#I can see how learning the subtleties of the rhythm

[imunbreakabledude]

doing akkha is so funny because from the very start of just having casually read guides/watched videos of people doing ToA, I was like, "oh okay a little memory game, you just click in the quadrants that are highlighted, that's easy. that's the most easy and obvious mechanic, the rest of it seems much harder to deal with"

and yet in my ToA learning so far i mess up the memory attack almost every time. because I'm like "okay yeah yeah i saw the colors sure sure" then go to actually reproduce the pattern and. surprise surprise, I do not remember

[lindabrooksschoolofmotoring]

How to Drive an Automatic Cars in UK?

Introduction:

Greetings from lindabrooksschoolofmotoring , your dependable resource for developing competent and self-assured drivers. We will walk you through the subtleties of operating an automatic cars in this in-depth guide, offering insightful analysis and useful advice to improve your driving.

Understanding the Basics of Automatic Cars

Welcome to the smooth world of automatic driving! Finding the fundamentals of automatic cars to understand before switching from manual to drive is the first step to a stress-free transition.

The Simplicity of Automatic Transmissions:

An automatic car transmission would be simple if it eliminated the need for manual gear shifting while driving. Automatic vehicles shift gears for you, in contrast to manual vehicles. Their smooth gear changes are made possible by a planetary gearset and a hydraulic torque converter, which together provide a smoother driving experience than your favorite music.

Getting Familiar with the Gear Shift Mechanism:

The gear shifter is that lever that initially feels a bit like a control on a spaceship.

Understanding these gears is like learning the dance steps to a rhythm that'll soon become second nature. In the upcoming sections, we'll dive into the practical side of things—starting your journey, mastering acceleration and deceleration, and much more.

Starting Your Journey: The Initial Steps

Congratulations on taking the thrilling step into the world of automated driving! Let us make sure you are ready for a relaxing and pleasurable ride before you get on the road.

Optimizing Visibility:

Take a moment to get comfortable behind the wheel. To get the best visibility, find the sweet spot and adjust the seat and side mirrors. It's not only about safety when you can see clearly around you; it's also about customizing your driving experience.

Buckling Up and Ensuring a Comfortable Posture:

Safety first! Buckle up before you start your engine. After you're secure, take a position that lets you control the steering wheel fully and feels natural. Recall that your trip will go more smoothly the more at ease you are.

 

Mastering Acceleration and Deceleration

After you've started your journey toward automated driving, let's discuss about learning the rhythm of the road—specifically, how to accelerate and decelerate.

The Art of Smooth Acceleration:

Think of your accelerator as a volume knob on your favorite playlist. Gently press down to increase speed smoothly. Automatic transmissions excel at seamless transitions between gears, so there's no need to rush. Feel the car respond to your touch, and enjoy the effortless acceleration that defines the beauty of driving without the clutch dance.

Effortless Braking Techniques:

An automatic car is easy to stop. To stop or slow down, lightly plant your foot on the brake pedal. There's no need to worry about downshifting or stalling. Automatic transmissions handle the downshifting process for you. Embrace the simplicity of it all and savor the controlled, stress-free stops.

You're not just driving when you get proficient at smoothly accelerating and decelerating; you're conducting a movement symphony. Stay tuned as we guide you through the next steps, helping you navigate turns, park like a pro, and confidently handle various driving scenarios in your automatic wonder.

Get ready to cruise with finesse!

Handling Traffic with Confidence

In an automatic car, navigating through traffic can be a breeze. Here's how to accomplish it with assurance:

Advice on How to Keep a Safe Following Distance:

In traffic flow, keeping a safe following distance is the golden rule. Remember the three-second rule and maintain a minimum of three seconds' gap between you and the vehicle in front of you. This permits smoother braking and acceleration in addition to guaranteeing your safety.

Negotiating Traffic Jams with Ease:

When traffic slows to a crawl, relax. Automatic transmissions shine in stop-and-go situations. Simply ease off the accelerator, and your car will respond smoothly. No need to constantly shift gears—just focus on maintaining a steady pace and leaving a bit of space for maneuvering.

Embrace the ebb and flow of traffic, and let your automatic car take some of the stress out of your commute. To improve your automated driving experience, we'll cover advanced strategies, troubleshooting, and answers to some frequently asked questions in the following sections.

Watch this space for additional tips on navigating the chaos with ease!

Navigating Turns and Corners with Precision

Turning the wheel becomes a dance when you're driving an automatic car. Here's how to glide through turns with precision:

Steering Tips for Seamless Turns:

As you approach a turn, let the car guide you. Gentle steering is the key. Gear changes are not an issue because automatic transmissions adapt to your speed without any effort on your part. Keep your hands firmly planted on the wheel and allow the car to turn smoothly.

Maintaining a Steady Speed Through Curves:

When faced with a winding road, it's all about rhythm. Ease off the accelerator slightly before the turn, and let the automatic transmission handle the rest. As you navigate the curve, maintain a consistent speed, and enjoy the smooth ride. No need to worry about downshifting—just let the car embrace the natural flow.

Mastering the art of turns is about finesse and timing. Your automatic car is designed to make this process feel like a performance. In our next sections, we'll dive into parking techniques, advanced driving strategies, and address common challenges to ensure your journey remains both enjoyable and stress-free.

Keep turning smoothly and enjoy the ride!

FAQ's

Q1:Which Differences Exist Between Manual and Automatic Transmissions?

A: Where the biggest variations lie is in the gearbox layout of the vehicle. The driver doesn't have to do anything to get the car to shift gears automatically. Eliminating the need to physically engage and disengage gears makes driving more convenient, particularly in crowded areas.

Q2: Can I switch between automatic and manual modes in my car?

A: It depends on your car model. Some automatic cars have a manual mode, allowing manual gear shifts.

Q3: How do I handle an automatic car in different weather conditions?

A: Drive cautiously in rain or snow, maintain a safe speed, and adapt to weather challenges like slippery roads.

Conclusion:

Remembering that learning how to drive an automatic car requires both patience and practice is crucial. Our goal at Oak Driving School is to equip you with the knowledge, abilities, and self-assurance you need to drive safely and enjoyably. These pointers will assist you at any experience level in starting down the path to becoming a competent and accountable driver of an automatic vehicle.

Enjoy the journey with Oak Driving School and be careful on the roads!

[asexual-abomination]

Hi 🥺 I saw requests were open? Could you maybe do platonic Phantom Troupe with the reader having echolalia? If the troupe is too much, maybe just Chrollo and Feitan? Thank you in advance 🥺

Thank you so much for this request! I had a lot of fun writing it!

I know that echolalia and a lot of other symptoms show up differently in different people, so I had to base this on my own experience, and I have a tendency to echo literally anything, words, sounds, rhythms, anything.

I decided to have this take place in a scenario where reader copies each member individually!

Chrollo

Probably the one who has read up on any and all of your symptoms, since he considers it his responsibility to be educated on your needs

When, after you happened to be sat in a meeting with the Troupe, you began muttering to yourself, he wanted to see if you were alright

As he walked up to after, hoping to speak with you, he was surprised to see you repeating a seemingly innocuous phrase from somewhere in the middle of the meeting

Chrollo would recognize this as a stim, but he wouldn’t understand immediately why you would be stimming something he randomly said

He would be a bit thrown off when your explanation is very simple, telling him that it just sounded right, felt right in your brain

He wouldn’t tell a soul, but a little part of him was proud that you found his voice that nice to listen to that you’d imitate it for fun

He definitely doesn’t mind, and even encourages any stimming in general, since he can see that it makes you happy

Machi

While most of her medical training is in more physical things, after it was mentioned that you were autistic, she decided to go and top up her knowledge of neurodivergency.

At one point during a mission, she murmured to herself to remember a safe’s code, not realizing that she was within earshot of you

Several hours after the mission was over and everyone was celebrating the spoils of victory, she overheard you repeating the code to yourself over and over again

She expressed her confusion to you, reminding you that the mission was over and there was no need for the code anymore

When your response was to tell her that the code simply sounded nice, she would probably get confused for a moment

Machi doesn’t quite understand how some random string of numbers can ‘sound nice’ but she also knows that your brain functions differently from hers

I don’t see her making too big a deal out of it, but she’d actually make a sly comment about how much you listen to her

Other than that, she happy to let you stim as you please!

Phinks

Probably not educated at all about the intricacies of your stimming or any symptoms in general, but he'll never get upset with you, since he understands on some level that it's just how you are

I'd imagine that the way you'd echo from him miiight come from overhearing him death threatening a scared hostage

Definitely spooks him when he hears you mumbling the harshest and longest string of curses he's ever heard

Mostly because you're spitting the words with the exact same tone as he did, and he thinks that you're trying to threaten him

(He doesn't wanna mess with you 😆)

When he finally figures out that you're copying him, he jumps to the next conclusion that you're mocking him

"What? Am I not intimidating to you? I sure scared that scum back there!"

"What are you talking about?"

His face when you explain yourself to him is nothing short of flustered, and he begins profusely apologizing

He gets super caught up whenever he's accidentally ableist, since he wants you to feel safe around him

Once you've cleared up the situation, he actually takes joy in seeing you copy him, and if he gets the chance he'll want to teach you how to be more intimidating

Uvogin

Another case of not really knowing what stims are, but being respectful of them anyway

I mean, man is literally eight feet tall, he doesn't care about whatever weird things anyone else might do

He roars at the back of his throat once, and that's it

When he's walking past you after a mission, Uvo's almost shocked to hear you making a vague growling noise constantly

Since he likes to lean into his animal side a bit more than others, he'll jokingly ask if you're trying to intimidate him, much like Phinks

When you explain to him to you thought that his roar was fun enough to copy, he also takes an odd sense of pride in it

He's not normally a man for any kind of subtlety, but if you actually found his roars pleasing to listen to, he'll see if he can roar at a volume that won't immediately burst your eardrums without protection or distance

If you do a lot of vocal stimming in general, especially imitation of his roars, I can see him taking you out to some mountain or cave or whatever to practice your roar for some fun bonding

Nobunaga

Okay so we know that he spends plenty of time around Machi, so she's probably explained some of the main symptoms of your autism at some point when he asked

But when he sits next to you and hears you trying to imitate the sounds that his sword makes when he charges it with his Nen, he looks at you incredulously for a moment

You may not have even noticed that you were echoing at first, so you'll probably be confused when you see him looking at you

"Oh, sorry, your sword just sounds nice!"

*Cue even further confusion from him*

Completely doesn't get how a sword sounds nice, but kind of has this "You do you, kid" attitude about it

May or may not invite you to listen to his practice and then wait until afterwards to listen for your echoes because he finds it cute

Shizuku

Okay I'm gonna be honest, when Blinky first appeared in show and made that noise, I was taken and kept trying to make the same noise for hours whenever it appeared

"Shizuku, why did you summon Blinky? Is something wrong?"

"What are you talking about? I didn't summon them?"

"Oh that was me, sorry."

Definitely has a giggle about it when she finds that you enjoy echoing her Nen ability

Will summon Blinky whenever you want to 'have a chat' with them

Very openly thinks you're absolutely adorable with it, and it's one of the first things she'll do every time she gets to see you

Shalnark

Honestly, he says everything with such a happy, upbeat tone, anything he says can be copied for fun

His laugh is the best, so you're probably echoing that

He's probably not too shocked when he hears an attempt his own laugh coming from down the hallway, thinking someone's trying to play a prank on him

But he'll be a little confused when he finds you

When you reveal the truth of what you were doing, oh god, be prepared

"Aww, you like my voice that much??"

"You do a pretty good impression of me, must spend a lot of time listening, huh?"

He WILL NOT stop until he gets to see you blush, though if he does overstep and upset you, he'll tone it back down immediately

Might not change anything especially big with his usual way of talking, but will take a moment to appreciate his own voice whenever he catches you imitating him

Bonolenov

THE MUSIC!!

Okay I know that they're mainly used for battle and injuring people's ears, but he definitely has more calm songs that he plays for his friends

When you first hear it, the tunes are so enchanting that you will be humming or whistling it for weeks afterwards

He's sitting and relaxing when he hears you attempting to hum the tune of a sweet lullaby he had once played for the Troupe

It's probably not a perfect replication, since it takes a while to learn the songs he makes, but it makes his heart melt to think that you want to try your hand at his beloved music

When he overhears you, he jumps in to begin gushing about the song you found so lovely

Asking if you'd like to hear it again -  he'd certainly love to play it for you again!

He might seem really overexcited, but he's genuinely happy that he can bring you joy with his ability

Franklin

Took me a moment to think of something for him, but after a while of thinking:

He speaks slowly and calmly quite often, so I can imagine that he can sometimes say things in very rhythmic fashion, which will catch on very quick

You're walking away from a quick chat with him, when he hears you whispering under your breath

Normally wouldn't even make a note of it, but he wants to make sure you're okay

(Definitely isn't worried about you and wanting to keep you safe)

His reaction when you tell him that you liked the way that he said something is a mix between "Oh, that's nice" and "What are you on about"

Has probably the least amount of education on stimming, but also one of the most open to learning, since he wants to do what he can to keep those he cares about safe and happy

Will be a bit put off by the way you seem to copy him at first, but definitely doesn't mind after a while

Silently thanks you for making him take a moment to appreciate his own voice

Pakunoda

Sweetheart hums a meteor city anthem one day, and isn't really shocked when she comes upon you humming it yourself

Since she's looked into your mind with her ability, she knows the way that you like to echo certain sounds, and doesn't mind at all

If she's listening from around a corner or such, she will smile joyfully and quietly wait out of your sight

Unless you catch her in the act, she's actually quite happy to not let you know of presence while she enjoys the thought of you enjoying her culture

But, if you do catch her, she'll probably start gushing to you about the origin of whichever song you wanted to imitate

She wants you to feel happy, however you wish to pursue that, and will absolutely hype you up in any sort of stimming you need to do

Whether you want her to ignore your echoing, or to join in whenever she hears, she's happy to do whatever you ask to keep you happy

Feitan

If he catches you copying something he said in broken language, at first he will assume that you were making fun of him

Not because he thinks that you're mean spirited, just because he's used to people mocking

With most members of the Troupe, he would show no mercy at this point, but since he actually likes you, you get one chance to explain yourself

Once you tell him about why you're copying him, he'll be seriously confused for a moment

Yeah he's never heard the word echolalia before

So you'll have to explain it to him

Probably doesn't immediately get it, but he lets you off the hook for it, since he does understand that you're very different from him and the others

Doesn't really think too much of it once you've cleared up that you aren't mocking him, although he finds it interesting to listen to you talking about how stimming works, even when he doesn't understand half of it

Kortopi

Actually another case that assumes that you're mocking him

He's used to being acknowledged as a weak link in the Troupe, and would get quite internally upset if he thought you were also in on the joke

I can't explain why I think this, but I actually see him as one of the most educated members of the group when it comes to any sort of neurodiversity, since I think he's neurodivergent himself, but he probably doesn't catch on immediately that this stems from your own autism

Wouldn't confront you straight away, but when he does, he tries to be as professional as possible about it

Cue a string of quiet apologies when you explain yourself

Quickly tries to explain himself to you, and you probably bond over how annoying it can be to have stimming misunderstood

Tries his best to let you know from then on that any symptoms you need to express are accepted around him, since he knows that you accept him as well

-----

Thanks for reading!

[sunsoothed]

lightness

jang hanseo character study kinda fic i promised. i'm not sure if this is a character study anymore. i have no idea what this became. anyway! i wanted to explore hanseo and give him a bit of a backstory, so here it is!

*deep breath* content warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, physical abuse, blood, injury, canonical character death (not hanseo), recreational drug use, underage drug use, implied drug abuse

word count: 1866

read on ao3

hope you like it!

-

When Jang Hanseo is seven, he is acquainted with elder brother. Regal; nine-years-old and already hunting.

He still hides behind their father with him when he pretends to be terrified of the sound of gunfire.

Hanseo says nothing. He never brings up how his brother had thrown the bloodied rabbit and his rifle to the servant attending him, never brings up how thoroughly he washed his hands to hide the evidence of his independence from his father.

Never brings up how his brother assessed him with just a look and nothing more.

The first words Jang Hanseo’s brother says to him are as follows:

“Don’t call me hyung.”

Jang Hanseo blinks, traces his eyes over the leather of his brother’s jacket, over the blood that drips from his gloves, over the rifle he holds in his hands. He smiles.

“Okay, hyung-nim!”

A scoff, but some appraisal. Jang Hanseo doesn’t understand the half-smile he receives that autumn afternoon, but he remembers it until he beats his brother with a hockey stick, striking his head trice ‘til he’s out and his back once just for good measure, just to see the blood coming up to his mouth for him to choke on.

-

The first time his brother hits him, Jang Hanseo is eight. The ice rink is dark, and his brother is more geared up than he is.

Jang Hanseo misses thrice, scores once. He is rewarded with a swipe of the hockey stick on the back of his calf, and he thinks it is a game.

For that, he is rewarded with his first broken bone and a seared memory of a hand heavy on his throat. A laugh without mercy.

-

When Jang Hanseo is thirteen, he is offered alcohol at a party his father is hosting.

He declined, having seen first-hand what alcohol does to you, what a rage it puts his father in as he breaks porcelain, the scar he left on his mother’s cheek that lasted till the day she died.

-

When Jang Hanseo is fourteen, his brother kills four people. Classmates, he tells him, when he comes home with red speckled on his face. They weren’t worthy of being my classmates.

-

Jang Hanseo celebrates his fifteenth birthday with the diagnosis of his brother being a psychopath and accidentally tearing open the letter of a one-way ticket to the United States.

Instead of cake, he consumes his own blood, and instead of a pat on the back, he has a dislocated shoulder.

When he wakes a day later hooked to an IV, his brother is gone. The phantom of his laugh lives on, searing long into Hanseo’s conscience.

-

At fifteen-and-a-half, his father sends Hanseo to his grandmother’s for the summer. His father is undergoing a trial, on the charges of bribery, abetting murder, and perjury. With one son shipped off to the States and another to Jeju Island, he has no pawns he will feel ill about sacrificing. It’s not that he loves them. It’s that letting your son die because the ransom money you can very well afford would require you to take some shares out, and that’s too tedious of a process to go through.

So Jang Hanseo boards the short flight, stares out of the window for the longest one hour and fifteen minutes of his life so far. He’s never met his grandmother.

He wonders if she’s like his father, knowing she’s raised him, or if she’s worse.

She’s leagues different from anyone in his family.

Halmeoni scans him up and down when the driver drops him off at her estate. At the front door itself, she says, “We have a lot of fixing-up to do.”

It leaves an impression, that’s for sure.

-

The best summer of his life, Hanseo learns how to uproot weeds and catch a chicken without screaming like his life was being threatened. His halmeoni owns a farm, some 150 acres of greenery and animal and mansion.

Halmeoni teaches him first how to eat well, how to fill his plate and not feel bad about it, how to overeat and regret it. Halmeoni teaches him second that he is the most important person to himself; never his father, and not his hyung-nim.

Halmeoni teaches him third that he has no one else in the world but himself.

This, Jang Hanseo remembers the most.

(But his brother’s —)

-

With his brother’s absence, an anxiety sets into Hanseo’s veins so intensely that upon looking up his symptoms, he sees words like psychosis and personality disorder and promptly closes his laptop shut.

Unbidden, but not unwelcome, he remembers the rages his father fell into. He remembers the embers of gold in those small wide glasses that abeoji owned, remembers the crates of bottles that they used to have moved into the house. He also recalls the putrid smoke that used to emerge from the study. The smell of something burnt and something that made him cough so hard it alerted his father of his presence.

It’s in the boys washroom that he smells the scent again. By the open window, out curls smoke.

Jang Hanseo catches the eye of the assailant. Oh Yeonwoo will get him into this mess and then out. He will be Hanseo’s first true friend.

-

Jang Hanseo tries it for the first time on the terrace of the school. One joint between the two of them and nothing but heaving coughs from him until he learns how to take air after smoke and allow its natural passage back up. The joint is over by then, and Hanseo feels nothing.

Yeonwoo bumps their shoulders together, carelessly tossing the filter over the railing of the terrace. “You’ll get the hang of it,” He assures. “I didn’t even make it after a couple of joints, so you’re doing better than me already.”

Hanseo lends him a half-smile. Better than him, he thinks. When have I ever been better than anyone?

“Hanseo-yah, what’re you thinking with that scowl, hm?” Yeonwoo bumps their shoulders together again. “You’re so scary when you space out.”

“I am?”

Yeonwoo nods again. Hanseo notes something hazy in his eyes, something completely unguarded in his demeanour. He blinks cautiously.

“Hanseo-yah,” Yeonwoo whines, “Stop staring at me.”

“I’m not,” He replies. “Are —” Are you okay? Hanseo was going to ask. Stupid. Yeonwoo has settled against his shoulder now, humming some tune. He stretches his legs out in front of him and sways his feet to the rhythm. He seems better than okay.

So this is what it does, Hanseo thinks. Lightness. He wants to be light.

-

And so, Jang Hanseo, age sixteen, falls into something whose magnitude he cannot guess. Addiction is only the half of it. The other half had started the day Yeonwoo showed him something called shotgunning, which had taken his first kiss and his first experience with intoxication whose harm had lasted longer than its euphoria.

When he lies beside Yeonwoo, all too hot and all too cold, unable to distinguish which fingers are his when they hold hands, he finds it. The lightness. When Yeonwoo turns and exhales into his neck, prickling sweat and prickling hair to stand on edge, Hanseo smiles.

And when Hanseo wakes up, the dread in his gut is deeper than it’s ever been.

(�� his brother’s —)

-

So it seems that boys with no family and boys with brothers who know nothing but violence and boys with a terrible, terrible blankness to them can also, by some grace of humanity, fall in love. And so it seems, as Hanseo feels the telltale thumping of his heart and lightness in his abdomen, that Yeonwoo will keep having this effect on him.

Subtlety, Yeonwoo tells him, the afternoon they sit on the roof and stare at the sky and at the smoke. Subtlety will let you get away with everything.

Subtle touches, then. Hanseo’s fingers lingering a moment too long on Yeonwoo’s arm, Hanseo’s hand firm between his shoulder blades. Subtle words, and subtle smiles, and subtle smoke between their mouths as they chase lightness.

Subtle kisses, too, when Hanseo feels he can see his own eyes in Yeonwoo’s, when Hanseo still finds the thrill of sealing his lips with Yeonwoo’s to be a minefield of his own feelings. Subtle kisses that Yeonwoo always blackens — drags them down into teeth and tongue and desire. Hanseo doesn’t know, then, that this is what differentiates them. What puts him on a curved, unshapely parabola and Yeonwoo on a straight line.

Feral, Hanseo once thinks, his gaze only slightly unclouded, as Yeonwoo bites at his lips, his neck. Feral, in the way he never kisses to coax Hanseo’s mouth open; never to cherish feeling. Only to chase after something so much deeper.

-

At seventeen, Jang Hanseo implodes from heartbreak.

Transfer student. Short, ebony hair, in that oh-so-timeless straight bob. He has a nice smile, even Hanseo can tell, and he has a charming walk. He’s also assigned a seat beside him. This, of all things, was the catalyst.

Yeonwoo didn’t want to kiss him anymore. Yeonwoo wanted to smoke with him, but Yeonwoo also bought a new companion along with him. Yeonwoo, it seemed, never wanted what Hanseo did. Yeonwoo, it seemed, never felt the way Hanseo did.

Hanseo knows that he knew, somewhere, beneath what his world had become, that this would not stand for long. Its foundations were, in the end, smoke.

-

But it does not surprise him, Hanseo thinks, seventeen and a quarter, something vile in his veins. It does not surprise him that he’s here.

His head hits, dully, the floor under him. He laughs. And he laughs some more, as the world turns from dust to sky to ocean. And he waits for the servants to find him in his father’s study.

-

They tell him that he’s lucky, later, in the hospital. Jang Hanseo thinks this is what death feels like, on the verge of eighteen. He states blinking at the ceiling. Hospital rooms are white on all six sides, and heaven is supposed to be white on all six sides as well. He wants to laugh, so he does.

And it hurts.

Hanseo stops laughing.

(— his brother’s laugh —)

-

Hanseo laughs. Ten years past, ten years perished, Hanseo laughs until his heart hurts. His brother’s heart is still beating. His blood is still warm, the three hits to his head and one to his back hadn’t kept him down. Hanseo laughs as the blood splatters on his face, sprinkled red on his chin and lips, a sprinkled red dancing in his eyes as he brings the hockey stick down, down, down.

