#I’ll read sword of destiny at some point. it could be two years from now or it could be next week. my reading habits are all over the place

[blissfulstarsfics]

Black and White Chapter 3

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Chapter rating: M

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Summary: At long last, Karlach's heart has been fixed. Now that she can survive outside of the hells, the trio make their way back to the Sword Coast. Free at long last, their destinies are once again their own. However, Tav's allies aren't to keen on what she plans to do with this newfound freedom.

A portal opened and through it they could feel the chilly night breeze of the Sword Coast. Karlach’s heart had finally been fixed after eight long months in the Hells and now they were going home. With tears of joy in their eyes, they crossed into Toril. The dream had at last been realized.

“Gods, it’s not oppressively hot!! The wind feels kind of cool. Holy shit! HOLY SHIT!” Karlach wiped the watery beads from her face, “I get to live!” Tav and Wyll couldn’t help but get caught up in the moment, their own cheeks now wet and salty.

“I’ve never been so grateful to feel cold,” Tav joked. 

“Same! Look at that sky,” Wyll pointed to the evening sky. Different colored lights dotted the dark canopy, softly twinkling in peaceful stillness. It was a stark contrast to the eternally aflame sky of Avernus. Karlach sprawled on the grass and closed her eyes.

“This doesn’t seem real. After almost eleven years of fighting demons and cults and whatever the fuck else, it doesn’t seem real. I feel like I’m going to wake up and find out it was all a dream.” She closed her eyelids tighter and sighed. Wyll sat next to her, patting her shoulder.

“Open them and see, Karlach. If you look east, you’ll even see Baldur’s Gate. It seems we managed to escape close to the city,” Wyll stopped to think, “My estimation is that we could be there in two hours.”

“Shall we head out now, or in the morning? As much as I’d like to sleep in a proper bed, I’m utterly exhausted,” Tav admitted. She could see on Karlach and Wyll’s faces that they felt the same, so it was decided. 

“One more night in the open. It’ll be just like old times, minus the owlbear cub. I wonder how old Beaky is doing?” Karlach was in incredibly high spirits, which made Tav happy. It made the whole ordeal worthwhile. They set up their bedrolls under the stars for the last time and for once looked forward to what the next day would bring. Tomorrow, they will begin their return to normalcy.

Morning came quickly, not that they minded. The three of them were eager to get to the city. Merchant carts were starting to pass by, followed by townspeople coming in and out. Walking down the street, they saw that Wyrm’s Rock was nearly reconstructed. Buildings both old and new adorned the streets leading to the city proper. 

“Looks like the council had homes built for the refugees,” Wyll observed with pride, “I’ll have to ask Father about that. I wonder if it was his idea?” 

Tav looked around, seeing some familiar faces. Cerys was looking over something that appeared to be a blueprint. Bex and Danis were in their own little world sitting side by side on a bench. The tiefling children that they escorted from the Emerald Grove ran around acting like normal children for once. Karlach noticed as well.

“Feels like yesterday that they were crossing the shadows to get to the Gate. Gods, look at them now. It makes the journey worth it. When we get settled, I want to see how they’re doing,” The tiefling turned her head forward with a heartened smile. 

Entering the city was no problem thanks to traveling with Wyll Ravengard. The Lower City was fairing as well as Wyrm’s Rock. Rolan had finished restoring Sorcerous Sundries, the Elfsong still stood, yet there were still some buildings that sadly looked untouched.

“There’s Fytz! I’m going to go say hi. Aw, look! She had her baby!” Karlach was ridiculously giddy.

“While you’re doing that, I’m going to visit my father. Tav, will you join me? I’m sure he’d love to meet the hero of the Gate.” Wyll’s invitation was kind, but Tav had other plans.

“Thank you, but I’ll have to pass,” she straightened, “I have a harp to retrieve.” She could tell by how they looked at each other that they didn’t approve.

“Soldier, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Karlach’s voice was full of concern. Tav squeezed her hand.

“I’ll be fine,” she reassured them. Wyll placed his hands on her shoulders, staring her in the eye.

“All right, but if you need us, we’ll be there.” Now she was becoming frustrated. Tav was far from being the naive doe falling into a hunter’s trap that they thought she was. And if she was? So be it. She was a grown woman, capable of making her own choices.

“The Blade of Avernus worries too much. But, should I find myself a damsel in distress, I know where to turn.” Tav invited them in for one final, lingering hug before heading to her next destination.

Stepping into the Upper City was like treading into another world. The architecture was ornate, the gardens immaculate, lords and ladies carried on without a care in the world, even the cobblestones had a gleam to them. 

The Crimson Palace was a short distance from the gate, but when she got there she felt self conscious. Tav hadn’t had a change of clothing in tendays, let alone access to basic grooming supplies. Here she was about to knock on a lord’s door in tattered clothes, covered in gods only knows what kind of fluids, and stinking to high heaven. Perhaps I should use a side entrance, she thought. 

Her heart pounded while she sneaked around the side of the mansion to the servant’s entrance, suddenly feeling very foolish and unsure of herself. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door. A brawny human in a stained apron swung the door open, cleaver in hand, looking put off at the interruption.

“Whatever yer sellin’ we ain’t buyin’,” was his greeting. Tav raised her eyebrows, equally put off.

“My name is Tav and I believe your master may be expecting me.” 

“Oh, uh,” he stammered for a bit, then beckoned Tav inside, shutting the door behind them. “Someone get Tibbi!” he called out. A few minutes later a frail, skittish woman with rust colored hair appeared. She kept her eyes downturn, but Tav was easily able to spot their red hue. 

“Tibbi, this is the master’s guest. She’s all yours.” The man paid them no more attention and went back to butchering a slab of beef. Tav turned her attention to this woman, Tibbi, giving her a polite smile. 

“The master is entertaining guests in the parlor this afternoon,” she began.

“Oh, should I return later?”

“No!” Tibbi raised her arms, afraid, “I only meant he will be unable to receive you. Please follow me, we have a room prepared for you. Would you like a bath?” The poor thing was shaking like a leaf. Tav glanced around, puzzled at the whole interaction. 

“Tibbi, you don’t need to be so nervous. And, a bath sounds divine. Thank you.” Tav’s insouciant demeanor helped to slightly calm the maid’s mood. She curtsied to Tav, then motioned for her to follow. The short jaunt from the kitchens to her new room was slightly disappointing. Tav had been looking forward to seeing the mansion’s new design, but they had to stick to hidden corridors due to the daylight. Astarion had taken a liking to open windows and Tav had no desire to see the spawn burn.

“Here we are, my lady.” Tibbi opened the mahogany door. Inside was a gorgeous and spacious room filled with everything a person could need. There was a queen sized bed covered with delicately stitched satin bedding, in the corner sat a dark cherry vanity filled with all sorts of cosmetics, a matching wardrobe, a plush chair and an ottoman sat next to a cozy fireplace. Soon after they arrived, several others came in with a bathtub, water, and fragrant oils. 

The attendants filled the tub and used a spell to warm the water to an appropriate temperature. Tibbi put in a few drops of the oils, making the room smell of rose, vanilla, and lavender. 

“Let us know when you are finished, my lady, we will collect the bath.” With that, the servants gave a bow and left. Tibbi turned her eyes, allowing Tav to undress. She slipped into the water, feeling its warmth sink into her weary, travel worn muscles. The maid sat behind her with a brush, working the tangles and knots out of her raven locks. She then wetted Tav’s hair with a pleasant smelling hair wash. It felt glorious.

Tav soaked in the bath, scrubbing the stink of the hells away. Meanwhile, Tibbi had opened the wardrobe and presented a few of the dresses. When she did, Tav’s jaw dropped upon seeing it full of a variety of fine attire. 

“Which would you prefer? If none of these are to your liking there are others.” All of them were lovely. She settled on a black crushed velvet dress with an intricately embroidered apricot taffeta center panel. 

Tibbi sat her in front of the vanity and styled her hair into a chignon. As she did, Tav noticed the makeups, perfumes, skin tonics, and washes that had been prepared for her. All of them were high quality and expensive. She felt a pang of humility upon learning that Astarion had obviously gone to great lengths for her, yet she felt she had nothing to offer in return.

“Shall I do your makeup?” Tibbi asked.

“Please,” Tav nodded. The spawn opened a drawer and pulled out a beautiful set of ivory handled makeup brushes. The elf closed her eyes, letting her apply various creams, shadows, and rouges. When she opened her eyes, she loved what she saw. An hour ago she was a scruffy adventurer fresh from Avernus, now she was a noblewoman. 

“You’re very talented, Tibbi.”

