#you know what branch was downright mean to her growing up and she never once held that against him so you know what!!

[potatoes-tomatoes]

[phy-be]

| treasured | a david/genya fic

my participation to the mini-bang for @grishaversebigbang ♡ This was so fun to write, and a million thank you to my two wonderful materialki! Please check out their amazing work:

@nuclearnik [link] @zemenipearls [link]

Rating: General Audiences Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Trauma, proposal, set between Ruin and Rising and King of Scars, Canon Compliant, david is a nerd and he loves his soul mate very very much, cw: nerdy descriptions of rocks, Grishaverse Minibang Summary:

“David, you didn’t have to…”

He frowned and cocked his head. “Yes, I did. It’s customary to gift a ring when asking someone’s hand in marriage.”

He was never good at understanding social norms, but he was pretty sure he’d gotten that one right.

David pressed the button on the side of his microscope goggles, switching the lens to a more magnifying glass. In the palm of his gloved hand, a crystal gleamed, like sparks of purple fire trapped in stone. The light hit each of its faces in slightly different ways, creating an explosion of colours and geometrical shapes. It was even more beautiful seen up close, when David could not only admire the beauty of the thing, but also the elegant laws of science that made the light refract just so.

Crystals were complicated to work with. Their beauty was due to a highly specific geometry at the molecular level, and any careless alteration could damage their inner core, breaking the stone or making it duller. Even if some were strong enough to cut glass, crystals were precious; they needed to be handled with the utmost care.

David loved working on crystals.

His quiet work was interrupted by anguished sobs coming from the bed.

Quickly, he slipped the stone in a bit of fabric and rushed from his desk. Genya was having another nightmare. Throwing off his glasses and gloves, he hurried to find her on the bed. He took her in a protective embrace as she sobbed, screamed, legs jerking in panic. She clawed at the air around, desperately chasing off a horde of invisible nichevo'ya.

“Stop,” she begged. She wasn’t talking to him.

David held her tighter. Every time he saw her this way, so anguished and pained, helpless to her inner demons, a bitter guilt settled in him, consigned in a single thought: I should have protected her.

Then the guilt faded into hot-white anger — at the Darkling, who had done this to her, who had known how much it would hurt and keep hurting her — until David discarded that emotion, too. Rage and regret were not useful feelings to linger on. Helping Genya get through this, making her pain more bearable — these were the only things that mattered.

Eventually her movements calmed, her hiccupping sobs turning into shallow breaths and silent tears. David caressed her hair, the auburn locks softer than any silk he’d ever felt, and dropped feather-light kisses on her forehead. Genya nestled closer to him, burying her face in his neck. He could feel the wetness of her tears trickling on his skin.

“You’re safe, dear,” he whispered, knowing that he would do everything in his power to make sure this would always be true, from now on. “You’re safe.”

Her grip tightened on his shirt.

“W-were you awake?” she said, her voice still shaken.

David recognized the change of topic as her way to distract herself from the nightmares that lingered in her wakefulness. He played along.

“Yes,” he said, kissing her hair. “I was working late.”

“It’s almost morning,” she murmured. “You work late a lot lately.”

“I’m working on a project.”

“What project?”

David hesitated; Tamar had said he was supposed to keep it a secret. Keeping anything from Genya was hard enough normally, but when she was vulnerable like this, it was downright impossible.

He got up to get the piece of fabric — Genya followed him out of bed, not wanting to let go of his embrace, and he smiled, endeared. Gently, he led her back to the bed, sat next to her, and put his creation in her open palms.

“It’s not finished,” he warned.

Genya carefully unwrapped the silk. Her eyes widened at the sight of the ring, a glistening band of grisha steel wrapping like branches around a rose-shaped stone. When she turned it to get a better look, the candlelight shining through the crystal switched its colour from red, to purple, to blue.

“I altered the refracting index at different levels of the structure to make the crystal polychromatic,” David explained, excited in spite of himself. “I’ve done this with metals before, but never with crystal. It still needs polishing before I can give it to you, though.”

Genya’s eyebrow shot up, looking shocked. “This is for me?”

“Of course.” He admired the ring against Genya’s hand, as beautiful as he’d expected. It would be perfect once she wore it. Silver and red always complemented her pale, rosy skin, the way gold and purple complemented the bronze colour of his own.

“David, you didn’t have to…”

He frowned and cocked his head. “Yes, I did. It’s customary to gift a ring when asking someone’s hand in marriage.”

He was never good at understanding social norms, but he was pretty sure he’d gotten that one right.

“Y-you’re—” Genya croaked, her skin visibly flushed, “you’re proposing to me?”

“Not right now,” David corrected. “Tamar told me it had to be a special moment, so I’m still working on the details of that.”

He’d been thinking of doing it at sunset, for one. The fiery hues of the sky when the sun slipped under the horizon always reminded him of Genya’s hair, and it would look good on the ring. He’d calculated which part of the palace would be the most adequate spot — a corner of the Summoner’s field provided the perfect exposure for the ring to reflect sunrays and shimmer beautifully — but he needed a reason to bring Genya there that wouldn’t alarm her. Tamar had suggested a picnic, which David had found confusing since they never ate on the training grounds, but Genya did enjoy it when he cooked for her.

His thoughts came to a brutal halt when he realized Genya was crying.

David blinked. Had he done something wrong? He was always so bad at this stuff — he couldn’t count how many times he’d offended someone without meaning to, but Genya usually saw past his awkwardness and understood his meaning.

“Genya…” he said, hesitant, “I’m sorry, did I…”

“You’d want to marry me?” she sniffled, eyes cast down, tears gliding down her cheeks.

David was even more confused. Tamar’s advice hadn’t covered that part. “Yes. Of course.” Had that not been clear?

“Why?” Genya met his gaze. “Why would you… We haven’t even been together that long, you can’t know —”

Like the unknotting of a rope, suddenly, David understood. This was just like the imagined nichevo'ya. She was panicked, sure that the worst was yet to come, that she couldn’t be safe in her own home.

Softly, he cupped her cheeks, bringing her closer. He wished he could take some of the burden that weighed on her, carry it on his shoulders instead of hers, for once; wished he knew the right words to make her feel better, the perfect formula to soothe her fear. But this burden was Genya’s, and David was never good with words. All he could say was the truth.

“I agree that our romantic relationship has not been exceedingly long,” he admitted. A year only accounted for a twentieth of their age so far. Five percent of a life, and some change. “But I have been in love with you for seven years, five months, and twelve days. Our friendship is even older than that,” he pressed his forehead against hers, “and I’ve wanted to marry you from the first time you kissed me.”

His lips brushed hers, an echo of that day at the Spinning Wheel, when the bravest woman in the world had first chosen him.

“I realized at the time that this wasn’t a rational impulse,” he conceded, “so I waited to see how our companionship would grow. I believe I’ve now waited long enough to know. I feel at peace in your company, and I want to make you as happy as you make me.” He pulled back a little, retreating his hands. “Unless you do not want that, in which case I will respect—”

Before he could finish, Genya pulled him into a kiss — the dizzying, head-spinning kind of kiss he’d only ever experienced with her. When she kissed him like that, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, lips flush and panting, David’s usually overworking mind would quiet, snuffed out like the wick of a candle, replaced only by her . Soft hair, delicate skin, lips scarred and still wonderful, her scent a unique aroma he’d come to associate with peace, with home.

“Of course I want to,” she whispered against his lips, smiling coyly.

David kissed that smile, then her cheek, then her temple. “I’m relieved to hear that,” he sighed. “I’ll keep working on that proposal, then.”

Genya laughed, sweet and bright — David didn’t care much for music, but he could have listened to Genya’s laugh for hours. He tucked the ring back in the fabric and put it on the nightstand, where it wouldn’t get lost in the sheets, then took off his shoes and his shirt.

They lied together, Genya’s body half on top of his, snuggling close, as though any space between them might bring in the cold.

Genya brushed her fingers on David’s chest, tracing some patterns.

“So,” she said, her voice now clearer, more sure of herself — Genya in daylight, where the monsters couldn’t touch her. “What was that about seven years, five months, and twelve days?”

“Oh, hm…” David said. He could feel his face heat up, and felt irrationally glad for the brown of his skin, unlikely to show any hint of a blush.

Still, he told her the story of that day. Genya had visited the Fabrikator’s laboratory to make a new cosmetic for the queen. She’d been thirteen years old, and already so creative with her powers. At the time David had only reproduced what his masters had taught him as perfectly as he could, never trying to invent, to create.

But there had been Genya Safin, the first of her kind, inventing everything she did.

It wasn’t the first time they’d met, not even the first time they’d enjoyed each other’s company, but it was the first time David had watched her work. He hadn't even bothered saying hi (which he now realized had been rather rude), too eager to ask her question about her experiment. They’d talked, and when David had gone on a long tangent about his favourite way to colour glass, Genya hadn’t been bored or made fun of his enthusiasm, the way the other students usually did if they bothered to listen to him at all.

She’d listened with care and attention, and then she’d given him her opinion — smart, succinct. Perfect.

“How do you even remember the day this happened?” Genya laughed. “It was so long ago.”

David caressed her shoulder, a soothing, circular motion. “I remember everything, when it comes to you.”

“Cheesy,” she grinned.

“Maybe.” He felt his lips quirk in a smile of his own. “But it’s true.”

She rose up to look at him, her expression turning serious.

“I love you,” she said, the words like a promise. “For even longer than that.”

Gently, David took her wrist, and kissed her palm. “Now, let’s not make it a competition.”

“Wise. You know I’d win.”

“My dear,” he smiled against her hand, “I think I share this victory with you.”

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Of Monsters and Men

Chapter 8- Bottled Appetites

Summary: A peaceful day can turn sour so fast, but alas, it still never fails to bring you adventure. Whether you’re ready for it or not.

Warnings: Jaskier being stubit, blood, Geralt being a hottie, a bit of smut

Masterlist

Today couldn't be more beautiful, the sun is shining her grand radiance and the forest is full of life as you listen to the singing of birds from your comfortable spot on a large tree branch that's hanging over top of Geralt. He's currently focused intently on fishing out a djinn to hopefully cure his sleep apnea that's been really bothering him as of late. Well, that's at least the reasoning he's claimed.

You've tried to help him with herbs, potions, and more sensual physical activities. But nothing has appeared to work, so here he is, grumpier then usual as he throws a fishing net into the river in hopes that he'll snag himself a djinn in a bottle.

Laying your back against the long branch, one of your legs swings casually back and forth as you listen to your surroundings. Your stomach growls from lack of any sufficient food in the last two days when your ears suddenly hear the tell tale singing of a certain bard as he strolls through the woodland in search of his long time friends, "Cause you all know. That this bard. Loved ladies from Nilfgaard. 'Cause Nilfgaard can kiss my..." Sings the bard as he wanders down the trail until his eyes land on your Witcher, "Geralt! Hello. What's it been months? Years? What is time, anyway? I heard you and Y/N...wherever she is....were in town.' His voice is just as cheerful and upbeat as you'd remembered, "Are you following me, you scamp? I mean I'm flattered and everything, but I think that feisty lady of yours may start to get jealous." Rambles Jaskier as he takes out his flask.

He takes a small sip before offering it to Geralt, who ignores him, Jaskier shakes this off and keeps to his questioning when suddenly you drop down from seemingly out of nowhere. Doing a fantastic job at scaring the shit out of Jaskier in your abrupt arrival, he yelps before stumbling back a few feet. "Dear gods Y/N have you been just hanging around in the treetops like some type of...of..bat?" He stammers breathlessly, a hand over his thudding heart.

Smirking at him you throw him a quick wink, "Only for you my humble bard." He stands up straight as a light blush dusts his cheeks as you turn to follow Geralt down the side of the river path, while he searches for a better spot to catch this djinn, Jaskier trailing behind you both.

"Geralt, you're fantastic at a great many things, but clearly, fishing is not one of them. Have you caught anything today? What are you fishing for, exactly?" Intrudes Jaskier as Geralt fiddles with his netting while you lean against a tree, "Is it cod? Carp?" He looks to you for a second before his attentions back on Geralt, "Pike? Bream? I'm just....I'm just listing off fish that I know. Zander? Is that a fish?" Wonders the bard as he raises a brow at you.

You simply shrug, "He's not fishing, can't sleep." Jaskier nods, not sure what to do with that information.

"Right. Good. Well, that...makes sense. In so much that it sort of...doesn't." Frowns Jaskier as he suddenly looks a bit more worried, "What's going on Geralt, talk to me."

Geralt stops before letting out a tired sigh as he looks to Jaskier, "A djinn." Is all he admits before he's back to grappling with his net.

You watch as Jaskier's face scrunches up in deep confusion, "A what?"

"I'm looking for a djinn." Grumbles Geralt as the bards face looks even more puzzled then before.

Then all at once it seems that he's finally connected the dots, a smirk breaking upon his face as he sets his hands onto either hip, "For a dj....for a djinn? A dj...like a genie?" Laughs Jaskier as he wiggles his fingers in a playful manner, "The floaty fellas with the....the bad tempers and the banned magics, that kind of genie?"

Geralt stand up once again, a hard expression across his brow while Jaskier fails at concealing his laughter, "Yes. It'll grant me wishes. It's in this river somewhere. And I can't FUCKING SLEEP!" Snaps Geralt, golden eyes glowing even brighter as his anger boils over.

Geralt glances to you for a brief moment before turning and walking further down the river path, the bard follows suite as you trail behind them, amused at Jaskier's continuous rambling about his latest adventures and the possible reason why Geralt is so sleep deprived.

"Have you ever considered why you may be feeling this way hm, let's say...oh I don't know, we find the root of the problem. I mean, maybe, just maybe this whole sleeplessness-ness has got something to do with what the druid Mousesack said to you guys in Cintra? You know, the Law of Surprise? Destiny? Being unable to escape the child that belongs to you, et cetera, et cetera?" Inquires Jaskier as you watch Geralt prepare to throw in the net.

"No! Y/N was there too and she's fine....this is something else." Grumbles your Witcher as he throws his net into the waters below.

Jaskier looks from you to Geralt, hands on his hips the whole time, "Yeah, you're probably right. But what if you're not? You know, the Countess de Stael once said to me...that destiny is just the embodiment of the soul's desire to grow." Explains Jaskier he walks past you to sit down on a log.

A small laugh escapes from your lips as you turn to the bard, "Did you sing to her before she left?" You honestly couldn't help yourself, pushing Jaskier's buttons is just a solid talent of yours.

He looks out at the water, "I did, actually, and she.." His head quickly turns to you once he realizes what that comment suggested, "Why, what are you implying?" Wonders Jaskier as he tilts his head to you, a smirk breaks out upon your face as you then bite your lip to keep silent. He gets up from the log, an abashed expression crossing his features, "Oh, we are so having this conversation. Come on, Y/N. Geralt. Tell me. Be honest. How's my singing?"

You cross your arms over your chest while casually looking out at the river and pretend that he hasn't even said anything, although you're certain Geralt on the other hand will add his two cents. He tosses his net out into the water once again before turning to Jaskier, "It's like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling." Deadpans Geralt as you burst with laughter, Jaskier looking rather taken aback as his eyes go wide in surprise.

"You need a nap! I mean are you trying to hurt my feelings, Geralt? It's...it's down-downright indecorous of you, if I'm completely honest, and.." He quickly loses interest once Geralt unveils a bottle from his net, "Wow. Wow. What is...what is that?" Questions Jaskier as Geralt holds the djinn bottle in his muddy hands, you hover over his shoulder as you stare at the thing in amazement. It doesn't look like much but the wizards seal on the bottles cork is truly telling, too bad it doesn't have a three course meal inside.

"It's a wizards seal. The djinn." Geralt confirms softly as he studies the enchanted bottle until Jaskier suddenly grabs onto the bottles other handle.

"Do you mind if I...."

"Jaskier." Snaps Geralt as you stand back to watch, deciding it more entertaining if you don't intervene.

The bard points an accusing finger in his direction, "Take it back about my filling-less pie. Take it back, you get your djinny-djinn-djinn."

Rolling your crimson eyes you set a hand on your hip, "Let go Jask."

He turns to you with a fake sneer before snapping his attention back to your stoic Witcher, "No! No, you let go, you horse's arse!" Suddenly the bottle slips from Geralt's hand as he looks down at the cork in his fist, a confused expression on his handsome features as nothing appears to happen around either of them.

Jaskier studies the bottle in his hand, looking rather disappointed, "That's a bit of an anticlimax." He mutters dismally at the boring turn of events, although you can't help but notice as a soft supernatural whispering begins to make itself known to your hypersensitive ears, then right on cue does the wind begin to pick up, the woods feeling a bit darker as the clouds go grey up above, "Or is it?" He says excitedly as he wiggles his eyebrows at you.

Crossing your arms over your chest, your nerves prick at the odd change in the atmosphere, "Shit." You mumble while Jaskier walks past Geralt, he gives you a sour look as you grimace in knowing annoyance.

Standing on the edge of the riverbank, Jaskier points to the sky, "Djinn, I have freed thee, and as of this day, I am thy lord. Firstly, may Valdo Marx the troubadour of Cidaris, be struck down with apoplexy and die. Secondly, the Countess de Stael must welcome me back with glee, open arms and very little clothing. Thirdly..." Geralt quickly pulls him back in an attempt to shut him up before something terrible happens to him.

"Jaskier! Stop. There are only three wishes." Warns Geralt as you stand next to him, the both of you staring the bard down like two disappointed parents.

"You're a fucking idiot, Jask." You add bluntly as he simply rolls his blue eyes, unbothered by this djinn considering his two friends are a Witcher and dhampire.

"Only three wishes!" Grumbles Geralt as Jaskier observes his agitated demeanor.

"Oh, come on, you got Y/N, she's quite literally the best thing that's ever happened to you...how was I to know you wanted three wishes all to yourself?" Shouts the bard over the loud enchanted winds that are rapidly starting to build, ones that are rocking the tree branches and leaves every which way, as well as your hair.

"I just want some damn peace!" Bellows Geralt in frustration.

"Well, here's your peace!" Snaps Jaskier before idiotically smashing the bottle upon the ground in a blind moment of irritation.

Geralt quickly squats down to pick up the broken shards as you reach down to do the same, while picking them up he accidentally cuts himself on a sharp edge. You can instantly smell the blood, and though you haven't given into darker temptations in a long while. You're rather hungry from lack of coin to pay for any such meals that would gladly satisfy you, and right now it feels too much.

Snapping away from Geralt, you stand to your full height as you finally notice how sickly peculiar Jaskier is starting to appear, "Uh Y/N.." Gasps the bard breathlessly as he holds a hand to his throat, "Y/N...it's the djinn!" Stammers Jaskier as he points towards the river, you snap your attention to find a wispy black and purple mass racing for the three of you over the water.

Your eyes go wide in startled bewilderment, "Geralt!" You shout just as he stands and uses his magic to propel the creature back where it decides to take off into the sky.

Your Witcher stares up at the horizon as you catch the enthralling scent of blood once more, god you should really have eaten some berries or at least stolen something earlier to avoid this terrible primal hunger. You look over to Jaskier who's not looking too hot, a tiny trail of blood seeps out of the side of his mouth, his neck forming an unnatural lump as he wheezes in pain.

Geralt snaps his golden eyes down to the panicking bard, "Jaskier." He speaks before Jask leans over, a ruby red spurt of blood bursting from out of his mouth as he tries to gasp for breath, "Y/N?" Pleads Geralt in hopes that you can help him somehow. Though you're certain that if you would get any closer, you may break and give into your deeper vampiric desires that you've held at bay for so long. The part of you that has forever kept yourself from ever truly feeling human.

Shaking your head you flicker your eyes over to him, "I...I can't....I'm too starved....I'm sorry." You breath out, taking a cautious step back, the scent of Jaskier's warm blood on the breeze is enough to make your mouth water.

He purses his lips together, knowing that you can't do much for the time being, "Fuck." Grumbles Geralt as he quickly picks up Jaskier before booking it down the trail for Roach.

——

You follow in the form of a pack of bats close behind your boys as Geralt leads Roach to a small camp in the woods. You watch as he yells in question for a doctor, Jaskier slumped to the side as he leans into Geralt's broad back. Quickly a soldier confirms that an elven healer is inside, you land on a large firm tree branch, turning back into your original form as you watch them scurry into the grand white tent.

You focus your hearing and learn that if Jaskier's wounds are not treated by proper magic remedies, then he will certainly die. A pang of worry strikes you at the thought of your bard gone, and you do feel quite terrible knowing that he's in so much pain. But to your great or at least somewhat relief does the elf give Jaskier a pain relieving liquid concoction, thus explaining that a malicious and cunning mage is imprisoned in the mayor's house in the next town over who could heal the bards wounds.

A prominent feeling of uneasiness and caution surges throughout you at the thought of meeting another mage after months of evading any at all. Soon enough they quickly exit the tent and find themselves upon Roach's back before they take off in the direction of the closest town. With a heavy sigh you jump from the tree, shifting into a pack of whimsical black bats as you fly after Geralt throughout the tree tops and evening sky.

You're flight feels short lived as a couple miles later does Geralt finally find the large brick house of the mayor, its a rather beautiful place positioned on the edge of a huge lake with woods comfortably surrounding it. Roach gallops onto the gravel road when suddenly a tough half bald bearded man walks up to them. He gives them a hard time before Geralt abruptly knocks him out with a sack of coins, much to your amusement.

He takes Roach to the stables as you fly downward towards the ground, just as Geralt walks out of the barn with Jaskier dangling over his shoulder, you hastily shift back into your more presentable self. He gives you a nod of acknowledgment before a stern and determined look appears onto his hard features as he practically strides towards the closest wooden door. You follow behind as you clench your fists together in an attempt at distracting yourself from your ever growing hunger, the blood seeping out of Jaskier's mouth smells sweet as fresh berries as it wafts into your nostrils.

He wheezes in pain with every step that Geralt takes down the wine filled hallway which is enough to keep yourself from doing anything you'll regret later. He walks through a doorway before gently setting Jaskier onto the kitchen table, you follow in after him, your crimson eyes going wide as they find a naked man holding a brown shiny jug. He stares in awe at the three of you just as he drops his jug onto the stone floor below.

What the fuck?

A large drunken half smile makes its way onto his face, "Velcome...to my vome." Cheerfully announces the grey haired naked man, his arms spread wide in greeting, other parts of him also hanging out to your great disgust.

"You're the Mayor of Rinde?" Wonders Geralt as he looks to Jaskier.

Looking anywhere but the man, you throw a hand up before resting it onto your hip, "Our day has already been weird enough, why not meet a naked man in his home to top it all off, huh?" You jest with a nervous laugh, almost certain that this fool has been enchanted. He has to be, right?

The bard makes more wheezing sounds as Geralt's brow furrows in worry, "Uh, it there a mage that lives here?" The naked man turns to something sitting near Jaskier as his face shifts to that of realization.

"Ah. De apple jvuce. She vants some. And she alvays gets...vhat she vants." Whispers the man with a telling nod, oh yes he is without a doubt under some type of spell.

Geralt turns a confused eye to you, "I don't understand. Does he want me to get him the apple juice?" You turn your eyes back to the man as he goes to sit down in a chair, you look back to Geralt with a shrug, "No idea? Let's just find this fucking mage." You grumble as Jaskier tries to nod.

Your Witcher grabs the apples juice and the scruff of the bards baby blue jacket as he goes to walk into the nearest doorway. You turn back to the naked potbellied man only to be greeted with his loud snores, shaking your head you amble after your boys. As you follow closely behind Geralt you look down to notice as a greenish mist cascades out from under the closed door. He quickly pulls it open as more billows out and into the hallway, there's nothing on the other side but an ascending staircase, to the left another closed doorway that seems to have even more of the mist coming from it.

It's strange, you can hear muffled moaning on the other side and the rapid beating of many loud heartbeats. Your questions are quickly answered as the two of them walk into the next open doorway only to stumble upon a massive orgy. You keep behind the wall as you crinkle your nose in disgust at the strong scent of sex, sweat, and perfume in the air, a less than pleased expression crossing your features at the sickening toxins.

One that most likely matches Geralt's if you didn't know any better. You listen closely as he walks through the moaning crowd before he plops Jaskier next to someone, you feel almost sick from lack of food and the smell of this place is just about driving you mad. But you can't face the mage, something just doesn't feel right.

You listen as he speaks to her, your heart falling into your throat as she replies back, that voice, you haven't heard that voice in decades. But how? How could she be here of all places to be? Shaking your thoughts from your mind you eves drop in on their conversation until she begins to give him a hard time about payment, sounding rather too sensual for your liking.

"It's spreading, fix it. And I'll pay you. Whatever the price." Mutters Geralt to the familiar mage as he looks up at her from his spot near the small stairway that she's standing on.

"You'll have to do better then juice." Answers the mage slyly as she contemplates this intriguing new proposition.

"Yennefer." She stops in her tracks, her body tense as realization crosses her masked face, "Don't be difficult." You add as Geralt steps to the side, a confused expression on his face as he looks from you to Yennefer and back to you again.