For everything Hanseok has made him — less, more, just enough. For all these little things that had changed Hanseo more than broken bones could. For lost love. For things that weren’t, in the end, Hanseok’s fault.

Hanseo beats him till his heart stops fighting back and the blood pooled in his mouth flows quietly. Till Hanseo feels no fight left in him, and then some, till the exhaustion in him takes over.

Hanseo slumps over his brother’s dead body, and Hanseo laughs.

(But his brother’s laugh will always be louder.)

[a-smile-hides]

WARPAINT - I.R.

WARNINGS: long fic, description of battles, blood, wounds, death, some time jumps, I had a bit of a block during this …

This was actually requested, so thank you for that! Sorry for the wait. I kind of got carried away with this. My first draft was not so long, but then I realised I kind of wanted a stronger reader and now… well this happened. Hope you enjoy!! xxx

The request: Hello! I wasn't sure if requests were open or not, but I had this idea were the reader is not a shield maiden and prefers doing other things, and shes not exactly that well-built. Maybe there's an attack on kattagat and she's one of the people who were taken? But she fights her way out and goes back to kattagat when ivar was planning a rescue mission (nobody thinks she could fight) but she can because of some reason in the past and she was forced to? I'm literally just throwing ideas.

---

“Correct me if I am wrong, but the Christians that you just defeated have invited you and your brothers – and only you three – to come to their palace to talk about peace?” You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelieve. “You honestly can’t believe that Ivar.”

Ivar sighed. His back was turned towards you as he tightened the straps of his gloves.

“Ivar… Do you?”

Ivar threw his head back, looking up to the sky above him. The sky was bright blue. A couple of birds flew over, following the largest one in their group to their next adventure. Behind him a couple of men sat together whispering and pointing at the exchange in front of them, wondering aloud what or who made you qualified to step up and talk to one of their leaders. “Of course not. It is not me who has turned into a fool.”

His words made you bite your lip. Merely a few hours after the army had returned victorious, a petit man dressed in beautiful red robes decorated with golden leaves had fearfully entered the camp. Stuttering and barely looking into anyone’s eyes, the man proclaimed his lord acknowledged their triumph and had asked the three leaders to come to the castle at sunset. In that way they could discuss the outcome of this victory. This lord, the prince of this dying land, clearly did not want to lose any time.

Ubbe, wanting to take this opportunity of peace, had immediately accepted the offer to which the messenger nodded and ran away, looking like a dog with its tail between his legs. Ivar had been furious and confused by his brother’s naïve decision. But he could not ignore the fact that a part of him was curious to what this prince wanted to offer in exchange for “peace”. This soil was rich, and he knew this land held unknown treasures. Its only flaw was the leadership. And so, he wanted to follow his brothers to this castle. Yet, he knew how foolish they would be if they did not bring their most trusted warriors to the castle.

“You are going no matter what I say?” The question came out as a statement. You didn’t need any answer. The silence that followed and the slight second his movements halted were enough. Slowly, he turned around. A sly grin concealed the doubts he had.

“Do I suspect some concern?”

You licked your lips, shifting your weight to one leg. “I am only worried about my place in this camp. You know they don’t like me here, Ivar. Without you, they might come up with something to get rid of me.” You said laughing airily, your head subtlety nodding in the direction of the men behind you whose eyes were still locked on you two. And although you said it with a small grin, your words held a certain truth. And he knew it too.

Ivar nodded his head. “I would like to see them try.” He whispered, narrowing his eyes.

You could hold back you laugh. Ivar pressed his lips together at the sound, hiding his smile as he watched you. And then, the mood changed. That airy, light feeling disappeared. Everything became serious, while the two of you just stared at each other.

“Be careful?” You asked him again. Your voice was small, barely audible.

Ivar looked up at you and extended his hand, mentioning you to come closer. In a few steps you stood in front of him, patiently waiting for his answer. Tenderly, he grabbed your hand. His thumb brushed over your skin, while his other hand followed the curve of your hip. His brilliant blue eyes stared right up at you. The corners of his mouth slightly curled upwards.

Ivar breathed in deeply, leading your hand to his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he pressed his lips on your hand.

With that you got his silent promise.

***

A fire crackled in the background as the sun began her descent. The dry ground felt cool against your feet. The birds chirped loudly as they flew over the camp. From behind you, you heard someone howl as his friend emptied his cup in one big gulp. The music that was played by some of Sigurd friends amused the crowd. And slowly but surely more and more people joined the drinking game going on around the fire.

The mood was light and happy. Every last man or woman that decided to come along this raid was cheerful because of the recent victory on those pathetic Christians. Ivar had used his tactics and bright mind to conceive a master plan. Ubbe had led them forward with his skills as a warrior and Hvitserk gave the men the support they needed in the middle of the fight. The army, for once, was not big in numbers, but with those three it hardly was necessary.

No one knew who came up with the idea to organize this raid. But not a single soul cared. Since Ragnar’s disappearance, those voyages had been put to a halt and many men and women longed for this opportunity. An opportunity to raid and find treasures and make their families proud. An opportunity to get access to Valhalla.

Now that the three brothers had left to negotiate, the camp had decided to feast. No one was worried for their safety. Even if they had been gone for longer than the few hours they anticipated. The road to the battlefield had been long and tiring. Who knew how far this castle lay?

A fine grin formed on your lips as the sounds filled your ears. With your back turned towards them all as you let your body sway to the rhythm of the music. With both hands you lifted your skirt up, keeping it out of the dust’s range you kicked up as your movements got bigger. The music swelled up and you closed your eyes.

Your mind had been clouded by worries and possible disastrous outcomes for the sons of Ragnar, but now for the very first time since they left, you could let go of those dark thoughts.

Getting lost in the story the tune told you, you did not notice the girl that joined your side. She had come along this raid with her mother, a gifted healer. It was clear she had inherited this knowledge, and therefore wished to accompany her mother on this voyage. Her big eyes were focused on you as she tried her best to imitate your moves. Many times, she almost tripped over her own feet.

With your eyes closed, you kept twirling and dancing to the music. Lost to the world around you and the crowd that watched with amused eyes to the show going on in front of them. Some men catcalled while others were completely obvious to the dance. As the music slowed down, you took a moment to catch your breath. Only now you noticed the people that had their gaze pointed at you.

“Is it true?”

The high voice of the young girl next to you made you snap out of your daze, looking at her with your eyebrow raised.

The young girl grinned; her eyes glimmered with mischief. “Is it true you dance for the brothers like this every evening? They say you do it for Ivar whenever he demands it.”

Her innocent question made you snort; her innocence could not stop the irritation from building up inside of you. It was not the first time someone had asked you this.

Unlike other children, who helped their parents in their line of work, you often hung around the brothers. Acting as a shadow and sneaking up on them. This continued until you came of age, and Hvitserk saw you disappear into the woods with your father. He dragged a heavy cart with him, knives, axes and ropes thrown into it, while you carried a large basket with food in it. At first it did not worry him, but when you did not return for five days, questions arose amongst the brothers. When the day of your return arrived, the men were confused, but happy to see you. Only Ivar had been reluctant, focussing more on the scars and bruises that covered your body. It was only after you had shaken your head at him and asked Sigurd to play your favourite song once again that he warmed up, trying his best to hide his smile as you danced to the music his brother played.

Many wondered why you always danced until your feet got raw. Swaying your hips and twirling around in circles until the sun set in the evening. Many thought it was the effect of plants that you were not supposed to eat or the consequence of your mysterious disappearing in the woods. You learned fast that everything that was not done by most people, was considered odd.

This could be the reason why the youngest prince let you walk beside him. He too was considered as someone odd, someone unusual. Although you were not a shieldmaiden, nor a woman with a famous background, a connection was shared.

Ivar often said to be irritated by your presence and loudly proclaimed that when he was around his brothers. He would hide his smile, only giving it when he knew no one else was around. Sometimes he would utter out a sneaky comment as you passed them, making Hvitserk snicker and Sigurd roll his eyes. Yet never would he allow another to say those out loud. The ones who dared to mock you in his presence usually ended up with a nasty cut on their forehead.

“Y/N, you’re ignoring my question.” The healer’s daughter sang out.

This time you laughed out heartily. “People believe what they want to believe. I must say that I don’t know wh-“

Your voice died as you looked to your left, where the road lay on which Ivar, Ubbe and Hvitserk had departed. Appearing at the horizon was a horse, soon followed by four others. Their riders hitting the animals to make them run faster. Squinting your eyes at the moving figures, you saw how each of them seemed to be shouting, one even raising their sword high in the air. The metal reflected some of the sunlight and made turn your head. The sight only made your heart miss a beat. Behind you, although hard to see due to the evening sun, you could make out the silhouettes of the men that slowly stepped out of the woods.

The girl beside you noticed your worried gaze and followed it to the tree line. Her cheeky smile disappeared immediately once she too noticed the men storming at your camp. All of them carrying various weapons.

The young girl screamed out, making the musicians stop playing and everyone look up. Frightened the girl ran in the direction of her mother’s tent, while you shouted out at the top of your lungs.

“Ambush!”

***

“Does he really think he can bribe us with a bit of land, now?”

Ivar’s soft but menacing words made every Christian man in the large palace room look up alarmed. They did not know what he was saying, because suddenly he had changed to his own language, but his tone had changed drastically. During this whole ordeal, the young man had not spoken much. Only asking a couple of questions on a light and airy tone. Now it seemed as if his patience had reached its end.

“Do not forget that we are in another country, Ivar”

“Ubbe, this kingdom is dying. You are the one forgetting we destroyed them on the battlefield. We should just raid and move on. Maybe we can send word to our home. To little Sigurd. He could stand in as our man here?” He grinned, “Then at least he does something useful.”

Hvitserk lowered his head as Ubbe sighed out.

The prince coughed, snapping the men out of their argument. This man, the only living member of the royal family, had been sitting on his throne uncomfortably ever since the Viking brothers had arrived. He had invited them over in hopes of finding a truce. Some form of agreement so that he and every last resident in his land could come out of this alive. But so far, none of his offers had pleased all the brothers.

“We could take the land, Ivar. The best that is out there. We can demand it from him.” Hvitserk urged, a wide grin on his face. Ubbe nodded at him, patting him on the back. The prince grinned at the interaction.

Ivar rolled his eyes. Something did not feel right. The land was theirs to take. This prince knew it too. He did not get why his brothers suddenly became too soft to continue.

Ivar’s suspicion only grew when a slim man dressed in the same red and golden robes as the messenger that directed them here entered the room. His gaze was only pointed at his lord, trying his best to avoid the heathens that he feared. Bowing for a second, the man stepped forward. He opened his mouth, but then closed it as he finally locked eyes with the three men sitting in front of him. Those heathens knew his language. Leaning forward, he quickly whispered something in the prince’s ear which made him sit up straight. The prince nodded his head at his messenger, thanking him and letting him leave.

For the first time, he stepped off his throne and walked towards the three brothers. He took a moment, nodding to himself as if he were encouraging himself to continue. “Good news, my informant just told me the council has agreed to come together and talk about this arrangement.” The prince stretched his arms out wide, a hopeful smile on his face. Ubbe and Hvitserk nodded their head at him, while Ivar looked away. “This all on the condition that you spare the people and myself and do not attempt another attack on my kingdom.”

***

Blood covered the dusty ground as the large group of men fought their way through the camp. Each of them entering the tents to drag the ones that tried to hide in them outside, claiming their most valuable belongings as their own. Laughing wickedly, each of them left the tent ravished behind them, setting them on fire once all the goods had been taken out of it. Women thrashed around in their holds as men of different ages fought bravely against the marching forces.

It became clear very early that this was a planned attack. A strategical set in a game of vengeance. The clearing had been chosen carefully by the three brothers. It was large enough so anyone who had joined this raiding party could place their tent where they wanted to. It provided a good view on any upcoming forces. And enough scouts were present in the forest, carefully placed there to warn everyone if an attack may happen.

And yet, no signal was sent. Those Christian men snuck up on the camp as if someone had opened the door for them.

As you hid in the tent, you watched with sorrowful eyes how the girl that admired you earlier sat beside her mother. Her little body shook in fear, while tears kept rolling over her rosy cheeks. In the chaos of the attack, you had pulled them with you inside a tent. Your hideout was fragile. Nothing more than a piece of cloth. But at least it was something. A place to think of a better plan.

Two shieldmaidens had followed you inside. One tried her best to look outside, while the other tried to mend her broken bow.

Outside, the screams of anguish and the shouts of war became less prominent, making you think the Christian forces were retreating or at least, that the fight was ending. The shieldmaiden at the opening of the tent seemed to share your thoughts, lifting her hand in a silent demand for the girl to calm down.

Her brows were furrowed as she slowly pushed away the material that closed your hideout. Her eyes scanned the area, but seemed not to find any enemy.

“I can’t see anyone. We cannot stay here. The girl will betray us with her cries.” She whispered out. Her eyes going from her fellow shieldmaiden to the mother.

“She is a child!” The woman whisper-shouted, pressing her whimpering daughter against her chest.

“If she is a child than why is she even here?” The other shieldmaiden snapped back. “The camp is not a sacred place free of any harm.”

The mother scowled at the woman, running her hand over her daughter’s head in a comforting way. “I’ve come along raids many times. Not once have I-“

Her angry words were silenced by the gasp her daughter lets out. Frightened for the safety of her girl, the women grabbed her tightly. But her daughter had not been harmed. Her finger shakily pointed forward as her eyes filled themselves with tears.

The shieldmaiden that was looking out the tent, lay now dead on the floor. Her throat pierced by an arrow.

“Audhilde” Her fellow shieldmaiden whispered out, her hands clenched into fists. Without thinking you jumped up, grabbing the axe the fallen shieldmaiden had taken with her.

In the moment it took you to grab the axe, a second arrow entered the tent, missing you by an inch. The feeling of the arrow zooming past your face made you choke on your breath. Looking to the left you saw two men fight with each other, one of them holding a crossbow in his hands.

Sniffing, the other shieldmaiden took a seat next to you. Her eyes were clouded by the anger rising inside of her. With harsh movements, she lined up her arrow.

“What are you playing at?” She hissed, as you held her back.

Remaining silent, you stared straight into the fiery eyes of the shieldmaiden next to you, while your hand kept pushing the bow down. The woman in front of you frowned, opening her mouth, but was silenced when you placed your finger on your lip. Slowly, you crawled backwards, pulling the woman with you to hide behind the fabric.

Nodding your head towards the small mirror that was placed on the box next to the healer and her child, you made the shieldmaiden aware of the danger right outside the tent. In the reflection you could make out a man. He walked hastily around the tent in front of your hideout, before deciding that the one on its right was the one he needed. A second soldier joined him, and together they entered the tent.

You tilted your head, frowning at their odd behaviour. As you took a better look at them, your confusion only grew. They seemed to be in a rush. As if they were the ones being hunted, as if they were struck with fear and wanted this to end as fast as possible.

The shieldmaiden next to you grew tired of waiting inside the tent. Waiting was just the same as giving up, she thought. Pushing you aside, she took a seat next to the entrance. With the tip of her arrow she carefully pulled back the material of the tent, giving herself more room to get a good look at the outside world.  

“Why haven’t they burned ours yet?” You wondered out loud.

The shieldmaiden snorted, looking over her shoulder briefly. “Why should I care?”

“Look around you. They are not walking around as men that believe in their cause. Only a few seem proud to fight for their lord. We are losing this. We are being slaughtered. And still, most of them seem so scared of what may come after them…”

Your words made the woman in front of you think for a second, before she shook her head and lined up her arrow once more.

“Try to get out as fast as you can. Run to the forest. Take ‘whiny’ and her mother with you. I will take care of those fuckers outside.” She groaned, before she shot her first arrow and launched herself out of the tent.

The shake of your head went not unnoticed by the mother, who looked at you confused. Her insides boiling with anger due to the shieldmaiden abandoning her and her only child in the middles of an ambush with a woman who seemed unfit to protect them.

“Pure suicide. This is going way too fast. Attacking now that the three brothers are not here ...” You mumbled out. The words coming out fast and quiet, crumbling the little hope the woman had. Not only did that shieldmaiden leave her alone with a seemingly unfit person, but now that person was mad too. “They planned this all!”

The conclusion made you snap back to the reality around you. The frightened girl shaking in her mother’s arms, the sounds of swords clashing just outside your tent, yells of terror in the distance. You looked down, the axe lying comfortably in your hand. With a small nod to the mother you told her to get up. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet, lifting her daughter up. Her eyes immediately went to the entrance of the tent, but you held her back.

“Go out there and you’ll die.”

The words made her halt. She wanted to scream back at you, but the confident glare on your face made her bite her tongue. “Where do we go then?”

Not answering her, you stepped forward slightly, bending down to get a look of the frightening world outside the tent. Outside the shieldmaiden who had carelessly run out of her hideout was fighting against one of the soldiers. Her face was covered in the blood of her opponents. Skilfully, she kept the man at bay with a sword she had taken from the ground. But beyond her knowing, a second man slowly made his way towards them. The grin on his face was vicious. He was one of the few who enjoyed this all. Collecting all of your power to restrain yourself, you watched how he snuck up on the shieldmaiden and sliced her shoulder with his sword. Turning around before you saw her end, you tried to see if you could find another way to escape.

There was no way you could fight your way out of here. Even if you wanted to, the possibility of stepping outside this tent and be met with the same fate as that woman was too high. Nevertheless, staying in this tent was no option either.

Blinking at the weapon in your hand, an idea struck you. Without hesitation you walked straight towards the back of the tent, followed by the mother and her daughter. With brute force, your pushed away everything that kept you from reaching the fabric of the tent. A couple of boxes, the mirror, some candles, they all landed harshly on the ground. The mother watched perplexed as her daughter escaped her grip and helped you. Your lips curved upward as you looked into her eyes. Raising your eyebrows, you lifted up the axe in the air.

“We’re making us a way out of here…”

With the axe, you sliced the fabric of the tent, ripping it apart. Careful not to end up like the death shieldmaiden inside the tent, you opened the gab slowly, searching for any possible foe.

“Everything’s clear. When I say go, run. Run and do not stop until you’re deep into the woods.”

Not waiting for an answer, you walked around the tent, straight towards the boxes you carelessly threw through the tent. There had to be something in here for them to protect themselves with. The mother narrowed her eyes at your plan, the concern for her daughter made her be on edge. But her daughter nodded determined.

You smiled as you stumbled across a knife. Nodding your head at yourself, you walked up to the mother.

Her confusion did not disappear once you presented her with the knife, but without hesitation she took it from you. “How do you know all of this?”

Not containing the sinister laugh that escaped your lips, you grinned back at the mother.

“My dad wished for a son.” You muttered out, raising your eyebrows at her.

Before you could step outside to get one final look, you heard a low chuckle behind you. Turning around, your eyes widened as they made contact with the men that had attacked the shieldmaiden only a few moments ago.

“Three little birds in a cage.”

“Now!”

In a flinch the mother and her daughter ran out of the tent. The young girl screamed and cried while she held the hand of her mother, her tearful eyes glued on you until she disappeared out of your sight.

The man grunted, irritated by their escape. However, he still had one little bird left. Slowly, as a fox sneaking up on his prey, he walked towards you. Confident in his skills. You licked your lips. Chuckling, the man took a step forward, the sword in his hand raised high above his head. Without thinking, you ducked underneath his swing, sidestepping to avoid him completely. With all the power you could muster up, you sliced the axe across his back. The man hollered, pressing his hand against the wound. As he took sight of the blood on his hand the man simply laughed at you, muttering under his breath. There was no sign that this man was one of those weak one-God lovers Ivar used to tell you about.

The man’s eyes had become very dark. And with a load roar he ran towards you, making you duck to avoid his dangerous move. The man, not expecting this, could not hold himself back and thrashed through the tent and the opening you just made, falling down on his face as he flew through the gab. Not wasting the moment, you ran after him, pushing him down with your foot and hitting him with the stump side of your axe so you could knock him out. As fierce as you may be now, a shieldmaiden was not what you were at heart.

“Heathen!”

The word made your blood run cold. A couple of men had spotted you. Running towards you at full speed, their swords raised high in the air. Turning around and deciding that your time acting as a hero was over, you tried to make a run for it, sprinting to the trees.

With each step the tree line came closer. And with that, your freedom. An escape from the terrible fate of being captured by the enemy. Behind you, tents were still burning. Christian soldiers and Viking warriors lay dead on the bloody floor. Those that had started their escape too late either trashing in the hold of those Christians or hiding in the few tents that were still untouched.

Another step. The trees were so close. Two men ran in front of you. Both carrying their wounded friend, trying their best to get him to safety. Grunting as they carried him forward, completely ignoring his pleas to leave him behind.

Another step. With a quick look behind your shoulder, you noticed that those Christian soldiers had stopped following you. Instead, there was only one remaining. Standing lonesome, next to a tent that was lightened on fire. Not slowing down, you kept running.

And then.

Pain.

A sharp cry passed your lips as the piercing, throbbing pain in your shoulder knocked you off your feet. Falling down on your stomach, you tried your best to look at your right shoulder, where an arrow had pierced your flesh. Moving felt almost impossible, the pain keeping you down on the ground. Leaving you vulnerable. An easy prey for the Christian soldier that walked up to you, grinning wickedly while playing with the bow in his hand.

---

Thank you for reading xxx

Tags: @fairyofvoid​

[calpops]

falling facade | c.h.

part eight: falling fractures

part one: falling flowers | part two: falling freedom | part three: falling fears | part four: falling failures | part five: falling fame | part six: falling feelings | part seven: falling forces

5k words

Copyright © 2020 calpops. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format (translations included).

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Weeks passed since the kiss on the curb between Calum and Arden. Silent bliss and secrets shrouded them and all that they had come to figure out. Any and all time spent together was real and falling felt like passing through clouds and tasted sweeter than ever. Only a slight bite of guilt followed with Michael’s gazes that screamed unanswerable questions. They tried to play it lowkey in front of him but with the engagement already in motion and those not in the know passing in and out  the act fell on a thin wire; lines and realities were crossed. They often got away, stayed at Calum’s with the complete privacy his place offered. When they had no choice but to cross paths and realities it was closed doors and dark shadows that allowed them to be real with each other and explore each other through the new dynamic of their relationship.

A band milestone called for celebration and worlds to collide. Calum picked up Arden and savored every moment in the shadows of the car before they entered Ashton’s where the party was already well underway. They blended in with the crowd and played all the parts they needed to for those surrounding them. Calum kept a casual arm around her to suggest their relationship but not be explicit and obvious. Loud music, lack of lighting and the large crowd provided an easy and unnoticed escape once formalities and greetings took place. They waved to Michael and played it cool, moved through the crowd and found a piece of quiet solace. Calum knew Ashton’s house just as well as his own.

A spare room provided them with privacy and a place to wander and continue exploring. With the lights low and Arden’s back pressed to the wall, finding sweetness and breathing her in—focusing solely on her as the party faded behind them—became second nature. After weeks of becoming more and more intimate and familiar with one another Calum’s hands glided down her body and settled at her waist, his lips roamed her skin and kissed softly down her neck, a sigh he now knew and adored escaped her as his teeth lightly grazed supple skin. Her fingers carded through his curls and their bodies pressed closer together, her right leg came up to wrap around him, his left hand found way under her thigh to support her.

“Cal,” she murmured, voice low and laced with hazy desire. Calum made a noise of acknowledgement and continued to kiss her. “Don’t leave a mark. Michael might see.”

The reminder pulled Calum back and stopped him short. He looked up and found hazel in the dim light, a plea to keep secrets off her skin settled in the way she looked at him. Eyelashes fluttered and her lip pouted. Calum nodded his understanding, gave her a chaste kiss on the lips and sighed.

“It’s probably not a good night for this, huh?” He asked and she tilted her head to the side as if to communicate she was unsure. Her leg dropped from his hold and his hand wound up on the wall beside her instead. “The band has promo this week and I think everyone is gonna expect you to be there for some of it.”

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “Without a hickey, probably. Michael would either assume the truth or think it was someone else. I don’t know which would be worse.”

Calum arched an eyebrow at her before dipping down to give one last kiss to the curve of her neck. He smiled into her skin and lingered for just a moment. He felt her ease against him and knew they were both wishing the circumstances were different. When he looked back up she was biting her lip and looking at the ceiling.

“We have to tell him eventually,” she said out of nowhere and Calum heard the guilt in her tone. “Tell everyone all of the truths, actually. It’s getting really hard to keep up—but it doesn’t feel like it should be anyone else’s to know.”