“You look radiant, my lady.” Tibbi seemed a bit more relaxed and quite proud of her work. With her work done, she gave another curtsy and left. Alone now, Tav continued surveying the room until she found her harp perched on top of a nearby table. She ran her hands down the wooden arms and body, happily. A warm feeling rushed down her, seeing it intact and waiting for her to pluck its strings.

~~~~~

Time was a luxury the vampire ascendant had in abundance. He was a newcomer in Baldur’s Gate’s high society, one intent on securing his position and power. Obtaining that power required him to perform regular, mundane tasks such as what he was doing now. He was unknown to the elites and currently lacked the networking he required to make the city his. That’s why today he had invited five of the city’s lords to the Crimson Palace for card games and drinks. It was awful.

Boorish as the afternoon was, Astarion was able to glean plenty of information on his guests. Lords Tennington, Copurise, and Northshire played an honest game. They were unsuspecting of the possibility that the others may cheat. This showed him that they were naive to a fault and could easily be manipulated. Lord Hexnigh thought he was far more clever than he was. He would pick what he considered a good hand, have it plastered all over his face, only to be soundly beaten. Astarion determined that he was of very little threat, but if that changed he could easily be crushed.

The only perceived challenge came from Lord Foxworth. He may have been able to conceal his card counting and swapping from the others, but Astarion was far too practiced in sleight of hand to be caught unaware. Yes, he was someone to keep an eye on. Foxworth would either learn his place or be crushed underfoot.

Of course, being a good host, Astarion allowed the man to win his share of rounds. It wouldn’t do to let his guests leave unsatisfied with the afternoon’s activities. Neither would Astarion let them see the full scope of his capabilities. He knew better than to think that he was the only one assessing the room for potential threats. 

When the visit was over, Astarion sighed with relief. It was mind numbingly boring to make idle chit-chat with those dullards. He couldn’t believe that there wasn’t one scandal or rumor to be had from any of them. Not one! Not even anything as base as a pregnant maid. It was all business as usual, and Astarion swore that if Lord Tennington mentioned one more time about the proper soil conditions for growing coriander, and sage, and basil, and who the hells cared what else that he would make the halfling his supper. He understood the old man was in the spice trade, but gods below!

All in all, it had been a fruitful visit, albeit a tiresome one. Astarion wanted nothing more than to decompress when he was approached by his chamberlain. He was more than a little vexed by the thrall’s presence.

“This had better be important,” he growled.

“Master, your guest has arrived,” Matteo flatly said. In his addled state, Astarion tried to think of what guest he was expecting. All he wanted was a few hours of peace and now he had to figure out who the staff had let into his home.

Then a harp string quietly sang. Then another. And another.

Astarion pushed the chamberlain aside, rushing upstairs. The door to Tav’s room was wide open and he could see her delicately perched on the chair in front of the vanity, tuning the harp’s strings. She was a sight to behold. Tav was naturally beautiful, as most elves were, but to see her attired and styled so richly was breathtaking. It was a far cry from the threadbare clothing she wore at camp. 

“Welcome back,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. Tav looked up, startled.

“Oh!” she put down the harp and got up to greet him, “Was I too loud? I didn’t want to disturb your guests. Tibbi told me you had company.”

“They have all left, thank the gods,” he sighed, “Aristocratic life isn’t all parties and intrigue, unfortunately.”

“My poor lord, you sound positively dejected,” she teased.

“Tonight’s entertainment will be much more exciting, at least,” he slyly grinned, “You see, not long after the city’s reconstruction began a mysterious figure, a dwarf who called himself the Ruby Blade, appeared and had an underground arena built. They host these wonderfully entertaining deathmatch tournaments.”

“Wait,” she chuckled, “You actually installed a murder pit?”

“Why not me!” Astarion crossed his arms with sarcastic offense, “The Ruby Blade did! Now…whether or not he is my spawn is a secret I shall never share,” he leaned in, “One thing I will share is how lucrative this little coliseum is. You would be surprised how eager some of the patriars are to throw their money away watching and betting on peasants, criminals, and the like bash each others brains out.”

“Oh, I have an idea,” Tav grinned knowingly, “May I accompany you?”

“Darling, I was hoping you’d ask.”

Shortly after dusk, Astarion and Tav made their way down a winding path that led to the arena’s hidden entrance. It was unremarkable and covered in overgrown ivy, which made it perfect for its function. He knocked three times and an eye slit opened. A tiefling with red skin and blackened eyes took one look at Astarion, then opened the door. 

The passageways were poorly lit, damp, and musty smelling. Several people, mostly men, were making conversation as they went further. Much of it pertaining to the current roster of fighters and who was favored to win. 

Just outside the venue was a gathering space of sorts. Astarion was obviously a regular at these events and was greeted by other patrons who commonly frequented the tournaments. However, tonight they were far less interested in him than they were his new lady. They were enchanted by her natural charisma and grace, the way she moved, the way she spoke.

The vampire was pleased with the attention. He enjoyed watching his peers stare in awe at this beautiful new couple. A fine debut , he thought. At least it was, until one of said peers took Tav’s hand and brought it to his lips. Astarion had to remind himself this was acceptable etiquette, something to be expected, however the man decided to prolong the encounter longer than deemed acceptable. Worse, Tav was making no effort to pull away. 

“I do hope we see you again. Beauty such as yours should never be hidden.” At last he released her, but made sure to give her a lengthy stare as he walked on. Astarion’s eyes followed him as he disappeared from view, seething with jealousy. Tav, on the other hand, was watching the crowd, utterly oblivious. 

“Lord Astarion!” a girlish voice shouted from a few meters away. They looked over and saw a young, black haired human in a jeweled dress striding their way to plant a firm kiss on his lips. She withdrew, side eyed Tav, then turned her attention back to Astarion.

“I missed you,” she traced a finger down his chest, “Will you sit with me?” He decided turnabout's fair play and that it was Tav’s turn to feel the sting of envy.

“Nurah, you look immaculate as always. I’m afraid I must decline, as you can see I have a guest with me this evening.” During Tav’s time in the hells, Astarion would occasionally take people to bed to satisfy his needs. Nurah was one of many who meant nothing but a good time to him.

“Aw,” she pouted, placing her hands on his chest, “Well, when you get bored you know where to find me.”

“Indeed, I do,” he smoothed a stray hair from her face, “Indeed, I do.” The excessive flirtations now finished, Nurah shot another side glance at Tav before going to her seat. Astarion slowly turned his devilishly smiling face, expecting to see Tav hurt or jealous or angry. He was wrong, she was completely indifferent.

She didn’t react.

She didn’t care. 

And he didn’t like it.

His pride felt bruised. Clearing his throat, he suggested they go to their seats.

“Hm?” Tav responded as though she were off somewhere else, “Yes, let’s.” 

Fighters entered single file into the pit, marching to the center where they stood side by side underneath a raised throne. They snapped salutes when a dwarf dressed in red came down a flight of stairs, his chest puffed and proud. As he began some speech about valor and bravery, Tav leaned toward Astarion.

“Does the Ruby Blade know who will win tonight?” she whispered.

“Who can say? All I know is I have a substantial wager on the dragonborn on the far left,” he winked. The banter reminded him of their days on the road, of how they’d sneak away or wait til the camp was asleep to talk trash. She always had a witty comment or reply on whatever was happening. Perhaps that’s why her unperturbed attitude unsettled him. She was continuing on as if nothing just happened. Nothing, not even an elevated heartbeat.

Familiar arms wrapped around his neck. Nurah had found them and made no attempt to hide her intentions. 

“Lord Astarion, it’s so dreadful!” she moaned, burying her face in his shoulder, playing at a delicate flower act. Tav responded with quiet laughter.

“Poor dear, fights to the death must be too much for the young miss. Perhaps embroidery might be better entertainment for you,” she sneered. Nurah cozied closer to Astarion to soothe her bruised ego. He made no effort to shoo her away, in fact he looked at Tav as if to ask, “What are you going to do?” 

Again, she did nothing.

It was well after midnight when the festivities ended and the two arrived home. The day was not the sort of reunion Astarion had planned. Far from it. Tav was as indecipherable as ever, a trait which he found equally fascinating and infuriating. 

“I had fun today, thank you.” Her smile was sincere, “I’m exhausted. I can’t wait to be able to rest in an actual bed again. My camping days are done, at least for a century or two.”

“Rest well, Tav.” He didn’t know what else to say. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and went upstairs. Astarion watched as she seemed to glide across the room, mesmerized. Feeling restless, he walked the halls of the mansion to settle his thoughts. When he passed Tav’s room, he heard muffled sobbing. Interesting. He pressed his ear against the door and swore he heard a hushed, “bastard.” 

Astarion lifted his head and resumed his walk with a renewed smugness. It seemed Tav was going to be a tough nut to crack, but one he would crack nonetheless. After all, the vampire ascendant had nothing but time.

[fiercestpurpose]

Finished The Last Wish and it’s like. hm. the way Sapkowski writes women is extremely grating to me. To a lesser extent, the way he writes all his characters suggests a certain approach to people that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. But what do we read for if not to experience other perspectives, even ones that may be distasteful? And, moreover, I have to say that many of the ideas in the book are extremely compelling and remind me what it is that I do find attractive in fantasy.

Also, starting with Blood of Elves was a mistake and things make much more sense after reading this collection. If anyone else is looking to get into reading the Witcher Saga, start with the stories, not the novels.

[howlingday]

the girls of rwby (along with nora and pyrrha) are all goddesses who have come to judge humanity... it's not going well and should it continue humanity will be destroyed

only one man can save us, JAUNE ARC! he will have to seduce and romance every one of them to save us all!

.... so how screwed is humanity?

Vice and Virtue

Long ago, far longer than you may remember, there was a time when humanity was truly in it's darkest hour. Horrible, black beasts known as Grimm rampaged across the land, destroying everything man had made. It seemed destiny deemed us unworthy of living, and we were condemned to perish like smoke in the wind.

But then they arrived. Seven, beautiful goddesses fell from the heavens and slew the beasts. Humanity was saved, but the goddesses' work was not yet done, for each bestowed a gift upon us.

From Ruby, the youngest of the Seven, came steel. She taught us to forge tools and weapons to defend ourselves from the Grimm, should we be beyond their grace. Thus, she was declared The Daughter of the Forge.

From Weiss, the stern lieutenant of the Seven, came Dust, a magical element designed to imbue our weapons and tools with properties of the elements themselves! Thus, she was known as the The Heiress of the Elements.

From Blake, the most recluse of the Seven, came knowledge. She taught us to read and write, as well as gifted us with a broader perspective of the world at large. Thus, she was awarded the title of The Mistress of Tomes.

From Yang, the most aggressive of the Seven, came strength. She taught us to no longer fear the beasts, but to grow angry and strike back tenfold of what we lost! Thus, she was acknowledged as The Mother of the Heart.

From Nora, the kindest of the Seven, came joy. She bestowed upon us the gift of laughter, the ability to think positively, to shirk away the horrors of the dark and to accept the light. Thus, she was accepted as the Queen of Laughter.

Yes, yes, children. I am about to tell you of our final goddess; the one who leads both the Seven as well as ourselves. However, you must know that she was the only one of the Seven to not gift humanity with a blessing, for she foresaw a great darkness within humanity; a terrible, evil thing that corrupts us, and forces our will to sin. So, instead, she ordered us to obey the Doctrine of Destiny.

Yes, my children; the very same Doctrine your parents order you to obey every day, from the Sun's Dawn to the Moon's Dusk. Thus, for this order, she was Pyrrha, Champion of Destiny!

Now, how do the Seven rule over us? Well, it all began long ago...

"Aaaaaaugh!" Nora screamed. "This is so boring! Can we please watch a different mortal?!"

"Not yet!" Ruby shouted back. "I need to see if he wins her!"

"You can look back at the dumb sword later!"

"I'll show you a dumb sword!" Ruby leaped over the table, tackling Nora. "It's called my fist!"

"Nora toss!" Ruby flew through the air, landing into Yang and Blake as the two were passing by.

Blake groaned as she sat up from her fall. She looked down at the dazed, smaller goddess, whose head was in her lap. Once Ruby came to, she immediately fell asleep. Blake grumbled and pinched Ruby's cheeks to wake her.

Yang, however, leapt from her fall and charged around the table, chasing the fleeing Nora. The shorter girl wailed and cried as she was pursued, but this did not slow the golden goddess. If anything, it spurred her to pick up her pace.

Weiss, sat down and watched as the mortal failed his test, the sword carried away by an older man, presumably his father. She swiped to a different mortal, who was cowering as another portal pushed him towards the water. Bored with him, she swiped again.

Pyrrha stepped down from her alcove to investigate the chaos. She watched as Yang chased Nora, Ruby sleep on top of Blake, and Weiss swipe across mortals on the viewing port. She sighed as she walked down the steps to the port. Extending a hand, she caught Yang, letting Nora continue to run. As Yang swung at Pyrrha, she caught her fist.

"Stop." Yang lowered her fist, and head, and sat down next to Weiss.

Pyrrha then made her way to Blake, trapped by the sleeping goddess in her lap. She knelt down and tapped her face. The goddess stirred, but did not wake.

"He failed." Ruby immediately awoken and rushed to the port. There she argued with Weiss to use it. Pyrrha helped Blake up and led her to the table, where she sat next to Yang. "Nora." The girl stopped, looking to Pyrrha. "Sit." She did as she was told.

Weiss returned the port to the downtrodden young man in the port. He was sitting on a stump, head down as he sighed.

"Oh no!" Ruby cried. "He did fail!"

"So what? It was just a sword." Nora commented.

"You're just a sword!" Ruby stood to restart her assault, but Yang shot her a glare, and she sat down.

"I'm sure it was a really good sword, but it's not worth fighting over." Yang said, trying to calm Ruby. She watched as the boy sat and moped, head in his hands. She twisted her face in discomfort as she thought. 'Could do without his moping, though.'

"Agh!" Pyrrha gripped her head as her emerald eyes shined with a beautiful, green light. As beautiful as it was, however, it could not compare to the agonizing burning sensation she felt in her head. The others watched, for they knew what this was. It was the reason she was the head of the goddesses, their leader blessed with a powerful gift. Pyrrha was recieving a prophecy, a vision of a destiny to be realized.

And from the pain she was in, it was a prophecy to come soon. A fate that often ended in a death.

The young man stood before Pyrrha, sword in hand. He raised his blade high above him, both hands gripping the hilt, and brought it low. The next image was of the young man weeping over the fallen form of the goddess. She lay still at his feet, his blade soaked in blood.

When Pyrrha came to from her vision, the others surrounded her.

"Step away," Weiss called out, "let her breathe!"

"What happened?" Nora kneeled next to Pyrrha, refusing to back away as the others had. "Did you have a vision?"

"Yes." Pyrrha stood on shaky legs as Nora guided her to her feet. "I foresaw that man, and he will be my death."

The others stood in silence, each slowly turning their heads to the morose lad on his seat. Nora and Ruby shared a look of concern, while Yang and Weiss grit their teeth in anger. Blake, however, approached the port. She studied the mortal as though he were a puzzle to be solved.

After a few moments, she sighed, looking back to Pyrrha. "What do you suggest?"

"I say we kill him!" Yang barked with rage. "A mortal who threatens the goddesses must be dealt with severely!"

"Must you be so barbaric?" Weiss rolled her eyes. "I suggest we place him in the Dust mines. Some hard labor will deter any attack."

"We could just, you know, ignore him?" Nora offered. "He doesn't have a sword, so I don't see why we should even bother worrying about him."

"I say we steal his sword!" Ruby leapt onto the table around the porthole. "He can't hurt us if he doesn't have it!"

Blake sighed, and walked to Pyrrha. Guiding her to her seat, she knelt next to her and massaged her hand. As Pyrrha regained her bearings, Blake asked again.

"What do you suggest?"

Jaune Arc carried hay from the storage unit to the stable. As he tossed it over the fence, two horses approached him, a stallion and a mare. The stallion was black with a fiery-orange mane, and a temper to match. The mare was white with a mane of gold, and spirit as gentle as a morning breeze.

The two shared this stable since they were purchased by his family years ago, since Jaune was only a lad. He had always dreamed of being a warrior, fit for his family name, but it seems he was only fit for tending to these two. But he didn't mind. These two were his responsibility, after all, so it wouldn't be fair to leave them alone for him to play hero.

Still, though, the thoughts never left his mind. He imagined battling ferocious monsters. He dreamed rescuing damsels and the innocent from the wicked. He fantasized traveling outside these lands atop his horse.

But which one? The stallion was certainly brave, if his temper was any way of telling. But his temper was mostly directed towards Jaune. If the boy traveled too close to the stable, the stallion would rear back and charge towards him, before tearing back again and stomping his hooves around him.

Perhaps the mare then? Ah, but where the stallion was bold, she was as shy. She would often hide away into the shade of the stable, leaving it's safety only for meals or when no one else was nearby. She wasn't a mare for heroics. To say she was a mare for anything besides shying away would be completely untrue.

As the two ate from their pile, Jaune leaned in and pet their heads. The stallion grunted while the mare's ears flicked. He smiled and leaned against the fence, sighing with satisfaction.

"Such beautiful creatures, no?"

Jaune looked to his right and saw a robed figure standing next him. They were tall, with a deep crimson robe with golden trimmings. The voice sounded feminine, leading Jaune to think the figure was a woman. She turned and smiled at him, the robe covering the rest of her face. "What are their names?"

"Names?" Jaune looked to the horses, holding his chin with his fingers. "I... don't know. We never named them."

"No? Beautiful creatures deserve beautiful names, no?" She extended her pale, delicate hand towards him. "Like yourself. I'm sure you have a beautiful name."

Jaune blushed a bit at that. "Uh, Jaune. My name is Jaune."

"Jaune." She said his name with a sigh, like it was a pleasant breeze on a clear, summer day. "Why haven't you named these horses, Jaune?"

"I... I don't know." He turned around and leaned back against the fence. "I never thought about naming them."

"Never?" Jaune shook his head. The woman pointed her finger at the stallion, who snorted and flared his nostrils at her. "You have a fiery soul; a temper like a volcano, and twice as dangerous. Henceforth, you will be Vulcan."

The stallion stomped his hooves at his naming, like a child throwing a tantrum. The woman giggled at this and reached into the stable.

"Wait! Don't-!" Jaune reached to woman, but as he grabbed her, he slipped and fell onto his face. He wiped to mud from his face and witnessed something unbelievable.

Vulcan, the stallion who never let anyone near his stable without an offering, placed his head against the woman's palm. He breathed calmly as she stroked her thumb along his hair. She removed her hand and kneeled to lift Jaune to his feet.

"What about her?" She asked, gesturing to the mare. "What would her name be?"

Jaune looked at the mare. She looked back at him, almost expectantly, as she shook her head. She was beautiful; a horse many would fight for just to have and gloat about it. If Jaune were a warrior, he would be proud to be held aloft by such a magnificent creature.

"Gloria." He said. "Her name is Gloria." She trotted by to her shade, but he noticed that she had livelier steps in her canter. He chuckled.

"But what about you?" Jaune looked to the woman. "Does this beautiful creature have a name?"

The woman chuckled. "Indeed." She removed her hood with a smile, and down her head flowed a beautiful river of hair that reminded him of a fire-pit, with piercing eyes like those of gemstone. "I am the disciple of my goddess, the Lady of Black, and my name is Cinder Fall."

[deberiaestarescribiendo]

Honor him. Younger Mercenary Oberyn Martell x f!reader fanfic. #Writer Wednesday 05/26/2021

Summary: You receive the worst news, Oberyn Martell died, your first lover and the first adventure you lived.

Once when you were younger you ran away from your house escaping an unhappy engagement and the promise of a dull life. But your family hired an elite force of mercenaries to find you not knowing that their leader is a Prince of Dorne.

Word count: 6,5k (ups sorry)

Warning: Blood, violence, Oberyn’s death is mentioned as canon in the book and show, Ophidiophobia(fear of snakes), unhappy arranged marriage, alcohol. +18 SMUT (it means no minors, pls) virgen f!reader, oral sex (f¡ receiving descriptive, male receiving mentioned) p in v sex (unprotected cos there’s no durex in Essos BUT USE PROTECTION IN REAL LIFE PEOPLE) grieving.

A/N: I'M SORRY I'M LATE this is for #Writer Wednesday, the challenge created by @autumnleaves1991-blog

I read the books a long time ago, yep, I’m one of those people that said “I’ll finish them when George publish them all” so I got ASOIAF wiki and run with it, so buckle up for some bad geography from Essos and inaccurate cultural stuff. I think this is the longest thing I’ve written and the smuttiest, so sorry if it’s cringy.

Honor him

“Apparently he won the combat but the wounds were too severe and he died”

You raise your eyes from the book. One of the young servants whispers to another collecting the dead leaves on the ground.

“What is it?”

