well, but they’ll draw attention off the beaten path. I still have some of my Piotr’s things, I could fit them to her size easy enough. They’re a bit battered, but well made. She’ll need a new cloak though, I don’t think his will be warm enough for where you’re going.”

“Bea, you are a blessing from the Gods,” Jaskier beams, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of that. Of course they shouldn’t buy new things, fresh clothes are like a beacon to bandits on the road. Stupid, stupid Jaskier. “Auntie, do you have anything we can dye Fiona’s hair with?” He sends Ciri a reassuring smile across the table. “Your hair is beautiful, little one, but your Witcher is right; it draws too many eyes to you.”

Bea considers for a moment before she nods. “I’ve got a walnut dye that should do for her, aye.”

“Grand, you see to that, and I’ll go see a man about a horse. Huh. For the first time, possibly ever, I actually mean that.” He’s out of his chair and halfway across the room before he’s stopped by an oh-so familiar growl.

“I’ll go with Julian.”

“No,” He’s saying before he even turns around,  “You’ll stay here with Fiona and get your hair colored.” Geralt looks like he’s about to argue so Jaskier beats him to it. “Or do you not remember that everyone on the continent is looking for you? If you’re not seen by a Nilfguaardian, you’re seen by a spy, or an informant, or some sad random asshole looking to score the reward purse. So you’ll be staying here, and getting your beauty treatment.”

There’s a stunned little look on his face that makes Jaskier more pleased than it should. He leaves them there, sure Bea will keep them on track and out of trouble, and starts the walk down the street towards the horse markets.

Jaskier wraps the heavy knitted scarf- a present from Bea on his last birthday- around his neck to keep out the first chills of autumn, but that does nothing to keep the ice from his heart. It began as a cool pinprick during breakfast, Geralt is taking us to Yspaden to meet Yennefer, and then to Kaer Morhen together where we’ll be safe and has shifted into a sharp spike of Yennefer, Kaer Morhen, safe that he doesn’t know what to do with.

He remembers the first time he’d asked where Geralt went in winter. He’d been twenty-two, or maybe twenty-four, and as with most stories they’d been drunk. He had wanted to invite Geralt back to Oxenfurt with him, but then Geralt had told him of the crumbling Witcher’s fortress, and the brothers he met there each year. He understood, when Geralt said it was the Witchers sanctuary and not a place for troublesome bards; when they were out in the world, Witchers could never relax, never take a deep breath for fear of killing or being killed. Of course they would need a place without humans, without others, where they could be free for a few months a year. Jaskier was never hurt that Geralt did not share that place with him- if anything, he loved that Geralt had somewhere safe and warm to rest his weary bones each year.

And Jaskier is a grown ass man, he will not begrudge a child being allowed to her father’s home but. But Yennefer. Jaskier knows about the sacking, he knows the last mages to set foot in Kaer Morhen were the ones who brought it crumbling down. If Geralt is bringing Yennefer that must mean they’re together. It will be Yennefer Geralt presents to his brothers, Yennefer who will walk the halls, explore the library, spend months curled up with her lover and their child and-

The honey-colored memory of their early morning embrace is souring in his mind; like black ink spilled over the image and corrupting it until there is nothing left but the acrid feel of Geralt’s arms around him and the burning knowledge that he was going to be left behind again. The promise of the morning means nothing now- Geralt will leave him for Yennefer like he always does, and Jaskier will let him like he always does, and the status quo will remain ever stable.

Jaskier should learn to say no when old not-friends show up at his doorstep, he really should.

He quickens his pace- if he hurries the sale, he might be able to convince Filip to take an early lunch and they can get spectacularly drunk in the hayloft like stupid teenagers instead of doing their actual jobs.

-

here are parts one two three four five. and the full story is on ao3 here 

[lesbianlotties]

Oh, my love, don’t forsake me - The Old Guard (2020) - Andy/Quynh

“When I leave, will you spend a thousand years grieving for me?”

The moment Quynh gives Andy her necklace. All the fears, all the love, and the promise behind it all.

read on ao3

All things considered, Andy thought, it was a nice day. The sun was shining above them its benevolent light and keeping them warm. The nature around them was all around pleasant and agreeable, keeping them fed and safe. Beside them, a graceful river flowed steadily, and it sated their thirst and refreshed their bodies after many long hours of mindless walking. Other than that and the animals they hunted every so often to share a humble meal, it was just Andy and Quynh. They knew that if they followed the river long enough, odds were they would find… something. People. But there was no guarantee nor expectation as to what kind of people and in which living conditions and arrangements they would find them. Or how long it would take to find them. If they would find them at all. But that was how they lived back then.

