#...the blood drawing metaphor got lost in there a little bit but you get what I mean maybe

[mcmissileproof]

why is showing somebody my drawings just sharing a thing I made but showing somebody my writing is like having fucking blood drawn

[band--psycho]

Raymond Smith Smut-Not So Calm And Collected

Written for @hotdamnhunnam writing challenge! Congratulations again on reaching such a huge milestone, you deserve it all and more! Just a fic based around these three prompts: 

Intense Possessive/Jealousy

Extreme Dom/Sub

Punishment/Pain

(If this is not you thing, then please don’t read below the cut ) Hope you all enjoy 💖

Other Character Masterlist

Raymond was normally very controlled when it came to his emotions, he rarely let anything bother him and if it did, he was quick to put a lid on his emotions but the sight before him...that was something that made his blood boil.

He couldn’t help but watch as her hips swayed rhythmically to the beat of the music, all of the men were looking at her with a predatory look in their eye, each one eager to try and capture her. None of them would usually bother him, but there was a particularly ballsy young man, probably around his mid twenties, who just couldn’t seem to keep his hands to himself, they wandered up and down Y/n/ns waist as she grinded against him. And that’s when Ray felt it. A feeling that he’d only ever heard of. Jealously. Yes you heard right. The calm, cool and collected Raymond Smith was jealous of a twenty something year old. It should’ve been him that she was grinding against on that dance floor, it should be him who had his hands all over her while whispering all kinds of dirty things in her ear. It should have been him. He’d had feelings for her for so long but then work got in the way and the two drifted apart...he didn’t even know she was coming to the party tonight until she walked through the door wearing a glamorously tight fitted black dress, that showed off all of her curves in all the right ways. 

Maybe it was the small amount of alcohol he had, maybe it was the way his blood was boiling as he watched the scene continue between Y/n/n and the other guy, maybe it was the months of built up feelings and emotions that Y/n/n caused him to feel. Or maybe it was a mixture of every single one of those things. But before his mind got a chance to process what his body was doing he was making his way to the dance floor. His eyes locked on Y/n/ns. 

“Hey Ray,” she drawled, glancing over at him momentarily before turning her eyes back to the younger guy; he small yet delicate fingers caressed the man's cheeks and Ray couldn’t help but remember how soft her hands were, how they always seemed to wash away all the shit that had happened in the day. Ray didn’t say anything, instead he simply grabbed the hand that was caressing the man's cheeks and began pulling her away from the crowded dance floor. All eyes were on them, but Ray didn’t care. He needed Y/n/n, more than he needed anything else in the world. Luckily enough Mickey and Roz were there to settle down the people that had a problem and within a few seconds the party had returned to normal. Y/n/n surprisingly hadn’t uttered a single word since he’d grabbed her nor did she try to pull away from his grip, in fact it was almost like she let him do what he did...the cogs started to work in Rays mind as he calmly but quickly made his way to his hotel room, maybe she wanted this as badly as he did...maybe she missed him as much as he missed her. He opened the door, his hand still grabbed tightly around hers as he pulled her into the room, shutting the door with a loud slam before locking it. 

“What the fuck was that?” Ray seethed, his glasses fogging up slightly in pure rage, thinking back to what she had been doing on that dance floor.

“What did it look like I was doing,” Y/n/n began in a sing song like voice as she sat down on the silken sheet double bed “I was dancing,” she continued with a small smirk on her face, a smirk that she knew damn well would her Ray riled up.

“You were acting like a fucking slut!” He snapped, the anger in his voice evident as he took off his fogging glasses and under the top button of his shirt in an attempt to cool down, physically not metaphorically. 

“Why do you care?” The y/c/h female asked, rising from the bed and slowly making her way over to Ray who was still near the door. 

“I’m not yours,” she whispered, her heels adding some extra height onto her so they were now at eye level. 

“And,” she began, leaning closer into him, enough so that she could feel his erection growing in his trousers, “I can do...whatever...the fuck..I like,” in between those brief pauses of her words she placed a delicate, open mouthed kiss down his neck, before pulling away with a triumphant look in her eyes and a victorious smile on her face. As she went to unlock the door something inside Ray snapped. He grabbed her tightly, turning her around and pinning her against the wall.

“You’re mine,” Ray growled lowly, placing his lips onto hers in a rough and quick kiss. The action instantly causing Y/n/ns most intimate areas to tingle in excitement. 

“You’ve always been mine,” he reminded, pressing his body into hers so she could feel just how hard he was for her, something which Y/n/n greatly appreciated, only adding to her already building arousal.

“And you will always be mine,” and with that he moved his hands from her wrists to her face, one hand cupping her cheek, the other wrapping around her neck, holding her in place as she desperately tried to kiss him, craving the touch of his lips on hers.

“Such a needy little slut,” Ray whispered just inches away from her lips.

“Say it, say what you are,” he ordered, lightly adding pressure to her neck in a brief squeeze.

“I’m..I’m a needy..needy little..slut,” Y/n/n choked out, revelling in the pleasure that all of this was giving her. 

“You know what happens next, don���t you, sweetheart?” Ray asked, raising an eyebrow as he waited for her to answer, but all she did was nod, a crimson colour filling her cheeks as she did so.

“No, no, no, that’s not happening. You’re gonna tell me what happens next, you wanted to play this game,” he started, moving his hand slightly so he could suck some of the exposed flesh on her skin, causing Y/n/n to moan out in pure pleasure, not being able to hold back as his teeth bit down on her skin, “don’t be brat just because you’re losing,” he whispered against her ear, his hand returning to wrap around her neck, his thumb tracing over the purple bruises he’d left there, acting as reminder of who she belonged to. 

“I...I get punished…” she stuttered out, doubting that she’d be able to keep herself from falling over the edge before Ray was happy with the punishment.

“Yes you do, the question is, how many spanks is it going to take?” He questioned, releasing his grip on her throat, before taking off his waistcoat, folding it away neatly and standing by the edge of the bed. Of course the question was rhetorical, he didn’t want a number, he wanted a specific answer.

“How ever many you think I need to have, Sir,” Y/n/n answered, earning a somewhat satisfied smile from Ray as he beckoned her over to him with a knowing look. Without any words having to be exchanged Y/n/n kicked off her heels and made her way to the centre of the bed, her dress barely covering her butt cheeks. Ray let out a small chuckle as he caressed her butt cheek, both loving and hating the fact that she decided not to wear any panties tonight. The contact of his hand on her bare flesh is electric, and that’s just from one, soft, delicate touch, Y/n/n had no idea how she was going to get through any of this without exploding, and Ray knew. Teasingly, his fingers moved down, to her aching pussy, without any warning he ran his index finger down her slit, another moan escaping past Y/n/ns lips as he did so trying ever so hard not to fall over that edge.

“A needy little cunt for a needy little slut,” he whispered, withdrawing his finger and moving it back up to her butt, drawing soft soothing circles on her sensitive skin, just as Y/n/n began to hope that she’d gotten away with it all, she felt a sharp tingling pain spread across the cheeks of her butt. “After that litte stunt you just pulled,” Ray started, using his free hand to grab some of her hair, pulling her back so she was leaning against him, “your ass is gonna be seven different shades of red and when I’m done with you, you’re not gonna be able to sit down for a week,” he growled animalistically into her neck as he pushed her back down into her original position. And that’s when it started, the relentless assault on her butt cheeks, the stinging sensation causing both pain and pleasure as each cheek shook slightly with the harsh contract of Ray's hand. She tried so desperately hard to count them all, but in the end she lost track, drowning in the ecstasy of pleasure that he was causing. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he finally decided to stop but when he did she felt like her butt was red raw, it was stinging from the amount of impact it had on it but the pain only added to Y/n/ns almost overflowing pleasure. In one swift movement, Ray flipped her round, the cool feeling of the sheets soothing her butt slightly. He loved seeing her like this, helpless and overwhelmed with pleasure. He made quick work of ripping the flimsy dress off of Y/n/n before quickly disregarding his own clothes, placing them neatly along with his waistcoat. The bed dipped slightly, making Y/n/n briefly snap back to reality as she watched Ray position himself between her legs. She was desperate for him. And he knew it. “I own you,” he muttered, lowly as delicately placed his hands on her exposed chest, tracing his finger over her breast, pinching her already hardened nipples slightly coaxing another moan from Y/n//ns lips; after a few seconds his fingers were replaced by his lips, sucking the sensitive flesh of one breast decorating it in a an array of hickies, his other hand still teasing her other breast; whispering the same words again “I own you.” And then he switched, giving the other breast ample attention too. Y/n/n just wanted to fall over the edge, but she knew she couldn’t, if she did now, it would lead to another punishment and as much as Y/n/n loved punishment, she didn’t want another one. She wanted...no she needed Raymonds cock. His lips worked their way down to her abdomen, his lustful eyes locking onto hers as he stopped just above where she craved him the most. The tickle from his beard on her sensitive skin only adding to her pleasure.

“Tell me what you want,” Ray ordered, his thumb teasingly tapping away at her clit in a slow rhythm.

“You...need...need you,” Y/n/n moaned out, bucking her hips, desperate for more contact. But her answer simply got a shake of Raymond’s head.

“You’ve forgotten all the rules haven’t you,” Ray said a devilish smirk playing on his features, as he lowered his head down so it was infront of her soaking pussy. 

“You’re such a needy little slut you’ve forgotten one of the main rules,” as he said those words he slowly connected his mouth to her clit, running his tongue slowly across her aching bud. In amidst all the overwhelming pleasure and desire Y/n/n was feeling she knew what he wanted, she just needed to somehow find the words in her almost blank mind. 

“Please sir...please...I need you...I need you so badly..please sir..please,” she moaned out, her hands desperately wanting to pull his hair and pull him closer towards her, but she knew at the current moment that was not a good idea, so instead she grabbed hold of the duvet, her hands turning into first around them.

“That’s better,” Ray praised, placing one final kiss on her clit before kneeling upright aligning himself with her aching entrance. Slowly, he pushed inside of her allowing her to get used to his huge length again; as soon as the guttural moans left her lips he showed no restraint, rapidly pounding in and out of her, hitting her g-spot every. Single. Time. She released the duvet from her grip, wanting nothing more than to wrap her arms around him, as if reading her mind Ray placed his hands on her wrist, pinning her down, denying her what she wanted, as he continued to hit that right spot repeatedly. There was no word to describe the pure bliss Y/n/n as her orgasm began to build. She couldn’t think. She could barely move. All she could do was lay on the bed and enjoy every single moment with Ray. She knew he was close too, his rapid thrusts grew even more frantic and the groan that escaped his lips as he chased his real ease was like serotonin for Y/n/n. 

“Sir...I..I,” Y/n/n moaned out as she began to fall over the edge, falling deep into the pleasure that had been building for so long. 

“Me too, sweetheart,” Ray groaned out, reaching his own release as soon as he felt the walls of Y/n/s pussy clench around him. He slowly fucked her through her orgasm, each thrust making it more and more intense. When he was sure she’d finished, he pulled out of her and rolled onto the other side of the bed, bringing her into embrace. His arm protectively wrapped around her as he admired the bold purple bruises on her neck. Neither one of them had to say anything, they knew from this point on, they belonged to each other. They would discuss it all in the morning of course, Raymond already had an idea of what to order for her for breakfast, but now, neither of them could string together a proper sentence. Y/n/n simply snuggled into his chest and  Ray quietly whispered the word “mine” before they both closed their eyes, smiles on both of their faces as they drifted off to sleep.

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[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

Comte’s One More Wedding Event (full release)that should have just came out in Japanese Version. Could you translate it or summarize it, please? Thank you for your time.

I can't believe you want to give me this kind of power, but if you insist 😂💛

That being said, because my translation skills are rough at best, I'll be summarizing and selecting specific parts to discuss if I feel a need to quote directly.

If you don't want spoilers for Comte ES, run!

Y'all. Y'ALL. REEEEEEEEE I LOVE HIM. NOBODY LOOK AT ME I'VE BEEN CRYING ON AND OFF FOR DAYS

ANYWAY

So this particular event begins with MC bringing Comte a letter as he thanks her. One glance at the return address tells him that it's a pureblood gathering invitation, and upon opening it he's right. He shrugs it off and says he'll reply to it later, setting it aside.

MC, perceptive as ever, asks if he's declining the invitation. Comte explains the nature of the party and how only purebloods are allowed to end. Furthermore, the gathering takes place on their first wedding anniversary--and he would much prefer to spend the day with her.

Comte: “MC, any gorgeous evening party–no matter how beautiful–means nothing to me without my wife at my side. The place I belong is with you.”

MC: “Er…”

His gold eyes are steady and unwavering as he looks at me, and my heart skips a beat.

Comte: “Anywho I have no intention of attending this party, as it also overlaps with the date of our anniversary. Our first wedding anniversary is an important day, and I want to spend it with my beloved wife.”

Comte smiles winningly, all while staring straight at me.

MC, however, finds herself conflicted. Given how little she knows about purebloods, she wishes she could attend the party to better understand him and the community he's a part of. She admits this, to Comte's great surprise, but feels bad about it because she doesn't mean to ask something impossible of him. (One of the requirements of the party is that you have to be a pureblood vampire to be invited. ON WEDNESDAYS WE WEAR PINK) Comte clarifies that--because she's his wife--she's welcome to attend alongside him. He offers to take her with him if that's what she wants.

MC: “Are you really sure it’s okay for me to go, though?”

Comte: “Certainly. But I would never force you if you were uncomfortable, of course.”

MC: “No, I don’t hate the idea!”

Comte: “But I’d understand if being surrounded by purebloods would be rather nerve-wracking for you…And so many of them have a superiority complex a mile wide; they’re a prideful bunch. While it may not be all of us, there are enough that it might be stifling for you to be around them.”

Comte: “In light of all that, are you certain you still wish to go?”

[I know he’s just doing his best to prepare me for what I might face at a party like this--he doesn’t want me going in with the wrong idea. It’s very likely he had intended to decline the invitation to spare me the discomfort, and the burden of making a choice that would affect/limit him too. The concern in his features makes me melt.]

The part I love most about this scene is that this is just the beginning of so many attempts on his part to prepare her realistically, but also support her decision. As much as he wants to go with her he's never going to put her in the position of deciding for the both of them. He knows there's a great deal of pressure to face among such a forbidding/traditional society, and if she needs more time to prepare for that--he wants to give her the space to get used to something so unfamiliar. In truth, I don't see him ever asking her to go if she didn't want to--even if it stung to have that part of him rejected...

MC considers for a moment, but she's resolved to understand him and his people better. She explains as much, and Comte brightens at the confession.

MC: “I’m sorry if it’s a bit much to ask of you, but thank you…!”

Comte: “I should be the one thanking you, now I look forward to the gathering.”

MC: “You’re…looking forward to it?”

When I tilt my head quizzically, le Comte draws me close with a faint smile on his lips.

Comte: “I’m excited to introduce you as my wife.” (SCREAMS AND CRIES)

This gets INSANELY cute because he gathers her close to him and she just gets very bashful about it. She apologizes--saying she knows she should be more used to it given they've already been married a year now, but his response is so sweet: “Why apologize? I’ve always thought my wife is the cutest.”

They both think back to their wedding ceremony at the mention of how long they've been together, and MC's eyes find the flower pins she gifted him on top of his hourglass (which fking one he has like 300).

Some background for anyone unaware: when Comte and MC got married, MC gifted him these flower pins--they were flowers that were preserved (in metal I think? idk exactly how it works they just look metallic in his outfit art). She explains that they're an attempt to symbolize her love for him, in that she intends to remain unchanging in her feelings forever. I find it's also an apt metaphor for MC herself; it's not unlike her agreement to become a vampire to stay with him.

MC: “You’ve been taking good care of the flowers I gave you.”

Right next to the hourglass lie the preserved flowers I gave him. They gleam in the light with ease, clearly polished and looked after–not a speck of dust on them.

Comte: “With those you swore your love to me. Isn’t it only natural that I’d take good care of them?” (LISTEN COMTE YOU AND I BOTH KNOW THE REALITY OF THE MALE SPECIES QUIT PLAYIN)

After that scene there's a timeskip to the night of the party--and after everyone celebrates their anniversary in the mansion all day--they hop in a carriage. MC is a little lost in thought, preparing herself for what's to come. When he asks if she's nervous she fully admits to it, but with a caveat. She's nervous because she doesn't know what to expect and she's concerned about committing a social faux pas, but she's not afraid or anxious.

Before I came to this time I had absolutely no concept of what an elaborate dinner party looked like–and besides which, this time it’s going to be a room full of purebloods. I’m nervous, sure, because I’ve never done this before--but it’s not quite anxiety or fear.

MC: “As long as you’re beside me, I’m invincible–anytime, anywhere.”

I can navigate anything: unfamiliar social circles, even an entirely new era of time. Because Comte is always so steady and reliable, always there for me, my anxiety ebbs and I can shine–be the very best I can be.

Comte: “MC…”

Comte looks absolutely moved by what I have to say, directing a gentle, tender look at me.

Comte reiterates his previous warning, that they might be weirdos and/or rude because they're stuck in their ways. He knows their discriminatory nature is wrong, but he believes in her ability to overcome those things--and fully intends to support her. He also lets her know what to expect in terms of the schedule: mostly mingling, and dancing is reserved for the very end of the party only.

Gatsby hour begins and MC marvels at the enormous venue sparsely populated by people dressed to the nines (I can only imagine how Comte dressed her up for this event in light of that LMFAO). Comte tells her he's going to get some drinks, and MC agrees to wait for him. In a classic lowkey queen move, she retreats against a nearby wall to take in her surroundings. She feels a certain intensity to be surrounded by people who look so young and beautiful, and yet carry the experience of lifetimes within them. She also notes the slightest permeating scent of blood in the air, assuming most of the people in attendance are drinking Rouge in their wine glasses.

When Comte returns to her, he offers her a glass of red wine, and she takes it with a smile.

MEAN GIRLS TIME!!!!!

So these two ladies approach le Comte yelling about how long it's been since they've seen him, and about the rumors that he got married. Without missing a beat he confirms it's true, and introduces MC to them as his wife. MC offers a greeting and a curtsy, but the women openly spurn her because she's not a vampire lmao. ("Who put you on the planet" energy, essentially). I still can't tell if they were acting like insane mother-in-laws on Comte's behalf, or out of jealousy--or weirdly both.

All casual dismissal, the women sashay away from us, dresses swishing.

[It seems like I really won’t be accepted as Comte’s life partner so long as I remain human…]

Comte: “…I’m sorry. I’m afraid that is the usual attitude of pureblood vampires. Not all of us are like that, but they still made you feel uncomfortable ;;;;”

MC: “That’s not something to apologize for. I’m happy to attend such a lovely party as your wife.”

I don’t want to ruin the occasion for him, so I beam at him.

Comte: “MC…” His lips descend close to my ear, pressing the lightest kiss against it.

Comte: “Thank you, MC…I’m happy, too.”

While Comte is full of uwus and love for his wife, she notes he stops there--likely because it's a public venue. (And I'd wager respectability politics, given a lot of old school people tend to say horrible things at the slightest sign of PDA lol. It would give them all the more reason to be nasty to MC.) MC notes that no matter how small the gesture or how often he extends his affection, it always sets her heart racing (what a damn mood) and they both gear up to greet everyone else. They're both like ganbatte!!! at each other and it's really cute, haha.

[No matter how many times he does things like this, I’m always caught off guard. I imagine we’ll be this way forever…]

Comte: “Here we go, the party’s only just begun. Let’s get to it and enjoy ourselves. No need to hesitate, it’s our wedding anniversary after all–this is a time for you to smile.”

MC: “Haha, thank you very much! Then I’ll definitely enjoy it to the fullest!”

We continue to greet and chat with other purebloods, the night goes on while I sample some of their food–

At some point MC separates from Comte to use the restroom. When she exits to rejoin the crowd, she hears the voices of those two women that openly rejected her earlier. They basically talk about how Comte and MC will never last or have a meaningful relationship, and that Comte is wasting his time not breeding more master race pureblood babies for the community's future. (Not remotely surprised Leonardo does not like them at this juncture lmao)

While MC was well aware she'd face some level of disdain, she admits that it still hurts to hear--and doesn't want Comte to see her upset. So she walks out to a nearby balcony to look at the stars and cool off before returning to his side.

Comte: “MC.”

MC: “Eh…? Comte, when did you get here?”

Comte: “You hadn’t returned for a while, so I went looking for you.”

MC: “Ah, I’m sorry to worry you. The stars were so lovely I couldn’t help but linger a bit to enjoy the sight of them.”

When I try to hide my gloomy feelings, he stares at me.

Comte: “You seem upset all of a sudden. Did something happen? Did someone…say something to you, by any chance?”

MC: “Ah, I can’t hide from you it seems. I guess I am a little upset.”

Comte: “…”

Comte: “MC, do you regret marrying me?”

MC: “!”

MC: “That’s not the case at all. No matter what finds us in the future, I’ll never regret having married you. I’m glad I met you, Abel–that will never change…”

When I tell him my heartfelt feelings, he gently wraps his arms around me.

Comte: “…Me too, MC.” The voice that murmurs at my ear is filled with such ardor that my heart melts.

Comte: “It might have been too much to ask of you to come here. But no matter how difficult the truth may be, it’s an undeniable fact that I’m a pureblood.”

Comte: “I was so happy that you wanted to know more about me–to know me better–that I was spoiled by your words. And yet, as a result of that indulgence, I hurt you…”

MC: “…No. That’s not it. Abel, I’m not familiar with vampires. But this last year, I was with a pureblood who’s kinder than anyone else I know.”

I have no innate fear or dislike of purebloods–because the person I love more than anyone else in the world is a pureblood vampire.

MC: “That’s why I’m not afraid, or dreading any of this.” It might seem outlandish, but his presence was like magic; it was enough to give me the strength to have courage and find kindness for the people around me.

MC: “No matter who stands in my way in the future, I will do my best to be recognized as your partner someday. Didn't I tell you before? I'm invincible anytime, anywhere, as long as you're there with me!”

Upon hearing her resolve to stay with him, he feels the need to renew his vow to her too--telling her that he'll always love her as well, and that his feelings have only grown since then. One important bit to note in his confession is that he fully admits he had a hard time coming to term with what he was, he's only a little more accepting of being a pureblood because her existence redefines what an eternity means to him. He explains that, while no end of time used to be an upsetting and hollow concept to him, the fact that his long life will be spent cultivating his love for her gives him the strength to face his reality.

They kiss and MC acknowledges that life--no matter how long--always has its ups and downs. Sometimes there will be rough times, like when those Mean Girls women were actively nasty and unfair to her. And sometimes there will be joyous times, like how Comte just repeated his vow to her so sweetly. But more than anything, it's important to live in the present moment as fully as possible, and she deepens her kiss with Comte accordingly.

After what I assume to be an excellent make out, they return to the venue and rejoin the group of vampires. Now then, because it's Comte and Comte refuses to take any shit he reveals his ace in the hand. Premeditated and all cunning expectation, the show begins:

After reaffirming our feelings for the other, we return to the hall. When we wandered around to greet people today, there were also vampires who were kind to me. For those that remain perturbed by my presence, they continue to sneer at me as though I were an eyesore.

[I don’t care. Comte’s by my side…]

Comte: “…That’s right, MC. There was one thing I forgot to mention.”

MC: “Huh?”

Comte: “A short while ago, you said something about doing your best to earn their approval. I wouldn’t even worry about it, you’re perfect just as you are. Everyone here just doesn’t have the slightest inkling as to your charms yet. For those with the ability to see, feel free to show them as many times as you like.”

MC: “Comte…”

At that very moment, a waltz begins to flow into the hall.

Comte: “Oh, is it time to dance already? MC, shall we?” (Oh Is It TiMe To DaNcE aLrEaDy, damn clown)

MC: “Yes.”

In time with the melody, we begin to waltz together. When I'd first arrived to this era, the steps and the dance itself were unfamiliar to me. Now when I dance with Comte it’s nearly effortless–natural as breathing.

[Comte has taken me to so many evening parties at this point. Thanks to his impeccable leading any uncertainty in my step is elegantly disguised.]

Comte: “MC.”

As we danced, he called my name--crooned it softly.

Comte: “…Have you noticed? Everyone is watching us.”

At the sound of this new information, I look around.

[Oh, it’s true–everyone really is looking at us…]

And it’s not like before, tinged with displeasure and contempt. It’s like they can’t look away from us now, dazzled and intrigued.

MC: “Makes sense–you’ve always been a very graceful dancer, Comte, it’s impossible not to find it captivating.”

Comte: “No. Without you as my partner, I can’t enjoy it nearly as much as I do now.”

He grins as he says so, the sentiment reflected in his buoyant step. Beautiful, noble…and above all, lively. Even though I’m always by his side, I remain endlessly captivated by that smile and movement.

Comte: “We are more in tune with each other than every other pair here, don’t you think?”

MC: “Haha, that’s right!”

I think le Comte is lovely no matter who he’s dancing with, but I’m sure I’m the one who gets along with him best–I think so, because his golden eyes reflect no one else but me.

[No matter what anyone says…I won’t give up this position to anyone else.]

When the song is over, and the dance is finished, the hall is filled with the raucous sound of applause and cheering. All these people are looking at us and their eyes are shining.

[I wonder…if maybe our feelings for each other were transmitted more clearly after that dance? The mere thought of it makes me feel ticklish and delighted.]

After their lovely display, the Mean Girls ladies approach MC to apologize as everybody is leaving for the night. MC accepts their apologies and says she wants to find a way to get along with them moving forward, though they're still pretty reluctant (probably only apologized to save face).

Differences in lifestyle and family tradition...I think there are many reasons why they can’t accept me. I don’t think it’s easy to understand the breadth of the gap between us; I’m sure I’ll need more time to be able to bridge those differences.

[I don’t know the way of life or struggle of the pureblood people yet. But…I want to understand.]

Even if we are endlessly different, I don’t want to give up on finding some sort of compromise. Next to me, le Comte smiles silently. For the foreseeable future--as long as it may take--I want to prove that I can make this person happy.

I deadass can't stop laughing at the fact of Comte standing next to MC all :)))))) (y'all he is emitting BOSS M U S I C)

After that, Comte and MC also head into their carriage and head home:

Comte: “MC, thank you.”

Le Comte remarks on the way home in the carriage.

MC: “…? I haven’t done anything worth thanks.”

Comte: “For today, for coming with me. And--up until now and from now on--for being by my side. I wanted to thank you again.”

He leans over from where he sits next to me and entwines our fingers together.

MC: “…Abel?”

Comte: “…Today is not just the day of the party, but our wedding anniversary too, right? From here on out, it’s time for only us two to be together.”

This is essentially where the premium story ends, and then it moves into the epilogue. I'll give some tidbits from the epilogue, just because it was so endlessly gratifying. Other than them having the smash of the century, it's mostly Comte going overstimulation feral service top. But there are so many really romantic moments during the shameless fking ;-;

The more he kisses me, the more my need for him spirals out of control. As if to entice him I twist my tongue with his deeper and deeper.

Comte: “MC…”

He exhales my name on a single heated syllable, and I can tell by the way he’s looking at me precisely what it is he wants.

Comte: “MC, what do you want to do…? I want to make you happy tonight. Do you want me to be kind? Or take you with reckless abandon?”

MC: “Abel…please do as you like. That’s what would make me happiest. :>”

Comte: “…I see. So you want to be made a mess of, is what you mean.”

MC: “Mn, aah–”

When his hands trace my sides seductively, my sensitive body reacts on it’s own.

Comte: “…You’re really cute, MC. Tonight, I’ll remind you the joy of being mine again.”

---

Comte: “Always so sensitive. Just the slightest touch, and you cry out with such a sweet voice…”

MC: “Well, it is your fault…”

[Because if Abel touches me like that…He spoils me and leaves me in an endless sea of pleasure, building up to that crest–fading–and building up again…because he loves me so dearly.]

Comte: “My fault, is it?…I like the sound of that.”

With a bewitching smile, he makes short work of his tie and button down. Even the most casual gestures like this are done with such grace that it becomes sensual. I’m drawn to the sight of him revealing more and more of his skin, thinking he’s far too much of a tease.

Comte: “…If you look at me with such desirous, greedy eyes, I’m going to lose control myself, MC.”

----

MC: “I…all I do is take from you…” I’m embarrassed because I’m so inexperienced that all I do is drown in the pleasure he gives me.

Comte: “…If you really think so, then you’re too unaware.”

MC: “Mn–ah, hah…”

Comte: “I’m the one who can’t stop wanting you…MC.”

When he leans over to murmur in my ear, his voice is suffused with desire–breathing shallow. From the gap between his lips, I can see the fangs which have never broken my skin…

MC: “Abel…do you want to bite me?”

If the answer is yes, then I’d be delighted. A vampire’s hunger for blood is often tied to romantic feeling. If he wants to suck my blood, then that’s all the more evidence that he loves me.

Comte: “That’s right. I want to sink my fangs into your soft skin…To taste your blood, to know your body and soul--I want to make every part of you mine.”

MC: “Mn…”

He drops a kiss to my throat, tickled by his tongue as he licks there–as if to taste me.

Comte: “But…”

Only I am reflected in his eyes.

Comte: “The only thing I want more than biting you is to take good care of you. I don’t want to impulsively take anything from you.”

MC: “Abel…”

....

Comte: “Someday…I will make you into a vampire. But, right now, I want you to stay exactly as you are.”

The heat of him coupled by that serious look...my heart is swept away.

Comte: “So…can you bear with my hesitation for just a little while longer?”

MC: “Yes…forever. I’ll always be yours.” I replied, wrapping my arms around his back. He squinted, as if he were staring at something dazzling.

Comte: “I’m always hesitating, but…MC. I will absolutely never let you go. I swear my love to you forever, my dear wife.”

----

The last part of the epilogue is confusing because I'm not sure if it's intended to be an actual dream or Comte just messing with her, but here goes:

[Morning already…?]