They rise from the ground nervously expecting that you will scold them for gossiping

“We heard the news from the world. A bard was chanting them on the market, my lady” she approaches the fountain; you’re seated on the ceramic tile, feet inside the water, refreshing from the blazing sun in this part of Essos.

“And what did he say?”

“He said there was a trial in Kingslanding. For the death of king Joffrey, and it was his cousin...”

“His uncle, the imp” clarifies the other and the other girl rolls her eyes

“Yes, his uncle was on trial for his murder. And Prince Oberyn from Dorne was his champion”

“The imp asked for a trial by combat, you see, my lady” adds the other

“He battled the Mountain; he crushed the prince’s skull apparently”

“But! but! His blade had poison on it so the Mountain died too” says the other girl excitedly

“Oberyn died?” you mutter, your hands are limp and you don’t realize that you have drop your book until you hear the “blop” sound in the water and it splashed your tunic

Your mind travels to years past in an instant: A journey through the vast empty lands of this continent and how you loved for the first time.

The pages of your book are getting more and more transparent while the black trickles of ink disappear in the water. You wish to scream, to rip your clothes and your hair out of your scalp but you do nothing.

“Are you alright, my lady?” the girls look at each other when you don’t move or try to retrieve your book from the water.

You always thought the greatest pain he gave you was leaving you at your father’s door many years ago, but now he’s gone forever. You always thought, while looking from your window at night, that you will see him one day, coming back on his dark horse ready to steal you away again, but now that he’s dead that small hope, that tiny flame that you kept in your heart is gone.

Your childish hopes and dreams of reviving your first love are shattered. It’s true that your life has changed, you’re a grown woman now, wiser and experience but you still fantasize over him, seeing his face and his hands on your lovers.

“We should call physician” you heard them whisper, but so far away

“Where is he anyway?”

“At his clinic, you silly girl, run”

“You do not need to call him” you mutter “I’m fine. Excuse me”

Not caring for splashing water all over the house, you run to your chambers and collapse into your bed. Buried in the soft pillows, you cried, muffling your howls with them so nobody could hear. Late in the night the moon and stars shine bright casting bluish shadows in your room.

Your body is tired but restless and in the night shade a timid ray of white light illuminates that small scar in your forearm in the shape of a half-moon. And you kiss it, at least you will always have something of his carved in your skin.

Many years ago. Essos.

“You’re cheating, boy” the big man slams the table, the wooden pieces and the coins that all the players have laid at the center fall down. He points at you spitting from a mouth full of crooked black teeth “Show me your arms, boy, I know you’re lying”

“I’m just lucky, sir” you raise your blouse’s sleeves and your arms up innocently and somehow it makes him angrier

He insults you in whatever language he speaks and slams the table up, the players run and the loud tavern suddenly gets quite, waiting for the next movement. You’re an ant in front of that enormous giant, when he stands tall and walks menacingly towards you, you freeze, he doesn’t listen to you when you apologize, it doesn’t matter anyway, you just did to gain time and look for an exit but the room is too crowded.

“Here, boy, I’ve also many tricks under my sleeve” he has a dirty bag hanging from his belt and takes it and throws it at you. It lands at your feet and for a second you smirk not knowing what a bag could do to you, but then it moves and in a blur you see a green and yellow thing twisting until you feel it pressing and slithering over your body. The snake, a beautiful, shiny creature with vibrant colors faces you hissing and shows its fangs. Everything happens to fast. Out of instinct you protect your face with your arms and the animal understands this as a threat and it bites. The pain rings like a bell all over your body every nerve in your body aflame.

In a second, cold blood wets your face and you gasp when you see the snake’s head slide to the side separated from its body with a clean cut.

“I’m sorry for the demise of your little friend” A tall lean man stands beside the giant. You can’t see his face, since he’s covered with black turban and his body is in full armor. One of his arms still holds a curved sword that has snake blood on it; the other has a dagger pointed to your enemy’s neck.

“That viper was worth more than you or your little friend and you will pay for it”

“I doubt it. You know my little friend here” and he points his sword to you “it’s worth a lot and if I don’t tend to her wound rapidly she will die and that’s a shame. So, decide now, do you want to be a setback or do you want to keep living your stinky life longer?”

By brute force, the giant decides his fate and tries to disarm the man who in a swift movement cuts his throat and his blood and destiny joints that of his pet.

“You’ve been quite difficult to find, child” he opens the fabric covering his face. His eyes are dark, dark beard covers his defined jaw line and an amused smirk graces his handsome face. “Let me see that arm” he lowers his weapons, shamelessly cleaning his dagger on the back of the dead tall man and walks to you until your back is pressed against one of the tavern columns. Sheathing his sword, his hand takes yours and raises your arm, evaluating the wound and he hums deeply “Oh, sweet child”

“Am I going to die?” you cry

“Probably”

“If it’s my father who commands you to find me, I beg you to let me die; I do not wish to go back. Death is better than that dreadful place” you shake your head determined but terrified at the same time. He looks at you with his brow troubled

“Death is never better than anything” and he drags your arm to his face. His dark gaze fix on you while he sucks on the wound so hard that for a moment you think he’s drinking your life away. But then he lets you go and spits to the ground “Let’s hope that’s enough. You will come with me so I can give you the antidote”

“I told you, I have no desire to return to my home”

“It’s a pity, then, that I don’t care about that” he grins.

He gave you so many small jars to drink. Some tasted sweet some bitter and some other made you want to vomit and not drink or eat ever again. But you’re alive. A few hours passed, and then a day, then two, and you’re irrevocably getting back home.

You’ve learnt that your father, in an attempt to find you, has commissioned this elite group of mercenaries to retrieve you; and he’s the leader. It’s a small company but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous. All of them seemed to have many different skills, weapons hidden at every corner of their body, they speak languages you don’t know and you ride your horse tied to it watching each one of them with a suspicious look. After two days riding with them you have decided that there’s no way you could escape now. There’s always one of them standing guard and just a small glare your way gets every thought of escaping out of your head. So, even if it’s dramatic, you decided that your best option is to die. A few days in the desert without water and food and your father will receive a corpse.

“Drink, little girl, you’re withering like a flower” the leader, the man that saved you, says handing you the waterskin

“No, thank you” you turn your head, seated under the shadow of a very thin and dry bush. The orange and violet light announces the immanent sunset where you have stopped for the day.

“You’ve been refusing water all day. You have to drink” he says and pushes the waterskin to your face once more.

“No, thank you” you repeat and he sighs. Thinking you’ve won as he throws the waterskin by his side, you smile subtly until he’s close, crouched down, knees over the sand, looking at you.

“Maybe being a spoiled little flower works for your father, but not to me. Drink or I will make you” He takes your chin and raises it to meet his eyes

“I’m not thirsty” you say, your lips are already dry and they hurt, your tongue is thick inside your mouth and your body screams for just one drop.

“Don’t challenge me, child” he lowers his voice and you gulp

“I’m not a child” you protest, he keeps calling you that and honestly you don’t think he’s much older that you

“Then why do you behave like one? Drink, for the last time” His mouth is a fine line now and his grip on your chin is a little bit firmer

When you don’t answer he opens the waterskin and tucking on your lower lip he pours a small trickle of water in your mouth. The liquid taste sweet, your body works on it own and you open your mouth to drink more with desperation.

“So you weren’t thirsty...stubborn girl” he smirks and you want to slap his smug and beautiful face

He stops pouring water and laughs when you rise up drinking the last drops before he puts the cap on it.

“Look at you, not a withering flower anymore” the mercenary brushes his knuckles over you cheek and you feel them burn “What else do you want?” his thumb caress your chin gathering the small drops of water on your skin and spreads it over your lower lip.

You feel your bones burning, a tension in your lower belly that you haven’t feel many times and that makes you ask for something you don’t even know, so you just answer a timid yes and let him guide you to the fire and the rest of the company.

One of the mercenary is skinning some rabbits, methodically pulling the skin off with blood hands and a deathly gaze fix on you “So she decided to join us” she says

“Oberyn can be really persuasive” another, a big bald man with a beard tinted in blue, adds

So his name is Oberyn, where have you heard that name before?

“Remember that her father is paying for the whole of her, untouched he said” a lean blonde woman, with her face full of black and blue tattoos, is lounged over the bags sharpening her knives

“Well, I hope he doesn’t see her arm, that viper left her with a beautiful scar” Oberyn sits down and helps the mercenary skinning the animals and impales them and puts them to roast on the fire

“I’m not talking about that kind of viper...” she says and the company laughs

“I’m right here” they stop laughing looking at you as if you have done something they deem impossible

“So she speaks” the bearded man says

“She does but it may take some convincing” Oberyn smiles at you over the flames that illuminate his striking and sharp features “If you wish to eat, sweet flower, why don’t tell us how did you escape? We love a good story while we camp”

“Your father was convinced some ragged boy had stole you from your palace” adds the blonde woman

You smile, feeling some kind of pride for your plan, that, looking at it from perspective, did not grant you what you wanted but at least you had a good run. You tell them about how you disguised as a ragged boy lurking a few nights prior your escape so that the servants suspected about somebody being guilty of your disappearing. And how you ran away the night of your betrothal and made it look as if somebody had kidnapped you.

“I ran out of money in Lys so I had to beg, or steal, or gamble for a few coins. And then you found me” you finish your tale, sucking on your fingers, the meat is the best you ever tasted but yet again it must be the hunger from this days refusing to eat or drink.

“I’m almost tempted to let you go, young one, you seem a very resourceful girl” the beard man that you now know as Uhlan smiles at you proudly

“Think about the money” the blonde woman, Rikan, chew on a bone and toss it to the fire

“I’m always thinking about it, why do you think I’m a sellsword?” he jests

“Because you were a street rat with a broad back as broad as your stupidity and it’s the only thing you can do” Rikan spits and Uhlan laughs, a deep and low chuckle that resonates as a thunder.

“She’s a little princess, she couldn’t have survived much longer” the other woman, Shifa adds, the rest of the company has changed the way they look at you, but her. She still squints at you

“There’re princes that have survived worse” Uhlan counters and suddenly there’s a heavy and uncomfortable silence over them. You look at all of them trying to understand and you see Oberyn looking at his feet until he claps his hands together “Let’s get some sleep, we have a long way ahead”

It’s surprising what food, water and company can achieve. You’re smiling more, you almost forget that you will be delivered to your father and future husband within days, Uhlan tells you about his many adventures, how he almost die in Yiti, how he rode once with a Khalassar and that he had seen the great shadow in the East. Rikan has gifted you a knife “a girl needs to defend herself” she said and proceed to show you how to kill a man in many different ways “If you want to kill your husband though, you must ask Oberyn, he’s the one that knows about poisons and how to kill somebody without raising suspicions”

“How does he know that?” you ask, leaning to the right so you get close to her horse, Oberyn rides beside Shifa before you; both of them speaking in a language you don’t understand

“He has studied many things; he’s been all over the world. He was almost a Maester once, but preferred to travel, fight and fuck the world before he gets back to his duties”

“Duties?”

“He’s a prince” she whispers a mischievous smile on her lips “he doesn’t want to talk about it, because it makes people treat him differently or underestimate him. So don’t tell him it was me, blame the big rat”

“Did somebody call me?” Uhlan screams at the back

“You do have a sharp ear when you want, my friend”

You arrive to Myr at dusk. The city is still vibrating, the merchants offering everything you could imagine and the streets smell like thousands spices. And you absorb it all with wide eyes and open mouth.

“It’s a beautiful world, my sweet flower, and you wanted to end your life” Oberyn raises his voice over the people chatting and selling stuff

“If only it could always be like this” you answer, your smile dies in your mouth remembering this is a passing thing. The adventure will be over soon.

“Life gives us many opportunities to dwell in its pleasures; you have only to acquire a keen eye to recognize the perfect moment to seize it”

“Are you implying that I will have another chance to escape?” you scoff

“Maybe...if that is what you want or maybe to enjoy your life as a married woman, who knows”

You sigh deeply trying to ignore the thoughts about your future husband, that drunken bastard, boring and dull that your father chose.

“Or you could run away and avoid your responsibilities; you can create your own destiny, my sweet flower”

“And that’s what you are doing? Avoiding your duties?” you stop in your tracks and he watches you for a moment, chewing on his lower lip

“Maybe” he answers finally

“I’m tired of being treated as if I was overreacting being a spoiled child while you are here doing exactly what I did, ran away, from the duties of a noble life. I’m not overreacting; all I want is to decide if I want to live my life bearing children for my fool husband and maybe die giving birth or out of boredom and disappointment or try my luck in the wild world. Isn’t that what you are doing? Travel, fight and fuck the world? What’s the difference between me and you?” The people surround you, the company has already enter the tavern in front of you knowing they shouldn’t meddle

“Travel, fight and fuck the world seem a pretty good title for a book. Maybe when I’m old I will write my adventures under that title” he laughs

“I’m glad I amuse you” you spat with your arms crossed

“I apologize if I made you feel that I was underestimating you. Do not confuse my laughter with mockery, I know how you feel and I understand.” He comes close to you, each hand on your arms, pressing them lightly “Believe me, I wouldn’t have accepted this job if your father didn’t pay so well. I have to get back home and I want to leave my company with enough resources so they can continue on their own” he explains, he bends his neck so you are so close you can smell his scent, leather, horse and the dessert. “But that doesn’t mean we cannot enjoy ourselves while it lasts” Oberyn smiles and passes his arm over your shoulders “Have you tasted the wine from Myr?” you shake your head “It’s the sweetest”

The wine is starting to play with your mind, your smile falls languidly over the corner of your lips and you don’t know why you’re laughing but whatever song Uhlan is singing is the funniest thing you’ve heard. Rikan laughs by your side, her laugh is actually sweet and high making her look less menacing. Shifa is the only one that doesn’t look amused at all and he drinks from her goblet eyeing the tavern, especially you, with hatred.

“C’mon, Shifa, we know you can smile” Uhlan grabs her in a bear hug but she squeezes herself out of it

“Let me alone, you brute”

“You haven’t talked much since we retrieve the little girl over here, tell us what’s going on in that little twisted mind of yours?” the man jokes and the other mercenary glares at him

“I’m going to my chamber” She drinks the rest of her drink and strides to the rooms, pushing the drunken people in her way

“Leave her, Uhlan! She’s just jealous that her prince is not directing his attentions only to her lately” Rikan says winking at you

Oberyn has been absent having a conversation in another table until he comes back with a serious expression

“I’m partially offended that you think our company it’s not worth your time” Uhlan says sliding to give him enough space to seat by his side

“Huh, so I guess Shifa is not the only one jealous” Rikan drinks looking at him over her goblet

“Shut up!”

“Where is she?” Oberyn asks

“She went to her chamber” Uhlan serves him wine “So what was about those ugly bastards that got your attention; I thought you had a very refined taste”

“Those are Westerosi men; I wanted to get news of the world. Some of us still appreciate the pursuit of knowledge, my friend” Oberyn taps on his big shoulder

“I appreciate the pursuit of a good fuck better, my friend. Let’s see if those Westerosi want to share some news with me, Rikan are you coming? I’m always lucky with you around”

“I don’t like Westerosi” she snarls

“I don’t care, I just need you to be there so they take a good look at your ugly face and they get convinced that fucking with me is the good option of the two of us” he jokes with one of those thunder like chuckles

Rikan laughs and she follows him, waddling towards the men’s table.

“I should go to my room” you say, rising too fast and the whole room twists and turns

“You liked the wine, I see” he observes you grab the wooden table for your dear life until you find your balance

“Too sweet, I haven’t noticed it until it was too late”

“Let me guide you then”

Oberyn grabs you by your waist and helps you climb the stairs to the second floor. People gather around the aisle, laughter and moans fill the air and the heat of Oberyn skin over yours and the boldness giving by the alcohol make you pressed your body against his a little tighter than its necessary.

“This is you” he says opening the door for you

“Is it true what you said about creating our own destiny?” you collapse on his firm chest, your hands brushing over his neck

“Yes, sweet flower”

“Sweet flower” you mimic his accent “Say it one more time” your glossy lips, sticky with wine, leave a kiss on the tan uncover skin of his chest. His laugh makes you raise your head

“You need to sleep, child”

“No, no!” you slap his hand away when he tries to push you inside the room “Don’t call me that, I’m not a child. I’m a woman” you try to fix your posture to seem taller but you body stumbles to one side almost falling down

“What you are is a very inebriated girl. Good night, my sweet flower” he says closing the door

“Are you going to Shifa’s room?” the words escape your lips before you can think and he lingers on the door with an eyebrow raised

“Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t want you to go to her” again the words are out before you process them

“And what do you want me to do?” Oberyn closes the door behind him. And you breathe deeply a mixture of excitement and fear.

“Stay with me” you mutter

“Believe me I would, but you don’t know what you are asking. It is the wine speaking”

“No it’s not” you pout again falling into his arms, hearing how you sound like a spoiled little girl, you cough “It’s not” you repeat

“Right, let me take you to bed then”

You gasp looking at him with wide eyes. Oberyn hugs your body and walks towards the simple bed at the corner until you both fall down on the soft mattress

“Oberyn” you whisper “I have to tell you something before we...”

“Tell me, sweet flower” He lays beside you, posing his head over his fist

“I’m...I’ve never...” you stutter

“No need to worry” with his free hand he starts to brush his index finger from your brow to the tip of your nose so slowly and softly that you feel your eyes closing down

“Are you trying to make me sleep as if I was a puppy?” you slur

“Shh” he continues until the room goes dark and you cannot open your eyes for much that you try

“Sweet dreams, sweet flower” you hear before you blank out.

The sun pierces your eyes as if its rays were daggers. The company laughs at your expense, but yet again, Shifa hisses and insults you in some language but it’s evident that she said something nasty because Oberyn glares at her.

“No more Myr wine for you, little girl” Uhlan laughs helping you get on your horse

“Never” you murmur

The pain in the back of your head and the unstoppable thirst you have makes you moody, and it doesn’t help that you know you’re one day away from your home. But everything is worse with the hard sting of jealousy. It’s not that Oberyn does much, but he rides along side her, speaking in that stupid language you don’t understand, and she makes him laugh, he watches with attention whatever she points at during the way. He looks at her, talks to her. All you want is to rush your stupid horse and take her place.

It gets worse when Shifa sees you observing them; knowing damn well what you feel, she becomes softer, leaving touches on his skin, whispers things on his ear. And you can see the intimacy, the camaraderie that they share and that you will never have. And she’s a woman not a little girl, fierce, independent, and strong; and you cannot stop comparing yourself to her.

You arrive to a small town in between the domains of the two free cities, just hours away from the gates of Pentos.

“We will spent the night here, we need to be presentable for tomorrow”

The town has a small and humble bath house. The simple exterior made of red brick doesn’t show the beauty it has in its interior. The garden inside is made of brick and ceramic creating beautiful arches that frame the pool in the middle; green vines crept over the walls and the tender murmur of water is the only sound you can hear.

“We have rooms to accommodate you for the night once you’re done with your baths” the lady, owner of the house, announces and snaps her fingers towards the servants so they get everything ready.

“Thank you” Oberyn says bowing his head “Wash away the dust of our journey, my friends. Specially you, Uhlan” he jokes, slapping the big man’s belly

“You’re as stinky as me, my prince, but the Gods didn’t give me a beautiful face”

The company strips shamelessly, you think that they’re so comfortable around each other that they don’t think twice before submerge their naked bodies in the fresh water.

You stay by the side, taking off your shoes and rolling your sleeves so you can wash your feet and face. You avert your eyes when you see that Oberyn’s armor is on the floor. Your eyes fixed on the water and the blue tiles at the bottom, but you cannot stop from raising your eyes just a little.