She takes a step down, a small smirk adoring her ruby red lips as she looks you over, "Now this...is a surprise, how long's it been? I honestly wasn't certain that our paths would ever cross again, I was almost hoping they wouldn't....but alas. Here you are....it's good to see you Y/N." She smiles, studying your bloodshot eyes due to your increase in hunger, she smiles, "You look, famished." Concludes the mage with a tilt of her head.

You slightly shrug, "What a kind way to say I look like I'm halfway into hell....now, save him before he bleeds anymore."

She smiles, looking down at the djinn's bottle cap, "As you command, princess Y/N." Quips Yennefer with a smirk as she looks around the room, "Ragamuffin!" And just like that the mass orgy stops, the participating villagers snapping back to reality in the process. They quickly scramble to cover themselves as Yennefer looks to the two of you, nodding for you three to follow her to where she can heal Jaskier.

——

After clearing out half the pantry and about two small bottles of wine, you're finally satiated and no more half starved. You casually sit on the kitchen table as Geralt stares at the floor in worry for the bard and in deep questioning thought about how the hell you know Yennefer. You could practically cut the tension with a knife, but then much to your relief she comes walking down the steps.

Calmly announcing that Jaskier is in a deep healing sleep, and that you both urgently need a bath, something you wholeheartedly agree on. She hands the both of you some clean clothes as she directs you into the direction of the bathhouse, going elsewhere to give you both some privacy.

You walk into the steamy warm room as Geralt shuts the door, locking it as you start to unlace your top, "Y/N how do you know..."

"Ask me when I'm in the bath, then I'll indulge you for some of my hidden past....dealings." You interrupt with the flash of a smile before throwing off your top and bra. You face away from him as you kick off your boots, quickly shimmying out of your dark pants and undergarments as you stand stark naked by the heated pool.

Turning a quick glance behind you, your eyes catch Geralt's as his golden irises trail down your body, he looks away as an embarrassed grin makes its way onto his handsome face. You smile to yourself, turning to lower your tired vessel into the steaming waters. Sighing in pleasure at how the bath feels blessedly nice after many moons of going without a proper clean.

You close your eyes as your sit peacefully by the waters edge, a smirk playing at your lips as Geralt's muscular body gets in after you. You listen intently as he lets himself enjoy the warmth before some water swishes and he's pressed firmly against your side. An arm draped over your shoulder as his other one leans against the cool stony edge, you can just tell that he's taking you all in even as his mind swirls with questions.

"Y/N? What did you get into before you met me....or I guess what type of trouble? Although I do happen to recall your hatred for wizards and mages alike." Mutters your Witcher as he looks down at your relaxed form, your body but a nude distortion under the clear waters of the pool.

Humming in acknowledgment, you open a scarlet eye to look up at him as you give him a small smile, you can tell that if it wasn't for how curious he is at the moment, he'd without a doubt be turning you into a moaning mess by the waters edge within minutes, "I know Yennefer because...I....well I was a type of courier in Aretuza for many years." His dark brows furrow in thought, not sure what you're getting at so you continue, "The mage academy, I traveled there because I searched for the aid of the mages, you see, I had found a farm girl who was bitten by a werewolf and survived. Her father said he would pay me if I delivered her into their care, double if they cured her."

His hand trails tiny patterns against your arm, "And what did you do?"

"I was able to save her life, we had a week before the next full moon and a mage there had the needed remedy to reverse the lycanthropy. After that, I stayed with her there as she recovered from the whole ordeal...considering the process of taking away ones curse is a painful one." You explain as he laces a hand with your own, invested in your story with every new word coming from your lips, "In my time, I investigated the grounds...I was only two-hundred something then...I wanted to see everything. So I did, in doing so, and yes I'm aware this is going to sound quite unlike myself...but, I made a friend."

He hums, squeezing your arm gently in reply, "Her name was Tissaia de Vries, though that hardly matters now it's been so long, anyways....she appeared to like me well enough, I needed a place to cover myself from the rain, and coin to keep me alive and she knew what I was useful for. I basically became a raven, I would take precious letters, scrolls, or artifacts from Aretuza to wherever needed and vise versa. It was safer that way, no one would dare fuck with a dhampir of all travelers, and the ones who did promptly regretted it...and I got to live in the academy for free. It was perfect."

"When did you meet Yennefer?"

"Sometime after a good many years as a courier slash traveling body guard for high end royals who payed well, Tissaia had just brought her to Aretuza for the first time and while walking near her room I could smell the blood pouring out of her slashed wrists, the fool was trying to kill herself." He glances down at you, more intrigued then ever.

(Cue flashback)

"Check on piglet would you Y/N, I'll be gathering the girls for their first lesson shortly in the greenhouse. Make sure she's up." Says Tissaia as she writes something down on a piece of parchment with her quill.

Setting down some type of golden box onto one of her many counters you turn to her, "The little bird seems hardly mage material if I'm being honest....she's afraid, nervous, and ridiculously troubled...not to mention that hunched back of hers, poor things truly had it rough, now things only feel worse to her. You really know how to pick'em don't you?" You muse with a smirk as she continues to write, "Doesn't matter, everyone starts somewhere. I'll go find her, doubt she's decided to venture very far." You add before walking out the doorway and into the stony halls of the enchanted academy.

You pass by a couple mages here and there as you find your way to the novice's rooms in the lower section of the giant castle, you suddenly stop as you've successfully made it to her door. Not caring enough to knock, you swing it open as you find the sad hunchbacked girl, who's sniffling pathetically in her creaky bed, "Greetings little bird, how was your sleep?" Your voice is lively as you smile down in her direction while more dismal sniffles sound, a small half-frown graces your features as you cross your arms over your chest, "Can't say very well considering you've lost a good amount of blood, which I might add is not ideal for your first day of lessons or in general if we're being honest. You're seriously lucky I wasn't starving when I found you."

She sighs, "I don't want to do any lessons. Just leave me. You should have just let me die...at least I still had control over that." She whispers sadly, her back is still turned to you as you take another step closer.

Lightly chuckling, she turns to you, a harsh glare crossing her puffy features as you scoff, "That's hilarious. You really think that you had control? You didn't have shit little bird....you didn't have control, you were losing it." Her crooked face morphs into a frustrated glare as she thinks over your words, you simply shrug, "Now, you've survived and are very much alive whether you like it or not, it's close to the hour for your first lessons as a real mage in training, important shit for your kind. So get up little bird, it's time to fly."

She sniffles once more before giving you a downcast expression, "I can't."

Touching her shoulder in as comforting of a manner as you can muster you smile kindly down at her, "Listen, you can either let the world fuck you like a cheap whore, or you can become a dragon who does whatever the hell they please. Which is it my crooked friend? Who are you going to become?"

Slowly sitting up onto the edge of her bed, she rubs her nose, the tiniest bit of confidence flashing through her purple eyes, "A dragon." She whispers softly, a small spark of life coursing through her once again.

(End flashback)

"I had no idea, this whole time." Whispers Geralt.

You gently nudge his bare shoulder, "Yeah well you never exactly asked, and I didn't feel it important because it isn't or I guess wasn't....that is, until we happened to meet her this evening. Weirder circumstances have be felled us."

"That is true, its just, you were actual friends with mages." Says Geralt like its the most surprising thing in the world, "Now I understand how you knew Mousesack. I had always wondered about that."

"Hmm. Right, well you see and meet a lot of different people when you can't age. He's gotten greyer since the last time, Yennefer however, she still looks the same."

Geralt squeezes your hand, "And you, look even more radiant."

He looks down at you once more, the flash of something new and intriguing shinning bright in his golden eyes as they trail up and down your body. You smirk, pulling his arm from you as you position yourself in front of him, reaching your arms out to push his thighs apart. He eyes you up the whole time, hardness beginning to grow underneath the waters as you touch his shoulders, lining yourself up against him, ready to claim him completely, by just inches.

You softly kiss him, "Fuck me so that damn witch knows exactly who you belong to." His hands trail up to your sides as he pushes you down on his erect member, a low hum escaping your lips at the contact, his fullness pleasantly stretching your walls from within the steamy waters.

Geralt kisses you once more, another upon your neck as he smiles, "Such a compelling offer..." His words evade him as a moan leaves from his parted lips as you begin to ride him, the pools water swishing as you bounce. The next twenty minutes are spent fucking each other until you're one-hundred percent positive that Yennefer could hear every scream and thrust.

Just as you'd intended.

——

You stand at the foot of Jaskier's extravagant bed as Yennefer watches from the doorframe, Geralt near his side as the bard sleeps peacefully away his troubles and malevolent enchantment. Geralt looks on at him, a distraught expression crossing over his features as Yennefer asks if he doubts her capabilities. He grumbles a truthful no, as his only cause of worry is that if Jaskier never wakes up he'll feel terrible for the unkind words that were said to him before all this mess happened.

She smiles when he grumbles about her actual intentions, she simply walks past you over to her table of spices and herbs, but before she can get to it Geralt makes note of how the sign from the djinn's seal is marked upon the floor with candle wax. Her face falters as she realizes that she's been found out, you had figured something was up the moment you stepped into the room and saw it near the end of the large bed.

Leaning yourself against one of the bed posts, you listen as Geralt declares that he's going to take Jaskier now to prevent Yennefer from summoning the djinn, she smartly explains that if he does, then the spell won't take. So you're all essentially stuck until Jaskier is healed, whenever that may be. She turns to open a tiny bottle of oil on her stand, nonchalantly rubbing it into the skin of her wrist as she magically sets the summoning circle candles on fire, an enchanted burst of wind sending the drapes of the bed flying and flapping into the air, your hair as well.

This doesn't sit right with your Witcher at all, especially when she asks how many wishes he has made, Geralt doesn't give her a direct answer until he lets slip that Jask has only used two wishes. Her face perks up at this news, she gives you a mischievous wink before walking over to Geralt, who looks like something strange is happening to him.

You can smell the scent of lilac and gooseberries wafting throughout the room as she walks closer to him, "Tough to get in your head. You have a strong will, but you can't contend with me." You suddenly feel rather sleepy as Geralt looks down at her in anger, instead of helping him, you sit down on the bed and try your best to listen, "Sorry I couldn't be more direct, I knew you two would fight it. And I do love a good old-fashioned trap." She muses as your eyelids begins to grow heavy, a yawn leaving your mouth as you rest a hand against the soft inviting mattress.

So soft, so tired, how'd you get so sleepy?

Against everything in you that's screaming for you to stay awake to stop Yennefer, you feel utterly relaxed, so much so that instead of helping Geralt to stay conscious. You lay yourself on the giant bed, you blearily stare up at the dark wooden ceiling in false content, everything feels so warm and lovely. The room swirls and shifts as you tiredly close your crimson eyes, the sweet enchanting scent of lilac lulling you into a deep and blissful slumber.

Breathing in sharply, you stretch in the soft bed as your eyes finally open to the morning light pouring out from the two giant glass windows on either side of the bed. You're laying on your left side so as you focus better, you're surprised to find Jaskier laying on his back next to you. This is definitely not Geralt, so how did you get here?

Oh right, Yennefer.

Quickly sitting yourself up you look to the end of the bed where Yennefer is sitting, topless as she rubs something onto her bare abdomen. Your brows furrow as you stare at her back, "What the fuck are you doing?" You question, no heat really in your words, you're honestly more confused then anything at the moment.

Without looking at you she starts, "I need the djinn Y/N, this is how I intend to take it."

Sliding off of the side of the bed, you walk around so that you can lean against the wooden beam to see what she's getting at, "That's rather vague Yenn, but if I was to make an educated guess from my clever sleuthing, or just general understanding of how that clapping monkey of a brain works. I'd say you're trying to summon the fucker so your last wish may be for a child in your womb. Nice tattoo by the way, very original." You nod to the dark colored insignia on her lower abdomen in the shape of the female reproductive system, who would have guessed she was such as artist.

She glances at you for a second, anger slowly building in her chest, "How very clever indeed Y/N, even in old age does your mind stay as sharp as a tack." Her tone is bluntly sarcastic, but you stay unaltered by her jest.

You tilt your head at her, "Djinn's are finicky creatures, I wouldn't try and do exactly what I think you're going to do."

"And what is that?" She snaps, her eyes focused ahead.

Rolling your eyes you let out an irritated huff of air, "Become the djinn's physical vessel, its suicide...and you know it. Even the most powerful of mages cannot harness the true strength and imperium of the djinn, what would compel you to attempt this? What will having a child gain you, in this world of all places?"

She doesn't have time to answer as Jaskier suddenly wakes up with a start, he pushes himself up into a sitting position as he squints from the bright light of the room, "Oh, uh...where am I?" His eyes quickly land on the bare back of Yennefer since he can't see you from behind the thick pulled back curtain, "Whew! Uh...Right. Good. Good. Uh...Not to be untoward or anything...but, did we...you know, do the uh..." She slowly covers her bare torso and chest with her thin golden white top as she turns around to face him and crawl upon the bed, "Ooh, Go...Oh, no! No! Definitely did not butter that biscuit." Rushes Jaskier as he scrambles to get off, you watch as he shuffles past you, his eyes going wide in puzzlement, "Oh hello there Y/N, nice morning huh....oh shit, uh...look lady I'm so sorry, but I've just remembered I left my...cat, on the, stove."

He walks backwards as Yennefer continues her stalk towards him, "I...I uh, we really must going, isn't that right Y/N!" He exclaims as he quickly bends down to put on his shoes. You're not entirely sure how to handle this situation if you're being totally honest, you're not exactly one to stop people from living their dreams, especially if it's Yennefer doing something stupid and you also rather enjoy watching Jaskier piss himself.

Her eyes darken, "Express your deepest desires and you can be on your way." She asserts as her hand picks up a knife from her drawer.

"Well, my deepest desires are currently satisfied, thank you so much." Sputters Jaskier as Yennefer uses her power to slam him against the nearby wall.

"Is this really necessary?" You remark as she focuses on the bard.

"Yes." Is all that comes forth from her lips as she goes to threaten Jaskier, "How's your throat?"

"Uh.." Jaskier gives you a nervous glance before snapping back to the approaching mage.

Smiling wickedly she takes another step closer, "Perhaps you should try some scales."

Jaskier flinches back as the mage grabs a hold of him, "Uh...Toss a coin to your Witcher. O, valley of...penis. Oh, God." He stammers as Yenn grabs his junk in one hand and presses a knife against his throat in the other.

"If you want to keep all you have...make a damn wish." She threatens with malice, Jaskier breathing heavily in fear, he doesn't say anything as he throws pleading eyes your way. Scoffing she lets go of him and instead walks over to kneel down at the circle of burning candles, "Make a damn wish! Do it now!" Shouts the insane witch, an enchanted breeze finding its way into the room even with lack of opened windows.

Jaskier slides down the wall as he looks to you who only shrugs in reply, this is his problem now. He shifts his attention back to the mage, "I don't...I don't know! I wish very badly to leave this place forever!" Cries Jaskier as Yennefer gasps, her breathing going deeper as she begins to chant something in Eldar. The room instantly fills with winds, papers flying across the room at the intrusion.

Holding tightly onto the shaking wooden beam of the bed you glance from Jaskier to Yennefer, "You're fucking crazy Yennefer! This is madness!" She all but ignores you, her chanting getting louder and louder as the magical winds send your hair flying in all directions, "Fuck. Jaskier get out of here while you can, the djinn is close I can feel it!" You scream above the noise, he quickly nods before jumping to his feet and racing out the opened door.

You turn a worried face to Yennefer, "I'm not sure about you but, lets not invite a fucking genie into this place! You don't even own it! And stop speaking Eldar before this dark fucker possesses you!" She doesn't even give you a glance, as right on cue does the black wispy shadow of the djinn seep into the room and hastily flow into her body.

Your eyes go wide at the abrupt turn of events, "Fine. I'll save you myself, fucking mages." You mutter before taking a step forward, in an instant her eyes shoot open to reveal a sickly pink covering the entirety of her whole eyeball, she shoots up a hand and before you have a chance to do anything. Your whole body is thrown back into the hard glass window and straight out into the misty morning air as you free fall towards the grassy courtyard below.

Taken off guard but anticipating the nearing ground, you quickly stop yourself and levitate mere inches from the earth. You lower your feet onto the grass, an annoyed sigh leaving your lips as you pick some glass shards out of your arms and pant legs. You stand in the morning light beginning to rethink your life choices when pained screams are heard from up above, it's Yennefer, she's screaming at Geralt to make a wish so she can finally have all the power. Clearly things are not going well by any means, so instead of leaving her to an inevitable demise like how you'd planned, you fly back up to the broken window and right into the windy chaotic mess of a room.

A pillow nearly misses your head when you arrive just as the djinn screams for Geralt to use his wish on anything that he so desires. You jog over to the circle of candles as his golden eyes find yours, "Just make a fucking wish!" You shout before the djinn compels Yennefer to throw you against the far wall in an act of mindless rage. You're back hits the wood first, your head cracking against it with a thud, ouch.

You fall to the messy floor in a daze, a single trickle of blood falling down the side of your temple as you stand to slowly regain your bearings once again. Although when you look up, it appears that Geralt has spoken his last wish, the wind has dissipated and Yennefer seems to have come around to her mostly normal self.

Breathing heavily from her spot on the floor she turns to you, "Is it over?" She whispers tiredly, "Is it done?"

Sensing movement from the attic you zero in on the noise, "Oh fuck it's still here!" You bellow before the ceiling crumbles and cracks open, wood, stone, metal and whatever else bursting through as the djinn destroys the roof. Your eyes go wide as a large piece of wood breaks away, heading straight for Yennefer, more chunks racing down for Geralt as well.

In a blur you're able to save them both from a suddenly violent death as you rest them against the floor away from the destructive mess happening near the bed and windows. Geralt sits up and scoots back as you rest your old friend upon a soft red and gold pillow, she's asleep from the quick rushed movement you'd just subjected her to. You're going to have to remember that not everyone is very fond of whiplash.

Leaning over her, you lightly shake her arm, "Yennefer. It's me, Y/N. Wake up idiot." Her lavender irises slowly flicker open as you sit back, a sigh of relief leaving your parted lips as you turn to make sure Geralt's alright. He's already asleep on another large blue pillow, so much for the mighty Witcher.

"Wha...what?" She mumbles softly before her eyes open wider in realization, "Y/N why did you stop me! I nearly had it, I was so close and you ruined it, why di..."

Your brows furrow in confusion at her needless outburst, "You had shit, I saved your life! You ungrateful..."

"Oh, well I saved that fucking bard's life and your precious Witcher's...but now he's let the djinn escape! Who knows what havoc it'll wreak now that it has no vessel at all?" She fumes, glaring at you angrily.

Rolling your scarlet eyes at her frustration, you sit down on the carpeted floor, "No more havoc then you. Djinns are only dark creatures when held captive."

"How can you be so sure?" She snaps.

You raise an eyebrow at her, "When did you last feel happy when you felt trapped? And besides, if you were going to portal us to safety, you could have taken us out of this shit town!"

Yennefer huffs in annoyance, "A fine critique if you could make a portal yourself. Or better yet, turn into a giant bat and fly us away from here...and it wasn't a shit town, it was fine till you and your two incompetent imbeciles came along. I had a plan!" She exclaims pointedly as you begin to chuckle.

Her glare hard pressed as you smirk, "And that was going rather swimmingly!"

"It was!" Snaps Yennefer, "Like a drowning fish." She looks to you with angry eyes, her fire slowly brimming as a smile breaks out onto her face.

"More like a dead and dry one." You muse with a laugh as you frown, "oh gods look at us, how'd we ever get here huh....from Aretuza to the destroyed aftermath of a fucking djinn."

Her face falters for a moment as she thinks over your words, "Who can say? Bad choices perhaps, maybe we do it to ourselves for the fun of it."

"Maybe you're just a thrill seeker." She gives you a half offended glare as you simply stick your tongue out at her, "But we've survived nonetheless, I'll take that as a promising sign for the time being."

"I guess that means something then." She looks down to her hands, a downcast expression crossing her sweaty features, "I am glad to have seen you again in all honesty, it's just been a very long while since I've seen anyone familiar." Admits the violet eyed mage.

You shrug, "Or tolerable?"

"Yes, or tolerable. My life at court was...almost all for naught, I feel like I didn't do anything worth my time there....even got a knife through my shoulder when the Queen I was accompanying was killed by an assassin. I was done." She explains with a frown, you can tell something else about it bothers her, but you'd rather not press your curiosity.

"The things I miss when I'm elsewhere. Who needs a life at court anyway...I on the other hand was never meant to rule a castle. Perhaps it's a good thing my mother won't ever age, or die. And I have my freedom to roam the Continent as I please, a free woman bound by nothing but what I choose, and so I have." She gives you a downcast smile.

"I almost envy you Y/N. Truly. Now if only I could know what your Witcher happened to have wished for, but I'd rather not wake him. He almost looks peaceful in a sleeping bear kind of way." She adds while looking behind you at a snoozing Geralt, his chest slowly rising and falling with each soft breath.

You turn a loving gaze upon him, "Guess he does, doesn't he? Like a grimy sweaty mess of a man...my big grumpy bear." You muse, your eyes studying his face lovingly as a sudden idea comes to mind, you turn back to Yennefer with a mischievous smirk, "You know what, the bards recently single..."

Her face is almost a grimace as she shakes her head, "I'll take my chances elsewhere. But thank you Y/N, always watching out for me, usually pretty shit advice most often." She jests while rising to her feet, "I must be off before the town comes for my head, see you around...hopefully under better circumstances and with less destructive endings." You stand to your full height, a couple inches taller then Yennefer.

You both lean in for a parting hug, "Goodbye, Yennefer." Letting go of one another she hands you a small smile, "Try not to get killed Y/N."

"You. Try not to get involved with, well, you know." She nods before turning around and opening up a portal to some sunny ocean side market, you watch as she walks through it without another word, and off into the unknown she goes.

Yawning and feeling slightly off put from the whole ordeal, you turn to look over at Geralt, he's still out cold on the giant fluffy blue pillow. You smile adoringly at him before scooting yourself over, finally letting yourself rest near his peacefully sleeping form as you wait patiently for him to wake.

-

Tagged:  @notahappytree​ @ashleyforeverareject​ @sokkasdarling​ @kmuir1​​@haleypearce @diegos-butt​ (@auds24 sorry idk why ur name won’t work)

[boxoftheskyking]

Something Good, Part Fourteen

This chapter was so hard, you guys. I hope it kind of works. If it doesn’t, feel free to write your own version. That’s what fanfic’s for, after all.

In which Wei Wuxian experiences A Reckoning

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

--

Wei Wuxian sits in the dark, under a tree, and tries to meditate. Inhale (he knows, he knows, he knows). Exhale (a low buzzing, a rushing like wind through the Burial Mounds).

There must be order. He cannot shake apart, he can’t be driven mad, he’s not that wounded, starving boy anymore. He will approach it like a complicated talisman he wants to recreate. Break things down.

Lan Wangji knows. It stands to reason that the rest of Gusu Lan knows—or at least the Sect Leader and Grandmaster. And they agreed to his punishment, bore him as a shame to the sect. Made him a commoner.

You made yourself a commoner. A cultivator without a core is no cultivator, therefore not nobility, therefore common. That’s the mathematics of it. Who took your core away? You did.

So what’s the problem, really? The Lan Sect has broken nothing, betrayed nothing. They have treated Wei Wuxian as a villain, deemed him a villain based on all the information possible.

The Lan clan are learned, virtuous, just. Lan Wangji is learned, virtuous, just. And if Lan Wangji sees him as a villain, then…

Then he’s a villain. Fine. He doesn’t mind being the villain. It doesn’t mean he’s evil, it means—

It means you were wrong.

A night bird screams somewhere behind him, and he flinches.

There it is. There’s the nerve. 

Under everything, every laugh, every tease, every clever sidestep, the root of it all is this unshakeable belief that he is right. He can play anyone because he knows something they don’t—that Wei Wuxian is always right. Even after everything he’s been through, he hasn’t had any regrets, because what he did was right. He saved his brother, he defended himself. That was right.

And raising an army of corpses, and cultivating as far down the dark path as you could before they caught you, all of that was right?

He never needed to be a hero, a genius, a beauty. Anytime someone flattered and admired him when he was younger, it never felt right, felt like an itchy shirt in the wrong size. It wasn’t flattery you wanted. You never needed anything from outside. You’ve just always needed to be right. 

And be honest—the voice inside him spits it at him like venom—the whole time you’ve worked here, lived as a servant, it’s not the dishonor or the work that hurts you. They want you shamed, but you aren’t, not really. It’s that it wasn’t your idea. If you’d just decided to walk away, gone to live as a farmer somewhere, wouldn’t you have been proud of yourself? Wei Wuxian, who fooled them all. Wei Wuxian who walked away.

His hackles raise, his mind springing so typically to its own defense. (What else was I to do? What would they do, if they were in my place?) But the root of that defense, the “what else could I do”—it still comes back to his fucking pride.