Calum brushed his fingertips along her jaw and encouraged her to look back down at him. When she did he could see the distress written clearly on her face even in the shadows.

“We can tell when we’re ready. We can start with the first truth. To our parents,” Calum suggested and watched as Arden visibly relaxed at the weight that would be lifted from their shoulders.

“How mad do you think they’ll be?”

Calum shrugged. “Won’t matter, it’s management’s fault for roping us into it. I think they would have taken a drunken joke over a forced contract. They’ll be more upset about that than anything.”

“And then we’ll tell Michael?”

“If you want,” Calum confirmed and reminded himself all of the truths were contingent on her comfortability. He liked having her to himself and keeping the new dynamic to their relationship under wraps. But if it was eating at her, if she asked him to come clean, then he would. He’d go at her pace and hopefully be able to hold her hand through it all.

She let out a breath and casted her gaze to the door. “Let’s give it a little more time. Should we get back out there before it seems suspicious?”

“Suspicious to who? Almost everyone here thinks we’re engaged,” Calum laughed and made Arden roll her eyes at the absurdity of their situation. “Michael knows we have to play it up sometimes.”

She grinned and leaned in for one more kiss, one last tousle of his curls and wandering hand exploring him. They hadn’t gone much further than what they’d done tonight, but taking it slow and learning each and every curve of each other was a journey Calum was happy to be on.

***

Arden’s first experience with band promotion came on the backs of a single they were hoping for success with. They were carted from radio station to television set, from green room to dressing room and hallways and sound booths. In between the chaos Calum always sought her out. In front of the different teams he held her hand and the band backed them up by playing it natural. Luke and Ashton proved useful, always having something to say about them or being a good way to divert to something else. Michael played his part as well as he could, tried his best to be a believable protective brother and trusting friend that was happy for both of them. The cliche jokes and warnings of what Michael would do if Calum ever hurt her felt a little too real and a bit unsettling as Michael’s eye contact didn’t waver.

The week dragged during the days Arden couldn’t be around for the interviews; her job at the gallery kept her occupied, but Calum wouldn’t have it any other way. As much as he wanted her there to break up the boredom and be able to bask in the irony of their “fake” relationship he knew her time was better spent figuring out her dreams. Management wasn’t entirely pleased she wasn’t attending every session to just be a shadow in the background or a tag on social media but for the lack of her presence the questions heightened tenfold. He knew management approved the questions beforehand—possibly even wrote them and handed them over—and that he had to answer them. On days when Arden was there he could keep an eye on her as he talked through his answers, pick up on subtle clues hidden in her body language as to whether she was okay with his explanations or not.

When she was able to go and downtime plagued them between sets they found a rhythm to sneaking away or hiding in plain sight. Closets and corners became havens for their reality and subtleties screamed truths in the faces of those that didn’t know. They could get away with hand holding and his arm around her in front of Michael. When they could get away from him they were bound to explore and cross lines they never had before. Hushed words and needy sighs highlighted secret desires in the dark. Those times sent thrills through Calum. But it was the softer moments that stayed with him.

Afternoon sunlight spilled through windows in the green room and an unusual quiet settled around them. Their team was busy out in the hall, Ashton was running late and Luke was manning the hall waiting for him. Calum and Arden were able to sit close as a guise for the facade and Michael didn’t bat an eye at it. When he left for the bathroom Arden moved after him, watched him walk out the door and down the hall a way before turning back to Calum and closing the green room door. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips and she slowly walked back over to him where he was waiting with open arms. She settled against him, more fully and intimately than before, tucked her chin into the crook of his shoulder and he felt her breath on his neck as his arms wound around her.

“I’ve missed you,” she said and Calum smirked.

“I’ve been right here all day,” he reminded her and carded his fingers through her hair.

“It’s not the same when everyone else is around,” she admitted with a faint blush and buried her face further against him. Modesty was becoming of her and made Calum warm. “There’s too many things to keep up with. We can’t just be us. I miss you.”

Calum agreed with her words but didn’t vocalize it. He just kept runnings his fingers through her hair and let out a small huff. He let himself enjoy the moment. The week had been so busy and contrived it was rare to find such a peaceful interaction. It was the last day of promo in the area and Calum couldn’t be more thankful. A plan to end out the week formed in his mind in an instant. He wanted to top all of the fake off with something real; put everything back into balance.

“You wanna get away tonight?”

Arden shifted to look up at him with questioning eyes.

“We could go to the diner,” he suggested, knowing it was one of their places they had no fear of being themselves. “Or the beach.”

Arden hummed as she thought it over and lightly tapped her fingertips to his chest before settling back against him and hiding her face. “No. I just wanna go home—I mean your place—so we can be alone.”

The smile that formed on Calum’s face couldn’t be contained, he was elated to know his place was synonymous with home for her. Especially when she despised the city his house resided in. In the back of his mind and in the forefront of his heart he knew it wasn’t the city or the house that made her feel that way. It was him. And she did the same. She made cold ocean water and flashing cameras and a stranger’s wedding and a Vegas hotel feel like home. He cherished those places and moments with everything he had and everything she had come to give him.

The rotation of the doorknob had them springing back into a more casual position, but when an assistant walked in instead of Michael or Luke or Ashton they both caught their breaths and settled. Close calls were becoming second nature. Anxiety lingered around every opening door and watchful eye. Calum couldn’t wait to be home where they could finally be alone and themselves without inhibitions and fears of what would be coming around the corner. The assistant told Calum he was needed on set, that Ashton had finally made it and the others were already headed over. Calum gave Arden a quick goodbye kiss figuring the assistant wouldn’t think too much of it with the ring on Arden’s finger and all the chatter of the engagement. That was one of few silver linings inside the chaos they were living. The ring gave reasons when they weren’t ready to share their own.

Calum went through the motions for the interview: relied on his band mates to pick up his slack and sense that he wasn’t all together and comfortable with where some of the questions headed. Michael easily slipped in and broke it up, Ashton and Luke helped to diffuse the situation. When the day and the week of promo was finally over and they were all headed home it came as a small surprise to Michael that Arden chose to go with Calum instead of him.  They chalked it up to needing a new game plan for their next paparazzi stunt. After a moment Michael seemingly understood and bid them both goodbye. But once they were back to Calum’s—in Arden’s words home—the last thing on their minds was the stunt. Everything became real again the instant they stepped through the door. Pretenses and theatrics were left outside. The couch called their names and had them settling in.

Calum had no fear in pulling Arden close, nearly completely on top of him. Bodies rested as one and small talk came easily. Arden went on about her job at the gallery and Calum had pride on the tip of his tongue the entire time but stayed quiet to let her speak. He didn’t know who else she had told, if her family knew and could also sing their praises for her path. So Calum always picked up the slack and reminded her of the admiration he had for her and all she achieved.

“You know,” Calum finally spoke when she lapsed into silence. “I’m still waiting on an Arden original; don’t tell me you haven’t thought about getting back into painting after all the time at the gallery.”

Arden shifted. “You’re still on that, huh?”

“Of course. I’ve got a blank wall just waiting for your art.”

Arden hummed with good humor and shook her head, Calum could feel the motion against his chest and the vibration of her voice as she tucked herself closer into him.

“I’ll have to see what I can do,” she half promised and Calum nodded, only wanting to remind her, not push or prod or dull any spark that may have come back. “It’d be a shame to let that wall space go to waste.”

Calum agreed and let them slip back into blissful silence. The rest of the night was filled with quiet conversation and so easily them that when morning came neither batted an eye. They had stayed up all night, comfortable enough on the couch and in each other’s arms to the point they didn’t move to the bedroom. It was the gallery that separated them, Calum making Arden coffee before he dropped her off and leaving her with one last gaze he hoped spoke of his pride and adoration for her. She bid him goodbye with a smile and kiss on the cheek; something much more substantial and heart thumpingly real than just a brush of her lips from a whispered thank you. It was sweet and soft and innately Arden.

***

Real time spent together fell apart in the face of another stunt. A more invasive and public walk through the cameras. Calum could feel Arden’s anxiety the day leading up to their first night walk, he noted the wiggle of her legs and the distant look to hazel that had him worried. He wouldn’t leave her side during the entrance to the club, wouldn’t let the paparazzi get more of her than necessary and would do his best to keep her comfortable. But the uneasiness she exudes was starting to follow him, to form a pit in his stomach and make him need to call to action. He texted Ashton and asked him to go with them hoping that it may take some heat and interest off of them. He explained it to him and Ashton didn’t hesitate, even offered to drive.

Calum sat in the backseat with Arden and felt the tension was so palpable it nearly choked him. She was tense and staring out the tinted window. Paparazzi lingered on the curb near the entrance. The night was dark but the flashing of cameras would be bright enough to light their way. Ashton drummed his hands on the steering wheel, not accustomed to the build up and time it took for Arden to be okay with diving head first into these situations.

“We just need a minute,” Calum explained and Ashton nodded, eyes squinted inquisitively as he took in the situation in the back, probably realizing the anxiety that was swelling, the panic that was rising and the attempt to calm it.

“There’s a lot more out there than usual,” Arden whispered and finally looked back at Calum. He could see the panic pooling in her eyes and the stiff motions that accompanied her every move. “It’s terrifying.”

“I’ll be right there with you,” Calum murmured and wished they had driven alone, wished he could say and do more to comfort her without Ashton sneaking glances in the review mirror. “It’s a quick walk in. We stay for just a while and it’s another quick walk out. It’ll be okay.”

Calum knew making that promise was risky. He had his own run-ins that hadn’t been so okay, where they got a little too in his face and said something a little too reactionary. Sometimes he threw up the middle finger so the photos couldn’t be used in magazines, sometimes he said four letter words that maybe only called more attention to him. He would have to stay subtle and be quick with Arden at his side. The paparazzi needed no more incentive to get rowdy tonight.

“We don’t have to stay long?” She asked with hope in her tone and hand reaching out for him that faltered when she remembered Ashton was in the front. Calum shook his head.

“Half an hour. Get in, they can get their shots, get out and they can get a few more,” he said. He took a glance out the window and pulled his sunglasses from the neckline of his shirt, gently placed them on Arden’s face and gave her a small smile. “These will help.”

“I didn’t think to bring mine. Are you sure you don’t want yours?”

“It’s fine,” Calum soothed and reached for the door handle, Ashton taking the hint and doing the same. “Ready?”

Arden slightly nodded past a sigh and scooted out just behind him, Calum being hyper aware to keep her shielded. A customary arm went around her and she hid her face against him, the walk was short and successful—as easy as it possibly could have been. Only a few remarks were made. Having Ashton walk in with them was a surprise and a good separation. Music was blasting upon their entry. Arden was glued to Calum’s side as they walked to their reserved seating in the VIP area. A few of their friends within the industry were at the table and gave head nods as greeting or small waves as introductions to Arden. It was convenient to have them around, much easier to explain to Ashton why they sat so close and acted like a couple so naturally.

“Wasn’t so bad right?” Calum asked, dipping down to be near her so she’d have a chance at hearing and hoping no one else would. The music was a bit faded where they sat but still poured through the club with resounding bass lines.

Arden shrugged. “Not as bad as I thought. Not as easy as usual.”

Calum rubbed her back—recalled a time when they sat on a bench outside the band’s management’s office and he had done the same—hoping it would help her relax. She was still a bit shaken but a calm was coming down, put a bit of color back into her face and loosened her movement as she melted into his touch, rested her head on his shoulder and finally took the sunglasses off her face. Calum’s friends didn’t bat an eye at the affection but Ashton raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. A lump formed in Calum’s throat and burned without remorse at the questioning stance Ashton took up. Apparently, the game wasn’t as obvious to him. Calum would have some explaining to do.

Time slipped by and Calum could sense how uncomfortable Arden was getting. She wasn’t used to the noise and the drunken people that swarmed around them in droves. She wasn’t a party person and when she was she usually snuck away to find some solace and quiet; to a place like the side of a house where the stars were her only company. Half an hour felt like seconds to Calum but with the bounce of Arden’s leg under the table and the restless grip she kept on his hand he knew it was starting to feel like an eternity for her. He could guess she was dreading the walk back to the car, that she might be assuming the worst to make up for the ease in which they entered the establishment.

She sidled up closer to his side, pressed so completely against him it would have been almost impossible for him to not hear her whispered request. “Can we leave yet?”

He couldn’t refuse the simple want. He couldn’t deny that he was craving some alone time with her as well. Her words from days earlier rang true. When other people were around they really couldn’t be themselves. It was always more reserved or less authentic in some way. Pieces of them were always hidden to someone’s watching eyes. Calum caught Ashton’s attention and made a motion toward the doors. Ashton understood the nonverbal communication and quite possibly the desperation for escape clouding Arden.

They bid their goodbyes quickly and headed for the door, Arden slipping the sunglasses back on and gripping Calum’s hand with renewed anxiety. Before they were out the doors Calum could sense the energy outside had shifted. Flashes bombarded them before the doors shut, more paparazzi had gathered, a crowd forming and circling them—almost cornering them back into the club. Ashton took up the lead and Calum appreciated it with his entire being; used himself to help shield Arden and push through those that got too close to them; got too invasive with her. Calum lost sight of Ashton and could only hope he would get to the car and bring it to them in the midst and the thick of the swarm.

“Cal,” Arden’s voice barely made it to him as the jostling and the unnecessary comments began.

In one heart thumping moment he lost his hold on her. Fingers slipped through and the force of the crowd separated them. Calum was in a panic. Irritated at the push and pull. Desperate to get back to her. He was shoved forward and she was pushed back. He could barely see light brown hair or hidden hazel eyes peering over the crowd. He turned suddenly, saw Ashton’s car pull up to the curb and sent out a silent thank you as he maneuvered back around and elbowed his way through, knocking into cameras and anyone in his path. He found her in the middle of taunting flashes, frozen on the ground in an obvious fall; hands on the sidewalk and foot twisted awkwardly. He sank down to her quickly, back to the crowd and focused entirely on her.

“Arden?” He gently asked, broke the frozen fear she was in and watched as she came back to him with a trembling lower lip and hands that shook as they sought him out. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. Can you get up?”

She tried, sucked in air through the pain once weight hit her right foot and clutched at Calum; his arms catching her before she took another tumble. The paparazzi were pressing in again, a blare of a car horn took many by shock and Calum used the moment to move fast. He lifted Arden, hands under her thighs, her arms wrapped around his neck and legs wrapped around his waist.

“Hide your face love, we’re getting out of here,” Calum instructed and hoped she heard him. It took a few seconds before he felt her bury her face against his neck, the cool metal of his sunglasses clashing with the warmth of her cheeks.

The backseat door flung open as soon as Calum managed to get them to the car. Ashton had reached over from the driver's seat and aided them in their time of peril. Arden slid into the seat and over to the window opposite the crowd and commotion; to where the night was much calmer—the world seemingly split in two. Calum climbed in quickly and shut the door with a resounding thud; the tinted windows helping to keep the blinding lights at bay. Ashton’s quick getaway was made in silence as he peeled out and forced everyone back.

“What the fuck happened back there?” Ashton finally asked after minutes of driving in new found silence. “Are you guys okay?”

Calum nodded. Though it was more dramatic than any other run in with paparazzi he found himself mostly unfazed. Though his eyes drifted to Arden to find her gone peakid and tense. Her fingers curled into her palms and a distant yet pleading look settled about her. The trembling lip came back and her hand slowly inched toward him through the distance he left between them on the bench seat. She pulled it back when she realized Ashton could see; the hesitation and hurt in the movement broke Calum. In a quick motion he undid his seatbelt and slid to the middle of the seat, buckled back in and pulled her to him as far as the seatbelts would allow. She shattered in his hold and let the anxiety and fear of the entire night out. Sunglasses were abandoned in favor of tears. He did his best to soothe her and not look at Ashton who only had questions and assumptions surely sitting on his tongue. Calum ran his fingers through her hair, placed small kisses to the top of her head and whispered words he hoped would help ease the ache and pain.

“It’s okay now, I’ve got you.”

Arden pushed away from him slightly after doing her best to collect herself. “I never want to do that again.”

“You won’t. No more paparazzi walks, I promise.”

Calum heard Ashton’s noise of confusion and disbelief. It probably wasn’t a promise that Calum should be making but he would raise hell to keep it. Calum brushed off the looks Ashton was trying to give him through the mirrors and wiped away stray tears from Arden’s face. Kissed her forehead after contemplating if that would come off as purely comfort and then roamed down to peck her lips without thinking. It was instinctual and habitual. Calum ignored the obvious stares Ashton was sending him and swallowed down the fear of being caught. Took the rest of the ride back to his place to coddle her and keep her calming down, to quell the panic and pain lingering within her.

When they pulled up to Calum’s house he let out a sigh and undid their buckles. “Ash? Can you just… not say anything about this?” He asked with his gaze skirting to Arden and back to Ashton.

Ashton threw his hands up from the wheel. “I don’t even know what this is. How can I say anything about it?”

That was Ashton’s way of saying whatever conclusions he came to about the way they interacted after the scuffle would stay an assumption and a secret safe with him. Calum nodded appreciatively and opened the door, hopped out and offered his hand to Arden. She was hesitant to put weight on her foot and Calum grimaced when he remembered the awkward fall and sheer pain written on her face. He scooped her up again and closed the door with his hip.

“You need to get your ankle looked at,” he said as they approached the door and felt Arden stiffen in his hold. “We can go to the emergency room.”

“No!” She was quick to let the opposition to his proposal slip out. “No. It’s okay, I mean, it’s maybe a small sprain at most. I just need to rest it. And get some ice.”

Calum wasn’t so sure about her denial but trusted her word and brought them into the house to do as she needed. With her foot elevated and being iced her tears finally dried from the horrendous end to the night. Duke curled up with them and made everything feel like it was going back to normal; if they even had a normal. There was a bite of worry about what Ashton saw and how Calum couldn’t keep the situation under control, there was fear in the power of management and the vindictive levels they were willing to go to to get what they wanted. At this point, Calum wasn’t even sure what they were after anymore. Ruining him, ruining the relationship or ruining Arden.

“What do you think the headlines will be like?” Arden asked and Calum heard the anxiety creeping back into her tone. “You don’t think Ashton’s gonna tell Michael, do you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Calum soothed and pulled her closer into him, reveled in the familiarity and normalcy of the affection and vowed to do the worrying for both of them.

It was his turn to stand up to management and decide when the hard truths needed to be told. Arden had braved enough of the storm; stood firm in the face of management and saved their reputations. Took the weight of both their lies on her shoulders. The falling fractures were his now.

<< >>

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[psalloacappella]

tempo rubato

Day 7 Prompt: free prompt // “From now on . . .”

@sasusakublankperiodweek

Ao3 | FFN | ↓

It is a divine and breathtaking thing, to be untethered from their earthly expectations.

The rhythm of the world is a universal hum, an unbroken orbit consisting only of two.

(we write a story)

Hewn halves of the same whole, shadow and light.

They tell themselves to keep it simple, take it slow. This, whatever this is.

The dynamic shift between them is not sudden nor gradual, but something permanent, piquant, and passionate.

Arcs of exploration, personal and entwined: They roam the edges of the world they know and the enclaves they don’t, hoping that their bonding will reveal the hidden map — time reigning at the helm, the pilgrim cartographer. 

But they’ve never been blithe or unfocused, not in their goals or in the shaping of their destinies. Certainly, nothing between them has ever been anything other than a dramatic affair, enduring, and a love that every other eye can see.

“How many days has it been?” she asks him across an inn table, watching him in the dim light. 

Sasuke knows damn well she’s aware of the hours and seconds that have elapsed together; she’s far too precise for sly questions of time. Does it matter?

He pauses before answering, already so taken with the way she levels her gaze at him, unadorned, and knows bringing her along will be the ultimate undoing of his penance journey, the taking apart of his hard heart. Sunrise cleaving through his endless dusk.

“Months, now.” Gathering up the last shreds of meat from his bowl, he places it in hers and meets her eyes in the manner of setting dry kindling alight. 

And so it works, this restrained and sentimental pace, for a while.

.

(we speed up)

Whispers in firelight will be their foundation, the tales that will shape their future. They speak of mundanities (flowers), practicalities (weather) and dreams, some past, lost, and others transforming into hesitant, potential plans. They speak of scars, this one that one, from the one they called Sasori she breathes, his fingertips tracing a swift cleaving crescent, from him, he mutters, and he knows she’ll know which man simply by the smolder in his sloe and violet eyes.

Some damage gossamer, passing marks on the skin, and others rugged as mountain ranges, raised in affront. Shapes distorting and flickering in the flames. A reminder of the world they hold up, the home they must decide to recommit to, if they can.

They travel and retrace their own history, craving and dreading the point at which they meet the end if only to know the epilogue. 

But this love is unbridled, moves at breakneck speeds — years piled up with unsaid things, so it’s easy to melt, crumble, learn and map every single vulnerable inch of one another. Hearts, minds, skin. Whispering one another’s names in constant refrain.

It is a divine and breathtaking thing, to be untethered from their earthly expectations.

The rhythm of the world is a universal hum, an unbroken orbit consisting only of two.

.

(we slow down)

Swimming in a lazy river, circling as fish in palty ponds consisting only of their dual halves, they speak of coulds:  Could we settle somewhere new? Is the place that birthed us a sort of destiny? Is that home, or is this, you and I, enough of an identity? 

Could our future thrive in the same place of our trauma?

Could this system, somehow, become better? 

Balancing a brush between idle fingers, Sakura drips dry in the parched heat and nibbles the end of it in thought.

“Anything to add?” she asks. 

Sasuke swats at an insect, squinting in the high noon.

“For Kakashi?” Thinks a moment, then glances sidelong at her; at the way she holds things aloft so delicate in hands that break the earth. Heal men, and kill them on occasion. At the way she imbues such seriousness into her letters to their ex-sensei, frown rivets dashing across her forehead. At the fading water evaporating from her skin. “Ah, just to share it with the idiot.”

Lips drawn in moue, Sakura struggles not to laugh. “I can write separate letters; Kaka-sensei is busy now. Hokage things, you know?”

She watches him throw his arm against his eyes to shield them from a dazzling sun, and his quiet snicker contains multitudes, echos in a song. The expression just in that reminds her how little friction remains between them, that they’ve caught fire. 

“He can dictate to Naruto — you’ll burn out here if I let you write two,” he chides, noting the red dusting on her cheeks, suffused with glow. “I’m not quite sure how well he reads on his own anyway.”

Erupting into giggles, she shades her own eyes to stare at him with bewitching and stripped abandon. “Be nice. You know he’s next in line to lead, and no matter what he says, he’ll need you.”

Duty. It sits between them occasionally, considered and sometimes unwanted. 

“You as well.”

Before she’s laughed it off, brushed it away to avoid its grip, but he’s correct. They are fever-bound in fire to the village that will shape the future. A daunting prospect. 

“And I’ll need you too.”

Sakura’s so sure she’s misheard, but he’s closer now than a moment ago, sweeping into her orbit with his infuriating and silent speed, thumb resting gently on her blazing bottom lip.

Bringing the question into being, a fruitless thing he’d never deliberate but she never has qualms about speaking into being. 

“Do we have to go back?”

In answer he kisses her on a simmering, sunny riverbank in a way that would make their mothers blush, an apology, a wish, and this day becomes an axis even if they won’t know it for many cycles of the moon.

A pin is pressed into a shared soul map, becomes a burgeoning accompaniment, another rising phrase in their endless song.

From now on, they are in harmony, particularly with something much larger than themselves. 

.

.

Somehow it seems the village feels them coming, whispers paving the way.

Beginning with the far-flung ranging scouts and flying fast to the spry perimeter lookouts, on to the first inner circle defensive squads and, once the shinobi are identified, the hostile caution drops from their voices in a game of telephone to be replaced with a slightly manic curiosity. 

“Two,” one of them says, yanking a sweaty flak collar from his neck. 

“No,” the other says in a strident tone, waving his answer away. “There’s another with them. Three.”

Details drip in Ino’s ears, and she leaves her post in a whirlwind, a tornado of emotion whose  witnessed story springboards from house to training ground to alcove to inn. 

It’s fitting that the first encounter, or reunion, occurs in the middle of a main road beginning as ringing, if loving insults but dwindling to potshots from gritted teeth and smoothing into cooing whispers as the two women, these best friends, encircle one another with shaking arms and a bundle pressed between them; the accompanying men linger at awkward edges, Sasuke betraying so little with his usual impassive expression and Shikamaru, who was tripped up in Ino’s anger along the way, keeping his hands in his pockets. 