His magnificent, strong, and tight body, his beautiful golden skin is marked in scars in some parts, you see the muscles on his legs tensing and relaxing as he gets in the pool. Your eyes travel through the room to avoid seeing him in his full grace.

“C’mon child, you don’t want to be stinky when you meet your father” Rikan splash water at you

“I-I”

“Let her be, she’s scare of my big cock” Uhlan laughs

“That thing that you can barely get up? C’mon, child, it is harmless” The blonde mercenary swims towards you and grabs your hand to pull you in

“Rikan, leave her, let’s finish and we will leave her some privacy” Oberyn says under the small waterfall brushing his skin with a small piece of soap

“Your husband’s eyes will be the only ones that will see you naked” Shifa says and she swims towards Oberyn. Her body is toned and muscular. She joints him under the water stream and when she tries to touch him, he moves away.

You don’t want to smile, but you do, until you remember that he refused you the other night and tonight is the last night you’ll spend with them. Shifa will have him for whatever time she wants.

Eventually they leave the pool, putting on some fresh clothes and rubbing some scent oils on their skins and they look different, less mercenary and more like elite warriors with a thousand adventures to tell. You will miss them; they are the only friends you have ever had.

“Thank you” you say stopping their banter over who’s going to take which room, they look at you confused “Thank you for rescuing me” you say with a trembling voice

“It’s nothing, child” Uhlan says and you see his big eyes shine

“We will give you some privacy” Rikan nods

When they are away you take off those stinky clothes you’ve been wearing since you escape. You moan feeling the water soften your muscle and you enjoy the strong cascade of water hitting your back until your bones feel like liquid inside your skin.

“I never expected you to thank us for getting you to your father” his voice gets you out of the trance, and you don’t open your eyes when you hear the soft sound of clothes hitting the ground and the splash of water when he gets inside the pool again.

“I didn’t thank you for that, but for rescuing me” you answer still your eyes closed under the waterfall “And saving my life” you pass your hand over the now healed wound, a moon shape scar where he suck the venom out of you.

Oberyn fingers grab your wrist, raising your arm towards his lips and planting kisses alongside your veins until he arrives to the thicker skin of the scar, sucking again on it.

“Do you still believe that it was better to let you die from the snake’s bite than to be back home?” he whispers against your skin, his beard tickling you over your pulse

“I still can run away” you open one eye. Oberyn looks amused at you

“Will you?” he asks saving the distance between you

“I don’t know. Will you come get me if I do?” You approach him, intertwining your hands on his neck

“The world is big and beautiful; it will be a shame that a sweet flower like you rots in a place like this all her life” he turns his head and leaves a kiss on each of your arms

“So that’s a no” you laugh but the pain in your heart is real

“I have to leave Essos soon, I guess the time for adventures is up” he exhales deeply

“Just the last one then” you’re surprised of your boldness when you rise on your tiptoes to kiss his lips

It is soft at first. Just tasting him, tempting him to show you more, and he does. Oberyn opens his mouth and sucks on your lower lip and when your mouth is open he savors you with his tongue. He holds your face on his large palms guiding you softly until the kiss deepens and your hands leave his neck roaming through his back and he reciprocates. His hand caresses every inch from your neck to your arms. You moan in protest when he breaks the kiss but then his kisses move to your neck nibbling your skin. He pampers every part of you with his attention, soft kisses and bites over the top of you breast.You cry out laughing when he grabs you and rise by the waist so he can access your tits. You circle his waist with your legs and you hold yourself on his shoulders.

Any good sense in you, any coherent thought gets lost one his mouth sucks on your nipples and you kiss his head trying to control your panting. The sounds that come out of you seem so far away, his low grunts and moans over your breast melt you and you feel the heat gathering between your legs.

“My sweet flower, you have the sweetest tits” he moans and he lowers you so he can kiss you one more time. You run your fingers over his dark hair, his impossibly close to you but you need more. You need him like those drops of water he poured in you the first time. The hunger, the jealousy and desire you felt these past days have reached its peak and you think your heart will collapse. You repeat his name on his lips like a plea.

Oberyn carries you to the side of the pool, and you feel your cheeks burning, your body in goose flesh feeling exposed and at his mercy now that the water is not covering you. He takes his time admiring you, his brow eyes eating every pore of your skin. Kissing your legs he parts them grabbing you by the hips he positions you just at the edge of the pool. He palms your breasts one more time, gracing each nipple with a small pinch that makes you moan loudly. You get flustered, gaining a bit of your conscience back

“No need to be shy, my love, let go. I wish to hear every sweet moan, drink every drop of this sweet cunt” he plants a kiss on your navel, before lowering his face. His first lick between your lips makes you marvel of the unknown sensation. His eyes are fixed on you while he licks faster and sucks between your small lips, when you tense, every single fiber of your body burning, he changes his rhythm, lapping languidly all your sex and back again, fast and slow, and never too much. Until you’re gasping for air and pushing him away

“Please, it’s too much”

“Let me show you, trust me” his wet mouth bites you inner thigh before he starts again. This time you reach the point of no return faster. A wide abyss before you where you skin burns and you heart beat faster until you fall, crying his name. And he holds you, planting kisses all over you body, every part he can reach. The gasps lead to laughter

“What happe...how?” you ask

“I have many things to show you my sweet flower” he smiles

Oberyn lets you in his room. The warm night breeze moves the white curtains and the moonshine casts its rays so you can see him get on top of you with the warmest of smiles.

“Do you still want this, my flower?” he asks

You grab him by the neck and let your lips answer for you. Lowering your touch you push his back so he presses his body against you even tighter.

“Please, please” you beg on his ear

He reaches between your bodies and brushes the tip of his cock on your lips coating it in your arousal, before pushing gently. You gasp at the intrusion; it’s not pain what you feel but definitively a bit uncomfortable at first

“Let me in, my sweet, relax for me” Oberyn bends his neck to kiss and bite your tits. The pleasure turns your body into a withering mess until you’re full of him.

He moves lazily at first letting you grow used to his length and width while he observes your face

“Is it alright my love?”

“I need more” you murmur

“More?” He rises, pressing the weight of his body on his knees and opens you wider grabbing the soft skin on your hips “Like this?” he thrusts deep and fast with each word and you nod biting your lip. His pace is unforgiving, and you cannot think, all you can feel is him, and his sweet words and praises combined with the slaps of wet skin and the creaks of this old bed. Your fingers scratch softly on his chest trying to hold into something when you feel that abyss again, but this time you let it go and it hits you harder. Oberyn collapses over you letting your cunt squeeze him even tighter, slowly dragging himself in and out until he sense his release coming and he pushes harder once, twice until he spills his warm seed.

You kiss his brow, wet from exhaustion and the pool, in a way the cage he’s forming with his body pressed against the mattress is the freest you have ever felt.

The dawn wakes you up, many years later, a harrowing pain in your chest remembering how he kissed you a thousand times, how you slept caged in his arms for a few hours and then woke up with his face between your thighs

“Does it hurt?” he asked and you flinched, feeling the swollen and sensitive skin “I will kiss it better” he said. And you made love again, he moved you in the bed showing how to touch your body and how to touch him, how to pleasure him with your mouth as he did to you. Until the sun invaded the room and crashed your safe space between the shadows. You could no longer hide from your destiny, it was time to go.

He left you, a small and decent kiss on your hand and bid you farewell wishing you a happy life.

You remember running, not paying attention to your father’s complaints and your mother’s cries while you soon-to-be husband drank wine unbothered by the whole thing. You ran to the balcony watching his dark horse taking him out of the city.

He never looked back, and with his parting figure you promised you will live your life happy even if you have to run for it. That you will live adventures on your own until life gives you the last drop of its joy and pleasure. In a way you promised to honor him without knowing one day it will come true.

So you woke up, older, wiser, in your own house, after many adventures lived, and after a sleepless night mourning him, you grab paper and ink and write:

“Travel, fight and fuck the world: the Adventures of an Unusual Lady”

[deiliamedlini]

WIP Wednesday

I have been mentally down and writing poorly for a few weeks now, and even my friend was like “oof, yeah don’t post this yet. It needs work” and thankfully has been stopping me from making rash decisions like randomly posting fics to AO3 on a whim.

The WIP below (even though it needs more editing) is the beginning of the new fic I’m going to post next. I’m finally back to the pirates too, which is making progress, but is just slow going because I’m making sure I’m not forgetting plots (which I already have so I am not rushing the chapter but it is in progress finally!).

It’s a Pre-Calamity AU with heavy emphasis on the AU. It’s basically Zelda being forced to train with Link for her safety. Antagonistic-but-not-enemies, to friends, to lovers trope. I want to call it Dance With Me because it’s not really about dancing (I like the other meanings of the phrase), but my friend says it sucks as a title and now I’m rethinking 😂 I’m doing so well! 

~~

When Princess Zelda was seventeen years old, she’d been fully prepared to die.

Ancient prophecies had foretold a Great Calamity that would sweep the land of Hyrule into a great blight and destroy it all unless those chosen by destiny could stop it.

Zelda had been one of those who’d been blessed by the Goddess’s alleged favor: Hylia’s spirit and magic coursed within her.

But the wielder of the Master Sword hadn’t been found in time.

Four champions stayed by the Divine Beasts: Urbosa, Revali, Daruk, and Mipha. And for a year, the five of them waited while King Rhoam of Hyrule went on a mad search for the Chosen Hero and for the location of the Master Sword itself.

Zelda had spent that time relentlessly pursuing the Goddess’ power; she passed out in the holy springs, prostrated herself before Goddess statues for hours at a time, devoted every waking second she had to prayer. But despite her greatest efforts, her attempts were fruitless.

But perhaps the Goddess were showing their favor after all, because despite every prophecy, despite every prediction, wall carving, and palm reading, the Calamity never came, and Zelda was spared a horrific death at the hands of darkness incarnate.

One year after the predicted date, the Champions felt like they could finally move away from the Beasts, ever watchful, but able to maintain some of their daily lives. Zelda stopped spending day and night in freezing water and instead moved to the Temple of Time where the weather was bearable, and the distance was well within reach of the Castle while still spending most of her time in holy grounds.

Two years after the predicted date, the Champions began to lead normal lives again, freely leaving their domains, though they were still ready to return at a moment’s notice. Zelda began to spend more time in the library, sifting through ancient tombs and personal diaries of past monarchs, hoping her answer lied in pages rather than prayer.

Three years after the predicted date, the Champions were harder to find on a day-to-day basis. But Zelda remained steadfast and relentless with her nose in books and her knees in the spring’s water. The Sheikah had to pull her out several times. They had to force her into recovery.

But by the fourth year, the Beasts had gathered dust, and Zelda had utterly given up, instead helping Purah and Robbie with their ancient tech and Guardian research, which—despite the lack of the Calamity—still had other practical applications.

It seemed that everything had been built up for no reason, that there was no Calamity after all.

So, it was only when they’d all gotten comfortable that the Yiga Clan, a cult devoted to the demon lord Ganon, began their relentless assault on Princess Zelda, heir to the Goddess’ devastating sealing powers.

The entirety of that year had been spent with Zelda running from attack after attack, losing her guards, losing Sheikah. She was sent back to the castle where Purah set up protective wards around her room that ran off ancient tech, and she continued working on them so they might be able to encompass the entire castle.

King Rhoam’s royal command had been that Zelda could not touch any Sheikah tech. She couldn’t look at Guardians, or ask about runes and wards. So, Zelda returned to her studies once more until her eyes burned from sitting over tombs in the candlelight.

She had to admit, she’d become proficient in her royal duties, following her father to almost everything she was permitted in. What she wasn’t, he’d fill her in on after.

At this point, a vast majority of Hyrule believed the peace was a sign that the Calamity was never going to arrive. The other school of thought, which Zelda subscribed to, was that the Calamity should be feared far more than ever, its unpredictability keeping the other half of the kingdom in a deeply rooted state of caution and suspense ever since.

Though Zelda had asked her father to let her leave the protection of the Castle more often for experiences outside of prayer, his answer was always the same: “I lost your mother to those cultists; I will not lose you as well.”

“I just want to swim in Lake Hylia,” she’d tried once. “The days have gotten unbearable. Please, father? I’ll take an entire company of guards with me.”

“I’m sorry, Zelda. No. You may go to a spring of your choice. The waters there will likely be a cool temperature. Perhaps try the Spring of Wisdom.”

Zelda was 21, though she felt as though one hundred years had passed. She was tired, bone weary with an exhaustion that had set in so deep, she spent a decent amount of her days simply sleeping. When she was awake, she stared at her hand, waiting for magic to miraculously hit her in the face. Perhaps if she stared long enough, the Goddess would take pity on her patheticness.

The days when she’d been sent out to pray were now her favorites. She’d found ways to coerce her guards into taking longer routes, stopping for longer breaks.

That’s what happened on the day her father had reached his breaking point regarding the attacks on her life.

She returned to the castle shaken and sore, but his tight arms held her as his body shook with relief. He sank to his knees and held her in his arms the way he’d done the day her mother died, and he realized he needed nothing more than to hold his child in his arms to remember that the world was still spinning as long as she was alive.

He’d told her that when he’d said goodnight to her, standing in the doorway of her room with poorly concealed heartache written all over his sagging body.

“I’m really fine,” Zelda said for the fourth time that hour. She sat on top of her long, blue satin sheets, sliding a bit as she tried to adjust her leg. Something about being curled into herself in some way helped make her feel comfortable as she smiled to ease her father’s mind.

“Okay. Well, I’m going to stop by in the morning, if that’s alright.”

“Sure,” she said, shrugging as if she were entirely unaffected by everything she’d been through. She was good at that façade after five years of stares and whispers.

“Okay. Goodnight. May the Goddess watch over you.”

That was how Zelda found herself in the library before the crack of dawn, perched on a ladder in the top shelves of the restricted section. She had access, of course, but she was reading an untranslated a Sheikah tomb from a former handmaiden of the Princess of Hyrule before her ascent to the throne. That Princess had practically bled power, and Zelda hoped her handmaid noted something of interest.

She tucked the book under her arm and climbed down, crossing the library that was filled with several lifetimes worth of books, and stopped in the government documents. Her eyes trailed the spines for a familiar one with territories clearly outlined. She went to the language section to grab a reference book for Ancient Sheikah. Though she was mostly fluent in that, among several other languages, the ancient variations on words occasionally tripped her up. So she set back up to her room with her pile of books, ready to be confined by her father for her safety once again.

Zelda nodded to several of the guards she passed as they stood at their post. Despite the castle being one of the safest places in Hyrule thanks to all the tech, guards were still positioned in the most well-traveled places on their patrols, while two guards stood at her door and her father’s.

Biting her lip, Zelda craned her neck around her pile to try to find the doorknob, fumbling her hand around blindly, just barely able to turn the handle. And because the Goddess never wanted to cooperate with her, she dropped two of the books, though she managed to cling to the relic with tight fingers. The other two fell right onto her guard’s foot.

“I’m so sorry!” Zelda muttered, bending to pick them up.

The guard was beside her, nearly banging heads with her as he grabbed the heavy translation tomb. Thankfully for her, he flinched away in time; he was wearing a helmet that covered most of his head, and she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of that metal. “Don’t apologize,” the guard said softly, picking up the other book for her. “Would you like me to…” He gestured vaguely to her room.

“Oh, no thank you. Just stack them on top of this one.” He did, and she took a step inside before backing up. “Actually, would you mind getting the antechamber door for me, please?”

He stepped inside and pushed the second door open before backing up respectfully.

“Thank you so much,” she said, about to use her foot to close the door when she looked back. “And again, I am sorry I dropped a heavy book on your foot.”

He bowed his head and stepped back out, so she closed the door and set her books down.

Her father came into her room early, as promised.

“Zelda,” he said with a strained greeting. The corner of his lip twitched, like his muscles had become tired under the strain of holding it up for so long, and his eyes held no joy, no spark. It was forced chipperness, and Zelda picked up on it immediately.  “May I sit?”

“Of course.”

She sat on a chest at the foot of her bed, and he pulled the chair away from the desk to face her. “Well, let’s not beat around the bush. There have been many attempts on your life, but I have felt none so potently as yesterday’s. When they told me you’d been attacked, all I could remember was the news of your mother. And then when you were brought in…” he ran a hand along a bruise on her cheek that she didn’t realize she had until she felt a flare of pain cause her to flinch. “You are my precious daughter, and I love you. I never want to see you harmed. That said, others do. It’s becoming impossible for you to safely leave the castle.”

Zelda braced herself. This was where he confined her to her room or to the palace grounds for the foreseeable future. She folded her hands over her lap so he couldn’t see the shaking grow more visible.

“You’ve been unable to protect yourself with your powers, so we must resort to other means. You’re to learn to defend yourself, starting immediately. We still need you at the springs, so I cannot command you to stay here. You still are a priestess of Hylia. So, given your setbacks, you’ll need to learn.”

Zelda’s mouth dropped open as she let the words process through her mind. “I’m sorry, what?”

“We’ll hopefully have a sword in your hand soon enough, but you’ll be able to defend yourself from these cultists.”

“A sword?”

“It’s too dangerous. We’ve lost too many guards. And you can’t fight as it is. This is the best option.”

“No!” she said, much louder than intended. “Fight the Yiga?” She shuddered just at the word.

“Zelda, we need you to live. Hyrule needs you to succeed, and to succeed, you must survive.”

Standing up didn’t make it any easier to breathe, as Zelda had hoped. “You think I haven’t tried?” Tears threatened her eyes as her voice cracked on her last word. As if years of her life sacrificed to unreturned devotion wasn’t enough for her. For him. For all of Hyrule. She’d tried, she’d bargained, she’d offered up her comfort, her breath, her mind, her years, her time. She was one person. What was left for her to do?

“Do you think I just stand there and watch my knights get murdered? Do I just drop to my knees and pray? Is that what you think I do?”

“Zelda…”

“No! You’re right, father. I’ll lead the Yiga right to the Goddess Spring that you need me to go to again just so I can brandish a sword and strike one down with my prowess! Because, Goddess knows that my Knights have an easy enough time with the Yiga, so it should be a cinch for me!” The sarcasm oozed from her in an unintentional venom drip.

“You’re telling me that I’ve failed! You’re telling me to give up and grab a stupid sword! Give me some armor next time I go to the Temple of Time! I don’t need my priestess garb. I have my sword! Because it will absolutely save me!”

“Zelda, please.”

“Please,” she scoffed, finally feeling a hot tear on her cheek. “You’re telling me I’m going to die! Five years ago, I was ready. I knew I’d failed, but I stood vigil waiting for the Calamity to give my life in the final hope that it might stop Ganon! But now, I was blessed with time, and still I can’t do it! I can’t access her powers. So you want me to fail one more time by using a sword to defend myself? This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, and I was there when Lady Styla proposed that sham of a fashion show to lift spirits.”

“That’s irrelevant, Zelda.”

From the look on his face, she could tell he was not budging. She tried another tactic. “I-I shouldn’t be near a sword anyway! What if I stabbed myself by accident? Then there’s no way I’ll ever unlock mother’s power. I’ll be dead with or without the Yiga! I already dropped a book on my guard today! That could have been my foot with a knife! And before you tell me that there have been warrior queens and princesses throughout the history of Hyrule, that’s because they never met me. I’m not a fighter! I read books all day! I take notes. I can bore the Calamity to death with a detailed review of the territory lines in Northern Akkala! That might be more effective than a sword, at least.”

“Zelda, you’re not thinking of the big picture…”