“You have been quiet,” Quynh told Andy some time mid-afternoon, just as some fresh breeze passed past them, threatening to steal away Quynh’s words if her walking companion didn’t reach out and take them in time.

Andy knew Quynh was right because, for the unending life of her, she couldn’t recall if she had said a single word since waking up. “It’s been a dull day,” Andy replied. Her voice was raspy for the lack of use and she had to clear her throat. Afterward, she could still feel the bitter taste of the lie. Technically though, it wasn’t a lie. Their day so far had felt graceless and unimportant. Andy had lived millions of days just like that one. Had lived, died, fought, loved, hurt on days like that one. But she was aware that she was the one that made this one day dull.

“I meant you have been quiet for the last few years.”

“Oh…” Andy frowned. She frowned mostly because she couldn’t fight the accusation. She frowned, too, because she knew what came next.

“Since Lykon’s death.”

At once Andy decided not to give Quynh the chance to continue that gentle attack of hers. “I am grieving,” she replied easily “Aren’t we supposed to?”

“Yes,” Quynh answered softly. After a pause though, she added, “But it’s been decades.”

“Well, he lived a long time,” Andy’s reply was cutting, almost harsh. She could feel the other woman’s eyes searching her face, trying to meet her eyes, but Andy wouldn’t budge.

“So, does that mean that when I-”

“No,” Andy sharply interrupted her, “Please don’t, Quynh.” And at once she started walking faster, running from something inescapable, running from death that wasn’t even hers.

Quynh chased after her. Her voice was strained when she asked, “When I leave, will you spend a thousand years grieving for me?”

“Yes!” Andy exclaimed as she turned around hastily, almost knocking against Quynh. “An eternity. I would grieve for you for as long I lived and more and- No! I won’t, because I can’t- won’t lose you. And we are not talking about this.”

Once again Andy tried to keep walking, at a faster pace, but it was futile. A few strides later it registered that she couldn’t hear Quynh following. She stopped in her tracks and sighed. The idea of this conversation pained her more than dying, for it couldn’t be undone.

“Denial isn’t a good look on you, Andromache.”

“It’s a weakness,” Andy replied automatically. She still had her back turned to her love. “Something I tend to avoid,” she smiled as she said it, content in the knowledge that Quynh most likely could hear and recognize that smirk in her voice.

“Not with me, you don’t have to.”

After some hundreds of years, impressively and almost magically quickly if you were to ask Andy’s opinion, Quynh had mastered the art of understanding Andy better than anybody else had ever done. Better than anybody else ever would. She was an expert at pushing Andy’s buttons in a way that was beautifully merciless. She pushed gently, she pried her open with care and with love, but she never gave up and she never let Andy get away with blocking her out.

“Quynh, please.” Andy pleaded, not without being reminded that only for this woman she would.

“Andy we have to talk about what happened.”

Andy turned around and found Quynh was standing still, with her arms crossed, and her beautiful face settled on an unreadable expression. Andy knew she wasn’t getting out of this but, warrior that she was, she wouldn’t go down without a fight. “We have talked about this,” she tried, as she slowly approached Quynh. “I told you, I am confused and I don’t understand it. I told you, I am heartbroken, and I miss him, but I’m glad he got to finally rest.”

The words made Quynh sigh and resume her walking. Somebody else would have assumed she had either accepted those words or her defeat. Andy knew better. She stood still until Quynh caught up with her, grabbed her hand, and gently pulled her forward. They continued walking together, holding hands. Quynh might have wanted to play with Andy’s fingers, to caress the palm of her hand, but Andy grasped her hand tightly, fervently, like a lifeline.

“You didn’t need to tell me those things, Andromache. I knew all of it, I feel the same,” Quynh spoke softly, gently helping Andy open up. “I want you to tell me the things you have been so quiet about.”

“Why?” Andy answered almost mindlessly as she looked down at her hand holding Quynh’s and the way they fit perfectly together.