“Oh, how could you?” Ino sniffles, wiping away tears with the heel of her hand. “Can’t do anything by half-measures, no subtlety, you never could! No letter, no warning.” Here she glares at Sasuke for a moment, enough for him to cast his eyes away in at least a modest show of humility. 

The moments pile upon, become stranger and more surprising, as Ino presses her lips to the bundle in Sakura’s arms and Shikamaru sighs in not-unhappy resignation, ah, so it is, and extends his hand to an unusually startled Sasuke and for a fleeting sliver-second, the corners of his mouth aren’t quite so dour.

“Who’s next?” Ino asks, tenderly flicking away a lock of Sakura’s hair. “Though by now, the whole damn town knows.”

The men shake clumsily, wary, bereft of custom.

“I’m sure you had nothing to do with that. The honorary uncle, it's only fair.”

“We have to report regardless,” Sasuke supplies quietly. Bending over the bundle and his new wife (which, Ino will rant in retrospect, seems obvious now — his unusual tenderness, his glow, men don’t glow like that for just anyone, any reason!), he whispers, begins to lead her away. They walk with high heads and radiant faces.

Her jade eyes behold their new bundle, but his eyes stay, mostly, on her. 

.

By now the gossip’s reached his stuffy office, and though he’s never been one to put on airs or prepare for visitors, he does try to clear a free spot to be able to see over the mess of his desk, before an aide takes pity on him and handles the rest.

He will have to get a full, unadorned look at this.

She leads, of course she does — this is the love at twelve she forcibly took into her own hands, even when it pricked and bruised. Wrestled it until she won. The newlywed glow is obvious. As a shadow Sasuke sweeps in behind, but the tiny uplift of his lips is still evident.

True, then. Differences all around.

“The kids do things differently these days,” Kakashi jokes. “Have you at least considered getting married?”

“Have you?” Sasuke snarks.

Sakura shushes him gently, thumbing away some errant speck from their bundle’s chubby face. Eyes bright, they seem to dim the rest of the room as she raises them to Kakashi and asks, breathless, “Do you want to—?”

And despite his aide’s effort to clear his desk he gets up and comes around it, to them, closing the loop around a future he hopes is halcyon and new, shepherds of peacetime. 

He wonders if they’ve had their real homecoming yet, the true test — but no, he’d be able to tell. Not that the joy in Sakura’s face could possibly be more evident, and by the careful way Sasuke presses his mouth to her temple, nudges her with his nose (and there’s the glow, the one that paints great men often only because of exceptional women they love). Naruto, busy and climbing for his Hokage position but with his own recent arrival, his own legacy coming in the form of something tiny, blond, and confusing. 

The third point of their legendary triumvirate, no doubt unaware of what’s coming to his doorstep and in tow, the new member of his full life he’ll meet anew. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Sakura whispers, eyes shining.

A gloved hand on each head, as if they’re genin again:  He’s gentle with Sakura, ruffles Sasuke’s hair with a roguish twinkle if only to provoke his trademark scowl. 

Subdued, but their sensei’s happiness sings through in the crinkles in the corners of his eyes. 

.

Perhaps they don’t expect Naruto to be the one they see as the door swings open; after all the last letter he sent in his untidy scrawl is still in Sasuke’s cloak pocket, unread in the wake of their universe shifting to this perennial birth that’s brought them across the world and then to their best friend’s doorstep, clutching this thing that did not exist and now does, borne of them and their love; he stands there, blond hair in chaos and a strange smattering of dirt on his cheek and a rag over his shoulder covered in fluids that his friends now know will be constant, streaming, the aftermath of infants; Hinata behind him, carrying her own bundle, with the same look of frenzied-excited exhaustion but now her mouth falls into a small, round ‘o’ as she sizes up the scene faster than her darling, ditzy husband, who’s bereft of speech and straightens up from his sagging position against the door frame, stunned.

“S-Sakura-chan!” Bright ocean eyes ping from her face — beaming, because she’s already understood this wonderful coincidence and can deduce now what his message contained, she begins to weep a little, overwhelmed — to Sasuke’s, hesitant but with its own subtle change, a fleeting expression of love and pride. 

Hinata makes a comforting noise behind them, a reassuring response to Sakura’s tears, the language of women a bit quieter, something less decipherable.

“‘Ay, Sasuke you total bastard, showing up like this! Didn’t respond to my letter—”

“You ass,” Sasuke hisses, tugging fabric over one tiny ear belonging to his daughter. “She can hear that.”

“She’s in trouble anyway, with my mouth,” Sakura sighs, brushing away a tear.

Naruto’s eyes grow so wide they push the earthly bounds of his sockets. His head whips ‘round to look at his wife, their son, and snaps back just as fast to stare at his best friends.

“She?” The word comes out croaky, and Naruto’s already sniffling.

Sasuke and Sakura exchange a glance, the ghost of a knowing smile:  His sentiment has always been equal parts maddening and endearing, his adoration broadcast to the entire world.

Sasuke assents with a nod, but his own voiced response emerges with surprising vibrato emotion. Perhaps to hide it, he drops his chin onto Sakura’s head, resting it there. “Yeah. A little girl.”

They should expect it, but it’s still a scuffle like old times, Naruto tackling them both, gathering them close in his way, welcoming them home from the outside world and back into his magnetism, his heart. 

“Can’t believe you — didn’t even — you just come home like this—”

Their greetings and scoldings and expressions of love mesh together, can’t believe Sasuke managed it, Don’t squish her, Naruto! You idiot, It's you who’s managed it, how old, how long, where did you travel, what have you seen, how old is your son?

“How did you know?” Naruto asks, finally allowing them to breathe. He stares at Sakura, quizzical. “Betcha missed my letter. So how’d you know it’s a boy?”

“I’m a medic, remember?” Readjusting her daughter, she extends her other hand to Hinata, gesturing so she comes closer, anticipating a deeper appreciation of a friendship they’ve already begun, a new language they’ll learn together. “Had a feeling. I just know.”

But Naruto’s tugging on them again, drawing them close and tight, rooting them to the earth and the place they sprung from, flourished and fought in, and now, where they’ve returned. 

Time slackening and quickening though never lost or stolen, occasionally rhythm-robbed but always arriving expectantly, weaving their life legends into knots.

The codetta they’ve always managed to sing together in the end. 

[samstree]

You are too well tangled in my soul (2/4)

Inspired by The Time-Traveler's Wife.  

Pairing:  Geralt x Jaskier

Geralt is a time-traveler, and Jaskier falls in love in a slightly misplaced order.

Warnings: referenced child abuse and mentions of chronic pain

Read on AO3

Calling the Witcher ‘old friend’ at the tavern was probably a mistake. The Geralt walking in front of Jaskier looks exactly the same as he remembers: golden eyes and rugged jawline. And yet, this is the furthest Jaskier has ever felt from him ever since the first sunset at the lake.

There is no warmth to greet him, no knowing smile or softness, only indifference that bleeds into annoyance. The gut-punch is as loud a declaration as it gets. This Geralt is the youngest Jaskier has ever seen him, hardened with weary travels and open night skies, and yet seasoned enough to have settled into distrust and isolation.

As they trudge through Dol Blathanna, the notebook filled with their encounters sits in Jaskier’s pocket, every date recorded with the utmost carefulness, burning a hole onto his mind. How does he explain it? How does he explain that he’s been friends with the Witcher for eight years while he only glares at Jaskier with derision? No, that is too unfair.

Besides, even if he dumps it all out, Geralt is unlikely to just…transform into the person in Jaskier’s memory. This Witcher is not the ever-present friend of Jaskier’s childhood, not yet. He knows better than most that you can’t force people into becoming someone they are not.

Jaskier leaves the notebook at the bottom of his pack.

At the edge of the world, he witnesses the heartbreaks of an elf king. The second-hand stories he knows by heart now pale in comparison. A taste of the real world, of the real pain humans have been ignoring is all it takes for Jaskier to be sure of his path. He is a storyteller. Destiny has decided that when it brought the amber eyes into his life at the age of eleven, so he tells the story. He writes the song.

Jaskier starts following Geralt.

They settle into a routine: monsters, songs, and nothing more. There are no mythical powers that can bring his best friend to him anymore, only the newly acquainted Wolf Witcher who now tolerates him with glowers.

It shouldn’t sting when Jaskier sings their adventures at taverns and Geralt only grunts as feedback. It shouldn’t sting when his chatter is only answered with silence or an absent-minded hum. It shouldn’t sting when Geralt flinches upon hearing Jaskier refer to him as friend while begging to see the hunt himself.

“We are not friends, Jaskier.”

It shouldn’t because it is where their story begins, properly this time. And yet it does.

Seasons pass. Jaskier cannot stop searching for recognition in those amber eyes. Nothing comes up. Still, he searches.

  Geralt notices.

Of course. As subtle as Jaskier would like to believe he is, his companion is too perceptive. We can tell by the heartbeat when someone is lying or hiding something. He learned this long ago by the lakeside, when Geralt indulged his curiosity by debunking all the Witcher myths. No, Julian. We cannot read minds.

His excitement that day reflected in the Witcher’s eyes that were amused by a child’s wonderment.

Can he tell what Jaskier is hiding now?

Jaskier stares long at his form on Roach when a throw-away comment from the Witcher brings him right back to the lake, all the words stuck at his throat.

“You’ve been quiet, bard.”

“What? Miss my lovely voice?”

“Glad for the silence.” Geralt drops it, but his gaze lingers for a moment.

At night, Jaskier helps the Witcher remove his armours, a newly formed habit as their travels settle into a familiar rhythm. His fingers untie the complicated knots. Geralt’s breaths brush by his ear.

A warm hand comes up to steady Jaskier by the elbow, the thumb drawing small circles on his chemise. It’s a comfort that he has received so many times before, a reassurance that he can trace by heart. And yet, Geralt is unaware.

Jaskier’s breath hitches in his chest, his heartbeat suddenly rabbiting.

“Alright?”

He cannot acknowledge the concern, scared that more will be revealed. Muttering something about being late, he fumbles away to his bedroll and burrows deep. As the churning in his mind subsides, Jaskier falls asleep hoping that it never comes up again.

  It comes up again.

They sit by the glowing campfire, Geralt having just returned from a hunt in the forest. Despite the Witcher’s reluctance, Jaskier nudges him to spill the details and takes them down for new songs. The scratching of his quill fills Geralt’s contemplative pauses.

“This is all very good, Geralt. It’d make a great song. But what was the wyvern like? Come on, help me paint the picture.”

“It was…big, and green.”

Jaskier chuckles, his quill hovering mid-air. So many times before has Geralt only described a monster as ‘big’ or ‘fast’, even the older, more mature Witcher he met in his teenage years sometimes struggled with more adjectives. Being the curious child he was, Jaskier pestered incessantly for more during their short encounters. At night, he would lie in bed, playing out the scene in his head, clashes of magic and steel lulling him into sleep. Now, almost a decade later, he sits in the exact same spot in front of the Witcher, desperate to learn anything from a quest, just to be stunted by Geralt’s inability to form words.

“Some things never change.”

Jaskier smiles to himself and continues to fill in the blanks with more theatrical touches. A song does not become the greatest hit on the Continent just with plain facts and verbs. Chewing on the quill, he barely notices that Geralt’s posture has stiffened.

“Why do you say that?”

“What?” Still distracted with composing a melody for the words, Jaskier looks up at Geralt, whose expression now full of alert.

“What never changes?”

“Um…Just you?” Jaskier stammers, “Stingy on the details, as usual.”

“It’s not just today.” Geralt scowls and stands, pacing around camp irritated. “You talk as if… as if you know me a great deal, Jaskier. You look at me as if you see an old friend. You were familiar with me from the very first day. You didn’t run away in fear like so many others.”

Oh well, subtlety is not exactly Jaskier’s forte.

“You know me,” He tries to gloss it over. “the ever so friendly bard.”

Geralt considers him skeptically. Under the intense scrutiny, Jaskier swallows a lump in his throat. The Witcher finally relents.

“Whatever you see in me, bard,” Geralt lets out a resigned sigh, “it’s not there. So stop looking.”

It’s too late for that, Jaskier thinks. Or too early.

  “I mean, why can’t I just tell you everything?”

Geralt walks beside Jaskier, his hair in a simple pony. A long scar runs down his left eye, barely missing it.

That one’s new.

It’s so jarring that Jaskier cannot stop staring at it from time to time. Added with the well-trimmed beard, framing his rugged face, Jaskier is almost looking at someone else. Witchers don’t age like the rest of them do, but the years are clearly showing on Geralt’s face, giving him more gravitas. The White Wolf, indeed.

He has a slight limp in one of his legs, also something new. The breastplate of his armour is worn and beat after what looks like decades of use.

A strange sight. Jaskier has only witnessed the man’s younger counterpart buy the same plate a week ago at a market in Cidaris, brand new and shiny. It was right before Jaskier decided to stay and perform at the local court and Geralt traveled on by himself.

The small garden behind the main hall is where he has found the older Witcher, who embraced Jaskier immediately without a beat. It is when Jaskier breathes in the familiar pine and leather that he realizes how much he’s missed his old friend, even though he’s been traveling with the same person for the past year.

Keeping the secret has taken a toll on Jaskier, as he only notices now that he is completely relaxed. He desperately wishes to unload it.

“You are going to know anyway. When you inevitably end up in Lettenhove, pimpled teenage me in front of you.”

“Jask,” The endearment comes out of the older Witcher so naturally, his voice deep and rich as wine. “You have seen me in my younger days. I was quite…let’s say, untrusting. I was determined to be alone. Telling me that destiny has bound me to a bard with no self-preservation instincts would only send me running away screaming.”

Jaskier teases, “Now that’s something I’d like to see. The mighty Witcher running and screaming because of a bard.”

“Hmm,” Geralt smiles in return, “There are things that we have to experience for ourselves. Just wait a bit longer. I’m unlikely to be pulled away when we are together. It’ll have to be when we part ways. As I said, it’s like a homing beacon.”

An anchor.

“And now, you are only here when Geralt is gone. I mean, you. The younger you.” Jaskier muses, “Destiny has a way of keeping you from running into yourself. Hah! Probably a good idea. Imagine the brooding doubled.”

Geralt stays oddly silent and guides them both to sit on one of the benches, his knee stiff and slow to bend. It slipped Jaskier’s notice that now there is a sheen of sweat on Geralt’s forehead, his brows furrowing in pain. He starts rubbing at the knee with a wince, breathing through the discomfort. His right elbow also creaks like an old ship, followed by a pained gasp.

With the fast healing, it must be a particularly bad injury for it to affect Geralt this much. Jaskier rubs his hands together to warm them up and places them on the Witcher’s elbow, slowly massaging it to ease out the tension. He’s quite unsure of his touches but judging from Geralt’s gradually relaxing posture, it is working nonetheless.

“What kind of beast hurt you like this? Can I warn you when the day comes?” Jaskier’s worry clenches in his chest. After a moment, Geralt places his larger hand on top of Jaskier’s, an unvoiced thanks. So Jaskier lets go.

They are sitting too closely together. Jaskier can see the tiny scars on Geralt’s face, thin lines that disappear into the thick beard. Leather and pine, the most reassuring scents in the world, overwhelm his senses and draw him closer.

“I wish we could take away all the hurt that will happen.” Geralt says with regret, “But no, Jask, I’d rather not. Some things need to happen for us both to be here today. Not to mentions many others.”

“I can just warn you about this one thing.”

Geralt’s gaze meets Jaskier’s, the long scar prominent. “Some things are too important to risk. I now have people who are dear to me. They – they’ve all come a long way. I wouldn’t change it for the world if it means they are safe. Even if I have to go through this.” He rubs at his knee again.

The wight behind the words settles in Jaskier’s chest.

The Geralt he has been traveling with is so determined on isolation and detachment, rejecting even simple friendship. He cares, in his own silent, brooding way. Jaskier sees it when he refuses payment from people who are struggling to make ends meet. He sees it when he buys Jaskier new boots when a pair has worn out. And He sees it when Roach’s coat is always kept pristine when the Witcher cannot afford new clothing for himself.

But the man in front of Jaskier speaks of people in his life with love and openness, all his rough edges softened and smoothed. Whatever happened in the years in between, Jaskier is eager to learn.

“You are a self-sacrificing idiot as usual.” He jokes.

The adoration in Jaskier’s heart unfurls into something more, something he does not dare to name. The same something, he realizes, is the gravity behind Geralt’s golden eyes that he’s been unable to name.

  Jaskier is twenty-four when Geralt finds out.

He has just spent a winter at Oxenfurt after being offered a teaching post while Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen as usual. The job is exciting and the students cannot be more pleasant. Adding the occasional visits from Essi and Shani, Jaskier doesn’t have many complaints.

And if he lingers too long in the greenhouse, standing wishfully for something to happen, that’s no one else’s business.

Usually Jaskier waits until the ground begins to thaw before departing for Kaedwen, where he will continue to roam and perform in major cities and possibly run into Geralt. Their shared journeys are never planned and they never agreed upon any meeting places, but somehow the bard can always find the Witcher in the springtime, so that they may resume their on-and-off travels.

This spring, however, an unexpected cold spell hits Oxenfurt after buds have sprouted from bald branches. A blanket of snow covers the cobblestone streets overnight, driving students and staff alike indoors with sniffles and shudders.

Jaskier is intending to retreat into his bedroom with a cup of steaming ginger tea, when he hears of two professors talking about the famous White Wolf being stopped at the city gate. Perplexed, he puts on a heavy coat and walks across town, blowing at his frozen fingers to desperately warm them up.

Geralt never seeks him out when the season turns, despite Jaskier’s attempt at hinting at his wintering plans multiple times every fall. If the Witcher is here this early in the spring, he must have left the Blue Mountains when the howling wind of winter was still raging. Traveling across the continent in the cold cannot be easy even for the Witcher, especially when contracts are still scarce.

Jaskier’s boots crunch the snow beneath them, his vision filled with the clear, grey sky and snowflakes scatted in the air. Outside the city gate, a tall, cloaked figure is being told off by a guard. A chestnut mare waits loyally in the distance.

Geralt is right there, snowflakes peppering his dark cloak. His complexion is sour as ever.

Gods, Jaskier has missed him.

“Geralt! What brings you here?” Jaskier shouts to get his attention and jogs on the slippery road to embrace the Witcher. The hug is brief and impersonal, and when he steps back the misery is still present.

“Aren’t you happy to see your best friend? After all, you’re the one who traveled in this sodding weather just to see me.”

Jaskier expects a rebuttal of the claim ‘best friend’, but it never comes. The Witcher’s comprehension is mixed with travel-weary, souring him even further.

“I have something of great importance to discuss with you, Jaskier.” Geralt gestures to the guard. “But this man won’t let me into the city.”

Jaskier turns to the guard and explains that the Witcher is an esteemed guest of the university, before they are both let in with Roach in tow.

The walk to Jaskier’s lodging is silent with a tension in the air. The Witcher looks tired, disheveled from the wind and cold. Jaskier will warm them both up with a fire and ginger tea then.

“So,” Jaskier tries to make conversation, “Before we discuss the thing of ‘great importance’, how was Kaer Morhen? You know, the mythical Witcher keep nobody knows anything about.”

“It was…fine.”

“Masterful conversationalist as ever.” Jaskier takes in the curt response and fills the silence with stories of his winter at the university. He chuckles at the funny bits himself when Geralt seems deep in thoughts the entire time.

Once they have put Roach in the university’s stable and entered Jaskier’s warm bedroom, the tension can be cut by a knife. An inexplicable nervousness bobbles up in Jaskier’s throat as Geralt puts down his pack by the door and begins to speak.

“Jaskier –”

“Before you say anything,” he interrupts, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. It seems that ginger tea might not be enough to get him through this conversation. “We should warm up a little. Can you believe the weather!”

He puts one glass on the table near Geralt and downs the other in one go.

“Jaskier,” Geralt reasserts himself, the golden eyes determined. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve met me before?”

Jaskier studies his glass as if it is the most interesting thing in the world. The Witcher continues.

“There was a lake, in the woods. You were young, and you…you greeted me by name. You knew me.” Geralt’s brows scrunch up in confusion. “You knew me before we met.”

“Um…yes?” Jaskier grimaces.

“Why haven’t you told me before? Damn it, Jaskier. You knew this whole time that I –”

“That you can magically time travel to my childhood?” Jaskier puts down his empty glass next to Geralt’s untouched one. “What was I supposed to say back then, Geralt? ‘Hello, you don’t know me but I know everything about you. And that includes your secret power because I’ve met you twenty times before –’”

“Twenty times?”

“Well I haven’t counted in a while so I could be off.”

Geralt sighs, palming his face. They both look away. The weighted silence in the room is only interrupted by the occasional crackling in the fireplace.

“Twenty times.” Geralt mutters to himself. “How – why?”

Jaskier tries, “You told me yourself. Your powers have this…pull. It’s like –”

“Gravity.”

“It pulls you to certain places or certain people.” Jaskier vaguely gestures around himself.

Realization dawns on Geralt’s face.

“That’s why you followed me. That’s why you weren’t scared of me, why you look at me…” He trails off. “Because destiny already forced me into your life.”

Geralt’s features morph into a stoic resignation, something Jaskier is too familiar with. It’s what Geralt looks like when someone chases him out of an inn or throws things at him, or when mothers yell at their children to get away from him.

No. Jaskier won’t allow it now.

“No,” His voice is desperate, “It was because you were my best friend. You are my best friend. You were there for me by the lake when no one else was. I followed you because you are kind and brave –”

“Because destiny already decided for you.”

“No –”

“Gods, Jaskier. You were so young. You shouldn’t be bound to me by something I cannot even control.”

Jaskier takes in a shuddering breath. “It’s too late for that.”

He doesn’t know how to convince Geralt, who looks so guilty through Jaskier’s blurred vision. He feels weak and hollow.

The conversation continues but Jaskier pays no attention. Geralt says something about traveling separately for a while and begins to leave. Golden eyes meet Jaskier one last time before the door clicks shut.

Running away while screaming indeed.

Sagging into a chair, Jaskier remembers the worn-out notebook sitting on the shelf, untouched.

Once again, Jaskier is left alone, his best friend disappearing right in front of his eyes.

  Jaskier tries to find Geralt but always falls a step behind.

He travels and plays, pleasing tavern audiences so he may get a place to sleep. He asks about the white-haired Witcher everywhere he goes, hoping he can catch up with him just like so many other times. But the Witcher is gone whenever Jaskier sets foot into a town, as if sensing his presence.

“Isn’t that your Witcher? The one from your songs?���

Jaskier tries not to wince.

“He was here days ago, but I heard he left for Novigrad.” The innkeeper says in confusion, “Why aren’t you with him?”

Putting on a bright smile, Jaskier answers, “Even the most talented artist cannot stay with his muse at all times. Lest the creativity runs dry too soon.”

He sets out for Novigrad, but never reaches it.

Jaskier does not see the bandits coming, nor is he capable of fending off all five of them. The dagger he hides in his boot and the sword fighting lessons that tutors once forced upon him can only do so much against these fully armed men.

After stabbing one of them in the shoulder, causing the man to yell and cuss, Jaskier is knocked out from behind.

Jaskier wakes up flung across the back of a dark horse. The pain at the back of his head throbs with every step it takes, the moving ground makes bile rise in his throat. The men talk about ransom from the Count de Lettenhove for his only son.

Oh, dear.

There is no way to tell how they learned, since Jaskier is gagged and tied to a tree when they set camp. He doubts his kidnappers are willing to indulge his curiosity anyway. A growl comes from his stomach. The fire and roasted dinner warm in the distance but clearly these men are not the sharing type.

Frustrated, Jaskier dozes off as night falls, listening to their constant chatter about how to spend the ransom. Too bad for them, Jaskier thinks half-asleep, they are not getting any money. Father will probably thank them for stopping the family embarrassment from tarnishing the Pankratz name any further.

Jaskier wakes up again, to the sound of yelling and weapons clash.

Bodies are flung across the campsite; his captors scream in pain and scatter. The startles horses gallop away with some of them on top. A flash of black and silver moves with an elegance that can inspire songs after songs.

A hand comes to remove the gag in Jaskier’s mouth and continues to undo the ropes around his wrists. Concern sparks in the gold, the softness overlapping with Jaskier’s distant memories. He should greet an old friend, or it’ll seem rude –

“Julian,” Geralt says, “That’s a terrible name for you.”