He doesn’t like to look at that inner spine of pride. Never has. (I never needed anything from anyone.) The defensive voice is small, but stronger, finding its feet. (How can I be proud if I never needed anything from anyone?)

That makes it worse, the venom leaks from between his teeth, over his lip, staining his skin with invisible truth. So proud that you never valued anything outside your own mind. The only standards that matter are your own.

(It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t have a choice. Things just happened to me.)

It takes pride to be a martyr too, Wei Ying.

He’s been telling himself that all the ugliness inside him came from the Burial Mounds, came as the result of his sacrifice, but what if he’s been wrong? It was there earlier, the whole time. That horrible, vicious pride. The pride that made him take an extra beating, even though he knew it hurt Yanli and Uncle Jiang to watch. The pride that never let Jiang Cheng win, even when he saw how much he needed it. The pride that only ever let him tease Lan Wangji during that perfect summer, made him push and push and push beyond what any reasonable person could take, but never ask for what he wanted, never offer anything true. The pride that drove him to the edge of his abilities, raising corpses without provocation, testing the boundaries of what he’s capable of, just because he can. Just to see what’s possible. It’s a blade without a handle, this pride; it cuts him too.

(Attempt the impossible.) The defending voice is a child, learning the motto for the first time. (I didn’t have a choice, it’s how they raised me.)

Poor Wei Ying. Nothing is his fault. Nothing is ever, ever his fault. 

The whirlpool opens up inside him, an Abyss leading him down, down, howling in his ears. Creatures move around him in the dark woods, snapping branches, breathing in the dark. The venom voice grows like a dog inside his mind, and the child shrinks back, desperate for something to hide behind. He can’t breathe; his lungs are stone, his bones are iron, he’s going to sink into the earth and leave no trace behind, and no one will miss him.

Get up.

It’s not the defender, and it’s not the accuser. It’s familiar. It’s—

Get up, Wei Ying.

It’s Madam Xiao.

Get up, Wei Ying. There’s work to be done.

No, it’s Madam Yu. 

Get up, Wei Ying. You’re no good to anyone crying in the dark.

It’s Cangse Sanren.

Get up, Wei Ying. You’re still alive, aren’t you? You survived the ghost mountain, you climbed your way with bleeding feet to the top of a pile of corpses and conquered them all. And this is where you give up? What, will you be chewed to death by rabbits? Get up, you silly boy.

Wei Wuxian gets up.

---

He is rolling up his one spare shirt and pair of trousers when Lin Biming finds him. If he’s surprised to see the bag on the bed in front of him, he doesn’t show it.

“Where will you go?” he asks, and in the half-light of the empty sleeping quarters he looks old, sad.

“Wherever you like. Send me anywhere, sell me off, trade me for someone competent. Someone who doesn’t scorch the laundry, eh, Master Lin?”

Lin Biming doesn’t smile back. 

“Surely another sect would take me. It’s not fair that Gusu bears this shame alone. The Grandmaster was right about that.”

Lin Biming goes to a chest in the corner and pulls out an extra blanket. He rolls it neatly and holds it out. Wei Wuxian takes it and turns to pack it away, blinking hard against the sweetness of it.

“I—” he starts, but he’s cut off.

“I’ll need to speak to the Sect Leader. If I just let you go, that’s a diplomatic issue.”

“Of course.” There’s so much more to say, to apologize for. The man deserves an explanation, but Wei Wuxian can’t think of where to begin.

“Get yourself some leftover dinner from the kitchen. I’m not sure how long your trip will be.”

Wei Wuxian slings the bag over his shoulder and follows him out the door. He tries not to think about the weight of little Lan Sizhui on his back as he ducks away towards the kitchen. Before he can enter, a hand grabs his elbow.

“Wei-qianbei?”

“Wen Ning? What are you doing here?”

“The little ones can’t sleep, so I wanted to find you. Why do you have a bag?”

Wei Wuxian looks around, but can’t find a way to stall. Take the pain, you’ve earned it.

“I have to leave.”

Wen Ning’s eyes go wide and round, his dear little mouth falling open. “Why? Did we— What did we do wrong?”

Wei Wuxian throws his arms around him. “Nothing, nothing at all. Never, ever, ever. It’s all big world things, nothing to do with you.”

“But we need you.” Wen Ning’s hands grasp the back of his shirt. “Please, you can’t leave.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s like being cut open again, things removed from inside his chest. “Wen Ning, I—”

“You have to say goodbye to them.” Wen Ning lets him go and steps back, jaw set.

“I can’t.”

“You have to. None of the others ever said goodbye. But you’re different, right? You have to be different. For the little ones, at least. They won’t understand.”

“They’ll forget soon enough. And you have your jiejie. Isn’t that better? She’ll take care of you, and you’ll forget all about this one servant. It’ll be better with her. Aren’t you glad she’s here now?”

I’m right, I’m right, agree with me.

“I am, but . . .” Wen Ning’s brow is furrowed, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t think, when she got here, I didn’t think I’d have to choose.”

Wei Wuxian opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Wen Ning nods once, growing a year in that one gesture, and leaves. Wei Wuxian is numb, no feeling in his fingers, no heartbeat.

He stumbles away from the kitchen (away, away, away echoing in his mind), heading for the main path down the mountain. Lin Biming can find him here, or they can send guards to capture him, he just needs to keep walking. His skin is nailed to the wall of the kitchen, and every step pulls another inch of it away.

He’s just stepped out under the trees when he hears “WEI WUXIAN” shouted with a full burst of spiritual energy, echoing and reverberating off the stone beneath him. Sparks fly past his ears and he freezes, shocked out of his despair.

He turns around gingerly to find Wen Qing staring him down, her hair loose and one red robe hurriedly thrown over her sleeping clothes. A few white clad figures are hurrying down the path behind her, but Wei Wuxian can’t look away from the fury on her face.

“Wen Qing?”

“You’re leaving?”

“I have to. After what you said. They know, and I can’t stay here if they know and it makes no difference.”

“What difference is it supposed to make? What does it matter?” He’s never heard her so angry, and the part of him that isn’t legitimately frightened is downright proud. 

He can see the figures behind her now, Lin Biming, Lan Xichen, and Lan Wangji.

“Just let me go, Wen Qing. It’s fine. I was only ever going to get in the way—”

“You made my little brother cry!” she bellows, and a hot wind blows his hair back from his face.

Lan Xichen reaches out to touch her arm gently.

“Lady Wen, if I may?” He turns to Wei Wuxian, looking tired but patient. “Wei Wuxian, I understand that today was difficult. Wen Chao’s reaction was . . . regrettable. And if you cannot stay in Cloud Recesses, we respect your wishes. You have more than earned that.”

Wei Wuxian stares at him, confused. “It’s not about today.”

“It’s not?”

“All this time, I—” Wei Wuxian looks around at all of them, at a loss for words. “All this time I thought you didn’t know the truth. About my golden core. I thought if you did, then you might— but I was wrong. And I don’t know what that mean; I don’t know what I am anymore; I don’t know what I’m good for, and I can’t figure that out here.”

“Why not?” It’s Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian covers his face and groans into his hands. Because of you, and the way you’re looking at me right now, because your hands are so big and warm and your eyes are so soft, and none of it means anything, and I can’t handle it.

“We all know you lost your golden core,” Lan Xichen says gently. 

“You can’t tell Jiang Cheng.” He’s a moment away from falling to his knees. “Please, you owe me nothing, but please. It will destroy him.”

“I don’t understand,” Lan Xichen sounds like he is really, truly trying. “What does Jiang Wanyin have to do with—”

“Because he’s the one who has it!”

“Wei Ying,” Wen Qing says, grabbing his hands. “I’ve told no one. I swore to you I wouldn’t.”

“But you said—”

“I swore to you.”

“You said he knows. You told me that Lan Zhan knows.” His hands are the only real part of him, tethered by hers. The rest of him is smoke, looking for a shape, a container, floating around as nothing. His vision is blurry, like the moment before fainting.

“Wei Ying.” She grabs his face and shakes him a little. “I meant that he knows how you feel about him. I thought that’s what you were saying. Everyone knows. You’d have to be a blind fool not to.”

The complete reversal of Wei Wuxian’s entire life is interrupted by a quiet gasp to his right. 

“How Wei Ying feels . . . about me?” Lan Wangji is staring at him, eyebrows furrowed.

Wen Qing sighs. “And clearly I was wrong anyway.”

“And clearly,” Lan Xichen says, “there is information we are lacking.”

Wen Qing looks over at him for a long moment, then nods. “Wei Ying, it’s time to tell them.”

“Can I sit down?” He doesn’t wait for a response before he drops down into the dirt, legs kicked out like a half-crushed spider. Lan Wangji rushes over to kneel beside him, one hand hovering an inch away from his forehead.

“Are you all right?”

“You’re not the doctor,” Wei Wuxian says faintly. “She is.”

“Is he sick?” Lan Wangji asks the others.

Wen Qing smacks Wei Wuxian’s face gently. “He’ll be fine. Wei Ying, I’m going to talk to Lan Xichen. You talk to Wangji.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You invented a new type of cultivation while living off corpse potatoes and carrion. You’ll figure it out.”

Without another word, she turns to Lan Xichen and nods, gesturing him back up the path. Lin Biming, looking as stressed as ever, grabs Wei Wuxian’s bag and hurries after them.

“I guess I’m staying,” Wei Wuxian says, and somehow that sets him off laughing. “I think I’m going mad.”

“What did you mean. Wei Ying. When you said ‘he has it.’ What did you mean?”

Finally, Wei Wuxian’s eyes focus, and he can’t stop a smile at Lan Wangji’s worried face. How strange that he used to think he had no expression.

“I don’t think I can stand up right now, Lan Zhan. Will you sit by me?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t hesitate, he sits down in the dirt, white robes and all. They must make an absurd picture, white and grey sprawled out on the path like cast off clothing.

“Lan Zhan, I’m going to tell you a story. But you have to promise—”

“I promise.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan! You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“It doesn’t matter. I promise.”

The promise is a building. A house for him to live in. He stops drifting and feels the ground underneath him, and then he begins.

Part Fifteen

[kiarcheo]

Hug-a, hug-a, hug-a, hug me    

If you had told Catalina that she would come back centuries in the future and live with Henry’s five other wives and that she’d be closest with the fifth one…she would have…well, she  would have had you declared insane after the first part, to be honest. And even in the earliest days in the new world, she would have never believed you regarding who would be her favourite companion.

Also posted on Ao3

Catalina knew how she was seen. The first queen. The legitimate one. Regal. Composed. Always in control, keeping a cool head.  Steadfast. Proud. The paragon of royalty.

She is also human. And a Spaniard. And while she usually isn’t one to give into stereotypes (heavens knows she hates being boxed in any way when she is so much more complex than any oversimplified and general belief can convey), there was something she had noticed in her first life too. Arthur had been polite and courteous, but certainly not affectionate.  But considering that they were fifteen-year-old, unable to communicate properly because of language barriers and after few months they both got sick and then he died…circumstances and timings didn’t help. Once she married Henry, she thought it would be different. But since the beginning, while he was eager to be intimate with her, outside of the bedchambers he would shy away. If she tried to sit next to him or take his hand for no specific reason, he would look at her weirdly (and downright annoyed, later on). Even her English ladies-in-waiting, while no strangers to sharing a bed, would look oddly at her interactions with her darling Maria, or even with little Mary, attributing them to her ‘Mediterranean temperament’.

But now she is back, along with the other five wives of her (second) husband. And while it seems that affections are more widespread and accepted in this modern world, even in public, things didn’t change for her.

Don’t get her wrong. After a difficult period of adjustment, the queens had settled down nicely. Catalina has no doubt that they all care for each other, but people have different ways of showing they care. So yes. Does she think the queens love her? Yes (and she loves them back).  But is she going to knock on their doors and beg for some affection? Absolutely not. She went through one lifetime without humiliating herself like that, she will go through this one too.

That’s how she finds herself in front of the tv, the credits rolling after a documentary about the Alhambra, sobbing not so quietly into the empty house. Or what she thought was empty.

Because Kat is in the doorway, frozen, looking like a deer in the headlight. Catalina can almost see her mentally calculating whether she can just silently turn around and slip away, before realising that she had been noticed. Kat takes a step forward into the room. ‘Would you like a hug?’

Catalina honestly can’t remember the last time she hugged someone. And she had said she was not going to beg, but if it was offered…she gives a shaking nod.

Kat sits down on the couch next to her and after a moment of hesitation draws her into her arms. Catalina doesn’t know how long they stay like that. She just knows it’s so…nice doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s almost a transcending experience.

‘You give really good hugs.’

‘Thanks?’ Kat sounds unsure at how to reply to that. ‘Why do you sound surprised? Did you expect me to be bad?’

She settles for a teasing tone and Catalina can see Anne’s influence, using humour to deflect and lighten up situations. To be honest she thought it was going to be a quick, perfunctory hug. Out of pity. She didn’t expect Kat to commit to it, to fully embrace her. Kat is warm and relaxed, and in her arms she feels surprisingly safe.

‘I expected a pat on the back.’ She admits. ‘I know you’re not really comfortable with me.’

‘Why do you say that?’

She reluctantly moves away. It feels stupid to answer that it’s because Kat had basically avoided any physical contact with her while lying in her arms.

‘You and Anne often sleep in the same bed and she shares her blanket with you during movies.’ Catalina expands on her reply as she sees Kat looking genuinely confused. ‘You let Jane play hairdresser with your hair. Anna puts her arm on your shoulders when we’re out…I mean, I get it. Anne and Jane are your cousins. You knew Anna from before and she is your best friend. Cathy holds your hand…’

‘Is it a problem?’ Kat asks as Catalina trails off. She had never said anything to them before, but it wouldn’t be the first time that walking hand in hand with Cathy had sparkled some less than pleasant reaction.

Catalina is just having a realisation. Cathy always offers her hand and wait for Kat to take it. It’s always Anne who spreads the blanket over their laps and cuddles up. It’s Jane who asks if she can try something new with her hair (she had recently branched out to Anne, if she can catch her on a good day when she feels like sitting still – that’s how the space buns came to be. Catalina has a feeling that soon Jane will expand her experiments to the three not-related queens too).

‘I thought you just didn’t want to hug me.’ Not that she has ever seen her hugging the others, now that she thinks about it. Not spontaneously. Or unprompted.

If Kat thinks Catalina sounds a bit childish, she doesn’t let it show, to her relief. ‘I didn’t know you wanted me to.’ They have all heard Anne loudly demanding cuddles and Kat happily providing them.

‘But you never take the first step.’ Catalina continues, voicing her realisation. ‘You never initiate the contact, you don’t touch them first.’ And the rare times she does, it’s always after expressly asking. Catalina had never really noticed it before.

‘I just don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.’

Okay, so it’s actually on purpose. Wait a second- ‘Do we make you uncomfortable?’ She is ready to have a chat with her fellow queens.

‘No, of course not.’ Kat hurries to reassure her, sounding almost surprised that she could suggest such a thing.

‘Then why would you make us uncomfortable?’

Kat shrugs. ‘I don’t know. That’s kind of the point. What if you don’t want to be touched? In that moment at least?’

Oh. That went deeper that she thought. Quite usual with the girl, so she shouldn’t really be surprised anymore.  But selfishly she is too exhausted to tackle the issue in that moment. ‘Well, hugs are always welcome with me. I pretty much always want one to be honest.’

There is no overnight change. It’s not like Kat starts to come up to her and hug her spontaneously. But more and more often she approaches her. Asking if she wants company. Making a point of saying that she will be in her room but that her door is open. When it evolves in wordless exchanges, Kat pointing to the spot next to Catalina or patting the one next to herself in invitation and waiting for Catalina’s move, the older queen is relieved that she doesn’t have to vocalise what sometimes still feels like a weakness. And she starts to feel comfortable looking out for affection from Kat in the first place, even going as far as knocking on her closed door if it’s a particularly bad day. Which leads to talking about said bad days.

If you had told Catalina that she would come back centuries in the future and live with Henry’s five other wives and that she’d be closest with the fifth one…she would have…well, she would have had you declared insane after the first part, to be honest. And even in the earliest days in the new world, she would have never believed you regarding who would be her favourite companion. She would have first guessed Cathy, maybe growing closer through their personal connections and discussing their shared passion for supporting female education in the past (and its progress in the present). Or Anna, bonding over being shipped to another country without speaking the language to marry a random dude – well, a king – and then being humiliated on a national and international stage. Even Jane. She had liked her in their first life and it had been somehow satisfying to learn that she had stolen Henry from Anne like Anne did to her. And she didn’t blame her for having a son: you can’t choose those things, she and Anne would know. Certainly she wouldn’t have picked that slip of a girl, who also happened to be her…well, Anne Boleyn’s cousin – Anne, who was the only other one even more unlikely to be her closest friend.

And yet…here she was.

Catalina de Trastámara y Trastámara, finding respite in the company of Katherine Howard, who never refuses a cuddle and never judges. She had quickly stopped being surprised at how intelligent and mature the girl is. In not even 20 years Kat had gone through more stuff than most people would in their whole lifetime…and that was before she was brought back to life centuries after her traumatic death. So while sometimes Catalina feels almost maternal towards her (how shocked and disgusted she had been to discover that Henry had married someone younger than his own daughter, her dear Mary), it’s rather a relationship between equals…even if sometimes she is a bit protective. Perhaps that’s how older sisters feel? She has no idea as she had been the youngest. Is Kat her best friend? Can someone be your best friend if she already has another best friend? She never pondered on such matters in the past.    

A past that Kat knows the most about. Anne and Jane might have known her personally and been witnesses to certain events, but Kat has insight into her feelings and thoughts.

All queens have bad days connected to their past. In some cases everyone is aware of the dates and the reasons, the days of their deaths being the most obvious ones. Others are kept private. Like the day Catalina saw Mary for the last time. How is she supposed to share her pain with the others, when she is the only one who got to see her child growing up? And that’s not delving into what Mary did after she died, which is a whole other matter.

November hit Catalina particularly hard. The memories of her wedding day to Arthur by a long shot welcomed compared to the anniversaries of the deaths of her last three children.  She hadn’t slept a lot, and even when she did, she had been plagued by nightmares, either of her babies dying, their life on earth lasting mere hours, or of Mary committing atrocities in the name of the religion she had devoted her life to.

She feels like death warmed up and she must look like it, if the reactions she gets entering the kitchen that morning are any indication.

Anne stops talking which leads to Anna turning around to find out why. Jane follows and frowns at what she sees.

‘Are you okay?’ Jane’s question has Cathy looking up too.

By the time Kat finishes pouring her coffee (she’d be hard pressed to say who consumes more, her or Cathy) and turns around, everyone is staring at Catalina with worried expressions. Kat puts down her mug and opens her arms. Not overtly obvious. She can easily pass it as a gesture meant to say ‘what’s going on?’ but even if her arms aren’t raised, the look she gives Catalina conveys a clear message: ‘Do you need a hug?’

Catalina doesn’t hesitate. She rarely does when Kat offers a hug, but in that moment she doesn’t even care that there are other people around. She takes few quick steps and she is in her arms. Kat pivots them around so that Catalina wouldn’t meet the others’ stares if she happened to look up. It’s not necessary because Catalina curled into herself enough that she has her face tucked in Kat’s neck despite being taller…and she has no intention to leave her spot. She feels Kat’s hand into her hair. She remembers Kat asking if that was something she would enjoy and the teasing that ensued because she enjoyed it indeed. Kat had likened the contented noises that she had let out to purrs and joked that she should have been the one with the Cat nickname. Catalina had liked it so much that she had offered a trade-off to Kat, wanting to share the delight. She had learned that while Kat doesn’t mind Jane styling them, she generally doesn’t like people touching them, especially in intimate settings (and as they were half reclined on the couch when Kat admitted such a thing, Catalina tucked into her side…she could see how it could be seen as intimate).

Catalina doesn’t know when she had started crying, she just realises that she is. Just like she isn’t sure how long she has been in Kat’s arms, swaying lightly on the spot. She just knows that she is there. Buried into Kat, who has one hand scratching her head while her other arm is around her waist, holding her securely against her body.

‘Want to move to the couch?’

She doesn’t answer but Kat must have felt the movement of her head because she leads them there.

When Catalina comes around, she can feel Kat under her and a blanket covering them. They must have fallen asleep.

She opens one eye. Anne is sitting on the armchair. She raises her eyebrow once she notices Catalina is awake and looking at her. In the early days of their return she would have read it as an accusatory gesture but by now she knows that it’s mostly curiosity. She can see how the first queen sleeping on the youngest one would make a curious sight. And Anne is not only close to her cousin but also very perceptive, so even if Kat had not told her, she must have realised how shy the girl is with physical touch. And all the times Catalina had seen them sleeping together Kat was always the big spoon, so she reckons Anne is probably aware that Kat doesn’t like to feel trapped. So for her to sleep peacefully despite having Catalina half-lying on her…

She ignores Anne’s questioning gaze and looks around, making sure not to move her head too much lest she wakes Kat up. Anna is sitting at the table, holding her camera up to show the screen to Cathy, who is standing behind her chair.

The German queen had discovered a passion for photography, but since she doesn’t make a habit to bring her trusty camera to breakfast, Catalina assumes that she went to retrieve it to take a picture of them. The fond expression on Cathy’s face, the one that she usually has when she looks at Kat, lends credibility to her theory. She makes a mental note to ask for a copy of the picture.

She can hear puttering around in the kitchen. Maybe it’s near lunch time or maybe Jane just wanted to be nearby. She knows that they are likely worried…and curious. And she supposes that she can give an explanation. Not necessarily about her and Kat, that’s not just up to her. But about her breaking down. Anne, at the very least, has surely her fair share of sad anniversaries.

But if she moves she is going to wake Kat and heaven knows if the girl needs all the sleep that she can get when she can get, with the amount of nightmares keeping her up at night, whether her own or Anne’s (and Cathy’s too. More than once Catalina had been ready to go and check on her goddaughter after hearing unmistakable noises from her room only to see that Kat was already on the task). And she is so comfy and warm. She closes her eyes. Just…for…five…more…minutes…

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

A/N: I love reading about the queens taking care of Kat because she deserves all the love, but sometime I want to see the opposite, with Kat taking care of the queens. And lately I have been on a Katherine-Catherine kick (besides the always present Parrward one) so...here it is. Hope you liked it.

[somefinelipstickonthatpig]

Of Grief and Loss Zestiria // AtlA AU // Oneshot # 8

[Read on AO3]

“Did you hear what the Fire Lord did?”

tw // death

- o - o - o -

This morning had started out fine, hadn’t it? 

Sorey had woken early before the others to learn more airbending. Dezel never wants to use whatever time they could spend traveling and keeping ahead of the always-searching Fire Nation, so Sorey has gotten used to waking before the sun peeks over the tree-tops and learning what he can in those spare young hours when it is just him and his teacher and all of nature. And Sorey had been excited—he is excited—at his progress. Airbending is much, much easier for him than waterbending and he doesn’t know why that is; maybe there’s still something he has yet to learn, but airbending is fun. It’s freeing.

To feel wind spin between his palms like a disk had been exciting. To swing his arms and jump and rattle the branches of the surrounding canopy without touching them at all, sending upward a mad gust of gale had been thrilling. To be so loose and able to channel that endless energy Gramps had always chided him on in such a light and powerful way is incredible.

Dezel had even said once they arrive at the Northern Air Temple, he may be ready to learn how to fly.

“If there are still gliders there after everything,” he hummed with his arms crossed.

And that had been enough. That had given Sorey such hope and excitement for the future that he never thought he could be sad again.

Sorey stares at the expanse of ruined forest now and the way the thickness of the bent, half-splintered cedar trees cloak the distance in shadow for what feels like hours. He blinks slowly once, and then twice. Tension is thick in his shoulders and knots itself in the center of his forehead until he can feel his own temple throb. 

Why is he out here again?

Did you hear what the Fire Lord did?

He looks down at his aching feet and swallows. His face tightens and he blinks as the first tears begin to fall. With a heave of air, he sinks to a squat and bows his head between his knees, crossing his forearms over his hair and wondering if the mortified scream building in his chest will break him before the grief racking his heart does.

- o - o - o -

“You’re refugees? From the Fire Nation?” The waitress’s voice squeaks as her voice pitches high.

There are a few glares thrown Sorey’s way from across the tavern table, but he doesn’t know what to do under them other than shrug. He was only telling the truth—for the Sparrowfeathers, anyway. And, in a sense, himself. 

He doesn’t like to think about that for too long, though.

Rose sighs and rolls her eyes. “We are, anyway. But we’re merchants, so we don’t really claim allegiance to any, uh, one nation. We’re just trying to make our way in the world. You know how that is.” 

The waitress clucks her tongue and with a smile, shakes her head. She places their plates of food before each of them, her brows drawn tightly together. “I used to think it was silly when we’d have people like you folks coming through our parts, but after the news of what’s been happening over there…gosh, even I wouldn’t want to be there right now.”