“But if I don’t unlock the power because of some silly distraction like learning how to fight, then the world will fall to the Calamity. My time will now need to be spent in that wretched training area with all kinds of sweaty men. Do you want your precious daughter exposed to such a sight? Worse yet, what if I like it and decide to spend all my days there with… shirtless men!” She grimaced and blushed all at once.  

“This is the most absurd argument I’ve ever heard. You leave me no choice but to make that a command from your king rather than a request from your father. Because as much as I love you, I also am obligated to keep you safe.”

“Obligated?” her voice cracked again, losing some of her rambling thunder. “I’m an obligation? Is that how you see your daughter?”

She gasped when he let the silence answer for him.

“You start your training now. Your instructor has already been informed and will be ready for you.”

“Who?” she asked, glancing at the four guards at her door. Two hers, two her father’s. They were all hearing her shame. How long until everyone knew?

“He’s the most renowned swordsman in all of Hyrule, one of our best fighters, and he’s about your age, so he should be someone you can get along with.”

“The best fighter in all of Hyrule is only 22? No wonder the Yiga are everywhere, if those are our standards.”

“Be kind, Zelda.”

“Is that another order, My King?”

He sighed and crossed the room, stopping at her door. “One more thing. While you’re there, I’ve given him permission to overrule you if you command him not to train you. You will learn to stay safe, whether you want to or not. Now change and go. He’s expecting you now.” He turned his head to her guards. “Make sure she goes to the training yard, and if she refuses, come fetch me.”

As soon as he was gone, she slammed her door and sagged into the wood.

She did consider hiding out, but she knew her father would simply bring the soldier into her room to train if he had to. At this point, with the number of times the Yiga had come after her, she wouldn’t have really blamed her father if he’d locked her in a door-less room and dropped this instructor in through a hole in the ceiling until she learned to protect herself.  Truthfully, the idea itself—in theory—wasn’t the worst. Except for the fact that the Yiga were deadly warriors who trained to kill for most of their lives and slaughtered companies of trained Hylian knights.

Grabbing her most comfortable pants to train in, Zelda slowed as she remembered the event that had started this all.

The Great Tabanthan Bridge crossed the long expanse of the Tanagar Canyon, and she was always careful of the crossing. The fall alone would not only kill someone, but it’d likely flatten them clean out from a drop of that height. So, crossing it was not something that was taken lightly on a good day.

Being that far out there was entirely her fault to begin with.

She’d desired to visit the Temple to Hylia that was at the edge of the gorge, but she’d opted to lead everyone along the scenic route to enjoy some of her free time outside of the castle. The guards had protested briefly, but Zelda was adamant about a scenic detour.

What she hadn’t been able to predict or expect, no matter how much research she did, was that the Yiga were there, lying in wait for her and her guards.

She’d been bucked clean off her stubborn horse, and she’d been left on the great bridge as three Yiga ran for her. Though she’d gone to run, she was caught by one who appeared in front of her in a puff of smoke.

Trying to fight them off of her had been like the great struggle of praying for the Goddess’ powers: utterly futile, and a waste of time.  

Half of her attempts to shake them had been by holding the rope handle of the bridge and throwing herself precariously close so they’d have to follow.

The soldiers eventually reached her and fended the Yiga off, but they’d also recounted the entire incident to her father in horrific detail: how she was winded by the time she’d run halfway across the bridge, how she nearly fell off the great, how she couldn’t fight any of them off and had been overwhelmed, and how her weak strength had caused two large wounds in her palms from where she’d tried to push a blade away from her at one point.

Glancing down at her now-healed hands—thanks to the castle medics—Zelda pulled on her boots and tugged up the laces tight. She wasn’t weak. She just wasn’t… physically domineering. But put any puzzle, any riddle, any impossibility in front of her and she’d find the solution. That’s not weakness. That’s strength. She is strong… just not traditionally.

Her shirt was loose, and she tied up her hair before looking at herself in the mirror for a long time, finally noticing the bruise she’d sustained. She was going to hate this almost as much, if not more, than she hated horseback riding.

Resigned to her fate, Zelda trudged slowly toward the training yard, hoping to be late enough to at least remind everyone that she didn’t want to be there.

Glancing at the sun, she’d determined that she managed to be at least fifteen minutes late. Not bad. She could do worse next time.

The yard was empty of the usual hustle and bustle that went on, and she imagined that her father must have ordered it be kept clear for her private sessions. But it was also clear of an instructor.

She stood in the middle of the training yard and fisted her hands tightly as she looked around. No one. Her eyes narrowed at the empty space, searching for some sign of trickery. But the only others there were the two guards she had brought with her.

“Is this some sort of a joke?” Zelda asked, placing her hands on her hips. “Hello?”

There was no answer.

Shrugging happily to herself, she was ready to leave, but one look at her guards standing near the entrance reminded her of her father’s orders to fetch him if she didn’t go; either she stayed here long enough to prove that she made the attempt, or she’d be embarrassingly dragged back down by her father’s guards, humiliated as they would keep hold of her arms to ensure she followed them right back here. Her father would make sure she was here, no matter what.  

Crossing her arms, Zelda walked around. She rarely went to the training yards unless she was up in the parapets, so being down in the dirt and grass felt like she was in an entirely new world. One she didn’t belong in.

There were training dummies lined up against a wall and a worn dirt track in a wide circle around the outskirts of the otherwise square area. There was a bench. There were weapons on a rack.

And that was it.

She looked at the footprints etched in the dirt, kneeling down to read the story told by the shoe treads. There was a large step forward, and then several overlapping smaller ones as the wearer clearly stumbled back. Then a single skid mark as they were forced back. And then the imprint of a body where they’d fallen.

If Zelda were here under any other circumstances, she’d have smiled and tried to find all the stories in the dirt, but instead, she stood back up and sighed, craning her neck towards the barracks just past the archway. No one was outside, and no one was coming.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, prepared to leave. But her eye caught on a weapon rack, and she glanced one more time at the barracks before heading to the largest spear. She held it, pretending she was one of her knights. Goddess, if a Yiga came at her, she’d die. Fear first, and then clumsiness, because who could control this glorified stick well enough to kill a Yiga?

She shuddered and put it back.

“You can get there eventually,” someone said.

She spun around to see one of her two guards walking towards her. He removed his helmet, shaking out his blonde hair. Zelda watched in confusion as he set the helmet down on a post and pulled a blue band off his wrist to tie his long hair back.

“But only if you’re not fifteen minutes late on purpose,” he said, not looking up at her. “Princess,” he added with a bow of his head.

Her mouth dropped slightly and her cheeks warmed at the light scolding. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, almost doubting if she’d heard him correctly.

She scoffed at his audacity, recognizing the bright blue eyes of the guard she’d dropped her book on. Did he think that a conversation with her this morning gave a guard the right to chastise her?

He held out his hand, and she instinctively handed the spear back, though in hindsight she wished that she’d hit him with it instead. She’d been too stunned. He returned it to it’s place, and walked across the entirety of the training yard without so much as looking at her.

Her feet tumbled after him as she mentally and physically struggled to keep up. What was happening? Why wasn’t he answering her? Why was he even talking to her? Who was this man?

“Hey!” she finally called. He stopped and turned.

That’s when he looked up for the first time, his downcast blue eyes lifting off the dirt and settling on her green ones.

Pride swelled in her when she saw them waver, because clearly her voice had rattled him in some way. He clearly didn’t like looking her in the eye either. His eyes kept darting off of hers, and he had to keep forcing them back. Her own eyes narrowed, trying to understand this guard. “Who are you?”

“Your instructor.” 

[stonecoldsilly]

Thirty Days of Transience

Read on Ao3

The echoes of the song fade away from the valley, and Geralt sighs.

‘Look, bard, as fun as this was, and really, it was a fucking riot, are you going to fuck off at all?’

The boy blinks up at him and grins.

‘Nope,’ he says, popping his lips obnoxiously.

Geralt didn’t really think it was going to be that easy, but a sinking feeling descends upon him anyway.

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘This was a very successful first outing. You make a fantastic muse, truly you do. Already I can almost hear the applause we shall receive on our triumphant return!’

First outing, thinks Geralt, and outright panics. Fuck that.

He spurs Roach into a canter, and leaves the boy behind in the dust, hooting and hollering after him.

Evening falls. His camp is set up some ways into the woods, and he has a fat little hare on the spit. Roach is snuffling away in her nosebag happily, and Geralt is just settling down to note down the details of the incident in his bestiary when his ears prick up. A heartbeat, human, about half a mile off, and dreadfully familiar…

‘You have got to be kidding me.’ He groans aloud, and Roach sympathises. ‘He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.’ She waves her tail in his direction meaningfully, and Geralt waits. He is not going to dismantle his entire camp and flee from one little human, he is not…

The boy stumbles through the bracken towards the light of the campfire eventually, making enough racket to alert predators for miles around, and squinting directly into the light, ruining his admittedly already limited night vision completely. Idiot.

‘Ah, hello, Geralt. Come here often?’ He grins, and sets his lute down carefully, before slumping on the nearest log with a sigh.

Geralt just stares at him. That turns out to be a mistake, because the bard takes it as an opportunity to start talking.

‘Not that I didn’t appreciate the view, the mighty Witcher and his steed riding into the sunset, but really, that was downright indecorous of you, heading off without even a farewell.’

Geralt can’t quite believe this little pipsqueak is trying to scold him about his manners. His heartrate is steady, he’s not sweating with fear, he just looks up at Geralt sternly.

Geralt snaps his head around to look at him, letting his pupils dilate fully. He bares his teeth, sharp canines glinting in the firelight, and growls, ‘What are you doing here, bard?’

The boy just looks at him, placid as anything. Not even a tinge of fear.

‘You saved my life.’ He says, solemnly. ‘I certainly didn’t do anything to persuade Filavandrel otherwise, you did.’

Geralt frowns at him, and the bard cracks a little smile.

‘And if the, er, forgive me, if the so-called ‘Meat-Purveyor of Certain Unnamed Market Towns’, if you will, can talk down the quite justly furious Filavandrel, then it makes me start to question certain common beliefs, as it were.’

He just stares, and the boy unpacks his new lute carefully, angling it up to the firelight and admiring the finish.

‘I am what they call me.’ Geralt manages, after several minutes.

‘And what things they call you.’ The boy says, glancing at him briefly. Their eyes only meet for a moment, but still Geralt feels pinned by it.

He goes on the defensive.

‘It makes no difference to me what they call me. I neither need nor want a barker.’

‘Allow me to try.’

‘No.’ He says flatly.

The boy sighs, and sets the lute down gingerly, before swivelling to face him and resting his elbows on his knees.

‘Look, Geralt, at this point what on earth have you possibly got to lose? If you would simply let me at least make the attempt…’

Geralt grits his teeth and glares at him.

‘You could die. You nearly died once today already, you said so yourself. And then I get whoever your people are, swearing vengeance on me, and making things worse. This life is not safe.’

‘I could die tomorrow, of an apoplexy, or at the end of some bandit’s sword. No life is safe.’

‘You would only get in the way.’ Geralt tries.

‘I promise. I only mean to be a help, truly, not a hindrance.’

‘You don’t even have any supplies. No pack, no bedroll, no food. I am not babysitting you.’

The boy winks at him, and shoves his arm down into his trousers quickly, before revealing a handful of rather battered looking bread rolls.

Geralt blinks at him.

‘Told you I had bread in my pants.’ He says, and winks. Geralt almost cracks then, and he can feel a smile trying to form before he schools his expression.

‘Come on, Geralt, let me try. I owe you my life, and I put no little stock in that. It’s the only one I shall have, and I’m rather pleased with it so far. Give me a chance, and I can make things easier for you. For your kind. Change the bastards’ minds, prove them all wrong. Come on.’

Geralt considers this carefully, and pokes at the hare a bit with his stick.

The bard waits, seemingly content to let Geralt respond at his own pace.

‘What’s in it for you?’ He asks, genuinely puzzled.

‘Inspiration. Protection. An education in the wilder side of living, as it were.’

Geralt snorts.

‘Think of it as a business transaction, if you prefer. An equal exchange. In return for graciously allowing me to witness your talents at work, I will provide companionship, assistance, and an improved reputation.’

Gods help him, but the boy is persuasive.

‘I don’t need companionship. I’ve managed this long just fine without assistance…’ He sighs. ‘But I’ll concede on the last point.’

The bard grins like a fox.

‘Give me a year.’

‘A year?’ Geralt splutters. ‘A week would be too long. You escaped the King of the Elves today bard, isn’t that enough inspiration to be getting on with?’

‘I do not intend to let Destiny slip through my fingers.’ He says, smiling faintly. ‘Who knows what foes you will face next? I would not miss a one. A year, if you please.’

‘A week.’

‘My, you are an accomplished haggler aren’t you. Far more practiced than I, of course. However, and you must concede the point here my dear Witcher, I must admit, even I cannot charm an entire Continent into submission in a week, although I do appreciate the flattery. A month, to ply my trade, and prove myself a worthy travel companion, and if you are not satisfied thirty days hence, then we shall part as strangers once more.’

Geralt leans forward himself then and wags his stick in the boy’s direction.

‘You cannot get in the way.’

He plasters a very convincingly serious expression on his face, but his eyes are dancing with barely repressed glee.

‘I swear it.’

‘You have to do as I say.’

‘Within reason. But I will concede to your expertise.’

‘If I say run, you run. If I say hide, you hide. If I say, bard, fetch me three strands of white Holly and two hedgehog quills, what do you do?’

‘Speaking honestly, I’d probably say ‘Geralt, what the fuck, how am I supposed to know what white holly is?’, but I appreciate the sentiment. Complete obedience, within reason, at your disposal.’

‘Hmm.’ Geralt says.

The boy’s leg betrays his eagerness, bouncing nervously even as he watches Geralt’s face with an innocent expression.

‘Fine. You have your month.’ He says, regretting it already.

‘Yes! You won’t regret this Geralt, really you won’t.’ He jumps to his feet and steps closer, smiling.

‘Shake on it.’ He says, commandingly, and Geralt just huffs, but reaches up anyway. ‘Gloves off Geralt, for goodness sake, let’s be civil.’

He peels off his leathers, outright baffled by this bright little human, bossing him about as if Geralt couldn’t snap him in half easily as breathing. The boy takes his bare hand in a surprisingly firm grip, and shakes it sincerely, as if he were any other man, as if his word meant anything to humans, as if he genuinely doesn’t believe the tales.

This whole day has been full of marvels.

The boy grins at him again, radiating only a fresh-apple scent that is surprisingly pleasant. It bodes well in a travel companion. For a half a second, he dares to be vaguely optimistic, until the bard opens his mouth again.

‘Now that the business talk is dealt with, care to share your hare?’

He snickers at his own joke, and Geralt sighs, but divvies it up into two portions anyway. The boy throws him a bread roll in exchange, and they eat in peace and quiet on opposite sides of the little fire until he clears his throat again.

‘About the er, sleeping arrangements. Not to be indelicate Geralt, but I, er, haven’t any.’

Geralt swallows around his suddenly rather dry mouthful of hare, and blinks rather owlishly at the boy, uncertain as to what he’s asking.

‘See, I know we only met this morning, but I’m rather fond of you already. And as business partners, I feel we have already managed to jump the hurdle of strangers getting to know one another, and gone headfirst into the hitherto unexplored territory of acquaintances.’

Geralt just sits, taken aback, and mouths business partners to himself. He ignores the ‘rather fond’ part for fear of his own sanity, never mind the bard’s.

‘Without beating around the bush, as it were, after one’s newfound acquaintance saves one’s life, it becomes very difficult to believe that one’s er, virtue is imperiled by said acquaintance.’

Geralt nearly chokes.

‘What.’ He wheezes.

‘Well I just thought, it’s a rather chilly evening, and perhaps, if it wouldn’t inconvenience you awfully, if you wouldn’t mind possibly adjusting your usual nightly routine to accommodate myself?’

‘What?’

The boy sighs, gesturing grandly.

‘Geralt, to put it plainly, I am cold. I have no bedroll in my possession. I should like, in short, to share your bedroll, under the proviso that no hanky-panky take place without prior permission from both parties.’

‘Hanky-panky?’ He repeats, helplessly. The boy is pretty, and well-formed, but Geralt honestly hadn’t even thought as far ahead as hanky, let alone panky.

‘I will require another handshake.’ The boy says, meeting his gaze firmly.

‘I can sleep on the ground.’ He says quickly.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ The boy says primly. ‘The entire concept of my presence at your side is to be a help, not a hindrance. And you need to be in top shape, I’d have thought, with all those beasties to fight, eh?’

‘I can stand guard.’

‘I’m not having you loom over me all night, that hardly sounds conducive to a good night’s sleep.’

Geralt looks about the campsite wildly, searching for the last scraps of reason.

‘I..’

‘Come on Geralt, some of us have walked bloody miles today, shake on it, there’s a good chap, then we can settle in for the evening.’

He stares, bewildered, as the boy takes his hand again in his own warm little grasp and they shake once more.

Half an hour later, the fire is banked for the night, Roach has settled into sleep, and Geralt has a softly snoring musician wrapped around him firmly, legs entangled with his own.

Without a doubt, one of the strangest days of his life, even for a Witcher.

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EDIT: Chapter Two now up!

[parasite-core]

so! you wanted to talk about your ocs, yeah? hm, idk about them so can you give a little introduction about who they are and their likes or something like that? or at least about some of them? thanks! 🥰💞

Thank you! Sorry for the delay I wrote way too much then wrote less but still too much then I took medicine that knocked me out lol.

So I’m going to talk about Draven because he’s who I’m fixated on, but if you want me to jump to another OC just say the word and I’ll talk about someone else instead.

So my first attempt at answering got out of hand and was not a “little introduction” so I’ll tag you in a separate post with all that if you feel inclined to read it after seeing the ‘short’ answer lmao. Even this answer got long so you can imagine the other went very detailed.

Let’s start with the part that’s short, his likes and dislikes.

Likes: Cats, he grew up with a big blonde cat named Captain who only liked him and he’s loved cats ever since.

Leto, his surrogate brother.

His friends…begrudgingly sometimes.

Music, he’s a big music lover, especially violin music but really anything he can tell had real passion put behind it.

Makeup and generally making himself look beautiful: it offsets the scars a bit and people—including his enemies—already call him uncomfortably pretty so why not lean into it. Plus it makes him feel good when people call him pretty/beautiful. (He might be slowly having some gender self-revelations but Draven isn’t very insightful so it’s taking him a while)

Dislikes: Demons, demons, demons. Glabrezus (treachery demons), Succubi (you know), you get the point. He really hates demons. He doesn’t mind tieflings/ abyssal sorcerers/ other people who just happen to have demonic blood in them, so long as they don’t let it define them. Which is good for him since he recently discovered *he* has demonic blood in his bloodline so he’d have had a way worse breakdown if he’d been upset about the blood in general not just which specific demon it belonged it (Jerribeth, a Glabrezu, and likely the cause of his entire family’s deaths…so yeah, baggage)

Other things he hates…people telling him how he should feel about something. He’ll feel how he should feel in his own time and not a moment sooner.

Having people’s lives in his hands. He’s a commander of an army he has no choice in the matter but he hates it so much he wishes he could just be a front line grunt fighting demons and risking his own life not giving the order that might kill dozens or more of others if things go wrong or he miscalculated. He carries the weight of every person who has died under his command and take it very personally.

People insulting tieflings for their existence.

About: this still got long but less long than the first time.

Draven Imani is a warpriest of the goddess of righteous valor, justice, and honor, Iomedae. After his family was killed by demons when he was 8 and he was the sole survivor, he was saved by Iomedaen crusaders. After he was healed, except for a Mark of Deskari on his wrist that festers and remains open no matter what healing is applied, they had him bandage up and keep it secret, although vicious rumors already began spreading. He was taken in by an Iomedaen orphanage called the Light-Oath Orphanage. This is where he gained his faith, and his desire to follow in the footsteps of the crusaders who saved his life. This is also where he met his best friend and surrogate brother, the tiefling Leto, who he’s been inseparable from for 13 years.

The two of them made a group of 6 who all wanted to join the crusades for various reasons, and they set out for the Crusader hub city of Kenabres. Unfortunately when they were an hour out of the city, a demon slipped through the wardstone barrier. Draven sensed it first, the evil mark on his wrist burning and bleeding in response. It was too late to flee or warn the others, and one by one they fell. Draven lost his eye while trying to protect Leto, and doesn’t remember the rest of the fight from the shock and trauma. Next thing he remembers is waking up in a healer’s bed in a temple of Iomedae in Kenabres, Leto waiting for him, his other friends dead, and unable to see out of half his vision.