“I’m all you’ve got,” Quynh replied, “What would you become, Andromache, if you kept your feelings bottled up for hundreds of years?”

A chill ran down Andy’s spine like a bad omen, an epiphany. She shook her head to get rid of the feeling and insisted, “You know me perfectly well, Quynh. I feel you already know whatever you want me to say out loud. Why should I?”

“Because I want to hear it,” this time Quynh’s response was almost playful, like the smile she gave and prompted Andy to mirror with a smile of her own as a natural reflex. “Talking about it helps. When will you ever learn?”

Then Quynh lifted their joined hands up and placed a kiss on Andy’s knuckles. This woman, wise in her understanding and ferocious in battle had shown Andy’s tenderness that she swore would forever be her undoing. “I am scared,” Andy confessed the very second she felt Quynh’s precious lips on her skin. “I am terrified beyond anything I’ve ever know. Terrified of losing you. Scared of not being ready when my time comes. Scared of you leaving and… scared of me leaving you.”

The intensity of her words had forced them to stop walking and to stand still staring at each other. Andy couldn’t understand why Quynh’s eyes were suddenly holding back tears. Didn’t she already know that was exactly what Andy couldn’t shake from her mind the moment they realized Lykon had died? But then it clicked in Andy’s mind. Of course Quynh knew, she told her herself, she felt the same. Of course there were tears in Quynh’s eyes, Andy realized, they were a mirror to her own watery eyes. They fought seamlessly in battle, synchronized, like each other’s shadows, like a reflection. It went far beyond the battlefield too.

“Close your eyes,” Quynh asked, “Close your eyes, Andromache.”

She had dropped Andy’s hand. And Andy, confused as she was about the request and already missing the touch of Quynh’s hand, she complied. She closed her eyes and as she waited for Quynh she worked on steadying her breath, on holding back the tears that wanted to escape, on burying down the weaknesses that she knew she didn’t need to hide. Finally, Quynh picked up her hand again and then very softly said, “Open your eyes.”

As Andy watched, Quynh pulled open the fist of Andy’s hand with the utmost delicacy, and then placed in her open palm her necklace. That very necklace that had been on her neck since the very first day Andy found her. The little object was possibly the most important physical possession Quynh ever had, and she was giving it away. It was monumentally important for Andy as well. Andy, who felt gravity failing her at the magnitude of the moment. It felt impossibly wrong to see Quynh without the necklace, and the necklace anywhere but hanging from Quynh’s neck. She gasped. She couldn’t say any words, but her eyes spoke all her questions for her.

“Because I need you to know that you won’t ever lose me,” Quynh said with as much intention as she was capable of. “Because I love you. Because I am terrified too. I am scared of the person you would be without me, the person I would be without you. Because I need to know that whatever happens, you will keep me with you, forever.”

Andy couldn’t tear her eyes away from the necklace. She closed her fist on it and her knuckles turned white. There was a knot on her throat, she closed her eyes tightly to avoid spilling her tears and her lungs felt like they were burning, but she said, “I promise.”

Quynh’s hand covered Andy’s fist and she pulled her closer, “Do you promise?”

“I promise, I promise,” Andy repeated.

The pressure was too much to bear alone. Simultaneously, they threw their arms around each other, they held each other as tightly as they could. They breathed in together, they cried in unison and they said, “I promise, I promise.”

As much as Andy liked to joke that she could spend “a thousand years or two” holding Quynh in her arms, eventually they had to let go of each other, and go through their nightly routine. Some time later, with their bellies full and a warm fire in front of them, they laid down to rest. Quynh sat down with her back against the trunk of a fallen tree. Meanwhile, Andy, who always would wind up more tired after displays of strong emotions than physical exertion, she laid down on the ground with her head resting on Quynh’s thighs.

Quynh’s fingers played with Andy’s hair. It wasn’t usual for Andy to completely let down her guard, to lay back and surrender her walls in order to bask in the affection the other woman endlessly gave her. But when she did, it was so easy, it came so naturally, and the feeling was so perfectly divine that it put to rest Andy’s thoughts on life, death, heaven, and hell. Life was worth it as long as she had Quynh with her. Death, even if unescapable, couldn’t scare her much when Quynh was by her side. Heaven was little moments like this, hell was watching Quynh go down during a battle, and heaven was every moment Quynh continued to breathe.