Lailah blinks and straightens in her seat. “What do you mean?”

“Did you hear what the Fire Lord did?” the waitress murmurs. “That man’s gone off the deep end, as far as I’m concerned. Not that any of those Lords have ever been sane to begin with, each of them doing their part to continue and contribute to this foolish war of expansion, but when I heard what he did to the Southern Water Tribe and then his own Fire Sages…” She clucks again and reminds Sorey mildly of a chicken. “There’s cruelty and then there’s cruelty, you know?”

Mikleo’s hands slam against the table and nearly upend their lunch. He rises to his feet. “Wait. What happened to the Southern Water Tribe?”

The waitress stumbles back a step, eyes wide.

Sorey’s hand is on Mikleo’s arm before he can think better of it, his grip tight and desperate.

She swallows. “W-well…word is, the Fire Lord paid a visit there himself, he did.”

“The Fire Lord—” Mikleo’s breath gives out before he can finish. He sags back into his chair, lost and pale. “Fire Lord Heldalf went to the South Pole himself? In person? Why?”

“There was a rumor going around that his missing Avatar was there, but I’m not sure how true that is. There are lots of rumors about where the Fire Nation’s Avatar is and who they are now; can’t trust that kind of word at all, but I guess he must’ve believed some rumors about the South Pole. I mean, he did find the old Avatar Michael’s sister there, so I don’t know.”

“What?!”

“Things would have ended much worse than they did, if that tyrant hadn’t accepted the rogue Fire Sage and the previous Avatar’s sister as an offer of surrender to spare the tribe, I’m sure.” 

“He—?!”

Mikleo’s on his feet again and this time, Sorey doesn’t think he can tug him back down. 

He’s not sure he wants to.

“Course, he just turned around and executed all of his Fire Sages as soon as they returned home. Apparently, about ten years ago or so, the Fire Sages had collaborated behind the Fire Lord’s back to smuggle the Avatar out of the Fire Nation before Heldalf could get his hands on ‘em. It was downright brave…but I guess now it’s cost them their lives.”

“W…what?” Sorey breathes, weakly.

Lailah gasps, sharp and high and hard; a strangled and choked thing. Her hand slaps over her mouth, sea-green eyes glassy and wet. “No…surely not…not all of them? He executed his own Fire Sages?”

The woman nods. Her shoulders sag, features softening in sympathy. “Afraid so, dearie. It was all very public. Advertised everywhere, across the homeland and their colonies. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it. I think the Fire Lord wanted the entire world to know what would happen to those who kept the Avatar away from him.”

“The—” Sorey’s voice falters on its way out of his throat. It doesn’t feel real, any of it. “—you’re kidding.”

The woman shakes her head.

And Sorey can’t feel anything but a roar. An earthquake rattles along the faultline of his center and the instant Rose reaches across the table for him, murmuring a quiet and distraught, “Sorey—” the tension snaps out.

“I need air!” he shouts and the wind answers him.

Mikleo is still frozen, standing beside his own chair, but that’s fine. Sorey doesn’t need him to move; he doesn’t wish to bother him when he knows Mikleo, too, is at a loss for words with the news that his mother has been captured by the imperial Fire Lord, and he cannot, he cannot touch that. He cannot diminish that, he doesn’t even know what he would say—he, the person Heldalf is trying so hard to find—the reason she was taken and the reason Gramps is now—  

—he places a hand on the back of his own chair and jumps and the wind carries him, lifts his feet like he was cresting a fence.

He lands a yard away and runs out the door of the tavern and ignores Lailah’s shout at his back of, “Sorey!” and the scrape of chairs against the floor and the crash of plates and alarmed cries and he runs.

- o - o - o -

“And here you still are.”

Sorey curls tighter, arms wrapped tightly around himself, as he lies on his side in the middle of his self-made forest clearing. He mumbles an apology he isn’t initially sure Dezel would hear—but it is Dezel, his airbending teacher, one of the last two remaining airbenders left in the world, the man who has always used the wind at his whim to discern the environment he could not see around himself and even though it is night and the crickets and forest life have begun their evening cadence, Dezel huffs and steps closer. 

“Lailah told me that ‘rogue Fire Sage’ the woman mentioned was important to you.”

Sorey flinches. His chest swells with a shaky breath. “Y-yeah.”

“Do you wish to talk about him?”

“I…” Sorey wipes at his face and slides his hand down to grasp at his own arm, hugging himself. “Is Mikleo okay?”

“He needed space to himself for a time. But afterwards, he was able to think more clearly.”

“Oh…that’s good.”

“He believes that there is a good chance the Fire Lord took his mother for a reason, else why would he have been satisfied with the offer of her one life in exchange for the lives and wellbeing of the rest of the tribe? Therefore, he is resting in the comfort that Heldalf sees worth in keeping her alive…for now.”

Sorey swallows. He tilts his head up to see Dezel standing over him. “And that’s supposed to be a comfort?”

“An optimism. I would have thought you of all people would be familiar with such a concept.”

Sorey looks away again and brings his knees up tighter to his chest. He has to swallow down hard on the weak resentment that rises inside himself; it wouldn’t do anyone good to get angry. “I should…shouldn’t I…?”

“Sorey,” Dezel says and drops to a crouch at the boy’s back. His hands dangle in the space between his bent knees. 

Sorey swallows. At the growing, swelling silence, almost expectant in nature, he tightly says, “I used to call him ‘Gramps.’ He practically raised me after we moved to the South Pole. I didn’t—I didn’t know he was a Fire Sage, really; not until he told me I was the Avatar. There were so many things he never told me about himself. I had no idea—I didn’t know what he gave up in order for—” Sorey’s breath hitched. “—he did so much for me, Dezel. For all of us. And I’m never going to be able to see him again to tell him thank you or how much I love him.”

Dezel’s voice rumbles warmly behind him. “If he was as close to you as you say, then he most likely already knew.”

“But did he?” Sorey’s voice pitches oddly; too high. He can barely talk with the too little air squeezing past his throat. “I think that’s the worst part, Dezel. I didn’t even get to tell him goodbye. I didn’t—what was the last thing I said to him? I can’t remember. I can’t remember if it was good enough.”

Dezel hums, a patient and quiet sound.

“I can’t change it now. I haven’t—” Sorey shoves his face into his hands and hiccups. “—I didn’t even get to see him after everything f-fell apart back home. At the South Pole. I had been kidnapped and when Mikleo and Lailah rescued me, we—we had to leave. We couldn’t go back. I didn’t—I never knew if he was okay or if something happened to him or if the tribe was angry at him or if he was worried about me or—I n-never got to tell him goodbye—”

Dezel says nothing, but the hand on his shoulder, warm and broad and weathered, is enough.

Sorey curls tighter and sobs and it’s like a fishhook has been sunken into his gut and is now yanked upwards, tearing up with it new wounds, making him bleed with every pent up fear and grief and yearning and never getting to resolve that loss, but instead, being forced to suffer more of it. Sorey wonders if this is what sorrow is supposed to feel like. Is it supposed to be so ugly and so bad? 

“I was hoping so, so much that when this was all over, I would have been able to go back. I just wanted—want—to be able to see him again! To talk…! I didn’t get to say goodbye…!”

Dezel’s hand squeezes just the once. “So you’ve said.”

He doesn’t say another word; neither does Sorey, though his mouth works endlessly over and over again as if he wanted to. Trying to put into substance the width and vastness of the endless regret and now-never’s so loud inside of him.

Sorey cries and cries, and it feels so inhuman to be made something of such unfixable grief.

- o - o - o -

“Dezel?” 

“Hm?” 

It feels like hours must have passed in which Sorey laid in his little ball on the forest floor. When he pushes himself up, his joints whine and ache. The heels of his hands dig into the soil. He takes one glance to his mentor and immediately wants to look away to wipe at his tear-crusted cheeks until he remembers the man doesn’t—can’t—care about something as trivial as a red and splotchy face.  

Sorey swallows. “W…what should I do?”

“That’s not the question on your mind right now.”

“No,” Sorey agrees and his shoulders slump.

As if reading his mind, Dezel crosses his arms over his chest and frowns. “But you are right. Turning yourself in would be foolish and accomplish nothing.”

“W-would it?” Sorey’s head snaps up. “What if it keeps people from dying? What if it saves Mikleo’s mom? What if no one else has to get hurt because of Fire Lord Heldalf? You heard what the lady said. Gramps’ death was a message! Because of me! If I run away from him, w-wouldn’t that—”

“—give worth to all of the Fire Sages’ sacrifice?”

Sorey stops, caught frozen with his mouth open like he had been about to object.

Dezel continues, leaning forward intently. “Sorey. I understand that the loss you have suffered is great and to avoid more deaths, you would be willing to offer yourself as peace. But turning yourself in would be exactly what the Fire Lord wants and, in the same breath, undo everything the Fire Sages gave their lives for. Your Fire Sage—Zenrus—did not die so you could roll over like a complacent dog the moment he was gone.”

Sorey flinches.

“Stop acting as if he was your spine.”

“But—”

“—I’m not saying he wasn’t important to you. But can you imagine how hurt he would be to hear that you wanted to give up everything he wanted for you, for our world, because you lost your courage the instant he died?”

Sorey doesn’t know what to say. His fingers dig into the dirt. His mouth works, but no words come.

“Find it. Find whatever bravery you have in you because this is the moment that will make you, Sorey. Not the suffering. Not that you lost him, but what you do after he is gone. You can either continue to sit here and feel sorry, or you can stand up and do something. Take what you feel and rise. No one ever said anger and hurt were helpless, bad things.”

Sorey swallows.

Dezel waits.

“Why aren’t you leaving me alone?” Sorey says through a tight throat. 

“As your teacher, I will not turn my back and give you the chance to do something stupid.”

“You think I would?”

“I think you have proven you have every proclivity to.” Dezel pauses then adds, softer, “And…I know something, more than you think, about what grief can drive people to do. Especially when they are left to their own devices.”

Sorey lifts his head and looks to Dezel. “That…makes me worried about Mikleo. His mom…” 

“They are fair things to worry about,” Dezel murmurs.

“What would you do if I said I wanted to rescue her?”

Dezel tilts his head. His mouth pinches into a thin, unhappy line, but he doesn’t challenge Sorey. Instead, he asks, “I would ask how you plan on doing that.”

So Sorey turns and when he places his hands into the dirt this time, he pushes himself up to his feet. His hands, dirty and rough, tighten into fists at his sides. He doesn’t try to pat off the mud caked to his palms. “Okay, good, because as long as you’re not saying ‘no,’ I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ I think I have an idea.”

[minichedders]

princess

bodyguard!tom holland x reader

Tom followed you everywhere, it was his job too, and he was good at it. Not once in the day did he ever let his eyes slip from you, watching you carefully, analysing every move, every step and every expression with keen eyes. He felt a rush whenever your eyes would meet, which was a rare occasion considering the circumstances.

Tom was way over his head. He was foolish. You where the princess, you would never settle for anything less than a prince, and even if you wanted Tom, you were betrothed to marry another Prince to strengthen the nationalities relationships.

Prince James of Papua New Guinea. Tom scoffed, what a piss poor excuse for a man; he was selfish, lazy and didnt even care about the moral respect of women. He had visited you twice since the engagement, and Tom watched with his insides twisting at the sight of James' clammy, fat fingers touching your precious skin; and every time James got too close, your eyes searched for his, crying out for help; which was Tom only favourite part of his visit he enjoyed, the sheer need you begged from him.

He found you insatiable, beautiful beyond words, and you fit in with the luxury of the royal life, but still remained as kind as humble as ever. Every day you went around the palace, greeting everyone who walked past and made your way tot he kitchens to help the chefs cook, to which they openly obliged, against the Queens wishes. The queen was tight-lipped, old fashioned and downright rude, especially to you; she hated and disciplined ou whenever you would openly converse with anyone lower than you, or involved yourself with common charity events or fairs; she had her head too far up her ass to see that every harsh word she spoke brought tears prickling to your eyes, which maddened Tom.

Which was happening right in front of him? Himself and the Queen's guard both stood in the corners of the Queens living area, watching the conversation, more like an argument, roll out in front of them, the uncomfortable atmosphere scratching at Toms' neck.

"You can't get out of this marriage Y/N, I've told you millions of times," The Queen sneered, rolling her eyes at her daughter. Every day you went to your mother, begging relentlessly not to marry you off to an old hag, but she never prevailed.

"Please mother, do you not care about love? about my happiness? I don't want to marry someone i don't love," You cried, your hands flying in crazy gestures, your checks heating, trying to control your tears as they threatened to cross your eye line.

"You will grow to love him Y/N," The Queen sighed, pulling the blue and white fine china cup to her lips, slurping at the fresh tea she had her maid pour, which you had poured your own. The wedding was in 3 months, but the buzz of both nations had been roaring on for the last 5. Your mother had put you through multiple wedding events to try and sway your mind, creating your perfect, grande white wedding that you had always dreamed off, but you didnt want this. You had to marry to keep the power, not just of the other nations, but you couldn't inherit the throne without a King by your side.

"I highly doubt it mother," You sneered, landing the china teacup rather harshly on the matching plate.

"You're merely a young girl, what do you know about love, about ruling a country, at least tell me one of the loyal decrees for goodness sake, you are not fit to rule by your self," 

"I'll study!" You cried, "I can learn, you can be my teacher, and i can marry who i want, for love. Give me three months to learn everything you know," 

"You can't learn it all within three months child," The Queen's voice was quiet, her tone changing from unforgiving to sad.

"Tell you what Y/N, if you can find someone else you love within three months, someone suitable and worthy, I will cancel the wedding," The queen said, your eyes immediately turned to capture Toms, a slight blush creeping to your face, "But, you had to attend classes every Wednesday and Saturday to learn how to be a proper princess, which means no cooking, and you make time for Prince James," 

"Deal"

-

Tom had watched you wander around aimlessly for a whole month, you head dizzy and unfocused ever since you made the deal with your mother. Every man you had met with, Tom hated. He couldn't help it, but he just wanted to scream at you and take you in his arms. He was right in front of you and you were being blinded by the sun.

Your body fell onto your bed, a deep sigh leaving your stained red lips. Your body was sore from your date, where Knight Ben had decided that ice skating would be romantic, but you feel at least 7 times, and Tom was there to pick you up more than Ben was. Toms kind eyes floated in your mind more than you would admit to yourself, every time you caught his eye your hands grew sweaty and they began to shake, he was the most gentle, kind and handsome man you had met, and you thought every night if your mother would think he was suitable enough to marry, because he was the only one you wanted.

"Tom," You spoke, your voice unsure of its self as you stared at the intricate designs of your bedroom ceiling. Toms footsteps echoed in your ear, getting closer to your laying body. Both of you felt dizzy.

"Yes, your highness?" Tom asked. Every time someone had addressed you by your royal title, you cringed, your stomach flipping in the most uncomfortable way, but when it fell from Toms' lips you couldn't suppress the whimper that fell from your unwilling lips.

"Do you think I'm crazy? Thinking I can't find love in three months?" You asked, your head turning and eyes meeting his. Tom could notice the way your breath was shaky, as your eyes watered slightly, and the sight made him want to wrap you in his arms and cradle until he died.

"If i may be so bold to say, your highness, I think you know you are," tom laughed, trying to lighten your mood and make you smile, and when he saw your lips curve upwards for the first time in months his heart skipped a beat.

"True," You replied, staring back at the ceiling. You sat in silence for a moment, before you stood, grabbing Toms' hands and interlocking your fingers together, dragging him outside to the garden. Tom was about to protest, but the feeling of your warm skin so close to his made him speechless, he felt like a nursery boy, madly in love with the most popular girl in school. 

Toms' mouth opened, before you shut him off, "Don't talk, please Tom, i just want to enjoy this quietly," Your voice was soft and quiet, and Tom obliged with no questions asked.

Both of you walked slowly around the garden, the sunlight setting, a dark orange hue painted across the sky, shining through the spring branches of the tall trees, and letting the colourfull garden flowers glow. You sat on the edge of the fountain piece, closing your eyes as you listened to the gentle trickle f the smooth water flow, mixed with the chirping birds and the gentle hum of the wind. Toms body sat next to you, hands still interlocking in your lap; he wanted nothing more but to just confess his undying feelings for you right there, but the pain in your face made him ache to comply to your no talking rule.

"Tommy," You whispered, quiet enough that Tom would've missed it if he wasn't so fixed intently on your lips. He hummed in response, looking back to your know open eyes, deep swirling pools of brown searching into your soul.

"Tell me what you're thinking about," Your eyes cast downwards, taking a deep breath in.

"Uh, I was thinking about how beautiful you are, how every man you have met is a fool not to be head over heels for you, and how much i want to kiss you right now," Tom spoke, his thumb now rubbing against your skin, causing goosebumps in their wake. You felt as if you were dreaming, hearing all the words you had wanted ever since you and Tom met, your breath twitched inside your throat.

"Why won't you?" You asked, still refusing to bring your eyes up to meet his. Your hands were shaking, which Tom noticed from the tight grip he had on you, he watched as you brought your other hand up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. Tom brought his hands u to your chin, lifting your face to meet his eyes, you had never felt so adored by a man before, and the way that Tom looked at you made your heart leap; but you where still so nervous about how powerful your feelings where about Tom, and how you just knew your mother would disapprove.

Time seemed to be distant, non-existent as you watched Tom lean forward, his breath against your lips, your heart now thumping widely in your chest. You looked deep into his eyes and down to his pink lips, as you followed his actions and eaned in as well, capturing his lips in for a sweet, meaningful kiss.

The two of you stayed locked together, Toms hands around your waist and you're wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer to you as you continued making out. Tiny moans and whimper came from your lips as grunts fell from his, both of you wanting and needing as much a the other could give, you felt as if Toms' lips brought you to cloud nine, as if you had fallen into heaven, soaring through pink fluffy clouds as your body experienced the tingles he sent through. 

"I love you Y/N," Tom whispered, breaking his lips away from yours. You couldn't help but smile uncontrollably, laughing and blushing as he watched you deeply.

"I love you too, Tommy," You replied, pulling him back in for a short and sweet kiss.

"Now, whos going to tell my mother?" You said, laughing at Toms horrific facial expression, shrugging his shoulders and pulling you on his lap, eager to remain locked together for the rest of eternity.

[mizmahlia]

When nobody is looking, she does the right thing (with a bonus)

Summary: Selina finds more than she bargained for when the people she intended to liberate from their expensive things are late getting out of the house. She gets most of what she came for, however, including some flirting with the Bat before the night ends.

TW: The scene Selina stumbles into portrays domestic abuse. But it’s nothing graphic in nature as it’s implied, not shown directly.

AO3

In this particular part of the city, one could practically smell the wealth in the air. The entitlement and condescension made it feel stuffy and insufferable. Granted, there were a few decent people who lived in Gotham, but they were vastly outnumbered by the those who liked to pretend folks outside their tax bracket don’t exist.

Fortunately, she wouldn’t be here long, so it was something she could tolerate.

The gala at the historical society that night drew most of Gotham’s richest from their mansions, condos and townhomes, so Selina had her pick of where she wanted to go. Several weeks ago, she picked Gotham Heights and after some light surveillance work, the home she was currently outside of was the deemed the winner. A large safe on the second floor, a few expensive yet tasteful pieces of art in the living room, and the security was woefully below par for a man with this kind of wealth.

She disabled the cameras along the side of the property, scaled the fence and was now climbing the large oak tree outside the master bedroom on the second floor. And despite the fact it was late-September in Gotham, the weather was mild and many had their windows open.

Selina grinned at her good fortune and reached for the next branch. That’s when she heard it- a slap followed by a thud.

“What have I told you about talking back to me?” a male voice hollered. “We’re running late enough as it is!”

“We’ll be running even later now that I have to cover a mark on my face,” a female voice replied, dripping with sarcasm. “After all this time, you should really know better.”

Selina quickened her pace and reached her designated spot, looking into the master bedroom. The wife was now sitting at a makeup table. She winced as she tried to cover her cheekbone with more concealer. Her husband paced behind her, opening and closing his fists while Selina watched and shook her head.

Oh, honey, you’re not gonna be able to cover that.

He continued berating his wife as she tried in vain to cover the growing red welt on her face, tears now ruining her immaculate eye makeup. He stopped pacing and rolled his eyes, putting his hands on his hips.

“For the love of god, Abigail- now you’re crying?”

Abigail flinched when he raised his voice, cowering in her chair and hiding her face in her hands. He marched over and was about to grab her upper arm when a small voice interrupted. Selina grabbed a branch to steady herself as she leaned out even further.

“Mommy?”

A child no more than seven years old stumbled sleepily into the room, a nanny close behind him. Abigail rushed to wipe her eyes and plaster a smile on her face before she turned around.

“Ethan, sweetheart. You should be in bed.”

Ethan marched over and wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist. He said something Selina couldn’t hear, but based on the way Abigail’s face paled, she knew it was something he shouldn’t have.

“Ethan, get back to bed,” his father spat. He turned and glared at the nanny. “Tabitha, get him out of here. And after tonight? You’re fired.”

Tabitha froze where she stood, watching as he took a few steps toward Abigail. She turned Ethan away from him and looked away, but refused to back down.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said.

He took one step and Selina decided that was enough. She crept to the end of the branch and with a graceful leap, grabbed the window sill and crawled in.

“You heard her. Don’t get any closer."

Abigail, Ethan and Tabitha all turned to look at her. The relief on Abigail’s face was easy to see.

“The fuck are you doing here?” He turned and studied Selina, his gaze pausing on her chest long enough to make her skin crawl.

“Doesn’t really matter,” Selina replied. “But you won’t lay your hands on her again.”

“Is that so?” He stepped closer and unbuttoned the jacket of his tux.

“Henry, don’t.”

Henry ignored Abigail’s request and headed for Selina.

“You don’t want to do that,” Selina warned. “Really. You should listen to her.”

“And what are you gonna do about it?” Henry laughed before reaching under his jacket into his waistband. He pointed a .45 caliber Beretta at her and grinned.

“You don’t want to find out,” she warned.

“First, you come into my house to try and rob me. Then you have the nerve to tell me what to do with my own wife?” He shook his head and raised his arm, shooting over her head. Abigail and Tabitha screamed, and Ethan began to cry.

Selina turned to look at the wall behind her, noticing a hole in the family portrait- right through Abigail’s chest. She was already angry, but now she was downright livid.

“Listen here, Henry,” she said, facing him once again. “No one fires a gun at me without consequences. And considering you’ve laid your filthy hands on your wife, here, well…” she trailed off, grinning dangerously.

“Let’s just say you’ve screwed yourself big time.”

Henry raised the gun once more, as she expected he would. With one sharp crack of her whip, the gun hit the floor and Henry was howling in pain, clawing at the whip around his arm. With both hands she jerked on the line, pulling Henry toward her. Just before he collided with her, she clocked him with her elbow. He dropped immediately, unconscious before he landed on the floor. Selina coiled her whip and looked at the three stunned faces in the doorway.

“Tabitha? Take Ethan and help him pack a bag. Abigail, you do the same and leave. File for divorce and don’t come back here without a police escort. Got it?”

Abigail nodded and disappeared into a walk-in closet before returning a moment later with a large suitcase that was already packed.

“Smart girl,” Selina said. “Now go.”

“Thank you, Catwoman,” Abigail whispered as she scurried from the room.

Selina dragged Henry toward the king-size bed, securing his wrists around the leg of the bed frame as he began to wake up. She noticed his watch and decided she wasn’t going to leave this place empty-handed.

“That’s mine,” he spluttered helplessly. “Give it back.”

She fastened it around her wrist and smiled.

“Not a chance. It’s a Breguet Hora Mundi,” she said. “Worth almost seventy grand. Consider it cheap legal advice.”

“What?”

It took Henry a moment to catch on and Selina didn’t bother to hide her amusement. But the amusement disappeared as she crouched in front of him.

“If you touch her or the kid again, or fight her in the divorce? I’ll make sure you don’t just lose half of all this.”

She leaned in close, close enough for him to see just how serious the threat was.

“I’ll make sure you lose everything.”

“You can’t prove anything,” he replied and looked up at her defiantly.

She ran a sharp claw down the side of his face to his neck, poking just hard enough to guarantee he was listening.

“I’ve got footage of this little altercation,” she whispered. “I get so much as a feeling you’re not gonna play ball? I’ll get it to GCN.”

Henry’s bravado vanished and the smile fell from his face. Knowing he was beaten, he nodded and had the decency to hang his head in shame.

“Good boy.”

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

She knew she’d been followed home so she stopped on the building across the street from hers and sat down, her long legs dangling over the edge. Even in the dark, she had to admit her new watch was gorgeous. He dropped onto the asphalt rooftop behind her with barely a sound.

Courtesy to let her know he wasn’t tailing her.

“You don’t have footage of their altercation, do you?” he asked. He took a seat next to her, still watching the city in the distance, but keeping her in his periphery.

She smiled wickedly and held up her wrist, admiring the way the precious stones caught the dim light.

“Nope.”

“How do you know he’ll play ball?”