Jaskier blinks. Now Geralt is reaching to untie the knot behind Jaskier, their breaths only inches away. No scar. These are the same eyes that left him in Oxenfurt months ago, with the click of a door.

Not an old friend, then.

“That’s why I changed it.” The rope burns on Jaskier’s wrists sting when he tries to flex them. He states the obvious, “I see my Witcher in shining armor has come back to save me, again.”

“It’s like you are looking for trouble, bard.”

“Not like it was my fault.” Well, only a little bit his fault.

“Hmm.”

“I was looking for you.”

“I know.”

Of course, he was avoiding Jaskier on purpose.

“Why did you have a change of heart then? Missed my charming personalities?” Jaskier intends a joke, but the old name reminds him. “Wait. You were at the lake again?”

Geralt hums as Jaskier gets up to rummage through what his kidnappers left. Thank the gods they thought his lute and bags might be worth something and didn’t chuck them in a ditch.

Neither the lute case nor the instrument inside received much damage, to Jaskier’s relief. He should check for his bags as well –

“You kept asking when I would be back.”

Jaskier pauses. “And you couldn’t answer.”

“You asked me not to leave. You cried.”

Yes, he desperately grasped for any semblance of certainty as a child, and when he couldn’t get it young Julian spiraled into a panic, begging the Witcher not to leave. He remembers trying to hold back the tears but it came out with snot and hiccups. The embarrassment is still fresh after a decade.

“Well, there’s no need to remind me.”

“No, I –” Geralt struggles with words, “You said you kept records for me. I don’t want to disappoint you again, if I go back there. When I go back.”

The leather-bound notebook is still sitting at the bottom of Jaskier’s bag. He can feel the shape of it through the fabric. It is what Geralt came back for, just so he can have an answer for that child, so he will not disappoint him next time.

“That’s sweet.”

“Jaskier. I would never choose to entangle your life with mine, a Witcher’s. It’s –” Geralt breathes, “You were so young.”

So he said, months ago. Jaskier digs into the bag and retrieves the notebook, walks up to Geralt, and presses it on his chest. Geralt catches it, his gaze never leaving Jaskier’s.

“I wrote down the dates after each of your visits. All you need should be in there.” Jaskier suddenly notices how tired and hungry he is, the headache flaring up once he’s upright. He sways as a clink of metal hits the ground and Geralt’s strong hand steadies him at the elbow. “Oh, thanks.”

Geralt only hums, but his amber eyes keep studying Jaskier.

“You said you didn’t want me bound to your life.” Jaskier tries again, “But Geralt, you were the best part of my childhood. You were the reason I could leave that wretched place. You were the only person who saw me when no one paid any attention. I – I cannot imagine my life if you weren’t in it, if you hadn’t shown up by that lake in Lettenhove. So please…don’t turn away from me.”

He’s begging again, just like ten years ago. He’s begging for the little boy waiting by the water. He’s begging for himself now. It doesn’t matter that it’s embarrassing because after a beat, Geralt nods.

“Okay.”

“What?”

“I said okay,” Geralt’s expression sags with softness. “I – You were so excited to see me. You asked about my hunts. And Jaskier, you were so unhappy in your own home, but my stories – There was a spark in your eyes when you listened to them.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches. He looks into the sunlight gold boring into his with warmth.

“Does that mean you’ll stop running from me?”

“I would never want to snuff it out. That spark.” Geralt sounds apologetic, “I see now that you decided this life by yourself. Travelling and adventures. They suit you well, Jaskier. So yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Because there is a boy in Lettenhove, and he really, really looks forward to seeing you. In fact, he is counting the days right now, for your next return.”

Geralt chuckles, “That’s not how this works.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jaskier grins in return, patting the Witcher on the arm. Geralt looks at the notebook in his hand and says solemnly, “I won’t disappoint him again.”

  The door of their shared inn room creaks open and it sounds like a bag of coin is dropped on the table.

“Ah. I see you collected payment for the Griffin.” Jaskier looks up from the music sheets spread out on the bed.

“I was at the lake with you.”

Jaskier feels a big grin spread across his face.

“You made me tell you about the hunt.” Geralt says.

“Yes, I remember. And I composed my very first Witcher song two days later. Well, only in my head and it lacked a bit polish, but you know, I was eleven.”

“Does that mean I’m spared now?”

“Yes, my dear. You may be spared of recounting your mighty battles for now. I still remember it quite vividly. Did you tell me you bit feathers off its wing and choked?”

“Fuck off, bard.”

Jaskier chuckles and gets back to his composing. It might be time to revisit an old song yet.

  “I was at the lake with you.”

“When?”

“Last month, when we were apart.”

“No, when for me?”

Geralt looks down at Jaskier, who is lying in the meadow of wildflowers next to the Witcher’s crossed legs, trying and failing to braid a flower crown of dandelions. The afternoon heat is relentless, drenching them both in sweat before they have to take a break.

Tall shrubs cast down a cool shade where they are sitting, shielding away the scorch. Roach is nibbling at some flowers in the distance, the same flowers that Jaskier cannot seem to bend into shape without crushing.

“You were…older.” Geralt says after considering, “You braided flowers into my hair.”

“Oh yeah. That day. Can I do it now?”

“You are not a child anymore.”

“No, but this is not working.” Jaskier throws away the dandelions that are now in pieces, pouting. He lies back on the grass, inhaling the fresh smell of grass and letting the breeze cool him down a little. Above him, Geralt looks refreshed after a short meditation.

“You were getting restless. In your own home, about your own future. You kept asking me if you were going to leave Lettenhove.”

“And you distracted me by letting me braid your hair. I totally forgot about pestering you for the rest of the day.”

“It worked.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier is almost impressed.

Geralt pauses for a moment. “You were so unhappy, Jaskier. You couldn’t see a future for yourself.”

“Well, that’s why I left. It’s all fine now. I’m living my best life with my favorite time traveler. Don’t worry, dear.” With his forearm placed on his eyes, Jaskier is completely relaxed.

“Should I have told you, just so you had an idea?”

Sometimes Jaskier still thinks about his childhood in Lettenhove, how miserable he was under all the expectations that he was never going to meet. No, he couldn’t see a future for himself as the Viscount, neither did his father, as the falling of canes and sticks proved. Sometimes Jaskier still wakes up from nightmares rehashing those beatings.

Would it have been better if his younger self had known what the future had in store?

“No,” He says, “Don’t tell me anything. What I went through put me here. It made me what I am. Telling me the future might change things, and I would never take that risk.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sounds apprehensive. “I’ll have to keep you in the dark.”

Sitting up, Jaskier places a hand on Geralt’s knee, the one that’s going to retain an injury that doesn’t heal well, the one that’s going to creak and spasm on a rainy day. Geralt from the future is willing to endure the hurt just to make sure everything goes right, young Julian will have to as well.

“I wish there’s another way. Believe me, I do. But…it’s too much at risk.” He squeezes, hoping it’s reassuring. “I know you don’t like this, Geralt. But time is too tricky, you can’t tell me anything about my future. That’s the rule.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“It might be the first rule anyone’s had about time travels.”

“Right,” Jaskier smiles tightly, “The very first one.”

They go back to cooling off in a companionable silence before moving on again. Geralt rides on Roach’s back while Jaskier strums his lute on the ground, playing a song in Elder absent-mindedly.

For what it is worth, Jaskier’s past is already too well tangled with this beautiful Witcher in front of him. There is no changing his fate now.

A comforting weight unfurls in his heart whenever Geralt is near, regardless of which version of him it is. It unfurls even further with each step they take together over the years. In the blazing afternoon sun, it blooms into something else.

Oh.

He loves him.

He loves him with all he is, was, and ever will be.

No matter. Their days ahead will be just as entwined as the past.

Jaskier strums his lute again, the song turns into something bawdy. The amber looks back at him with mirth and a mirrored smile.

[kabane52]

Etymology and Ontology

Peter Leithart’s chapter in “Deep Exegesis” on etymology and its significance is earth-shattering. Contrary to those who argue that a word’s history is essentially irrelevant to its meaning in any given text, Leithart follows the biblical authors (who often gave etymologies) in seeing its history as an intrinsic quality of its essence and thus significant in giving a comprehensive account of a text’s meaning. Authorial intent plays a governing role in the meaning of a text, but no text’s meaning is limited to the conscious intent of the author.

This raises the question of what language is. I think we tend to assume that language is a mere tool or instrument- it is meant to facilitate communication between rational subjects. Those who consider it at greater length will realize that it is also an instrument of thinking in a single rational subject. The grammar of the world around us is made internally intelligible through language. But what if language was more than this? What if language itself was one of the ends for which God created the world and Man in relation to the world? I think

Consider notion of magic (which I am not here using to identify unlawful sorcery) and recall the deep connection in creation between music and ontology. At the birth of Narnia, the Deep Magic which the Emperor puts into Narnia is placed therein through Aslan’s *song.* That song has different rhythms according to the different things being created. Each creature has its unique qualities on account of its different mode of being. Etymology provides many interesting windows into the inner logic of these concepts. Yet I do not think the relation of two similar words conceptually depends, necessarily, on a concrete historical relation. When two distinct words evolve convergently, I think this is internal to the structure of language as an exposition of the world: their convergence manifests a deeper conceptual convergence. Their similar sounds are then exploited in poetry and puns.

Here is just a sampling:

Music: Music is derived from “Muses” which is in Hellenistic thought the heavenly energy which indwells the poet or artist, granting him the ability to fashion aesthetically rich imprints of the world. The splendor of Greek history is imprinted in the Iliad through the operation of the Muses. In fact, the Apostle Paul in 1 Corinthians 12 echoes (to my mind, quite clearly) a passage in Plato’s Ion describing the diversity of gifts granted through the Muses. A better analogy than “laws of nature” is “music of nature.” The laws of nature are not prescriptive: they are *descriptive* of how things behave. The *cause* of that behavior is unstated and unknown to the naturalist. The Muses is from Heaven: it is the pattern of the harmony which makes the world what it is. The Divine Musician teaches His children how to play the music which makes the world.

-

Mode- Think of what I said above about different creatures being different modes in which things exist. Well, “mode” ultimately comes from “modus” which means, among other things, *rhythm* and even *song.* It is a particular pattern in which the music of the cosmos is harmonized and played by the Almighty.

-

Magic: Various words associated with magic are still in use: magistrate, for example. One thinks of the Persian-derived words for the learned priestly class: magus, magi (Latinized plural). The historical etymology has been suggested in a proto-Indo-European word signifying “to have power.” Consider how dominion over the cosmos is linked throughout Scripture with God’s having created it. God is King and Sovereign because He is Creator. Why? Because to be sovereign means that one has the capacity to realize one’s end. And God’s having created something in the first place- His ability to *make something what He wants it to be* entails His continued sovereignty.

When one *makes* something, one has sovereignty over it. Even if one makes something for someone else, it is given to them because one has contracted to use one’s labor for that end. A king has sovereignty over subject lands by right of conquest (or compare Josh 18: “the whole land lay subdued”, used in an allusion to Gen 1.26-28, the dominion mandate) because he has exerted his will to successfully make the land what he wishes it. This is why technological development and conquest in scripture are closely bound together as distinct vibes on the same conceptual key. Joseph, Daniel, and Solomon are superior to the sorcerers because they have received from God the *true* divine wisdom which undergirds the natures of things. Knowing natures as they are, they are successful in exercising dominion. Through the Spirit of God, Joseph is the *true* magistrate who overcomes the sorcery of their magicians. Priests study the Holy Torah, the disclosure of the Words of God which undergird nature. They are the true Magi, granting true Wisdom.

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Enchanted- from the Latin incantare. In is a preposition meaning “within” and “cantare” is an infinitive of “canto.” The word “canto” is the word “cano” with what Wiktionary calls a “frequentative suffix” (t), indicating a repeated action. “Cano” means “I sing.” The repeition contained in its suffix indicates the ongoing, rhythmic nature of that music. So we have the notion of an ongoing regular piece of music combined with “within.” I think we can see here the intertwining network of concepts giving meaning to “enchantment.” It refers to the *inner essence* of an ongoing song. To put something under an enchantment is to alter its ongoing existence and endow it with new causative and receptive relations. If one enchants a ring to make another fall asleep, one knows the essence of the ring well enough to thread that nature together with a new quality, the quality of making someone fall asleep. So in Narnia ,the Deep Magic is the Deep Music.

Aslan endows his world with a particular sort of existence and a particular network of qualities. The overarching Music is a harmony of many songs or modes, individual rhythms corresponding to particular creatures- all existing in relation to all others and to the Whole  Symphony. The magician, in Narnia, is the one who knows the Deep Magic well enough to alter the world by singing out one’s own tune in relation to the preexisting tune. This is done both for good and for ill- there is the White Witch who knows the essence of the world and the essence of snow well enough to bind snow to Narnia in perpetuity. But there is also Coriakin, who governs the Dufflepuds by altering their qualities according to the needs of the moment. When Lucy takes his book of magic and says the incantation to make invisible things visible, Aslan appears, saying that he will certainly obey his own rules. The patterns of nature are the constantly sung divine Music endowing nature with its qualities. In present primitive terms, the so called “laws of nature.”

-

Words are pronounced with breath and air. It is air which carries sound from speaker to hearer, and the speaker always breathes out air as he speaks. Air, breath, these qualities are the corporeal reality most closely bound together in association with “life.” God created Man not only as an instrument for the glorification of the world, not only as a tool, but as an end. Glorified Man is one of the great ends for which God created the world. And I think we can say that language is like this, too. Language itself is a sacramental beauty, it is something not only to be used, but also to be reveled in. It is not a mere tool to comment upon and understand creation, it is one of the great splendors of creation itself. Language, in a sense, is the very life of Man, whose existence is in the Image and Likeness of God. And God created Man to grow, to develop, to multiply from a single individual into a vast, many-branched family (the link between a “tree” and a “family” is no accident: the righteous is like a “tree planted by streams” and the Kingdom of God is like a cosmic “tree”) through whom the Cosmos is glorious in the resurrection of the World to Come.

Language, the life and breath of Man, is also a cumulative reality. If a language acquires in a single social context two words from two different mother languages representing the same concept, then the only way in which both words survive in the same environment is if they develop a subtle distinction in meaning. And this subtlety simply cannot be reduced to a definition. One word might give away one’s desire to alter a relationship to become less or more formal. Little signals and cues become available as a language flowers and bursts and buds. This is why English is such a beautiful and rich language.

[PS: Let me just say that our “defective” verbal system is one of the wonders of the linguistic world. With the death of th conjugated verb a whole new life gloriously is born. Suddenly, the helping word permits English to specify a vaster range of verbal tenses than had been used in ancestral languages for centuries or even millennia. Greek is not, contrary to the cliche, a more precise language than English. English permits specification of ongoing or simple aspect (i.e. “doing” and “do”) no matter the time. Greek and Latin cannot elegantly distinguish “I am doing” and “I do.” But English allows for more than this. It permits the existence of the perfect progressive: “I have been doing.”]

[writerpeach]

Impatience

Red Velvet Wendy

3738 words

Categories: male reader, smut, anal

NSFW 18+

It was Wendy and your first anniversary as a couple. Days and weeks and months flew by and felt like mere seconds, suddenly a year had already passed.

You both decided the perfect place to celebrate, the ice cream shop where you had your first date. It was a bit simple, but it was a special place, and it was in the middle of a scorching hot summer afternoon. Nothing would be better. 

Ice cream was the first thing you and Wendy shared together. Three scoops - chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. Two spoons. It was simple as it was delicious. The start of something wonderful with Wendy, a girl as sweet and innocent as the sweet tasty treat you were both indulging in. 

Wendy’s innocent image was merely an act. Not even a month went by before the the first time you slept together. Wendy as subtle as a car wreck about it, dropping hints and sudden bathroom pictures of poses and different positions she wanted to be taken in. It was hot, it was sweaty, it was nothing short of magical. Wendy was loud as she was pretty. You went three rounds. The second time an hour later, and again in the morning. 

You learned a lot of things about Wendy over the course of a year. Her innocence stripped away as her kinkier side was slowly revealed to you. The sweet girl that you’d been dating for over a year slowly peeled off her layers, each layer revealing something more filthier, something more depraved than you were ever expecting, but welcoming it all. 

The two of you stared at the menu with dozens of choices, but you eventually defaulted to your usual. Mint chocolate chip with peanut butter cups inside. Wendy hated it, and always teased you about having a child’s palette. She wasn’t that far off. 

Wendy opted for something different each time, this time choosing cotton candy.

“I don’t see how you like that,” Wendy says, clearly teasing tiy. 

“Like what?” 

“Mint chocolate,” she says. 

“It’s good. It’s my favorite.” 

“It tastes like toothpaste,” Wendy huffs. 

“I would love to know what kind of toothpaste you’re using that has chocolate in it. “

Wendy sticks her tongue out, seemingly ending your playful argument.

You take another spoonful of delicious ice cream, watching as Wendy cutely licked her ice cream cone. 

“How’s yours?” you asked.

“Yummy. Better than yours,” she says. 

As you continued to watch her, Wendy realized you were doing so, and suddenly decided to make a show out of it. She suddenly switched to a more, seductive approach, taking longer licks, using her tongue to lick around the whole surface of her ice cream, mimicking the way she would lick your cock. 

“Wendy.” 

“What?” She asked, trying her best to play innocent.

“Wendy. We’re in public.” 

“And I’m just eating ice cream. I’m allowed to eat ice cream in public aren’t I?” She grinned. Subtlety was not one of her strong suits. 

In a final display she took a big chunk of ice cream and stuck her tongue out, using the tip of her tongue to play with it in her mouth. 

She knew too damn well how to rile you up. Wendy stopped playing with it, and letting it drip off her tongue, landing perfectly inside her cleavage, watching as your eyes followed every moment. 

“Oh, oops. I seemed to have made a mess on myself.” 

“I can see that. You should eat more carefully.” 

“I’ll be right back, I’ll go clean myself up in the restroom.” 

“You do that.” 

No less than a few minutes went by before your phone buzzed. It was Wendy. Curious to what possible reason she needed to text you from the bathroom, you read the message displayed on your screen. 

Four words, absolutely beaming with filth. 

Come fuck my ass. 

This fucking girl. When she was in one of her moods, there was no snapping her out of it. 

You make your way down to the isolated corner where the bathroom was, both leaving your ice cream half-eaten. As you knocked on the door, Wendy opens it with the biggest grin on her face. 

“Here, really?” 

“Of course!”

“We’re going to get in trouble. We both know how loud you are.” 

“I’ll be quiet. I promise.” 

She wouldn’t. Wendy didn’t know the meaning of quiet. It would be fine. Maybe. The ice cream shop was so busy that maybe the crowd noise would drown them out. Maybe you could quiet Wendy. Just maybe.

You let out an exasperated gasp. 

“Did you bring lube?” 

“Yes, it’s always with me. It’s in front pocket of my purse, daddy.” 

Daddy. Wendy loved to throw that word around, especially in public. It was only the first few months of your relationship that you discovered her huge daddy kink into your relationship. It came out during one of your many moments of intimacy. It wasn’t something you thought you were into, but something about the way the word just rolled off Wendy’s tongue unleashed something in you. 

You lock the door, double checking to make sure it was secured. The bathroom was small, just a toilet and a sink on a nice looking black counter. Wendy smiles at you, and you don’t waste anytime to bend her over the sink, hiking her black leather skirt up enough until it was high enough above her waist. 

Wendy’s ass was impeccable. The perfect size, firm and draped in a small pink thong that barely covers her soft pale cheeks. You pulled on the thin fabric, pulling it up just a bit between her cheeks. She groaned a bit as the bunched in between her cheeks. 

“You wanna be fucked this bad Wendy? You want my cock in your ass so bad that you can’t wait?”

“Yes! Fuck me daddy,” Wendy says as she looks back. 

“Such a needy girl aren’t we,” you said as your caressed her soft pale cheeks, giving one a hard smack as it rippled. 

You moved her thong to the side, granting access to both of her holes. Her pussy was glistening already, but you were only interested in the pink puckered hole just above, ready to be taken, ready to be used, ready to be fucked. 

“I love your ass Wendy,” you tell her as you wettened the fingertip of your middle finger, slowly teasing her by rubbing slow circles and grazing the rim of her hole. 

“Ugh,” Wendy cries.

You let the tip of your finger slip inside for just a second, testing her reactions, while feeling her tightness before pulling it right back out. 

Wendy whines, “Daddy...please put it in..”

Her pleas were ignored as you continue to rim her hole with your finger, her whines becoming the encouragement to continue teasing her. Every few circles you slipped a finger inside a little deeper, leaving it there for a little longer until it was completely in Wendy, resting inside as she tightens around it. 

Wendy was clearly desperate for friction, struggling to engage her hips, trying to grind against against anything. The sounds of her frustrations were so cute that you can’t help but laugh. 

“Are you going to fuck yourself with my fingers, baby?” you asked, as Wendy started to push herself against you. You let her grind against you before you decided to help her out. A second finger joins, and in tandem you rock them back and forth slowly inside her, opening her hole up just a bit. 

“Mmm...more...more daddy, please...it feels good,” she says, dropping her head down. 

You bring them in slowly, and move them out, and before you can form a rhythm you bring them out completely, leaving her utterly empty. 

Wendy whines at your fingers leaving her body, but you silenced her protest by slipping your fingers into her mouth, making her taste herself. She slurps on them lewdly, completely loving it, sucking your fingers the same way she sucked your cock. 

You released them from her mouth, smiling at how completely wet in spit they were already. 

As much as you loved to make Wendy squirm, you had your fill of teasing her. You were ready to quickly raise the stakes, and drop to your knees, your face a few mere inches from the creamy white ass in display. Her ass all yours to take, to taste, to fuck, to absolutely devour.

You spread her legs a bit, giving you easier access as you lick up and down between the warm cheeks of her ass. Wendy knew what was next, and you wanted to make her hungry with anticipation. You waited just a bit, kneading her soft cheeks with your hands.

Then you spread Wendy’s plump cheeks wide, and you begin to eat her ass. 

She squeals at just the slightest touch of your tongue pressed against her inviting hole, just deep enough to hit her nerves.

“You said you’d be quiet.” 

“Sorry...daddy,” Wendy says, almost sarcastic. Her grin clearly visible in the bathroom mirror. 

“It just...felt so good. I’ll-I’ll try to be quieter.” 

“You better,” you tell her as you give her ass a quick smack. The sound echoes around the bathroom as her flesh jiggles deliciously again. 

For the second time you touch your tongue firmly to her clenched hole, keeping her cheeks open for you while you flicked up and down. Each long lick sent shocks down Wendy’s body as you ate her ass so enthusiastically, giving her pleasure in every inch of her body, her toes curling with every moan that involuntarily escapes. 

Between licks you looked down at her crotch, her other hole swiftly saturated with wetness. She completely loved when you ate her ass. It was another one of her kinks that completely threw you by surprise. Such a sweet innocent girl loved loved every second that your tongue was in her ass. 

“Fuck, daddy, fuck that feels good. I love when you eat my ass, daddy!”

Within the first few minutes of tasting Wendy she had betrayed her word already. It was to be expected though, every public romp session the two of you had always had a heightened risk due to Wendy unable to control her volume.

You alternated between long upward flicks and circles, eating Wendy’s ass with an insatiable hunger as you felt every curve of her asshole, hitting every delicate sensitive nerve as your tongue buries itself deep inside. 

Wendy was losing it already. Her hands tightly gripping the porcelain sink as your tongue stimulated the tight clenched ring of her ass, exploring her deeply. She really was trying hard not to moan, but found it impossible to control her as you mercilessly tongue her tight hole. 

Her moans only continued as you brushed her sensitive asshole with your tongue, diving deep in, swirling and pressing, exploring it, tasting it, feasting on it. You really buried your tongue deep inside, eating her ass out nonstop as your hands kept her plump cheeks spread. Her squirming body tried to hold on, tried to calm herself until you abruptly left her ass once again, leaving her empty. 

Wendy looked so pretty bent over, her warm hole still glistening with spit. You had enough of an appetizer, and you were looking to dive into the main course.    

At this moment you were rock hard, your bulge prodding through your pants, needing to escape. 

Wendy’s bent over body was dying to be fucked, and you were more than wiling to satisfy her needs. Within a flash you made quick work, yanking pants and boxers to the ground to free your cock struggling to escape.

You grabbed the small bottle of lube from the front pocket of Wendy’s purse from on top the counter. It was half full already from being used previously. 