“Tell me about it,” Andy suddenly broke the silence of the night. Since her fingers wouldn’t stop playing with the necklace that now hung around her neck, there was no questioning what she was talking about.

“There is not much I can tell you. If I ever knew anything about it I have forgotten it. I did make the effort to remember I have had it since I was born."

Andy opened her mouth to say something about how she, at first, dreaded taking the symbolic object from Quynh, but now it felt impossibly right, like the missing piece from a puzzle. She felt whole and she couldn’t conceive the idea of ever taking it off. “That’s a long time,” she whispered instead.

Quynh chuckled at that, “Yes.” Her fingers, as if they had a mind of their own, left behind Andy’s hair and slowly traveled down the features of her face. The loving touch, so soothing and intimate, made Andy close her eyes and sigh out of sheer bliss. “It looks good on you,” Quynh pointed out a moment later.

She received a grin from Andy. “Good,” she replied. “I intend to keep both the necklace and you for as long as live.”

“I hope that is true.”

Quynh’s reply, although spoken with a soft smile, carried sadness in the tone and in her very expressive eyes. It was torture for Andy’s heart, the idea of Quynh unhappy or troubled. From the way Andy reacted, quiet and distant, then volatile and resistant, when faced with the reality of Lykon’s death, it said a lot of her pain. But now that the words were out in the open and they had bared their hearts, Quynh’s own pain was move visible, palpable, and jarring.

“It is,” Andy insisted. She raised from her spot in Quynh’s lap and sat down in front of her. The fire glowing behind her made her look just like the goddess some had believed her to be. “I carry that promise in me,” Andy spoke as one of her hands moved to grasp the necklace again, “I will carry that promise here with me forever.”

There would be time to worry, to doubt, and to fear in the many centuries to come. That, however, didn’t mean there wouldn’t be plenty of love, of joy, of moments of absolute happiness together. To prove such a point, Quynh smiled broadly and reached out. She held her necklace on Andy’s neck with her fingers, brushed her thumb over it. Then she tugged on it. Lightly, she tugged on it and Andy smiled as she understood the message and leaned forward. Their lips met in the middle, and they kissed each other in a delightful rhythm that could have gone on for a thousand years more.

[himluv]

The Meadow, pt. 2

This one is long, and sad. But I love it. I hope you do too. Set directly after Dalish.

And remember, if you want to read from the beginning, I’ve collected these oneshots over at AO3.

The journey to Wycome was long and tense. It took nearly a week to reach the city by ship, and during that time Riallan spoke little. Solas was used to quiet, to traveling for weeks and barely hearing his own voice until he dreamt in some ruin. Even with Riallan they were prone to peaceful bouts of silence. It was comfortable, serene. Calm and soothing when worried minds would rather tie themselves in knots.

That was not the case on this journey. Riallan’s silence was a heavy thing, oppressive and all consuming. He only heard her voice when she spoke to the pair of diplomats Josephine had sent with them, and even then it was void of all the warmth and humor he’d come to expect.

In the dark of night, tucked in the small cabin they shared, Riallan slept with her face pressed to his chest. Some nights she cried, but the closer they drew to the Marches the more she withdrew and the less she wept.

He wasn’t certain it was an improvement.

Once in the city, Riallan’s silent grief transformed to a barely restrained fury. The four of them walked to the inn where Josephine had booked their rooms, Riallan marching ahead of them. She didn’t face him, but he recognized the disapproval that wracked her body at the sight of the lavish inn. The marble floor gleamed beneath their feet as they entered, and with each step he feared her rage would explode from her.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” said the concierge, a tall man with a bushy mustache and a thick brogue. “Welcome to Wycome. The Palisade is honored to serve you.”

She held the man’s gaze until he flushed and cleared his throat. “Lady Montilyet reserved two rooms,” he glanced at their party. “Is that correct?”

The diplomats nodded, but Riallan had other plans. “We only need one,” she said. Her tone begged the man to argue with her, begged the diplomats too. “Whichever is the nicer.” She glanced at the diplomats and added, “I will be sleeping elsewhere.”

“You worship--”

“Inquisitor--”

“I will meet you at the ship after three days,” she said to their companions.

She didn’t even glance at Solas as she walked by and out the door. He wasn’t sure if she was giving him the choice to join her or if she simply assumed he would follow. Honestly, she might not have considered him at all, her perceptions were so clouded with fury and grief.