At the sensation of sunlight, I open my eyes.

MC: “Eh!?”

Comte: “Are you up, MC? The defenseless face you make when you’re asleep is adorable, but when you open your eyes and look at me that’s also lovely.”

He was lying in bed, unlike last night, wearing the same outfit he had on for our wedding.

[Ah, I’m most likely dreaming.] When I realize it, I get a ticklish feeling in my chest and can’t help the smile that finds my face.

MC: “Haha…”

Comte: “MC? What’s wrong?”

MC: “No, I was just thinking you really will always be by my side. I’m glad to see you in my dreams like this…I’m happy.”

Comte: “…Haha, that’s right. I’m happy too. But…it’s not always a dream right?”

MC: “Er…”

His voice easily makes my heart flutter, like sweet sake.

Comte: “Would you like to see if it’s a dream? …Once again, with your body.”

My heart thunders under his sultry gaze, covetous gold eyes beckoning me closer. (COME HITHER FUCK)

MC: “Yes, Abel. As many times as you like…take me.”

I know dream-like, impossibly happy days will continue as long as I stay by his side–

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

There is so much going on here that I don't even know how to encompass all my feelings other than to say MARRIED COUPLE G O A L S. AAAAAAAAA I LOVE HIM SO MUCH HE'S SUCH A DOTING HUSBAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!! PUT A RING ON ME S I R

I really love the endless reciprocity coming from MC, lmao. She very openly wants to respond to his efforts, wants to make him happy too, is just as desirous in their coupling. I also love how much personality and spunk she has??? I was fucking d y i n g when she was like:

MC: "Aren't the stars so nice." Comte: "Adorable that you'd try to out-fake the king faker. What really happened." MC: "Damn it."

It's been a long time since I've gotten this much serotonin from a story m a nnnnnn

[jyndor]

I’m rewatching the Puppetmaster for ~research~ and ugh.This is such a good episode but I cannot stand the treatment of Hama and also Katara’s special bending ability. And I’m gonna talk about it because I can’t help myself. But I also want to offer a solution maybe something that the writers could have done instead. Granted I’m a white US American so while I am about to talk about imperialism, anti-indigenous racism and racialized misogyny, I am coming from a position of privilege here and ymmv. It’s important that we as fans (especially white fans) acknowledge the things that our favorite stories can do better so that we can make our fandoms safer for everyone.

And btw fans of color have been talking about this so I definitely am going to be quoting some phenomenal bits of critique I have read on here. Also you should follow @shewhotellsstories and @visibilityofcolor for anti-racist fandom commentary.

I am also going to talk about grooming, so just be aware if that is a trigger for you.

I. Hama as a Campfire Horror Story Monster

The episode starts out with the Gaang camping in a creepy forest telling ghost stories to each other. Set to spooky music, Katara tells a story about something that happened to Kya, a friend named Nini (likely) dying in a snowstorm and then haunting her family’s home as a ghost. Immediately after, Toph hears people screaming under the ground - and then Hama finds them and invites them to her inn.

Every so often, Hama says something spooky with the spooky music playing. Katara immediately takes to Hama, but the others (especially Sokka) find her pretty unnerving. Katara says she reminds her of Gran Gran before Sokka starts snooping around and finds a bunch of puppets and a comb from the Southern Water Tribe. It’s the standard horror movie fakeout.

Every so often we get an artfully placed hint about Hama’s agenda - pulling water out of thin air, showing Katara that “plants - and all living things” are made of water. And oh yeah, she makes herself ice claws. Cool skill, but in the context of the episode, a little more unnerving.

The “moon monster” that Old Man Ding mentions, the alleged Moon spirit, turns out to be Hama (of course) and the tension builds to a peak as the Gaang rush to save Katara from the “dark puppetmaster” that has imprisoned the villagers.

Meanwhile Hama and Katara stand under the full moon washed in spooky cool lighting with an ominous breeze around them. You see Hama practically transform into a monster in a way sort of reminiscent to a werewolf - her fingers become claw-like, her veins pop out. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say it’s a coincidence that as she reveals her true agenda, she becomes less human in appearance. Which... okay I’ll get to that later.

While I can’t say that Katara fits the Final Girl trope very well, I do think it’s interesting to note that horror movies often do feature women as heroes who defeat the monster/killer/whatever and usually the Final Girl is used to allow audiences to experience the full horror of the villain, which absolutely is how Katara is used here. Yes, her friends come to help, but she saves everyone in the end (my queen).

So here’s why that’s bullshit.

Framing Hama as a horror story monster make sense when you don’t think about the Implications of framing the indigenous woman POW living surrounded by people who have benefited from Fire Nation imperialism. It does - it’s a common trope: the reclusive witch who first seems kindly to some lost/wandering children before revealing her true intention - to use them for her own purposes. Yeah, I know they’re playing on Hansel and Gretel. But yeah, I’m gonna call bullshit on that too - drawing on a c*nnabalistic witch for inspiration when you’re writing an indigenous woman character is probably not the way to go.

II. Hama the Puppetmaster* and Groomer

A puppet master is obviously a puppeteer, and Hama has puppets (creepy though they may be). But in terms of the underlying meaning, she’s a chessmaster, an Emperor Palpatine/Dick Cheney kind of master manipulator who works mostly through other people. What most people would consider a psychopath (in layman’s terms). When her friendly mask falls, she is terrifying.

She is cold, calculating, manipulative as fuck - she isolates Katara almost immediately. Hama uses Katara’s desire to connect with her culture to groom her to become a weapon. It’s actually such a good example of grooming that it has to be purposeful:

Targeting a victim - Hama hears that Katara and Sokka are from the SWT. She also hears Katara tell a story about Kya. To Hama, a waterbender from her own culture is a hell of a target.

Gaining trust - Hama reaches out to Katara in particular, is especially kind to her, gives her individual attention that the others don’t get. She prepares a SWT feast for them and tells the Gaang about her heritage when they go snooping.

Filling a need - so once Hama has given Katara reason to trust her about waterbending, she promises Katara to pass on SWT waterbending heritage that only Hama knows. She fills a unique need of Katara’s.

Isolation - From then on out, we don’t see Katara with the rest of the Gaang until the end of the episode. Hama seems like a normal teacher but she does start to drop little hints, pushing Katara very gently to see how she will react to her real agenda and desensitizing Katara to what would otherwise seem unacceptable coming from someone else who hasn’t established that unique trust. “You’ve got to keep an open mind, Katara.”

So this would be the point at which Hama would make sexual contact but this is metaphorical so that obviously doesn’t happen. What does happen is Hama pushes Katara’s limits. She makes her pretty uncomfortable with the idea of killing the fire lilies for water, but when Hama appeals to their shared history of marginalization she gets over it.

Maintaining control: Hama makes her final move, which is obviously bloodbending, and reveals her true agenda - and when Katara refuses to manipulative living beings’ blood, Hama violates her bodily agency. And not only this, but she pushes Katara into bloodbending when she victimizes the Gaang, fully realizing her control. 

Hama sees it as a victory, and telling Katara breaks down at the end in one of the most emotional scenes in the show. She feels like so many of us have felt at some point: violated, betrayed by someone we trusted. And then they never really deal with that.

I actually think that’s the point of The Puppetmaster, especially given ATLA being a show for children. I think it’s supposed to be a metaphor for csa.

And... okay.

Undoubtedly it is important to send these messages to kids. And yes, people usually are victimized by those closest to them, by those in their own communities. But not indigenous women. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, but according to the National Congress of American Indians, Native American women  and girls are more likely to be sexually assaulted by non-NA men. 57% of cases are perpetrated by white men. Not the people in their communities.

Choosing to tell this story with an indigenous woman POW (who very likely would have been victimized herself lbr) is a choice that I find really aggravating. When writers tell stories with a Point, it is incredibly important for those writers to understand the implications of what they are saying about the characters who they are using to make that point.

Like I’m not saying don’t make that point, or don’t use Katara (who would in real life be at a higher risk of sexual violence than the others) to make it, but why make the perpetrator someone who is statistically unlikely to be Katara’s abuser? I’m not sure I have a good answer to that question. My guess is, like with making Hama animalistic and about as unsympathetic as it gets, the writers just had blinders on about the cultural implications of what they were saying.

Not even considering the whole victimizing-the-“innocents”-of-the-Fire-Nation-town plot, Hama’s not a good person. This is probably because she was driven mad by the need for revenge, which, eurgh okay, but still it’s very apparent that she is not interested in winning over Katara’s support directly or honestly.

* also the antisemitic history of this trope hmm.

III. Hama and The Victims of Genocide Victimizing Oppressors #NotAllFireNation

Okay. So this is the part that I think annoys me the most because it’s so bad. Like, imagine for a minute that you’re a white guy and you’re gonna tell a story about a victim of genocide who is completely divorced from her culture and homeland, and furthermore is an escaped prisoner of war who has radicalized in prison - okay it just hit me, I know what they MIGHT have been going for, like maybe some kind of anti-Gitmo statement? But that didn’t happen. People who were stolen away from Iraq and imprisoned illegally in Guantanamo Bay, and who were released after being detained illegally, haven’t really shown any real radicalization. They’re pissed at the US for victimizing them, but like that seems pretty fair considering so many of them did nothing wrong.

That’s been the US government’s excuse for not releasing innocent people who were detained illegally. The idea that prisoners of war radicalized in Gitmo so they can’t be released because they’ll attack the US is propaganda. I’m not saying it hasn’t happened, but that’s where it comes from.

Considering the time period ATLA was written, considering how much of it was inspired by the US wars of aggression and imperialism, considering how political ATLA is (and why it was so popular during its initial run - during the years that Bush lost a ton of popularity) I think if that’s what they were thinking about, that’s not great.

But for all of Avatar’s good messaging on imperialism and war, it’s still written from a white US American mindset. Well surely I’m not responsible, surely you shouldn’t imprison and abuse me, a random white girl in the States. It’s my government, which I cannot control because of two-party politics or some shit.

So first off, that’s shitty because oppression is often about systems, not individuals. Sure we need to always consider the individual experiences of people who are victimized, but the people who are benefiting from imperialism? Me? Fuck if I care if someone in El Salvador or Iraq or Chile or idk any of the countries we have meddled in, let alone from a marginalized community in the United States, hates white US Americans for what our government has done - and that’s even silly because white US citizens support our government. Like we think the institutions are sound, although sometimes we don’t support the guy in charge. We think the cops are going to help us, even though that isn’t really the case.

Why frame it about what she’s doing to the Fire Nation civilians at all? Why make Hama the villain? I don’t think they wanted her to be unsympathetic, I mean they tell her story and I don’t think anyone would conclude that it doesn’t justify her desire for revenge, but why tell this story through a victim of genocide?

Recently I saw a post by @sunkin-akh where they point out that Hama basically quotes Malcolm X:

I was literally just watching the Hama episode again and I just noticed for the first time that while forcing Katara to bloodbend she says that they must fight back against the Fire Nation (and she used this exact phrase) “by any means necessary”, which is Frantz Fanon’s phrase popularized by Malcolm X during the Civil Rights Movement (iirc). They directly compared Black liberation to Hama’s evil acts and it disgusted me.

The full context:

Hama: The choice [to use bloodbending] is not yours. The power exists. And it’s your duty to use the gifts you’ve been given to win this war. Katara, they tried to wipe us out, our entire culture, your mother.

Katara: I know.

Hama: Then you should understand what I’m talking about. We’re the last waterbenders of the Southern Tribe, we have to fight these people whenever we can, wherever they are, with any means necessary.

I find that so appalling because it is framing resistance, specifically anti-racist resistance, as barbaric and monstrous. And given the way that Hama is portrayed at this point, about as inhuman as anyone in ATLA, that is extra gross.

Finally, after Katara defeats Hama, she is lead away by the authorities in CHAINS.

So now the FN cops are the good authorities who we’re gonna trust a SWT waterbender with? I mean she’s a villain so we’re probably not supposed to feel bad for her, like yeah sure the FN is usually bad but she’s a criminal so it’s okay that they take a POW back into custody.

No, no, no.

I know I am reading into this far more than the writers intended - but that’s kind of the point of critically engaging with media. Because shockingly writers don’t always question their choices - they are people and have implicit biases just like all of us. When those writers come from a privileged culture that has colonized the culture they are using as “inspiration” for their story, they need to be extra mindful of how they represent those people.

IV: How To Write Hama

Well, I’m not gonna talk over indigenous fans on this one on specifics, and you should read this rewrite by @kispesan​  but my thoughts generally are:

lose the horror framing it’s just not right for this context and this character

don’t frame Malcolm X as a villain because that’s nasty and racist

have Katara learn to use bloodbending in ways that she is comfortable with (and not just like once in one episode where she’s extra vengeful and the hero of the show doesn’t approve of her actions JFC) and don’t make the dark-skinned girl the only character whose special bending skill is dubious (I know she also has healing but still)

bring Hama home

have indigenous people in the writers room

Anyway, I’ve gone on wayyy too long. Let me know if I am speaking out of turn please if you feel that I am. and I’m sure I had other thoughts but if you want to read some other good pieces of Hama meta, I’ve listed some below:

post and another post by @marsreds​

this post and this post by @visibilityofcolor​

this post by @shewhotellsstories​

anyway katara is a queen and should have been allowed to heal, and hama never should have been irredeemable because if you can make iroh redeemable, if the show was going to redeem AZULA, you can make hama redeemable.

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

Flufftober Day 21

Disclaimer! I was planning a 100 word Drabble and I got quite carried away and ended up writing an entire one-shot fic. My thanks to @otherworldsivelivedin and @penpanoply for the positive feedback and the encouragement to post it, so here it is. Read the fic at ao3! 

October 21 prompt: “I don’t understand” (Boyfriend Material)

Oh! You Pretty Things

Luc, mon caneton. You and Oliver are free Sunday, yes?”

I try to remember if we actually have anything planned for Sunday, other than a good shag and French toast. Maybe followed by another shag.

“Uh.”

“Magnifique. You shall come to Judy’s.”

“What?”

“Judy’s piscine. You must come see.”

“Listen, Mum, I know you two have been friends for a long time, but I draw the line at anything involving Judy pissing.”

“Do not be so silly. Put me on the shouting phone.”

“Speakerphone?”

“Oui.”

“Fine,” I huff as I switch my mobile over. She’s given up talking to me it seems.

“Oliver, Luc is speaking nonsense. Judy has a new piscine and you must come in your Speedo on Sunday.”

“He’s not showing up in a Speedo, Mum. And most certainly not to do anything involving pissing!”

“Piscine is a swimming pool,” Oliver murmurs helpfully.

This makes things a bit clearer, but still not in any way appealing.

“It sounds like it could be fun,” he adds.

Fuck it all.

“See, it is a done deal as you say,” Mum chimes in. “Do not forget the Speedo, Oliver.”

“Mum, why the sudden obsession with swimwear?”

“Your boyfriend has style, mon cher. Oliver would not wear those ridiculous pantalons you insist on wearing to the sea.”

“They’re called swim shorts.”

“Pah, even the name is foolish. I do not understand you. All the gays they wear the Speedo. Why do you not want your boyfriend in one? He is attractive, non?”

“Well, yes, but you see . . .” I flounder as Oliver’s eyebrow goes up and his lips quirk. “Mum, that’s not the point . . .”

“Ah. I see now. You do not like the other men to see your Oliver like that. It is not good, the jealousy, Luc.”

“I’m not jealous!”

“There will not be gays to flirt with your boyfriend, mon cher. It is just Judy and me. I will make my special summer curry.”

“No, Mum, for the love of God, no.”

It’s jarring to realize that what I’d once considered to be the Mount Everest of my Mum’s culinary crimes was actually just a runner-up Mount Kilimanjaro--that she’d lulled me into thinking the special curry was the pinnacle of toxicity, while unbeknownst to me the summer curry had been lurking in the deeper waters.

I know I’m mixing my metaphors and I don’t care–they still aren’t as unfortunate a combination as any of my mother’s curry ingredients.

“Sunday, Luc.”

There’s an edge to Mum’s voice that promptly disappears as soon as she directs her words to Oliver again. “Oliver, do not let my son wear the pantalons. Take him shopping for a proper maillot de bain, oui?”

“Oui. A bientôt, Odile,” Oliver replies.

I end the call with a little more zeal than necessary. Meaning my mobile flies out of my hands and skitters across the floor.

“You can’t be serious about this.” I give Oliver my keenest glare. “Speedos and summer curry?”

“What is this vendetta against swimwear?” Oliver asks, boldly ignoring the curry issue, the smirk on his face threatening to raise my blood pressure by double digits.

“It’s not a vendetta.”

“Then?” He nudges my knee with his bare foot. It makes me weak under the best of circumstances but I do my best to hold onto my indignation.

“It’s nothing.” The words come out petulant. Lovely. I sound like a sullen teenager.

“It’s obviously something.” Oliver slides his toes under my leg. It’s unfair, it really is. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be averse to the thought of me in a Speedo.”

His foot burrows further under, his toes now brushing against the inside of my thigh and my brain is overwhelmed with an image of that v-cut of his diving down into a black Speedo and it’s all my mother’s fault, which really shouldn’t be something that’s remotely allowed to be in the same sentence with v-cut.

“It’s not you,” I say, with the inevitable follow up of “It’s me.”

“How so?”

“Ok, so I know Speedos are basically the required beach couture for our demographic, but it’s not ever been something I’ve felt works for, you know,” I wave a hand at myself, “me.”

“And why not?”

I stare at him. “Listen, I know for a fact you’ve seen me naked, more than once, so you should be able to figure that one out for yourself, Oliver.”

“I’m not following you, Lucien.”

Splendid. I’m going to have to spell it out. “I don’t have the . . . well, the physique to pull off wearing one.”

I also don’t have the confidence of middle aged, paunchy French men, but that’s beside the point.

His toes do this wiggle that’s borderline pornographic.

“Lucien.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t Lucien me about this. I’m not built for a Speedo and I damn well am not about to go prancing around in one at Judy’s blasted piscine.”

I give him a side-long glance.

He’s got that creased forehead look he gets when he’s thinking of how to politely reply to some asinine thing I’ve said. I’m intimately familiar with it.

“Look, it’s fine, Oliver. We’ll go to Mum’s disaster of a pool party, swim in whatever monstrosity Judy’s installed at her estate, bathe in eau de wet dog for a few hours thanks to the spaniels. Eat the blasted summer curry and deal with the inevitable intestinal horror show to follow.” I narrow my eyes at him. “But I draw the line at the Speedo.”

Oliver has the audacity to smirk at me again. “For you or for me?”

“What?”

“For you or for me? I understand you may have reservations about wearing one—reservations I find quite concerning from a body-image standpoint, which we should probably address at some point in time—but I will support your devotion to modesty, as long as you comprehend the fact that I, for one, would not be averse to the sight.”

He’s completely lost me. “The sight of what?”

There’s that soft look. I’m becoming intimately familiar with that one as well.

Then his toes start doing that wiggly thing against my inner thigh again and I’m not sure if I’m turned on or still quivering with righteous indignation.

Right, I’m turned on.

“Of you, Lucien. You in a Speedo. Or swim shorts. Or an oversized t-shirt and hedgehog pants.”

Oliver slides his leg fully under my arse and somehow unbalances me enough that I end up sprawled in a heap on his chest. He’s not wearing a shirt so I’m not about to complain, although I do let out an involuntary squawk as I thump against the broad and luxurious expanse of his pecs.

He brushes the hair off my forehead, tracing his fingertips along my jawline until he’s cupping my face with his hand. “Whether we go or not is completely up to you,” Oliver says, grey eyes intense, yet achingly soft. “But you could be clad in a caftan and you’d still be beautiful to me.”

I should just take the compliment. I should crawl the rest of the way up his chest and kiss him breathless.

I don’t, of course.

“That could be arranged, you know. James Royce-Royce has a lovely chartreuse caftan. I’m certain he’d let me borrow it for the noble cause of seducing my Speedo-clad boyfriend in full view of my mother and her barmy old harpy of a best friend. The spaniels will be scandalized.” I can’t help grinning at him.

He grins right back, a silver glint in his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ll have to disappoint you then.”

“What? How will you resist my boyish charm? I’ll have you know that caftan brings out the green of my eyes.” I bat my eyelashes.

“I’m certain it does.”

“Then what are you on about?”

“I’m afraid I must dash your hopes of a Speedo-clad seduction.”

“What? My caftan-clad allure isn’t going to do it for you after all?”

His smile widens. “Oh, I’m sure it will.” He leans down to press a kiss to the tip of my nose, which is one of the many ridiculously fond things he does that I’m becoming terrifyingly accustomed to.

Oliver tilts his head back, radiating amusement now. “I just don’t happen to own a Speedo.”

I drop my head on the pillow of his toned chest muscles and give a snorty laugh. “Whatever will my mother say?”

He gives a laugh as juvenile as mine as he replies. “Something very uncomplimentary about my pantalons, I’m sure.”

“We’re a disappointment to fashionable gays everywhere.”

“Speak for yourself.”

[supervillain-smut]

Idk if you've done this already but "and THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED" for Cicero and the Listener when they're on a contract. Can be nsfw if you want👀 thank you!💜💜💜

So I spent 2 hours writing this, lmao. NSFW will be under the cut! I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I’m so glad my readers are enabling me to write Cicero smut, lol! Also, FYI, this is my first time writing this trope, lmao.

The Housecarl of Falkreath was much more difficult than you would have thought. Surely a housecarl wouldn't be so difficult, but when he lives in the castle surrounded by guards, things get complicated, so with a swift arrow to the head and a swift departure you and Cicero ended up in an abandoned shack.

Cicero, in the confusion of things, had attempted to draw attention away from you and a guard's blade had briefly met with his right shoulder. You managed to get back to him and fight your way out without taking many lives (to devastate the city was not your intent) and you had cut the thread that was being used to stitch up the wound. You grabbed the warm and red cloth to your left to clean up the last of the blood, when Cicero piped up.

"Listener should have gone ahead. Cicero can handle himself, you know. Besides, not much else to do besides tend to Mother if Listener is gone." His cheerful self was nowhere to be found, his voice instead somber and deep in thought, legitimately thinking about what he'd do if he lost you.

"Yes, well, your Listener probably wouldn't be around for much longer without their Keeper to keep them safe, eh? All the rash decisions they make, simply not built to last, Dovah or otherwise." A short exhale of air through his nose was Cicero's response, clearly not finding either idea very amusing.

"All done, Cicero. Now, I'll see what I can make us to... Well, that's not the problem I was expecting, but it's one I can handle." Cicero tilted his head, wondering what you meant by that, when he realized that there was only one bed in the shack. You two weren't exactly distant, nor did either of you hesitate to show the other physical affection. You have shared a bed before, when you bought a house in Markarth and were still waiting for the rest of the furniture, the sharing wasn't the problem, no. It was the size of the bed; either of you would end up on the floor or squished against the wall were you to try and sleep side by side like you have before.

"Cicero can sleep on the floor, Listener, really he doesn't mind. Cicero doesn't sleep much anyways." You shook your head, it was completely illogical. "No, Cicero, you're injured; you sleep on the floor and you're bound to either make that wound worse or get it infected. The fact that you haven't been sleeping well or much at all is another problem all its own. I'll take the floor, sleep on one of the hides we took from a Sabercat, that's final." Cicero opened his mouth in protest, but would rather not fight about it and promptly shut it again.

You had finished cleaning up everything, and handed Cicero a cut of venison and a sweetroll you'd been saving for him, and took your portion and a honey nut treat. Once you'd both finished eating, you made him take a swig of a healing potion (to which he made the funniest most disgusted face you'd ever seen) and wrapped his shoulder before he settled in the bed, you on the ground by your weapon, closest to the door.

Your mistake, in an attempt to subtly protect Cicero while he was wounded, was setting up too close to the door. Half way through the night you awoke shivering like mad, but refused to move in fear of waking Cicero, the lightest sleeper who ever lived. The quote unquote 'solution' you came up with was to attempt to wrap yourself within the pelt, leaving little room for you to actually lay down, and ended up on your side more so using the pelt as a blanket than a bed. As soon as your side touched the nearly frozen solid floor, you gasped and quickly rolled back onto the pelt, landing you in the exact same spot you had attempted to get away from.

That, apparently, was the end of Cicero's little listening game, as he groggily spoke up. "Listener, will you just come lay with me? I can hear your teeth from here." You sighed again, giving in to the fact neither of you would get any sleep this way, and dragged the pelt over to use as an extra blanket for you both. "Well, are you going to scoot over, Cicero?" "Listener, if there was any space to begin with I can assure you I would have given it to you already." You gave him a stern look, now was not the time to be joking around. You were freezing and could make a firm guess you were both exhausted.

"Well then how am I supposed to climb in?" "On." You blinked, he wasn't really... "Come again, Cicero?" "Well, Listener, there's no room for in, so you'll just have to lay on top of me, or you can be stubborn and freeze, but Cicero doesn't think that's ideal for either of us." You took a look around the room in one more desperate attempt, but came up empty handed as to what else to do. So, you settled for swinging your leg over his, straddling him for a moment before carefully laying on his chest and pulling the pelt over both of you.

"Listener, Cicero is going to be blunt; you're colder than a Draugr." You playfully gave him a light smack on his left arm, sighing as you settled on him, legs on either side of his, one hand playing with his hair the other drawing circles and patterns on his arm. You really did love and care for Cicero, and he did too, looking at you through his eyelashes adoringly, just watching you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the same thought of how beautiful you were, a switch flipped in his head and he was imagining how beautiful you'd look while he was pleasuring you.

He metaphorically attempted to shake his head and clear the thoughts, but you were closer than you'd ever been before, and he didn't know when he'd ever get a chance like this again. He finally decided to put his plan into action, and test the waters; he placed a kiss on your cheek, to which you smiled and returned the gesture. He then kissed your jaw, to which you sighed, before he finally caught your gaze and stopped only for a moment, bewildered at the sheer amount of affection he saw in your eyes before finally snapping out of it and kissing you quickly on the lips, leaning back to gauge your reaction.

At first, you hid your face by turning it away from him, and he thought he had crossed the line; then movement as you shifted yourself upwards to meet his gaze again, seeing fear and curiosity, only to place a longer kiss, and it didn't take too long at all before the back and forth stopped as you locked lips and fought for dominance, a swift submission on Cicero's part, as you straddled him and cupped his face in your hands, the heat and friction between the two of you building by the second.

He let out a sigh through his nose as you began to slowly grind your hips, and you let out the smallest of moans as he met you with his own movements. Cicero broke the kiss to attack your neck with nips and bites as he sucked at the skin there, leaving hickeys to say you were his. You lightly bit his earlobe, and he began rutting his hips against you. You broke apart only to look at the other to confirm you both wanted this. With a swift nod, you had locked again, the heat unbearable despite the raging cold outside as he removed your shirt, and you his, as he sat up, the pain in his shoulder completely forgotten to place his mouth on your nipple.

You moaned lightly, arching your back just the slightest as you picked up the pace, grinding desperately into his lap. He gasped, removing his mouth and leaning back with his mouth open, face twisted in pleasure he hadn't felt in a long while. You began to work on removing his pants, his hands lazily placed on your waist as he watched your hands and helping you work them off him. You were in awe he was allowing you to do this, Cicero came off as almost Asexual, too wrapped up in his work or just disinterested, but here you were.

His cock sprung free, aching to be touched. You slowly worked your hands around him, and he took in a shaky breath as he leaned his head back. You spit in your hand and moved quicker, earning a gasping moan from Cicero, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth agape, panting. Your core was aching for him, and the longer you watched him the more you needed him. You kicked off your own pants, and made short work of your panties as you stopped for confirmation that this is what he wanted. "Cicero, do you want to continue? Just tell me, yes or no, and I'll act accordingly to your answer."

With a rapid nod of his head he responded "Gods, yes, Listener. Please." With that, you lined yourself up and slowly sank onto his member. Cicero was left with his head all the way back, gasping and moaning at the sensation he had all but forgotten, gripping at the blankets and trying to keep his eyes open to watch your face as you slowly took him all in.

Once he was fully sheathed in you and you had adjusted, you began to rock your hips as he placed his hands on your thighs, whimpering for you to go faster. You picked up the pace, and he began slowly thrusting in time. Not long after you had begun, he flipped the two of you so you were on your back, wrapping your legs around his hips, his arms curling over your shoulders as he buried his face in your neck, moaning your name, not Listener, your name, among other things into your ear as he began to slam into you.

You were both whimpering and moaning, your nails scratching down his back caused him to groan and bite into your shoulder, and you felt him twitch as he got closer and closer to his release. He adjusted his hips and struck a particular spot in you, causing you to cry out his name; he paused, only for a second, before continuing to pound into you, desperate to hear it again. You cried out his name over and over, and he bit into your shoulder again as he closed his eyes and listened, getting oh so close, and you weren't far behind; in fact you were ahead of him. In a few more thrusts you came, arching your back into him, one hand lightly pulling his hair as the other raked down his back with a gasping cry.

Cicero reached his peak as your muscles gripped him like a vice, squeezing over and over, and he gave a small cry of your name as he pushed into you, ending up on his toes as they curled into the bedding beneath you, stars in his eyes as he came deep inside you. He soon relaxed, pulling out of you, his cum seeping out of you as he pulled you into his arms to lay on his chest, just noticing the sun coming up; it was the blue hour, one he liked the most.

"Cicer-- I love you, my Listener. And I will do everything in my power to make sure you're safe. Please don't ever doubt that." You sighed contently, a warm smile taking residence on your face. "I wouldn't dare, Cicero. I love you, too, so much."