“He’s worth two billion, Bats. A guy like him? Better to be worth one billion than nothing.”

They sat in silence for a moment and listened to the traffic below at the gala Henry wouldn’t be attending tonight. Bruce looked down at her arm.

“Nice watch. But I would have assumed a Breguet Hora Mundi 5727 was beneath him.”

She turned and gave him a look.

“Seriously? It’s a seventy-thousand-dollar watch.”

“I know. I have one like it. Different model. The Hora Mundi 5719.”

He looked at it once more before glancing up at her face, noting that she’d narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

“What’s the difference?”

She could tell he wasn’t planning on answering that question, but held out anyway. A moment later the Bat signal lit up across the city and he stood up. She shook her head and remained seated.

“Well, thanks for coming to my rescue earlier,” she said, a hint of a smile in her voice. “With the gun, I mean.”

He had the decency to look at her this time.

“You’ve never needed my help. You were fine.”

She shrugged a shoulder in agreement and remembered he hadn’t answered her question. He made a show of drawing his grapple gun and aiming across the street, more than enough time for her to ask.

“Wait! Why did you mention your watch? Why should I care?”

He stopped at the edge of the roof, turning his head just enough so she could see the ghost of a smile on his face.

“No reason.”

He fired and jumped from the rooftop, moving with more grace than a man his size had a right to.

“Arrogance doesn’t suit you, Bat,” she muttered.

An hour later after a hot shower and some tea, she made herself comfortable on the couch with her laptop, her watch on the coffee table to her right. She hadn’t decided if she was going to keep it yet, though it was really growing on her.

She took a drink of her tea as she looked up the model of Bruce’s watch, nearly spitting it all over her laptop. Violet, the new black kitten she’d brought home the week before, startled and took off for the bedroom.

The model Bruce said he owned was a half million-dollar watch.

$552,800, to be exact.

Selina set the laptop on the table next to the watch, still staring at the picture on the screen. It wasn’t a humble brag, because Bruce doesn’t do that. He’s not arrogant. Never has been.

She bit her lip and smiled when she realized what the comment actually meant.

It was an invitation to try and get her hands on it.

And hopefully, when she did, he would be wearing it.

“Game on, Bat,” she said, a plan already beginning to form. “Game on.”

[youngster-monster]

ask to be unbroken - a cayde fix-it fic

You can’t summon a ghost. A ghost has to come unbidden, uncalled for, undesired; if you want it, it can’t haunt you.

– @nathanielorion, Foxhole

In the wake of Cayde-6's funerals, Razel disappears.

His ship isn't docked, his course isn't registered, his com is offline. Nobody saw him leave.

They expect him to have gone after Uldren already, pursuing his claim on the traitor-prince’s life.

In truth, he sleeps. His ship drifts aimlessly through space, it's only destination the distant darkness at the edge of the system, the silence a heavy comfort to his mind.

His dreams echo with words whispered in the dark, a shot ringing through the quiet, a lightning-bright shockwave of light rushing through him.

He wakes up soaked in sweat, shivering and feverish, gasping a name without quite realising it. Clutching in his desperate hands the broken pieces of a Ghost, remnants of immortality pressed against the skin of his palm until it bleeds.

「Guardian?」

Cubix's curious voice drifts through the silence, too well-known, too much like his own to cut through the haze.

("Guardian?" Another voice, familiar and painful, the sting of a fresh wound. It clings to his mind like cobwebs, impossible to shake even if he wished to do so.)

Eventually, in bouts of troubled sleep, he gets used to it. The disorientation, the choking fear. Regret settles between his bones and becomes a distant ache, ever present and almost comforting for it.

He keeps dreaming of Cayde.

A lot.

In his sleep, the same scene plays on a loop. His limbs are leaden, his throat dry. He’s never fast enough to block the bullet.

When he's awake, or a semblance of it, he sees him like an image left in his sight after staring at the sun. A different kind of ghost in the corner of his eyes as he stares into space. He doesn't turn his head, afraid there will be nothing there when he does.

Razel wants to be haunted so, so much. He wants to reach out and touch, feel the static-y emptiness under his fingertips, taste the bitter longing at the back of his throat.

He doesn't move. Cayde's ghost – not the proper one, the other, the infection of his soul – sits back-to-back with him, not quite touching but close. He smells like ozone and copper. More like the blood on Razel's tongue than himself at all.

It's a comfort nonetheless.

-

(He dreams of Cayde, or maybe he dreams as Cayde, through Cayde. The line between grief and madness is blurred and he can't, or won't, try to decipher on which side of it he stands.

In his dream there is a game. Allcohol in the air and cards in his hands. Information bet and traded like coins.

"All in," his opponent says. She's confident, but he's a better cheater. Her eyes flash with anger when he shows her his winning hand. What can she do when she saw no fool play?

Nothing. And a due is a due.

She tells him of a place far, far away, far enough that whatever name it used to bear is long lost to time. There's something, there. Or someone. A wish-granter for a price.

It's the kind of place you go to to bargain for the impossible. He doesn't forget.)

-

Cubix has been running diagnostics nonstop for days, dead sure there's something wrong but unable to find it.

(You can't diagnoses a haunting.)

「There's something wrong with you」 he tells Razel, 「Beyond the obvious. Like... A black hole in you, eating up all your light.」

He shrugs. He'd probably know if it was really bad. Or at least he'd notice when he'd start to explode or something.

「Do you think it's Uldren's fault, somehow? We can't fight him like this. We should talk about it to Ikora, she would know what-」

"Hey," he says. Cubix falls silent. It's the first time he's spoken since claiming Uldren as his to hunt.

(He's avenging a Hunter. The terms feels… Borrowed, but appropriate.)

"Do you trust me?"

Wisely, Cubix replies, 「Depends. What do you have in mind?」

He stares through the cockpit window. Coordinates swim in front of his eyes, gone in a blink, tasting of copper and static.

"A place," he says. “I think?”

「Sounds like a terrible idea. Let's go.」

-

(People are often under the impression that Cubix is the responsible one of the two.

He's the smart one. There’s a difference.

If he had a fraction of the wisdom others attribute him, he wouldn't follow Razel in half as many of his harebrained scheme as he does.)

-

Somewhere in the depth of space–

(Actually not that far from the Shattered Coast, all things considered)

–there is an old, old tower, so overgrown by the local vegetation it is all but swallowed by it. Thick vines have grown through the entrance, keeping the doors permanently ajar.

「That's... Ancient. From before the collapse. Maybe even before the Dark Age.」

Razel looks up – it's so high it hurts his neck to look at the top. Should he knock? Would anyone hear it from that far up?

Something warm squirms in his chest. It chases the uncertainty away. He throws his shoulders back and, with the kind of foolhardy courage only the truly powerful or truly stupid have, slip through the crack of the doors.

He isn't struck dead on his feet as soon as he does so he considers it a win.

"Told you so," he says.

「You very much did not.」

But he feels like it wasn't meant for Cubix as much as it was meant for himself.

-

They're prepared for the long, gruelling ascension to the top of the spire when a transmat pad lights up next to the stairs. It was hidden under vines and branches – the inside of the tower just as overgrown as the outside – but the light is unmistakable.

The surrounding bushes bloom with bright white flowers under their eyes. They flutter as if caught in a breeze, in time with the hum of the machine.

Razeldoesn't have enough survival instinct to pass on a shortcut to the hour of stairs he was about to go through.

「Are you sure-」

He's already stepped on it, careful to avoid squashing the fragile flowers.

The ground floor is drowned by white light. When it fades, they stand in a corridor – one far larger than the size tower should allow. It's... Vast. Downright cavernous, even, with a high vaulted ceiling and walls of pure white stone, barely seen under the vegetation climbing over every available surface.

Curtains of ivy cover the windows. He didn't notice from down on the ground, but they are made of tinted glass: the room is cast in a colorful kind of gloom, something he neither expected nor thought possible.

The foliage grow thicker as they walk down the corridor, until it becomes a struggle to go through. Still a part of Razel tells him it's better if he doesn't disturb the vegetation. The thorns on some of those vines are an even better reason to be careful.

He can heal from anything. Doesn't mean he wants to impale himself on space rose bushes.

-

It takes forever and no time at all to attain the end of the corridor. He blinks and they’re here, hours or maybe seconds later. It’s hard to keep up with time when you’re immortal. Harder still when you’re dead, or dying, or have died, or are in the process of dying, he’s never sure which.

Lately he’s been stuck somewhere between the two, half dead half breathing. Cold inside and still warm in surface, like... food that wasn’t properly microwaved. Or some other, more poetic metaphor.

The corridor opens on a room so utterly invaded by plants it appears to be a third of its original size.

In its center sits a throne. Upon the throne sits a woman.

His first thought is that she is very beautiful. The light streaming through the stained glass windows paint her dark skin otherworldly colors, and in the gloom her eyes appear entirely black. She looks regal; for the briefest moment he thinks he understands how some could believe in the divine right of kings, back in the days.

Instinct tells him to kneel.

He wouldn't stand here if he was the kind of guardian who listens to his survival instinct, though. He meets the woman's eyes head-on. She smiles at the audacity. Somehow the sight feels him with dread rather than relief.

"A visitor? What a pleasant surprise."

She beckons him closer. He stops mere feet away from her, dead leaves cracking under his boots. He fights to keep his face neutral–

(Relax your shoulders, they betray you)

–but something tells him he's not fooling anyone. He keeps his hands behind his back to stop them from fidgeting.

"What is your name, child?"

"Razel. Ma'am."

"And what is it that you've come so far to ask for, Razel?" Her voice is quiet, soothing and smothering in turn like the dirt of the grave.

He fumbles for words for a moment. He didn't expect the question, although he obviously should have. But he's not even sure what he's here for, exactly.

In hindsight, he should have prepared a speech.

"Those who wander here never do so aimlessly. Tell me, guardian, what wishes lay in your heart?"

"Well- You see-" He blinks. "Wait. How did you know I'm a guardian?" It's not like she'd seen his Ghost, after all.

It occurs to him ominous entities addressing him as ‘guardian’ rarely bear his best interest in mind. But maybe this once, just this once, she does! You never know.

Unexpectedly she chuckles, and it's nothing like her previous smile. It's… warm. Quiet, but genuine. The whole room seems to lighten with it. The rare rays of sunlight brighten; the plants around them shiver and unfurl in her direction. He’s pretty proud of himself for eliciting it.

Even more unexpected, she answers him. "I have met your kind before. Visitors are few and far in between out here, so they tend to stick in mind." She sighs, in a kind of nostalgic way. "And he was... Memorable. You feel like him, a little. Not just your Light, but your soul is- somewhat familiar."

"Another guardian came here?" He's not surprised. Well, he is, but in the way you are when someone tells you a fact you used to know and forgot. A "ha, right, that thing" kind of surprise. Guess nothing can truly surprise you when you've lived the kind of life he has.

"Not so long ago, either. Although to me, nothing ever happened quite that long ago." Makes sense. Can't be easy to keep up with the date when you live in a plant-tower in the dead-end of Nowhere, Space. "His name was Cayde-3."

Cayde— He blurts out a question before he can think it twice. “Are you sure?”

She levels him with a stern glare. “I never forget, child. Neither a name nor a soul ever eludes me.”

That’s ominous. He doesn’t linger on it.

He blinks furiously as the pieces fall together, making the puzzle- well, no clearer than before. But now he has a headache, so that’s different. He thinks a part of him — the part that dreams up card games and coordinates — already knew, somehow.

「Cayde came here?」 Cubix asks as he reveals himself. He stays close to Razel, just in case. 「And some time ago, at that, if he was still at three.」

"What did he come for?"

"Lost memories he wished to recover. He found the price too high go pay and left empty-handed... although I suppose coordinates to my home could be considered a treasure of sort." She makes an annoyed sound, still managing to make it seem dignified. "You know of him then. He gave me his words not to divulge it to anyone. I thought him wise enough to keep it."

Cayde, wise? Never. Still, he won’t let her doubt Cayde’s promise, not when he put so much of himself in holding them.

"He- He didn't-" Razel chokes on his words. His gut twists, a painful knot of grief and anger.

Cubix takes pity of him.

「He didn't send us here. Cayde's... Cayde's dead. That's why we're here. Is that right?」

He turns to Razel, who nods his head jerkily. That sounds right, yeah.

The dark, dark eyes of the lady briefly dim, losing their jewel-like shine as she takes in the news. "Ah. I suppose it wasn't of natural cause, if you are here."

「He was murdered. By Prince Uldren, if you know of him.」

"And you seek vengeance?"

"I dream about him," he blurts out.

Cubix stops just as he was about to launch himself in an explanation. The Lady (she deserves the capital letter) tilts her head to the side like a curious bird but doesn't say a thing.

"I dream of him- even when I'm awake. And I don't- I don't-" A frustrated noise rips out of his throat and he tugs at a loose strand of hair. "They tell me I should move on. But I don't know how to... I don't even know if I want to? I just want him back. But he's gone and I keep seeing him and, and being him, when I sleep, and I just..."

She mercifully stops him in his tracks with a raised hand.

"He may not be as gone as you believe him to be."

That doesn't sound very possible, seeing as Cayde–

(Died in his arms)

– is very much dead and, more importantly, buried, or at least in a casket.

「What do you mean by that?」

She rises. He fears, a second, that by doubting her words they have angered her, and something tells him her anger is not the kind you walk away from. But she only steps to his frozen form and lays a hand on his chest. He can't feel her touch through his body armor but he thinks it would be cold, despite the almost stifling warmth of the room.

"Guardians are the sum of their parts," she begins. Razel settles in for the long haul – people just can't resist lecturing him about stuff. "Three of them, to be precise. Light, body and soul. Once you are raised as guardians by your Traveler, they all become pieces of a great machine – dependant of the others to function."

"I don't see the connect-"

She looks at him, deadly quiet, until his jaw snaps shut.

"Your soul needs your body to anchor it to this world. Your body needs your soul to live. Both need light to stay together even through death – like two pieces of cloth sewn together." She gestures to Cubix with her free hand. "Your Ghost channels light from the Traveler to you and weave it around your soul, tying it to your body to bring you back to life, again and again."

Hey, he didn't know that. Cubix never told him how it worked.

... He probably thought it would be too complicated for Razel. He's not entirely wrong: he feels like this explanation is greatly simplified.

"The more you do it, the easier it is, isn't it?" Cubix makes an affirmative sound but she's already continuing. "That's because your soul learns to follow the light, because it knows its body is on the other end of it. It... Remembers the path, in a way."

「Oh, I think I see where this is going,」 Cubix whispers.

"Good for you," Razel, who doesn't see shit, replies in kind.

The Lady smiles, softer than before, with an emotion Razel can't even begin to decipher in her deep, dark eyes. "That's right. A guardian soul follow the light... Any light. Like a moth." Glamour. "And sometimes... Well. It follows the wrong one, and it ends up where it has no business to be."

「You can’t possibly mean-」

"Did he die near you?"

Razel has no idea where this is going and he's... Unsure whether he wants to know. "In... In my arms, yeah."

"And his Ghost was dead, severing his connection to the Traveler's light." She sure knows a lot about the inner workings of guardians, Razel thinks idly. "Then his soul, used to the process as it was, simply followed the most familiar path. It followed the light... your light."

He blinks, confused. "Right. And that means..."

「That means Cayde's soul is inside of you,」 Cubix says, stuck somewhere between horror and wonder. 「You're… quite literally possessed.」

(Personally, he thinks it's more of a roommate kind of situation. But what does he know of possession, right.)

"The two of you must have been very close, for your two lights to be so similar." She has a weird glint in her eyes, like she knows something he doesn't. No surprise there. She probably knows a lot of things he can never hope to comprehend. “Did you love him?”

"Yes. I guess? I don’t know. He was-" He wants to turn his head – his eyes are burning, he doesn't want to cry in front of her – but she won't break eye contact and he can't, for the life of him, do it first. He swallows past the lump in his throat and manages to choke out a few words. "My best friend. My partner. I don't know."

"Then maybe you can do it.”

「Do... what?」

The Lady draws back, gesturing animatedly with her two hands. "Resurrecting him, of course." The two of them are too shocked to make a noise. She quirks an eyebrow. "What did you think you'd find here? Grief counseling?"

"I- kinda, yeah?"

「His Ghost is dead. It's impossible.」

Her entire demeanor shifts, from intense to... Mostly smug, almost mocking. "I'm a miracle worker. And you have his soul already. That's the hardest part."

Cubix is about to retort when Razel pushes him away, effectively shutting him up. "Can you do it?"

"That depends." She opens her arms as if to embrace him. Her smile takes a knife edge, her eyes so black he could fall through them. "How high a price are you ready to pay?"

"As high at it takes."

She leans forward and so does he, almost unconsciously following her lead. He ignores Cubix's objections. When she talks next, it's in a whisper, meant for his ears only.

"What is his life worth to you?"

The answer leaves him in a breath. "Everything."

Her fingers cradle his jaw, keeping him in place. "What will you give for it?"

"Anything. Whatever you want. Whatever you need, if it's mine to give."

She pauses, tilts her head. "Only that?"

"I can't- if you ask for Ikora's blood, I can't really bleed her to death myself. It's her choice to make."

"So you have limits, then." Another sad smile, but a mockery of one. A mockery of him. "Pity."

Her fingers linger a second against his skin before she starts moving away. Panic seizes him. She's his only hope–

(Cubix's protests, of course, go unheard.)

"Wait!" He reaches for her hand and stops a hair's breadth away from touching her. "Wait, I- please. Please, tell me the price. I will pay. Whatever it is, I will pay."

"What a good friend you are," she says, sounding as if she doesn’t think a word of it. "Lucky for you, I'm weak for a good love story." And at his confused stare, she adds, almost as an afterthought, "There are many kinds of love, young guardian, and you do not travel to the edge of the world to save the soul of a man you do not love."

Yeah, that's fair. Cayde was – is? – the best friend there is. He deserves that much.

"So, what do I need to do?" He asks urgently.

Cubix shakes Razel's hold on him and asks, wary, 「How do we know we can trust you?」

"You don't. Have faith." To Razel she says, "You need to find light from your Traveler."

"I already-"

"A guardian's worth of it."

Cubix makes a dejected sound.

He thinks about it for a moment. If he understood correctly...

"I have to... Get a guardian's light? That would kill them, though." He understood that much from her improvised lesson earlier. And from past experiences with the Hive.

"Precisely. A life for a life, child. And a guardian's life for a guardian's life."

What was the point of asking his name if she's not going to use it, he wonders.

Then, her words hit him. He shudders.

Killing a fellow guardian – not like in the Crucible but truly, utterly killing them – is proscribed. Taboo, almost. Even the most evil of guardians, and there were a few, are captured alive and kept under cryostasis. Killing a Ghost, severing a guardian's connection to light... It goes against the Traveler's will. It's treason of the highest order.

"I can't-" He stops. For Cayde... Could he?

To his great surprise it's Cubix who asks, 「What else?」

She gives them an almost approving look. "Not much, do not worry. I can make it so the light rushing out of a guardian at their death would go to this dead Ghost you carry. It would... Jumpstart it, like a defibrillator, and then you would just have to bring it back to its guardian to resurrect him."

「That's almost too easy.」

Razel is tempted to agree. Aside from killing a guardian, which can be done if he forgets about his morals for a little while, it's... Nothing out of the usual for them.

She clicks her tongue. "There are... constraints, naturally."

「So, what's the catch?」

She grins like a satisfied cat as she sits back in her throne. She crosses her legs gracefully, takes her time with her reply.

"If you die, it's over. His soul's hold on yours is tenuous. If yours were to leave your body... If it were separated from your light, however briefly, then his would undoubtedly let go. Your Ghost could bring you back, but him? He would be lost for good." She moves her finger in a circle. "Light needs soul, soul needs Ghost, Ghost needs light – its own light, which it can only find the through a connection to a guardian. It's all connected, see?"

Razel is not exactly known for being careful with his own life, but– he's a decent fighter. Killing another guardian – a trained, powerful, likely rogue guardian – without dying at any point would be difficult, but feasible.

"And you must be fast. Every hour his soul spends in your body makes it a little less his, a little more yours, as your light assimilate it." He can just feel his eyes glaze over a little. She frowns slightly. "Your soul and body are two pieces of cloth sewn together, making one... Shirt. Right?" He deeply appreciates her efforts to dumb this down for him. He nods. "Right now, his soul is just another piece of your shirt."

"But- doesn't my light... ‘sew’ those pieces together only when it heals me?"

How did this go from a bargain of souls to a lesson in immortality? By the Traveler but this much exposition only happens to him, he's sure.

「Your light is always healing you, though.」

"I don't get hurt that much-"

「You really do, but that's not the point. Why do you think guardians don’t age?」

He shrugs. "Convenience?"

「Not... Ah. I meant 'how'.」 Razel gestures at him to go on. Obviously he doesn't know 'how', no one ever told him and it's not like he reads about it. 「Your cells decay as you age. Your light are constantly healing them, so you don't age. Simple.」

"And that constant healing... Is sewing Cayde's soul to mine?"

"Yes. Slowly, mind you, but healing large wounds, the kind you sustain in combat, would greatly accelerate the process." She steeples her fingers together. "And I'm sure I don't have to tell you what happens once the two souls are... Sewn together to one body."

「Yeah you do.」

"It sounds very ominous but also very vague." Although he can imagine some possibilities. Among those: Cayde's head growing out of his shoulder. He's not ready to become a two-headed monster. Even for Cayde.

"I don't know what would happen, actually. Necromancy is less of a science than a delicate art. But if I had to guess..." She claps her hands together. "Two souls distinct becoming one. The sum of two parts, different from both. A new person. I'm sure you're already starting to think or do things like him, aren't you?"

He thinks about it for a second but apart from more intrusive thoughts than usual... No, he's acting like himself.

「They're both morons, it's hard to tell.」

She waves it away. "It won't take long before it starts to show, don't worry. Or do, actually, this is very serious matter. You don't have that much time before the two souls become inseparable and this endless discussion is not helping the matter. So," She starts to count on her fingers. "The life of a guardian, be quick, don't die, don't heal yourself... I think that's about it. Are you up for it, child?"

For the first time since entering this tower, Razel doubts... and looks at Cubix. His Ghost appears disgruntled by the whole situation. But he seems reluctant to say anything and when he finally does, it sounds half-hearted.

「It's dangerous.」

"It's dangerous whether I'm doing it or not. Might as well try... try to save Cayde."

「You're right.」

Oh gloriously rare words to hear. He smiles to his Ghost and pets his shell clumsily. It feels like his heart is lodged in his throat. But he manages to speak, his flaming eyes more red than orange with the low light and something untold burning in them.

"I'll do it. I'll bargain with you."

(Read the rest on AO3! link on my blog, in case tumblr didn’t fix that whole... ‘outside links don’t appear in search’ issue)

[sunreias]

Background:

Sereia is an only child who was born to two extremely wealthy parents. Her parents were cold, distant, and downright cruel most days. The only person she had in her life that showed her any compassion was her grandmother.

Growing up Sereia was an oddball compared to most of the other children because her interests included things like the occult and she felt like she saw the world differently than most children her age. She was friendly and loving, always mothering her friend. But she had a quirky side to her, was very sensitive and spiritual. Her grandmother told her that she had gifts and together they often harnessed them. They lived a very holistic life at home, even growing their own garden which was one of Sereia’s favorite pastimes.

Her parents, however, tried their best to suppress this side of their daughter and thought it was disgusting and stupid.  They often fought with her grandmother about the proper way to raise the girl and put her into fancy prep schools to “beat” the strange out of her and make her a proper woman of society.

They didn’t let her see her grandmother as much even though they lived in the same house. They made sure Sereia was kept busy with many activities and things to do. 

Kai and Sol were her neighbors and because they were from high society she was allowed to hang out with them. Thankfully Sereia was able to be herself around them without being seen as weird or wrong as her parents often made her feel.

In high school she was close to Sunwoo, the two of them becoming best friends at their fancy school despite their crappy home lives. They somehow bonded over them.

Sereia was very popular in high school for being “pretty”, but she didn’t really bond with any of her friends and wore a mask to fit in and make her parents proud of her. She also studied really hard and did everything they could have ever wanted, but still, they were never happy.

When she was sixteen her grandmother passed away and Sereia was utterly crushed. She fell into a deep depression, though no one would have ever known it.

She felt like the only person who would ever truly understand her was gone. 

Shortly after high school, she grew a little distant from most of her friends when she started dating someone her parents approved of, once again in an attempt to make them happy and to feel accepted. However, this guy was horrible to her. Abusive in every sense of the word, but she stayed with him.

She started her Youtube channel during this time, staying faceless for the first year while she did things because she was afraid of her family finding out. Eventually, her little sunflowers (her fans) convinced her to show her face and they were all so loving and supportive. 

This is what gave Sereia the courage to finally step up and take control of her life once again. She couldn’t keep pretending to be something that she wasn’t.