Once again you slide two fingers into her tight hole, this time coated in slick liquid, helping spread it inside the clenched walls of her ass. You did the same to your erect cock, until both were ready and prepped. 

You line your cock with her asshole, pressing your slick cock against the tight rim of her asshole.

“Ready, baby?”

“I’m always ready, put it in me. Put it in my ass, daddy.” 

The work you did earlier with your fingers and tongue helped open her ass up nicely for you. With one fluid movement you were able move your body forward and easily slide your stiff cock and penetrate Wendy’s tight welcoming asshole, watching as the tip of your cock disappears inside her. 

Wendy gasps at the feeling of her back entrance being breached, louder than you both expected. She loved the familiar sensation as she closed her eyes as she always did during initial penetration. She always loved the way your cock felt the first time inside one of her most sensitive areas. 

Her breath deepened as more of your cock entered her, sliding more and more of yourself into her tight pretty ass until you filled her with every single inch of your cock. You rest it inside her for a bit, letting her adjust and relax her muscles as much as possible before you continued. 

“Fuck, daddy, you feel so good inside me. Now fuck me, fuck my ass.” 

You allow your self a few moments to admire Wendy’s bent over body, her beautiful ass stuffed with the entirety of your cock. You sensed her neediness already and gently rocked your hips back, leaving only the tip of your cock embedded inside her before driving your body back, watching your cock disappear back into her tight hole. 

“Shit...that feels good, daddy.” 

Every time you entered her body she moaned, louder than you wanted, but you were preoccupied with how good she made your dick feel, how tight and warm she was as you start to thrust into her ass. 

“How’s my ass feel daddy?”

“Fucking amazing. You’re so tight, baby.” 

You settled into a nice rhythm, opening her ass up more with every thrust. Like usual, it was never enough for Wendy. 

“Harder, daddy.” 

You did as she requested, as your cock exited her body, you slammed back inside her. 

“Harder, daddy, please, fuck me harder.” 

Wendy clings to the bathroom sink as you seize control of her hips and pull her body towards you, your hard cock plunging deep into her ass.

“Yes daddy! Just like that, fuck my ass, don’t stop!” 

Wendy was getting much louder than you were comfortable with, at this rate someone would barge in at any moment. 

She was losing her mind from the pleasure at this point, nothing you said mattered to her anymore. You had to take the situation into your own hands. As you pumped into her tight plump ass, you grabbed the thong that was still on her body, ripping it off from one side and stuffing it in her mouth to silence her moans finally.

Wendy didn't care one bit, and it gave you the opportunity to pound her ass freely without worrying about the risk of getting caught. 

You do just that, drilling her ass as roughly and deep as you can, your swollen balls smacking against the silky wet flesh of her pussy as you filled her deep as you possibly can.

With your hands squeezing her hips, purposely hard enough to leave marks as you fucked Wendy's tight ass, leaving her stretched even more with every full thrust.

The sounds of skin crashing against skin were the only audible sounds now, Wendy's muffled moans were of no use. 

Your hard cock continues to ram her tight little asshole with such force, such speed that every thrust into her tight opening brought endless pleasure, and soon you felt the tingles of an orgasm. You wanted to delay it, at least for for just a bit. 

Rather reluctantly you slowly withdraw your cock from her ass, the tight walls of her stretched hole mercifully letting go of the vice grip that held your cock deep inside until Wendy until she was frustratingly empty. 

You look down proudly at her freshly fucked asshole, now perfect gaped open by your cock, and you can't help but rim her hole one more time before pulling her body up and spinning her around to face you. 

Wendy's lust-glazed eyes meet yours, and she impatiently awaits your next move. 

“Suck my cock, Wendy. ” 

“Yes, daddy,” she says as she obediently gets on her knees. She wraps her soft red lips around your wet hard shaft that was just just buried inside her ass, and she starts to suck your cock. 

You let out a deep breath as Wendy works magic on your shaft, puckered lips sliding up and down the entire length of your cock. She braced herself by holding onto your thighs as she bobbed her head up and down between, sloppily and hungrily sucking your dick. In no time you felt her lips against the base of your cock

“Does that feel good, daddy? Do you like when I suck your cock?” 

“Feels so fucking good. Do you like tasting yourself, baby?” 

“I love it.” 

You run your hand through her soft dark locks, helping guide her blowjob, making sure she took your cock as deep as she could. She looked so beautiful as she sloppily sucked your cock. 

Wendy always gave the upmost effort in sucking your cock, using her tongue to feel around the underside of your already slick shaft. The way she slurped your cock and bobbed her pretty head up and down, she drove you closer than you wanted to be. You helped her stand up as she stroked your stuff cock, satiated with drool. 

“Are you going to cum, daddy?”

“Almost. Now turn around so I can cum in you.” 

You briefly considered letting it all out on her pretty face. It wouldn’t be the first time to give her a facial in public before, the first time was her request. Her warm tight ass was so inviting though, so utterly impossible to resist that you just needed to empty yourself inside it. 

Wendy resumed her position, bending over for you deep as you filled her with cock again. You easily slid back into her tight warm hole, this time grabbing a fistful of her short bob as you wrecked her ass. She somehow tightened even tighter around your dick, demonstrating how much she absolutely loved her hair being pulled. One of her many kinks that was revealed to you.

Wendy’s loud moans be damned, you were going to fuck Wendy’s ass as hard as you could and you no longer cared how loud she was. You weren’t going to last much longer anyways. With one hand on her hip and one pulling her hair towards you, you fucked Wendy with every last bit of energy you had left. 

“Just like that daddy, fuck my ass just like that! I’m yours daddy, i’m yours to use and fuck!” 

 You quickly notice that Wendy was staring dead ahead into the mirror, enthralled with the utter pounding you were doing to her tight ass.

“You like that, baby? You like watching me fuck your tight little ass?”

“Yes daddy! Keep fucking me, keep fucking my pretty little ass until you cum in it!”  

“With pleasure.” 

You pulled her hair back harder towards you as you drilled her perfect ass, every stroke inside her filled her all the way, fucking her roughly as you both anticipated the moment of release. 

It wasn’t long now, and you did your best to savor every last moment, every thrust as deep as could be in her tight clenched hole, using the last bit of energy you had left to pound Wendy’s ass. 

“God, I’m gonna fucking cum.” 

“Cum inside my ass, please. Fill me, daddy.” 

You watched the lust take over Wendy as you stuffed her ass with your cock as deep as it would go, squeezing her hips tight to let you know her ass was yours as you braced yourself for the last few pleasurable seconds before your climax took control of your body. 

You let out a series of deep breaths as you violently erupt into Wendy’s tight asshole, emptying hot cum deep inside as you can. She moaned loudly as you flooded her ass with thick semen, every creamy spurt you sent inside caused you to jerk as you emptied every last drop inside her delicious plump ass. 

“Thank you daddy...for fucking my ass...and for filling me with so much cum.” 

You find yourself unable to speak, much less able to move as the shockwaves of your intense orgasm continue to fire off. 

As you slowly start to recover you slowly withdraw your sensitive cock from Wendy’s fucked asshole an inch at a time until she is completely empty, watching as your thick creamy load escapes and stains her luscious thighs before finding its way down to the floor. 

Wendy grabs the remnants of her ripped panties on top the bathroom sink, using them to clean up the mess you left inside her before tossing it in the garbage.

“Guess I don’t need these anymore,” Wendy says.

“Guess you don’t. I like it better when you don’t wear them anyways. “

You both make an attempt at catching your breath, before Wendy pulls her skirt back down and takes a quick peek in the mirror, trying her best to be presentable. You let her walk out first, staying a few steps behind. 

The two of you sit back down as if nothing had happened, as if you didn’t just ruin Wendy’s ass in the bathroom. You ignored eye contact with anyone you walked by. When you both sat back both of your servings of ice cream had melted. 

Wendy can’t take her eyes off you, trying to use her fingers to brush her disheveled hair, with the biggest smirk on her pretty face as she drinks what was left of her ice cream. 

"Happy anniversary, daddy."

[somedrunkpirate]

in the dark we travel (geraskier scifi au part III)

Ao3 | Tumblr: part 1, part 2 | WIP | No Major Warnings | Rating: M |

The first night is always sleepless. 

Be it the rambunctious nature of a group of people having made it out from whatever they’re running from— you do not use these kinds of ships if you’re not running from something— or getting used to the movement of the ship, the rumble of the engines and the thrum of ventilators. 

Geralt doesn’t even bother laying down. He sits on the far edge of his grate, one leg dangling over the edge and his back leaning against the wall. He hadn’t had much time to pack for the travel; he’d had to leave his larger case behind, but he isn’t bothered by the cold. 

As such, he takes off his jacket and sits on top of it, a measure more comfortable than the iron on its own. But after a while, he takes it, folds it, and puts it behind his head, one loose sleeve over his nose. That way he can at least pretend it’s filtering out some of the stench. 

By some miracle, the passengers down below start to quiet down in earnest three hours into the journey. Maybe the rush has left them all more exhausted than usual. It’s been barely three days since the Magistrate let Enforcers into Erilisis Boulevard. The riots are still going, as far as Geralt knows. 

The Sovereign Wastes have not been all that Sovereign lately, at least not the planets and cities that border with the UNC. A new fervour of anti-augmentation has come out of Novigrad, led by their most fearsome priests on the pulpit. Raving on and on about their beliefs, inexplicably convinced that anyone else should give a fuck about them as well. The everlasting fire will purify the masses, and so on and so forth.

Geralt’s fingers curl into his palm of his own accord. The cool lines of crystal and metal weave between patches of labour-hardened flesh. He breathes, makes a subtle sign in the air. Igni. 

It’s only a flash of flame, ignited by the mechanisms in his fingertips, the fuel stored in a divet between his wrists. At least, that’s the story. It’s mostly true. 

But if the priests already wish to tear out the technological, Geralt can’t even imagine the way their eyes would bug out of their heads when they discover that even without it, he’d be able to produce flame. Not as much, not as controlled. But still. 

For all Ancienthunters are called, hypocritical isn’t one of them. They’ve worked hard to keep it that way. 

Geralt produces another flash of light— for warmth, for something to do, when movement catches his attention. 

A figure, at the mouth of the space between the containers. 

He was distracted, and the figure has already stepped into the dark. 

Well, it's no matter. Roach will handle it. 

He sends her a quiet warning and feels her stand at attention, ready for anything. She’ll start with intimidation, but she’ll be prepared for anything if there is a threat, if someone dares to come to close to her—

She sees the target, recognizes him, and relaxes at once. 

Geralt has to pull himself out of it, tumbling into the sensation helplessly, muscles slacking and breath coming too easy. A warmth of delight. He pushes it all away and grabs his blade. He shifts, leans over the edge,  trying to see below, when he hears—

“Good girl, Roach. Now, can I go up that ladder?” 

Roach huffs. 

“Thank you.” 

Geralt stills and closes his eyes for a moment. He sighs through his nose. 

Jaskier clambers up the ladder with anything but subtlety. His movements make the steel clank and groan under his weight. 

Geralt doesn’t need light to know that he’s grinning, the moment his head peeks over the edge. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t push me off just yet. I’m not here to bother you.” 

Geralt can’t help but huff at that. 

Jaskier throws something at him. It’s soft, heavy— a thick padded blanket. 

“Figured that is better than nothing,” he says, and begins to climb down again. 

Geralt stares at the fabric in his hands. Questions rise up in his mind but none of them find their way into his throat, and he’s left there, stunned, rendered mute, at the sheer inexplicable action of giving something— something of actual use — without demanding anything in return. 

Jaskier is half way down the stairway when he calls out. “Geralt?”

Geralt tenses— here it comes. 

“If you change your mind torturing yourself for no reason I can discern, I’ve a cot with your name on it— well, technically, one with my stuff on it, but I suppose it will survive lying on the floor. You can even drag it away from mine, if the illusion of privacy means so much to you.” 

Sideswiped by the lack of— expectation, pressure; Geralt blurts out his surprise before he can stop himself. 

“You’re not in a bunk?” 

“No? Why should I? I don’t need one. Not as much as Skosa, or you.” 

Since when has anything been about necessity, in places like this. 

Jaskier reaches the ground. Geralt can hear him stumbling in the dark. 

Roach sends him a vague thought impression— snout pressing against a back. Gently. Leading. 

Geralt sighs. 

Jaskier laughs softly the whole way, as Roach softly pushes him back to the light. 

He thanks her, and wishes both of them a good night. 

Roach sends him another thought— a young Amaureen, the newest one in the stall. Brash, confident, but uncertain. Out of place. It had to be taught how to belong. 

Geralt isn’t sure if she’s right. Jaskier is out of place, yes. If there is any honesty to his disposition, he shouldn’t be able to survive. He shouldn’t have made it to this point at all. But he does belong, in a strange way. Or rather, he seems to trick others in believing that this is a place of belonging. That everyone does. 

It’s a fantasy. A false belief that will shatter the moment the darkness comes. No group of strangers can be held together by one man, no matter how bright he pretends to shine. He’ll burn himself out trying. 

And yet, Geralt finds himself hoping that he doesn’t learn. That he doesn’t have to grow bitter, after this. He lies down on the blanket, watches Jaskier return to a group of eclectic species, circled in the gentle glow of an emergency light. 

Geralt doesn’t dream— doesn’t sleep at all, but he dozes, a little, wondering despite himself what it would have been like to follow him down. To enter that circle and be welcomed. 

Stupid, of course. 

It wouldn’t do to break Jaskier’s carefully constructed illusion of sociability so quickly. 

For all his mastery of the ways of people, he seems to be blissfully unaware that even the presence of Geralt in his circle would scatter it into pieces.

Ironic, really, that refusing him could be considered a kindness. 

Not that Geralt has any intention— any need, to join him regardless. 

There is no space for him there, but he also never expected there to be one. Never desired to have one. 

He had his place in Ka’er Mor. He has his place now, with Roach, anywhere he wishes to go. Anywhere he can be useful. 

He doesn’t need anything else. 

He doesn’t want the responsibility of keeping it, once he finds it— to deal with the irrevocable consequence of losing it, the unerring awareness that if there is a mistake to make, a misstep to take, he will find it and have no hope of preventing himself from doing it. He’s proven that much. 

He doesn’t want to deal with any of it. 

Geralt is free. He won’t be if he’s holding on to something. 

Or someone is holding on to him. 

And he’s become very good at making sure no one wishes to keep him. 

It is only a matter of time before Jaskier learns that too. 

Geralt doesn’t sleep, but he makes himself stop watching. 

He tries to think of nothing at all. 

The following two days are almost normal. 

Normal, in the sense that they’re excruciating. Geralt does not, in fact, get used to the smell. There is something about the specifics of this batch that clings onto every surface and every fabric. The air dews onto the walls, sparkling droplets of utter disgust, and seeps into his blanket, his jacket, his clothing, until they’d be better suited for the containers than on his body. 

Geralt spends the time curled up and shivering— fleeting memories of before the Trial of Glass encompass his mind, ones he’d forgotten entirely after the change. His mother, a vague image, pressing cooling packs against his forehead. Gentle words of encouragement. Music— lullabies at first, and then longer songs, some lasting hours and hours. Lyrics in shards and pieces, half remembered, half imagined. 

And she stood on the way side, swaying in line

The stars of infinity before her

Sunlight shines brightly, a traitorous friend

Her home, her childhood, she doesn’t look back

Forced to flee her planet’s end. 

Her voice, curling around the words. Her laugh— no, that isn’t right. She wouldn’t have laughed. She was worried, then. Back when he could still get sick— when he could still die from it. 

This is normal. Geralt knows the burden of his senses, shakes and sweats but knows he will live through it. It’s only a matter of time.

In the dark, no one can see him. 

Only Roach knows. 

Her pacing is like a rhythm. Her unrest is only tempered by Geralt’s acceptance. By the familiarity of it all. 

Geralt breathes, and listens to the music down below. He’s annoyed to find that it helps, a little— the kind of stimulation that has a measure of sense to it. A pattern he can follow. 

But singing is not all Jaskier does. 

On the evening of the third day, two nights without sleep, Geralt senses a change in Roach’s footsteps. A line, instead of a circle. 

Geralt groans and sits himself upright. By the time Jaskier crests the edge of the grate, he’s regained control of himself— no trembling, no shaking. His fists are clenched. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Ah, you’re still alive, I started to wonder.” 

He climbs on top of the grate, sitting down with his legs crossed. 

Geralt is too tired to argue— too hungry, too desperate, for anything to distract him. His senses have gone haywire, so sensitive that he can feel the creaking of fabric when he breathes— that he can feel Jaskier’s breath, hear his heartbeat. 

He almost closes his eyes to it. 

Every night, Jaskier has come here. Sometimes to bring water, or food. Sometimes for an attempt on conversation. Every time Geralt managed to get him to leave within ten minutes. But he already knows that this time will be different. 

“Corron, you know, the Decalon, makes a mean stew from those dehydration packs. No clue what he puts into it, but I traded him some in exchange for a few song requests, so if you’ve been wanting to carve out my eyes because of those ballads, hold off for a moment and tell me if it wasn’t worth it.” 

With that declaration, he pushes a bowl into Geralt’s hands, lid open. 

For a single moment everything melts away as Geralt’s focus is entirely enveloped by the scent of actual, edible, warm food. But Geralt would have to put his face in it for the smell to linger, and he hasn’t lost that modicum of dignity, yet. Instead, he begins to eat it, trying desperately to block out all his senses except taste. 

Jaskier, of course, doesn’t let him and continues speaking. 

“Oh and Skosa has been working on these things.” 

Even with Geralt’s darkvision, he can’t make out enough details to discern what objects Jaskier is digging out of his bag. 

“You shouldn’t be near her,” he says, low. A sentence that has somehow become well worn in only a few days. 

“Yes because she’s really going to turn around and shoot me while fixing these—“ 

Suddenly there is a flash of light. Geralt almost drops the bowl at the shock of it and closes his eyes. His head throbs. 

“Shit, sorry, should have warned you. There is a setting somewhere—“ 

The light flashes again, but then dims a little. When Geralt opens his eyes again, he sees Jaskier grinning at him, electropulse-torch in his hands. 

“Karoline found them in the Piles looking for more shot glasses. They were completely busted but Skosa knows her way around broken tech. That T-1 Blaster of hers was also… a project, lets say.” 

Geralt closes his eyes again but this time less from the light and more out of the sheer force of stupidity that the universe manages to confront him with. “The Sketh has a recently repaired T-1 Blaster on her person.” 

“She’s tested it extensively, she says—“ Jaskier begins, sounding slightly defensive, but then he suddenly cuts off. “Oh fuck, Geralt.” 

Geralt snaps his eyes open, hand to his blade, looking for the treat. “What?” 

“Why didn’t you say you were sick?” 

Jaskier is staring at him, mouth agape, and that is when Geralt realises that the torches have more dangers to them than being allegedly fixed by a trigger-happy mercenary. 

Geralt has lost the shroud of darkness. 

“Geralt.” 

“Get out.” 

“The hell I will. What the fuck—“ Jaskier is shaking his head, pulling himself forward, his eyes searching Geralt’s face. “What is wrong with you? Were you already sick when you got here?” 

“Witchers don’t get sick.” 

“We have already established that you’re a special case.” 

Jaskier reaches out a hand— it's going— going to his forehead. The intention of a gentle touch— checking temperature. Worried. 

Geralt responds as if it’s an attack. He can’t help it. He snatches Jaskier’s hand away and growls, “Don’t.” 

Jaskier’s breath catches and he drops the light. It tumbles over the edge of the grate and shatters on the floor. 

Roach gives an affronted noise. 

“Geralt.” 

For the first time, Jaskier sounds uncertain. Not scared— not yet, but on his way to be. His fingers go slack in Geralt’s grip. He’s— he’s holding Jaskier’s wrist too tightly. Geralt can sense the blood being unable to push through, a persistent throb against his palm. 

He lets go as if he’s been burned. 

Jaskier yanks his arm back, his other hand curling around where Geralt had held him. 

Geralt imagines the skin— red, bruising — and his jaw locks together. It takes a mountain of effort to pry them back open and say, “It will be better, once I get some sleep.” 

Jaskier doesn’t respond for a moment. He’s sat back, leaning a way a little, eyes still wide. 

It makes Geralt a little sick, in a different way this time. He should’ve— he should’ve never let Jaskier up here. He’d known this would happen. He’d known and— indulged himself anyway. 

“Is there anything I can—“ 

Still. Still. 

Geralt wants to grab him by the collar and shake him— wants to yell, “Why do you do this? Why, after I hurt you, do you still insist on helping. Don’t you see this is why, this is why I can’t?” 

He’s so tired that he isn’t sure if he’s done it. The image is so vivid in his head. But when he blinks, the world reorientates around him, and Jaskier is talking, still worrying the skin of his wrist like no time has passed. 

“— the problem. Every time I’ve been here, you’ve been awake. I mean, have you even slept at all?” 

Geralt does not say anything. It’s an answer regardless. 

“Wait, really?” 

“I can handle it.” 

“Oh yeah, it really looks like you’re handling it. My wrist agrees with that assessment.” 

Geralt can’t suppress a flinch. He lets his head fall back against the wall, hard. It's so much easier to be miserable when there is no one to see it. He just wants to be alone. 

“I’ll leave you, now, because I can see you’re one wrong word away from pushing me off—“ 

Geralt imagines it— one movement, one snap decision and then Jaskier would fall, scatter, break. Just like the light. Bile gathers up his throat. 

“--so I’m going now. But if you haven’t slept by tomorrow night, you’re gonna fucking get in that bunk, you hear?” 

Geralt suddenly feels a strange kinship with the Sketh— Skosa. This is how she must have felt, overwhelmed with wild emotion, dangerously close to enacting some measure of pain, and then confronted by this strange creature that seems unable to prioritise his own safety above his stubborn fucking sense of what is right. 

“Fine,” Geralt grates out. He doesn’t mean it. He’d say anything to get Jaskier out of here— to be able to fall apart, finally, without a witness. 

But then Jaskier says, “Thank you,” with such naked relief and gratitude, that Geralt already knows he won’t be able to go back on it. He’s excruciatingly aware that it must be the mod— he feels the pull of it, the delicious warmth of genuine care that cannot be anything more than a nicely flavoured lie. Jaskier is kind; he is even kind in using his abilities to convince Geralt, but he can’t truly care like this. Not in this short amount of time. 

Geralt feels himself being persuaded and hates himself for it, but he’s going to let it happen anyway. 

Except if he is able to sleep. He doesn’t have to listen, if he sleeps. That’s the deal. 

By whatever fucking power in the universe, Geralt will convert to any if he just can fucking fall asleep. 

He lies back down and shakes and shakes and shakes. 

He doesn’t sleep at all. 

His vision begins to blur and shift. There are strange shapes in every corner. Figures, sometimes. Roach stops pacing and starts twitching erratically, trying to find the enemies that Geralt’s mind is carving out of a thick cloth made from pure exhaustion. He tries to show her, to calm her down. There is nothing there. It’s all false. 

Her breath comes more rapidly when one figure, a tall elongated humanoid rises up in the shadows, looming over Geralt. It’s fingers are long and thin. His torso is all bones-- too many of them, dozens of ribs, protruding out of paper thin skin. Geralt almost laughs at it. It’s a good impression of something terrifying. Vaguely familiar, even. Dragged out of nightmares, past memories, or even his teachings at Ka’er Mor.

But it remains funny to see a creature so imposing, completely without a head. It reminds Geralt of a butchery-- chickens walking on their last legs. A horrific comedy. 

The creature reaches out, and when its finger is about to touch Geralt’s forehead, it disappears. 

See, Geralt tells Roach. Not real. 

Roach huffs, sceptical, but for the rest of the night the visions stay away. 

Sleep does too, but what's new. 

[beaufortswan42]

The Forks P.3

Beau’s POV

“Hey beau! Welcome to Casa Newton! I’ll hang your coat” McKayla cheerfully said. I was told to arrive after school so we could get started with rehearsals. Her house was cozy and seemed more life a vacation cottage than an actual house. “Wow this is a nice home McKayla. It’s all very cozy.” I said while looking at the family pictures on their wall. Baby pictures, birthdays, middle school graduation. Next to the wall was a hall of fame dedicated to their family’s sport accomplishments. Trophies from all different sports and even a few medals with the Newton name.

“Wow, no wonder you’re so good at sports, it runs in your family” I turned to look for McKayla but I froze when I saw her, one leg crossed over the other, sitting calmly on her couch, watching me with a coquettish expression blazed in her eyes.