[littleoddwriter]

Wounded | Vampire!Roman Sionis x HumanMale!Reader

"oh my god,,,, vampire au with Roman or Anakin? whichever you feel like writing. maybe throw No. 9, 14, or 19 in there? whatever sparks your interest luv" anon A/N: I will also write one for Anakin because why not, lol. Just so you know, there’s another one coming for this request eventually.

summary; Roman and Victor are gone unusually long. When they get home, Roman is hurt - he feeds from you and you tell him that he’s an idiot for endangering himself like that.

notes; TW // Blood; Injury; Flesh Wound; Scars. Vampire AU; Male!Reader; Hurt/Comfort; Vampire feeding from Human; Worship of a scar/Body Worship; Roman’s usual pet names for Reader; Cuddling. 

Sitting in your bed, alone, at night, you had this feeling in your gut that something was wrong. Roman and Victor had been out all evening long already, some kind of business they needed to take care of. You had a habit of staying up until they were back home, when it took so long. It wasn't entirely voluntary, since you just couldn't fall asleep with the uncertainty of Roman and Victor's status looming over you. About two hours ago, you had received a very short text message from Roman, saying that it would take a little longer than anticipated. That's when the worry started setting in. It only grew as time passed. Something had gone wrong, it must have. Making up all kinds of scenarios in your head, you had a hard time trying not to take your phone and call them each repeatedly. Yet, you couldn't do it. What if you endangered them even more by making either of their phones ring, after all? With a frustrated groan, you at least got up from sitting in bed and walked around the loft, trying to walk off the anxiety.

Suddenly, the door to the loft opened, familiar footsteps coming through. A sigh of relief left your lips, as you walked over to the hallway, where the two men would be. When you reached them, you stopped in your tracks. There was blood on Roman. A lot of it. And you weren't sure how much of it wasn't his, as Victor was holding him up, supporting him. Roman was holding his side, where the blood seemed to be frightingly fresh. Immediately, you got to Roman's other side and supported him, too. Then you helped him into Victor's room and onto his bed. He didn't mind if blood was on his sheets and Roman would throw a fit about ruining the fabric on any other bed or chaise longue. Victor went into the en-suite bathroom of his own room. You didn't know if he was going to get a First Aid Kit or did anything for himself. You didn't think of asking either, too worried about Roman. "Roman? Sh-should I call the doctor? Or?" You asked with a shaking voice, unsure of what to do. This hasn't happened before. These two always came out of such things, almost unscathed. Especially due to the fact that they were both vampires and therefore couldn't be hurt too easily, especially by standard weaponry. Their wounds also healed unusually fast. So why was Roman still bleeding, then? Why was he barely able to stand by himself? Why was he so quiet? "No, I'll be fine," Roman rasped. With tears shining in your eyes, you looked over to him in disbelief. "Doesn't fucking look like it to me! Roman, c'mon. Tell me. What can I do to help you? Anything!" You were overwhelmed by this situation. A feeling of utter helplessness and anxiety settled deep into your bones. "Fuck, calm down! I'll be fine, I just need to feed, is all. I'm weakened and wounded. My body can't heal as fast, when I'm hungry. 'Kay? Nothing to worry about, sweet boy." "Oh! Alright, okay. I can do that. Fuck, you could have just said that you needed- Whatever. Nevermind. This is taking too long already," you muttered. Roman grinned, his sharp fangs showing and glinting in the bedroom's dim lighting. You took your shirt off for easier access and then lied down next to him, your neck at the same height as his mouth, so he wouldn't have to move a lot to feed from you. Turning his head, he nosed at your neck, specifically your carotid artery, groaning quietly in the back of his throat. "Don't draw it out, you- ah!" A pained, yet at the same time almost wanton, moan left your lips as Roman finally bit down, sinking his sharp canines into your neck. He inhaled sharply and began sucking. A satisfied groan rumbled in the back of his throat and you moaned again, this time the lewdness of it was palpable. You enjoyed it so much when he fed from you. It was intimate, intoxicating and it felt incredible. When your vision grew a little fuzzy and you felt light-headed, you nudged him gently, yet firmly. He let up, removing his mouth from you with a satisfied sound. Then he licked the wounds of your neck closed, lapping up some of the excess blood around it. After that, he relaxed back into the mattress, sighing. You did the same. Victor came back into the room. He was wearing new clothes and had cleaned the blood off himself. "You alright, Boss?" He inquired. "About to be," he sighed. Roman's guard dog nodded and sat down on the other side of him. He then lifted the bloody shirt up. You could see the open flesh pulling back together slowly but surely. The wound healed up to nothing but a slight scar, which Roman would be sure to hate and you would worship until he didn't despise it anymore. "Looks good to me," Victor rasped and then got up again. You and Roman also sat up and got out of the other man's bed. Then you left his room, to go to Roman and your's own, taking a shower together there. When Roman was cleaned up again, he looked as if nothing had ever happened. Only the small scar, that was now hidden under his silk pajama shirt anyway, remained. Lying down on the bed, you assumed your usual position, where he lied on his back and you were cuddled into him, your head on his chest, your arms around his middle and his arms around your back and your arm. There was no heart beat, nor was there a natural warmth, but his sheer presence was incredibly calming to you. "What happened anyway?" You asked eventually, the question that's been burning on your tongue since the other two came through the door. "Well, to make a long story short - it was a fucking ambush. Apparently we had some moles lurking around in our circles. They've been taken care of now, of course. But that one fucker was about to fucking stab Victor in the back, literally as also metaphorically, and I didn't really think because I only noticed that this fucking idiot was too occupied to notice the guy almost stabbing him. So, naturally, I jumped in between. My first plan was to shoot this guy's hand off, but my gun's been taken by some other fucker, right? Didn't have any-fucking-thing else, other than my body. And I can't lose Zsasz, I just can't. In the end, I was the one being fucking stabbed. Victor immediately slit that fucker's throat, though. So, there's that." As Roman went on about this, you sat up, staring at him with an open mouth and wide eyes. "Are you fucking insane? You could have been fucking killed! Don't do that again, please!" You were a little in hysterics, you had to admit, but fuck, you could have lost him that night and wouldn't have been the wiser until the next morning at best. "Fuck! Baby, calm down, I already got told all that by Zsasz," Roman replied, wincing a little. "Really? Good! And I'll fucking say it again! You're usually so tactical, and like, okay, I get it, this wasn't the usual situation and all that. I get it, but still! Don't just fucking jump in between Victor and a fucking knife! One that is able to hurt you, no less." "Yes, yes, alright, I fucking got it now, too! Fuck, you're even fussier than Victor." Forcefully, he grabbed your arm and pulled you down into your previous position again, wrapping his arms around you. "Quit worrying now, 'kay? I'm fine, I'm home. I won't do it again, trust me. It was a fucking disaster and now I've even got a fucking scar. Ew, not on my fucking body!" You nuzzled his chest and pressed a kiss into it. "Yeah, okay, sorry for going overboard there. I just- got really scared. And don't worry about the scar. I think it's beautiful." A short, dry laugh left his lips. "Hah, right! It's not beautiful, not on me." Shifting a little, you came face to face with his abdomen. You lifted his shirt up, so that the pink scar was visible to you. It was a little jagged, but it wasn't too big, just about an inch and a half long. Then you pressed sweet kisses along the thickened tissue of it, whispering sweet praises. Roman first complained, but quieted down the more kisses you pressed on the scar. He just sighed then, sounding increasingly more satisfied and dreamy. When you've done it a couple of times, you put another smacking kiss on it and looked up at him, grinning from ear to ear. "I told you, I think it's beautiful." "'Kay, you win," he sounded pouty, but his smile was soft, adoration clear as day in his eyes. You shifted back up and laid down your head on his chest once more. "I'm just glad you're okay and safe, now. I was going crazy with anxiety over here," you chuckled softly. "I love you so much." You pressed another gentle kiss into his chest. He was stroking your hair lovingly by then, smiling softly. "I know, my little prince," he whispered. 

[llendrinall]

Hi I have a writing promt.

A story that is written from both pov's that shows Draco and Harry falling in love with each other. Little moments together where they fall a bit more in love. Things they do that make the other thing "Wow I'm so in love with him". Ect.

Harry had always been starkly aware of Draco, but it was after the war, in the Wizengamot, when he actually noticed him for the first time.

Draco was sitting next to Pansy Parkinson, holding her hand so tight that he was leaving white marks. Harry got a glimpse of them when Pansy was called to give her testimony.

Then the unthinkable happened. Instead of demurring, which she was allowed to do –was expected by everyone to do, was what every other member of a Death Eater family had done so far– Pansy answered all the prosecutor’s questions. She gave true testimony and denied her parents the imperius defence.

Draco was waiting for her when she came down from the stand. He grabbed her hand and led her away with measured steps so it wouldn’t look like they were running.

 *

The second time Harry noticed Draco like that, as a person rather than as an opponent, was, coincidentally, the first time Draco saw Harry as Harry. Not as a school enemy or a war enemy or The Boy Who Lived or The Saviour Of The Wizarding World. Not even as Harry Potter. He saw Harry as just Harry.

It probably helped that Harry was unrecognizable under a thick layer of soot and grime so Draco didn’t know who he was calling an idiot. Draco also yelled to stop immediately and step back and, miraculously, Harry did. No hesitance.

Not all Death Eater had been arrested and not every awful individual had joined Voldemort, which meant that there were plenty of terrible people out in the world. Someone, Death Eater or not, had attacked Wisteria House. The house where rescued and freed house-elves were hosted.

Draco understood that the house-elves weren’t the goal. They were just the bait, a cheap collateral. The point of the attack was to have someone (maybe Harry, most probably Granger), cross the door quickly, without looking around them, and walk straight into a deathly trap.

Draco saw the trap, called out a warning and Harry listened. He listened to Draco.

Both of them walked away with a different opinion of the other. No one comes out the same from a burning building.

 *

 The third time went like this.

“Occupied.”

“Je- Blimey!”

“Find your own corner in the shadows to hide, Potter. This one is mine.”

“I don’t have time to find another spot.”

“Too bad. W- wait! No, quit it!”

“Scoot over! We can share.”

“No, we can’t. This is my dark spot, go away.”

“Either we share or I make sure they find you too.”

“As if I care. I’m not hiding from your devotees. Go away.”

“It’s Clay Buckthorn.”

“… be quiet, then.”

They hid in there for an hour, talking in whispers and sharing a bottle of butterbeer, while Secretary Buckthorn, the most persistent and insufferable politician to ever crawl out of the Ministry, looked around for a popular face to join his campaign. They were about to leave when in came Rita Skeeter, pressuring Percy Weasley to answer her questions. They watched from the shadows as she pressed and cajoled and he resisted. It was a bit like watching some sort of fight sport, only after ten minutes they weren’t sure who they were supporting.

 *

Harry thought Draco was dating Pansy Parkinson and maybe he still was. Evidently, it was all for show. No need to read so much into it.  

There was this old witch complaining about tradition and values. Nothing no one hadn’t heard before many times. People these days had no respect, it was disgraceful and so on. But then she turned to Dennis Creevey and his boyfriend (some Slytherin kid, Harry didn’t know him), and she asked if their families weren’t ashamed of them. Two men together. They ought to be.

Harry wasn’t sure if she knew about Dennis’ brother or not. It was hard to believe that people could be so deliberately cruel to a stranger. The question stopped him from immediately jumping to her neck. He had been accused of blowing things out or proportion before. And by before, he meant that morning when he called out that rude shopper who cut the line before a goblin.

Meanwhile, Draco rolled his eyes in that magnificent way of his. For someone who acted so proud and proper, Draco had a very expressive face and the rolling of his eyes was a spectacle to behold. He stood from his table, grabbed Theo Nott by the lapels, and kissed him on the mouth long and hard right in the middle of the crowded restaurant. Afterwards he sat down, perfectly composed, and both Theo and him turned to look at the witch like the smuggest pair of snakes in the forest.

The witch left the restaurant soon after. Dennis lost the wretched look on his face and Harry paid the bill on Draco’s table, earning a nod from him on the way out.

*

The day Draco’s heart began to beat a different rhythm was a hot Thursday in summer and someone had tried to kill him.

It wasn’t a particularly well thought attack and Draco took precautions. He wouldn’t have gotten anything worse than an intense headache and maybe some sore muscles. Still, Harry felt the need to push him to the floor and shield him with his body from the sparks and shrapnel falling over them. Harry had stopped the hex in mid-air, which was admittedly impressive. Draco watched the purple rivulets of the failed curse slowly descending around them and wondered if he was in shock. That would be embarrassing. This clumsy attack on his life didn’t deserve any shock.

Harry jumped from him (so nimble!) and chased down the would-be murdered, on foot, like a muggle. He, he just ran down the street, didn’t even cast a spell until he caught up to him and brought him to the floor. Draco was sorry to miss that part, although there were very good pictures on the newspaper the next day. Harry looked amazingly heroic. One of the pictures had him jumping in mid-air.

Draco didn’t know if this was something Harry did for everybody or if it was just for him, nor did he care. His chest and stomach and… other parts, were confused enough about how to feel, and his heart, in particular was beating to a new tune.  

*

So Draco could make moving shadows to play stories and it was amazingly beautiful and Harry loved it, he loved it, and no, it was not the potion talking, he was perfectly sound of mind. St Mungo was about to let him go! But Draco had come visit him and when Harry complained about being dreadfully bored, Draco had put on this absolutely magical spectacle (yes, Harry knew they were both wizards, it was still magical; no, no potion talking, it was an honest opinion). In the end Harry stayed the night, just like the mediwitch had begged him to, and fell asleep with the shadows performing a dance before him.

*

Draco didn’t call it love because he was quite an obstinate young man, but he was at that stage where he would easily admit that he was willing to lay down his life for Harry. He only had trouble with the word, not with the sentiment itself and its manifestation.

They were at the Ministry. It should be a pretty simple and straight-forward process. Go in, Pansy signs the documents, Draco bears witness and signs his own documents, go out. But of course it wouldn’t be so simple. A pretty pureblood witch doing anything against her family was a spectacle. The press wanted photos, people wanted to see it live, and, of course, there was the ever present mob who just wanted to shout awful things. Usually Pansy dealt with the mob by herself, swiftly and with a sting.

But today was different, hence why Draco had informed Pansy he would be accompanying her before she could ask him to. It wasn’t like the day she gave her testimony, but it was close enough. In a way, it was worse. A year ago they had her testimony to think about. Today it was just signing a document. That could hardly distract them from the crowd waiting for them.  

A push. A yelp. A crash. And Harry Potter gallantly preventing a very old wizard from having a huge flower vase fall on top of him. Somehow, Harry didn’t cast protego in time, so he avoided being brained by the vase but was splashed by the water and stood completely drenched in the middle of the Ministry main hall.

Across the mass of curious people and reporters and workers and people who had come to shout awful things, Harry looked at Draco. He gave him A Look. If he had more time, Draco would stop and think of a suitable metaphor for Harry’s eyes, their colour and intensity. But he didn’t, so he grabbed Pansy by the elbow and together they crossed the hall without the crowd noticing. Everyone’s attention was naturally fixed on the way the Saviour of the Wizarding World’s wet clothes clung to his chest.

Afterwards, once he had seen Pansy safely (and discreetly) home, Draco went to find Harry. He was perfectly dry now, but he had a faint scent of flowers around him.

“The rose garden is lovely in June,” Draco said, which should be enough but of course Harry didn’t understand him. Harry was kind, brave, handsome and clever in the most useless way so Draco had to actually explain, with words, that Weasley and Granger must have realize by now the extent of their fame and what it would mean if they married at the Burrow, where anyone could break in. Hence, why Draco mentioned his lovely rose garden where they could get married if they chose to without anyone invading their privacy.

“Hermione’s extended family is muggle.” Harry said, and dear Merlin it was even worse than Draco thought. They were going to pick a muggle place. So not only people breaking in, but a violent attack against the muggles too. Just what you want for a wedding.

“The Malfoy family marries for power, not blood purity.” Draco explained in a whisper. “There is no repello muggletum in our houses.”

“What!?” Harry cried, drawing immediate and sharp attention to them so they had to leave quickly and find a quiet place where Draco explained that Grandmother Imogen –that is, Lucius Malfoy’s mother– was a muggle but, most importantly, a peer of the Realm.

Harry stood in shocked silence for a minute, and after a lot of “whats” and “hows” and “no, really, how could you join Voldemort?” he accepted to at least extend Draco’s offer to the happy couple.  

*

Draco said he didn’t plan on attending the wedding. Just because he was offering his summer house it didn’t mean he expected an invitation. He got one anyway, because Draco had showed them his summer house and two country houses belonging to his muggle cousins and was very careful not to mention Malfoy Manor at any point. Ron appreciated it even more than Hermione.  

He rejected the invitation anyway because he said he much preferred to sit by the gates and send stinging hexes to anyone trying to intrude. It was his one chance to curse people indiscriminately and he didn’t want to waste it.

He showed up later, during the reception, looking handsome and with a pleased smile on his face. He grabbed a glass of champagne, immediately transformed it from a flute to a pompadour without wasting a drop, and sat himself next to Aunt Muriel whom he proceeded to engage in a long and acrid dispute until Ron and Hermione had left. Dear Aunt Muriel didn’t get a chance to insult the bride, or the groom, or any of their families really.

It was right then, while Draco forged a lifelong enemy (her life, not his) by insulting her garden (how did he know so much about flowers), that Harry realized he was in love. He was in love. He was in love. He wanted to be with Draco and insult people together and scandalize prejudiced old bats until they themselves were old bats.

*

Harry picked up a fight with the officiant (to be fair, that comment about the goblins was very unfortunate) and they ended up getting married at a muggle register’s office and Draco was so, so, happy. His family was obviously displeased. Cousin Nerissa said that her fiancée could officiate and was very offended when Fred Weasley said no one wanted to be married by a man named Cuthbert. It was amazing. George Weasley sat next to Cousin George, the baron. Hermione and Ginny Weasley started a fight with the most traditional-minded relatives (from every side). Cousin Audrey came out to the family when she was caught propositioning Luna Lovegood. Pansy Parkinson got engaged to no less than three lords and said they could sort between themselves who got to marry her.

Draco was so in love. It was amazing.

[jaskierswolf]

The Bard of Kaer Morhen pt.3/4

Previous

Jaskier was still eighteen the third time he met a witcher.

Two new witchers in one year. It was officially his favourite age so far.

He was also beginning to suspect that he had a type.

He’d always loved freely and had never really considered the idea of him having a type before. He didn’t care about looks or gender. He simply just fell in love with whoever was standing in front of him. It was both a blessing and a curse. Sure he had his preferences in bed but that was less about the person and more about the variety of sex, but even then he could adapt his own particular interests to suit his partners. It was all about working out what worked best for both of them and he was extremely good at it.

He was playing in a tavern in Posada when he saw him.

Geralt of Rivia.

Now this was a witcher that needed no introduction. He was infamous, the Butcher of Blaviken. His silver hair drew Jaskier’s attention over the crowd. He was sat alone in a dark corner of the tavern and Jaskier almost missed a note when he realised that Geralt was staring at him.

And oh those eyes.

The same as Eskel and Lambert.

Witcher’s eyes.

Like the finest honey in the Continent.

He finished up his ballad as quickly as he could without completely destroying the performance and then bowed to his adoring audience. They tossed coins in his direction which he hurried to scoop up. He gave a handful to the barkeeper’s daughter as she passed, and picked up a full mug of ale, never taking his eyes off the witcher. He couldn’t. He was trapped in Geralt’s eyes. They lured him in like moths to a flame. Like he was a vampire and Geralt’s blood was the finest he would ever taste.

No.

That was shit.

And gross.

He would stick to honey and flower metaphors in future. He was good with those.

He leant against the pillar and smiled seductively at the witcher who was still staring at back at him in a way that made his heart sing. “I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.”

Geralt smirked and picked up his drink. “You’re the bard.”

Jaskier tilted his head, flicking his fringe from out of his eyes. “I’m a bard.” He agreed. “One of many I imagine. It’s a popular profession.”

Geralt growled and Jaskier was gone. His heart now belonged to this man. He was gorgeous and sexy and to the gods Jaskier wanted to drag Geralt’s leather clad ass upstairs to his room immediately.

“Why do you do it?” Geralt asked watching Jaskier with an intensity that was honestly killing him.

“Do what exactly?” He hummed as he slipped onto the bench opposite the witcher and licked his lips.

Geralt’s eyes flickered down to his lips and Jaskier did a little dance in his head. Finally!

“The songs, the coin, the poems.” Geralt tilted his head. “No one else gives a fuck about witchers. So why?”

Jaskier rested his chin on his hands and watched Geralt as he thought about his answer. “Why not?” He settled on. “Eskel saved my life in Oxenfurt, and I thought it would be a good way to repay the debt. I never dreamed it would be so successful.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how Eskel tells it.”

Jaskier smirked as he leant forward on the table. “How does Eskel tell it, my darling witcher?”

Geralt leaned forward so that Jaskier could feel the heat of his breath brush his cheeks. “That you tried to seduce him, begged him to take you home.”

Jaskier’s cheeks felt like they were on fire as he took a shaky breath, arousal flooding his senses. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from whimpering like a fool and cocked his head. “Well, you can’t blame a man for trying, Geralt.” He purred the witcher’s name and looked up at him through his eyelashes.

Geralt reached across the table and grabbed Jaskier’s wrist tightly, bringing it up to his nose. He sniffed deeply and Jaskier furrowed his brow before raising an eyebrow at the witcher’s antics.

“You aren’t afraid?” Geralt breathed huskily.

Jaskier laughed and moved his hand in Geralt’s grip so he was cupping the witcher’s cheek. There was a prickle of silver stubble beneath his fingers and he couldn’t help but stroke his thumb along Geralt’s cheekbone.

“My dear witcher.” Jaskier smiled fondly at the man in front of him. “Why would I be afraid?”

Geralt growled and pulled away and then gestured to the crowd in the tavern behind Jaskier. “Ask any of them.” Jaskier glanced behind him and scoffed.

“They simply don’t know you.” Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“You don’t know me.” Geralt muttered.

Jaskier let his hand rest on Geralt’s arm and squeezed gently. “Not yet, but I wasn’t lying when I said Eskel saved my life. He saved my life and ensured that I got home safely when there was no reward for doing so, even though I was quite honestly being a bit of a brat.”

Geralt chuckled.

Jaskier grinned sheepishly. “We all do things we’re embarrassed about when we’re sixteen.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “So what’s your excuse with Lambert?”

Jaskier laughed as he remembered his encounter with the prickly witcher from earlier in the year. “Oh come on, Geralt.” He whined but continued to trail his fingers along Geralt’s arm. “Why must you shame me in this way?”

“Seems you have type, bard.” Geralt chuckled fondly and stopped Jaskier’s flirtatious caresses on his arm by catching Jaskier’s hand in his.

Jaskier was incredibly pleased with this latest development. He smiled softly at his witcher. “Perhaps,” He laced their fingers together. “Or perhaps every breath, every rejection, every missed opportunity was just leading me here. To you.”

Geralt scoffed. “Romantic fool.”

Jaskier pouted at the new love of his life. “Geralt.”

Geralt frowned.

“Bard?” He asked looking a bit confused.

Oh.

 Oh.

“Oh Melitele, You idiots don’t even know my name!” He gasped and fell back in his seat, pulling his hand away from the witcher.

Geralt grumbled something under his breath.

“No no no. Use your words, witcher!” Jaskier snapped. “I sing your praises all over the Continent for two bloody years and not one of you knows my name! I am a famous troubadour Geralt!”

“It’s not our fault you have so many bloody monikers. Dandelion, Daffodil, Fleur-de-lis, Buttercup, Daisy, Marigold.” Geralt sniped back. “Two years, bard, and not one person has been able to tell me your name.”

Jaskier smiled coyly. “You’ve been asking about me?”

“Professional curiosity. You’ve made all our lives a lot easier, bard.” Geralt mumbled. “It seems only fair to know who we’re thanking.”

Jaskier tilted his head at the witcher. “Aren’t you a gentleman?”

Geralt just hummed gruffly and Jaskier patted the witcher gently on his cheek. To his surprise the witcher leant into his touch ever so slightly, he was certain that Geralt hadn’t even noticed he was doing it.

Jaskier was falling in love even more with every moment that passed between them. Yes the witcher was, like all witchers, fucking sexy, but he was also gentle and kind, thoughtful and surprisingly vulnerable? He was certain that most people would call him mad for saying that but Geralt seemed genuinely hurt that the world saw him as a monster.

Jaskier just couldn’t comprehend that at all.

He was dangerous and lethal yes, but only when he needed to be, or at least Jaskier assumed as much based on his encounters with Eskel and Lambert. Eskel in particular had never drawn his sword unless he absolutely had to, Lambert admittedly was faster to attack but then he was less forgiving to the world that showed him no mercy and Jaskier could hardly blame him for that.

“So, Geralt…” Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “Tell me a story.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and smirked. “No.”

“No?” Jaskier cried. “What do mean no?”

Geralt grinned. “You’ve had enough second hand stories, bard.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at the witcher whilst he considered his words, smiling as he realised the implication behind the words. “I can come with you?”

Geralt hummed and nodded his head. “As long as you stay back and do as I say. Vesemir would kill me if I got you killed.”

Jaskier tilted his head. “Vesemir?”

Geralt grunted but didn’t elaborate which was fine! Jaskier would draw out more details from the witcher eventually. It seemed no witcher was totally immune to his charms.

“So when do we start?” Jaskier leaned his chin on his arms and looked up into Geralt’s eyes, happily getting lost in their swirling amber depths.

Geralt shrugged. “When I get a job.”

Jaskier grinned and leapt up from the table, bounding back to where he’d stored his lute behind the bar. There were still a few songs left in his witcher centric repertoire that he had yet to play, he could easily tweak the lyrics a little, make them about the witcher tucked away in the back of the tavern… the Butcher of Blaviken.

No.

That wouldn’t do.

He appraised Geralt thoughtfully and grinned as his muse came to him.

The White Wolf!

He took a deep breath, brushed his fingers against the strings of his lute and the tavern fell silent as he began to sing.

Geralt hadn’t intended to invite the bard along when he noticed him dancing and flirting with the crowd. He had had no doubt that this was the one. He was Eskel’s bard. He’d watched completely enraptured by the bard’s performance. His gaze drifting over the bard’s surprisingly muscular body. He’d imagined him to be slight and effeminate, like many bards were but that wasn’t the case. His legs were long but muscular. As he perched one foot on a bench and strummed freely on the strings of the lute, Geralt hadn’t managed to stop his gaze from being drawn to the man’s calf.

And his voice.

He’d played effortlessly with the melody and even Geralt’s untrained ear could tell that singing came as naturally to this man as breathing. He didn’t have to strain to reach any of the notes and his voice didn’t shake no matter how much he danced and spun and flirted with the patrons of the tavern.

No, Geralt hadn’t intended to do anything more than simply introduce himself and find out what the damned bard’s name was and yet, here they were travelling side by side towards  the fields where the supposed devil had been spotted.

And he still didn’t know the idiots name.

He swore, silencing the chattering bard who looked at him curiously.

“Everything alright, Geralt?” He asked, cornflower blue eyes shining in the bright sunlight.

“Why flowers?” He asked the troubadour who smirked and gently dampened the resonating sound of his lute strings with his hand.

“We all have our secrets, witcher.” The brunet winked and strode on ahead.

Geralt frowned and ignored the surge of desire that rushed through him at the bard’s easy flirtations. “Well which one is it?”

“Which one is what?”

Geralt grabbed the bard by his shoulders spun him round so he was facing him. Geralt didn’t miss the spike of lust in the bard’s scent and filed that away for later. Not that there would be a later. One adventure, one song and some extra cash. That was all this would be.

“You know damn well, bard.” He spat out and gripped the man tightly so he couldn’t escape this time. “No changing the subject.”

“As if I would do that!” The troubadour gaped in offence and a quick sniff of the air told Geralt that he was only teasing him. “In all my days.”

“Bard.” Geralt was half-minded to forget the whole thing and gallop away on Roach but he was pinned in place by the mischievous twinkle in the bard’s gaze. He sighed and released his grip on the man.

“I call myself Jaskier.” He answered with open arms and a dramatic bow.

“Jaskier.” Geralt frowned. “From Novigrad?”

“Oxenfurt.” Jaskier corrected. “I am rather delighted that it was translated differently across the Continent. Although it does make it a little harder to make myself known.”

“You’re the bard that sings the songs of the witchers, of Kaer Morhen.” Geralt hummed. “The name didn’t matter as much as the stories.”

Jaskier cocked his head. “It did to you.”

“Hmm.” Geralt agreed. “Jaskier’s not your real name.”

“No.” Jaskier admitted.

“Will you tell me?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier shook his head. “Not yet, maybe eventually, dear heart.”

Geralt’s heart didn’t soften at the newest term of endearment.

Witchers were made of sterner stuff than that.

But he did smile fondly at his new companion behind his back as they headed deeper into the farmland.

_____

Next

[vanillann]

flashback v (spencer reid x f.reader)

warning: swearing, mentions of crime, metaions of verbal and light abuse(nothing major i promise) and slow burn

word count: 1.8k

flashback masterlist

Penelope and I stood outside the steel doors of Star Chambers, both of us looking back at the black van parked a decent distance away.

“Okay, hit the blue button now,” Penelope spoke to the two men inside our ears, literally.

“Okay baby girl, you both stay safe in there.”

I went to open the door, Pen placed her hand over mine. I looked over at her counting out loud. After seeing said 10, she nodded to me to open the large door.

As soon as the doors opened, the light from outside flooded the dark room. Computers sat around the entire room, a small laughing sugar skull on each one.

Pen and I marched in, confidence in our walk. I felt like I was lying because there wasn’t a bit of confidence in me. Shane stood at the end of the room, his face morphing into a proud smirk.

The sound of Beyoncé played in the background, Pen and I stopped in front of Shane.

Suddenly Pen snapped her fingers and the doors behind us close. I forget how good at this shit we used to be.

Everyone in the room sat quickly, watching us from their seats. Suddenly Shane started clapping, his smirk growing as he walked closer to us.

“Wow, you lost weight.”