After three years she finally had enough and told her parents she was breaking up with him. They told her she was throwing away her future and she told them she had to be herself even if they didn’t approve. She was taking the money her grandmother left for her and going to branch out on her own. Her parents disowned her on the spot calling her a disgrace, her mother slapped her and told her to never come back unless she got her head on straight.

Despite the pain from facing her parents, she finally felt free when she was out of that relationship and free of the crushing weight of her parents. That was when she found the Share House.  It was exactly what she needed and she’s since been able to truly grow into herself as a person and is finally flourishing on her own terms.

Personality:

Sereia is a truly sensitive soul, one that is very intuitive. A lot of people would consider her to be a bit of a hippie, but she finds that to be a compliment.

Extremely sweet and maternal she will take care of anyone and everyone in her life. 

Because her parents weren’t very loving, she is extremely loving and always tells her friends how much she cares about them.

Sereia is very understanding and compassionate, often giving really good advice to anyone that needs it.

She loves the occult and spiritual side of life, often looking to it for guidance.

If you want she will happily use tarot or palm reading to tell you what the future has in store for you.

While Sereia is sweet you never want to cross the people she cares about because she will be quick to put you in your place for hurting them.

She often doesn’t look out for herself the way that she should, too worried about others in her life.

Her heart is too big for her own good and while she wears it on her sleeve for most things, when it comes to romantic relationships she is a bit more careful with it, especially after her last relationship

Fun Facts:

A fun fact that isn’t so fun is her parents never told her that they loved her even when she would say it to them. She has never told anyone that before, but it breaks her heart when she thinks about it which is why she always tells her friends how much they mean to her.

She loves to bake and cook. She will always test out new recipes and just has a way of making things be really tasty and a dish rarely ever disappoints.

Catch her overfeeding everyone when she’s stressed AF.

Will cry when watching the movie Moana because it reminds her of her grandmother.

She loves playing the Sims and sucks at literally any other video game she tries. Phone games she is fine with though.

Would consider herself to be psychic, but she won’t talk about that too much unless she trusts you because she knows people look down on that. (Is eerily accurate with her readings.)

If you don’t find her inside writing, then she is outside writing or gardening. She started a garden at the share house to use the fresh ingredients in her meals.

Despite being an introvert, Sereia isn’t really all that shy. She loves people and will go quite comfortable with them easily. She loves to give hugs and do nice things for other people. Making others happy makes her very happy. 

You might catch her having a solo dance party in her room, but if you do she’ll invite you to join her.

She has not been kissed or had sex for over a year, maybe going on two if she really thinks about it.

Loves the rain and cold weather

Despite her overall sweetness, there is a dark side to her if you cross her, so look out. 

She is also very persuasive and will use that against you if she thinks something is for your own good. Though she never does it with ill intentions, she will still help in her own way.

[twilights-800-cats]

<< Allegiances | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | From the Beginning >>

Chapter 7

Pine needles softened Tinystar’s pawsteps. Above him only the very tops of the pines stirred with a breeze. Down below was a very cool, dry day, overcast by grayish-yellow clouds. Tinystar relished the snap in the air, taking in the rich wood smells with a deep breath.

It will snow soon, he thought, looking through the tall trunks of pine and cedar. And then leaf-bare will truly be upon us.

He ignored the smells of prey. He’d eaten just before setting out, choosing to walk the well-trodden trail through Tallpines on his own. After all that had happened at Mothermouth, and Whitestorm’s deputy ceremony the night before, Tinystar simply wanted some time to himself – to walk the forest and come to grips with what was now truly his territory.

Whitestorm slotted into his deputy position easily, flowing naturally into giving orders to patrols and organizing cats to ensure the camp walls would last the first inevitable snowstorm. Tinystar felt no qualms about leaving him in charge for the morning – he’d truly picked the best cat to be his first deputy.

Tinystar let his paws take him where they willed – walking through the forest and letting himself listen and scent and simply feel the air against his thickening pelt. The forest trails that had once been ominous and frightening to him, the subject of horror stories told by his old kittypet friend Smudge and his half-brother Rusty, were now so achingly familiar Tinystar knew he could walk them with his eyes closed and his whiskers pulled.

He couldn’t help but recall his first trek through the woods – feeling the wind in his whiskers for the first time, feeling the soft earth beneath his paws, tripping over every root but skimming the undergrowth and feeling like he was truly where he belonged.

It wouldn’t have happened if not for Tigerstar.

The grief he felt for Tigerstar would stay with him forever, Tinystar knew. Yet with each passing day he grew more certain that this was how it was all meant to happen – that Tigerstar had somehow known that Tinystar would be his successor. That Tinystar would be the one to protect ThunderClan for seasons to come.

The pines opened up suddenly, and Tinystar paused. His paws had taken him to Twolegplace.

His tail flicked. Was it some form of providence? Or had his thoughts of his past steered him? Tinystar didn’t know. He laid down a scent marker at the edge of the trees and continued on through the large field behind the Twolegplace, his ears trained to the rows of fences for any dangers.

Finally the urge overtook him – Tinystar, with a mighty leap, sprang onto the top of the fence row, pausing to gain his balance before continuing on.

The scent of cat was faint. Tinystar guessed that most Twolegs wouldn’t let their kittypets out in this chill.

He padded along the fences, keeping an eye out for dogs or other cats. Not all kittypets were soft, full-fed layabouts. He stopped when a flash of fur inside one of the Twoleg nests caught his eye.

It was a she-cat – her scent was gently laid over the backyard, trailing along the stone path that led into the garden. Her fur was soft and brown, with patches of white. Her eyes were round and yellow in her round and chubby face and she looked utterly round and happy and unaware of Tinystar from behind her glass window.

Tinystar peered at her and found himself thinking of what kind of warrior she’d make: Not a good one, he thought. She’d spend all leaf-bare starving off the extra weight… and even if she made it through that she’d have to work hard to make those big round paws do anything but scare all the prey…

He stiffened. Was this what Tigerstar had thought when he had looked at him, all those seasons ago? Tinystar’s paws kneaded against the fenceboard, feeling a prickle of discomfort. What did he think of me? I didn’t grow much since…

Tinystar shook his head to clear his head – he’d not grown in height, yes, but in stature? His pelt rippled with strong muscles and his instincts were honed razor-sharp! He was a warrior!

He was about to move on – but something stopped him. That garden… perhaps it was all the reminiscing, but it was starting to look…

Tinystar let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding – this was his old nest.

Now that he had realized it, everything flooded back into his mind’s eye. There was the bush where he’d always made dirt, with the heavy flowers that disguised his scent – there was his housefolk’s little water pool, surrounded by smooth stones. There was the place where he’d chased his first squirrel. There was where he’d met Smudge for the first time, and where he’d tried to dig a hole out beneath the fence – the wiry mesh his housefolk had put up to catch his claws was still there.

Tinystar turned his gaze to the fat kittypet in the window, and his heart… ached.

His Twolegs had moved on.

There was something bittersweet about knowing it, something sad and selfish about the fact that Tinystar hadn’t thought of them at all when he left.

We’re both happy now, he decided. They have a kittypet that’s happy to be with them… and I am a warrior.

It was for the best.

Tinystar forced himself to hop down. The sun was climbing in the sky behind the clouds, and Tinystar knew that Whitestorm would be expecting him home sooner rather than later. He stretched, pulling warmth back into his body. He’d spent too long here, swimming in memories and nostalgia – he had to look forward now.

The bushes rustled.

Tinystar stiffened, unsheathing his claws. He peered at the undergrowth just outside the Twolegplace, narrowing his eyes.

“Come out,” he growled.

The bushes waved, their drying branches crackling – and out of them padded Mistypaw.

Tinystar relaxed his spine, sheathing his claws. He sighed. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Mistypaw’s tail was low, but she gave Tinystar a somewhat defiant stare. She stood her ground, her paws digging into the frosted earth.

“I wanted to practice my tracking,” she declared. “I saw you leave and I…” her eyes lowered, her resolve fading suddenly. “I got curious.”

“And?” Tinystar wondered. He approached, sitting beside her.

Mistypaw’s tail kinked, and suddenly she had regained her fire – she stared Tinystar in the eye, demanding, like their roles were suddenly reversed and Tinystar was the misbehaving apprentice and Mistypaw the stern mentor: “What are you doing here?”

Tinystar peered at his apprentice, admiration growing in his chest. Suddenly he was taken back to his early days as an apprentice, when Bluefur had caught him talking to Smudge during an assessment. Tigerstar had questioned his loyalty – and rightly so.

“Have no fear, Mistypaw – I’m not here to rejoin the kittypets,” he assured. “I’m a Clan cat through and through but… it never hurts to remember where you came from.”

Mistypaw glanced at the Twolegplace behind her. She shuddered. “Why would any cat want to live with Twolegs?”

Tinystar purred. “Mistypaw – living with Twolegs is something like living in a Clan. You take care of each other like Clan cats do, just in different ways.”

Mistypaw’s tail bristled. “But they’re so much bigger than us! How can they ever understand us? Where’s the freedom?”

“Well,” Tinystar went on, “you’re right about that – there are major differences, and the Twolegs do often seem very controlling. Some are downright mean – but you could say the same for some Clan cats, you know? A Twoleg… they’ll treat you like you’re a kit more than not, but it’s never out of malice. They just want to keep you safe.”

Mistypaw curled her lip. “I don’t like it!” she insisted. “I can keep myself safe! They’d never understand that.”

“No, no they wouldn’t,” Tinystar agreed. He thought of the she-cat in the window, who would hardly leave her nest without a Twoleg’s permission. Who would only eat when they fed her. There were trade-offs for both ways of life.

Tinystar took a deep breath. “Mistypaw… ThunderClan will always be my priority – but I won’t deny that I want to see Cloudtail’s mother, Fiona, sometimes. No one in the Clans will ever forget that I was once a kittypet… and I can’t, either.”

Mistypaw frowned. “The elders… they tell a story about Pine – a cat from ThunderClan who…”

“… Who left his post as leader to become a kittypet,” Tinystar finished. He recalled that story from his own apprenticeship. “I know. But that’s not me - I don’t seek to flee my responsibilities… and you oughtn’t begrudge Pine too much for wanting to flee his.”

“Why?” hissed Mistypaw in disbelief. “He was a coward!”

Tinystar’s tail rested on her shoulders. “There are pressures that not every cat is fit to handle, Mistypaw. Not every warrior is born with the forest in their heart, just like not every kittypet is filled with goose down and laziness. Every cat is different.”

Mistypaw opened her jaws, and then shut them. Her tail curled around her paws. “Sorry,” she mumbled, looking down. “I… didn’t think of it like that.”

“That’s all right,” Tinystar soothed.

Tinystar got to his paws. He raised his tail, signaling Mistypaw. “Let’s head back. We can finish my patrol on the way. Does that sound good?”

Mistypaw nodded.

Together they padded through the open field and back into the safety of Tallpines. Above them the clouds were darkening, yellowing deeply at their edges. Mistypaw trailed behind slightly, and, when Tinystar looked back, he saw that her blue eyes were clouded. Tinystar halted, turning to his apprentice.

“What is it, Mistypaw?” he wondered.

Mistypaw glanced his way, and then back to her paws. Tinystar frowned. Clearly, something was on her mind.

“You can tell me,” he coaxed. “I’m your mentor.”

“I know,” Mistypaw mumbled. She flopped onto her haunches, her tail stilling in the discarded pine needles. She looked plaintively up at Tinystar, her eyes suddenly wide and sad. “Do you think any cat will forget that I’m Bluestar’s daughter?”

Tinystar’s heart caught in his throat, a wave of empathy crashing down on him. We’re so similar, he thought, forced to prove our loyalties all the time, because there’s always some cat that will doubt us for our bloodlines.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Mistypaw frowned, looking back down at her paws. It was not the reassurance she’d wanted, and Tinystar felt badly about that – but what else could he do, lie to her? Promise that no one would ever judge her for who came before?

“How are you getting on with the other apprentices?” Tinystar asked.

Mistypaw frowned. “Snowpaw and Fernpaw are fine… they’re good friends. Fernpaw and I talk a lot and Snowpaw is hard to understand sometimes but… I like him.”

“And Ashpaw?”

Mistypaw squared her shoulders. “He gives me and Stonepaw dirty looks all the time,” she meowed tersely, “like… like we killed Brindleface, y’know?”

Tinystar frowned. “I’ll speak with him about that,” he decided. “That’s not fair of him.”

Mistypaw only gave a halfhearted shrug.

“And Stonepaw?” Tinystar recalled him snapping at Mousefur only yesterday.

“He’s trying really, really hard – we both are,” Mistypaw replied. Concern flashed across her eyes. “He works so hard he’s tired a lot. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep well – but, well, none of us do, really. We keep dreaming of the dogs…”

Tinystar frowned. “They’ll pass, with time,” he assured her. The rest of her report worried him deep down, but there was little he could do about Stonepaw’s sleeping habits. “I’ll tell Sandstorm to let up on him for a little while.”

“Thanks,” Mistypaw meowed. “I just want him to feel… good, you know? About his life.”

“What do you feel?”

Mistypaw shrugged again. “I don’t know – sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad. I think it’ll get better once, you know… things calm down.”

Tinystar nodded. “So do I.” Was Mistypaw telling him the whole truth of her feelings? He didn’t expect her to tell him everything, really. What was Mistypaw doing differently from Stonepaw? Tinystar had no idea.

“Let’s keep moving,” Tinystar meowed. He nudged his muzzle against Mistypaw’s shoulder. “It’s going to snow soon.”

“Snow?” Mistypaw’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

———————————————————-

“This is amazing, Tinystar!”

Tinystar curled his tail around his paws.

Mistypaw had been born in the turn of leaf-bare into newleaf – she had never seen snow before now.

It was falling in fat, thick flakes from the sky, covering the ground with a thin covering of powder and quickly gathering in the crooks of every branch above. Their patrol had halted when the first flakes began to fall.

Now Mistypaw was pouncing and leaping through the snowfall, purring and screeching with delight. She was trying to catch each flake one moment and the next she was scattering them along with the damp leaves. She twirled like a kit while the snowflakes caught on her thick, plumy tail.

To Mistypaw it was a kit’s delight – to Tinystar, it was a sign of what was to come for ThunderClan. Hunger, cold, sickness… all came with the first flakes of snow. Beauty and fear for a whole season.

He looked back. They were past Tallpines now, on the trail near the quiet Thunderpath. Across the Thunderpath was ShadowClan. The snow was doubtless falling all over the forest, even there. Through the haze of snow Tinystar wondered… what was Bluestar plotting? What was she thinking?

A squeal from Mistypaw made Tinystar turn his head back to his apprentice.

She was rolling in the snow, trying to catch the flakes with her pads. Her whiskers were freckled with little white flakes, and her pelt was dusted with snowfall. Her eyes were wide like a kit’s, her mouth open in delight. She didn’t care about the coming leaf-bare, or all the troubles mounting over ThunderClan’s head – not in this moment. Right now she was young and she was playing and she was happy.

Tinystar’s tail flicked, and not for the first time he wondered...

Had Bluestar ever been the same?

[writingwhileyoushouldbeworking]

(Platonic) Shiemi x Amaimon One-shot

Yo, while I’m working on my other stories, I decided to write this little thing. Enjoy~

Warning: Manga compliant so contains a ton of SPOILERS for anime watchers. Also includes some headcanons.

Summary

A means to an end, he tells himself, that's all she is.

Until she's not.

FF.net

AO3

Like Daffodils 

(2940 words)

From his vantage point atop the rollercoaster, Amaimon watches Rin happily surround himself with humans. They talk and laugh, acting all chummy but that's only because they don't know Rin is a demon, right? Humans don't like demons, and demons don't like humans-

'Amaimon!' she squeals, pointing excitedly at the flock of humans standing in the distance. 'Aren't they amazing?'

When those two girls, no, just the fair-haired one shows up, Rin can't keep his eyes off her. Internally, Amaimon feels a spark of amusement at his brother's obvious interest. The girl looks down at her clothes with a self-conscious smile that's just a little too familiar and his good humor fades.

'W-what do you think?' she whispers, fidgeting with her robes. They're bulky and cover her almost entirely, leaving only her nose and mouth visible. She's flushes bright red under his scrutiny, the contrast with the green fabric making it even more obvious.

Sugary candy gets crushed to bits by his jaws. He spits out the plastic stick it came with and pushes the memory away. The humans split into pairs, and the girl and Rin walk away side by side. Amaimon takes a new lollipop from his pocket and tears off the wrapper.

Time to play.

  xXx

  He should have brought more candy.

Watching Rin and the girl wander around in search of a ghost is boring. Amaimon finishes a whole bag before they find it.

At least the spirit does some of his work for him, and Amaimon watches the girl chase after it, disappearing inside one of the attractions.

Now it’s just him and Rin.

  xXx

   Amaimon doesn't think Rin likes him all that much.

The feeling is mutual.

No matter how much Amaimon teases and taunts him, Rin barely fights back, just follows him a bit and tries to take his sword back. It's frustrating in a number of ways. Why would Father and Big Brother be interested in someone like this?

It's not until he's drawn a good deal of blood that Rin finally gets a little serious, covered in those beautiful blue flames, and his hands wrap around Amaimon's throat squeezing tighter and tighter and Amaimon feels his endless boredom start to abate.

  xXx

  He's sitting among the branches of a tree, gnawing on his thumbnail, when his older brother arrives.

Samael talks to him but the words are lost on Amaimon. He wants to play with Rin again. It's all that stupid woman with the snake sword's fault. And now she's taken Kurikara from Rin as well. Who does she think she is, anyway?

The barrier slams into him, sending him crashing into a tree and maybe she's not so stupid after all. It doesn't matter. She's going to be dead soon. It's only fair.

"I want to kill her," he says, mostly to himself.

"You won't," his brother replies immediately. "If you kill any one of them, I shall slaughter you."

His brother doesn't make idle threats and Amaimon has no desire to die.

"Sorry. I'll hold back."

It isn't too great a hindrance. He made some preparations this time. 

  xXx 

  Her body is warm and soft against his side.

Amaimon strokes her head, out of habit at first - she's only about a head taller than Beel is now - but keeps going when he sees how much it bothers Rin. The teen barks like a mad dog but doesn't come closer, wavering at the edge of the magic circle and Amaimon decides to move further away.

It works like a charm, and Rin immediately rushes after them.

The snake sword woman tries to interfere again but is intercepted by Behemoth. Amaimon isn't too worried about it. His familiar is no lightweight.

  xXx

  Rin is holding back and Amaimon is running out of patience when a thought occurs to him.

The girl made for decent bait already, but perhaps she can be of more use. Rin likes her, doesn't he, so a marriage proposal ought to do it, right?

Amaimon doesn't waste time wondering why, of all things, that was the plan he came up with. Hurting her would be a better motivator, but Amaimon discards the idea immediately. He doesn't think about that too hard, either.

Rin attacks, but it's a downright pathetic attempt. Halfhearted. No, less than that even. It pisses him off so much that Amaimon starts to put some force behind his next moves.

It feels good to let loose a little. Well, as much as he can without exposing his heart and with that girl still sitting on his arm. By the time he remembers Big Brother's rule about keeping the damage to the school to a minimum, half the forest is destroyed and Rin is lying very still.

Amaimon doesn't feel so bad about the pool of blood. Rin will heal, and if he didn't want to get beaten up he should have put up more of a fight. Was he still not motivated enough?

"How strange," Amaimon muses aloud. "Isn't this girl important to you?"

Rin spits out a mouthful of blood and glares at him. "Drop dead!"

That's just rude. "Well," Amaimon says disdainfully. "Guess I'm done with her."

Rin's eyes light up a little. Is he expecting him to just let her go? That's dumb but it means he cares, doesn't it? Just not enough. Not yet.

"Might as well take an eyeball, though." Theatrics aren't Amaimon's forte, never have been. He just doesn't have the inflection for it. But he's sat through enough plays with his brother, and sometimes his older sister, that Amaimon knows that in some cases, the words themselves are enough. Rin's denseness helps.

Amaimon raises his hand, holding his nails so very close to one of those pretty, vacant, impossibly green eyes. "I collect them for a cousin who's into the occult." He so does not. They don't even have cousins, but Amaimon does not need rumors spreading that he's into weird stuff like that.

Rin looks shocked, so his acting can't be all that bad after all.

"No!" he chokes out, "Don't!"

Just as Amaimon wonders if he should deliver on his threat - Rin still hasn't drawn the damn sword yet - the baby exorcists arrive, seemingly intent on saving the day. Amaimon can't begin to guess how they plan on accomplishing this.

"What're you-" he begins to ask, and they fire another exploding arrow. It misses his body, but like a gag scene from one of his Big Brother's manga, it ruins his hair. "Agh?"

The pink haired brat laughs, and before he realizes it Amaimon delivers a swift kick that sends him crashing into a tree with a satisfying crack. Big Brother said he's not allowed to kill, but if they die on their own it’s fine right?

He goes after the taller one next. The bald kid reeks of fear but still jumps in front of him. Amaimon breaks his arm with the barest touch and he collapses with a scream.

One left.

It feels good to wrap a hand around the brat's throat.

"You laughed at me," he says, which isn't entirely true, but this one was acting like a leader so he should pay for his subordinates’ folly. The brat starts babbling nonsense. Not to him, but to Rin, and Amaimon feels his patience hit zero.

He squeezes harder and the boy coughs up blood and Rin finally, finally, does something.

Amaimon drops the girl - he'd almost forgotten she was still there - and the brat, and excitedly rushes to meet his little brother's attacks.

  xXx

  Big Brother stops their fight-

How dare he interfere?!

Mocks him-

Him? Lose to that pathetic, half-blooded brat?! Impossible!!

And Amaimon does something foolish.

  xXx

  His punishment is a 'time out', suspended by a dozen spears with anti-demon wards bored through his flesh.

"This is for your own good," Big Brother tells him during one of his rare visits but he still smiles at the blood trickling from Amaimon's wounds.

A couple weeks pass, and Amaimon asks how much longer he has to stay here.

"Just until you learn to behave," his brother says. He's brought out a chair and snacks - none for Amaimon - and acts as if this is merely a pleasant chat between siblings. "I can't have you making a mess of things and ruining all our hard work, now can I?"

"Our?" Amaimon repeats, dully eyeing the floating cupcakes.

His brother smirks. "Oops," he says, "Now whatever could I have meant with that~?"

Amaimon knows this game. His brother wants him to ask and guess, play along, but nothing will come of it because he doesn't really want Amaimon to know. If he did, he'd come right out and say it.

Amaimon knows this game and forgive him if he's not in the mood. He says nothing, and takes perverse pleasure in the annoyance that flickers across his brother's face.

  xXx

  He doesn't know when he starts thinking about her - or why, it's been millennia - but he does. Memories float to the surface of his mind. Smells and sounds and sights he'd much rather forget.

'What are you doing?' he asks.

She's kneeling on the ground, hiding behind a bush he's pretty sure she grew herself, for that exact purpose.

'Shhh,' she hisses, and quickly pulls him down to hide with her. She smells like a field of spring flowers, and Amaimon knows the scent has nothing to do with the dozens of actual flowers she's worked into her hair and clothes.

Shemihaza points at something beyond the shrub and while he'd much rather watch her, he takes a reluctant look.

A human village, or rather what counts for one in these parts, lies in the distance. Next to it, a handful of humans toil in a field of half withered plants.

'No rain,' she whispers, despite it being impossible for them to be overheard. 'And the soil's no good here, either.' She falls silent as another human appears, and beckons the others away. Once they're gone, Shemihaza lays her hands on the ground. The power ripples through the ground, and green blossoms in the field as new plants sprout.

She grows too much in his opinion, there's no way they'll be able to use that much, but he says nothing. When she's satisfied, she turns and gives him a bright smile that he doesn't return.

He might have given up on dissuading her from preforming these small acts of kindness, but that sure as hell doesn't mean he intends to encourage her.

Unbothered, she holds out her hand for him, helps him up for no reason at all.

He doesn't know why they get along. She's everything Amaimon abhors.

Pacifistic to a fault, disgustingly shy for someone he knows to be powerful, and a human-loving fool to boot. But she is his friend - or is he hers? He's never figured that one out - and as much as he hates them, he doesn't hate her.

Not then, anyway.

  xXx

  Finally, his brother lets him out.

When he's informed he's to attend school, Amaimon almost asks to be sent back.

  xXx

  He doesn't mean to seek out Rin. Honest.

But he finds him all the same, and some of the other exwires brats are there too. The girl's there, and Amaimon offers his greeting, throwing in the bride-taunt for Rin.

The bastard ignores him, just stands there, looking all white, and is Amaimon really supposed to just let that slide?

He pushes the girl out of the way. She'd been mildly interesting, back when Amaimon thought he could use her to draw out a reaction from Rin. His brother doesn't react, proving once again how useless she is.

"Why're you so white?" Amaimon asks. "Well, speak up!" He waits for Rin to answer but the boy just stands there.