The for next year he retrained himself how to fight with his sword and shield with only one eye, relearning to judge distances and to mostly figure out his spacial awareness. However because everyone saw him as irreversibly damaged, he got relegated to the lowest, least prestigious, most mocked rank of the crusades: the Raven Corps. And there he rotted in guard duty and being degraded by both townsfolk and other crusaders, all of whom see the Raven Corps as the lowest of the low.

Then the Wardstone protecting the city was destroyed, the Stormking, one of Deskari’s generals, lead an attack on the city and began slaughtering everyone, and the party was swept underground by the silver dragon Paladin of Iomedae, Terendalev, who told them they had a destiny to fulfil.

And then Auriel Answerer, Draven’s friend and mentee from the Raven Corps died right next to him striking a fatal blow against a Baphomet cultist. And it turned out Auriel was supposed to be Iomedae’s Chosen One. So because Auriel vouched for Draven, now Draven is the one allowed to wield the Holy Sword Radiance—although Radiance themself seems begrudging of this.

Draven met his hero, Commander Irabeth Tirabade, a half-orc Paladin and former Raven Corps member who once saved the city and was promoted to commander of the prestigious Eagle Watch Legion in recognition. Irabeth immediately gave Draven a field promotion to acting captain of the Raven Corps for recent events. No pressure or anything.

We destroyed the final wardstone shard that Deskari cultists were trying to corrupt into a weapon, via our archer Hiskaria avoiding a boss battle while the party fought her and kept her distracted by being bigger threats until it was too late. Then Hisy jabbed the stone with the rod of cancellation and it broke and destroyed her and two of her minions. And a single shard hit each of us after we had a vision of what had meant to happen—of the doomed world we weren’t meant to save—and how our actions had literally broken fate. Afterwards in reality the Wardstone shards sank into us and bequeathed new powers to each of us.

The night after becoming Mythic Draven met Iomedae in our dreams and received a number of really helpful boons from her. So Draven was in awe there. And learned from meeting the warrior goddess that maybe he should be less self deprecating about his own facial scars.

Since then he met the Queen of Mendev, got promoted to Commander of his own legion (The Adamant Shield Legion) with Irabeth friggin Tirabade as his mentor and advisor, they liberated an impenetrable citadel in two days, found out Leto was now working with the cult of Baphomet for unknown reasons, but he promised Draven that he wouldn’t let them hurt him. It turned out he’d been acting strangely since meeting a Glabrezu on the battlefield, and when Draven tried to ask over sending Leto only told him that “wishes come true at the most unexpected times”.

Since then. Dray’s learned that the mark on his wrist means he also made a wish to a Glabrezu, that he doesn’t remember because he was a traumatized child who was just tortured and saw his family killed when he got his mark. And not just any Glabrezu—Lady Jerribeth, the original architect of Drezen’s fall, and very likely the cause of his family’s deaths. And not only that, but Jerribeth’s blood runs through his veins, from within the last few generations of his family. So the Crusader, the demon slayer, who fights demons but embraces tieflings, is struggling to put his money where his mouth is when it’s his own blood touched by a demon’s influence. Also killing another mark bearer places a new mark of Deskari onto him, so he has a new one on his neck now from killing a raider half-fiend berserker who also shared Jerribeth’s blood and mark. He’s scared of the implications.

And that’s Draven so far.

[samstree]

You are too well tangled in my soul (5/5)

(Geraskier, 1.6k, time travel, hurt/comfort, soft geralt, now complete, cw: mentions of abuse)

Inspired by The Time Traveler’s Wife. 

Read on AO3

Yennefer comes in a whirlwind of buzzing magic, a portal opening up in the middle of the empty courtyard, blowing up the melting snow everywhere.

Of course she can come through the protective ward around the keep like it’s nothing.

She steps onto the ground of Kaer Morhen with her usual poise, all shiny raven curls and sparkling eyeshadows, breathtaking as ever. Only her proud demeanor shifts into something marginally softer when those enchanting violet eyes fall on Ciri.

The princess approaches the sorceress in tentative steps, before picking up the pace and running into her embrace. Yennefer is visibly taken aback by the sheer force of it but soon gives back a loose hug. The girl, being a head shorter than Yennefer, steps back and smiles brightly.

“I saw you in my dreams.”

Those violet eyes become more curious.

Beside Jaskier, Geralt’s voice rumbles deeply. “Yen, this is Ciri. My Child Surprise.”

The corner of her lips quicks up. “Nice to meet you, Ciri.”

*

In the main hall, Jaskier sits in front of the fire and watches the three of them talk quietly at the table.

A lost princess with immeasurable chaos in her body, a witcher who protects humanity with nothing but two swords on his back, and a sorceress so powerful she scorched an entire Nilfgaardian army all by herself.

They make a perfect family, beautiful, powerful, and well-matched.

Lost in thoughts and the wine in his cup, Jaskier never notices the young princess going off to sword lessons with Vesemir or even Geralt settling down on the thick carpet next to him.

The witcher adjusts the blanket draped on Jaskier’s knees absent-mindedly. “By the way, Yen, what did you think of our ward?”

“It’d be a good idea.” The sorceress looks down at Geralt, posture elegant from the vantage point of the chair. Her hand flattens the folded wrinkles on her embroidered dress. “Don’t worry, Geralt. I’ll enhance it for you so no mage can get through. You child will be safe in here.”

Geralt’s voice turns solemn. “Thank you, Yen. And thank you for coming.”

“I came for her.” Yennefer’s gaze studies Geralt up and down with a piercing curiosity, and softens ever so slightly. “Fatherhood looks good on you.”

Geralt hums without answering.

“Did you ever doubt destiny’s decision?” Jaskier challenges her, regrettably drawing attention to himself.

Yennefer finally looks at Jaskier for the first time since she arrived, amusement creeping into her expression. Geralt sighs long-sufferingly next to Jaskier, braced for the usual snarky jabs between these two.

“Bard.”

“Witch.”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “The gray hair suits you.”

“Not being tortured by Nilfgaard suits you.”

From his peripheral, Jaskier sees Geralt tense but keeps his eyes on the sorceress. Framed by the flickering candlelight, everything beautiful about her now is a sharp contrast to the last time Jaskier saw her – tied up, depleted of magic, and covered in blood.

Her lips curve dangerously. “Still saved your sorry ass, didn’t I?”

This time when Jaskier returns her smile, it’s genuine. “You are right about that one. I never got to show any gratitude.” Geralt’s questioning gaze is burning a hole on Jaskier, but he’ll have to wait. Jaskier continues the peace-offering. “So thank you, really. It’s good to see you again, Yen.”

“Don’t call me that.” She takes a jab at him but there’s no malice. “And destiny often makes shit decisions. You should know.”

Yennefer looks between the two of them and Jaskier’s breath hitches. Somehow the sorceress knows about their bond. Jaskier turns to look at an equally startled Geralt. “Did you tell her?”

“Oh, please,” She cuts in, “The temporal magic is all over you two. I felt it the day you first barged through my door.” She pulls a sealed letter out of nowhere and holds it before Jaskier’s face. “I only meant this.”

The Pankratz insignia carves into the scarlet wax seal.

The buzzing of the world drowns Jaskier’s heartbeat. It’s been years since he received news from home. Distantly, he knows Geralt is asking if he’s alright, the warmth from the witcher’s large hand seeps through the fabric on his back.

He reaches for the letter and tears through the seal in an instant, and pauses.

“You know what it says.”

“The news traveled faster than a letter.” Yennefer offers a tight smile. “My condolences, Jaskier.”

*

Jaskier is perched on their shared bed while Geralt paces around the room. He clutches the thin piece of paper, reading the words again even if he’s stared at them for so long they’ve begun to blur.

…Alfred Pankratz, Count de Lettenhove, passed away in his sleep three days ago.

Taking a deep breath, Jaskier rubs his eyes when they lose focus, and that’s when he notices how stiff his joints are for staying in the same place for too long.

He blinks and Geralt has come to sit next to him on the mattress, gently prying the letter away from Jaskier’s tense fingers. His knuckles are turning white for gripping it so tightly.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Shaking his head, Jaskier buries his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck, who instinctively wraps an arm around him. “I don’t know.” He adds, “Not yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmurs.

“Why?” Jaskier nuzzles, seeking comfort. “You never had kind words for the man.”

The pain from childhood flares up again. Memories of sitting by the lake crying and nursing his hurt as a child almost make panic bubble up Jaskier’s throat. He has to calm down by focusing on Geralt’s solid touch and the rise and fall of his breathing.

It does the trick, as always.

“You still mourn him, despite everything.” Geralt answers, drawing circles on Jaskier’s back slowly.

Jaskier lets out a tight chuckle. “I should hate him, and maybe I did for many years. But…in the end, he was just my father.”

They sit in silence. Jaskier melts into Geralt’s continued soothing touches, letting reality sink in. A plan comes together in his head.

“I should go back.”

“To Lettenhove?” The movement on Jaskier’s back stops.

When Jaskier pulls back, there’s apprehension in Geralt’s eyes. His brows furrow in distress so Jaskier eases it away with the pad of his thumb.

“I’m still the heir. There are things that require seeing to. I don’t want his title, so I’ll have to be there to renounce it. The estate and all the fortune will go to my cousin – Ferrant is quite a natural leader. He will do well being the head of the family. As for my mother, she’ll want to see me. It’s been too long since I wrote her.”

Geralt frowns again at the idea but reluctantly agrees after a moment.

“I don’t like the idea of you being back there.”

“Oh don’t you worry, my love,” Jaskier says. “It just got me thinking. My father died and they didn’t even have a way of reaching me. If Yennefer hadn’t come across this funeral invite at some random court I would still be in the dark. Not that I’ll be back in time for the funeral of course. It takes too many days just to get down this mountain. Still, it could be nice to see my family again. I’ll be fine, really.”

“Hmm.” Geralt runs his fingers through the hair at Jaskier’s temple, where he knows a strand is peppered with silver as Yennefer so kindly pointed out. “Speaking of. Since when are you best friends with Yen?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jaskier teases him. “I’m sure you’ll have all the time in the world to get the story out of her, now that she’s around to give Ciri magic lessons. I’m sure she won’t paint me in a heroic light in our little Nilfgaardian prison adventure. Too bad I won’t be there to save my image.”

“Jask.” Geralt blinks, taking Jaskier’s wrist in a gentle hold. “You know I’m going with you, right? You are not going alone.”

“But Ciri’s training…”

“Yen is taking her to a safe house just outside of Novigrad. Triss will be there too. The chaos Ciri carries is raw power. It’s so complicated they’ll be lucky to figure it out within a couple of months.”

“Don’t you need to go as well? To stay with them and protect your daughter?”

Geralt smiles at the word daughter. No matter how many times everyone or even Ciri herself uses it, the word still brings him so much joy.

“I’ve had her all winter, taught her a lot about being a witcher. Now she needs to learn from real magic users. Besides, I think she’s getting tired of being cooped up with five men for this long. Staying with the ladies might do her good.”

Jaskier stares at the warmth flowing in those ember eyes, suddenly feeling lighter like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He doesn’t have to do this alone.

“You’ll come with me,” he muses the sentence.

“You’re hurting, Jask. I would never leave you like this.” Geralt’s tone is so casual it’s like he’s stating the weather. Gods, this ridiculous man has no right to make Jaskier’s heart swell three sizes like this.

He picks up Geralt’s hand and presses a kiss to his calloused palm. “We’ll go straight to Novigrad soon as business finishes at home. Even I’ll miss her too much.”

Jaskier gets pull into Geralt’s embrace again, breathing in the smell of the chamomile soap he insists on the witcher during baths. It feels like Geralt is marked by him somehow, covered in his signature scent.

“I love you, Jask.”

“Mm-hmm. Enough to face all the nobles for me.”

Geralt hums, perhaps surprised.

“You know there’s gonna be a lot of them, right? Many will be there to pay respect. I’m a noble, in case you forgot. If you can barely tolerate me, imagine the chaos when we get there.”

The laugh rumbles deep in Geralt’s chest, and soft lips press on Jaskier’s hairline at his temple.

“Only for you, Jaskier.”

*

(Feedbacks are much appreciated! Tell me what you think of it!)

[dhwty-writes]

Toss a Coin to your Lover

I finally cracked. After months of reading (who are we kidding, inhaling) Geraskier fanfic, I finally wrote an one-shot. What inspired me to do it was this extremely heartwrenching post by @clown-of-rivia, who kindly gave me permission to write this. And write I did! I typed half of this at 2 AM on my phone because I couldn’t sleep until the words were own and the other half in the last 3 hours. It was a lot of fun, honestly!

Best you read the post mentioned above first to know the context but basically what happened is that Geralt and Jaskier slept together and Geralt (like the absolute idiot he is) put some money on the nightstand the next morning and left (because he couldn’t imagine himself worthy of love that is not bought). Here’s what happens after. It’s angst but with a happy ending, don’t worry. Enjoy!

Read on AO3

Jaskier stared at the coins on the nightstand for a very long, probably an embarrassing long time. Alright, definitely an embarrassing long time. But in his defence, the sun had barely risen and he'd frankly had the best sex of his life - and that ought to say something - so he thought he ought to be forgiven.

He'd be very glad to say that, when reality had finally caught up to him, the first thing he'd felt was rage. Alas, that was not the case. Because despite what other people thought, despite his infamous reputation as an exceptional (and intermittent) lover, despite everything, he actually cared about sex. His flings were seldom only a fancy to sate his needs; he was genuinely, truly, deeply in love with his usual bedfellows.

And Geralt? Geralt wasn't his usual bedfellow. He wasn't anything like his usual bedfellows. Jaskier fell for people easily and had been even more prone to do so in his youth. He had been in love with Geralt from the first moment he saw him. And over the years the feelings hadn't subsided in the slightest.

He was not ashamed to say that at this point he loved Geralt with all his being. Melitele's tits, he'd spent the last two decades traipsing after the damned witcher, composing ballad after ballad to his glory and beauty and virtue and finally - finally! - he'd thought Geralt had understood.

And then-

This.

Disbelievingly he stared at the money on the bedside table.

So, naturally, Jaskier felt hurt. He wanted to curl up and cry for days as he'd done after his first heartbreak, a lovely stable hand his father had sent away after catching them in the hay.

But then- resignation. Because he'd always known. 'Death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.' In some way he'd even been prepared for it, as much as one can prepare for such an eventuality. But not like this. This wasn't fair, this wasn't how it had been supposed to go, his heart not only broken but shattered into a million pieces, like the beautiful painted glass vase he had broken all those years ago in the Countess de Stael's manse. Beautiful even in shambles, yet dangerous to everyone who dared touch the shards.

He exhaled forcefully, clinging to the feeling of glass cuts on his hands, clinging to the pain, the sting, the bite. Finally, the rage kicked in. That was better than heartbreak, that was something he could use as a weapon, wielding words as lethal as any sword, as sweet as honey and as beautiful as a field of poisonous buttercups.

He stuffed the coins into his purse and got up to get dressed, seething and too furious to even attempt buttoning up his doublet. It wasn't as if Geralt hadn't seen that before. He had and he had loved it and then he had thrown coins onto Jaskier's nightstand and left. The audacity!

And the audacity to just leave! Jaskier was of half a mind to not go after Geralt after all because wasn't that a pitiful sight? The great poet Jaskier in the role of the scorned lover, running after his witcher with desperate need? But then again, he was just too angry and he needed to have words with Geralt. Oh, and what words they were about to have!

'Errands to run,’ Geralt had said and Jaskier scoffed in disbelief. Because now, apparently, the witcher had gone craven, Roach and her master long gone when he peered into the stable. 'Good,' he thought, 'so he's afraid.' And he ought to be, really. Jaskier wasn't about to just stand idly by and let the love of his life leave - he had been much too persistent over the last two and a half decades for that.

So, he tightened the straps of his lute case and his bag and set out to do what he did best: Not composing or singing or giving exceptional blowjobs (although he certainly excelled at all of those tasks), no, no, no; what Jaskier did best was tracking a certain whitehaired witcher of his, no matter how little he wanted to be found.

A few pointed questions and sweet words later, he was on his way, huffing and puffing while running to match the speed of a horse and trying to compensate the head start Geralt and Roach had gotten – and praying, Melitele, please, that they hadn't galloped away because then would take days to catch up to them – yes, he spoke from experience, one of his not so fond memories from the beginning of their friendship when Geralt had still thought he could shake the bard. He had learned better quickly, though now it seemed he had forgotten the lessons learned half a lifetime ago.

Luckily, though, he hadn’t galloped away, as Jaskier caught up to him half a day's march later while he was watering Roach by a creek. Good. That was good. That meant that his white wolf wasn't completely averse to being found. Still, the sight of the peaceful tranquillity - as if nothing had happened - only fuelled his rage.

'How dare he?', he thought. 'How dare he be calm when I am furious, how dare he find peace while I am aching, how dare he hurt me and not hurt in turn?'

Oh, but that wouldn't last for long. No, Jaskier would see to that.

"Geralt!" he called even though he knew that the witcher had to be long aware of his presence. Still, he hadn't deemed it necessary to acknowledge him, not turning, not even raising his head. The nerve of this! "What errands lead you to the middle of nowhere?"

The witcher flinched and looked up, his brows furrowed. It was a look Jaskier had long learnt to identify with pain. 'Good,' he thought, although he felt a little guilty, 'he shall hurt, too. Just like I do.'

"No answer?" he asked flippantly. "Fine. Then I'll do the talking. As always. You better sit down, witcher, because we will be here for a while. And you will listen." Geralt didn't move. Fine for him.

"What the actual fuck," he began his tirade, "we're you thinking, you cursed witcher?" He flinched but Jaskier didn't care. He was bitter and battered and broken-hearted and it was Geralt’s fault!

"What do you take me for?" He shouted and dug for the coins in his purse. "Some common whore? Some- some common travelling bard who will just as easily fall into bed for some coin as fall into song?" He probably shouldn't care that much but even if he was now famous enough to normally elude such propositions- as well as the need to accept them - it still rubbed him the wrong way decades later.   

"For years I've kept you company, for years I've sung your praises. 'Toss a coin to your witcher', indeed. Here!" One by one he hurled them in Geralt's general direction. "Have some coins! Have plenty of them because trust me, I’m not wanting for money! I’m not wanting for anything, to be precise! I could easily retire to Oxenfurt to teach or to basically any court on the Continent to make a home. Easily, do you hear me? I do not need your pity! I do not need you to pay me!"  

He had run out of Geralt's coins to throw and while he could certainly bombard him with his own money, he was actually quite protective of his earnings. So, he reverted back to verbal assault: "Is that what that was to you last night? Another night of paid company you like to indulge that you could just leave behind come morning? What were you even thinking? That you could finally shake me of after years of travelling with you?"

He gasped as a terrible thought came to his mind. "Is that what it is? You try to insult me so that I finally stop following you? Because then you have succeeded, Geralt. This insult is-"

"Jaskier," Geralt said, the first time he spoke since his arrival. It sounded weak. Broken. Pleading.

"No!" he answered. "No, I'm not finished with you, yet! You humiliate me, Geralt. For years I've endorsed your terrible bedside manner but this is a step too far. Really, I'm at a loss for words! I woke up with a wonderful afterglow to see you leaving and was worried for you. Turns out I shouldn't have been because apparently this night has no impact whatsoever on you. You're as calm as- as- I don't even know! See what you do to me? I'm a poet! A minstrel! A pretty little wordsmith, yet you make my words fail me. My weapons, my craft, my only asset, my-"

"Jaskier, please," Geralt interrupted him and to his shame tears rose to Jaskier’s eyes, "I didn't want to hurt you!"

"Then why did you do it?" he yelled, choking on the tears. "Because guess what, Geralt, I'm hurt! I'm really fucking hurt!"

"I'm sorry. Last night was a mistake."

"Oh, great," he scoffed. "First you add injury to insult. But sure, why not add insult again?"

"I shouldn't have made you do this."

"Made me?" he howled. "You didn't make me do anything! Fuck, I kissed you because Melitele's tits, I've been in love with you for so long and I just couldn't take it anymore!" His voice broke on the last syllables and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to quell the tears. "Shit-!" he croaked weakly. He hadn't meant for it to go this way, he was angry and he wanted him to feel the fury, not to crack down before him, show him his weakness, show him just how helpless he made him feel and-

He gulped down air, in a hope to stifle the violent sobs that shook his body. Oh, how he ached to curl up in a lover's embrace, to be held and comforted and yet Geralt was the one to reduce him to the blubbering mess. It was fucked up. It was so fucked up. Fucked up to run after him, fucked up to yell at him, all so very fucked up.