He followed her out into the cobblestone street and walked beside her without a word. When they left the city and followed the road into the forest, he knew where they would eventually end up.

The smell of smoke met them first. It was faint now, weeks old, but the flavor of ash still tinged the air and filled him with dread. It did not take much creativity for him to imagine the scene they would find in the meadow.

Her meadow.

What he hadn’t expected was an Inquisition agent waiting for them in the trees. The woman bent at the waist, her fist at her heart. “Inquisitor. Lady Nightingale sent me to secure the meadow.”

Riallan’s voice was lifeless. “Did you touch anything?”

“No, Your Worship.” She grimaced. “Only buried the remains as you requested. We were able to identify almost everyone thanks to your descriptions.”

Riallan swallowed and her eyes glistened, but no tears fell. “And Deshanna?”

The agent looked at her feet. “The Keeper rests just outside the camp, with a view of the creek.” She cleared her throat. “The saplings arrived yesterday.” She glanced between Riallan and Solas. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “You may leave us.”

She bowed again. “Of course, Inquisitor.” She cast a knowing glance at Solas, then she vanished into the woods. If the agent actually left them, he would eat his shirt. He had a feeling Leliana would not let the Inquisitor out of her sight for awhile.

Riallan made to continue on into the meadow, but she paused at the brush of his fingers on her arm. When she didn’t look at him, he said, “Vhenan…”  

“We don’t have time for this,” she said, but there was no heat in her voice. “We have almost thirty trees to plant and only three days to do it.”

“Ria.” He tugged on her arm. “Look at me.”

She turned to face him, silent tears tracking her cheeks, but said nothing.

“What are you thinking?”

She took a shuddering breath. “Too many things.”

“Drith ma, vhenan.”

She closed her eyes and let the words pour from her. “That I should have been here. That I could have helped. That I’ll never forgive myself for being gone so long. That I’ll never hear my maela’s voice again. That I’ll never get to introduce you to her. That I never wanted to share the meadow with you like this.”

She took a deep, terrified breath and whispered, “That none of this would have happened if I’d had the decency to just die in the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

Her words, her fears, all the horrible grief she carried in her heart brought a sting to his eyes. He blinked to keep the tears at bay; it would hardly help if he started crying too. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that he was glad she yet lived, that the world would be poorer for her loss, but he knew she wasn’t ready to hear them. In this moment she would gladly give her life if it meant it would bring her clan back.

There was nothing he could say that would change that. So, instead, he laced his fingers through hers and brought her trembling knuckles to his lips. “Come vhenan,” he said. “Let’s put your clan to rest.”

The days were long, the work of digging and planting trees a physical labor he hadn’t experienced in a long time. But he made no complaint, even as the heat threatened to suffocate him and the sun burned his skin. Across the meadow, Riallan had stripped down to her leggings and breast band, sweat glistening on her skin. She hadn’t cried since they entered the ruined camp. The sight of the charred and broken aravels, massacred halla scattered around them, had brought her to her knees, but once the shock wore off, anger and purpose fueled her.

She had too much work to do and now that indomitable focus he so admired served her well.

If the days were long, then the nights were eternity. Despite the back-breaking work, Riallan hardly slept. She kept vigil at the fire, her eyes distant as she succumbed to memories.

“It’s fitting,” she said on the third night. Firelight flickered on her face, casting her green eyes in shadow. She met his gaze for a fleeting moment, then looked out toward the creek. “My parents and sister are buried here.”

He had never heard her speak of any other family besides Deshanna. He’d assumed some sort of tragedy made her keep them to herself. His silence was invitation enough for her to continue.

“Mamae died in childbirth. Twins are hard even when one of the babies isn’t breached.”

“I did not know you were a twin,” he said, which was silly. Of course he didn’t, she’d never once mentioned it.

She nodded. “Maela said we were identical, and that the world simply wouldn’t have been able to handle the both of us.” She smiled at that, a sad and bitter thing. “Raena was stillborn. Mamae wouldn’t stop bleeding, no matter what Deshanna tried.” She shrugged. “Papae never recovered. He went on a hunt and didn’t return. One of our hunters found him days later hanging from a tree.”