She softly smiled and let her eyes roam my body. It was the most awkward minute of my entire existence. “Oh thank you beau and yes we have quite the knack for sports. Come and sit down while we wait for the others. There’s no need to be shy, come sit.” McKayla gestured at the seat next to her on the couch. I sat on the other side, praying she didn’t get any ideas. As rude as this seems I didn’t want her to get the wrong impression. McKayla is a pretty girl, if you’re into the cheerleader type but I don’t consider her my type. My only type is a certain girl, skin tone pale as the winter snow with bronze metallic hair, and the most stunning golden eyes I’ve ever gazed upon. I just wish Edythe felt the same about me. The only contact we’ve had was yesterday in bio when she tried to kill me with her fiery golden orbs. But in regards to McKayla I really don’t want to lose a friend over a girl. I know Jeremy has been crushing on her for awhile now. It would be a clear violation of the bro code if I went out with her. But I also don’t like hurting people’s feelings so I need to find a way to let her down gently before things progress any further.

“My family has always been known to be talented in all things physical.” The double meaning was definitely understood. “But enough about me let’s talk about you.” She not so subtlety scooted a few inches closer to me.

“Tell me beau, what makes you tick?”

“Excuse me?”

“what do you look for in a girl or better yet what does a girl have to do to get your attention?” She provocatively said, lust and desire reflecting off her tone of voice.

Uh what? I thought. My face producing red blotches of mortification and timidity.

“Uhhh I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. What did you say?” I pretended I didn’t hear her burning questions as I desperately prayed for the rest of the band to show up. Where in the hell is Allen and Jeremy? If they don’t get here soon I’m going to have to run out when she’s not looking. I hope she doesn’t jump on the hood of my truck. I hope she’s not the type to jump on a moving car. Maybe I can call in sick as well? Maybe I can- what is she doing? I nervously thought to myself as she put her head on my shoulder. I didn’t realize she had completely scooted right next to me while I was in between my inner monologue. I need to get out of here fast...her hand is rubbing on my knee but how do I go about this? Do I push her away?! I’ve never pushed a girl before but there’s a first time for everything if she keeps this up. My hands were already clammy, I could feel the sweat falling off my forehead. I needed to react fast! Then it suddenly occurred to me. That’s it!

“Uhhh hey McKayla can I use your bathroom? I had a lot of water today, like a-aaaa ton of water and I really need to go.” I nervously stuttered to her as I quickly jumped from my seat.

“Um ok, yeah uhh-yeah sure it’s down the hall to the left.” She disappointedly mumbled as she sat back on the couch. I rushed to the bathroom, locking the door quickly and looked at myself in the mirror. Blue eyes and messy short curls staring back at a nervous teenage boy who just avoided getting kissed by one of the most popular girls in school. “What do girls even see in me? I’m not even that cute! I’m a solid 4 out of 10” I washed my face and hands 3 times and did my best to prolong my bathroom visit at casa newton. But what’s gonna happen when I go out? Will she try again? Or is she outside waiting for me right-

Ding Dong! Ding dong!

Someone above must be looking out for me because the doorbell rang, I could hear Allen and Jeremy walk into the house. I’m not religious but hallelujah, thank you Jesus!

I calmed myself down and made my way to the living room where Allen and Jeremy were talking to McKayla. I could see the look of disappointment and frustration on her face from the moment not going the way she planned it.

“Hey beau, how are you?” Asked Allen as he have me a bro hug. Allen has always been one of the kids I connect with the most at school. We’re both introverts, enjoy many of the same hobbies, activities and books. Every time we hangout we don’t feel the need to fill up every empty moment with conversation. Silence is good and is habitual between us.

“Heyyyy it’s my man beau! The rock god! Are you ready for this bro!!” Jeremy yelled as he enthusiastically shook my shoulders. When he let go I could’ve swore there were two jeremy’s in front of me.

“Alright guys lets not waste time any further, let’s go to the garage and get started!” I could tell that Jeremy was very pumped for this, even Allen was more hyped than McKayla who was giving me dirty looks for rejecting her advances. I didn’t mean to be arrogant but I only have eyes for one girl. The same girl who wants nothing to do with me.

I followed everyone to the garage and marveled at the instruments before me. There was a set of drums in the back that were perfectly polished, the guitar and bass looked like they came from a special edition collection. I was admiring the 80s synth keyboard when suddenly McKayla came up to me and gave me what looked like sheet music.

“Ok beau we’re going to perform teenage dirtbag by Wheatus. Here are the lyrics...and yeah that’s pretty much it...any questions? no? Ok great! Lets rock!” McKayla cheerfully said as we took it from the top.

...

We spent the rest of the evening rehearsing and going over everything to make sure it was smooth for everyone. I practiced my vocals, Allen was a master on the guitar, McKayla drove the rhythm with her bass and Jeremy controlled the beat with his drumming style. I must admit that I started feeling more comfortable with my singing and with the idea of performing. If Edythe was there I could use this song to somehow communicate how I feel about her. It’s definitely a step out of my comfort zone, but maybe this is what I need to get some closure if she decides not to talk to me again. The idea of the song itself reminded me of Edythe. The most interesting girl getting crushed on by the dorky new kid; yeah that’s definitely my scenario, minus the boyfriend. I wonder how she will react or if she’ll even be there. Would she like it? Would she know I’m indirectly singing to her? All these questions in my head with no answers.

“Woooooo!!! we sound really good guys! If we don’t win then I’m moving to Canada.” McKayla said, her bubbly personality coming back despite the certain situation that occurred a few hours ago. Jeremy matched her enthusiasm and gave her a hug while saying “oh don’t worry we will win! These other acts are just cheap chumps, it’s smooth sailing from here. All we have to do is control the crowd and rock out like never before. Which means beau you have to bring your A game. You can’t be nervous or stuttering...also please don’t faint.”

“Don’t listen to him beau you’ll do great, you sound awesome...it’ll be ok” Allen assured me as we walked to the front door. I grabbed my coat and we were out the door when McKayla reminded us to come by tomorrow again at the same time for rehearsal before Friday. There’s no way in hell I was coming first again. I learned my lesson. I made it my personal mission to come along with the guys.

“Oh wait before I forget what’s the name of the band?” I asked the group before I got in my car.

“We’re called the forks!” McKayla proudly stated as she walked over to me.

“I’m sorry....what? Did you say the forks?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What kind of name is that? Now I’m convinced, we would be kicked off the stage.

“Yeah we decided it would show a sign of school spirit and a sense of community.”

“What in the worl- ok I’m sorry guys but I think we should change the name before we go up on stage. If I’m honest the name is terrible and we will be laughed off the stage. In fact they’ll probably throw tomatoes before we perform.” I gently said to them so I wouldn’t hurt their feelings. I thought of how much more Edythe would dislike me if she found out I was in a band called “the forks” I couldn’t bear to see her and her family’s reaction. I was convinced that she would ignore me even more than before.

“Well the deadline is in a few days for name changes so how about-“

“I think the name sounds cool and gives us an edge with the judges” Jeremy defensively said in order to side with McKayla. We could’ve been called diapers and Jeremy would still go with it so he could get McKayla to like him. Before I could answer, McKayla’s dad arrived which means that it was almost past my curfew so I had to race back and beat Charlie. To bad my truck doesn’t go past 65 mph. I thankfully got home a few minutes before Charlie, ate some cereal and decided to call it a night. “Damn, what’s gonna happen on Friday?”

Part of me wanted Edythe to be there but the other half didn’t. The bronze haired beauty definitely seemed like someone who isn’t easily impressed. I could sing with David Bowie, juggle 6 bowling balls and stand on one foot simultaneously and she still wouldn’t be impressed. Fear overtook my body at the thought of her watching me embarrass myself. Me. Beaufort klutzy Swan. On stage. Singing. in front of Edythe-Aphrodite, queen -Cullen. “I’m so gonna fuck it up”.

It felt like I was laying in my bed for hours on a never ending time loop filled with anxiety and pressure. I tried reading but all I read was Edythe’s words from a few weeks ago. I tried listening to the new CD Phil got me, but all I heard was Edythe yelling at me. I pondered more about her and Friday’s event until my eyes started to close and sleep came over me. The last thing I remember was Edythe’s eyes, piercing into my soul. The same scene replaying over and over again. “We shouldn’t be friends...”

[heartslogos]

as in a house

For the lack of anything better to do whilst recovering and waiting for transport to — wherever it is Lyctors learn to be Lyctors — Harrow finds herself attempting to acclimatize herself to her newfound breadth of knowledge in the realm of the physical arts of combat.

She has procured herself a two hander.

“This is ridiculous,” Harrowhark snarls under her breath as she swings the two handed sword around experimentally. Griddle could do this with one hand whilst running about and running her mouth. Harrow is coming to a newfound appreciation for Griddle’s previously under appreciated lung capacity.

The rapier and knuckle would be easier.

But Harrow remembers what it was like to have Griddle’s confident hands on a two hander.

Perhaps one of the greatest injustices the universe will ever not-know is what it lost when Harrowhark removed Gideon Nav from the possible pool of foot soldiers in the Necrolord Prime’s armies.

With her heavy sword Griddle would have carved bodies down like she was cutting paper. She would have won their house enough tithes and bounties to restore it to monetary glory single handedly within a decade. Griddle could probably have generated so much thanergy with just her two handed sword that she would have given a dozen necromancers worth Harrow’s pinky toe enough power that they could probably amount to something worth Harrow’s attention.

Aiglamene was right.

Given time, if Griddle had been trained as a cavalier from the start, she could have been the second coming of Matthias Nonius.

Hells, Griddle was the second coming of Matthias Nonius, and she would have come around so proficiently she would have made Nonius look like he was the one who followed after her.

Even with a rapier and knuckle Griddle was terrifyingly good. Harrow felt that first hand.

But Griddle was — is — truly in her wheelhouse with a two hander. As Griddle would say, a swordsman’s sword.

Harrowhark doesn’t regret for a second her choice to keep Gideon, to chain her to the Ninth, to herself and browbeat her into faking tradition. But oh, she would have loved to see the faces of the other necromancers and their cavaliers if they would get themselves put in their place by Gideon Nav and her soldier’s sword.

A lifetime of living in a world with Gideon Nav as her sole age group companion and object of her attentions means that Harrow is well aware of the various exercises Gideon has gone through daily in order to make herself physically fit enough to make swinging around this stick of metal look simple.

Harrowhark is not going to achieve that physical fitness in a day, a month, or even a year. But the sooner she starts the sooner she will get there. Still.

The rapier is a tempting option, especially when her arms tremble with strain after only a few swings of the sword.

Come on, bone jangles, you’re basically a walking catacomb. It’s just a sword. Harrow imagines the way Gideon would wave her arm, gesturing to all of Harrow at once, face pulled into incredulousness. She can almost feel the weight of Gideon’s eyes on her back, laughing at her and judging her shaking arms, her paint-streaked face, and her unsteady footing.

Harrow bites her lip, frustration and sweat building on her brow as she raises the sword once more.

“A few knuckle bones and the occasional metatarsal in the pocket are nothing compared to swinging around a long stick made of metal, Griddle,” Harrow sneers.

She lowers the sword, willing herself to focus and calm and find the quiet center of herself. The center that is capable of creating perpetual bone, regenerating constructs, and wards that could strip skin so finely it looks transparent.

She can’t.

Gideon Nav’s eyes, burning and spiteful and glorious like a star’s death beam out at her from the shadows of her mind.

“I hate you,” Harrow’s voice rasps, “I hate you.”

Sure you do, Gideon, but not Gideon, says. But not as much as you’re going to hate doing laps with weights. It’s cardio day, babey. Can’t skip the cardio.

“Just you wait until I get my hands on you, Griddle. Making me do manual labor as though I were some sort of unnamed fodder in the lowest squadrons.” Harrowhark snarls under her breath, “You do not die on me, Gideon Nav. Not without my leave. Not after making me complete an oath to you.”

The voice of Gideon Nav in her head is not Gideon, it is, as that final battle was, a collection of memories. Years of fighting, existing, and generally living out of each other’s pockets. Harrow’s mind can create the illusion of Gideon Nav so perfectly that it makes Harrow instinctively clench her jaw.

The only thing Harrow could not imagine of Gideon Nav, Cavalier Primary of the Ninth House, was the cry that left her lips as she threw herself onto the irons.

For the Ninth.

What garbage. As if Griddle ever cared about the Ninth.

For Nonagesimus, Harrow’s conjured Gideon translates, mouth too soft to be anything but imagined, For Harrowhark, my dark lady of eternal night and crushed velvet and dreary gloom —

“No one,” Harrow says quietly as she focuses on the sword in front of her through the blur of the stinging wet in her eyes, “No one. Asked you.”

-

Harrowhark’s field of study and devotion has never been the calling and managing of spirits. Her realm has been and always will be, primarily, bone. The subtle work of calling and bidding a spirit to come and speak was better left to other houses, and other necromancers with lesser goals and ambitions than hers.

Thankfully, Gideon Nav is not subtle.

Gideon Nav wouldn’t know subtlety if it crammed itself down her throat. That Gideon held to Harrow’s orders to keep her mouth shut for so long was nothing short of a miracle.

Therefore, Harrowhark’s failure to conjure her back where she belongs is glaringly obvious, glaringly disappointing, and woefully terrible.

“Gideon Nav, the head of the Ninth House, Keeper of the Locked Tomb, Reverend Daughter commands you to show yourself.”

In theory Harrow would be working with Gideon’s bones, her corpse, her blood, her anything. Anything existing of hers that would have physically tied her to this existence. But the search of the House of Canaan continues to be fruitless.

At this point Harrow would settle with those antiquated mirrored glasses Gideon pulled out of who knows where.

It should be easy. She is a Lyctor. Gideon resides within her. Gideon’s soul resides within her. It should be nothing to call Gideon forward, to make her speak, to force her to listen. This should be the easiest thing in the world without need for personal affects. Gideon is here. One flesh.

She had seen Ianthe post ascension. Naberius Tern was inside of her, somewhere. The two of them where both distinctly present. Though, considering how that went and what Cytherea had said to her, it can be surmised that Ianthe’s ascension into Lyctor-dom was not yet completed. Prince Tern resisted sublimation into Ianthe, held out against assimilation and consumption. Naberies Tern was, most likely, not meant to be so visibly and noticeably present.

This is, perhaps, the first time since Harrowhark was born that she wished she was not as powerful and capable as she is. It would be a gift to have reached imperfection as Ianthe did. Harrow would kill to remain there, in that moment, with Gideon’s arms over hers.

Harrow closes her eyes and imagines those dark coppery curls, sweat damp and matted with ash and crumbling stone that rest over Gideon’s brow. She calls forward the crooked grin, the wan and cracked lips, and the smudged paints, streaked by sweat and blood and dust.

She reaches deep within her, feeling the curl of Gideon’s muscles as though they were her own, the world through Gideon Nav’s eyes, and the exhilarating rush of seeing in real time the prodigal skill behind each parry, sword thrust, and weathering block.

“Cavalier, your adept calls you,” Harrow says, willing the feeling of Gideon’s mind against hers. Wiling the torturous pound of Gideon’s heart next to hers, a disconcerting off-tempo rhythm that screamed for her attention even as she tried to focus on the thousands of other things that ran through Gideon’s mind. “Cavalier, your necromancer calls you.”

Nothing but terrible, familiar, and utterly predictable silence.

Nothing with Gideon Nav has ever been as it should.

“Damn you, Griddle,” Harrow snarls, eyes flying open as she searches out a mirror, “Why do you have to be so bloody difficult? What do I have to do?”

Gideon’s voice — a memory, not actually her — fills the back of Harrow’s throat.

“…because you asked.” The memory of her own heart lifting up so high it should have frozen and withered in the atmosphere. “That’s all I ever demanded, you asswipe.”

“Griddle,” Harrow’s voice comes out cracked and wretched, hopeful. Let it be this simple. Let it be Gideon being an impertinent ass. Let it be just this. “Please. Gideon, will you come back?”

Pathetically, Harrow holds her breath, every part of her winding up with anticipation.

If Gideon really were here, the silence would be mocking.

Gideon is not here. Gideon is not anywhere.

The silence is simply silence.

-

Gideon’s skin, underneath the familiar paint of the Ninth, was beginning to turn golden. Years of shadow and ash gray existence at the Ninth was beginning to wash away under the irritating bloom of the sun. It suited her.

Harrow can still feel the sureness of Gideon’s palms, square and rough and strong. The curl of Gideon’s fingers. The solid steadiness of Gideon’s chest and shoulders. The certainty of her thighs.

She can feel herself in Gideon’s bones. She can remember feeling Gideon in hers.

Did she imagine it?

Harrow catches glimpses of herself in windows into the vast black void of space, in the reflective surface of the sword she grinds her teeth at practicing with, in the dull metal of cups and cutlery.

She does not know if the amber she sometimes catches snatches of are real or not. Cause for hope or reason for worry of delusion.

She thinks she wants it too badly. Too much.

It’s only been a few scant days, weeks, since Canaan House’s fall. A few weeks since Gideon’s.

It feels like years. And Gideon, functionally, has eternity with this ache, this fear, this longing.

How long until Harrow forgets the sound of Gideon’s voice? The sweat of her palms? The rough timber of her voice when she pretends to talk softly? How long until Harrow no longer feels Gideon’s eyes on her back, the steady thrum of her heartbeat?

How long does Harrow have to last until it stops oozing like an infection inside of her?

What does she have to do to divest herself of everything Gideon Nav? What, exactly, does she have to do to stop the vast, ever widening hole that seems to be eating away at the insides of her bones?

Whatever it is, she could probably do it. She can probably do a lot of things with her newfound power.

It is a concentrated effort for her not to imagine Gideon’s responses. The temptation to allow herself to indulge in memory-prediction simulations of Gideon is nearly overpowering. The desire to cut herself open on not-Gideon digs at her throat like teeth.

Somewhere inside of her Gideon’s soul hides, a perpetual thanergic battery, stripped of consciousness and voice.

One flesh, one end, Harrow repeats to herself in her head like a prayer. If she had a string of bones she would have gone all the way around a dozen times by now. If she were reciting prayers to the Necrolord Prime she would have out-prayed even the most reverent of acolytes and priests. One flesh, one end.

Her entire life has been built around the survival of her house. Her entire life she’s lived with the burden of death on her shoulders and the ever looming knowledge that she is all that stands between her house’s prestigious lineage and the annuls of antiquity.

She would end it all here and now if it meant achieving that one, perfect end.

But she can’t. Harrowhark doesn’t know how. Harrow is incapable of it.

Harrow has been charged with the Necrolord to learn, to grow, and to stand by his side in this war. Harrow carries Gideon’s last physical words for the Ninth in her. Harrow carries duty, tradition, and responsibility that despite the fact she would rather say to hell with it, she is incapable of putting aside. Even if it’s going to drain her of everything she is.

Gideon Nav lied when she said she only knew one thing.

She knew two.

Gideon Nav knew Harrowhark Nonagesimus.

She was the only one.

For the first time in Harrow’s entire life, she is completely and utterly alone.

It is not nearly as pleasant as she imagined it would be.

-

Frankly speaking Harrow could care less about being a Lyctor. The Seventh was right in abstaining from that trial. He was right to do as he did. Ultimately, she thinks he may have gotten the upper hand on her and gotten the better end of things.

No necromancer should outlive their cavalier.

One flesh, one end.

Every time Harrow closes her eyes she can see the bloom of blood, the stain of it as spikes speared through Gideon’s body. Like a grotesque bouquet.

She bites through her cheek until she tastes her own blood.

What’s one more death, Griddle? It’s too much, that’s what it is.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Harrow snarls, glaring at the sword sitting at the end of her bed. Her hands are sore. She has blisters. Her entire body aches.

“I didn’t ask for you.”

The sword isn’t even Griddle’s. Her body hasn’t turned up. Her knuckles, her rapier, her two hander, not even the iron she threw herself on.

How hard can it be to find her? She’s got a shock of copper red hair that looks like a rat nested in it, even when it was matted with blood and filth.

In Harrow’s mind there would be neon signs pointing to Gideon’s remains. She was at the damned epicenter of everything. She always is. Just find the biggest mess in Canaan house and there she’ll be.

Harrowhark the First.

Harrow would trade this, the universe, the entire Ninth for Gideon Nav. Damn being a the Necrolord Prime’s Hand. Damn sainthood. Damn the Empire. Damn them all. Damn every expectation, every sacrifice, every duty, every lesson ingrained into her since conception. Damn this war.

Damn Griddle for suddenly doing an about face and being selfless. Damn her for never listening to a word of reason. Damn her for actually putting the Ninth ahead of herself. Damn her for saying the cavalier’s oath and getting Harrow to repeat it back. Damn her for being stupid and heroic. Damn her for assuming that she knows what’s best for Harrow. Damn her for assuming she was saving Harrow’s life. Damn her for not understanding that Harrow’s life has always been forfeit to something else. Damn her.

Damn Gideon the Ninth, who had the gall to ignore Harrow’s orders and off herself right in front of her.

Damn Harrow for not seeing the obvious and knowing Griddle would have done that. Because Griddle could never damn well do as she was told, even when what she was told was the most logical thing. If Harrow ever told Gideon Nav that breathing oxygen was good for her, she is certain that Gideon would have figured out a way to start retaining carbon dioxide with every breath instead, leading to her ultimate demise due to the final and predictable surrender of her last remaining brain cell.

Harrow closes her eyes, sees the wrong shade of red, and opens them again.

Her jaw hurts from the long scream that has yet to leave her bones.

It is nothing so dramatic as Gideon Nav’s name. It is more something along the lines of a wordless, indecipherable yowl that simultaneously encompasses every single moment of absolute frustration and hatred Harrow has ever felt towards Gideon combined with the profound and shocking agony that Gideon’s absence has punched straight into Harrow’s gut.

“Why won’t you answer me, Griddle? I know you rarely have something clever to say back, but now is the time for banalities if there ever was one,” Harrow says to empty, recycled air. The hum of the ship’s life support systems provides no answers. “Honestly. Of all the times for you to keep your mouth shut, it has to be now?”

She is more than aware of the fact that she is talking to herself, and only herself.

Harrow lashes out, picking the sword up and throwing it down onto the ground with a loud clatter. It’s not even Griddle’s sword, she doesn’t know why she’s so angry at it. But she is. This sword is everything that isn’t Gideon the Ninth and everything that is Harrowhawk the First. Lyctor. Hand of the Necrolord Prime.

Garbage, drivel, useless waste.

“What’s the blasted point of it all if you aren’t here?” Harrow demands. “You were to keep the Ninth. You were going to — you were going to lead armies. You were to be my one end.”

Of all the times for Griddle to be so stupidly selfless.

“I half suspect you did this to spite me,” Harrow sneers. “You haven’t won one over me, yet, Gideon. I am going to find you. I am going to make you scream. I am going to make you beg forgiveness. You do not die without my permission, Gideon Nav.”

Her voice cracks, like a heart, like a house, like the stone that must never be moved.

“You do not get leave to leave me so easily.”

-

Harrowhark is the sum of two hundred and one souls, and the culmination of an entire planet’s worth of desperation.

She is in the queendom of her power.

Fuck god.

As usual, if Harrowhark Nononagesimus needs something done, she’ll do it herself.

[girlonpanic]

Title: when we first met

[ 1:48 AM ] | WHEN WE FIRST MET

            —SO LONG, MY LUCKLESS ROMANCE; MY BACK IS TURNED ON YOU                  SHOULD'VE KNOWN YOU'D BRING ME HEARTACHE                  ALMOST LOVERS ALWAYS DO

                                    follows: the lies of the cursed

                                                            . . .

                                    in all the years you’ve known him, jackson has never called. his texts come at random times, always—when you’re cooking, or in the bath—and maybe you’ve never responded as quickly as he prefers, but it’s never made him call you.

you’ve had your phone on vibrate since 2012, anyways.

so when the device comes to life on your nightstand, it jolts you from the haze of your daydreams and drags you to the present with all the subtlety of a hand in your hair. confused, you watch the screen light up and read his name once—twice—as if they’re hieroglyphs to be dissected and decoded, before it clicks.

jackson has never called, but he’s calling now.

why?

you scramble across the bed and pick up your phone, sliding a shaky finger over the screen before lifting it to your ear, “jackson?”

the other end of the line is silent; though you’d have been surprised to hear anything beyond the anxious pounding of your pulse in your ears. it takes effort to wait for a response without hanging up and calling him again. what are the chances he’s dialed your number on accident, you wonder, when at this time jackson is typically asleep or drunk?

that thought is quickly swept away; obscured behind the door that you put all unpleasant things. he is the same man that you knew, you remind yourself. he’s just going through hard times.