The first thing that Shane said to us and I was already going to knock his brains out.

“Nice one.”

Shane turned to look at me, his smirk growing larger which I didn’t think was possible.

“Little step-sissy hasn’t changed one bit, typical.”

“You wish I was typical.”

He turned back to Pen, walking closer so he was right in her face.

“Miss me?”

Pen paused, waiting a few seconds before she spoke.

“No.”

I felt my hand fly up to the end of the sweater, trying to remember the feeling of safety.

“Then prove it.”

Shane went to grab Pen chin, she started moving her face closer until she turned her head at the last second.

I didn’t move, but I was definitely doing a happy dance in my head.

She walked closer to a nearby hacker. As soon as she stood in front of him he stood up.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Pen spoke as she put her hands on either side of his face. He only smiled and nodded quickly.

She then gently placed her red lips on his, the sound of a light moan fell from his lips.

I suddenly felt bad for Morgan and Spencer, since they were closer to the action than I was and they weren’t even in the room.

She then forcefully removed her lips from the shorter boy, his face held nothing but bliss.

Shane tapped his foot, looking at the two un jealousy. I looked back at the two to see the hacker boy watching me closely.

“Not look at me, I’m not getting mono.”

I heard a loud cough in my ear but I ignored it, turned back to look at Shane.

Pen stood up straight, getting back into Shane’s face.

“Us three have a lot to talk about.”

Shane looked down at her lips before looking back into her eyes.

“Yes we do.”

I walked up to the two, throwing my arms over their shoulders.

“Then let's get to talking kiddos.”

Shane nodded his head, every hacker in the room left. I sat down in the chair the hacker boy Pen made out with just had. Once every one left Shane pulled up a seat while Open sat in one not far from me.

“Why’d you take the Sam Russell file?”

I didn’t waste any time, wanting nothing more than to be in the back of the van listening to Pen crazy metaphors and Spencer new facts. I wanted to hear Derek making fun of me in a sweater and plaid skirt.

“That stupid profile thing that you do was wrong.”

I felt myself roll my eyes, him looking at me like we used to when we were kids.

Those memories came flooding back quickly. The way we used to throw lamps at each other, brushing off as a basic sibling fight.

The way he used to look at me in my room until I “figured out how to stop being a brat”.

The way he used to playPen for everything that happened, then as soon as she started crying he took out his camera and recorded.

I felt myself pull harder on the yarn at the end of my jacket, my foot tapping on the stone floor.

“Just give us back the file,” I heard Pen yell, but she sounded so far away.

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, watching Shane quickly stand from the chair. I felt myself pull closer into myself, scared what might happen next.

“I refuse to work with the FBI,” Shane said, walking behind his desk.

“This isn’t about Sam Russell, this is about doing the right thing,” I spoke softly, the old me was taking over again.

“Shut up, the adults are talking,” Shane yelled, gripping onto one of the metal tables.

I wanted to hide, I wanted to run out of this room and into that black van outside.

“This is sure to give me a lot of flashbacks.”

I didn’t even think before the word fell out of my mouth, needing some familiarity to overthrow everything.

I heard shuffling my ear, and suddenly the sound of Spencer clearing his throat brought me back to reality.

“Did you know the only letter that doesn’t appear on the periodic table is J.”

I watched a Pen didn’t make any more or a reaction to Spencer speaking in my ear. I knew he must have shut it off so only I could hear, which made everything feel so much more intimate.

I smiled to myself, Spencer waiting for a sign to stop.

I whisper so quietly I didn’t think Spencer could hear, but once I heard a “anytime” I knew he understood.

“I took the file because your little friends missed almost everything, maybe like the silent partner.”

Shane spoke quickly, pointing his finger in between the both of us.

“We’ve already gone over that theory.”

I knew I was lying, I knew everyone threw that away as fast as it came through the door, but I also knew Shane was a narcissist and if I gave in, I could get somewhere.

“Bullshit sissy,” he gritted his teeth as he walked closer to me. I stood up from my chair, brought to him.

“You didn’t know shit about the inside killer, I know you couldn’t figure that out.”

Shane was swinging his hands all over the place, drawing pictures in the sky.

“You wouldn’t know, you’re stuck in an underground lair like you’re a Disney villain or something.”

Suddenly a hand grabbed my shoulder, pushing Shane and I away from each other.

“Can we all talk like normal people for a minute.”

Shane only nodded, walking to the other side of the room as me.

“How’s your birth dad doing?”

Pen looked him up and down, sympathy in her voice.

“He died seven years ago.”

I hated Shane, but I felt my heartbreak for him a little. I knew he loved his father, he meant a lot to him.

“I posted about it, neither of you said a word.”

I looked down at my flats, the guilt seating in quickly.

“When we both joined the FBI they told us we couldn’t have contact with you anymore,” Pen answered, placing a light touch to his arm.

“Then why didn’t you do it.”

Shane stepped back into her face, I felt myself walk closer to him.

“I got us caught,” I spoke, his eyes turning from her to me.

“You got caught? Come on I know we don’t get along but I know you are smarter than to get caught.”

I felt myself roll my eyes, the whole situation was getting to me again.

“I didn’t know the FBI would show up, they tracked Pen through my phone.”

“Actually, I went to the station,” Pen turned to me with soft eyes.

“Huh?”

Shane smirked while he looked me in the eye.

“She was too scared to stay with me so he ran after you, knowing she’d get caught.”

“I wanted a different life, I wanted my best friend and I to be able to do something that was illegal all the time.”

I felt myself laugh, the memories of everything we needed in those years were illegal, but we alway made it work.

“Well aren’t you both doing better, baby girl.”

I felt myself step back as she walked back to his desk.

“Oh and let’s not forget Mr. “Did you know”, I hope your kids don’t come out wearing sweater vests.”

I felt the anger boil inside me, the idea of him talking about Spencer made me want to go back to throwing laps.

“Shit.”

I heard Morgan's voice in my ear, the realization of everything was kicking in.

“It’s not like that, you don’t understand the phrase,” Pen was quick to jump at Shane, trying to make him understand.

“It’s a friendship, all of it was.”

I felt my heart break, even saying those words in a dangerous situation felt wrong.

“Oh I saw text, it seems the guy you both are sleeping with are miracle workers.”

Shane slammed his hands on the table in front, looking over both of us.

“Because he somehow broke the strongest and smartest woman I ever met in my life and ruined her.,” he said pointing his finger at Pen.

“And Mr. Smarty Pants managed to turn my sweet step-sister into a cold blooded bitch.”

“Oh you want to see a bitch,” I started marching to him before Pen grabbed my upper arm and held me in place.

“We aren’t sleeping with them.”

“Well then I guess you vandalized yourself, which is ten times worse.”

I felt Pen's grip tighten one my, her eyes from liking with tears.

“You aren’t the two I saw as my family.”

“You don’t treat people you see as family like shit, get it right.”

I turned around and stormed out the large building, the sun shining down on the thick sweater. I didn’t wait for Pen and I threw the back of the van open and sat on the bench.

I didn’t do anything as Morgan or Reid spoke to me, the anger building up inside me was too much. I saw Pen join us in the back of the van, her eyes overflowing with tears.

She closed the door behind her and fell into Morgan’s arms, he sobbing took the back of the van.

“You aren’t a bitch,” Spencer said gently from beside me.

“No I am, but that’s the exact trait that's going to let me catch this asshat.”

part iv part vi

cm tag list:

@itsarayofsunshine

flashback tag list:

@summer-writes @snitchthewitch @mortallythoughtfulgurl @l0ve-0f-my-life @101donuts @siwiecola @eldahae @hot-mess-express99 @itlittlefangirl @afuckingshituniverse @mollygetssherlockcoffee @tinylumpiaa @kermitsaysgayrights @matthewreid

[prince-of-elsinore]

On Gunslingers, the "March of Progress," and Leaving a Legacy

An analysis of themes in Supernatural Season 12

In a previous post rambling about season 12, I stumbled onto the idea of American Hunters vs. the British Men of Letters as a classic Western set-up: the lone gunslinger who lives by his wits, skill, grit, and personal moral code, vs. the advance of "civilization" colonizing and "taming" the West, effectively pushing out the gunslinger and making him obsolete. The land becomes a more inhabitable place (for white settlers), but with the comforts and safety of civil society come society's norms and mores, which leave no space for the shades of gray in which the vigilante gunslinger operates. If we take the BMOL mission at face value, they are attempting the same sort of colonization of "wild" (monster-infested) America. Britain is "civilized" (monster-free) thanks to the BMOL, whereas in the US, lone operator hunters (gunslingers) rove the country, sometimes saving people, but not all the people, and always operating according to their personal judgment, faulty as it may be (see Gordon, Roy and Walt, Martin, to name a few). Leaving aside the question of whether the BMOL's goal of ridding the country of monsters is realistic (the US in not an island like Britain), their aim, if achieved, would undoubtedly make the US a safer country for its human residents.

(I'm aware that this analogy is problematic for equating monsters with native inhabitants who must be wiped out or assimilated, and humans with white colonizers. This is an implication that the show itself makes. This post isn't about the problematic and ethically inconsistent portrayal of monsters in Supernatural, though, which is a huge topic in and of itself, so I acknowledge that it is an issue, but one I don't aim to address here.)

What the US would lose if the BMOL succeeded is the "rugged individualism" of the hunter ethos, and the nuances that their personal codes allow--a second chance for the psychic Magdas and werewolf Claire Novaks of the world. The show, of course, wants us to side with the hunters, the good ol' fashioned gunslingers. It makes it easy (too easy) for us to do by presenting the BMOL as caricaturish villains with a cruelly rigid code. This has the effect of aligning the audience against the "march of progress" (just as many Westerns implicitly do--therein lies the genre's subversive potential).

Let's take a closer look at 12x14 "The Raid" in this light. The Alpha vampire has been drawn out of retirement by the BMOL's meddling:

Alpha: I'm old. I like living quietly. You've been making my life awfully noisy lately. You've killed so many of my children. I've seen your work. In England, I didn't get involved because, well, it's England. But America, yes. America is my home. And it's time that you get off my lawn.

Clearly, America holds a privileged position in monsters' minds, or at least in this particular very, very old monster's mind. It is still the "Wild West," and it is "home" for monsters. No reason is given for this; it's safe to say it's a purely ideological impulse on the part of the show.

This exchange between Sam and the Alpha follows:

Sam: My family and I, we kill vamps when they get out of line. And you've let us. Alpha: I have many children, Sam. What's one, two, here or there? Sam: Exactly. So? Let my mom and me go. We'll walk away, go back to the way things were, to the way things are supposed to be. Hunters and vampires, cops and robbers, a fair fight.

"Cowboys and Indians" could just as easily fill in for "cops and robbers" there--in fact, the obvious absence of that analogy is a ringing silence. The show is skirting dangerously close around the edges of its uncomfortable premise.

What I want to draw attention to, though, is Sam's assertion that this is a "fair fight." What he's proposing is a return to the status quo, where some people, by default, will die. Of course, Sam is bluffing--he does plan to kill the Alpha here and now, hardly "fighting fair" (hm, just as European settlers made so many underhanded deals with Native Americans)--and at the end of the episode he does team up with the BMOL. By the end of the season, though, with the hunters uniting to drive out the British invaders, this is precisely the status quo the Americans are fighting for: one where many people who don't deserve will die at the hands of monsters, but perhaps a few others will live whom the BMOL would have killed. The protracted struggle between humans and monsters is thereby positioned as a sort of natural symbiosis, part of the circle of life. This allows for the perpetuation of the mythic "Wild West," which is necessary for the very existence of the show, and especially for the hunters to be seen as the "good guys." The show convinces us to reject "civilization" and embrace vigilantism as better than the alternative. It's impossible to pinpoint this ideology as exclusively conservative or progressive; it has implications in either direction. The world of hunters and monsters was never a perfect metaphor, after all, but one thing is clear in season 12: hunters are the heroes.

This brings me to another central theme of the season: legacy. After season 11, it seems that the show wanted to "correct course." Season 11 is entirely about Sam and Dean cleaning up a mess (the Darkness) they directly caused, after all, and after that narrowly-averted apocalypse, it's fair to ask the question, "do Sam and Dean really do more good than harm"? Season 12 gives us a resounding "yes," over and over again. The message is that hunting, for all its hardships and messiness, is worth it.

In 12x06 "Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox" (which I've written about previously) we get a taste of the sort of legacy Sam and Dean are making for themselves. It might come as a surprise, after seeing hunters hunt down Sam and Dean in previous seasons (Gordon and Kubrick in season 2, Roy and Walt in season 5), that other hunters now welcome Sam and Dean in their midsts and even revere them. One might rightfully ask, what would they do if they knew Sam and Dean and their codependency nearly caused another apocalypse not too long ago? Inconsistencies aside, it's apparent that Sam and Dean are appreciated as something like heroes in their own world. In the episode, they share this exchange:

Sam: Did you know people tell stories about us? Dean: Yeah. Apparently we’re a little bit legendary. Sam: Yeah, but, I mean, so was Asa. Then a hunt went bad, and he ended up hanging from a tree, alone in the woods.

Sam still wonders, characteristically, if the heroism is worth it. But in 12x09 "First Blood," he's the one with this iconic line:

SAM: We’re the guys that save the world.

This is a statement of identity, in response to the question "who are you?" Sam might as well say, "we're the heroes."

In 12x11 "Regarding Dean," Dean has his moment to affirm that their line of work is worth its toll. Talking about the curse that made Dean lose his memory, Sam makes this comment:

Sam: Some of the things we've done, we've had this weight for... forever. And seeing it gone, uh, you looked happy. Dean: Huh. Well, look, was it nice to drop our baggage? Yeah, maybe. Hell, probably. But it wasn't just the crap that got lost. I mean, it was everything. It was us, it was what we do, you know? All of it. So... that's what being happy looks like? I think I'll pass.

Again, Dean is making a statement of identity. The Winchesters are what they do, and what they do is the right thing, and that is worth giving up happiness for.

One common complaint about season 12 is that it heroizes Sam and Dean too much. They were never meant to be the Big Damn Heroes, the "guys who save the world," as if it's a day job--they're meant to be the underdogs, the messy humans doing their best, sometimes failing, but rising to the occasion when it counts most, despite the terrible costs. Perhaps this is true, and perhaps this season does go overboard in trying to smooth over the messy cracks in the heroic facade. The show could have done better than to make the heroes and villains so black and white, certainly. Perhaps the show does lose some of its identity in erasing the moral ambiguities that always made it so intriguing.

There are moments, however, that are still thematically resonant with the show as a whole--more understated moments that remember the bigger picture. One such moment is when legacy is explicitly addressed in 12x18 "The Memory Remains":

Dean: What do you think our legacy's gonna be? When we're gone, I mean, after all the stuff we've done, you think folks will remember us? You know, like, a hundred years from now? Sam: No. Dean: Oh, that's nice. Sam: Well, I mean... Guys like us, we're not exactly the type of people they write about in history books, you know? Dean: Mm. Sam: But the people we saved, they're our legacy. And they'll remember us and then I guess... We'll eventually fade away, too. That's fine, because we left the world better than we found it, you know.

This exchange presents Sam and Dean's heroism on a human scale. They're not the guys that save the whole world--even if they did do that, a few times. They're the guys that save individual human lives, time and again. That's who they are, and it's what matters most. Sam's right: in the world of Supernatural, few people 100 years on will know the names of Sam and Dean Winchester. Perhaps a few hunter stories will still be passed around, and maybe a new resident of the bunker will piece together some old information. But everyone that the Winchesters saved will remember them for the rest of their lives, and those very lives they get to live are the Winchesters' legacy. Once those people pass away, Sam and Dean will fade from memory, but for them, it was never about being remembered; it was always about doing good--a common aim to which they are equally committed, at this point. Sam and Dean's greatest redemption has never been in saving the world (often from problems they themselves caused), but in saving people, and this holds true to the very end of the show.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Which Fic

I was tagged by @stusbunker!

Which of your fics…

…did you think would get a bigger reaction/audience than it got?

Finally. I think reader engagement has definitely declined in general, though.

…got a better reaction than you expected?

The Right Spot. I’m still a little flabbergasted by how popular this was. Like, I thought it was hot, but I didn’t realize that many people would be into it. 

Runner-up, The One Where Reid Is Reading Harry Potter. This is such a dorky little bit of wishful thinking; I really didn’t expect it to get any notes, but I love that so many people shared my emotional attachment to reading out loud. 

…is your funniest?

The Rockstar AU, especially Daisies and Cheers. There’s so much comedic potential in all those characters that doesn’t get put to use because of what they all do; I just started thinking about what they would be like if they were making music and partying, instead of saving the world, and fuckin ran with it. 

Runner-up, Brains Over Beauty. Mostly because I refer to Sam as “Lumberjack Ken.” I’m still giggling over that. 

…is your darkest or angstiest?

Set Yourself On Fire. It’s about Sam between seasons 3 and 4, and it touches on some things that came from a very real emotional place: self-destructive tendencies, depression, drinking, drugs, that sort of fun stuff. I have a lot of fics that are sad or feelsy, but there’s usually some sort of positive spin. This one is just fuckin dark, emotionally. 

…is your absolute favorite?

Probably the Coffee & Psychopaths series. When I started writing Quitting, I knew there were a couple parallels between the characters that I wanted to write about, but the more I wrote, the more I found... and I’m still amazed by the way those canon plotlines wove together. So. Much. Plot. 

This series has become a place for me to dive headfirst into philosophy, psychology, neuroscience, dorky history trivia, and so many more of my favorite subjects, and tie them together with Sam and Spencer character studies, and I love being able to connect all those dots. I love every single fucking sentence of this series so far and I can’t wait to write more. 

 …is your least favorite?

I Can Change. It was my first fic in the Supernatural fandom and when I started it, I had no idea where it was going.

…was the easiest to write?

Big Damn Heroes. I’d had a few of those character exchanges in my head for a loooong time, and the crossover challenge gave me an excuse to finally write them out. I had so much fun writing that and I think it shows.

…was hardest to write?

Lost At Sea (But I Am Home). All of Marked was difficult in its own way (trauma processing! Fun times!) but this even more so. The plot is very very subtle, there’s a lot of emotional nuance happening, and I really wanted to stay true to Dean as a character, and the meta bits are, like, deep and meaningful and shit, and on top of all that I saddled myself with some running metaphors that were tricky to integrate... yeah.

…has your favorite lines/exchange/paragraph? (share it!)

Marked, Chapter 20. The entire conversation with Sam, but especially this: 

“There are good days and there are days when… when it feels like it’s crushing you. And that doesn’t mean you’ve failed, or that you’re not strong enough, or whatever else, because even if you’re doing everything right, the bad days are going to happen. What matters is that you’re trying. Every day you get up and take one little step, in spite of everything you’re carrying, that’s a victory. It’s not about getting somewhere. It’s the step that matters.”

Also, I think a few of the exchanges in Sharp Edges are some of my best work, particularly the negotiation conversation and the last few paragraphs. Such as:

“You good?” he asks, falling back on what seems to be his mantra for the evening.

“I’m… no, not really, hang on,” Spencer mumbles, and Sam flinches, moving away instinctively.

“Shit, sorry, what -”

“No, wait, that’s not - just… can you reach the tissues, or do I actually have to stand up right now?” Spencer asks, with a disgruntled sort of glare at the box of Kleenex on the end table.

Sam laughs, awkward and self-conscious. Spencer blinks owlishly up at him, shaking his hair out of his eyes. Then a smile spreads over his face slowly and he’s laughing too as Sam leans and stretches over to grab the box.

“The male orgasm is really inconvenient sometimes,” Spencer mutters.

Sam lets out another snort of laughter, looking away to give him some privacy as he cleans up. He’s not sure what the etiquette of this whole situation is; it’s such a strange thing, oddly intimate, and even though Sam’s still fully-dressed, he feels exposed in a way he’s not used to.

“Now I’m good,” Spencer says quietly. He’s got his knees tucked up to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, but he tilts his head back against the wall and aims a hazy, heavy-lidded stare at Sam. His lips part and curl up in a barely-there smile, and his tongue flicks out over the pink curve of his lower lip.

Those edges that Sam first noticed are harder to see, now; he’s all soft eyes and softer mouth, flushed skin, messy hair… all except the line of his jaw. That’s still wickedly, unmistakably sharp.

Spencer should come with a warning sign: handle with care. Sam’s not sure who that sign would be protecting. It could be handle with care: fragile, or, just as easily, handle with care: sharp edges.

Either way, there’s a good chance of someone getting hurt here.

“Can I kiss you?” Sam asks.

Spencer’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly with surprise, and his pupils are huge and dark, liquid-looking, hypnotic. He blinks, slowly, and suddenly looks about ten years younger. He’d been so self-assured ordering Sam not to draw blood; that confidence is gone, now, like he’s had less experience with kissing than with telling people how to hit him.

Oh, Sam thinks, and tries not to let his own surprise show on his face.

Also also, Origin Stories has some of my favorite conversations/overall themes, but they’re long passages and I’m not gonna paste them here! 

…have you reread the most?

Uh not gonna lie I’ve re-read Everything a lot. Because... unf. That’s my go-to fantasy. 

…would you recommend to someone reading your work for the first time?

Most of my favorites are already cited here! But if you wanted a short, concise kinda one-shot sampler plate, I’d start with:

Let’s Get Married - happy, poetic.

Told You So - sexual tension and snark.

Heart of Gold - feels.

Prey - hot but also weird and unsettling.

…are you most proud of?

Marked. I’ve talked about this fic so much, I don’t think it needs to be reiterated, but Marked means so so much to me.

Tagging: @cockslut-padalecki @deanwanddamons @butiaintgonnaloveem @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @mrswhozeewhatsis @dontshootmespence and whoever else wants to! 

[strawberry-skies-xx]

forget the bottle

C H A P T E R    O N E

summary: Jaskier has always felt things on a deeper level than most, and more often, and he has gone through life this way. He has coping mechanisms, of course - drinking, talking, singing, etc. He can't be overwhelmed by his emotions all the time, after all.

After the mountain, Jaskier's coping mechanism is drinking. Turns out, there's something in it, and Nilfgaard knows exactly how to break the songbird.

words: 17097

tags: geralt / jaskier, yennefer, PTSD, post-s1e6, s1e6 fix-it, a fix-it of sorts, pyschological trauma, psychological torture, magical fuckery, mind manipulation, aftermath of psychological torture, emotional/psychological abuse, torture, nilfgaard, captured by nilfgaard, fringilla, fluff and angst, protective yennefer, yennefer ships it, idiots in love, love confessions, happy ending, solitary confinement

author’s note: alright, so here is the zillionth captured-by-nilfgaard fic in this fandom. and, yes, whenever i mention valdo marx + jaskier hate-fucking, i am passive-aggressively yelling at the fandom for not having more of it. it has massive potential, but i don't write smut. (aka, please link me to any amazing top/dom valdo and bottom/sub jaskier hate-fucking, i love it)

scheduled tuesday and thursday posting.

main masterlist | story on ao3 | next chapter >>

-0-0-0-

Jaskier felt too much.

He’d always felt too much. He spent his younger years raging at his parents, raging at the world, though he didn’t know what he was raging at, only that he wanted to get away, be free.

And when he was old enough, he went to Oxenfurt and learned - learned academics, learned the arts, and he flashed through emotions quicker than he did love. The world was new, the world was bright and big and bold and Jaskier wanted nothing more than to carve himself a place in it.

And he did. He went to an inn in Posada and met a white-haired Witcher, and he learned some more. Learned of the darker emotions - not just anger, but revenge, and not just sadness, but despair, oppression. The world was new, still, the world wasn’t quite bright anymore but it was big and bold and Jaskier still wanted to carve himself a place in it, by way of one grumpy, golden-eyed, white-haired Witcher.

So Jaskier went through the world, and he felt. He felt pain lance through him, sharp as any blade - pain of heartbreak, pain of rejection, pain of actual physical wounds. He felt happiness, like warm honey falling gently over him - contentment when he sat by the fire with Geralt and sang into the shadows, joy when he roused an entire tavern into singing and stamping with him and he danced between them all, singing his heart out to the world.

He also felt love, in a more permanent sense than he’d ever felt it. Love was…. a peculiar sensation for him. He fell into love hard, and fast, and deep - both literally and metaphorically; Jaskier did enjoy the finer things in life, and he wasn’t above flirting and taking everyone he met to bed, sometimes at the same time. He adored people, like soft warmth rising in him. Lust was sharp and primal, carnal in its intensity, and Jaskier sharpened it into something intricate, turned it into pretty words and meaningful looks and determined intent.

And he loved, loved with his whole being, loved with his entire heart. Jaskier gave a piece of his heart to everyone he met, and sometimes he took it back after a fleeting infatuation, sometimes it stayed with them and he yearned. Valdo Marx was one of those people - he had loved him as he did anyone, had ended up hating him, but Valdo was not a fleeting love. Jaskier still loved him, even if it was only for their sharp back-and-forths and the truly mind-blowing hate sex they had occasionally - Valdo knew him better than anyone, except for Geralt.

Geralt was different. For Jaskier, love shot through him like a lightning bolt - or, Cupid’s arrow. Sometimes it went out the other end and left, sometimes it stuck and bled and scarred. With Geralt, it had shot through him like any other person, except it had stuck, it hadn’t bled, and it hadn’t scarred. Jaskier loved Geralt, and he was never so selfless that he never wanted more of him despite having what he already did, but if he was truly forced to choose, Jaskier would have been perfectly content with the life he led with the Witcher, would have suffered through the pain of pining after him if he got to stay.

Jaskier hadn’t chosen, though. Geralt had chosen for him, and he had decided that he didn’t need him, didn’t want him, and Jaskier had granted him his oh so desired blessing, and left.

Heartbreak felt like needles, stabbing him, over and over and over, in multiple places, and when he thought it was done, he’d see something and he’d be pricked again, it would draw blood.

Jaskier had grown very good at coping with his feelings - he couldn’t go through life being overwhelmed by all of his emotions. He did this in all manners of ways - writing songs and singing them, putting on the optimistic act to simultaneously let out emotions while hiding others, and talking, constantly. One of his better - or, well, quite unhealthy but very effective - coping mechanisms was drinking, which was what he was currently using on the heartbreak needling at him.

He stared into the tankard of ale, which tasted more like piss than actual ale, and sighed. Even the damn ale reminded him of Geralt.

Maybe the Cupid’s arrow for Geralt had started bleeding. Jaskier wasn’t sure if it would scar.

He groaned and dumped coins on the table, ignoring the flirtatious looks some women were giving him. He would have accepted it at any other time, would have lost himself in pleasure, but he felt slightly dizzy and he wanted nothing more than to find someplace to sleep, without practically selling his body for it. He didn’t have enough coin for a room, so he’d have to sleep out in the woods. Which, dammit, was just like he used to do with Geralt. Minus the Witchery protection now, of course.

Jaskier’s head was thoroughly spinning by the time he got out of the inn, and he knew something was wrong. He was drugged, he knew what it felt like to be drugged, having been enough times that Geralt actually berated him for having to rescue him. He ran through in his head what drug it could be, landed distantly on the salty taste of the ale, and cursed under his breath. Or, maybe it was a curse. Jaskier’s head was too fuzzy to figure out whether it came out as an actual word or as incoherent noises.

He saw shadows out of the corner of his eye - black, large, vaguely terrifying considering the way he stumbled and couldn’t think straight. He was caught by two strong arms, Geralt flashing quickly through his mind before a voice that was decidedly not Geralt whispered in his ear, smooth and cruel.

“Hey, little songbird,” not-Geralt said. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Fuck off,” Jaskier replied. Or didn’t. He didn’t know, his head was spinning and he felt a headache pounding and his limbs were growing slow and heavy, and the darkness dragged him down all too easily.

-0-0-0-

Jaskier woke up cold, and shivering, and very, very confused. He was laying on his side on a stone floor, feeling like he had been dunked in ice water - which, maybe he had, because his hair was dripping wet still and plastered to his face. His hands were behind his back, and at an experimental tug, they were tied together too. He wore nothing but his pants, and his bare shoulder pressed against the cold stone.

Jaskier cursed, both from his situation which had rapidly come back to him, and the very annoying strands of wet hair that had decided to plant themselves directly in his eye, and managed to roll himself onto his back with some effort. He lifted his head as much as he could and shook his hair out of his face, trying very hard to ignore the feeling of it plastered to his cheeks, his neck, just all over the place. He took the brief time to berate whoever had kidnapped him on hair care - honestly, did no one know how to dry hair? He liked to keep his hair soft and this was decidedly not the way to do it.

Of course, none of this was what he believed. He was ignoring the fear crawling up in him, feeling like spiders and making his skin itch, feeling like ice trickling down his spine and tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. If he focused on anything other than the fear, then he wouldn’t be overwhelmed. It couldn’t do anything.

Jaskier rolled himself back on his side in order not to crush his hands beneath him, and after a long, heated moment spent mentally berating whoever had kidnapped him, again, on the best positions for singing, he actually started singing. The lecture went on, still - every time his voice cracked very much not artfully, or every time he couldn’t pull in enough breath, he took a second to come up with some particularly creative insult in his head about calling him songbird and then prohibiting his ability to sing.

He ignored the feeling of spiders crawling over him and the feeling of ice trickling down his spine.

It was an undetermined amount of time, measured only by the fact that Jaskier got through eight songs verbally before he started shivering uncontrollably, and six songs mentally before the door opened and a woman in blue robes and two men in black Nilfgaardian armor strode in.

He gave a dry laugh, ignoring the spiders crawling and the ice trickling. “Nice of you to stop by,” he said. “You know, it’s a bit contradictory when you call me songbird and then put me in a position like this, which is very much not conducive to singing, let me tell you.”

The woman in blue robes smiled and walked forward. She reached behind him and tugged harshly on the ropes tying his arms, pulling him into a kneeling position, before yanking him up to stand. Jaskier met her dark eyes, sensed the crackling undercurrent of magic around her, and supposed that this was Nilfgaard’s mage. Or one of them, at least.