Still, he calmed down. Slowly. But still, he did.

When he was only sniffling a bit, he lowered his hands and found Geralt staring at him, unmoving, unblinking. Then he said: "No you're not."

"What do you mean, I'm not?"

"You're not in love with me. You can't be."

He scoffed. "Do you now claim to know my heart better than I do? Do you think I cannot judge whom I love? Do you think me an imbecile, Geralt? Incapable? Weak? Whatever it is, tell me! Better tell me now!"

"I think you are insane," he growled and Jaskier gasped, "to think yourself in love with a witcher."

"What, you absolute idiot, do you think have I been doing the last twenty-odd years? It hasn't been a deterrent all that time, so why should it be now?"

"Because you can't love me, Jaskier," he roared, the first time he had actually raised his voice at him since the djinn. "Because I am a witcher and can't love you back and demanding your affection would not be fair!"

"Denying it is equally unfair!"

Geralt growled and turned away, obviously displeased by something though Jaskier couldn't tell what it was.

He was still angry and he wanted to continue yelling, yell how Geralt paying him wasn't fair, how Geralt leaving him wasn't fair, how- But somewhere in his rage-clouded mind a voice of reason spoke up, granting surprising clarity for just a moment.

He clung to that clear thought as if for dear life, letting the fury dissipate until he was thinking again, and not just feeling and hurting. "Geralt," he said cautiously now, "why did you pay me?"

The witcher scoffed and ducked his head. "I had to pay you something, didn't I?" he mumbled almost too quietly for Jaskier to hear. "I mean, you were expecting something. No-one would bed a witcher without- without recompensation."

Jaskier stared at him abhorred. "Why on earth would you think that?" he asked with disgust dripping into his voice.

"Because it's always been like this!" he answered exasperated. "Women love me only for the money and even then, they cannot look at me while taking me to bed. Yen could, but-" He winced. "The djinn- And you, Jaskier. You don't have anything like that. But I had to give you something. I could never ask a sacrifice like that of something without-" Jaskier watched with astonishment as the witcher's voice broke. "What else do I have to offer you?"

"What- what else would do you have to offer me?" Jaskier gasped and spluttered trying - and failing - to find any words.

He just grunted and took Roach by the reins as if he was about to walk away - again.

"No!" He stepped in and ripped the reins out of his hands. "No, you do not get to flee! You stay and listen to what I have to say." He just stared, watching the bard as he started pacing. "What do you have to offer me, Geralt?" He asked bristled. "Why, what indeed? It isn't as if you have made me famous, ensuring my wealth and livelihood. It isn't as if you've saved my life countless of times, putting yourself in harm’s way right from the very beginning when you didn't even know - or like - me. It isn't as if you listen to my endless ramblings, as if you replace my lute strings when I need to, as if you lend me your coat when I'm freezing or carry my bag when I'm tired. It isn't as if you've nursed me back to health after illness and injury alike. It isn't as if you've rendered me completely speechless last night. No, none of that has ever happened."

He ducked his head. "That's nothing."

"That's everything."

His head snapped up. "Well, I'm still a witcher!" he shouted but Jaskier didn't flinch nor waver.

"And when have I ever cared about that?" he shouted back. "My love for your mind and soul and heart has been free for as long as I know you. Why would you think that my love for your body wouldn't be?"

"You mean it," Geralt said his voice full of surprise.

"Of course, I do, you big dumb oaf! That's what I've been trying to tell you for the past half hour. What else am I supposed to do to convince you that you are worthy of love and softness and care? What else am I supposed to do to show you that I've been giving you all of this for half of my life without asking anything in return? I never needed to ask! I've been paid in turn thousandfold. Not in money, Geralt, in actions big and small. I thought-" He choked on his tears, "I thought I've been paid in love, too."

"Witchers can't love. Witchers can't feel at all."

"Stop telling yourself that lie. I've known you for twenty years, Geralt. When you're happy you smile, when you think I'm funny you huff a laugh, when you're angry you shout, when you're sad you shut me out and when you're hurt you lick your wounds. You hide it, of course, but you haven't been able to hide it from me for a long time. And I know you love people. You love your brothers and Vesemir and you love Yennefer in some way and Ciri, too. And I think you love me, too. Don't hide your love, witcher. Not from me. Never from me. You're just scared. A coward. Scared to get hurt and scared to hurt me."

"I'm not craven," he growled.

"No?" Jaskier crossed his arms. "Prove it."

Geralt looked at him quizzically. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. A challenge. An invitation. A plea. And just like that, Jaskier could see the witcher break. It was plain as day, the little crack in the facade, the little gleam in the eyes and then, suddenly, he was being kissed.

There was a desperate sob caught in Geralt's throat when they kissed, the anguish and agony overwhelming Jaskier and making him stumble a few paces back. Geralt kissed as if he'd never kissed before, frantic and fierce and forlorn, as if he feared that Jaskier would pull away, as if he waited for eventual rejection, revulsion, rebuke.

And that broke Jaskier's heart again, maybe even more so than the coin. No, Geralt could have paid him all the coin in the world and it wouldn't have hurt half as much as the onslaught of- of- decades of loneliness and loathing and longing that choked him.

He was still angry - he was sure that he would continue being angry and hurt for quite some time - but that didn't matter right now. Right now, all that mattered what that he loved Geralt. And his beloved witcher, his dear white wolf, his revered companion, friend, lover was hurting, too. Because he hadn't been able to even imagine being worthy of the affection Jaskier gave him so readily, so freely, so effortlessly. Oh, and how much affection he had to give!

He raised his hands gently to cup his cheeks, wiping the tears away with both his thumbs and leaned into the kiss. The desperation faded away, as did the agony, to be replaced with tenderness and love. He reached for Geralt's hands to place them on his hips, whispering quietly between kisses: "It's okay, it's alright. Hold me, embrace me, I've got you." He placed a tender hand on Geralt's chest, manoeuvring them until they reached some rocks beside the creek to sit down on. He cradled his witcher into his lap, carding his fingers through his hair and kissed him, wishing that he never had to stop, hoping to pour all the unsaid words, all the undelivered confessions, all the unsung ballads (that he definitely did not have ready, no) into the slow movements of their lips.

When Geralt pulled away and leaned their foreheads against each other he was almost disappointed. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sorry, Jaskier, I'm so sorry, I never meant- I never meant for any of this, I never meant to hurt you, to insult you, to- I just don't- I don't know how to- I want to make this good, make this good for you, and-"

"Shhhh," he made soothingly. "I know. I know, my love, my witcher, my dear heart. And I forgive you. You know I always do."

"I don't deserve-"

He pressed a finger to his lips. "No," he declared. "None of this nonsense anymore. I've yelled my throat sore trying to convince you otherwise. What else am I supposed to do to prove it?"

"Kiss me again," he begged, "A thousand times. Maybe I'll start to believe it then."

To his own surprise, Jaskier laughed. "That, my dear, I can do." He pecked him on the lips. "One," he said. "Nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine to go."

To his even bigger astonishment Geralt of Rivia, the witcher, the white wolf, smiled. Widely. "Hmm," he made. "I think I like that. Do it again?"

He did. "Two."

That earned him a quiet chuckle and a quivering sigh. "I love you," Geralt whispered. "I really do."

Jaskier smiled, too. "I know. I love you, too."

He buried his face in the crook of his neck and Jaskier's breath hitched. "I'm not good at showing it yet," Geralt said and Jaskier had to keep himself from squirming at the tickling sensation. "I'm shit at showing it. I can't promise you that I won't hurt you again. I've never done something like this before. But I will try. For you. Anything for you."

"Oh, my love," he sighed, his heart beating quicker. "And what a wonderful adventure that will be. A tale of love and woe, of-"

"-death and destiny?" Geralt interrupted him and looked at him, a sly smile on his lips. "Heroics and heartbreak?"

Jaskier gasped. "You remember!"

"Of course, I do. I never forget anything important." He opened his mouth to protest and Geralt quickly spoke: "Do you think it is a story worthy of a ballad?"

His expression went soft and his heart warmed. "No, Geralt," he said and kissed him again. "This is the stuff of an epos. In a thousand years they will still tell legends of our love. There will be novels and plays and songs, and- oh Geralt, I love you, so much it hurts."

The witcher pulled him close. “I love you, too. I love you even if I don’t show it. I love your singing, your dramatics, your fancies. I love that your hair is soft and that your body is unscarred and that your hands are always gentle. I love that you never smell of fear. And I still can’t believe any of this.”

Jaskier smiled and kissed him again. “Three,” he announced.

“Do it again?”

He laughed. “Always.” And so, he did. A thousand kisses and a thousand more. To make his witcher believe. To make his witcher stay. To love his witcher.

Because he always had. Jaskier, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove, strolling minstrel, master poet, bard loved Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken since the moment he had first laid eyes on him. And now he got to show it to. Now he received love in turn. And in the end, that was all that mattered.

[limit-list]

ATLA AO3 Fic Recs!

idk about how y’all are handling the state of the world rn, but i have retreated into the “consume every available fanfic ever” phase!! for anyone else who wants to read lots of Avatar: The Last Airbender fanfiction, i’ve gathered a list of some of my favs so far!! i’ve split it into gen series, zukka series, gen fics, and zukka fics because those are the types of fics i thrive in. they’re not in any particular order other than that.

i will say that a funny trend i recognized was that Haicrescendo on AO3 (@sword-and-stars on here) made it on to every single list because everything they write is amazing hahaha, feel free to do as i did and just read all of their atla fics. anyway!! here goes, hopes this helps people, ill prolly add onto it at some point haha.

GEN SERIES:

What We’re Given by Haicrescendo

The premise of the story is that Zuko, Iroh, and the crew set out when Zuko was banished, found out that the Sky Bisons never died out, turn their ship into the Jasmine Dragon (a tea shop on a boat!!!), and never hunted the Avatar. This series is so good, it’s currently updating every Friday I think and I love it so much.

Dragon of the Yuyan by 00AwkwardPenguin00

Summary is: “In which Zuko is fostered/adopted/raised/recruited by the Yuyan Archers of Pouhai Stronghold, and destiny hiccups.” Y’all I adore this series so much, I receive so much serotonin every time this updates. The plot develops really really nicely, the OC’s are my fav people ever, and the way the author uses the signing is just perfection. It’s currently updating every Saturday I think.

kintsugi by discordiansamba

Summary is: “au in which a banished for good zuko ends up being hired by the beifongs to watch over their daughter- or, zuko and toph never took that field trip in canon so now she gets to hog him for three whole years”. If y’all know me, y’all know I love some Zuko and Toph friendship. This story is PEAK bonding, it makes me so happy.

ZUKKA SERIES:

Quarantine and Chill 2020 by Haicrescendo

Literally what it says on the tin haha. Series about roommates Sokka and Zuko as they’re stuck in quarantine, first two are explicit, there’s four total so far, and I love them all. The characterization is immaculate, the banter had me cackling, and all in all just a great series!

Carry On For You by Haicrescendo

Summary is: “Not the Pokémon AU you asked for but the one you’re getting anyway. Featuring: full time gym leader and local cryptid Zuko, badge challenger Sokka, and Katara who can only look at so many memes before she flips.” Yall I know nothing about Pokémon but this series!!! It brings me SO much serotonin. I adore this series so much, we get Zuko interacting with animals at the same time as Zukka develops and Iroh is there and I just love it.

the best laid intentions by alittleduck

Post-show fics for the most part. Summary is: “Centers around members of the Gaang coming out to their well meaning but woefully unprepared friends. Part one is centered around Zuko coming out as gay, the second one is centered around Toph coming out as a lesbian and the third one is centered around Sokka coming to terms with his bisexuality.” I love this series a lot, it’s super cute and I thrive on LGBTQ+ gaang fics. We got gay Zuko, lesbian Toph, and bi Sokka and they make me so happy.

GEN FICS:

Embers by Vathara

Ooo boy, this is a long fic, but it is my absolute favorite fanfic in possibly any fandom I’ve been in. The summary for this fic is: “Dragon's fire is not so easily extinguished; when Zuko rediscovers a lost firebending technique, shifting flames can shift the world...” I dunno how to put it any better than that without spoilers!! It rewrites canon from I think Zuko and Iroh getting into Ba Sing Se on. Expect politics, interpersonal tension, several plot lines overlapping and weaving their ways through the story, amazingly developed OC’s, and just incredible writing overall. Definitely a must read.

For Hearth and Home by Haicrescendo

Post-show fic in which Zuko hangs out with a baby all day while everyone falls in love with him. Summary is: “In which Fire Lord Zuko is a total mess and somehow people manage to love him for it anyway.” Honestly I think that sums up the plot, this is just such a pure story, it cheers me up like instantly haha! This is one of the cutest and most relaxing fics I’ve read.

The Family You Choose by TunaFishChris

Show rewrite soulmate fic with the Gaang as family! Summary is: “Some people are born with soulmarks. Zuko has them, but his grandfather burned them off because they ‘make you weak.’ Team Avatar has a few things to say about that.” No spoilers, but I love a good soulmate fic and I’ve never seen a concept quite like this one!! I think I’ve read this two or three times at this point. Amazing.

Unwanted Friends by FoiblePNoteworthy

This was inspired by The Family You Choose by TunaFishChris (see previous), and I love it so much. It’s the same concept, but minus Suki and told from the other’s perspective at an earlier place in the timeline! If y’all end up liking The Family You Choose, you’ll like this one too!!

Perfection is Overrated by Jagged Cliffs

Post-show fic. If you’re like me and have a soft spot for fics where Fire Lord Zuko is an absolute sweetheart to the palace staff, then you have to read this. One of my all time favorite fanfics. Everything about this story makes me happy.

Another Brother by AvocadoLove

Show rewrite. This is a WIP, I’m actually still reading it rn but it’s really good!! It’s about if Hakoda found Zuko as an 8 year old injured on a Fire Nation ship and brought him home to the Water Tribe. No spoilers here, but it’s a really good pure story and I love it so much so far.

Salvage by MuffinLance

Show AU WIP. Ooo goodness I love this story! Summary is: “Mid-Season-One Zuko is held ransom by Chief Hakoda. Ozai's replies to the Water Tribe's demands are A+ Parenting. Hakoda is… deeply concerned, for this son that isn't his, and who might be safer among enemies than with his own father.” Zuko is an angsts bby whomst I adore, Hakoda is my favorite ever, and the OC’s are legit the best. MuffinLance is another author where every fic is amazing! This fic in particular tore me to shreds and then makes up for it in absolute amazingness.

OUTLINE: Amnesia!Zuko Joins the Earth Army by MuffinLance

Show rewrite, I can’t remember from what point exactly, but it’s before Ba Sing Se. Summary is: “Zuko loses his memory and becomes an Earth Kingdom war hero. His father is going to LOVE this.” Written in outline/concept form, I adore this so so much. This fic is why I post concepts of stories I’ll never write, cause this story made me realize people enjoy reading them!! And this is sooo enjoyable, I fuckin love this fic.

ZUKKA FICS:

The Good Vanilla by Haicrescendo

Show AU-ish from the Western Air Temple I think. I think this is the fic that made me fall in love with Zukka actually omg. A beautiful fanfic that shows how Zuko and Sokka slowly fall in love, no spoilers here, there is lots of cooking.

Quit your life and come train Pokemon. (orphaned)

Modern Day AU. Another one of my starter Zukka fics!! Sokka kinda maybe falls in love with Aang’s roommate Zuko. There is nerdiness and awkward situations and ~emotions~. It makes me happy, definitely one of my favs.

by the stars above, i knew we were in love by theycallmesuperboy

Post-show fic. This one tore me to shreds!! It’s a fic about Zuko working his way up to proposing to Sokka. No spoilers, just saying that this story hurt me in all the best ways. Amazing story.

Unchained Melody by AvocadoLove

Show rewrite from Hei Bai’s Forest episode, WIP. Basic premise is that Sokka turns into a ghost, and Zuko is the only one who can see him. The dynamic between Zuko and Sokka is just explored so well here, and the banter is perfection. There are so many things I could say about different parts of the story, but I don’t wanna spoil a thing, so go read it!! Love this fic.

Sea Cranes by Druddigonite

Show AU. Summary is: “Between chasing the Avatar and dealing with his disgrace, Zuko begins to cough up flowers.” It’s a really interesting concept which I’d never heard of before, but I loved this fic! Just enough angst to tear my heart up and then mend it back together.

Hotman by callmecaramleh

Set during the Western Air Temple Arc. Summary is: “Toph decides she needs to know who in the gaang is hot. This leads to quite a bit of trouble for Sokka.” I love this fic so much. It’s so clear that they’re awkward teenagers here, and as an awkward teenager I love the dynamic!!! I just adore these boys so much.

Something Good Can Work by beersforqueers

Bookstore AU!!! I live for a good bookstore AU, as well as library and café AUs. Anyway, summary is: “Bookstore AU! In which Sokka tries to not-so-subtly pick up the cute boy working in the bookstore, and the cute boy is totally oblivious. Because the cute boy is Zuko.” They’re adorable and flustered. It’s precious, another fic that brings me outta a bad mood in like a minute flat. I love this!

[bellamyblakru]

recently followed and have been reading all your fics- can I request the bad things bingo “reopening an old wound” with Arthur being too tough to stay in bed like gaius said and Merlin taking care of him 🥺

HELLO OMG. this is so kind🥺thank you for following and reading my fics!! it truly means a lot to me🥺💞 i hope this doesn’t disappoint!! (also you sent this like over a week ago ajsmaja im so sorry it took me so long. i wrote this instead of sleeping tonight just for you😌🙌🏻)

here it is on ao3 and down below!! thank you so much again🥺

Merlin was going to strap Arthur to his bed—and not in the fun way. The dollophead was just so adamant in joining this stupid tournament he was hosting for the dignitaries that came from Nemeth.

“Merlin,” Arthur drawled out in that totally-not-endearing-way he does, “we’ve been over this! I must participate. I am King for a reason! I cannot back down. How would I look to them? Cowardly?” He scoffed at Merlin, who was scowling at the fireplace to refrain from magicking the king to another land for the entirety of the tournament.

“Stop that.” Arthur demanded, coming to sit down next to Merlin.

“I didn’t do anything.”

Arthur huffed, “You’re thinking about doing something illegal to get me out of this.”

Merlin frowned, “No. I wasn’t.”

“Hmhmm,” Arthur sang in disbelief, “I’m sure.”

Merlin sighed in defeat, “Arthur, you just started healing from the hunting accident and you know Gaius will be crossed that you directly went against his advice to stay in bed.”

Arthur folded his arms against his chest, “I’m not scared of going against Gaius, Merlin.”

Merlin smirked, “Now who’s lying?”

Arthur slumped against the front of the chair, “Alright, Gaius can be scary. But I’ve already made up my mind. And if anything does happen to me, you’ll be there anyways, right? What’s to worry about?”

Merlin conceded to that, “Fine, but just know I’ll be mad the entire time.”

Arthur let out a light laugh, placing his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, “I can live with that.”

Merlin fake scowled at him, making Arthur laugh again, so, just because he could, he magicked a pillow to hit the King’s face—this led to a very dignified pillow fight that both will profusely refuse happened later.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arthur wouldn’t say he regretted participating per se, but when his shoulder started pounding and, if he looked at it for longer than three seconds, blood may be seeping through his tunic, he can’t really say he was happy with his early choices.

Not that he would tell Merlin this, of course, who was giving him a waterskin with narrowed eyes.

“Arthur.”

“Hmm?” Arthur was staring at the two men fighting in the arena, each wielding quarterstaffs, who were amateur fighters at best.

“You’re favoring your right side, did you know that?”

Arthur’s head snapped to Merlin, “What? No I’m not.”

Merlin scowled at him, “You’re lying!”

Arthur pouted, “No I’m not.”

Merlin gasped, pointing a finger in his chest, “You’re doing it again! Arthur, you have some tells, you know.”

Arthur swatted away the finger, “No I don’t.”

Merlin, the idiot, laughed, “No? You always raise your eyebrows a bit when you lie, sire , and I know this for a fact.”

Arthur frowned, he thought he grew out of that, “No one can ever tell! I have to lie all the time in court and no one ever calls me out!”

Merlin sighed, rather dramatically, “Arthur, they also didn’t spend every godforsaken second for years memorizing your emotions as I did.”

Arthur tilted his head, contemplating that, “Why did you do that?”

That took Merlin off guard, which Arthur had hoped for, giving his servant a sly smile, as Merlin went violently red, a flush coming up from his neck to his ears, “What else was I supposed to do? I look at your face for the majority of the day, Arthur. I’m sure you know all my tells as well.”

Arthur hummed nonchalantly, “Whatever you say, Merlin.”

He did know all of Merlin’s mannerisms and what they meant, but he wasn’t going to say that nor was that his goal here.

Merlin shook his head, the momentarily forgotten anger returning, “That wasn’t the point! You’re hurt!”

At the same time Arthur opened his mouth to lie again, he was called out for his next match. That was his goal—to distract the mother hen of a servant until it was too late.

With a what can you do? shrug, that made Merlin frown more, Arthur quickly spun and walked onto the field, ignoring the burning stare of his worried warlock at his back.