"Ha ha…" Amaimon laughs, because how many times is this now? It's like Rin was designed to piss him off. "Ignoring me, eh?! I hate it when people ignore me!" His fist is up and ready to punch that ridiculous face when he feels small hands on his back and then he's falling, hands and knees hitting the tiled floor, and he stares at it in utter disbelief.

Did she really just- No. Fucking. Way.

Still, he has to ask, if only to truly make it real because surely, he must be imagining things.

"Did you just… push me?"

She trembles like a leaf in the wind. Eyes wide but for once there's something there besides carefree happiness or mindless human fear.

"S…s…stay," her voice grows stronger and the trembling lessens, "Stay away from my friends!"

"Hmm… How interesting." Because it is. He's the predator and she's the prey. They both know he could kill her in an instant so why is she even trying to stand up to him.

Before, she was a means to an end, but now, oh, now he's curious.

Humans rarely change in any significant way, so was this pathetic little girl one of the exceptions, or has she always been strong and did it somehow slip his notice?

He wonders what else she's keeping from him.

"In consideration of your sense of humor, I'll overlook that if you lick the ground as you crawl away!" He watches her intently, wanting to see how long she can keep that brave face.

"R-run, Moriyama!" one of the exwires cries. It's the annoying pink haired one and Amaimon wants to throw him off the oh so conveniently located stairs. Can't they see they're interrupting. "We'll handle this!" another yells.

The girl looks confused at the demand, but it's quickly overshadowed by determination. There's something about it, about those eyes, and his head starts to hurt.

"I won't run," she says.

'I'm staying.'

His heart thunders within him as memories and reality blur together.

"Because…"

'Amaimon… Try to understand.'

Understand? What the hell was there to understand?

"…I…"

She was turning her back on their kind! On him! And for them?!

"I'm gonna be an exorcist!"

That Greenman familiar of hers appears, another nuisance, another traitor, and Amaimon sees red.

"Then die."

  xXx

  Rin takes the hit and the girl lives.

Amaimon isn't sure whether that's such a good thing, despite, no, especially because he feels… glad he didn't kill her? It's a new feeling for him and he does not care for it.

To make matters worse, he's been experiencing the strangest urge to seek her out.

To fight, he tells himself at first, but he knows what it feels like to want to fight and this isn't it. He doesn't want to break her, and oh, how easy that would be. No, he wants… something else.

To see her? Easy enough. He tells Big Brother to put him in her class. Not in so many words, but his brother must already know because he accepts far too easily. Suspicion roused, Amaimon asks about his intentions but his brother just spouts something nonsensical about putting presents in the mouth of a horse.

   xXx

  Amaimon goes to class and ignores everything except the girl.

He expects the urge to lessen. The opposite happens, and he finds himself watching her outside of class. Discretely. From very far away.

She doesn't notice, he thinks, but he wonders what would happen if she did. She seems to be doing her best to ignore him when they're in class. By all accounts, that ought to bother him but Amaimon can't find it in himself to get annoyed. Another first for him.

  xXx

  Her house is easy to get to, once he figures out where it is. The keys his brother granted the exorcists make following someone a little more challenging, but it's nothing Amaimon can't handle.

Her garden is… nice.

He's seen better, grander places, but this place thrums with an entirely different sort of energy. The girl does all the work by herself, and with a gentleness Amaimon has come associate with humans looking after their young.

Her fingers diligently work the stems into her hair, careful not to bruise the petals. She notices him watching her and her fingers still as she smiles at him.

  xXx

  Sometimes Amaimon sees people that aren't her.

Rin mostly, or his human brother, but also the occasional nameless exorcist. They never notice Amaimon, and he's happy to see them go and leave him to his observation.

  xXx

  Autumn turns to winter, and Amaimon sits on a roof, chewing gummy worms and waiting for the girl - Shiemi, he finally learned her name - to come out and attend her garden.

She's late tonight. A rare occurrence.

When she finally shows up, she passes the garden by entirely and walks down the path leading to the school.

Amaimon gets up, there's only a handful of places she might go at this time of night, but she comes to a sudden stop and he notices she's crying.

The woman he now knows to be her mother stands on the steps of the house, watching her daughter, but makes no move to go to her. After a minute, she turns around and goes inside, and now it's just the two of them. Not that she knows that.

Amaimon is no good with emotions. Beel's tears are always over the top, and his brother's theatrics are just that. This is real crying, human crying, and an overwhelming part of him wants to just leave and come back later, once she's had some time to compose herself.

He stays, and the sun rises, staining the sky red with its brilliance, but to him her smile seems brighter still.

[an-ale-of-a-tale]

A Yarn of a Tale (Part 2)

Characters: Jenis Filcobrant, Soreas Lennart Series: Final Fantasy XIV Words: 3,963 / 14,346 Genre: Crack Description: While trying to help a guildmate with a rash of laundry thefts, Jenis and Soreas fall into a magical adventure filled with talking aldgoats, militaristic marmots, and vegetarian chigoes. Will they ever be able to save the guild’s laundry from a magical girl spriggan, or will love and laundry prevail? Disclaimer: This was written during 1.0 (and pre-Calamity), which means that you’ll see things that no longer make any sense, such as crystals being turned into shards (that was a thing!) and spells such as Shock Spikes.

                                                        [ Part 1 ]

Two idiots get lost in a frozen wasteland, news at 11.

The first thing that Jenis noticed is that he was cold. Feeling cold was a bit of a novelty for him; a native of Ul’dah, he was accustomed to the blisteringly hot days and the cool nights that were characteristic of a desert clime. Feeling downright cold, however, wasn’t something he’d ever felt before, and he could say with certainty that it wasn’t pleasant.

The Lalafell Alchemist opened his mouth to say something, and he felt something cold against his face. He looked up, and some white, cold fluffy stuff fell off his face. That’s when he realized that he was both covered in and surrounded by the stuff.

“What in Thaliak’s name...?” Jenis spat the cold stuff out of his mouth and looked around. He was in what seemed like a forest, except the trees were bare of any foliage that they might have once had. The same fluffy white stuff was falling around them. The air was deathly quiet, and though it wasn’t windy, there was a definite air current about that only seemed to be making the situation even worse.

Soreas was lying not too far away from Jenis, and before he could come near him, the silver-haired Lalafell moaned, and he stirred a little before bolting upright. “What the hell?!” He blinked in confusion at his surroundings, and he took a handful of the white stuff and stared at it before closing his hand over it. “Why are we in the middle of a snowfield?”

“Is that what this is?” Jenis tried not to shiver as he made his way towards Soreas. He was suddenly extremely grateful that he was wearing one of his thicker outfits – a dark brown canvas robe with buffalo leather shoulder guards. He glanced at his hip, and he felt a wave of relief wash over him as he saw he had his wand; the greenery that seemed to grow out of the branch stood out in the middle of all the white surrounding them.

“Y-yeah, but... shit, this is cold!” Soreas stood up, and he did his best to brush off the snow from his clothing. He was wearing what he usually wore; a white, loosely-laced cotton shirt, along with his signature red bandana. He was wearing some thicker sheepskin culottes and boots, but they seemed to be doing little to protect him from the biting cold.

“Funny, it’s not as cold as I expected...” Jenis shrugged as he took off his glasses and wiped the water from the lenses with the hem of his robe before putting them back on again. “A bit wetter, but I’ll endure, I suppose.”

“T-that’s great for you, mister I-wear-clothes-as-thick-as-my-ego.” Soreas glared at Jenis as he tried in vain to warm his hands by tucking them in his underarms. “At least I’ve seen this crap before and I’m not staring at it in starry-eyed wonder like you are. I’m not exactly dressed for traipsing around in this white shite, you know...” He sighed in irritation as he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. “Damn, it’s cold!”

“Well, I would say that’s your problem, not mine,” Jenis said with a smirk. “Do you have any idea where we are?”

“Well, I’m stuck with you, so I must be in hell... no, wait, too cold.” Soreas glared at Jenis before looking thoughtfully at the scenery around them. “Based on my extensive travelling, I’d say we’re… in a forest in a very snowy area.” Soreas returned Jenis’ smirk, and he drew his two-handed axe and, after cleaning it off and drying it with one of his half-gloves, checked it over before returning it to its holder on his back.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Jenis glared at Soreas witheringly, and he looked around. “Last I checked, there’s nowhere in Eorzea that has a snowy climate...”

“No, there isn’t. It just doesn’t... I don’t know... smell right? Then again, my nose might be frozen...”

Jenis sighed in irritation. None of this made any sense. How did they go from chasing a spriggan in the laundry room to being stuck in the middle of nowhere?

“Hello?” A female voice carried on the wind, and Jenis and Soreas heard a pair of footsteps come towards them. “I say, is someone out there?”

Soreas reached for his axe again, but Jenis held up his hand and quietly shook his head. Before Jenis could respond, the two saw an aldgoat – a Nanny, from what they could tell – slowly coming towards them.

“Psh, it’s just a goat.” Jenis said with a sigh. “And I thought someone was here...”

“‘Just a goat’? I say, that’s not a nice thing to say.” The aldgoat said as she glared at Jenis disapprovingly. “You should be ashamed of yourself, young... er... whatever you might be!”

Both Jenis and Soreas gaped at the aldgoat. Soreas recovered more quickly than Jenis, who seemed more shocked that he got scolded by a goat than anything else, and he gently cleared his throat and bowed lightly. “I apologize; we’re not accustomed to your kind having the predisposition for speech, madam...?”

“Ah, well, at least you’re polite!” The aldgoat beamed – how could a goat smile? – at Soreas. “My name is Nanny... what manner of creature might you be?”

“What manner...?” Jenis recovered from his shock only to be assaulted by another one. “You’ve never seen a Lalafell before?”

“A Lalafell?” Nanny laughed lightly, and it sounded more like a snort than anything. “What a silly name! No, child, I’m afraid I’ve never heard or seen a Lalafell before. Is that what the two of you are?” She cocked her head as she looked between the two. “You seem different, yet alike. Might you be of different species?”

“Uh, I guess you can say that, madam Nanny...” Soreas gave a quick glance at Jenis before continuing. “Do you have any idea where we are? I’m afraid we’ve lost our way, and...?”

“Oh, dear children!” Nanny looked at the two in shock. “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know where you are?”

Jenis glared at the goat angrily, and he was about to retort when Soreas quickly cut him off. “No, I’m afraid not, but if you can give us directions to the closest town, I’m sure we can manage on our own after that.”

“How very curious!” The aldgoat repeated, seemingly to herself. “Imagine that, children in the middle of nowhere, and they don’t know where they are! Truly, this is akin to a faerie tale, more than anything...”

“Um... madam...?” Soreas smiled a smile of patient tolerance at the goat, but the restraint he was showing was evident in his voice.

“Well, no matter!” Nanny beamed at the two – again, how does a goat smile? – and nodded. “Come, I will bring you someplace warm! Your winter coat clearly hasn’t grown in, and that thin undercoat of yours will do naught against the winter’s chill!” The goat started walking back in the direction she came from, leaving two very confused-looking Lalafell staring at her.

“Should we...?” Soreas looked at Jenis uncertainly, who sighed and shrugged helplessly.

“Do we have a choice? Neither of us know where we are, and she does...” He paused and looked at Soreas. “I’m... not dreaming about the fact that she can talk, right?”

“If you’re dreaming, then so am I...” Soreas shook his head. “Let’s get going before we lose her...”

The two easily caught up to the Nanny, and they followed a little ways behind her. The landscape was much the same as it was where they awoke – deciduous trees that were bereft of their leaves, and not much else. The three walked in silence for a while, the only sounds coming from the snow being packed down by their footsteps. The two refrained from talking behind the goat’s back, mostly because they didn’t know how good her hearing was. After a while, though, Jenis turned to the Nanny.

“So... er, I’m just curious... did you happen to see a little black ball of fur, about this big, running around here?” Jenis held his hands apart to demonstrate, “It would’ve had a sock or something in its mouth.”

The aldgoat nanny suddenly stopped, and she turned to Jenis and Soreas with a frown. “Are you asking me if I’ve seen a spriggan with a sock?”

“Yes, exactly that,” Jenis replied with a nod.

“Now why would you children want to know such a thing as that?” The aldgoat said with a note of disapproval in her voice.

“Well, we have a friend who’s been troubled with the theft of her socks,” Soreas specified, “And our pursuit led us here... wherever ‘here’ is.”

“Pursuit?!” The Nanny seemed appalled at that. “Oh dear... oh dear, that won’t do... that won’t do at all. Oh, the poor dear... pursued by two children...” The Nanny continued talking to herself as she walked, seeming not to pay attention to Jenis or Soreas; the two looked at each other uncertainly as they continued walking behind her.

“What did I say?” Jenis said quietly. “It was a valid question, was it not?”

“Yeah, for once you didn’t put your foot in your mouth all the way up to your knee...” Soreas sighed and shook his head. “Let’s just lay low for a while until we get to this shelter of hers...”

Jenis opened his mouth to protest, but he clammed up and settled for glaring at Soreas as he followed.

It didn’t take too much longer after that to reach the shelter; the trees thinned as they continued on their way, and soon they were at a rocky cliff face with a cave dug into it. The aldgoat nanny walked inside without even a glance at the two Lalafell, and after glancing at each other in agreement, they followed her inside.

[lizzybeth1986]

Trust Me: Exploring the RCD LIs' Reactions to the Dirty Hollywood Expose.

Since it’s been two days since the clusterfuck that was this week’s chapter of RCD, and I’ve actually cooled down a little bit, I have a few thoughts about the story structure, the characters and what Tender Nothings means to at least three of the LIs:

The LIs

What I like, a lot, about RCD is that it’s got four different people, four different backgrounds - but all of them are in very similar places in their lives. All of them have dreams bigger than what they’ve got now. All of them feel they can be better, do better, than where they’re at. All of them aren’t completely happy with what they’re doing at present, but they do it anyway because they want to do more.

Seth

I’ll talk about the non-Hollywood (yet) LI first, coz his issues bear less similarities. Seth came to LA with a screenplay that got rejected, but decided he would move in a different direction - stand-up comedy. The first botched-up performance we see in Chapter 10 hits him hard, and his struggle in dealing with a less-than-ideal audience almost makes him believe he can’t make it.

This standup spot in the club was a big deal for him. This was something he had worked really hard towards. This was something that was supposed to make all the odd jobs, all the hustle, worth it. The fact that this was his one big moment, and he blew it, definitely bogs him down.

(Thank you @violetflipflops for these screenshots!)

The MC is at an interesting place when it comes to Seth. She is an outsider to his situation in the sense that she hasn’t had to face what he faced, in terms of rejection and hustle yet. But she is also familiar with his current situation as a comedian: like Seth, the MC is also at the brink of something big. It’s this ability to both be familiar with AND step outside of his situation, that helps her provide him with a fresh perspective. In doing so, she helps him work through his own issues. That’s why Seth’s situation moves forward so smoothly, and his friendship/relationship with the MC (so far) remains intact.

The MC

Before I move on to the other LIs, I need to address where the MC is at this point in her life as well. She’s a rank newcomer. She’s just gotten into the business, and in a matter of weeks has seen the kind of love and adulation that tends to emerge only from years of hustling and disappointment. It’s not easily for her by any means: the attention is overwhelming, confusing and downright creepy for her sometimes. BUT being in a position like this one places her in a situation where she can’t completely understand what it does to people.

There’s a reason why the story makes her rise to fame so meteoric and sudden. It’s to highlight how truly different her journey is, how much of an anomaly she is, how difficult it is for her to really understand what her love interests are actually going through, and why they act so irrationally at the end of this chapter (it doesn’t justify what they did or said, but it does give us an idea of why). And though she had made some progress in her relationships with either (or all) of them, she doesn’t exactly get who they really are yet.

She’s jumped fifty steps forward in her career, and that’s an anamoly even among these people who are famous in their own right. She hasn’t exactly had to really prove anything to anyone so far (except for that “last chance” Markus gives her post the Trust Falls exercise).

She probably hasn’t had her trust broken in a significant way yet either. So even if she’s in love with any of these three, she’s not in a stage where she is able to fully understand what they’re going through, or even relate. She just hasn’t been where they’ve been yet.

Matt

The MC is a fresh face, and the possibilities for her career are endless. So she doesn’t know yet the struggle of being typecast, the struggle of not being able to be creative about her choices (thanks Matt’s agent 😑), of having to prove she can do more…to people who don’t quite believe her, the way Matt does.

Mateo’s struggle involves a number of things: living up to his father’s legacy, his lack of freedom under his agent, and the fear that he will only ever be seen as potboiler action star with no real talent. He’s also hinted at having massive trust issues: growing up in an environment where he could never know for sure whether people liked him for him, or for being “Marco Rodriguez’s son”. In fact, one of the things that appeal most to him about the MC are her honesty and candidness.

(Screenshot from Vika Avey’s YouTube Channel)

For Matt, taking up Tender Nothings is a risk he is taking with his career, and a way of proving he can be more than an action star. It’s a film his agent - who seems to dictate his every move - disapproves of, and doesn’t want him to participate in, as well as a role that’s completely different from everything he has done so far. If he loses TN, he will get another role no doubt, but chances of him breaking free from the mould are few.

So the MC “leaking” the information hits him on two levels: the cancellation of the film robs him of a chance to prove his worth as an actor, and gives the agent another reason to force him in the most financially viable direction. But worst of all, it makes him regret the one time he decided to follow his gut and trust another person.

Teja

The MC is also a newcomer who has suddenly gained fame - so she probably doesn’t know what it feels like: to be bullied around by an irresponsible director, having to constantly right his wrongs so the set won’t fall apart…all for a dream of doing their own film some day, the way Teja does.

From the get-go, we see Teja in a stressful, thankless job, constantly trying to hold together a set that’s falling apart because Markus either has unrealistic demands or because he doesn’t plan much in advance. Why is she putting herself through this? The food truck diamond scene with her gives us hints:

(Screenshots from the Abhirio YouTube channel)

While her parents were eventually supportive of her dreams, Teja has got a long long way to go before she can strike out on her own. She speaks of LA, and Hollywood, as being “beautiful but lonely”, indicating that she doesn’t have a lot of friends, or people she can trust.

We see how talented and gifted Teja is while she is at work - she takes charge where Markus cannot, she figures out scheduling and puts together looks and finds locations. Basically things on set would go far less smoothly if her commonsense demeanor didn’t balance out Markus’ eccentricities.

For Teja, Tender Nothings is a film that not only includes a hotshot director, but also extremely prolific Hollywood stars. Shooting has barely even begun and Matt and Victoria being in the film has already created a buzz - to the extent that when the MC watches TV in Vegas, even she notices that the scheduling of the programmes was made solely to provide publicity for the film. Imagine the kind of exposure that would come out of such an experience, and imagine what it would mean for someone who is only braving this sort of working condition so she can be an independent filmmaker one day. The expose, for Teja, hurts her in multiple ways as well: she’s just lost something that could make all this trouble and stress worth it, and she has also been reminded of possible earlier encounters where people have taken advantage of her trust.

But worst of all - what Teja has really lost is credibility. She didn’t work this hard and deal with all these demands just so her success could be attributed to “sleeping her way to the top”. The way her expose is worded is a direct hit to everything she has ever worked for. It attacks her work ethic and forces people to look at her as someone who didn’t deserve to get that job on her own merit. And as evidence suggests, the one person she considered a close friend (or lover) had just possibly made it even harder for her to prove her worth as a filmmaker.

Victoria

The MC is also someone who hasn’t exactly seem the darker side of her fame yet - so even the idea that Victoria Fontaine could be viewed as a has-been shocks her. She doesn’t understand yet what it means to have an illustrious career, enough talent to overshadow all of Hollywood, and STILL find herself unwanted and underappreciated, the way Victoria does.

Victoria started out in worse conditions than the MC did when she started out: she addresses the MC’s humble apartment as a luxury compared to what she had, confesses to working as a “boobprechaun”, forced to earn in an environment she didn’t feel comfortable in, has had to face multiple rejections to get where she is today. The “manbun” husband is very possibly a reminder of that past, and it is a past that Victoria is definitely not happy remembering.

At this point in her story, she faces rampant sexist/ageist discrimination - constantly reminded that as a woman in the industry she has a limited shelf life, and that once she has crossed a certain age, she loses any value she will have as an artist, talent and skill be damned. From her latest diamond scene it is clear that Victoria constantly fears going back to that dark place in her life.

For Victoria, Tender Nothings is the only out she has. The only way she can stop herself from moving backwards. She’s desperate enough for the movie to work that she will be willing to swallow her pride and extend an olive branch to the newcomer who Markus humiliated her over.

For Victoria losing Tender Nothings isn’t only about losing her stardom, or losing out to the MC. Victoria is genuinely afraid of going back to where she came from, because it’s a horrible, dark place to be.

The MC “leaking” the news of her first marriage sets Victoria back in two ways: it robs her of what she sees as her last chance to prove she has what it takes to carry a film, that she is still very much bankable star material. It ALSO hints at a life that she has tried so hard to distance herself from, that she doesn’t want to go back to, and exposes it to an unforgiving public.

But I Still Have Problems.

I realise now that my problems with that last scene don’t lie so much in the fact that the scene is there at all. In retrospect, I feel this turning point breaks the illusion that the MC has of Hollywood, gives us an idea of her naivete, and ensures that the MC realises this is a cutthroat, dog-eat-dog place. I’m not happy it’s there, but I think it works as a transition.

My problem lies more in the way the scene was written. I have two major problems on this score:

1. The Painting: Victoria is definitely the angriest of the lot, and the most physically aggressive. A lot of it is understandable, because it took a lot out of her to apologize to the MC ( especially in a situation where she was the one being bullied by Markus and the MC was being treated like a “perfect princess who can do no wrong”), and extend that olive branch. To find out that such a person would screw up her career like that would definitely make Victoria lose it on some level. I probably understand Victoria’s reaction better because she has the biggest trust issues of the three, and because she really wasn’t able to build a bond with the MC the way the other two have. It would make sense for her to immediately believe that the MC is responsible because they’ve spent so little time together.

But what I do take issue with is the physical violence towards the MC, and the fact that the MC is being blamed for ruining the painting - an act that Victoria was mostly responsible for. I understand that making Victoria act out like this is essential for the plot - how else would the movie be cancelled? That goddamn painting is all Markus seems to be interested in during this shoot.

But my issue is that everyone blames the MC for destroying the painting, after witnessing the MC being attacked and roughed up. What else could she have done in this case, but defend herself?

2. Teja and Matt: Teja and Matt express more disappointment than anger, and given the trust issues I highlighted those reactions make a lot of sense. But I feel the writing really set them back here, because they are written as hardly giving the MC a chance or hearing her out, as opposed to dismissively waving off her protestations with “I trusted you but not anymore”. These are people who - if the MC so chooses - she has built a relationship with, possibly slept with, and defended on at least one occasion.

The entire last chapter was about defending Matt and Teja from Markus’ jibes, and using her position as the director’s favourite to back them up. This week’s chapter again the MC has gone out of her way to make sure the executives are satisfied, thus helping Teja. These are characters that players have spent time and diamonds on - most of which were to build trust with that LI - so to have a scene where they immediately express doubt of her motives, ends up alienating players who might have been interested and were ready to romance them.

I believe this scene in relation to Teja and Matt, could have been written with the same outcome far more positively. In my opinion, Matt or Teja could have been shown disappointed at first, but willing to hear the MC out. The MC could have been given choices on what to say. Maybe been given a chance to question how she’d even be able to get hold of such equipment. These two LIs at least would grudgingly hear her out, and then retreat and tell her that the evidence against her was too strong to ignore.

Sure, in such situations people don’t think that clearly, but having them at least willing to hear her out would have indicated to the player that the LI was at least willing to try hearing the MC out, and that those diamonds spent hadn’t entirely been a wasted investment.

In short my issue is not so much that they didn’t believe the MC - it was set up, unbelievably well, for that very outcome - my issue is that the story doesn’t depict them even trying to hear her out, after all the work the player has done to build a relationship between them and the MC.

Conclusion

I believe the story is structured such that the MC isn’t able to fully understand where her love interests (with exception to Seth) are coming from. She is naive and starry-eyed and hasn’t reached a stage where she can be jaded yet. She had acquired fame, but she’s not had to struggle with power dynamics and betrayal of trust the way these three LIs have, so she doesn’t completely get why they won’t immediately believe that she is innocent. She hasn’t been where they are. She has only just tasted fame - not dealt with the crushing rejections (in LA at least) that come with it, or seen the darker side of that fame. The LIs have, and this reflects clearly in their behaviour towards her after the expose. That doesn’t make their immediate dismissal of her protests okay to me, personally, but it helps me understand why this affects them and why they cannot be rational about it.

In short? My MC still loves Teja, and will probably fall into her arms the moment she apologizes. But you BET she’s going to be unbelievably petty about it for at least a while😂

[fantazeerps]

His name is Flees Screaming. A name--more of a title, really--bestowed upon him by the oracles of his clan, based upon the features of his life for which he’d be most known for. Absolutely no one called him that to his face, but every goblin in the clan had their fair share of jokes at his expense... Behind closed doors, and in hushed tones, just in case he may have been listening. No one got on Flees’ bad side and lasted very long.