She held his gaze for a long moment, searching, before letting go. “Untie him,” she said, turning around and standing several paces back as the Nilfgaardian soldiers descended on him.

Jaskier stood still, finding his heart suddenly pounding and adrenaline racing through him. This was his chance - he could try to escape now.

The ropes dropped from his arms and he lashed out, landing a right hook in one of the soldier’s jaws and aiming for another in the other soldier, when the entire room popped and Jaskier found himself slammed into by a wave of magic. His back hit the stone wall hard, knocking the breath out of him, and he gasped, arching. The sorceress walked forward, cruel emptiness in her eyes, watching him like he was a bug pinned to a board. Which, he supposed he was.

He was always a bug pinned to a board, poked and prodded and seen as amusing by Geralt and Yennefer and now this damned mage. Gods, Jaskier hated being human.

“Don’t struggle,” she said, voice oddly serene. “It’ll only be worse for you.”

Jaskier scoffed, rolled his eyes and studiously ignored the fear threatening to overtake him. Sometimes feeling too much was a blessing, sometimes it was a curse. Right now, it was a curse.

“Why? So I can become your puppet and you can do whatever you’d like to me? I’d be flattered you think of me that way, if this wasn’t a kidnapping,” he retorted sharply. The mage laughed, amused, and Jaskier tugged against his invisible bonds. Something in him wanted to cry at the fact that they didn’t even deem it necessary to tie him up, he was so weak and human.

The mage didn’t respond - not to his question, anyway. Instead, she raised two fingers to trace along his jaw. “It’s better to get this over with now,” she said.

Jaskier paled, felt the fear rising in him. “Get what over with? I’d rather you don’t-“

Her fingers landed on his forehead and his sentence ended with a scream. He arched against the invisible bonds, feeling the searing heat crawl into his mind, flood it with lava, with blood and pain and misery. She dissected his memories, sharply cleaving through every defense he had, and he felt the magic ripping through his body harshly, tearing through his mind.

Jaskier slid into the wooden seat, bread shifting uncomfortably in his waistband - but that wasn’t important. What was important was the lack of a review, the golden eyes staring flatly at him and the two long, sharp, menacing swords sitting beside the man.

“Come on, you must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

“No,” he gasped. “Don’t- please don’t-“

He screamed again as she ripped through another of his memories, feeling tears start in his eyes and the feeling of fear inch up his spine, waiting for the opportunity to get past his defenses and overtake him.

“How’s my singing, Geralt?” Jaskier asked loudly, because oh he wanted to have this conversation. He was quite heartbroken from the Countess de Stael’s rude break off of their relationship, and he thought spending a good long while defending his singing with a loud, unrestrained sarcasm he hadn’t been able to use since he entered the Countess’s court would make him feel better. There was something freeing about being with Geralt, not having to tiptoe around the darker and dirtier things in life.

Jaskier gasped through the pain, shaking against the wall, mouth now opening wordlessly as he arched and the mage tore into memory after memory, pulling everything he ever felt, thought, said, did, into full view, forcing white hair and golden eyes into the forefront of his mind. She learned he felt too much, she learned he loved too much, she learned of the frankly embarrassing number of times he hate-fucked Valdo Marx.

And she learned he loved Geralt with a love more permanent than anything he’d ever felt before.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

The agony ended with that line echoing in his head and he fell limp against the magic holding him to the wall, gasping for breath and still feeling the echoes of the searing pain ripping through his head.

The mage was entirely unconcerned, standing and waiting with a blank look on her face until Jaskier caught his breath and sent her a glare. He growled - which, of course made him think of Geralt. Damn the fucking Witcher who stole his heart. “Are you done? Learned anything useful?” he snarled, truly not giving a fuck about whether he angered her and made it worse.

She traced her fingers along his jaw again, sliding them beneath his chin and raising his head, lowering herself down to look him in the eyes. “Oh, songbird. We learned so much. I'm going to enjoy breaking you.”

Jaskier felt the fear rise up in him, felt his breaths start to come shorter and tears fill his eyes, and forcefully shoved it down. He couldn’t let his emotions overwhelm him.

“Why do you want me?” he asked, uselessly. He knew why they wanted him - and he knew he couldn’t give them the answers they wanted. Geralt had discarded him.

The mage released his chin and stood up, not responding. Jaskier watched as she stepped back, flicked her fingers, and suddenly Jaskier fell hard to the floor. He gasped when the cold shocked through him, and the mage walked to the door with the soldiers. She turned back at him when he raised his head to look at her.

“The Witcher has something we want,” she replied, and turned and left. The door slammed loudly behind her and the soldiers.

Jaskier was left alone in the darkness, and the sudden drain of adrenaline from the mage ripping through his mind left him exhausted. He resisted the urge to cry; he kept up the dying hope that Geralt would save him, or he would escape, because they were the only things keeping back the flood of fear, and he knew if the fear and emotions overtook him then he would break.

For now, he curled up on the cold floor and let his eyes close, succumbing to the deep exhaustion and letting sleep take him.

-0-0-0-

The mage introduced herself as Fringilla, and the next time she came in there were the same two soldiers with her. Jaskier had searched his cell when he woke up feeling marginally better, though still freezing cold, and found nothing - it was pitch dark, so he couldn’t see, but he had felt every inch with his hands and there was absolutely nothing that would help him escape. He could barely find the door in the darkness.

The bright light blinded him and he covered his eyes as Fringilla and the soldiers walked in. He glared at them, backed away when the soldiers came up to him. They reached out and Jaskier laughed harshly, ducking out from under their arms. “Nope, no, I am not letting you touch me.”

Fringilla sighed impatiently as Jaskier kept dodging the soldiers, who did nothing more than walk steadily after him in the small space. He hated this, hated that he was trapped and couldn’t do anything other than run three feet from the soldiers and make himself look weak by prolonging it. They still hadn’t deemed him a threat enough to tie him up, for fuck’s sake.

Jaskier would have enjoyed taking apart that delusion, if he wasn’t freezing cold, half-naked, outnumbered, and with no weapon to speak of. He uselessly avoided the soldiers for several more minutes, until even he was growing bored of the game, and the only thing that Fringilla needed to do was raise her hand before Jaskier was stopping, freezing like a deer in headlights, fear flashing through him. The soldiers took that opportunity and slammed him against the wall, hands pinning his arms and legs in place.

Jaskier wondered if the display of sheer power against him was intentional, deeming him too weak for chains or ropes, but Fringilla smiled in such a way that it was instantly confirmed and Jaskier bit back his noise of annoyance. It was truly insulting, and hit something deeper in Jaskier that was still fighting, that kept up hope. He figured that was the point - if they could restrain him so easily now, what was the point of fighting? It would only be worse.

“Love,” Fringilla said, and Jaskier felt his stomach drop and his body go cold. If Nilfgaard wanted to break him, they certainly knew how to do it.

“It’s a peculiar thing, isn’t it? So volatile. It’s the only thing us mages can’t predict,” Fringilla continued, voice low.

Jaskier glared at her. “Shame. Thought you mages were all-powerful,” he snarked. Fringilla only looked amused.

“However,” she continued, ignoring his comment, “we can use it to our advantage.” And, yeah, that’s definitely not good for Jaskier, who squirmed just at the thought of what they could do to him regarding Geralt - because that was the only person he truly loved, really.

She raised her fingers, intent in her dark eyes, and Jaskier barely had time to protest, fear shooting through him, before cool magic washed over him like ice water, and he sank into darkness.

He saw the light first - saw the mountains in the distance, felt the clothes covering his back. Heard Geralt and Yennefer arguing below, saw Borch sitting on the ledge - and oh, fuck, this was the dragon hunt, he realized with a jolt of panic.

“Like fuck you didn’t,” came Geralt’s irritated voice, and Jaskier’s heart hurt just hearing it. He stood up, or, well, he tried to. There was a magical force pulling him down, forcing him to stay in the body of the Jaskier in his memories, the one who sat on the rock, and walked over, and then walked away. He wanted to cry, again, because he knew how this turned out and he could already feel the heartbreak needling at his skin, the pain of rejection lancing through him. He remembered how his dreams shattered like glass, and he cut himself on the sharp edges of them as he walked away.

He stood up, walked over once Yennefer left. Spoke without wanting to, felt the insistent magic tugging at him. “Whew,” he said. “What a day. I imagine you’re probably-“

“Dammit, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted sharply, whirling around to face him, and Jaskier felt the needles of heartbreak start pricking him, stabbing and drawing blood. He was stuck in his memory’s body, though, so he was forced to listen, feeling the tug of Fringilla’s magic on his voice, on his body.

Geralt’s eyes were hard, burning with anger as he continued. “Why is it, whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it?”

“Well, that’s not fair,” Jaskier replied, voice soft. It was just as painful the second time as it was the first, and back in the dark, cold cell, Jaskier was resisting the urge to cry. He didn’t want to relive this, it was too much for him to handle.

“The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it! ” Geralt’s voice was harsh, everything about him was harsher and sharper and Jaskier was cutting himself on it, he was practically bleeding out with the force of the heartbreak ripping through him. He sang so many songs about Geralt, about him not being a monster, and Jaskier fought against the negative things said about Geralt with everything he had, but some dark, selfish part of himself whispered that maybe Geralt really was the monster everyone thought he was. He was certainly acting the part right now, hurting Jaskier in the most efficient, effective way possible. Jaskier was wrong when he said Geralt didn’t know how to use the blade of his words as effectively as steel and silver.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

Sharp pain lanced through him and Jaskier woke up gasping, laying on the cold floor. The cell was dark; Fringilla and the soldiers were long gone. Jaskier was alone.

Jaskier shoved down the tears, shoved down the fear and heartbreak and emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Crying was not one of his coping mechanisms. Drinking was, talking was, singing was. Not crying, never crying. Jaskier would not show weakness.

Well, he couldn’t drink. He had two options. Singing or talking. There weren’t many songs to sing that weren’t about Geralt - and he had just been painfully reminded of how he felt about him, thank you very much. So he curled up in a weak defense against the cold, and in a quiet, cracking, whisper of a voice, started to talk.

-0-0-0-

Jaskier had fallen asleep in the middle of some sentence about geography, some passage he had memorized from a textbook when he was at Oxenfurt. He didn’t remember it now; didn’t need to. All he remembered now was the surge of fear as the cell door opened and Fringilla and two soldiers walked in. Jaskier looked up, too exhausted to think about physically fighting as they dragged him up from his position on the floor.

He did fight verbally, though, if only because talking to someone to fight off his emotions was better than talking to himself. “In the old stories, the knights swept the princesses off of their feet,” he said. The soldiers started pulling him towards the door - he had a vague hope of escaping, though he felt like shit because he was being starved and really had to piss. “Does that make me the princess?”

Fringilla gave her signature, idly amused smile, the one that reminded Jaskier just how much he was a bug pinned to a board and surrounded by immortals who didn’t care for him. “You’re a bard, and nothing more. The place we’re taking you is not from the old stories.”

Jaskier frowned. “Shame. Oh, speaking of being a bard, why do you even keep me here? You already rifled through my mind, you saw Geralt abandon me. You know I don’t know where he is, or what he has that you want.”

Fringilla didn’t look bothered. “You’re still useful. You know the Witcher better than anyone else, you can tell us where he would go next. His patterns of behavior, the way he thinks. The best way we can ambush him. Or, if not, you’re good for bait.”

Jaskier laughed, and the sound was harsh and mocking. “He won’t come for me,” he said bitterly. “You’re delusional if, after looking at that memory, you think he would come back for me. He doesn’t care whether I live or die.”

Fringilla smiled. “You’re right. He doesn’t care about you, and he won’t come back. Whether you help us find the Witcher or not, bard, you’re still ours.”

It came so easily, so certainly, that Jaskier deflated in the soldier’s arms, staring at Fringilla with a sort of blank horror. She had looked through his memories, had seen everything he’d seen, and she was able to say with such smooth certainty that Geralt wouldn’t come back for him, and he was Nilfgaard’s now. It hit the same part of him that it had when they had so easily restrained him, the deeper part of him that glowed gold with hope even as the rest of him withered and broke.

They stopped in front of a simple wooden door that Fringilla opened to reveal a room with a tub, toilet, and sink. Jaskier turned to the sorceress. “You’re giving me time to clean myself up?” he asked incredulously. “Doesn’t that go against, you know… everything about torture?”

Fringilla smiled again, but there was something darker in it. Jaskier resisted the urge to shiver at the dark promise hidden in her tone and smile. “You’re going to need it, bard. You won’t come back here for a long time.”

Jaskier felt the dread rise in him, like being touched by ice, and the fear. He nodded, staying quiet, and went into the room, flinching when the door slammed and locked behind him.

An hour later, the door was opened and the two soldiers came to get him, just as he finished using the bathroom. Jaskier sighed. “I’m guessing you won’t pamper me as much anymore?”

Fringilla smiled in the same dark way when the soldiers pulled Jaskier through the hallways. “No.”

They got closer, and Jaskier thought he was immune, he thought he was still strong, but he thought of the pure darkness of the cell and the cold air and the sheer loneliness, and started struggling when he saw the metal door at the end of the hallway. The fear was threatening to overtake him, his breaths came shorter and his voice rose an octave.

“Are you really sure you want to put me in there?” he asked, while pulling against the soldiers, who forcefully manhandled him down the hallway. His heart was picking up, and dammit he shouldn’t be this affected after two fucking days, but here he was. Nilfgaard had better torture tactics than they were given credit for - Jaskier had a bitter feeling that the reliving the hardest, most painful ten minutes of his life factored into the reason why he was so scared. “I’m sure there’s another option, something much less… well, dark and cold.”

“Will you answer our questions?” Fringilla asked.

“No,” Jaskier replied automatically. He wouldn’t give up that easily, no matter how terrifying the cell was.

Fringilla opened the door and the soldiers threw him in. He landed hard on the stone, still in only a pair of pants because that was all the clothes he was given in the bathroom, and he barely had time to watch the sliver of light be sliced away by the door slamming before he was left in pitch darkness, the cold air already seeping into him.

Jaskier sat up and leaned against the wall. He sighed, very firmly refusing the urge to cry, and stared into the darkness. He couldn’t even see the edges of the room, for fuck’s sake.

He let out a breath that definitely wasn’t at all shaky, tilted his head back against the wall, and started to sing - about everything and anything, because he couldn’t give a fuck about whether the songs were about Geralt if it meant he was distracted from the pain of knowing this was all he would see for gods knows how long. After all, it was just another emotion to add to the pile, wasn’t it? Nilfgaard wouldn’t care if he broke down - fuck, they wanted him to break down. Some dark part of him wondered if it would be easier to break down, stop fighting; it was only exhausting him anyway.

“When a humble bard, graced a ride along…”

[alyssa-ward]

Return to the End

[ Following Bared and Stolen Souls ]

Anger. Panic. Frustration. Pain. It all came flooding through as the link ripped violently open without so much as a 'Hello, how are you?'.  It’s a shock to the woman in the dagger, snapping her attention to Riley as the single word comes through in Alyssa’s mind. "Fuck..."

"What happened?" Alyssa, still reeling from the mental assault of Riley’s emotions, she lets her own worry come through.  The last thing she remembered was Riley telling her they were getting the soul tonight.  Clearly that’s gone wrong.

"You remember how I said 'if everything goes according to plan blah, blah, blah..." Laughter both heard and felt with a dark undertone that puts Alyssa on edge. "Well, that was my first mistake. The second - and this one's a doozy - was assuming that insufferable prick's bodyguard had turned in for the night after the shift change. Because of course, the one fucking night he doesn't..." More laughter, but the pain is still visible, audible too in an exhaled sigh. "Plans change, we adapt, we survive." The words spoken like a mantra, repeated over a couple times before she regained her focus.

"Can we just kill the bodyguard too?" Alyssa interrupts the repeated mantra, trying to not let too much of her concern or thoughts show through the link. But she's worried.  If Riley dies here, this is the end of it.  Enough to make someone think they might be cursed. "I can make use of both...you okay? Hurt?" She pushes off the stump with the wolf, and a moment later she's standing before Riley's soul, studying it for harm.

"Just took a lucky shot, I'll be fine," the reply is pained, but it doesn’t seem overly labored. "Didn't even make it to the mark before this bastard blindsided me," and then quieter, as though not directed at Alyssa "...throws punches like a damn Gronn..." "The bastard's big, but he's slow. I've been leading him to the outskirts - figure that'll save me from having to dispose of a small giant in the middle of the city." Another pause to slow her breathing and better clear her thoughts. "You ready in there..?"

"Don't die on me, I'll start to think carrying me around is bad luck," after deciding there's nothing she can do for Riley's soul she returns to the clearing, already gathering power into herself. "I'm ready. He might still try to take a few swings after you cut him but he'll go down fast."

"Me? I'm too stubborn to die." A lighthearted joke in the midst of chaos is almost too appropriate for the woman delivering it. "As for our oversized friend, I'm not too worried ab-..." Riley's words cut jarringly short, but the link remains open.  Whatever just happened, she’s still holding the dagger. A flash of blinding rage in the wake of sudden shock, and then the link starts to flicker, weakening in waves that become increasingly more pronounced with each second that ticks by. 

“Riley?” Alyssa’s worry rises and flares as the connection wanes.  She’d only meant the death thing as a joke.  "Riley stay with me. Don't you die on me. I don't want to have to explain to Kat at the end of this that I got her friend killed."

There’s a distinct lack of fear from the other side. Instead, an almost eerie sense of calm, felt even as the connection continues to wane, and in that surprisingly serene break in the chaos, Riley's voice comes through her thoughts, clear as day. "Hope you're okay with a bit more than a cut..."

Relief across the link from the warlock as the voice comes back through. "More than okay, just get me his blood."

And then the action requested comes through clear as a bell.

The trees in the Darkened Woods of Alyssa’s mind part.  As every time before, the vibrancy of the soul the blade has stabbed into is intoxicating.  Her mind blanks, hands thrown outward to entangle the bodyguard’s revealed soul in chains of fel and soul magic, purples and greens leashing her hands to the very essence of the man.

Whatever happens outside of the blade is lost to the Warlock.  Even Riley’s soul dims at the corners of her vision as she puts single minded focus forward.  She can feel the man’s suffering as she tears out his soul, the chains binding and tightening as it condenses and draws into her extended palms, forming yet another perfect little purple crystal.

Alyssa stares down at the crystal in her hands, shoulders trembling as she has once again given in to her addictions.  Riley’s voice, raspy now, snaps her out of it. "Will it work..?" The question ended with a grunt, and the trees to the now empty clearing that was the bodyguard close once more.

"I'll let you know when I figure it out. It's going to take some work to separate the usable stuff out of this. His soul is not a very bright one." the reply is distracted, Aly’s mind is already racing with next steps.

"Sorry about that..." Riley murmers, her voice straining with the effort before she returns to purely mental communication. "If there's nothing salvageable, I'll find something better," tone is cold, but not disingenuous. "Otherwise, we continue with the plan, and make our way to Uldum."

"Agreed," Alyssa replies. "How long will it take you to travel? I couldn't even estimate how long this will take me, because...time and all." Her inability to determine durations from within the dagger goes unsaid. "I'm going to strip this soul apart, I'll fuel myself with the bad parts, nothing will go to waste. Whatever good there is in here, I'll see if it can strengthen the wolf." A pause before she adds, "I'm sorry Riley. There's every chance I could be wrong about all of this. I could be misunderstanding what Kat sent me. This may not work at all but I don't have many ideas."

"I've got a connection that'll set me up with a portal, so I could be there as early as tomorrow morning. From there, it'll take some time to travel to the right camp, but I figure... if we can just find her, we might be able to buy a little time for you to utilize whatever tricks you've got up your sleeves." A pause. "Metaphorical sleeves, of course." The attempt at levity seems to cut through her previously chilled tone in favor of something slightly more welcoming. "You've got nothing to be sorry about, Alyssa. Not as far as I'm concerned, at least. If this doesn't work, we'll just have to figure out something that will. It's as simple, and as complicated as that."

"It's nice to work with someone who shares my feelings on the impossible. If nothing else works I will find my way into the Shadowlands and pull her out myself. She's not gone. I don't accept it." Riley's levity, and determination makes her smile, a warmth that can be felt across the link through the weapon. "We'll figure something out. Simple and complicated as that," she echoes the other woman's words, finding a liking for them.

"Seems stubbornness is a trait we share in spades," Riley’s reply makes Alyssa smile to herself.

About to end the conversation, to turn focus fully to the soul, something else strikes Alyssa.  Something put off too long. "Could you do a favour for me, before you leave Stormwind? We are in Stormwind right?"

"Your tab's starting to add up, Alyssa," Riley’s tone is teasing, but it’s not unfounded either.  Alysa already owes a great debt to this woman. "You name it, and I'll do what I can."

"I'll pay it if I'm ever alive to make good," amusement bleeds from the Warlock in return, before her tone sobers. "When I died, my home burned down. It was a...cautionary measure. I don't think my brother knows what happened to me, he's been left with nothing but the mystery. Could you have a letter delivered? Just something simple. Alyssa is okay, she misses you, she'll be back eventually, something nice like that?"

A somber sense of understanding emanates from Riley's side of the link then, and her gentle nod is almost felt. "Of course. You tell me where it needs to go, and it'll be done."

"Thank you. He's lost enough, he shouldn't have to lose his sister too. Not yet." Appreciation can be felt in return. She gives the address, a townhouse in Old Town near the fountain, and the name, Damien Ward.

"I'll make sure he knows you're still here, until you're able to tell him yourself." There's a faint flicker of hope in Riley's tone, despite the many uncertainties that lie before them. That handled, the subject turns back to the most pressing matter. "I'll give you some space to get to work while I take care of things out here, and check in with you once everything's in order. Yeah?"

"Yeah, I appreciate that. I'll let you know too if I make any breakthroughs. You make a good partner...we'll find her." As much for herself as for Riley, as her attention shifts off the conversation and onto the soulstone she now holds. Splitting apart a person's soul into its base elements is taxing work, and a slip up could cause whatever she has to escape into the shadowlands, so for now, she is silent and focused.

Theory and practice are very different things.  Alyssa finds as she works that if this were the real world, if she was in her physical form, this task may be wholly impractical.  “Y’really not goin’ t’elp me even a little are you?”  She asks the wolf, without looking up from her work. The soul shard now dances through the air, shattered into a million little motes of flickering crystal shards, like glitter on the air of her consciousness.  If she truly breathed, rather than the false life she lives in her dagger prison, she would inhale the dust of it, but here it is safe.

Though she can’t extract actual memories from a soul, what she can see is intent.  The glittering motes of the bodyguards soul are washes of intent.  She begins the slow process of work, hands extended out to manipulate.  The bits of colour dance about with subtle gestures of fingertips.  Steady concentration slowly separates the motes out into clusters along a timeline, capturing bits and pieces of brighter light from childhood, from times of innocence.  Darker along the ends of a life lived in sin and anger, of dark deeds.  A flick of her wrist motions the entire back half of the man’s life to coalesce into a ball of inky dark glitter that drifts into her palm and is simply absorbed.  The wolf won’t need those parts, but she can use them for strength.

Sifting through the rest she pulls on moments of intense emotion.  On the hints of a first kiss.  On the warm memory of a mother caring for a sick son.  On the thrill of freedom of a first coin made honestly.  These glittering bits and pieces she plucks from the myriad array of crystalline fragments before her, slowly and painstakingly pulling every drop of goodness and light and justice out of this battered soul that she can.  

Some motes darken at her touch, her own corruption bleeding through and ruining them, those she absorbs for herself, redoubling her efforts to create a small clean pure soul.

It feels like it’s been days.  A week or more.  Of every moment digging through the atoms of the universe that made up this man.  It can’t possibly have been though.  If so much time has passed, Riley would have stopped her, chimed in.  Regardless of the true passage of time, Alyssa holds, floating above her palm a small crystal, all but radiating light to a near painful degree.  More pure and just than any soul has any right to be, let alone one from the source she took it from.

The freshly born have done more wrong and seen more trauma than what she holds now.

The moment of truth, Alyssa approaches the sleeping wolf with shaking steps.  “Y’ready f’this?  I’m countin’ on you t’take it and do...somethin’.  Anythin’.”  Her hands extend out, floating the crystal towards the wolf, carefully not touching it lest she taint it with her own essence.  The glowing crystal presses against the white wolf, and then sinks into it as Alyssa’s woven magic infuses it into the creature

A glow begins beneath the fur of the white wolf, beginning from somewhere inside and then radiating along its body, rippling beneath white and grey with a brilliant light.  Aly finds herself covering her eyes against it, a grin lighting lips, excitement as something begins to happen.

And then her face falls.  The energy infused burns away, eaten up by the sleeping creature.  It dims, fades, and puffs away, and all the hard work is gone.  The moments of painstaking extraction snuffed out in a small puff, with no sign or trace of the magic she put into it.

Alyssa sighs, slumping down to the forest floor to rest head against the log, and await the next time she sees Riley’s soul visible in the woods.

"Riley? I don't have good news," time has passed, who knows how much, but the woods part, Riley’s soul revealed, the link re-established.  Alyssa wastes no time.  Her voice dejected and lost.

Clear hesitance from Riley. Not surprising. "I'm afraid to ask..." she finally says, bracing for what's to come.

"It won't hold the energy," the news could be worse. Alyssa didn’t kill the wolf. She didn’t take away any shred of hope, and yet, she feels in many ways like there is none. "There was some reaction, but then it simply burned off what I put in and we're...back to where we were. Maybe more power? But I don't know how long we have to keep trying things. Best to just find her." The temptation to ask for more is there.  Kill a priest, a paladin, bring her a better soul, try something bigger...but she’s not ready for another failure, nor is their timeline.

The equivalent of a long, deep sigh could be felt, a definite sense of begrudging acceptance. "Of course..." It comes quietly, but Alyssa with their connection still hears it well enough. Still, the disappointment didn’t seem directed at her. "Alright. Alright- at least we know now, yeah?" Riley pauses, letting that small sliver of reassurance hang by a thread for a moment. "We'll stick with the plan. Get to Uldum, find her, and... whatever comes after that. If an opportunity arises between now and then to try for something a little stronger..?" Another pause. "Well, I've never been one to pass up a good opportunity..."

"That all suits," Alyssa certainly isn't defeated, but she'd hoped for a breakthrough. The lack of one shows in her tone. "Yes, if we get the chance at something stronger, we can take it. Otherwise...well if we find Kat we will go from there? I have no idea what to do Riley."

"We just need to focus on what we do know." Riley’s words make Alyssa smirk.  What they know isn’t much. "Take this whirlwind of shit one step at a time..." Once again, she seems to be making an attempt at convincing herself just as much as she was Aly. "Are you alright..?" The concern, for a moment, surprises Alyssa, but then, they do seem to be establishing a rapport. "I'm just about packed and ready to go, but... are you ready for this?"

"I appreciate you asking. I'm as alright as I can be. No harm done, I'm recharged a bit off what I took from that person if anything. I'm just...tired emotionally." As if that wasn't evident enough in her bleed into the link.

"At least something good came from all of that..." The sentiment in Riley’s words feel genuine, as opposed to leaning towards sarcasm. "You? How are those injuries?"

"I'm fine. I don't want to come off as a prick with the whole 'I've had it so much worse' routine, but... I really have had worse. Just a couple bruised ribs and a whopper of a headache."

"I actually don't think I can say that right now," some amusement about the situation comes through in Alyssa’s reply. "Surviving the end of Gilneas was close, but I think my current situation is about as bad as I've gotten." Being dead and trapped in a dagger is...its own sort of special.  

"Alright. I think you win this one..." An attempt at a lighthearted tease to add to their brief moment of levity before she also shifts her attention back to their looming journey.

Alyssa lets attention shift back to the topic most relevant, "I'm ready as I will be. I think it's on you now, I don't know what else I can do beyond supporting you until she's found."

"I've got everything squared away here. All that's left to do is lock up and head out - with any luck, I'll be ankle-deep in sand within the hour." This she does not seem happy about, despite her phrasing.

"Going to have to go see Uldum for real some day, if I ever get out of this. I've only ever been as a kitchen accessory," Alyssa's trying to stay light, it's easier that way. "I'm here. We'll get through this."

"Hey, for what it's worth, you make a good-looking knife - these engravings are gorgeous." Riley falls into a pattern of light banter as though it's second-nature. Perhaps it is. "Hold tight in there, Alyssa. I'll see you on the other side..." Perhaps a poor choice of words before the link is severed, given what they're about to walk into.

"Thanks. Good genetics," she jokes back. And then once more the link is gone, and Alyssa returns to waiting.

[ @blue-eyedraven ]

[ Mentions of @kat-hawke​ & @dardillien-ward​ ]

[wellhellotragic]

Dead in the Water (1/2)

You guys!!! It’s here! It’s our @csrolereversal drop date and I’m so excited for you all to see the amazing art @clockadile created for this event. Everyone, please go to her page, check out this amazeball painting, and send her all of the love that she deserves because this fic would never have existed without her! She is just such a wonderful person and I feel so honored that I got to make words in an effort to bring her art to life in a different way. I hope that I’ve done it, and her, justice and that you guys enjoy this. Shout out to @darkcolinodonorgasm for pulling this event together and to everyone in the rolereversal discord chat. It truly has been such a wonderful event and everyone has been so amazingly supportive of one another, so thank you all for being so awesome! Also tagging @cshalloweek​ even though my theme doesn’t completely match the day.

Summary:

Killian Jones may have just had the worst year of his life. The loss of his hand, of his career, and of his pride were almost more than he could take. In a bid to reclaim his life, Killian decided it was time to face his fears, and get back on the metaphorical horse, or in his case, back on the water. Only, the purchase of a haunted second-hand boat may just come at the cost of his sanity.