Solas watched her and felt true fear claw at his chest. The way she said it all, blithe and unconcerned. As if she’d said it a million times before, as if she felt not a single word that passed over her lips. There was a detachment to her he had never seen, as if her spirit would simply float away if it weren’t for the body rooting her to the earth.

Riallan stood suddenly and held her hand out to him. “Walk with me?”

He’d grown accustomed to her whiplash moods these past days. Her emotions were powerful and fleeting, making her a tempest of fury and grief one moment, and the still of a moonless night the next. The best he could do for her was to be the rock her tides crashed against, steady and unflinching in the brunt of her storm.

“Of course,” he said, and let her pull him to his feet. On their way to the bank of the creek, they passed the only grave that had yet to be graced with a tree. Riallan avoided Deshanna’s burial site, either because she wanted to honor her grandmother last or because she was dreading the ritual. Probably both.

When they reached the creek she settled down onto the bank and stretched out on her back. Solas followed her lead. The night was warm but the sea breeze was cool and refreshing, the sky above them clear and bright with stars.

He closed his eyes and focused on his other senses. The smell of the salt in the air doing its part to scour the ashy tang of death from the meadow. The ripple and babble of the creek as the cool, clear water tumbled over the stones that made its bed. The sway and hush of leaves in the trees promising a new sort of life after death.

It took him a moment to notice the change in Riallan’s breathing beside him. He’d slipped into a meditative state as he absorbed the meadow, but the hitch in her breath, the sharp, broken, shuddering sound as she struggled to control herself wrenched his eyes open.

“Vhenan?”

She covered her face with her hands and shook her head. When he reached for her she rolled away from him, curling in on herself as terrible sobs wracked her body. He followed her, curved his body around hers, and held her as grief tore her apart.

Riallan had cried a lot in the last week. Tears that came fast and hard, then dried just as quickly. Soft, trickling tears that hardly anyone noticed before she dabbed them away. Quaking, shaking tears that left little evidence on her face, but told the tale of her grief in the tremors of her body. All of those tears had been cried, and yet none of them bore the true weight of her loss.

There, on the bank of her favorite place in the world, Riallan’s grief was finally set free. She shuddered and sobbed, gasping for air and choking on tears until she was nearly sick. But Solas did not let go of her. He kept one arm around her middle, holding her back to his chest, while the other brushed the hair from her forehead in soothing strokes.

He did not shush her. He did not whisper comforting things or try to convince her that everything would be all right, no matter how much his heart ached for her. She had just lost her entire family, her people. Her clan. He would not diminish her grief with his selfish attempts to make her feel better.

He knew how she felt all too well. If he could take that pain from her, he would. But he could not. Like so much else in their lives, she would have to endure.

Solas held her until her tears subsided, until she rolled toward him and pressed her face into his chest. Until her breathing evened out and she abandoned the meadow for the solace of the Fade. Once he was certain she was asleep, he carried her back to their little tent and put her to bed. Then he settled in to guard her dreams.

In the morning Riallan insisted on planting Deshanna’s tree on her own. He gave her the privacy she desired, and busied himself with preparing their lunch. He watched over her, from a respectful distance, as she sank down onto her knees. The tree was planted. Riallan wiped at her face, but she didn’t shake, didn’t sob. The tears were quieter once more.

He smiled as she began to speak, her voice too low, the distance too far for him to hear, but the longer she sat there, the more animated her hands became. And then she bowed, put her hands to the dirt, and cried. No maelstrom, no heaving sobs. Just the soft, rocking rhythm of sorrow casting her adrift one more time.

When she joined him at the fire her face was splotched with red, but her eyes were clear. Steady hands took the bowl he offered and she gave him the first smile he’d seen since he found her under the tree in Skyhold’s garden.

“Thank you, Solas,” she said. She looked down at the stew. “For being here. For helping me.”

He dropped the ladle back in the pot, abandoning his own meal to stand before her. He ducked his head to meet her gaze. “There’s no need to thank me, vhenan. I wanted to come.” He kissed her forehead and rubbed his hands up and down her arms.

She lifted her face and pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips. “Still,” she said. “Thank you. I don’t know how I would have done this without you.”

“Ara melava son’ganem, vhenan.” He cupped her face in each hand and looked her in the eyes. “Ar lath ma, Riallan.”

Tears pooled in her green eyes, and though sadness still filled them, something bright and warm edged at the centers.

Solas thought it looked an awful lot like hope.