“hey, did you butt-dial me?” the words come out strained, no matter how much humor you try to inject into them. you swallow around the knot sitting at the back of your throat and listen to the shuffling on the other side;

the telltale hiccup.

“no,” comes the answer, slow and heavy; weighted with a million things that you can only start to identify, “i meant to call you.”

you don’t know what to make of him now. instead of trying to think, you crawl to the edge of your bed and pull your clothes from the pile there, “yeah? what’s going on?” steady, measured. if you sound like you know what you’re doing, surely the rest will come to you, right?

your hands shake as you tug your jeans over your hips. you fumble with the button and bite back a soft sniffle—the burning in your eyes is unrelenting, because beneath the silence, you hear his distress.

—the soft sighs and the sharp inhalations of a stifled cry on the other line.

“nothing. i was just calling to see if you were up.”

you think it over as carefully as you can, while struggling to get into your hoodie without dropping your phone. it stays pinned to your ear as you grab your keys and slip your feet into a pair of sandals beside the door, “well, i’m up now.”

steady, measured. irritated. the work it takes to sound as if your heart isn’t breaking makes you sick. you pray—perhaps in vain—that he reads the irritation the way you intend: as a playful jab to spur him into arguing.

that it’ll snap him out of whatever funk he’s fallen into now.

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs, and your stomach drops. frantically, you push the screen into the folds of your shirt and hope he doesn’t hear you fill your lungs—try to regain the breath that he’s just stolen from you. you stare at the elevator, wait for the number to hit seven and lift the headset again to your ear.

“i was teasing you, jacks. don’t apologize. talk to me, what’s going on?”

steady, measured. calming. your heart is trying to escape your ribcage. it has never hurt this much to love him. your free hand wipes away the wetness sliding down your cheek, thumb pressing into your eyelids to will away the overwhelming urge to cry.

no point in both of you falling apart tonight.

“i don’t know. i just don’t—“

he fights for his words, and you remember the man who scribbles his rhymes on post-its; that fumbles to write as quickly as his mind forms the sentences, spinning tales with a mechanical pencil and an innate sense of rhythm.

he’s just going through a hard time.

ding.

you step into the elevator and smash the button for the ground floor. the doors remain open for a second too long; your finger moves to the close button and holds it until they grind close with a series of groans and clicks, “well, just sit tight. i’m coming over.”

jackson inhales, and the sound is a sharp push to your heels to move, “no, i don’t want you to come out this time of night. it’s dangerous—“

“i’m coming,” steady, measured. firm. you steel yourself as best you can, fix your attention on the hazy reflection in those aged steel doors and breathe. already, your face is reddened; muddy with tears that you couldn’t catch before they fell, “just wait up for me. i need you to unlock the door.”

he can’t see you like this.

you wipe your face with your sleeve and make your way through the empty lobby. it is sheer luck that your car starts on the first try, that you keep him on the line as you speed down the familiar roads leaving to his apartment, that no one is around to see you slip into a side door and cut an unwavering path to the stairs.

no more elevators.

“i’ll be there in a couple minutes. unlock the door, okay?”

only as you scale the first flight does he answer, “okay.”

steady, measured. certain. you wipe your face one more time and hope the flush to your cheeks can be explained by your race up the stairs. the years have taught you how to hide in plain sight; to explain away the hitches in your breath and the racing of your heart, the telltale blushes and the fumbling of your words anytime he steps too close.

you’ve learned how to hide your love for jackson from the moment he said your name. you know how to wrap it up like a gift, present it as friendship because you’re sure—

that’s all he’d ever take.

by time you reach his floor, your breath comes in heavy pants; your lungs burn more than your eyes do—and you are thankful to feel the tingling in the tips of your toes subside as your body warms. it takes the short walk to his door to catch your breath, though your heart pounds as violently as it ever has. your head swims for a moment, attention flickering between the muted sigh on the phone and the number on his door.

slowly, you reach down and turn the knob.

he’s sitting on his couch when you slip inside. red-rimmed eyes hazily make their way to you as the door closes with a quiet click, and you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the emptiness in his stare, but you struggle to reconcile the figure lounging in the darkness with jackson wang.

“hey,” you say, and your voice sounds foreign to your own ears; echoed from the handset sitting on his thigh in hollow mimicry. after what feels like hours, you hang up the call and slide your phone into your back pocket, “what’s wrong?”

there’s no answer he can give that you want to hear, you know—especially when the wound the last of his lovers left has barely healed. jackson doesn’t love with anything less than the entirety of his being.

“did you take the stairs? you look exhausted.”

you know that fact, at least from the outside looking in.

you won’t let yourself imagine what it might be like to be the object of his affections.

“yeah,” slowly, you weave a path around to stand before him; wedged delicately between his slouched form on the couch and the coffee table he’s covered with bottles again. “tell me what you’re thinking.”

you nudge him, knee to knee until he looks at you. when he does, however, you find yourself curling your fingers into your shirt—holding on tight as he examines you. he straightens then, running his hands over his thighs while his head tilts up.

“i was wondering,” he starts, and his words are clear this time; so carefully rehearsed that you question how many times he’s said them; how long he’s been turning them over in his mind.

your feet refuse to move, though your heart says to run.

leave.

he begins again, shifting forward. his hands lift, settling on your hips tentatively—and every alarm in your head goes off. it is fear that grips your chest; a consuming sense of being naked in a room full of people.

with him, you may as well be.

“i was wondering—when was it that you fell in love with me?”

send me a made-up fic title and i’ll tell you what i would write to go with it

[presidentlauraroslin]

Drabble prompts: 23. “I immediately regret this decision.” Amos/Chrisjen OR 34. “Are you testing me?” Chrisjen/Nancy Gao OR 76. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you.” Bobbie/Chrisjen OR 99. “Don’t look at me like that.” Gerri/Roman if you're feeling adventurous

So I basically did all of them, except Gerri/Roman, because, oh boy, I am not confident in enough in my writing to tackle that. So pairings are:- Chrisjen/Nancy- Amos/Chrisjen (Rated E)- Bobbie/Chrisjen

34. “Are you testing me?”Chrisjen/Nancy Gao

“Why do you want this?” Chrisjensipped her gin-tonic and tilted her head. She knew she shouldn’t have done this,cleared the venue where Nancy was about to hold some campaign event, but witheverything going on in the campaign, and mostly outside of it, she hadn’t had achance to talk to Nancy and something in her, had pushed her to do this. Totalk. To break with all informal rules and basically disrupt Nancy’s campaign.Just like she had expected, Nancy wasn’t shocked or impressed, almost as if shehad known this would happen sooner or later.

“Why do you? You never wanted it inthe first place.” Nancy crossed her long legs, hands folded in her lap. On theoutside she looked calm, but the fact that she had just answered Chrisjen’squestion with another question told her that she wasn’t feeling certain, notsure of Chrisjen’s motivations to be there. Chrisjen couldn’t blame her for thesuspicion. It hadn’t exactly been a clean battle up until now.

“Because I will do anything toprevent the end of humanity, even if I have to do shitty job until the day Idie.” Something she sincerely hoped wouldn’t be necessary. She hadn’t ever consideredretirement, but the prospect of doing this job for a decade or more might causeher to seriously think about getting out of politics.

She just wouldn’t be able to forgiveherself if the protomolecule reared its ugly head again and she could have preventedit.  

“And I will do my best to give thepeople of Earth a chance at a better future. A chance to get off basics, to geta job, to do something other than wait for an opportunity.” Chrisjen smiled andshook her head, downing the rest of her drink. Nancy’s lips thinned. “You don’tbelieve me.”

“I do, that’s the fucking problem.” Sheknew Nancy wanted the best for the people of Earth and once upon a time,Chrisjen had wanted that too. Her focus had shifted however, to wanting toprotect the entirety of humanity. An impossible task that she had imposed uponherself and Holden, though how much he was aware of that, she didn’t know. “I knowthat you believe the Ring gate is our best option for the future. If theprotomolecule didn’t scare the shit out of me, I’d maybe agree with you. So Iwill fight you, to the bitter end, even though I think you could make aformidable Secretary-General. If we didn’t disagree so fundamentally, I’d bemaking sure you won.”

It wasn’t a lie. She had always seenNancy as a possible Secretary-General, would probably have pushed her forwardas a candidate to run against Sorento-Gillis, if the coward hadn’t slinked offat the first sign of trouble without any of his advisors around. But Nancy’sexpression had hardened, her hands tense in her lap. “What is this? What areyou doing? Are you testing me? See if I respond in a way that gives you aweakness you can exploit?”

“No, hard is that is to believe.”Slowly she stood up, straightening her clothes. Nancy looked as if she wantedto stand up as well, use her height to her advantage, but she remained seated.Chrisjen gave her a small smile. “I don’t like what you stand for, but I likeyou. You’re young, smart, ambitious, not a some castrated bobblehead likeSorento-Gillis. This is me saying I wish the situation could be fucking different.”

“Thank you. I wish the situation weredifferent too. Not the Ring gate. I wish it wasn’t you I were running against.”Chrisjen gently squeezed her shoulder when she walked past her and swept out ofthe hall. It was time to return to reality, being opponents once again. Asingle election decisive in what would be the future of humanity. What a fuckingmess.

23. “I immediately regret thisdecision.” Amos/Chrisjen

Chrisjen groaned out a quiet fuck asshe sank down on him, thanking whatever fucking god she had prayed to that morningthat she had some lube on her. Even with the orgasm he had already given her, shehad been no where near wet enough to take him or anyone really, and JesusChrist, did she need this.

His hands were on her hips and shehad the urge to pull them away, pin them beside his head. She didn’t mind himtouching her, obviously, but Amos, even with highly inappropriate comments andhis interest in whatever she was wearing, had something dangerous about him.She had seen men like him before, men who knew no fear, who had seen it allbefore and weren’t fazed by anything. He could hurt her so easily, if he wantedto.

Maybe that’s why she find herselfwith his cock inside her, her nails digging into his chest as she rolled herhips. He had something nobody she had ever fucked had had. And it just feltgood to have someone she could fuck and it wouldn’t bring her any difficulties.Being the goddamn Secretary-General had severely limited her options of sleepingwith people other than her husband. Amos had been easy, convenient, clearlyinterested in her and his mouth was more talented that she had expected. She’dbe feeling the chafe of his beard on the inside of her thighs for days.

“Come on, Chrissie. You can do betterthan that.” He squeezed her hips and then had the fucking gall to smack herass, not hard, but she narrowed her eyes anyway, digging her nails in a littleharder.

“Fuck you, Burton,” she spat at him.His eyes closed for a moment, a moanfalling from his lips. It didn’t deter him for long, the look in his eyes fartoo mischievous when he opened them again. 

“I thought you were.” He thrust upinto her, his hands holding her hips and ass tight enough that she wouldn’t besurprised if she found some bruises tomorrow. He looked so incredibly smug, theasshole, she resisted the urge to hurl another insult at him, knowing it wouldprobably only spur him on. He had never made a secret of liking her choice oflanguage. It also didn’t help she could still see the evidence of him eatingher pussy in his beard.

“I immediately regret this decision,”Chrisjen muttered, without any venom, although she really did want to slap himfor calling her Chrissie while being inside her, and Amos chuckled, squeezingher ass a little tighter. They had their rhythm now, it wasn’t soft or sweet,and she hadn’t wanted that either. She wanted to feel fucked and he seemed toget that, his thumb seeking out her clit, as she moved on his cock. She moaned,clenching around him, determined to make him come as well.

“You’re not the first person to saythat to me.” He was starting to sound a little breathless and she smirked, eventhough he was fucking good at getting her off as well, circling her clit like agoddamn pro. Chrisjen clenched her jaw, trying to hold off, but he really wastoo good at this. She was well aware of the fact that she was panting, her hairhaving come undone, her nipples still aching from when he had sunk his teethinto them.

“Probably not the fucking last either,”she replied. Whatever smart retort he had ready, he never managed to say it asraked her nails down his chest and arched her back, letting this absolute brickof a man with the subtlety of a nuke to the face make her come again. She bitback a cry as her legs trembled and her knees ached. He didn’t stop moving histhumb, not even when he let out a groan and followed her over the edge.

She looked down at him, letting thelast waves of her orgasm wash over her as she pushed his hand away from herpussy. He had his eyes closed, biting his bottom lip, muscles in his chest andarms tense. Ridiculous how easily he could snap her in half if he wanted to. Shedidn’t think she had ever fucked with someone quite as built as he was. Therewas definitely something in riding a man like that, making him come.

He opened his eyes and grinned ather. “Goddamn Chrissie.”

This time she did lightly slap hischest, where the red lines her nails had left behind stood out against hisskin. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

76. “I wouldn’t change a thing aboutyou.” Bobbie/Chrisjen

Bobbie sighed and leaned back intothe way too comfortable sofa that was situated in the luxury that was Chrisjen’sLuna home. She had seen her house on Earth. It was hard to believe some peoplewere rich enough to own two enormous houses while some people wasted away onbasic, a topic she had learned not to bring up, didn’t even want to bring upright now. She just felt tired and was glad to have a place away from the messon Mars to relax.

“Drink. You look like you fuckingneed it.” Chrisjen waved a glass of scotch in front of her and Bobbie took iteven if she wasn’t much of scotch drinker. It was liquor and with Chrisjen,sitting down next to her, her skin so warm and soft against her own, it wasenough to settle some of the thoughts racing through her mind. Not enough to getrid of the weight resting heavily on her shoulders.

“I’m a fuck-up,” she said after alarge sip of the nicest scotch she had ever had. Chrisjen scoffed and leanedcloser to her, her head resting on Bobbie’s shoulder. Bobbie looked down ather, the inky black hair, the expression on her face soft, her fatigue showingwithout any makeup to hide it. The nightgown was new, at least Bobbie thought so.The woman probably owned on in ever color of the rainbow.

“If you’re a fuck-up, then what am I?Lost an election that should have been easy, caused the death of twelve marinesand a few dozen Belters, and oh, failed to stop a fucking goldrush that will atbest, empty the sol system, and at worst wake up some alien threat that willwipe out humanity.” Bobbie smiled and rested her cheek on top of Chrisjen’shead.

“You’re a colossal fuck-up.” Chrisjenlet out a short laugh, placing a hand on Bobbie’s forearm. Bobbie wanted sobadly to feel better, but Esai’s face, the Belter tattoos, the air rushing outaround her, it was all burned into her memory and she couldn’t shake the overwhelmingfeeling of guilt that joined the images. “I should have done something. Anything. Ishould have tried harder to stop it.”

“It’s not your fault, Bobbie. Therewere a lot of moving pieces and if Belters managed to sway part of the Martianmilitary, you couldn’t have stopped it. Fuck, I probably couldn’t have stoppedit. We’ll be lucky if the two of us can figure out what the fuck is going on.”

“I should have been better. The dreamof Mars is going to shit and I’m following close behind. Or maybe leading thecharge. Who knows.” She watched how her fingers absentmindedly played with therim of her glass. She wasn’t the type to be self-chastising, but then again,she had changed a lot. And she needed to put this feeling of helplessness somewhere.Chrisjen sighed and plucked the glass from her hand, putting it on the table,her fingers underneath Bobbie’s chin.

“Bobbie look at me. We all makemistakes. We’re human, we’re not perfect. You’re not perfect, god knows I’m notfucking perfect. But I wouldn’t change a thing about you.” There wasn’t a liein Chrisjen’s dark eyes and Bobbie smiled, albeit a little sadly. Chrisjenreturned it and leaned in to press a soft kiss against her lips. “So stop weighingyourself down. Without you, I wouldn’t know that the Belters were up tosomething. Now, we can figure what. Together.”

Bobbie traced her thumb over Chrisjen’scheekbone and stole another kiss, making a little slower this time. “I’m stilla fuck-up.”

“We’ll be fuck-ups together.” Chrisjenunceremoniously dropped her tumbler back in her hands, the liquor nearly sloshingover the rim. “Finish your scotch. I’m tired and I’d like to go to sleep withyou next to me.”

[zephyrises]

“Morning, Master!”

A light swing of the wicker basket in attendance serves as Ventus’s wave. It’s set in the grass as he kneels down to the grave marker, putting the assemblage of glossy yellow petals within on full display. Taking note of this, he glances between the blooms and the keyblade’s grip, leveling with the latter as if it were a set of eyes.

“Sorry. They’re not your favorites. It’s still a little too early for those—but buttercups are pretty too, aren’t they?”

The breeze picks up a bit, carrying the crisp smell of a nearby waterfall and tickling the boy’s nape. He crosses his legs, draws the mortuary wreath into his lap and, one by one, unravels the wilting flowers that he and Aqua had spruced it up with a week and a half ago, allowing his thoughts to flow freely all throughout.

“A bunch of things have been on my mind lately. I’m not sure where to start.” Fingers falter, resume their work in double time, then falter again. “I guess the biggie is… I wanna put on a happy face for Aqua and Terra. They’ve got fun plans for the day and I owe it to them to let ‘em know just how much I appreciate it and everything they do. It feels like there’s never been a time where they haven’t been looking out for me… but all I can think about is how scary it is that I’m gonna be taking my exam in a year.”

He laughs. It’s a weak, lackluster sound.

“Between you and me, I probably won’t be ready by then. Or ever.”

“You’re doing it again!”

Ventus’s hands recoil from the arrangement of wood and plantae, upper body twisting as he whips to identify the source of the echo. On cue, Chirithy makes their presence known, the puff of brightly colored smoke they generate dispersing completely by the time their pudgy little limbs make contact with the ground.

“Huh—wha—”

They heave a frustrated sigh, pointing straight at Ventus after it runs its course.

“Selling yourself short!”

The addressed’s mouth contorts into a deep frown, heat sprinting to the tips of his ears.

“Yeah, well… you’re doing that thing you do again!”

“Huh? What thing?”

“Listening in! And sneaking up on me!”

“Oh.” Chirthy shakes their head in apology, ears flopping with each motion. “Sorry. You never used to mind all that much, so…”

Those words wash over Ventus like a bucket of cool water over the head.

“No. It’s okay,” he’s quick to reassure, volume and posture backpedaling. “It’s gonna take some getting used to. That’s all.”

Neither comment on the fact that this isn’t the first time they’ve had this sort of exchange, nor that it’s been a hearty sum of months since they resumed being a part of one another's lives. It would be redundant. Instead, Ventus tries an encouraging smile and waves his old friend over, who responds in kind with a gravity defying hop and flourish.

Chirithy isn’t built for the precision work that the assembly of a wreath demands, but they’re still eager to be of some assistance, so Ventus tasks them with passing him leaves, flowers and stems in accordance with aesthetics and the obligation to conceal the frame beneath. In no time at all, they’ve settled into an easy rhythm that suits both of their paces.

Their progress is so palpable that they’re nearing completion not five minutes after they had gotten started, at which point Chirithy pipes up.

“This is a nice ritual,” they supply, their enthusiastic rocking and crescent shaped eyes catching Ventus’s gaze. “I’ve never done anything like it.”

“You—I mean, we—didn’t do stuff like this back when?”

“Nope. Spirits and their keyblade wielders… one day, they’d be there. Then, the next...” The silence lasts for mere moments, but it’s cavernous and aching all the same. “We mourned for our friends, sure, but nobody ever thought anything of it. Or to celebrate.”

There’s a great deal that could be drawn from that somber piece of knowledge. Ventus should be taking the necessary steps to digest some of it, or at the very least, endeavor to learn more. It’s rare for Chirithy to speak of the past of their own accord. Ordinarily, they’ll tighten their lips at the foggiest mention. Without a doubt, this is an opportunity to make the most of—and yet, the blonde allows himself to become preoccupied with the creature’s throwaway observation instead.

“Celebrate?” It’s repeated slowly, inflection reminiscent of one that might accompany a word sourced from a foreign tongue. “Is… that what you think this is? What I’m doing?”

“Sure! What else?” Chirithy pads closer, setting a paw over one of Ventus’s downturned palms and the wreath in turn. “This artifact, which you and your friends have made with your own hands… it’s so lively and colorful. And he was your Master, wasn’t he? It only makes sense that you’d want to keep his life in your memory. Flowers sure are a beautiful way to do it.”

It couldn’t be clearer that there’s been some sort of severe disconnect between the two. The boy’s emeralds have widened, still meeting Chirithy’s stare, but not seeing. Then, all at once, the tears come cascading down.

“Ven?! What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. It’s just…” His shrill hiccup is the first of many. “I want to remember him—and I wa-want to do it fondly. I really, really do. But whenever somebody says his name, I’m never thinking about how much I miss him... o-or that I wish he was still around. I don’t miss him. N-Not like they do. I just... feel sc-scared. And angry. ‘Cause the very last time I saw him alive, he wanted me dead. He didn’t even give me a chance.” Clenched teeth sink and hide behind the knees Ventus draws to his chest. Master Eraqus’s wreath falls casualty to the abrupt movement, tipping from its already precarious position on his thigh and plopping onto the ground just aside. “So… I dunno if celebrating is something I can do. Not with my whole heart, anyway.”

His spirit companion remains silent, ears drooped despondently. Their paw has since moved to the small of his back.

“I’m sorry. For my heart not being in this. For being so different.” Another humorless huff of laughter. “It’s gotta be tough. You thought you were about to reunite with an old friend, but really, you were jumping into the arms of a total stranger.”

Intent on challenging that notion, Chirithy perks up, administering a faint pat to the boy’s bared skin.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Ven. If you ask me, it’s a good thing that you’re a different person now.”

There’s a hasty intake of breath on Ventus’s part, a surefire sign that he convinced himself he could anticipate the essence of whatever Chirithy was about to say and fire off the cookie cutter response he had raring to go, but he cuts himself off the moment that reality and their actual sentiment catches up to him.

At a pace slower than a snail’s, he lowers his folded arms and lifts his head. It’s just enough to establish eye contact again.

“It is?”

The spirit bobs as confirmation, glee radiating from the subtleties of their expression and timbre entirely sincere.

“Mhmm! The Ven I used to know would’ve let anybody do him harm. He would’ve thought that he deserved it, too. So if you’re mad and think that what happened was wrong—and it was, by the way—then you’ve changed for the better.”

Unreservedly speechless, Ventus straightens his posture, capable of nothing other than that and goggling at Chirithy.

“And… admittedly, I probably should have picked and chose my words a bit better. I already knew that your relationship with your Master wasn’t the best.”

At that, the boy disentangles his limbs completely, appearing almost panicked.

“H-How? I’ve never...”

“From the moment we were separated, I’ve been watching over you,” they admit, floating up before Ventus in hopes that he’ll catch them—and he does. “Anyone could tell just by looking and listening. He was a step up from your last Master, but he still made you miserable. And after what he did to you… what he tried to do to you… who wouldn’t feel the way that you do?”

Once more, Ventus curls forward. This time, rather than collapsing in on himself, he embraces Chirithy.

“Then... there’s nothing else to say about it, is there?”

“Not unless you want there to be.”

He counts to ten, then backwards from ten, digits finding comfort in the texture of the other’s fur.

“I think I do. But not right now.”

“That’s okay too,” Chirithy coos, nuzzling against the side of his face. “After all, it is your special day. You should spend it how you want to.”

The air begins to move again, and time along with it. When they inevitably part, it’s only for the sake of bringing the wreath to completion. With it assembled, hung in its proper place and the now emptied basket’s handle stable on the crook of Ventus’s arm, he beckons to his friend once more. Just like the day of their reunion, Chirithy bounds straight for his chest.

Once they’re settled, the keyblade wielder bounces them in arms.

“Say, Chirithy—when’s your birthday?”

“Huh? Mine?” If they had the capacity to blink rapidly, this would be the perfect opportunity. “Spirits don’t have birthdays. We’re created, and then... that’s that.”

“Then we’re coming up with one! ASAP.” “W-We are?!”

“Yeah! ‘Course! Everybody needs a birthday, even if it’s not the one they’re s’posed to have.” Ventus  cradles Chirithy just a smidge tighter, grinning brilliantly as he falls into familiar step along the mountain path. “C’mon. Terra and Aqua are waiting. Let’s go ask ‘em how they picked mine!”

The spirit’s surprise fades, and in its place, happiness swells.

“O-Okay!”