“The sea is like a cruel mistress. You can love her, you can hate her, but you can never trust her.” - author unknown

Rating: M (foul language sprinkled in and some adult themes)

Also on AO3

“Mayday! Mayday!”

Nothing.

“Please, is anyone out there?” The faint words were met with radio silence. The only noise a high pitched whining from what was likely a busted eardrum. Weak and dizzy, blood continued to drip into the water filling the cabin. The once brown floor now covered in pink.

Searing pain, a sinking boat, and all hope lost. There was little to do but wait. Wait for the inevitable. There was nowhere to go, no reason to have hope. Climbing to higher ground had been a struggle, and pointless as the vessel continued to dip lower and lower into the icy water.

That night, prayers went unanswered. The heavens laughed as they flashed their pearly white teeth and the crackle of a thousand laughs filled the air. The rain continued to fall all around.

There was nothing to do but wait until the water finally claimed her prize. Until the sea took it’s claim. Until the world went black.

***

It was unseasonably hot in Boston. Granted, summertime was hardly a perfect oasis in the northeast on a usual year, but that July had seen it’s hottest temperatures in over sixty years, and the city had been a sweltering mess. The usually pristine buildings along Freedom Trail were littered with blinding metal as each window had suddenly become occupied with ac units overnight. There had even been rolling blackouts as the power company struggled to keep up with the city’s demands.

Why Ariel’s Antiquities had insisted on holding their event outdoors was a mystery to Killian. Women and men dressed in their best, hoping that fancy clothes would somehow insinuate that they had money and could easily out bid their competitors. Unfortunately for them, their power suits became far less intimidating by the minute as sweat lines began to appear sometime just before ten. As the hours drifted on, people became puddles, their shoes sticking to the sidewalks.

Killian found himself near constantly tugging on the collar of his shirt, peeling it away from his sticky skin. Unlike him, his brother had refused to undo the top two buttons on his shirt and seemed even more miserable, if that were somehow possible.

The two men had been sniping at each other for the better part of the morning, and now with the sun at full intensity above them, they’d resorted to silence as they milled their way through lot after lot. The auction advertisement Killian had seen online seemed to have mostly a mishmash of memorabilia and collectables, with a few actual antiquities mixed in.

But unlike the other bidders, the two men weren’t there for random knick knacks. There was one specific item that had caught his eye on the online inventory. A tiny thumbnail the only indication of its existence and he could only hope that it hadn’t been from a previous auction.

For over an hour, Killian traipsed through the old fair grounds, Liam in tow behind him, searching with no luck.

“Killian, I hate to be the one to say this, but it’s not here. We’ve been to every lot and it’s just garbage.” He turned to see his brother giving him a look of pity, infuriating his very being. “Perhaps this is a sign.”

“A sign of what? False advertising?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I just-” Liam took a deep breath, pushing the air out on an audible huff. “I just worry about you.”

With that, all of the anger and frustration from the day left Killian’s body. He couldn’t be mad at Liam any more, not when he knew it was true. When he still had memories of waking in the hospital, of seeing Liam’s eyes red and puffy from tears. It was the first time he’d seen his brother cry since their mother had passed years before.

“Liam, this is something I need to do. I need to prove to myself that I can get back out there. I can’t let this cripple me for the rest of my life.”

His choice of words hadn’t meant to convey the irony, but as his brother glanced down at the metal and leather covering his wrist, Killian couldn’t help but notice the cruelty of the universe. That even the most benign of words could cause such pain, even a year later. How even thinking about that day caused his missing hand to throb in pain.

“Killian, you are one of the strongest people I know. You don’t have anything to prove. Not to me or anyone else.”

Gone were the days where Liam teased him and called him little brother. Now, he was lucky if Liam said anything cheeky around him at all. And while he didn’t have anything to prove to anyone else, the truth was that he needed to show his brother that he wasn’t broken. Not anymore. That he didn’t need to be coddled like a wounded duck.

Before he could respond though, a glimmer caught his eye from a passing bidder’s reflective earrings, causing him to whip his head to the left. And there, tucked behind an old telephone booth, 2 huge entertainment centers, and a large canopy bed, there it was. There she was.

He didn’t wait for his brother, his jogging nearly breaking into a full stride. She was hard to see, tucked away behind items too heavy to move, but even in his limited view he could see that she was battered and bruised. Still, Killian knew that with a little sweat equity, she could be a marvel. He let his hand run down the fiberglass, feeling the strength of the hull, despite the hole in her port side. A gaping wound about the size of a bowling ball.

She was damaged, just as he was, but together they’d mend each other. He was sure of it.

“That’s it? That’s the boat you brought us all the way out here for?” Killian could only smile to himself. “Brother, she’s a mess. Where’s the mainmast? And did you see that hole? There’s no telling what kind of dry rot is on the inside.”

“Yes. I know she’s not much to look at right now, but-”

“No. You can’t be serious. She’s better off torn apart for scraps.”

Killian couldn’t explain to his brother the draw that he felt. He’d been searching auction houses for months. All of the boats he’d seen were either grossly overpriced, or faced the Goldilocks conundrum. Too small. Too big. But this one, it was just right. From the instant he’d seen that tiny thumbnail picture on his laptop screen, he’d felt it deep within his gut. He was meant for that boat, just as she was meant for him.

“And what kind of name is Jewel of the Real?”

“Realm.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Jewel of the Realm.”

Killian’s hand brushed over the faded wood, tracing the faintest outline of where an ‘M’ used to reside.

The rest of their time there was a bit of a blur for Killian. Liam trying his best to talk him out of buying The Jewel as people threw their paddles up in the air, capturing the trinkets on the stage. Killian fighting with a man two rows ahead of him for the winning bid, going over the maximum price he’d set in his head. Giving the auction house the delivery address, ignoring the way his brother huffed as Killian wrote them a check.

But none of that mattered, because in the end, she was his. The auction house delivered her a few days after his check cleared. The address he’d given them was for a warehouse another expat had told him about. Cheap monthly rates and all of that. What Will Scarlet had neglected to mention was that the warehouse was actually an abandoned building in a rather questionable part of town. Killian never should have trusted the man with a deposit sight unseen. The building lacked windows or doors, and Killian immediately knew he’d been had by the huxter.

He’d scrambled to find another place to fix up the Jewel. The drydocks at the marina were expensive and lacked space for him to spread out with tools, not to mention the absence of privacy while he worked. It was bad enough that people stared at his hook while he was picking up food from the local pub or out with Liam and his wife. He’d be damned if he was going to have people watch him work on a boat one handed. He even considered trying to work out of his friend, Robin’s, garage but the thirty two foot boat simply wouldn’t fit. No matter how imaginative he got with his sketches.

In the end, it was the most unlikely of allies that came to his rescue. The last man he ever expected to aid him with the Jewel. Liam owned a shipping company, specializing in European imports, with English ales and German lagers making up the bulk of his business. The main office was based in downtown Boston, but there was also a small warehouse down by the port where items were stored as they awaited inspection. His brother, still not happy with his decision made him an offer anyway. Come to work at Jones Shipping Monday through Friday, and he’d have the warehouse all to himself in the evenings and on weekends to work on the “abomination.”

Killian accepted begrudgingly. He wasn’t necessarily in need of a salary. He had the monthly stipends from the Navy to live on, the only benefit of losing his left hand, and the idea of becoming a corporate stooge maddened him to no end. He’d already sold his soul once, and they spit him back out once they deemed him of no further use. He wasn’t quite ready to lose the rest of himself to a full time day job pushing paperwork, schmoozing potential clients, and taking orders from Liam. But the perk of Liam’s harbor warehouse was too great to pass up.

So he took the job. He started on a Monday and the boat was delivered on the following Tuesday. Liam had neglected to mention his need for a key, so after driving across town, Killian ended up having to turn around without seeing her. The next day he’d nearly ripped into Liam when he saw him, but seeing three other men in suits sitting in front of Liam’s desk made him rethink his anger. Or at least rethink giving his brother a piece of his mind at work in front of people he’d only ever met at staff parties. He’d already had to deal with stares and questions from a rather bold intern. The stress from his own self-consciousness only amplified his frustration with Liam.

He finally got the key from Liam later that afternoon, along with another gift that he wasn’t particularly fond off. One that actually left him offended. One that he threw back in his brother’s face as he stormed out of his office, not caring one bit what anyone thought of him. Not when his brother obviously thought so little.

He was too upset to even go check on The Jewel at that point, choosing to head to a pub near the harbor instead. The Rusty Anchor was a fan favorite for expats. It’s where he’d met Scarlet, which unfortunately didn’t actually say much about the place. He’d met a few good blokes there as well though, like the bartender Robin. They’d become friends in a grief counseling group. It was mandated for Killian, but optional for the other man who was grieving his wife. Listening to Robin talk at their monthly meetings had helped put Killian’s loss into perspective. Suddenly his missing hand didn’t seem so catastrophic.

Robin had invited him to the pub knowing Killian was new in town with few friends, and the two men had formed a bond in the months since. In a way, he felt closer to the man than he did to Liam. Like he could tell him anything without the brotherly judgment that always radiated from the elder Jones.

After a few pints and a good talk with Robin, Killian had calmed. Liam was still a moron, but that wasn’t on him. And as Robin said, he just had to continue to remind himself that the only reason he was even working for his brother was so that he could fix up the Jewel. As soon as she was sea worthy, he could leave his job without breaking his word to Liam.

In a slightly better mood, he headed a few streets over to the warehouse, ready to take a full inventory of all of the repairs she’d need. The hole in the hull was obvious, as well as new paint all over, and she needed a new mast and sails, but there was always the concern of dry rot. That was the biggest worry. Having to replace every plank of wood and all of the fiberglass on the boat would defeat the entire purpose of restoring her.

Not to mention the difficulties he’d face using his hook. He was more than proficient with it for everyday use after eight months of practice, but some things still tested his limits. As he walked up to the warehouse, thinking about how he’d hoist the sails on without tearing them, he was completely lost in thought, oblivious to the man standing next to his boat. He was more than a little embarrassed by the shriek that escaped from his lips, but upon realizing that it was Liam there waiting for him, his distress turned to anger again. Especially when he saw the box from earlier on a nearby table.

“Killian, before you say anything, it’s not what you think. I never meant to imply-”

“What? That I’m a freak. That I’ll scare away all of the clients?”

“Actually, it was quite the opposite. I got it for you.” Killian looked down, unable to meet his brother’s gaze. “What? You don’t think I see you? The way you shrink in on yourself when you’re out with Elsa and me?”

Liam had him there.

“Look, Killian. I just thought that maybe it would help you to feel more comfortable. I never meant to insinuate anything by it.”

Perhaps he had overreacted. In his mind’s eye, it was just the cherry on top of a horrible year. The whole world judged him. Wasn’t it only a matter of time before his brother saw him as a disfigured beast as well? Except, that wasn’t what happened. He’d made a snap judgement, and thought the worst of Liam in the process.

“You’re right. I... it’s harder than I expected it to be sometimes. I thought,” he had to fight to keep his emotions in check as he remembered those first few weeks in the hospital. How he’d lost more than just his hand. “I thought it would be easier than this.”

“And I’m sorry that I didn’t handle it in a more sensitive way. I think I was just so excited to show it to you that I assumed you’d be just as enthusiastic. Obviously, it’s not all that functional, but it’s remarkably realistic and Elsa and I just thought it would make you more comfortable dealing with clients.”

Killian laughed to himself. A sad little thing. It was very realistic in a way that nauseated him when he first opened the box. Even now, as he walked over to it and lifted the top, he couldn’t help the catch in his throat. The prosthetic hand looked incredibly realistic, right down to the synthetic hair on the back of the silicone. There was a metal clip that popped into place in his arm sleeve and a metal wire that hooked into his shoulder strap, just like with his hook that allowed some slight mobility in the hand. It opened and closed, allowing him to grab objects if he needed to, but it wasn’t nearly as advanced as the mechanical hands he’d seen in the clinic. Although this one probably didn’t cost the same as Liam’s house either like the mechanical ones, which was a plus.

He lifted it from the box, testing the weight of it. It was slightly heavier than his hook, something that would take some getting used to. It was also probably going to end up being longer when all was said and done. Wearing suits might be a problem. He’d have to wait until he got home to check.

Liam, for his part, didn’t seem to want to make it any bigger of a deal than he already had. Instead, he changed the subject back towards The Jewel.

“Do you want the good news or the bad first?”

He’d already had a hard enough day. He didn’t need the bad news at all, much less first.

“The good.”

“Well, she’s not a total loss. I’ve been checking her over, and the bulk of the damage seems to be located here, in the hull where this hole is. The fiberglass is badly splintered around it. I’ve been trying to work out what exactly could have caused it, but aside from an act of Poseidon himself, it makes no sense. Whatever made the hole, it came from the inside of the boat. The furniture inside the cabin is also ruined. Smashed to pieces or rotted away. But the rudder and keel are still in perfect shape.”

Killian leaned in closer, allowing his hand to move along the edges of the hole. Liam was right. The edges was splintered towards the outside of the boat, and the fiberglass around it was all badly cracked. The auction house had sent him home with documents explaining that the ship had been docked at the marina and it had been hit by some object during a storm. They’d clearly been mistaken.

“And the rest of her? What shape does she seem to be in?”

“Well, the wood planks on the deck could use a good sanding, but if you’re just talking about integrity, I think she’ll hold up just fine.” Killian and Liam both climbed the ladder Liam had set up, allowing him his first good look at her. “You know about the mast and roping already. A full redo on both of those. But come look at this!”

Killian followed, letting his hand glide upon the metal railing. For the first time, it felt real. Look at this! It’s the original certificate showing the builder. You realize what this means don’t you?”

“That you’re excited she’s older than you are?”

“No! She’s vintage Killian! Once we fix her up, you can sell her for twice what you paid for her! Well done little brother.”

Killian took a deep breath, already out of patience with his brother for the day.

“Liam, I see three things wrong with what you’ve just said. First, it’s younger brother. Second, when exactly did this become a joint endeavor? Just a week ago you thought the very idea of my purchasing her was the single greatest mistake of my life. Thirdly, and listen closely Liam because I’m not going to say this again, I am not selling this boat.”

“Well you are my little brother. And I’m just trying to protect you. Why do you think I worry and watch after you so much?”

“You don’t need to worry about me!”

“Well apparently I do!” There was something about the way Liam’s voice, the way it broke as he screamed the words that tugged at Killian’s heart. “You almost died! I waited and waited while they searched for your body, sure that there was no way you’d survived that storm. And then I waited and waited again at your bedside in the hospital, praying to God that he didn’t take you away from me like he had mother. So don’t you dare tell me that I can’t or shouldn’t worry about you!”

Killian had to will back the tears threatening to fall from his eyes. He knew that Liam had been at his bedside in the hospital, but he had never thought of what it must have been like for him getting the call that his brother was lost at sea in a storm. He spent a great deal of time clinging to some wreckage, just trying to stay afloat as the waves crashed over his head, and his body plummeted over and over for what felt like years. Once the storm had passed, he found a piece of the destroyed ship large enough for him to crawl on top of and he let the exhaustion take over. When he woke again it was to intense agony in the hospital ICU.

“Liam, I’m not out there anymore. I’m not adrift at sea anymore. I’m here, and I’m fine.”

“But you aren’t. You aren’t here. You say you are, but I think a part of you died out there that day, and I-” Liam gave up all pretense of hiding, letting the tears flow free, “I think part of you wants to get lost again. Why else are you so intent of fixing up this boat?”

“That’s what you think? That I want to put in all of this work just to go out and vanish into the ocean? Liam, I’m doing this to prove to myself that I can. Because the idea of going back out there sends a bolt of terror through my spine right to my very core. I need to show myself that it was just a freak accident. To get back up on that proverbial horse.”

Liam said nothing, just walked back down to the stern of the boat and down the ladder, walking straight out of the warehouse, leaving Killian alone with the guilt of everything he’d put his brother through. Even as children he was always managing to get into trouble, and poor Liam had always been the one to pick up after him. As he heard Liam’s car start up from the open warehouse door, he couldn’t help but wonder how much more Liam had left in him.

If it weren’t for the fact that he had work at eight in the morning, he very likely would have found himself back at Robin’s, downing a full bottle of rum all on his own. As it stood, he had a debt to Liam, far more than for the agreement he’d made for the warehouse space. He owed his brother everything, and though he couldn’t give Liam the one thing he wanted most, he could give him everything else. He could be the prodigal son in a way. Arrive to work everyday in nice clothes, rubbing elbows with Boston’s elite.

So instead of heading back to Robin’s he went down into the ship’s cabin. The space was small, not that he expected much. The boat was only thirty two feet long, and not that tall. There was enough space for a small kitchenette with a tiny sink and grill top. Across from that stood what should have been a small dinette area. Where a table and bench seat should have been was nothing but wood scraps and moldy torn fabric.

He nearly gagged when he opened the door to the tiny lavatory. The toilet was covered in black mold, or what he hoped was mold as nothing else seemed like an attractive option. And then he went to the bedroom area up at the front of the boat. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect, knowing that the hole was in that area. What he found was nothing though. The bed and mattress had been removed, as well as the padding in the seat next to it. The wood forming the cabinets and closet had been torn out as well, leaving behind only the impressions of where they once fit in.

It was evident that the Jewel needed work when he bought her. And he knew that had he known at the time just how much work she needed at the auction house, he likely still would have bought her. But as he stood there, in the torn apart interior, he couldn’t help but feel scammed by Ariel’s Antiquities. They’d purposefully positioned her in a way that no one could see just what shape she was truly in.

Repairing her would take longer than anticipated, which only meant more time working for Liam. Exhausted, Killia headed back to his one bedroom apartment, crashing nearly the moment his head hit the pillow. The next morning, he rose well before the sun, even without the use of an alarm. Apparently you could take the man out of the navy, but not the navy out of the man.

After a nice run, Killian readied himself for the day by showering. Once dry, Killian placed his sleeve over his stump, followed by the hook he’d become so used to. He then picked out one of his better suits, not that he had all that many to choose from, dressed, combed his hair, and stepped back to take stock of himself in the mirror. It wasn’t a look he was used to. In fact, the last time he’d been dressed in such a way had been his mother’s funeral. He was still a teenager, Liam barely an adult himself, wearing suits they hadn’t yet grown in to.

Not wishing to dwell on that thought any longer, he headed for the door, grabbing his keys from the bowl on the side table.

And that’s when he saw it. The gift that Liam had given him the day before. His brother had left it in the warehouse in his haste to escape, and Killian had grabbed it on his way out, still not sure how he felt about it. He’d never really intended to wear it, not for everyday office use at least, but as he stood there in his suit, feeling completely uncomfortable and out of place, he decided to, just for once, do something for Liam.

It took him a few minutes to undress, removing his suit jacket and dress shirt so that he could disconnect his hook from the shoulder strap. The hand felt clunky on his arm, and it was difficult to get it through his sleeves, but in time he managed.

The drive to Liam’s, and now his office, wasn’t a long one, but at seven in the morning, it may as well have been a full county away. The traffic was horrible, not something he’d become accustomed to driving in. He’d always avoided rush hour like the plague, and now it would be a part of his daily routine. He also found that the hand was difficult to use. Because of his sitting position, it wouldn’t quite clamp shut around the steering wheel the way his hook would have.

By the time he arrived, he was over ten minutes late, and the morning staff meeting had already started. He did his best to sneak in, sitting at the back of the room, hoping to go unnoticed by Liam, but because the world was already against him that day, he failed.

Liam called him up to the front of the room, officially introducing him to everyone as the new head of client relations. Killian gave an awkward wave and that was it. He’d been inducted into the company, and day after day, week after week, he sat at a desk, working up contracts, researching possible leads. His nights were often spent at dinners, flirting with wives and schmoozing husbands into signing with Liam’s company. He hated it, and more still, he hated how little time he had for repairs on the Jewel.

Repairing the hull had been easy. He sent off for a patch kit, a misleading name considering the size of the hole to be touched up. After carefully cutting away the excess damaged fiberglass and setting the patch in place, he waited for the epoxy to harden, sanding down the excess so it was smooth. Aside from the lack of paint, she looked good as new. The hardest part had been placing everything where it needed to go with just one hand.

He soon realized just how difficult repairing the rest of the boat would be. The entryway to the Jewel was narrow, hardly wide enough for one person to enter at a time. He’d never be able to get fully assembled furniture and cabinets in. So slowly, he brought in all of the material, piece by piece. It took time, considering he’d had to carry all of the materials from the parking lot down the dock, and onto the ship. It was exhausting work, and there was still the matter of assembly. It took him weeks to get everything cut just to size, and assembly space had become a real issue after the new bench and table had been installed. Finding a place to store the cabinetry wood had almost broken him. The boat had almost broken him.

But he persevered. Slowly the cabinets came together. The bedroom in the bow of the boat found itself with a bed and a small closet, and the bathroom got a shiny new toilet. After two months, he’d finally finished the interior of the boat. All that stood in his way from land and sea was a new mast, the part Killian had been dreading most.

It was the very first thing Killian had ordered after he’d purchased The Jewel, but as with any special order, it had taken over a month to arrive, and then when it did, it wasn’t even the right size. He and Robin had spent the better part of a day trying to make it work, to somehow force the new mast into place, huffing and puffing at the weight. Hours later, Killian finally admitted defeat, and with shaky arms sent the company a firmly worded email chastising them for their incompetence.

Two full months and one paint job later, a new one arrived. Robin was unable to help him again though. Setting his pride aside, Killian was forced to ask for help. He and his brother’s relationship had soured. It wasn’t that there was ill will between the brothers, but there was a small bit of resentment on Killian’s part. Sometimes it seemed as if Liam was giving him extra work and setting extra meetings for the sole purpose of stalling his repairs. Some of the clients that Liam set him up with were too small to even have shipping needs.

We just want to make sure that they keep us in mind incase the expand Killian. You have to always be selling Killian. It’s called networking Killian.

He’d had enough. Eventually he’d declined enough of Liam’s offers to spend time together on the weekends that Liam had stopped inviting him over. The brothers discussed business needs, but outside of the office, they may aswell have not even have been related. Killian did feel bad. His brother was the only family he had left after all, but there was just the matter of his pride. He’d had so many arguments with Liam in his mind that he couldn’t remember which conversations were real, and which were made up. He just knew that he was right in all of them.

Which is why it was so hard for him to turn to Liam for his help. Unfortunately, the mast weighed a few hundred pounds and while the dock, where the boat finally resided, had a crane to help them move it in place, someone still needed to help him slide it into place and hold it steady as he secured it to the boat. The dock had a firm policy on not helping with certain repairs. They didn’t want to be held liable for any damages or injuries that occurred as a result of human error.

Asking Liam for help had been hard. It took him full two days of building up the courage. He’d nearly walked into Liam’s office three times before turning around at the last minute. Finally, he just had to man up. To his surprise, Liam agreed without much opinion on the matter, and that weekend the two brothers finally made up as they struggled together to install the mast. They tried seating it in place, but despite their best efforts, it was slightly off, leaning just a degree or two. While most people might have shrugged it off, both of the Jones boys were determined to get it in straight.

To the chagrin of the crane worker, they demanded he raise it back up so they could check to make sure the surface was level. Nothing seemed off to the naked eye, but again, the mast wouldn’t sit straight. After one final raising, Killian stuck his hand in the seat, trying to feel if there was bubbling or warping in the wood, and to his surprise, he felt something cold and smoothe, not at all like the wood plank he’d expected. After some fiddling, he was able to loosen the object enough to pull it from its hiding place. It was small, so small he wasn’t surprised that anyone at the auction house had missed it.

Liam, for his part hadn’t said much, but Killian could tell by the way Liam was breathing that his brother was annoyed, not with him but with the delay, and ready to finish working. Killian threw the gold piece in his pocket and together, he and Liam finished installing the mast and all of the rigging lines. Afterwards they went for drinks at Robin’s bar, a place Liam had never been before. They shared a few beers, caught up on all of the things they’d missed in the past few months, and each departed like it was no big deal, both ready for a good night’s sleep.

Killian had hoped to crawl into bed and fall straight asleep, but for some reason, as he laid there, his brain seemed to kick into overdrive. It started with thoughts of how he’d have to map out the currents and winds in the boston area before he could ship out. Before long though, all he could think about was work. He’d planned on leaving Liam’s company as soon as he was done, and while he hated some aspects of the job, he did like the structure it provided him with. It forced him to get back into the world again, something he hadn’t realized that he needed to do until Liam tricked him into it.

Unable to sleep, Killian got up to clean, something that usually relaxed him. He started with the dishes, washing and drying them all by hand before moving on to tend to his laundry. Most of his suit items were dry clean only, but his weekend clothes were soaked with sweat and best washed sooner rather than later. Checking all of the pockets and making sure everything was right-side out, he threw items in the washer one by one until he got to the jeans he’d been wearing that day. He’d managed to completely forget about the trinket he’d found on the boat, until just then.

He finished sorting his clothes and started the machine up before heading back into his bedroom, turning on the nightstand table lamp as he crawled back under the sheets. He let the metal turn in his fingers, inspecting the perfectly polished gold. It was a small locket with a bird etched onto one side. There wasn’t an engraving to go with it and told him nothing about the person who’d lost it. The chain that it was attached to was short and the links where tiny, meaning it likely belonged to a woman, but that was all he was able to gather. He continued to turn the locket, just feeling the weight of it in his hand, the surprising warmth of it, when his finger caught on a hidden clasp and the locket snapped open.

It wasn’t what he’d expected. Most women’s lockets contained tiny photographs, but the inside of this one held a small compass. The opposite side featured an engraving, but it didn’t have any names. It simple read: So you always find your way.

He should have wanted to search for the owner, to return what was probably a meaningful gift. There were plenty of news stories all the time about people helping to reunite lost items and owners. The soldier who had his purple heart stolen. The bride that lost her wedding ring on a beach vacation. They were always happy endings, and he knew that the locket didn’t belong to him, but for some reason, he just felt a call to it. Like he also needed it to help him find his way. So he kept it, slipping it on over his own head, having to pull it past his ears. He fell fast asleep soon after.

The next week at work had been grueling. Liam had lined up three dinners for him, one of them with a very sexually aggressive woman that ran a dog breeding company. Apparently there was a high demand for designer dogs and people were willing to pay high prices to have them shipped over the water during the summer and winter seasons when airlines restricted their pet travel policies. He’d had to pry her off of him at the end of the evening, promising he’d call her soon. A complete lie.

The whole encounter had left him feeling dirty. He hadn’t even so much as looked at a woman since his accident, not really, and he just wasn’t ready to move forward in a romantic capacity, even just a physical one. Not after having his heart shattered before. The woman in question wasn’t even interested in him. Not as anything more than a gigalo.

The weekend couldn’t have arrived fast enough. He just needed to get out of town. To get away from everyone, from his responsibilities. He was ready to hit the water and shed the ghosts he carried around with him. He’d planned meticulously. There were charts filling half of his closet and he’d popped by the Tuesday before to fill the kitchenette with snacks for his inaugural trip. He didn’t have a refrigerator yet so he’d done his best to stick with ready to assemble meals. Nothing big, just some bread and jams. A few tea bags and bottled water in case it got cold out on the water.

The plan had been to set sail just as the sun was rising that Saturday. To greet the new day on the water, but for some reason his alarm hadn’t sounded that morning, and for the first time since he’d joined the navy, he overslept. By the time he made it down to the docks it was just after ten, and the area was filled with people. Families going out on day trips. Tour groups trying to enjoy the last few weeks before the winter season. Before everyone would have to winterize their boats and leave them stored away until spring.

He was lost in his thoughts as he walked along the wood planks at the docks, past other ships, nearly tripping on a rope that someone has carelessly left out. Cursing under his breath, collecting himself from the slight embarrassment of it all, he glanced back at The Jewel. It was hard to see with the sun reflecting back on the water, but for just a few seconds, he could have sworn that he saw a shadow moving along her port side. There was a person on his boat.

It wasn’t unheard of, finding a vagrant living on an unused boat, or some random person lost and on the wrong ship. The Jewel had a very specific and unique paint job though. Mistaking her for any other vessel on the harbor would have been impossible. And he’d been there only a few nights before. He would have seen signs of a stowaway using her for shelter.

That could only mean that whoever was aboard his boat was looking for trouble, and after the morning he’d had, he was more than willing to give it to them. Swearing to himself, he picked up his pace, ready to give the trespasser a piece of his mind, but when he finally made it to The Jewel, she was empty. Thinking perhaps they’d gone below deck, he crept down the narrow stairs, doing his best to avoid making noise. There was no one though. She was empty. Just a trick of the mind.

Feeling foolish, Killian reemerged, on the deck, ready to give all of the lines one final check before setting sail when he heard a noise, a creaky wooden plank from down below. This time he ran, not giving a damn if the person knew he was coming or not. He was ready to find whoever was hiding.

Once again though, he came up empty. Even after searching in all of the cupboards and storage spaces under the kitchen bench and his bed. He checked all of the closets, but there was no one. He was all alone.

It was just in his head. Not surprising considering what a huge step he was about to take. The idea of going back on the water leaving him with an uneasy queasy feeling in his gut. Which was also the exact reason that he needed to do it. Why he’d tried to stress to Liam the importance of buying The Jewel.

He needed to conquer his fear. Even if his brain tried to scare him out of it. Because that’s all it was. A shadow from a person on a boat near his. An old creaky boat groaning from the change in humidity. It was all in his head, and it needed to stay there.

More determined than ever, Killian went back upstairs, ready to set sail, distraction free, but when he emerged from the cabin, he was met once again with an odd sensation. A feeling of being watched.

“Permission to come aboard?”

“Bloody hell, Liam? How long have you been here?”

“Not long.”

And there it was. His older brother, his protector, playing games with his head to place doubt. Liam had done more than his fair share of things to delay the boat becoming ready, but to actually try to scare him away was just too much.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Come again now?”