Flees is a goblin, but one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise. He’s tall as three goblins stacked atop one another, wide as three goblins standing side to side, and ugly as all six of those measurement goblins put together. His unique size and shape prompting the occasional whisper that he might be half-ogre or half-giant, or perhaps he had a bit of bugbear, or even barghest, in his blood. Whatever he is, he isn’t normal.

Whatever he is, he isn’t scared. Of anything. In complete defiance of typical goblin nature and his prophetic title, Flees has never once actually turned and fled from anything he’s ever encountered. Whether this was to spite the oracle that granted his title or simply because he was born that way anyway is just another thing to be whispered of and bickered about among his smaller clanmates. Whatever the case may be, Flees is almost suicidally confident in his strength, meaning spots in his gang are paradoxically both coveted and viewed as extremely dangerous. Flees is the type of goblin to lead raids and hunts for the clan, and thus anyone in his gang always got first pick of whatever hauls were brought back, but he has a habit of always choosing the biggest, toughest, most dangerous, and most well-defended targets available.

Which is what had brought him to Mourning Ridge this day.

Her name was Mocks Many. A name--more of a title, really--bestowed upon her by the oracles of her clan, based upon the features of her life for which she’d be most known for.

She had lived up to that name--Above and beyond it, actually. It no longer really fit her anymore, now that she’s calmed down so, and thus she was now known as Mox Meni. Said aloud it was basically the same thing, but it’s the spelling that was truly important to her. ... That, and the alliteration. She liked alliteration.

Mox is the type of person to keep her ear to the ground. Easy to do, being so close to it--she was short, even for a goblin, not even reaching three feet tall. She heard more or less everything that happened in Mourning Ridge, one way or another. Not so much a network of informants as it was simply parking her cart in the center of Mourning Ridge, the major walkway. Anyone going anywhere would pass by her, and she always knew what questions to ask to which people to nudge those grapevines into growing around her.

It was through this rumor network she had learned of an approaching raid of goblins. Well, “raid” was a strong word; it was maybe twelve or so. Certainly not enough to trouble anyone in Mourning Ridge if proper defenses were mounted, and they were. Goblin raids of any size had a tragically low success rate when their targeted victim knew they were coming, and the scouts had been sloppy.

So sloppy.

It would take her hours to clean them up. A task for later this afternoon, maybe. After this situation was dealt with.

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

“Scout back yet?” Grumbles Flees.

“Nope. Ain’t seen ‘em.” Answered Spyglass Savant, clacking his namesake tool closed and tucking it in his pocket. They spoke to one another in Goblin, which to the untrained ear would sound like horrid squabbling. A trained ear would know that the harsh tone and impatience present in both voices was because Flees was currently holding Savant by his head and hoisting him above the treeline. Neither of them were particularly happy about this--Flees because he was risking his arm getting shot by anyone paying attention, Savant because he was risking his entire body getting shot by anyone paying attention, and the tension between both of them was making Flees squeeze. His grip was strong as iron, threatening to fracture Savant’s skull. “Now lemme go ‘fore you pop m’head like a grape,”

Flees obliged. There was a squeal of panic, followed by the sound of 20 pounds of delicate (by goblin standards) equipment and 60 pounds of goblin hitting three branches and coming to a stop on the fourth. Luckily for both parties involved, Flees didn’t hear the next few words out of Savant.

“Prolly dead ‘r caught, then.” Flees concluded, not at all bothered. Hoarse Cough was never the stealthiest one in the clan, and he’d been looking for an excuse to get rid of her without actually doing the deed himself for a while. It wasn’t unusual for one goblin to kill another for the slightest of mistakes, but Flees liked to think himself better than that. He liked to think he had a more even temper.

“That mean we’re goin’ home? Cuz I gotta bad feelin’ ‘bout this.” And thus was his temper tested again by his clan of cowards.

Flees leapt down from his perch in the tree, hitting the ground with enough force to bury himself up to the ankles and enough noise to make the town guards nearly three-quarters of a mile away stand at attention, believing that somewhere in the surrounding woods, a tree may have fallen. Pulling his feet from the ground, he surveyed his raid group, noticing than more than a few of them were starting to have doubts. Usually the scout at least made it back to the group before dying; when they didn’t come back at all, it was a bad sign.

It was worse when guards--very scary, very big guards--were already setting up a barricade aimed in their direction. But that wouldn’t be a problem for Shatters Walls or Shatters Stones, two of the best demolition experts (in that they hadn’t died from their own bombs) in the clan. If a door was shut, they’d make a new one.

“Shatters!” Flees barked, both goblins immediately on their tiptoes, glancing at their boss for only a half second before realizing the other was standing and directing heated glares at one another. “Y’all’re in charge ‘a blowin’ whatever defense they got. Sparks, Flash?”

Sends Sparks, Sparking Hands, and Blinding Flash all stood up. Three goblins who could work a bit of magic, two of which actually had good control over it. “Nine outta ten that they got some good archers. Y’all’re gonna make ‘em not have good archers.”

ping. a sound at the edge of the ear.

“uh, boss.” a sound a bit higher up. Barely heard over Flees’ fervor as he started getting worked up over his plan, getting into his war sone.

“Sling, Eyes, Cups, Birds,” those last two were In Her Cups, living up to her name with her fourth shot since the group had woken up this morning, and Murders Birds, who had provided breakfast, “Y’all’re gonna make ‘em not have any archers n’ make sure them swords folk ain’t gonna get close without gettin’ hurt. You, ‘specially, Sling. Yer gonna be the one shootin’ Shatters’ bombs this time.”

ping. another sound, soft, but closer.

“boss?” another sound, still high up. More worried, more insistent, but that didn’t matter to Flees. Not when Sling was making his dismay at the prospect of shooting hair-trigger explosives out of a slingshot very clear. The two began to bicker, and bickering was always settled quickly in Flees’ group. Everyone was always more scared of him than whatever it was they were fighting.

Ping. Louder. Closer. Something in the bushes.

“Boss!” Cried Spyglass Savant, who was readying one of his disposable pair of binoculars as an impromptu projectile (all they were good for, really) to get Flees’ attention. Luckily and unluckily, he got it before he needed to throw.

“WHAT?!” Roared the war boss, halfway through giving Sling’s leg a legendary Indian burn. Wouldn’t do to hurt either of Sling’s arms, obviously, but he still had to be punished.

“Uh. S’a goblin. Ain’t one-a ours.” Savant had spotted them from a literal mile away, at first thinking they were the scout, having claimed some loot. But as they drew closer, it was increasingly obvious that this was an entirely new goblin.

A goblin with a coin in her hand, just ever-so-casually flipping it.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

“Weeeeell... Weeeeell... Weeeell...” To describe the way those words left the newcomer’s mouth as a ‘purr’ would be insulting to cats. It was like someone trying to purr the words after getting over strep throat. The owner of that awful voice passed around a small tree, letting the entire raid of goblins see her.

Small, smaller than almost every goblin here. Splotchy skin, as if she had gotten chemical burns from food coloring. A strange apron that was covered in glass vials, cloth sacks, and surgical instruments with fresh, red blood on them. No one asked him, not for hours, but Bloodhound’s Bane’s uncannily keen nose knew it to be goblin blood.

An alien-looking metal helmet dotted in tiny switches, knobs, and levers covered the entire top half of her head, obscuring her eyes and seemingly forcing her ears into a downward tilt. The lenses were pitch black but for twin dots of glowing red light that made her wide, toothy, far-too-white grin look downright demonic. “Flees... S’been a while. How ya doin’?”

“You know this gal, boss?” Asked Sparks.

...

...

...

“Boss?”

Everyone turned to look. Flees had somehow ended up behind the group, all of them at once. His eyes were wide as dinner plates, his face was pale as snow (snow from a weird world where ice was green, at least), his mouth open, lip trembling.

“And here I was worried you wouldn’t remember me.” The newcomer goblin said.

and flees

remembered

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

That smile as the door opened.

“I want to be stronger, braver!”

so stupid, so stupid

so god damn stupid

that smile

over his head, hovering there.

“May wanna bite onto this. This’s gonna hurt.”

it hurt. it never stopped hurting. not all the way.

that needle, so long and thick. it broke ribs as it passed through them, jamming itself into his heart

the fire

the fire

the fire

everything on fire

everything burning

everything hurts

that smile

that laugh

Flees remembered it. Sometimes, when he laid down to sleep, he remembered everything. Every detail. The stink of chemicals, the stink of blood, the stink of one trying to cover the other.

The feel of the cold stone under him, the tight leather over him, the stinging light of a dozen glowing chemicals. More than any of that, he remembered the pain. The pain that came with the needle, from the needle, from what it did to him. What it was still doing to him.

She gave him what he wanted. Too much of it. It was hard for anyone to notice because everyone else was so short, but every year Flees grew just a little bit taller, a little bit wider, a little bit heavier. His body hurt a just little bit more. It got just a little bit harder for him to move.

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

Mox remembered bits and pieces. Flashes here and there. Her past was unclear. So much missing.

She was glad to see him doing so well, despite everything.

“I’m seriously impressed, Flea-bag,” a nickname, one she quickly figured out he enjoyed more than his real one. She had once used it to lower his guard, and now she used it to make him raise it. “I figured you’d be dead by the end of that year. Feels good to be wrong, this once.”

“D...” Flees managed to stammer, finally lifting up an arm to point at her. Her smile remained constant, that coin still flipping. Many of the other goblins looked uncomfortable as their boss took another step back. “Demon... Demon doctor! DEMON DOC!”

Now that was something she hadn’t heard in a while. A small shiver went down her spine, the good kind, like when you reach that real good point in your favorite song.

-----------

Flees’ full name was common knowledge in the clan. Everyone knew him as the biggest, toughest goblin in Dravaenn, and perhaps even the world. Everyone knew he could punch out a bear, break rocks with his bare hands, and even fight trained enemy soldiers in one-on-one battles without needing to resort to dirty tricks (even though he did). Everyone knew he was powerful, and everyone knew that one day, he would Flee Screaming.

Everyone wanted to see it. It was an unspoken desire in the clan, to be near him the day he finally lived up to his name. It was the same sort of desire as wanting to knock over a line of dominoes someone else painstakingly built, to barrel into a pile of leaves that one’s parent toiled to rake into one spot, to trip a waitress carrying a precariously balanced platter of food to watch it drop. Something everyone wanted to see, but no one wanted to do for fear of angering the other party.

No one, however, really gave much thought about what being at ground zero of this event would be like. What it would feel like to see your fearless leader actually... Well, flee screaming.

And flee he did. He actually turned around and ran straight into a tree, first, but once he got past that obstacle he did, indeed, flee screaming. Screaming about demon doctors, screaming about pain, but mostly just screaming.

Silence fell among the group. Quiet except but for the soft ping of the coin as the “demon doctor” flipped it over and over.

“Soooo...” She began. The Demon Doctor of Dravaenn was also common knowledge in the clan. None of them in particular wanted to find out which ones were true, and which ones were just invented to keep goblin whelps in line.

So, like good soldiers, they followed their leader’s fine example.

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

Only when the last one was out of her line of sight did Mox relax. She caught her coin, her teeth parting as she let out the breath she had been holding for so long. The trio of bombs she had been rolling around in her palm behind her back were carefully tucked away in her pockets once more. Disappointing. She was hoping they’d at least try to attack her so she could try out this new mixture, but she’d take solace in knowing that her new “intimidating” Cognatogen worked like a charm.

Though in truth, she was... Sad didn’t feel like the right word for it. There was certainly a knot in her chest, but it wasn’t truly sorrow. It was more akin to seeing a childhood friend in a crowded shopping center. Just seeing their face reawakens some old memories of happy days together... But soon, they turn away. They’re gone, and the memories with them.

Mox rubbed her head--well, her helmet--and let out a soft sound. To the untrained ear, a laugh. To the trained ear, a small half-sob. The sound one made when they were trying not to make any noise. Trying to hold it all together. Seeing Flees Screaming was a reminder, and a painful one. For both of them, for different reasons.

She remembered. Bits and pieces. Flashes. She remembered enough to know everything she’d forgotten. If her mind was a novel, several pages had been torn out and burned by her own idiotic choices. She could read ahead, piece together what may have happened in the past by seeing what transpired in the future, or figure out where she was going by looking at what she had been doing... But so much was still missing. So much was still frustrating.

She had hoped Flees would have tried to fight. She would have loved to have him on her operating table once more, running his blood and muscles through every analysis device she had to figure out the formula she used to grant him that body. A bit more refining, a few more resources, and perhaps she could even rework it. Repair it. Replicate it. Make it perfect.

Make her perfect.

But no. He had fled, screaming, and would likely not be coming back now that he knew she was here. Maybe one day, she’d arrange for a quest to find him.

Maybe one da--

“Uh.”

Mox’s train of thought slammed into a concrete wall, all of the cars flying in different directions.

“Hey, uh, listen...”

Mox looked up. There, hanging from the branches, was a goblin with a backpack almost as big as he was, loaded down with enough knickknacks and doodads that it could have killed him if it landed on him. For now, though, that bag was held aloft by several pointy branches, the goblin dangling uselessly by the straps that wound securely around him.

“This whole raid thing was, uuuh, his idea. I really didn’t want any part of it! Honest, so! Could you, ah...”

When had Mox stopped smiling? Maybe it was during her brief bout of frustrated self-loathing. In any case, as she looked up at this poor fool who seemed to be both struggling to free himself from the bag and free the bag from the branches, that trademark sharp smile began to spread over her face again.

“W-w-wait! Hold on! Listen! I didn’t wanna come out here! That fat idiot made me! I just wanted t’test out my spy stuff!”

Mox had already drawn a bomb from her pocket. But she paused her throw. Spy stuff?

She didn’t stay paused for long.

“WAIT I’LL DO ANYTHING!”

There it is. She chucked the bomb up, the cloth coating bursting open as the powders inside ignited and exploded. In almost the same motion, she had drawn a different vial from her pocket and thrown it to the ground. The milky liquid inside spread across the topsoil and worked itself into a violent froth that lasted all of half a second before solidifying. The previously-stuck goblin hit the foam with a muffled WHUD, more noise coming from the rattle of all the equipment in his pack than anything else.

Mox waited for for the goblin to finally reorient himself and attempt to shake off what was probably a mild concussion. As soon as his eyes started working again, he saw her not a foot away, and scrambled backwards... Or tried, since his stupidly massive backpack kept getting in his way. Mox stepped up to him, both hands behind her back, still grinning.

“Heard you say ‘anything.’“

“please don’t kill me or experiment on me or--”

God, she loved that. She snickered, a sound that made the other goblin try to curl up and shrink into his own clothes.

“Nah, naaaah... Don’t worry about it. I got better plans for someone of your... Talent. Plans I think both of us’ll benefit from.” That made him shrink further, something she didn’t think was possible. She was going to use him as fodder up until he saw that ‘spy stuff.’ He wasn’t just a packmule, like she had previously assumed, so killing him here would likely just be a waste of potential talent.

She’d at least see if he’s useful for something beyond a test subject, first. She was no longer the impulsive, wasteful Demon Doctor, after all.

“Y’seem way more useful than the common goblin, pal. How would yooou like a job in town? Safer than raiding. Fair pay. Good food. Even got a top notch healthcare plan.”

-----------

...

Spyglass Savant did always hate raiding...

[gryffindorbraids]

“A Cursed Holiday” (BatB/The Nutcracker AU)

Chapter 2: La Bataille de Casse-Noisette et du Roi des Souris

Note: All of the chapter titles so far are names (or part of names) of scene titles from the 1892 French production of The Nutcracker. Thanks for reading!

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Belle tiptoed down the deserted hallways. The flickering flame of a candle guided her on the familiar path to the ballroom. The night was silent, and cold, but Belle had forgotten to retrieve her nutcracker once the party had finished. She shivered despite the robe and boots she’d put on. With a soft creak, the doors to the ballroom opened. Belle crept inside, quick and silent as a mouse. She didn’t want to wake anyone.

Where the ballroom had looked beautiful before, nighttime had transformed it into a room of monstrous shadows and sinister reflections cast by the dim light of her candle. Belle’s footsteps echoed ominously. She darted across the dance floor, her only thought being to get out of here and back to her warm, safe bedroom as fast as possible.

DONG!

A gust of wind blew out her candle, plunging her into pitch darkness. Belle fumbled with the matches as the second, third, and fourth strokes of the clock sounded. Finally, the wick took the flame, illuminating her surroundings once more. She counted the chimes as they continued.

Five. She started to walk again.

Six. Seven. Belle held out her candle and searched the ground for traces of her beast of a nutcracker.

Eight. There! She approached it hurriedly.

Nine. Was it her imagination, or was the floor getting closer?

Ten. It wasn’t just in her head. The pine tree, which had been huge to begin with, grew taller and taller with each passing second.

Eleven. Wait. Was the tree growing, or was she shrinking?

Twelve. The last stroke of midnight reverberated through the air. Belle squeezed her eyes closed, wishing that this was all just a dream and she’d wake up any second.

It wasn’t.

The floor didn’t seem quite as polished now that she was close to it; there were small clouds of dust here and there that reached her ankles. Belle tried to focus on that - or anything else, for that matter - that could distract her from her growing panic. Keeping her eyes anywhere but the gargantuan tree, she walked slowly through the room. Belle didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but she was frightened. She had just shrunk to the size of - of -

Well, she didn’t actually know how small she was.

The pattering of footsteps filled the ballroom suddenly. Belle glanced around desperately for a place to hide (what if someone saw her?), but there were none. She froze, clinging to the holder of her candle for dear life. As the footsteps got closer, however, she heard another sound. Was that…squeaking?

Her breathing was ragged as the first shapes came into view. Their silhouettes were as big as she was, yet easily recognizable: mice. Belle bolted.

She slipped across the dustier patches of the floor, running as fast as she could towards the tree. If she could reach it in time, maybe she could climb its branches and be safe until the mice went away. The pounding of dozens of miniature paws was getting too close, though. She couldn’t outrun them.

Shredded pieces of wrapping paper - left behind by the aristocratic children when they’d opened their gifts - were strewn about the floor around her. Belle stopped running abruptly. The tree was still too far, and the mice too near. She spun around, waving her flickering candle in front of her.

The mice hesitated. The orangey glow of the flame was reflected in their flat, dark eyes. Belle suppressed a shudder. “Don’t come any closer,” she warned, fully aware that they didn’t understand her. She was just hoping that her tone would be firm enough to hold them off. One glacially slow step at a time, she backed toward the tree.

The padding of paws caused the mice to shuffle around awkwardly. From their midst, a figure emerged, larger than any of the others. “’Don’t come any closer,’” he mimicked, leering at her threateningly. “And why not? Pretty girl, what are you doing here? So small, so alone. My soldiers are so hungry. You’d be a nice treat.”

If Belle had been frightened at being shrunk, she was downright terrified now. The mouse in front of her towered above his so-called soldiers, wearing a mock crown atop his furry head. He even wore a suit that was reminiscent of a medieval prince’s, complete with a sword at what she assumed to be his waist. As she looked closer, though, all of the mice had swords. Her grip on the candle holder became deathly tight. The Mouse King was horrifying; she had never been more scared in her life.

“You - you must be the leader, then,” she said, glad that her voice was steady - mostly. “I don’t mean any harm. Let me go.”

The Mouse King roared with laughter. Hardly daring to breathe, Belle took one step backwards, then another. The army of mice didn’t seem to notice.

“At least you’re no coward,” he commented. “Most of our victims beg for mercy.”

Belle lifted her chin defiantly. “You don’t seem the merciful type, so I won’t bother.”

“Clever girl,” the Mouse King breathed, his eyes glittering malevolently as he sized her up. He lowered himself onto all four paws; his army followed his lead as he began to advance toward her. Belle instinctively stumbled a few steps away.

“It’s no use,” he hissed. “We’ll catch you even if you try to run.”

Belle ran.

“Get her!” the Mouse King screeched. Belle ignored him; she focused instead on running faster than she had in her entire life. The mice squeaked frantically behind her. She twisted around, glancing over her shoulder to see how much of a head start she had -

- and slipped on gift wrapping and fell.

Belle scrambled back on her hands and feet, staring in horror at the shadowy mouse in front of her. Her candle had gone out when she’d fallen, leaving her to glance around with wild wide eyes and wonder what was going on.

“You put up a good fight,” whispered the voice of the Mouse King from the darkness. She felt something draw closer to her, heard the ring of steel as the sword was drawn. “It’s almost a shame to have to kill you.”

All of a sudden, the candles on the Christmas tree burst to life. Light flooded the room, throwing the Mouse King into sharp, gruesome relief against the prettiness of the ballroom. His sword was poised above her for the death blow, but he was focused on something by the tree. “Impossible,” he said to himself.

Belle heard the heavy footfalls approaching from behind her. Oh, Dieu, not another mouse, she thought in numb horror. The Mouse King growled angrily, raising his sword. Belle braced herself. Good-bye, Papa. I love you.

As the blade surged toward her, a dark blur flew over her head, knocking the Mouse King and his sword away. Belle pushed herself hastily to her feet. She hadn’t thought the night could get any more impossible. It had.

All around her, tin soldiers - toys that had been gifted to some of the aristocratic children that evening - engaged the mice in battle. Swords flashed and clanged as they made contact. She revolved slowly on the spot, drinking in the light of the enormous tree, the impossibly alive toys, and the mice with military training.

But that wasn’t the strangest part of all. Locked in fierce battle only a few feet (or was it inches?) away from her were the Mouse King…and her nutcracker.

The Mouse King swung furiously at the nutcracker (or, as she supposed he was now, a living Beast) with his sword. The Nutcracker-Beast parried the blows with his claws. He stepped just beyond the reach of the blade, which only served to infuriate the Mouse King further. Belle was frozen in place, watching the scene unfold and clinging to the slim hope that it was all a dream. The Beast glanced back at her once, catching her gaze with a pair of startlingly blue eyes. “Look out!” he called. The moment’s distraction was enough for the Mouse King to finally slash the Beast with his sword.

Belle turned around just in time to find a mouse trying to sneak up on her. She forced her feet to move and kicked something hard and metallic in the process. The mouse drew its own sword; she picked up her extinguished candle and swung it at the mouse with every ounce of strength she had.

In its surprise, the mouse apparently forgot about its sword, which hung uselessly at its side when the metal connected with its head. It fell immediately and a tin soldier ran forward to finish it off. Belle looked over at the Beast and the Mouse King.

The Beast was on the ground, a red stain spreading across his carefully painted coat. The Mouse King paced toward him menacingly. “I should have killed you long ago,” he said.

Without thinking, Belle reached down and tugged the laces of one of her boots undone. She yanked off the shoe, clutching its heel. “Over here, you monster!” she yelled. The Mouse King’s head jerked around to glare at her. Belle threw the boot as hard as she could.

Somehow - by pure luck or by the same magic that had caused all of the night’s events so far - it hit its mark. Her worn out leather boot landed squarely between the Mouse King’s eyes, which rolled back into his head instantly. He slumped to the ground by the Beast. Belle wasn’t sure whether she’d merely knocked him unconscious or actually killed him, and to be honest she didn’t care. Two mice soldiers darted forward, dragging their leader’s limp body into the shadows.

Belle rushed over to the Beast, who was standing up shakily. Belle snatched up her boot and stuffed her foot back into it, watching the Nutcracker-Beast warily. She didn’t bother to tie the laces, instead approaching him cautiously. “Are you alright?” she asked awkwardly. The Beast grimaced slightly.

“I think so,” he said. His voice was gruff, but not unfriendly. “It would take more than a mouse to kill me. Are you?”

Belle nodded mutely. She wondered if it would be a good idea to add I think I’m going insane, though.

“Do you know how to, you know, make me tall again?” she asked.

The Beast glanced away guiltily. “I don’t. But I know of someone who would.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Well, she’s not actually here. We’d have to go back to the land I’m from.” He finally met her eyes. “I suppose you could call it magical.”

She laughed, slightly disbelievingly. “Magic? Like in A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

The Beast rolled his eyes. “Midsummer? Really? There are better things to read than that romantic nonsense.”

“Like what?” she countered, crossing her arms.

He grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “anything else.” Belle glared at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Are you coming?” he asked, waving a paw toward the still-lit Christmas tree.

“You live…in my Christmas tree,” she observed. Now she was really starting to think that this was all one complex hallucination.

The Beast groaned in frustration. “I don’t live in a tree. There’s a portal behind it that’ll take us to my world.”

Belle pressed her lips together, considering her options. Magic. Now that the initial shock had worn off (and she was no longer being pursued by murderous mice) the thought of magic being real was thrilling. Belle hesitated for a second, wondering if this was the right thing to do, but then made up her mind. It was the only way to get back to her normal size. “To the tree portal it is, then,” she said. The Beast huffed, leading the way.

It looked like she was going to find an adventure, after all.

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Thanks to @ravenclawicecream for beta-reading again!