“I’m talking about you playing games with my head, trying to frighten me away from taking my boat out. You’ve made it very clear that this wasn’t something you wanted me to do, but this is a new form of low, Laim.”

He was furious.

“Killian, I assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve only just arrived.”

He watched the elder Jones, the way his brow furrowed. Liam may have been a great many things to Killian, but he’d never known his brother as a liar.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I’ve actually come bearing a gift.”

It was only then that Killian noticed the neatly wrapped bundle in Liam’s left hand. Liam didn’t ask permission again, choosing to come aboard The Jewel to hand the gift to Killian. He felt more than a little guilty for accepting it, especially after having just yelled at his brother, but Liam was insistent.

Carefully he peeled back the wrapping paper, careful not to tear it, lest he find paper scraps for weeks to come blown into every nook and cranky. Inside, he found a book, an old one by the look of it.

“It’s a first edition. Took some time to track down or I would have had it to you sooner.”

The significance of Liam’s thoughtfulness was evident. It was a first edition of Peter Pan. The book their mother used to read to them nightly. Each time she finished, Killian would beg her to start again from the beginning. It was the thing that first ignited his love for the sea.

“Thank you, Liam. This means more than you know.”

Liam just gave him a nod, understanding the emotional weight they both held in that moment.

“I, uh, guess you haven’t checked the stern of the boat just yet?”

It was on his list. First the ropes, then a walk around above deck to ensure everything was properly secured, before walking around the dock to check that everything was good on the exterior.

Intrigued, Killian climbed down from the boat and walked around to the back side of The Jewel. But what he found was that she’d been renamed.

“The Jolly Roger?”

“I very specifically remember you telling mum and me that when you grew up, you were going to own a huge ship, and you were going to name her The Jolly Roger-”

“Just like Captain Hook.”

He’d completely forgotten. As a small eight year old, he was determined that one day he’d own a pirate ship. That he’d sail the seven seas taking whatever he wanted from whoever he wanted. Probably in part because he was sick of getting Liam’s hand me downs.

“I hope you don’t mind. I know she’s not exactly what child Killian had in mind, but you’ve done exactly what you said you were going to do. And I know I’ve been a prick about this entire thing, so I wanted to do something to make up for it. To show you that I really am in your corner.”

Killian was touched. It was possibly the first time his brother had apologized to him since before their mother died. Even then, it was probably the first time he’d ever done it without being scolded into it.

“Thank you, brother.”

There’s one final thing. Last night, Robin and I came out here and installed a motor on the back.” Killian was about to say something, but Liam barreled on. “I know. But I just want to keep you safe. If you should find yourself without wind, you’ll still have a way to get back to shore.”

“Marvelous.” His annoyance only slightly tempered by Liam’s attempt at a kind gesture.

From his inside coat pocket, Liam produced a manual for the motor. ‘A guide to your new Stern Mounted Electronic Engine.’ He had to give it to Liam. He’d thought of everything. Even a Mr. SMEE.

Together, he and Liam set about getting The Jolly ready. After checking everything over twice, they finally set out, both men trying not to hold their breath as the docks become smaller and smaller. After about thirty minutes, they were able to relax, realizing that the ship hadn’t yet sunk, and likely wouldn’t anytime soon.

The trip was relaxing for the most part. The brothers argued still, as Killian realized that Liam had completely rearranged all of the food in the kitchenette. It wasn’t surprising and he’d seen Liam do it at his house, whenever Elsa would just quickly throw things back in the pantry. But what did shock him was how Liam adamantly denied it, even though Killian knew he’d left the tea bags in the cupboard above the tiny stove top, not under the sink. And the chips had been moved as well as other items. Still though, Liam swore he hadn’t touched them.

Killian eventually let it go, finding it not worth bickering over anymore than they already had. The real fist-to-cuffs came at the end of the day, as the two men had already redocked and were setting the boat back to rights. Liam had grabbed the trash and told Killian that he was going to take it all to the dumpster in the parking lot while Killian secured all of the sails.

Liam couldn’t have been gone for more than a minute when Killian stood to turn and move on to the other sail when he slipped and fell flat on his back. It hurt more than he wanted to admit, and in his haste to stop himself from falling, he’d somehow managed to catch his hook in the jib sail, tearing it as he fell.

Killian took a moment to compose himself, waiting for the sting of hitting his back on the rail to subside. He must have taken longer than he realized, because by the time he sat back up he heard Liam call his name and scramble across the boat to check on him.

Killian assured him that he was fine, or that he would be as Liam helped him back up. Careful of his steps, he turned to see just what exactly he’d slipped on when he caught sight of small water puddles in the shape of shoe prints. Absolutely sure that Liam had made them somehow, the two brothers had it out, causing Liam to storm away in a huff once more.

Killian stayed long enough to dry all of the water and to watch the sunset over the horizon before heading back to his place to grab a much needed ice pack. His back was still sore two hours later, so he opted for a shower instead hoping that the warm water might help soothe the muscles.

Slowly he undressed, trying not to twist or bend too much. Catching just a glimpse of himself in the mirror are he removed the small gold locket he’d found, he caught sight of his red cheeks, realising that even in October, he’d still managed to get a bit too much sun.

Getting to sleep had been tough. It was only after a glass or two, or three of rum that he was able to find a comfortable position. He drifted off, dreaming of being a child again. Of Neverland and Captain Hook.

The next morning he was still quite sore, so he’d opted not to take a second trip out on the water. Instead, he’d spend the day shopping for groceries and flicking through television programs until he settled on Wicked Tuna. Before he knew it, it was time to ready himself for bed and another dreaded week at work.

It ended up not being as bad of a week as he expected it to be. Liam hadn’t scheduled any meetings for him outside of normal office hours, and the clients that came into the office to settle contracts all seemed relatively normal for once. The brothers had quazied made up, but both felt it was best if Liam didn’t go out with Killian again for a while.

By the time the next weekend came, Killian was eager to set sail again, alone. No distractions. No mind games. Just him and The Jolly. Unable to hide the gold chain under his work shirt, Killian had chosen to leave the compass at home all week, but slid it back over his head before getting in his car to drive down to the water.

For a few moments he worried that his plans would be dashed as his car had refused to turn on. The starter trying to turn over and failing. Finally though, he got her started and headed straight for the docks.

He went through his usual routine, checking everything over, checking the weather once more. It was a little windier than he would have preferred, but the local station said that the wind would die down a bit by mid day. With everything ready, he set out, heading up the coast line just a bit.

The wind stayed stead for nearly four hours, despite the weather stations promise, and at one point, his life preserver ring had managed to come loose and blow straight off the ship. Not wanting to waste sixty dollars on a new one, he turned into the wind, stalling the boat, and dove dove in after it. A foolish endeavour on his part, considering he was alone if anything had gone wrong, but he figured if he could just get to the ring, he’d be fine.

The water was colder than he’d expected. In the navy he’d done cold water drills, letting his body adapt to it. But it had been a year, and his body simply wasn’t used to it yet. The moment he hit the water, his leg cramped up, and for just a second, he sunk under the surface of the water as he grabbed at his leg. When he resurfaced, it was with a mouth full of salt water. His nose burned and his eyes stung.

Once he managed to make it to the preserver, he tried wiping his eyes, but it only made things worse. Looking around to see just how far he was from The Jolly, his eyes had difficulty focusing. Everything became blurry as it felt like he’d had sandpaper rubbed against his cornea. At one point, it looked as if there was a figure standing at the bow of the boat. An impossibility given how far out he was and the lack of other boats.

He closed his eyes, giving them a few minutes to calm down, and when he reopened them, the figure was gone, and The Jolly was more in focus. Killian managed to swim back to the boat, a freezing mess in his wet clothes. He hadn’t actually thought about bringing a change of clothes with him for such a short journey. He stood there on the deck a shivering mess, ready to give up on the day.

As he tried to turn the wheel he began to feel slightly warmer. The wind had finally died down just as local weather woman Alfina Merryweather had promised, except that Merriweather had neglected to mention that her version of a slight breeze was actually a dead stop.

There was nothing, not even the slightest hint of movement. He waited and waited, at one point removing his clothes and doing his best to squeeze as much water out as he could. He thought of Liam, of how his brother would probably be worried if he didn’t hear from him soon. Thoughts that eventually reminded him of the motor his brother had installed for just such an occasion. The motor that Killian never wanted, and certainly wasn’t going to admit to using.

It took him forty two minutes to read the manuel enough to understand what he was doing, the whole thing one long novel of gibberish. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he tried, and how many times he went through the manuel again, twenty minutes later he was just as stuck as before.

After another thirty minutes of attempting to start it and pretending that hyperthermia wasn’t a real threat, he finally caved, ready to call for help over the radio to a towing company. But the radio was just as dead as SMEE, and all of his calls for help were met with static. He began to worry, checking his phone to see the time only to realize that his phone was dead as well. He continued to plea for assistance, the static only becoming louder, eventually there was a spark as he felt a strange nasty shock from the microphone

He jumped back, yelling every curse word he could think of until he was nearly hoarse. Just as he’d quieted, shaking out his hand, he’d heard it. A creaky noise coming from above deck, The same sound he’d heard on his first day out. The sound of boards buckling under the weight of a person. He was sure of it this time, unless the jolt had managed to shock his brain too.

Slowly he crept back up the stairs, feeling every hair raise along his arm as he went. Something felt off. Something just felt very very wrong. But he persisted still, opening the door as quietly as possible. He crept along the deck, treading lightly as not to make any noise. As he moved high enough to see the front of the boat, he noticed a figure. An eerie ethereal blur of a woman.

But before he could say anything she turned and looked right at him. He watched her for a moment, as she seemed to float above the bow of the boat, somehow both there and not quite real. And then her mouth opened, and with the anguished scream of a hundred voices at once, she yelled at him to get out.

He nearly fell as he scrambled backwards, feeling his heart in his throat, trying to leap clear from his body. And just as quickly as she appeared, she was gone. He was paralyzed in fear, completely unable to move when he heard the boat’s engine spring to life, snapping him out of his trance.

[spacegaywritings]

Drunk Kitchen - Chapter 1 / 2

Summary: Remy and Virgil have some fun with adult juice but their fun is about to drop when the craving for sustenance Can be read as purely platonic considering there is no lip-kisses. Tags: food mention ×missing your soulmate ×Alcohol ×Drunken Shenanigans ×Drunken Flirting ×Drunkenness ×war metaphors from drunk idiots taking cooking too serious

tumblr links:1 / 2 || ao3: 1 / 2 / all. My KoFi  - Support me ♥ or Commission me Story under the cut!

  The sun was low, the day was crisp. Afternoon settled over the land and into the bones of workers hungering for the sweet end of their weekend shifts just to make a bit of extra money and finally be with their beloved home.

Outside, a few people got ready to enjoy the Saturday night, to go wild and party and dance until their bodies had different shames and their head carried different names. The first groups emerged from the home-coming crowds as the birds flew back to their nests and the first buses took the party people over to the pool of sweaty bodies and alcoholic beverages.

Inside, some people reunited their families, others were greeting the next groups of wellness-seeking average people who just lived for getting a meal cooked for them once in a while.

In other places, the party was already high up. It was autumn, Saturday afternoon and so late, you could almost call it evening with the clouds closing in to frame the sun. The bright star was slowly descending, disappearing behind the busy streets and high skyscrapers.

Virgil and Remy... they were the last kind of people. Ever since their roommate - Emile, lovely and beloved datemate of theirs - was out to meet his parents and do some catching up stuff, Remy had decided that it was time to do some catching up as well.

Holding up a bottle of strong alcohol, he had invited Virgil into the “fun” they would have and all the other could see was the impending doom within a bottle. Still, he had given in and willingly decided to slurp some of the disgusting and burning liquid from Remy’s bouncing navel piercing.

Virgil had never forgotten his doubts as quick as in these moments.

Drinking was far beyond by now, the sun was burning with the last intensity of a stubborn yet dying ally. The last words were spoken and Remy sagged against his love.

“wmhwmhw V..”, he mumbled and snuggled against the taller boy.

Virgil swatted at the other but made no attempt at actually pushing him off or anything. Instead, he wrapped an arm around him after trying to get at his little coffee bean. He wavered on his feet but made sure to lean against the counter as Remy just decided to give in and crush Virgil with the whole weight of being responsible to hold him up.

“The fwuck yo...yo wan-mmm “, Virgil hiccuped as he snuggled the other, “uh.. Ri?”

His voice was low and the words came out much clearer than expected but Virgil was worse off than Remy, despite the heavy hiccuping that came from the smaller of the two.

“VIiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii”, Remy shouted at once, then dragged the syllable along as if it was a piece of chewed out, wet gum rather than a nickname.

The man in question just let out a grunt in reply but looked at the shorter guy with hazy hazel eyes. Heh, hazel hazy... hazyel... Pf..

Virgil’s lips twitched into a lazy smile. His arm tugged at Remy who had not enough control over his body to resist the strong suggestion of cuddling closer. The tall, slightly curvy man chuckled a bit and flapped his long lanky arms around his lovely Remy.

“Ri-Ri - Remyyyyyy”, he giggled in a singsong voice as he rocked from left to right and left to right and further to the right and then stopped.. because he lost the unsteady rhythm his drunkass-stupid mind had set up before. He was even too silly to follow his unconscious motifs.

The smaller man was torn between giggling and breaking off the whole hug but the rocking movement was something between nauseating and comforting in a way that he felt too mentally and physically weak in his knees to put a foot down and stop it. He just let his baggy body sluggishly fall from one to the other side within Virgil’s soggy grip.

“Nuuu”, Remy protested. He was so short of breath, he just snuggled back against Virgil’s chest and let out more distressed noises of Remy’s Complaints :tm: “Vii....”, he started again, his mind gathering every bit of brain juice he had to actually continue his intention and voice whatever weird thought had built up in his mind, “food..we..”

Remy swallowed.

“we need foo...fofof..foof....” Remy scoffed at himself, indignation taking over as he felt anger rise against his useless mouth. How dare it just suck at wording like this? “f-food. FucKING food!”

Spit flew against Virgil’s purple shirt but he was too dizzy to really see it. His mind was everywhere and it felt as if nothing was steady but instead, all was moving. He knew nothing should be moving and he had stopped rocking forever ago.

Wait, where was he? Oh, oh yes. Remy.

“uh.. what?”

He blinked and redirected his attention to the other again.

“Uh.. fo-forgot to .. uh .. what .. um, did you say? “

His mind was still drawing a blank at him so he just stared at Remy, hazel eyes empty and void of expectation or thought. He lacked about anything but a high blood sugar level and tons of alcohol. Yes. Yes, so much alcohol of it.. of this bottle and another bottle and oh man..

“Virgil - Vi Vi vI vI v iv iv viv - bitch! virgIL you stupid fucker”

Remy ranted on and patted his chest violently, insistently. The other blinked and just... nodded again, his wavy attention slowly wobbling back into place as Remy wanted to have it. His mind felt like these ... these screens ..oh man these screens... sleep screens? These screens that happen when you do not use your shit and then your technology gives you that DVD screen and the symbol changes colour and wobbles from one corner to another and usually just hits walls.

This was his mind right now.

“Virgil” Remy flapped a hand against Virgil’s cheek. “Like,... food... we gotta eat and this shit.... food... just food, man”

He voice started to sound like he was talking about a conspiracy rather than preparing a meal with one of his datemates.

Virgil carefully nodded. Still, his face seemed as droopy and out-of-this-world as before. Connecting to him seemed about impossible bit Remy was trying his best and somewhat succeeding at this point.

At last, the taller one was looking down at the man in black. A slightly oversized top was hugging Remy’s sides and slacked a bit around his chest area. Forever stoic, the tall over squinted at Remy and nodded.

“Food”, he repeated.

Slowly, at an incredibly ancient pace, Virgil’s mind seemed to start and actually process the idea of food, a meal. Yes, food. Food sounded good, sounded like an amazing thing to have. Oh, yes food could be tasty and they could eat together and have really tasty food that was delicious.

“Em has foood”, he argued eventually.

Yeah, whyever the hell would Virgil make food if it was not in order to satisfy Emile’s petite hunger. His mind just could not comprehend the idea of .... making a meal when Emile was gone. Why would he? It did not make sense.

Unless..

Virgil blinked, a flash of intelligence brushing through his alcohol-numbed braincells. Remy.

“hungry... uh.. you “, he started at first, then swallowed, his mouth tasting of cherries and kisses even sweeter than sugared fruit. And it tasted of a lot of alcohol. It could rival a bottle of common sanitising solution, to be candid. “You are hungry?”

Remy nodded eagerly!

His head bopped up and down immediately but once he had executed the movement for a bit, his head seemed to understand that the pressure and pain seemed to come from the sensation of sudden and repetitive movement of his innocent brain. If he tried harder, maybe he would just make a little cocktail in his head.

Heh, like a brain milkshake when you ate icecream a lot and it started hurting so you shake your head until the pain comes off. Brainfreeze was bad. Yes.

But food!!

“ah - uh.. food”, Remy repeated once more, “cook - um,.. we should cook.”

Virgil nodded without understanding and let himself be tugged along. The smaller boyfriend was freeing himself from Virgil’s wide hugs and he quickly made it out of the embrace and stepped away from the loving support that was his boyfriend’s stable shoulder.

Without missing another heartbeat, Remy strode forward and dragged Virgil along. Together, they made a move, they made progress, they took a whole step after the other until Remy - the genius of the two - made a big realisation- Virgil had been his support all along.

His body did not like being without any wall or shoudler to lean on. Instead of moving forward, he was suddenly experiencing the force of being forced downwards and he and Virgil bonked their heads together as they stupidly collapsed into the floor.

No braincell was lost in the process of making this fall. They were just as silly before the fall and they would continue to be silly even afterwards. Honestly, they were not more clever, now that they had experienced the first hardship.

Oh no. Those were drunk idiots.

Hurting heads clanked together and Virgil slid over the body underneath him, his throbbing temples restricting his reason and patience.

What had happpened? Did they not want to make food? But the food... Where was the food?

“Where ‘s Em?”, Virgil mumbled and scrambled his twig of a physical vessel back into a seating position at last.

Remy was still on the floor, groaning and cursing unintelligible strings of words. Maybe they were made-up words. They sounded made-up. Virgil’s boyfriend was beautiful and a really clever writer so he probably knew how to make words. Wow, such great skill.

He really wanted to kiss him now but a part of him was still mourning after the - once again - new realisation of a missing Emile.

“Viiiiiiiiiii”

A voice whined and the black bundle of boyfriend was moving towards him again, hands facing him and arms outstretched as if to grab Virgil like a lifeline.

“Em is not here...”, Virgil responded and laid back down to his partner.

Misery loves company ♥

The tall boy curled around the smaller one and gently hugged him from behind. Remy let out a little hiccup and snuggled into the embrace.

“n we dun hav food”, he argued silently and nudged Virgil’s chest with his heavy head. It was running on pain and simply pressing against his skull for no reason but to be dummy annoying.

That stupid bitch.

“We uh.. can umm.... do this thing - like..uh, cook..” Virgil swallowed, his body suddenly invigorated by the energy of being right about something, by having a single functioning braincell in his godforsaken drunk-ass head. “Cook! Oh my fuck, we-we can cook!”

The raven man twitched and tapped the floor insistently.

“PIZZA!”

Virgil nodded.

“uh.. how.. how do you.. uh ,,, we? How ... how pizza? How do you make uh, ujm.. pizza”

“Oh !! o ! yes, pizza!”

Virgil’s mind was already swirling around the idea of hot, cheesy, greasy food. Tasty, doughy and absolutely amazing for his mouth - his tastebuds. It felt like a relief already.

In foolish happiness, the two got up. It took a while, longer than a few moments but rather multiple minutes until they had climbed and dragged themselves back up to the position of standing, sophisticated human beings. Not that they were a part of the fancy beings but rather that they seemed to resemble this species a bit more than any other.

Eventually, Remy hung over the drawer filled with snacks. He needed to eat, wanted to eat and he had a certain craving for the greasiest of foods. The black dude grabbed the crisps and hugged them to himself, snuggling up on topf of the kitchen counter with the little snack as Virgil got minced meat to make a killer festival of a greasy pizza dish. Remy started off good! His hands grabbed the package from two sides and started pulling. For some reason, still, his grip seemed to slip. His fingers just couldn't grasp the material properly. It was one of the shiny packages that felt smoother than these matte ones. Virgil liked the texture better so they usually got these rather than other ones.

Just.. today.. they didn't seem to want to open and Remy, in his silly mind, was convinced that more violence and stubbornness would solve the issue better than scissors would ever be able to. Virgil got a pan and was ready to got. Meat, pan. What else would a person need?

His drunk mind started working, gears setting into motion and letting his thought process start. Just as he realised that maybe some oil would be helpful, he heard a loud sound, a sudden shuffling and scattering.

The hazy mind of Virgil redirected his shortened attention span to the source of sound and was met with the sight of Remy covered in spices and crisps. Opening the pack of crisps with a little more aggression was not as practical as he had expected it to be and now he was stuck on the kitchen counter, covered in crisps and crumbs and excess spice powder.

“...uh..”

The tall blob of confusion looked at the orange boy. Yes, Remy was now officially orange. Those were spicy crisps! Honestly, if someone was able to pull off being covered in crisps, drunk out of their mind yet still look somewhat remotely attractive then it was Remy.

The hungry man giggled, his body vibrating and and shaking in amusement. The crisps travelled down, sliding off his clothes and down onto the counter.

“I am tasty!”, he cheered, arms stretched out and ready to hug and tackle the issue at hand, “look!”

The taller one of the lovers just shook his head and leaned in, snatching one off the crisps with his tongue and welcoming the spicy hot treat into the drooling cavern that was his mouth. A hum escaped his mouth and he nodded his head sagely.

“Very tasty”

The two giggled further, Virgil curling his tall posture into a slightly crooked “l” as he  leaned closer to the counter. His hand grasped the edge and promptly encountered one of the lost crisps that cracked and broke on impact. A dying screech could be heard after the lethal contact. A few crumbs could be found on the inside of Virgil’s hand as he retreated his palm in the curiosity of an innocent child’s mind.

“huh..”, he observed wisely. His tongue leaped at the crumbs and he absorbed the piece of sustenance.

“We need to clean .. uh.. that”, he added after chewing on his food and eventually swallowing it down. His left vaguely gestured towards the mess of roasted potatoes decorating one of his datemate’s bodies.

It was a wondrous sight but would turn Emile into an upset little puppy rather than a happy and excited Golden Retriever. He did have the soft energy of one.

Remy nodded again. One of his hands bravely sneaked one of the crispy delights and rewarded his watering mouth with the taste of bell peppers.

“Ish gwood”

Virgil snorted.

“Em- uh.. We- we need to clean”, he reiterated, “we gotta clean.”

The smaller man suddenly shook, his body coming to life and more avalanche of crumbs suddenly breaking from Mount Remy and crashing down onto the kitchen counter with silent pitter-patter sounds. It was like raindrops but less liquid and more dry. More crunchy and crushing.

Satisfying.

“We! Uh, we can..ah- do uh.. um! Bowl! V! Get a bowl!”

The taller of the two broke away from his waiting stance and slowly descended to his knees to pick up a bowl. His mind comprehended the things a bit better by now. The alcohol might be fading or maybe the one bit of crisps was absorbing ALL his alcohol within him.

Or magic, obviously.

They got the crisps from the kitchen counter and off Remy right into the bowl which was then settled in Remy’s happy lap. He was welcoming and neighbourly to the bowl, hugged it and treated it right because he was proper and gentlemanly in his foggy mind.

Virgil looked at the bowl, full and rich with greasy little pieces of potatoes and a mix of spices.

“uh.. they um.. they will be bad”, he thought aloud and tapped against the bowl as he fished another bit out of it. His mouth was accepting the treat willingly and his stomach howled in anticipation. Only his mind was still twisting and turning and nothing made sense. Not that he minded too much. His body was warm and cozy and his thoughts seemed to fly. “we um.. should eat all.”

Remy hugged the bowl, his face immediately scrunching up in distaste.

“Food!”

The smaller man curled up, his legs moving up and his back hitting the wall as he pulled his knees up to his chest. The bowl was put between his chest and the knees.

His precious treasure.

“Ri, we... you are eating it. We will eat it”, Virgil compromised and reached out for the bowl but Remy hissed at him. The heart of a betrayed man was on his tongue as he scowled at the other and gently snuggled his little meal.

A soft puppy face spread over his facial features.

“We eat it..?”

His voice was softer than silk, the tone lowered to a plead. Virgil’s smile was soft and genuine when it appeared and settled on his features. He tried to mimic a similar level of gentleness with his voice and carefully brushed over the back of one of Ri’s hands that was grasping the bowl.

“We will eat it all. No throwing away.”

Remy smiled at him and nodded enthusiastically.

“We share!”

The two were calmly eating out the bowl, enjoying the greasy treat and Virgil allowed himself to lean into the counter and lay next to Remy. The latter eventually decided to be a good bean and switch the bowl with Virgil. Once one of his datemates was sprawled over his thighs, Remy brushed through the pastel pink hair tips of his love’s soft strands. The home dyejob was long ago and the colour was faded so much that the bleached hair slowly took over but Virgil seemed comfortable with a tuff of cotton candy as his hair.

He hummed.

“Food... V.. “, he commented and gently patted his head - earning a little gasp from the other in his state of mindless relaxation. “perfect”

Virgil giggled, the words of his Remy immediately prompting the response their datemate would usually add to it.

“Do you mean ‘purrfect’ ?”, the two inquired in unison before falling victim to their own giggles which soon consumed the incomplete throuple. They would both hear Em’s voice without him being around.

Remy softly nudged his love and Virgil let out a soft grumble. He decided to groan back and nudge again to insist on his wish that the tall boy move.

“We still need to cook, yanno”

Virgil giggled, wobbling on his feet with his wonky stand on the ground. He shifted his weight from one side to the other and moved like a wave to balance his uncertain steps.

“Heh.. cock”, he commented, intelligently so.

Remy joined his hilarious giggles and soon enough, the Virgil curled over the other, hugging him and vibrating in laughter as his smaller roommate shook and twitched in his soft snickers.

“C-cok..!”, Remy tried to correct yet failed as his breathless lungs swallowed half his sounds. Instead, his miserable attempt at setting things straight ended up in making the whole endeavour even gayer. “Co-..cockpfffffffffff”

Virgil shook his head, head red with laughter and euphoria as the words hit him and the meaning actually reached his mind. For some reason, repeating “cock” was amazing and his mind chanted it back at him, echoing the stuttered out attempts at saying “cook” that Remy produced with little success and much struggle.

“c-...”, Virgil laughed loudly, drawing back and wobbling onto his feet once more instead of blanketing his love with the abomination of his oddly large body, “co...cocc!!”

Remy had just composed himself to as much as breathe for a little second but the words Virgil threw into their version of a conversation quickly rekindled the fire of shrieking laughter and gasping snickers.

The two continued simply repeating each others miserable shots at saying “cook” a few more times, wild banter or unfinished words and breathless syllables were between them and filled the room with the warmth it was missing with their datemate still out. Heads grew hot and glowed in amusement at their stupid joke. Nothin could stop them but their horrible need to breathe after all.

They calmed down and their laughter died down.

Virgil decorated the floor, hugging the cool tiles with his warm tomato head as Remy patted the empty counter he sat on, his hand just mindlessly moving against it, stroking it ever so gently like a lover should be caressed. The tall boy was already half asleep as Remy’s hazy look wandered over the mess of a kitchen.

Crisps were still scattered wildly around the kitchen counter (mostly limited to where he was sitting) and even the floor. Cups, shots and little decorative umbrellas were clotting the sink and a few empty cans and bottles lined the side of the sink that did not have a drying rack. Even further, there were towels and napkins everywhere.. and more importantly, a pack of meat and a whole bottle of olive oil.

Why.. Oh, yes. The food.

His lethargic sight was enriched by the eventual addition of crisps creeping into his field of vision.

“V!!! V! The fooooood”

His words emphasised the food part. The significant part. Oddly enough, he could experience a moment of déjà vu yet without any recollection of similar events happening to him. Or happening at all.

The patch of pink and purple pastels was still on the floor but slowly, the legs within the pink yoga pants started stirring up.

He groaned again, feeling the déjà vu also but not being able to quite place it. The past minutes were lost on him. Virgil’s eyes blinked at the new day and new situation before him. Everything was fresh to his drunk mind and he nodded as he signaled he had heard his smaller lover.

He scratched his butt but made sure to flip himself over so he could see the other hovering over him on his divine place on the kitchen counter. Far above him, posing on the clouds of this mundane kitchen. The house’s own Cupid was shooting him glances of love and blinked in charm with his lovely eyelashes.

Virgil smiled up at the divine sight of his love. His sight was blurred by the pinkish veil of his hair that pretended to protect his lazy eyes from the longing lights in the kitchen that shone down onto him.

“Hey there, beauty~”

His smile grew into a little grin as he winked at the comfortable god.

“V you silly noodle~ “

Remy giggled back and curled into himself once more, by now fully laying on his kitchen cloud. His legs were slightly bent, the one pressed against the counter a bit more so than the one above it. One of his arms was supporting him as he leaned on its shoulder. The other arm was lazily draped over his rich middle.

His fingers traced hearts over the counter as he blinked into the pink madness of his little giant.

“What do you want, my love~?”

Virgil smirked up at his adorable master, a stupid happiness painting his facial features with a certain softness. Maybe it was just the fact half his face was covered in his bangs completely falling all over his eyes and even tickling his nubby nose.

The two gazed at one another, each a picture of the epitome of beauty to the other. They relished in the affection, the rosy vision and blurry flutters in their heart.

A noise could be heard. Remy blinked, awakening from the trance that was the spell of love his precious Virgil had cast on him with just his soft looks.

A rumble and grumble could be heard. A hollering and squeaking of demands and curses was thrown around - all coming from the hungry monster in Remy’s stomach. He looked down at it, a distant look in his eyes.

Confusion rolled in his mind but Virgil seemed to remember - or just suddenly have a little bit of understanding left in his mind. He blinked his eyes further open and patted the floor, gently stroking it before pulling himself together and sitting down properly.

“Riri, the f o o d!”, he told him and grabbed the counter to support himself in getting up. His tall body was soon hovering over the counter and gesturing towards the oil and meat once more. “We can cook the meat, man”

Remy nodded, rubbing his eyes. He carefully pushed himself into position once more and soon enough sat proudly on the counter, cheek a bit red from laying on the counter. He played with the sunglasses on top of his head and grabbed a nearby bottle. Taking a huge swig from it, he swallowed the acidic liquid.

His face immediately grimaced as his taste buds detected the different sensations coming at them and his reaction was immediate. The bitterness of alcohol, the intense burning of it down his throat made him scrunch up his facial features entirely. A fire was felt in his mouth but it was calmed by the abundance of sweetness mixed into their cocktail blend was finally reaching him. A taste of fruity freshness and the acidic undertone from lemons and limes washed the bitterness way and made him forget about the disgusting aftertaste of cheap vodka.

Ugh, who bought this shit anyway. It was one of the most widely-ruined alcoholic beverages on this planet and people just saw it as cheap ingredient for a sad cocktail in their plan to get smashed with as little money and effort as possible. Which he and Virgil did too, so he could not really judge that.

Virgil.. Virgil who was looking at him, head tilted and exposing his neck a bit. His pastel purple shirt around him was loosely hanging from him and barely covering his collarbone and general neck area.

The tall pastel boy reached for the bottle before Remy got to unscrew it and made sure to empty the rest into his big mouth. Remy just blinked at the other, shaking himself in disgust for a moment before he received the empty bottle in his hands and finally shut the holder of horribly disgusting sweetness.

“Good”, Virgil reviewed with a click of his tongue.

A pleased expression settled on his face and he looked like a peaceful statue of stone that would sit in some temples and parks.

Remy shook his head, his piercings clanging together with silent sound akin to jingling bells. The taller datemate cleared his throat again and pointed ta the stove.

“You gonna come.. come and uh.. help me cook?”, he asked softly as he looked at his lovely datemate. He was such a handsome piece of man. A fine man in black from head to toe, even his earrings and piercings were black (safe for the septum in silver than graced his lovely nose).

The smaller goth got down to the floor and quickly wrapped his arms around Virgil’s soft middle.

“mmmh”

Remy hummed and gently snuggled up to the walking softness that was one of his boyfriends. Sometimes he just realised that they had not touched in a while and it felt ridiculous.. wrong, in a way.

The closeness was remedying the little void in his touch-o-meter. He snuggled up to Virgil’s chest, hugging him close and simply enjoying how the embrace was returned. Virgil’s large arms folded around him, carefully holding him and shielding him from the touch-starved life without him. The taller one softly started rocking after he pressed a little smooch to the top of his head.

“Got you, Smalls”

Remy let out a sound of protest but stayed within the hold. No fight, no resistance. It was just cuddling softly, eyes closed and hearts opened as the warmth of affection lulled them in. Slowly, the weight in Virgil’s arms became more present, the pressure against his chest a little uncomfortable as Remy dozed off, falling against the tall pastel bean.

“ m nodt smahls”

His eyes fought to open again and he lethargically burdened himself with blinking at the other.

“Ssure not l-llove”, Virgil giggled in return and leaned down to hug more of his little lover.

Emile was still not with them and it was nagging at him.

“m!”, Virgil argued, pulling away from Remy at once, “We clan - can!Uh ... um.. Cook and and then be up um.. for uh.. for when Emile uh .. retwurns back uh .. home!” He bounced a bit in his spot and turned his attention back to the stove, quickly moving to put some oil into the pan he had put out before.

“He-he can eat th-the food and ...b..uh.. be proud of us!”

Virgil got on to it, totally absorbing himself in the magical art of fucking preparing food - a meal, even so. The only thing was that the whole process seemed a little lost on him. Once the oil was in and the stove started to heat up the pan along with the oil, he was a bit.. clueless and left to the devices of a person just as unknowledgable as a child. Or, well, a drunkass FULLY grown adult who does not understand life but is tall enough to eat BABIES.

Helplessly, he turned to Remy as the oil startd to change. It did not look just the same as before, there was something happening. There were small bubbles and it felt like some bride’s veil was just dropped in this shit and now everything was slowly whitish but in a really weird and odd blur. Holy fuck, it got more.

There was even more. They got more and more by the minute, soon enough covering the bottom of the whole pan and effectively taking over the oil.

Oh no. It was... It could not be!

This shit was fighting the oil.

“REMY”, Virgil yelled instinctively as he grabbed his smaller man and hugged him close, effectively trapping him in the sweet embrace of absolute and immediate anxiety edging on panic.

The smaller individual stared at the oil, the whitish bubbles in it and saw the sizzling, witnessed the soft little sounds, almost friendly enough to woe him into believing its innocence but he was smarter than that. He would not be fooled into falling for this cheap trick. He was a serious and super intelligent man. He was capable, strong, handsome, gay, hungry and even more fucking gay if he did not mention it before.

Nothing and nobody would or should ever mess with a Queen, a Diva like Remy.

Not even oil. No matter how tasty and delicious it seemed to be .. or smell. How did simple greasy shit already smell so aromatic? Honestly, this was peak restaurant ambient!

Remy held his tall boy and hissed back at the rude intruder.

“Oh, you -”, he challenged with the sudden flow of determination hitting him. The alcohol was driving into his bloodstream and fuelling his confidence to the point of proud idiocy.

He eyed the pan... quickly, he could realise the oil jumping at them, starting the fight, picking up weapons and hitting the first men!

“TAKE COVER!”

The malicious entity has chosen.. death. Ah, alright. Remy saw that. Remy understood.

He was a clever man.

He blinked, refreshing his mind and eyes at once. Within SECONDS - because he was a genius among mortals - he had calculated e v e r y t h i n g.

The oil was coming for them, launching missiles of little white bubbles and hot hard pain at them. It was seething, it was cruel and it was not the last word of blood and injury spoken between them. Remy predicted the attacks swiftly, his mind working overtime at the task of working out a plan as he threw himself against Virgil to dramatically shift them out of shooting range.

They needed to be safe from this evil monster, the ill-spirited being of oily disasters and compromised bubbles of seething, white rage.

“Virgil, Virgil we - “, he started, gasping his words out as if a terrible injury was keeping him from breathing and speaking properly, “we need to stop it!”

The long man nodded, gaze shifting from the monstrosity of oil he had unleashed and the alarmed face of Remy’s usually so calm features. He reminded him of a person at gym, you know, those fitness coaches that were really into physical exercise and they would push you to your limits so hard, you wanted to cry. Kinda. A weird cry of yes and no but it was no maybe, not really. Actually, it was not maybe at all.

It was weird and it was painfully feigned enthusiasm for self-torturing devices.

Wait, how did he - Oh yes, the oil.

“We, um.. uh .. stop it”, Virgil agreed.

A small tinge of regret stabbed him like the shady little bitch it was. Just a fucking little backstabber getting back at him - literally, pun not intended - when he least expected it, when he was exposed and vulnerable. Okay, he was always vulnerable.

Virgil waved his hand around as if to fan the danger away with his magical drunk powers of dummy-thiccness.

“We can distract it”, he slowly suggested, his voice slowing down significantly, “away from us.”

His hands were parallel to one another, as if to indicate a certain length that was the space between his hands. The palms faced one another and he moved the pair of hands from one side to another with an air of importance surrounding him.

Remy nodded with great authority.

“Amazing plan!”

He agreed with a cheer and stared back at the raging fireworks of oil bullets littering the kitchen with greasy spots and defacing destructing. The situation got out of hand, slowly but surely so.

Burning olives could be smelled. They were the souls of the dead, the fallen and forgotten. Their sacrifice would not be for nothing, it would not be dismissed as collateral damage.

Virgil dashed forward, running straight through the shower of oily precipitation raining down on him, his vulnerable pastel soft self. He screamed, screeched and cried in battle demeanour and aggressively threw his head back to face his opponent.

“I will take it from here!”

Virgil stared at the pan, the drawer underneath it heavily attacked by the angrily steaming monster. It was where all the lids were.

“Ri!”, the pastel baby called through the loud hissing and shrieking of the raging dumpsterfire that was hot and burning oil, “You go bash that meat into this shit”

Virgil swallowed hard, the words on his tongue too much for him to comprehend, tears forming in his eyes as he came to terms with what he was about to announce. “I will go get the lid and shut this fucker up”

Silence.

When radios or TV channels hit an error, there was that weird static sound, somewhat intense and monotone but persistent. It was this kind of sound that seemed to dominate the battlefield the oily savage had forced upon this kitchen. Their kitchen..... It would pay for it.

Remy’s beautiful face of love and darkness was derailing into a shocked movement of mouthing protests, proposing empty alternatives to the plan. Virgil shook his head decidedly, not even paying mind to the multiple Remys before him.

It was just an oil job. That shit had messed with their kitchen enough but it would not mess any further with him and one of his dear beloved ones.

He looked down at his arms, spots of burned skin meeting his vision. Future scars of the heroic action he was about to complete. There was flesh missing in his mind, in this kitchen. It was lost like the comrades they had forever missed in battle. The salt shaker, the cocktail glass... The little spoon with sugar crystals still on and around it. They had fallen and they were to never return.

The two engaged in eye contact for a moment lasting longer than a heart’s eternity. Their eyes longingly connected, just a bit, only a second.

Remy gulps down his hesitation and fear. While the oily giant was harmless at first, it was fear-inducing and absolutely horrifying by now. It was teaching them the lessons of obedience and pain - the hard way. Their hearts knew love from each other but they also felt the terror blown into them by the horrific enemy rising in their kitchen.

Virgil nods.

The time has come.

The nod was slow, an exaggerated movement in order to make sure Remy would not miss it. Compared to the following actions, it was basically slow motion. Then, everything happened at once, happened in quick succession and happened incredibly so.

Remy dashed forward to the meat and just flung it right into the pan at once while Virgil slid all over the floor to the drawer and Pulle out a lid just to immediately smash it on top of the pan, covering up the oily mess and saving them from the dictatorship or violence and hatred.

Just like that it was over, they counted their wounds and embraced each other as shivers and memories crawled up their spines. They knew what have been through and they wouldn't be able to just live it down. It would stay.

The raging fire of the defeated oil could still be heard but it was contained at last, it was not out there to hurt them anymore. they were safe and sound in each other's arms. Remy squeezed the pastel blob in his arms, the slightly taller male wincing at the friction and pressure against his wounded skin. His exposed arms smelled like burned meat.

Or maybe it was just the actual minced meat cooking in the pan. They didn't know.

The sage hand turned down the heat of the stove and Virgil gently nuzzled his boyfriend's neck, his fine face quickly hidden in the collar of Remy's black jacket. Not even at home was the place for Remy to take it off. He was more comfortable in it and he absolutely was right in just how stunning and badass he looked with it decorating his biceps.

Virgil gently dove deeper into the embrace and just sighed, softly mumbling nice things, little praises and compliments for his beloved datemate. The other carefully reassured him, told him he was proud and that it was over.

The oil was still angrily boiling and loudly seizing the meat inside.

Remy carefully nudged his love and have his cheek a little smooch.

"We did it" he concluded and gently squeezed his hands. Virgil nodded, lips curved up and humming in affirmation. "You're a brave one, Rem", he shot back.

The addressed man let out a small sound, something akin to a groan. His cheeks were dusted in red feathery delight of a warm blush. He gently shook his head and peppered a few more kisses all over Virgil's scarred face.

"No, you", he softly countered.

Virgil giggled and shook his head as he pulled away and turned to the food. The smell of cooked meat was reaching up to their nostrils, spoiling and temping them with the luxurious scent of a promising meal.

His stomach rumbled in anticipation.

"Cheese?"

Remy tilted his head as he carefully pushed Virgil out of the way to stir the food without getting hurt. Even with some oil spilling around and shooting into his direction, the jacket protected him. Virgil's soft appearance wasn't covered up enough for him to be safe from the deathly syringes of oil doses. He got the hint and stumbled around to get his jacket. Emile and Remy had hade it for him.

He loved it so much.

"Yes, cheese. Of course"

The two, now oddly sober, cuddled up before the stove and got into the whole cooking process.

Virgil got cups of actual water for them at last and they both drank this. They didn't feel ask dizzy and odd anymore, nor just focused and immersed in the idea of eating food. The smell really did it to them.

Virgil had added some spices and Remy sneaked some more crisps into his mouth, occasionally feeding some to his beloved soulmate. Well, one of them.

He softly rests his head against Virgil's shoulder as he stirred cut tomatoes into the mix. Some herbs and beans were added by Virgil at this moment.

Who would have thought they would eventually get to make food at all? They certainly believed in it, during the times when they actually remembered wanting to make food.

The pastel pal snuggled up to Remy, leaning against the much stronger one and simply dozing to the delicious smell of probably just slightly burned food. Remy nudged his datemate to the couch to doze a bit. Virgil was hugging a bundle of blankets rather than covering himself up. He looked ready for more hugs as he silently whimpered for Ri to give up on the food and just cuddle him.

Meanwhile, Remy mixed grated cheese under the food and added fresh lettuce like the genius he was. His mind was young, hungry and drunk but he was also wild and free. Especially free of logic. The emptied cans were cluttered all over the kitchen and barely any space was left unoccupied from the drunk ramblings of idiot amateur cooks.

Towels, trash, cutlery and plates were all over the place, some cutting boards adding to the mix and obviously many bottles and cups. The oily mess all over the counters and the floor wasn't even spoken of at this point. There were still so many other stains in the usually so clean and tidied up kitchen. Usually, Remy would take care of cleaning the kitchen, keeping it neat and clear at all costs but right now, he was not in the mindset. He was drooling over the food the had made. It was probably way past midnight, yet he was focused on the food.

The steaming hot goddess was lazily falling from his big cooking spoons as he stirred and mixed stringy cheese into the mix of spices and meat and so so many tomatoes. Considering their state, they could have cooked worse food. The heaps of reddish "stew" heavily fell back into the pot. By now the strings of molten cheese were drawing lines and twirl through the wonderful creation.

Oregano tickled his nose.

He got a big bowl and basically spilled 80% of the stuff into it. The bowl greedily absorbed the food, taking it in and deliciously spreading itself with the tempting smell and sight. in Remy's mind, he had halved the whole drunk masterpiece of smells and tastes but reality didn't exactly reflect his beliefs accordingly.

He didn't mind the few bits of mashed-up food staining the sides around the bowl. Not that the kitchen was suddenly turned into a worse mess by this. It wasn't a significant addition but rather the cherry on top of a true mess.

Anyhow, the food was done and ready to feed them. He got three spoons in all his laziness and wobble his tickling legs into the living room with his love. Emile would be bs ck soon and he would be able to eat with them and enjoy it along with them. It was just a matter of minutes, right?

The goth popped up next to Virgil, dropping the bowl on the table with the flattering spoons clashing onto the glass table in front of them. Virgil was curled up in his corner, stubbornly and lovingly hugging the pile of pink blankets. They had a rose pattern all over them. As much as Remy adored seeing the contrast of Virgil's mostly white and pastel pink appearance with the more intense rose colour and the floral patterns. Green and reddish hues seemed so stark and radical next to the soft colour scheme that he presented with his peaceful figure of a dozing drunk cuddlebug. Still, the knowledge this used to be a gift his ex had given him didn't sit right with him. Not exactly, at least.

Remy nudged him.

"Love, the food is done", he gently reminded him, him voice pressing against its ground and keeping it as low. It was a ducked down figure in a dark corridor at night when everyone was asleep but the little figure that was the voice.

"huhmm", the pastel punk mumbled softly and stirred ever so slightly, his curled up body opening up for Remy to fill his arms rather than the blanket. His halfway covered face was more visible by now since he tilted it a bit.

Remy smiled a tad.

"Come over love", he invited gently and patted his lap as he brushed over Virgil's arched back with his other hand. "mwmm"

Remy hummed back in return.

The pastel bean shifted over into his boyfriend's lap, resting himself in it with the upper half of his body as he curled up on the new space, now with his arms loosely wrapped around nothing but the love between them.

He felt Remy brush one hand through his dyed hair and his lungs immediately relieved a breath which came out in the form of a sigh. The smaller of the two giggled.

He hummed.

''You slee..sleeby..?'', he asked softly, his voice ending in a low hum.

Thoughts and words were mentally swirling around like noodles in a nostalgic childhood soup. You know – the ones with noodle letters in it. They were aimlessly whooshing from side to side, queerly dancing in an uncertain rhythm with uncoordinated movements guiding them into the unknown. Neither Virgil nor Remy were ready to bring order into the mess of lost letters and unconnected pieces.

There was some sense between them when Virgil basically purred under the ghastly touches, these bare fingers gracing his skull and caressing his pounding head. The tall man curled up into a ball, reaching out to lazily grab one of the hands Remy needed to keep around him somewhere. In his hazy state of mind, Virgil just somewhat expected a random Remy-hand to float around before him because surely the hand to touch him was in front of him .. logically. Yes, he totally deduced that by means of not looking around because his eyes were so heavy with the pleasure of being touched so delicately, the satisfaction of being handled with great care as if he was a fragile glass of thin sugar – just a moment about to break apart, melt away or dissolve into sugary water.

Sadly, his extremely intense and complex calculations turned out to be – surprisingly – wrong after all, leaving Virgil wondering just how he ended up with an empty handful of nothing but all the needs for more body contact he had harboured in it before his attempt at catching more of at least one of his beloved datemates. Involuntarily, he let out a sound of disagreement, a sort of angry hamster sound.

His hand fell over Remy's lap, simply collapsing over it with the sound of frustration and slight anger accompanying the dramatic fall of his unmotivated limb. Virgil instinctively curled further into his fetal position as Remy tried his best to conceal the chuckle rumbling up from within his chest.

He was trembling with amusement but, picking up on the distressed Virgil-sounds, he reminded himself to maintain at least a small amount of countenance in order to not repeatedly poke his sensitivities. The goth was not making fun of him after all or finding his distress to be somewhat entertaining at all. His drunk brain just... short-circuited at how adorable yet odd his lovely idiot sounded when he randomly stretched out his arm just to immediately let it flop down onto his lap and just groan at it as if moving was the worst punishment to ever happen to him.

Virgil's hands were already working up to his hood, confused finger tips tugging at it and letting it clumsily slip through them because fabric was so hard to hold onto. His uncoordinated grip on them caused him to lose his motion many times as Remy leaned back to give him the space he needed to curl his fingers around the hem of his hood. He squealed and screeched in anger at the exhaustive process of getting this right.

Eventually, though, he got his fingers tightly buried in the hood, knuckles turning white as his tired kind just moved his head along with motioning the hood to lower over his head and prevent the access Remy's gentle fingers used to have to his soft hair.

''Oh, darling, nu'', Remy tried softly, his voice attempting to reach out to the closed off taller bean before him. ''Hey there, lil' coff'he bean''

He poked around, carefully searching to reach the long nose in the excess of fabric that stretched over a great part of Virgil's face. It averted itself when Remy fianlly got around to brush against his nose.

''Nu'', he spat out at once, his hands trying to pull the blanket over him as well.

Remy patted his head but the so-called ''coffee bean'' was retreating and hissing at him.

''Com'on, my coff' bean'', he cooed once more, his voice softly sneaking into Virgil's mind, into his heart. Slowly and surely, it got around to actually stop his fingers from pawing at the damned blanket. This cursed stupid pink fabric with its silly roses and vines all over it.

...M.. Shtupid.. roses.. n stupid ''Princey'' guy.. This was their Virg. Theirs only.

Remy kept himself from narrowing his eyes at the enemy. There was no time to be jealous when his little bean curled away from him. This was worse heartache to him than a past lover he and Emile had clearly helped Virgil get over. He nudged him again and the pastel ball returned another hazy noise in reply. It sounded much like a stubborn ''nu-uh!''

''I didn ..laugh about yu, my dear'' He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes patiently. '' 'm just laughed b'cuz ..am so hap-...happ...happy to be wif..wiff you-you'', he started, a little hiccup interrupting him, ''and to see you“

Another hiccup rudely disrupted his flow of speech.

''in mah lap, hun.''

The charcoal-clad man nudged his love's cheek tentatively, barely managing to draw a response from him. ''mmm.... mean'', he retorted insistently.

''Virgiiiiiiiiiiiil'', he whined at once, ''I made fuuuuuuud!'' He inhaled deeply, sitting a moment for the dramatic effect. Or really, he was just waiting because his mind drew a blank on whatever else he had intended to say at some point in time. Uh.. he had made food.. there was food and he was with Virgil and he made the fud for him and Emi and.. uh..

Ah! Yes!

Remy blinked excitedly and nodded to himself, congratulating his genius of a mind that suddenly recovered the thought process lost to the alcohol dampening and slowing down his cognition. He leaned in, bowing deep over the protesting bundle of purple and black. From the lack of words, he wanted to think that Virgil was dozing off and forgetting about the little misunderstanding between them.

''If yu... wan...nn..wanna'', he slowly suggested, ''I can.. feeed you-hoooo''

Virgil slowly blinked, his eyelids breaking open to reveal his dark embers of small orbs.

''Mh?'', he murmured. His head pushed back to Remy's lap and quickly nudged his chubby stomach with careful, uncoordinated movements of a person not just anything but sober but also sleepy and full of feelings.

He tasted love on his lips and gently brushed his tongue over them. ''Ri'', he demanded, voice soft with sleep and heavy in the exhaustion from fighting to stay awake, stay conscious and mindful of his surrounding enough to understand his present datemate at least.

The addressed man patted his hooded head softly.

''Com’up'', he mumbled back and tugged at the sleepy giant in his lap. Virgil was soon sagged against Remy but at least sitting. His left still fruitlessly brushed over Remy's lap.

Hug... He.. He wanted a hug.. Hug.. Hug Remy.

''Riiii'', he soothed softly, voice still just a whisper if any. The goth drew an arm around him and pulled him closer against his shoulder. ''M here, hon'', he assured patiently, mind already wondering just what they were doing again, '' gotcha close.''

He nuzzled the top of his head and carefully left a not of his love on it with a little peck.

Virgil snuggled up to him, his body fitting just perfectly to his side. They were a perfect match, all that was missing was a bit of food now. And a bit of Emile, of course. Emi would make it all perfect. Remy drew him closer and simply let them hug one another for a bit longer. More like waiting for Virgil to slowly gather up his energy and bodily control to eventually embrace the other fully and just rest in each other's love.

The taller one hummed against his collarbone, eyes comfortably closed in contentment.

''You said.. fud..?''

Remy laughed.

''Yeah''

*** The night draped over the village, hugging every little building and lamp post for comfort and love as it lovingly warmed everyone into a world of dreams and happy thoughts. It was the end of the day, it was late and actually almost time for yet another day.

Emile rubbed his eyes, keys to his car jingling in his hands as he approached the door. He had never expected a catch-up to take this long but the afternoon just spun further and further into a late evening and eventually, they had switched locations in order to extend their get-together beyond the point of midnight.

Any texts of updating information to his lovers had been to no avail. Emile thought they were having too much of a good time or perhaps even went to sleep when 3 am had arrived. He did not know how they were doing but he trusted them to be fine, to relish in just being two chaotic yet lovely cryptids together.

He straightened out his dark blue suit and ran a hand through the strawberry blonde mess of formerly gelled-back hair.

His hands worked to unlock the door and once he stepped inside, he shut the door behind him. At once, a certain.. smell hit his nostrils.

He was not sure what it was but it was obvious that the flat had not been aired out properly. The air was thick enough to try and grab a piece out of it. And the scent? It reminded him of a greasy fast-food truck. If he had to guess, maybe something like chilli cheese hot-dogs? He was not sure but there was something spicy in the hair.

It kinda stung.

Emile blinked and switched on the light, quickly taking off his dark overcoat and the first layer of his suit along with his dress shoes. He was left standing in his vest that was hugging his firm statue, accentuating each and every part of his muscular body.

A part of him wanted to call out for his beloved ones but he knew them, he knew the partying souls living in the calm giant that was the pastel-soft Virgil. He was more than familiar with the outgoing and extra kind of behaviour Remy would display with just a bit of party around or in him. He did not intend to torture them with loud noises when he knew they were wild spirits just waiting to run free and roam around without any constraints. They deserved to rest well after partying hard, to be honest.

Emile slowly moved into the bedroom just to find it .. void of the silent snores and little shuffles that came from the drunk sleep of his beloved mates. Instead, there was nothing and he simply frowned at the empty bed. The bed was made, still so it was obviously untouched. Nothing had happened here and none of his lovers happened here for sure.

A part of him wanted to call out for them by now but something held him back. This something was lingering within him as he peacefully stripped his body off the suit and changed into his pyjamas. When he came across his phone, he decided to tap their contacts and just call one of them and then the other, just in case they went out and one did not pick up at first. With the two being tipsy or even drunk, there was no knowing for sure.

He put the phone on speaker and got into his flannel PJs.

Toot.

Toot..

Faintly, somewhere, he could hear something. At first it was so distant and weak, he nearly overheard it, due to the sound of his pyjama stretching over his body being louder than the faint tone in the background. However, once he stilled his movements and stopped dead in his tracks, he was able to identify a sound - even the nature of it.

“I’m on the battlefield like OH MY GOD”

It was Remy’s ringtone.

“Yes, I’m a one woman army”

Emile blinked, the song now clear as day in his mind as he finally identified the muffled sounds. He picked up his phone, fingers flying to grip it and shut the loudspeaker.

“oh la la, oh la la ~”

The song was indicating him to come closer, luring him in and playing hint for his curiosity. The mind was working as he took it step by step through the dark apartment. The end of his pants were dragging over the floor as he sneaked over the ground, his feet merely separating from it with every step he took. His feet ate every bit of sound as he walked, progressing at a speed so slow and cautious, he felt as if he was walking on eggshells rather than the socks Remy had made him by hand.

The sound was getting closer, the persistent, cocky voicelines of the singer were shooting through his mind as he carefully approached the scene. Before him was the darkness leading up to the kitchen. The light from their bedroom was illuminating his way to it.

With a usual movement as if everything was as it used to be, as if there had never been a war and losses in this field of tragedy and blood, Emile switched on the lights and revealed the graveyard of oil and hopes.

The sight was quite a bit- Pans and pots were stacked on top of one another. Spread over a turned off stove and the abused sink who witnessed it all. Stains of any kind seemed to repaint the counter, floor and partly even the ... the ceiling? How did they do that! Unbeknownst to Emile, the horrors of battle drew consequences nobody would be able to imagine. Of course it would paint the world into a new picture, it would change reality and distort beauty into true abominations of cruelty.

There was a bloody puddle of oil on the floor, a pool of death juice tainting the world of the living with what used to be, what used to exist and live and grow. It was no more.

He slowly, respectfully stepped forward, deeper into the red flags of the forbidden zone. There was desolation and chaos. Cutlery, foods and spills whatever in any place and spot free enough to accommodate it. His feet slowed as he progressed further into the field of war, the area of missing people and lost souls.

He walked through the mess, skipping over dead utensils and empty packages. There were bottle caps all around and the worst was little glitter particles and sparkles all around. Maybe they had mixed drinks with glitter. In the context of the battlefield, it looked like the luck and happiness that used to wield yet now it was broken and scattered in the wind of change, the breeze of ends.

Emile watched the drain in horror as he identified tiny pieces of fruit stuck in it. Cocktail cherry bodies blocking the water from ever flowing into the sweet relief of the sewers. It was forever trapped in the sink along with the dying cutlery.

He strove through the devastated lands, through the chaos and destruction. His eyes did not see the past, did not see the struggle to stay alive - to be safe. He was blessed with the ignorance of arriving fashionably late to the scene and just luckily skip out on all the war. He never had to experience the torture of the oil giant. Emile did not even realise how much of a chosen man he was with the entitlement of being spared with mercy and love.

His innocent soul floated above the rotten land, the stabbed and wretched floors and towels soaked with tears, blood and sweat. The salt of ruined soil was poisoning the roots of a new generation. He simply skipped through it, free of guilt or memories. He was not drawn to the tragedy of what used to be. Instead, he marched over to the living-room to finally find the treasure he had been looking for. His flannel-clad self, the pirate of the suffering lands was here to take advantage of the tired soldiers of oil wars.

As unexpected, there was a bundle of black and a bundle of rose snuggled up together, the colours weirdly merging into one fusion of softness. The pattern of roses naturally fit the blackness it was curled up around. It seemed like the most natural occurrence, a home-grown batch of adorableness. Emile blinked, his eyes behind his glasses still needing to adjust to the dark image before him. It was dark because he refused to switch on the lights when his loves could and actually did camp in this space.

“You two are lucky I love you so much”

His whisper slowly weighed down onto them, gracing them in their sleep and rocking them in warmth and affection. They were in the lap of love and safety, dressed in their own schemes and shenanigans with contentment painting their features and highlighting their position with lazy sparkles and soft contact to one another.

Emile bowed over them to draw another blanket over the two, just to make sure to cover them both in the warm coziness they deserved.

For another short moment, he relished in seeing the two embracing one another, Virgil curled against Remy and holding him so close, he would usually fear the other could suffocate - yet he knew better than to worry about them. Remy enjoyed a surprisingly large amount of squishing and a comparably lousy amount of space for sleeping.

After this, he slowly and softly walked away, step by step, back to the bedroom to nap on his own, all alone in their big big bed. He snuggled up with his excess of blankets and soon enough fell into a deep sleep, completely unbothered by everything that used to be and will be. For now, everything was different and so cool compared to how it would be per default but that did not mean his night could not be nice. Relieving dreams soon settled in his mind, abandoning all possible worries in his mind.

Morning was soon to come.