~~~~~~~~~~

Merlin groaned as Arthur won the match, again. The idiot was hurting himself. Merlin could tell by the subtle weight changes to his right side, the way his smile didn’t reach his eyes, the way he paled slightly when Gwaine slapped him on the shoulder in congratulations.

He couldn’t believe this was the man he fell in love with. Destiny was a cruel thing indeed.

Merlin watched as Arthur let himself be manhandled by his knights, and Merlin couldn’t help but realize that put the entire gaggle of men in armor between them. Merlin narrowed his eyes at the rather clever tactic by his king.

As if sensing his disappointing glare, Arthur’s eyes found his. At least this time Arthur looked marginally apologetic, but not enough for Merlin’s taste. Was it really so bad that Merlin actually cared for Arthur’s well-being more than a stupid tournament?

He couldn’t fathom this. How was hitting people worth the pain Arthur must be in? Merlin grimaced when Leon slung his arm over the king, who imperceptibly winced at the movement.

When the next round called up, Merlin wanted to slam his head against the fence. Arthur was going against a sorcerer this round, because apparently the Merlin didn’t have enough to worry about as it was.

The sorcerer bounced on her heels, smiling at the king. Arthur smiled back, if not a little perplexed at the bubbly nature of the woman, and they shook hands.

Maybe this won’t go horribly wrong?

But when it began, Merlin recanted his statement vehemently. Of course it would go horribly wrong, it was Arthur he was talking about.

When the woman swung her quarterstaff at Arthur’s injured shoulder with her eyes glowing, Merlin jumped out of his seat. He ran into the field the second the staff hit its mark: Arthur went even more pale, and with a loud pained gasp, let go of his sword, landing roughly on his knees, grasping his shoulder.

Merlin didn’t hesitate. He took a stance between his king and the sorcerer, making Arthur’s blade fly into his own hand.

“Sorry, this ends now,” and with a swing of his sword, his eyes glowing the deepest golden, he attacked. Relentless, hurried, and cursing, Merlin had the woman at sword point in the matter of seconds—without breaking a sweat.

The woman’s eyes widened at the sword, hastily backing away with “I yield, my lord.”

Merlin wasn’t a lord, but he didn’t care to correct her as he handed the sword to Lance and went to Arthur’s side.

“That was a little overdramatic, don’t you think?” Arthur sighed out, pain clearly seen on his face, trying to make eye contact with Merlin.

Merlin grumbled, “Not remotely enough.”

Arthur let out a breathless, and delirious, laugh, “I think I’m bleeding out.”

And before anyone came closer, Merlin’s magic flared up.

The second he looked up, he realized that his magic brought them to Arthur’s chambers. With a small sigh of relief, Merlin made all the armor fall off and lifted Arthur’s tunic from over his head gently—hissing at the reopened wound pouring out blood.

“Arthur! You should have said something,” Merlin scolded, placing his hands of the opening and imagining the skin stitching itself back together—this would hold until Gaius came up and fixed Arthur himself.

Arthur looked at Merlin through clouded eyes, smiling softly, “Yeah, but what’s the fun in that?”

Merlin couldn’t help but soften at the look on Arthur’s face, “Careful, sire, keep looking at me like that and one could think you were besotted.”

Arthur murmured, “Indeed.”

Merlin was about to say something, not knowing what it would be, when Gaius crashed through the room with his healing bag in tow.

“Thank gods,” Merlin pushed himself out of the way as Gaius worked, helping him move Arthur to his bed when he was all patched up once more.

Arthur was lightly sleeping when Gaius made Merlin swear to magic the king down if he tried to move at all, and when Merlin swore his life on it, the old healer left them to their own devices.

An hour or two later, Merlin still hadn’t left Arthur’s chambers. He was currently sitting besides the king, placing a cool cloth to Arthur’s forehead, running his fingers through the golden sweat-soaked hair.

Merlin was singing softly when Arthur slowly opened his eyes.

“Merlin?”

“Arthur! How do you feel?”

Arthur groaned a little, trying to sit up, as he answered, “Not too good, I have to say.”

Merlin snorted, “Well serves you right. I told you that this was an idiotic plan. Why did you even do it? You have nothing to prove.”

Arthur was quiet for a minute as Merlin placed more pillows under him to make the king more comfortable, “I have everything to prove.”

Merlin sat back, confused, “To who? Camelot already adores you Arthur, and you’ve only been king for less than a year!”

Arthur sighed, leaning his head back, “To you, to myself, to my knights.”

At Merlin’s continued confused silence, Arthur made himself look at him, “To my knights, to show them that I can persevere. To myself, since this was the first tournament as King. And, to you, to show you that your devotion was worth it. That I was worth it.”

Merlin gaped, “Arthur! You have nothing to prove to me. Ever.” but when Arthur scoffed and looked away, Merlin lightly grabbed Arthur’s face and turned it to make Arthur see the truth written in Merlin’s eyes.

“Arthur, you are my king, now and always. I chose you because I knew that you are everything beautiful in this world. I give you my magic, my heart, and my life, because I know, in my soul, that you are the best person I will ever know. I never doubt my devotion to you because you prove time and time again how worthy you are of every title you bear. You are not only the best King to grace this land, but you are the very best of us. I know you, Arthur Pendragon, inside and out—so, please, never doubt your worth to me.”

Merlin lightly rubbed the tear off Arthur’s face that had slipped out, and Merlin muttered, “And if you ever try to fight with a recently closed wound again, after I specifically tell you not to, then I will find a way to strap you here and never let you leave my sight again.”

Arthur let out a small wet laugh at that, grabbing Merlin’s wrist. And while rubbing small circles there, that had Merlin’s pulse quickening, “I don’t know,” Arthur whispered, “when you defended me like that on the field, it was quite attractive. I would have appreciated it more if I hadn’t been bleeding out and delirious.”

Merlin laughed under his breath, “I should apologize to her, huh?”

Arthur shrugged his good shoulder, “You can after.”

Merlin quirked an eyebrow, “After what?”

Arthur gave a playful smile as he pulled Merlin into a kiss by his neckerchief. Merlin gasped, quickly reciprocating, a small smile forming at his lips.

And when they pulled back, foreheads resting on each other, Arthur quietly breathed out, “I love you too.”

[caitlesshea]

if you close your eyes

Happy (1 day) early birthday @themoonwhenimlost! I promised a Coffee Shop AU with a happy ending, so the happy ending will be posted on your actual birthday. Sorry not sorry? I love you!

Chapter 1/2

“Will you stop?” 

Joe pauses his attempt at pacing a hole in the floor to glare at Booker.

“You’re just going to keep working yourself into a frenzy.” Booker tsks at him.

“I’m nervous.”

“You’ve done this before.” Booker points out unhelpfully.

And the thing is, is that Joe knows he has. He’s nine hundred and fifty four years old, and he died his first death nine hundred and twenty one years ago, leaving him forever thirty three. 

His first death. Stabbed by a long sword at the hands of one Nicolò di Genova, but not before Joe was able to stab him first. Only, Joe gasped awake and Nicolò stayed dead.

Or so he thought. Thirty years practically to the day he sees Nicolò looking every bit the same, minus the ridiculous chain mail, working in Cairo. 

At first he thought that Nicolò had survived that fateful day, like Joe had, but over time he came to realize that wasn’t the case. This Nicolò was not from Genova, even though his family hailed from there. He was born thirty years earlier. 

Over the years they traveled together, became lovers, and when Nicolò had started to age, Joe told him his secret. 

After his Nicolò passed, it became clear that history was repeating itself. 

Ever since that second meeting, Joe will meet Nicolò one way or another, spend however long they have together in that lifetime, and then thirty years after he inevitably loses Nicolò, he’ll find him again. 

Nicolò isn’t always the same. He’ll have different hair, different styles, even different names. But he always looks at Joe like he’s the sun. 

Joe gets to fall in love with every version of Nicolò he meets. 

Nicolò never remembers Joe or the lifetimes they’ve lived. Something Joe has spent his long life cursing the universe for. 

Now, he’s pacing his apartment floor, thirty years after he last lost Nicolò to old age. He never knows why he gets an inkling to do something or go somewhere a year or two before the thirty years is up, but he always follows his gut and does what his heart tells him. 

This time he knew he needed to be a university professor. Booker ever so kindly forging documents for him and now that he’s been at the university for two years he’s getting anxious. 

With technology how it is he knows he could’ve looked up Nicolò. He knows he’ll have some variation of the name he had all those years ago when Joe was still Yusuf and Nicolò was still Nicolò. 

But, he doesn’t want to. Well, that’s not true. But he feels like that’s cheating destiny. 

So far they’ve always met organically. Joe never seeks him out and once he gets comfortable enough to let his guard down and share their past with Nicolò it always goes over as smoothly as it can. 

“Too many times.” Joe answers Booker solemnly. 

“Joe.” 

“No. No, I’m being melancholic.” 

Booker snorts but then softens. “Hey.” Booker stands and grabs Joe’s shoulders. “This is always the worst part but once you meet it’s like he never left.”

“I know. I know.” The thing is Joe does know. Even though Joe always goes through thirty year periods without Nicolò he always gets him back. 

Reincarnation. 

Or, that’s what Copley, Booker’s husband, had called it when he first became immortal and joined their family. 

“Alright enough of this.” Booker walks over to the front door to put on his shoes. “I want coffee, we’re getting coffee.”

“I have coffee here.” Joe mutters weakly as he puts on his own shoes. 

“I want to try that new place on Charlie.”

“Cup of Joe?” Joe groans even as he says it. He hates coffee shops close to the university because he always seems to run into students. 

“Yes that one! I like the name.” 

“I hate you.” 

“Love you too, mon chéri.”

Joe laughs as Booker blows him a kiss as they make their way to the coffee shop. 

“I’m telling James you said that.”

“You wound me, Yusuf.”

“You’ll get over it.” Joe mumbles as he pushes open the door to the coffee shop with an entirely un-unique name. 

He’s about to let Booker walk in first when he turns and runs into someone. The moment they touch Joe knows it’s Nicolò.

Joe’s breath catches and they lock eyes, only Nicolò doesn’t have the usual look of wonder when they meet, no. This time he’s scowling. 

“Scusi.” Nicolò looks at him and scurries away but not before shooting a glare back at Joe. 

Booker shrugs and a woman wearing an apron behind the counter quickly apologizes for Nicolò’s behavior.

“Sorry. Nicky’s not normally so rude to customers.” The woman glares at Nicky and Joe smiles at the name. 

Nicky. 

He’s never gone by Nicky before but Joe immediately loves it. 

“It’s alright. Maybe he didn’t see me.”

Booker snorts and Joe elbows him in the side. 

“Maybe.” The woman looks at Nicky and turns back to them. “I’m Nile, what can I get for you?”

“I’ll have a large soy chai with extra whip cream.” Booker cuts in and Joe rolls his eyes at his drink choice. 

“I’ll take a coffee please, two sugars.” Joe says and Booker elbows him now and points to a sign.

First coffee is free for customers named Joe.

“Oh! Free coffee?”

“Is your name Joe?” Nile asks as she pulls out two punch cards for them.

“Yes.” Joe answers at the same time Nicky says, “That’s not his name.”

“Nicky.” Nile hisses and turns around. “Frankie! Come get your boy.” 

Another woman comes out from the back of the counter and takes one look at everyone and then grabs Nicky who starts muttering something that suspiciously sounds like his name is Yusuf in Italian.

Joe's staring stock still and Booker’s looking at him like he’s worried Joe’s going to start freaking out. 

“I am so sorry. Coffee’s on the house. I promise he is not like this.”

Nile’s worried voice breaks him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“It’s okay. I’m a professor at the university so my real name is in my bio. It’s Joseph.”

“Presumably most people named Joe have a full name.” Nile mumbles and looks back to where Frankie is forcing Nicky to sit down. 

“Anything else?” Nile asks as Joe stares at the bakery case. 

“No thanks.” Joe answers and they take their coffees to go.

“That was weird.” Booker mutters when they get outside. 

“You think?” Joe scrubs a hand over his face. “He’s never been hostile towards me.”

“Except the first time.” Booker points out unhelpfully. 

Joe glares at him.

“C’mon, we’ll come back tomorrow after your class. Maybe he’ll be in a better mood.”

~~~

Turns out, Nicky is not in a better mood when they head back to Cup of Joe.

Nile shoves him into the back as they order and Joe’s heart sinks. 

Booker looks like he’s about to say something when Joe spots baklava in the bakery case. 

“Baklava?” 

“Oh yes. Nicky loves it, loves to travel, so he bakes different versions from around the world. If you put in some money and guess the ingredients we’ll give you one on the house.”

Joe looks up at a sign that says:

Place your bets!

Booker snorts and Joe is transported to the last time Booker and Nicolò bet five hundred dollars on Andy guessing the flavors of an Eastern Turkey baklava.

Joe can hear Nicolò’s voice in his head. 

“Five hundred, Booker?” 

Joe turns to look at Booker and can tell he’s reliving the same memory. 

“Alright, five dollars Joe can guess that one.” Booker points to one on the top shelf and places a five dollar bill in the bowl.

“Okay!” Nile scoops up the baklava and hands it to Joe on some parchment. Before he takes a bite, Nile's yelling for Nicky and Frankie.

“Nicky! Frankie! We’ve got a guesser!” 

A crash sounds and then giggling and Joe’s breath catches at the sound of Nicky’s laughter.

“Honestly, introduce my wife to my best friend once.” Nile mumbles and Joe chuckles. 

He understands that sentiment, the first time he introduced Nicolò to Andy, Quynh, and Booker, and every time thereafter, they’ve all become fast friends.

“Who’s guessing?” Nicky asks and then pauses when his eyes lock with Joe’s.

Nicky turns away too quickly for Joe to notice anything so he decides to take a bite of the baklava and moans at the flavor.

“Mmm. Hazelnut, not walnut.” Joe takes a bite as Booker starts counting the ingredients off on his fingers. Nile smiles at him.

“Black Sea.” Joe smiles and takes another bite. “Rose water, pomegranate.”

Joe can see Nicky tensing and Joe takes another bite.

“Mmm. Eastern Turkey.” 

Joe opens his eyes in time to see Nile clapping and Booker smirking. 

But Joe only has eyes for Nicky, who’s covering his face in his hands as he turns and heads back behind the counter. Frankie pats Nicky on the back and looks at Joe and Booker.

“You’re the first one to guess that flavor profile.” Then she turns on her heels to find Nicky.

“That was amazing!” Nile’s still smiling and Joe shrugs. 

The flavors are familiar because it’s the last piece of baklava they bought Andy together, on their last trip to Turkey, the one Nicky bet Booker on.

Booker shrugs at him and orders another coffee.

“Do you want your free pastry now or rain check?”

Joe thinks about it for a moment. “Rain check.” 

Nile nods and pulls off a coupon from a little booklet and hands Joe a coffee. He thanks her for both as he wanders over to the wall of books and smiles at the little stand to drop off used books. 

“This was Nicky’s idea.” Nile says as she comes up beside him.

“The books?” Nicolò always did love books. Joe smiles at the warm memories.

“Mm. My wife and I wanted to open a coffee shop, and Nicky agreed to partner with us if he could bake and bring his books.”

Joe feels warm all over at the very Nicolò like thing that was to do. Nicolò was always reading and feeding people.

“These are his?” Joe looks over at the books.

“Some of them, yes. He thinks they should be shared with the world, which is why if you leave a book.” Nile points to the stand. “You can take a book.” 

“I love that.” Joe says honestly.

“So did we.” The bell at the front door jingles to indicate a new customer and Nile smiles as she goes to help them.

“How very Nicolò.” Booker mutters as he walks up to the books.

“I know.” Joe stops suddenly when he sees them. 

His books. His poetry. Nine of them, the very first volume One Thousand Sixty Nine is the only one missing. 

“Joe.”

“He has my poetry books.” Joe whispers, looking at the volumes, all written under various cover names. Except the first one. Which hasn’t been in print for a long time, the remaining copies sitting in a trunk at his house. 

“He has good taste.” Booker tries to joke but Joe isn’t convinced. 

“He’s never.” Joe shakes his head. “He’s never had any of my things before.” 

Booker turns back to look at where Nile and Nicky are whispering with a look of great concentration on his face. 

“What?” Joe snaps and then immediately apologizes. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. C’mon, you can come back tomorrow.”

“I don’t…”

“Joe.” Booker grabs his shoulders after they get outside. “I know this is different but when has any of this ever made sense?”

“No, you’re right.”

“I usually am.” Booker says smugly as Joe rolls his eyes.

“Don’t push it.” 

~~~

Joe changes up his tactics the next day, heading to Cup of Joe without Booker. 

He’s waited thirty years to see his Nicolò, hopefully he can manage a single conversation with Nicky that doesn’t involve glaring. 

No such luck. 

“Morning Nicky.” Joe says brightly and Nicky, ever the professional, sighs with his whole body and gets Joe’s coffee. 

That he doesn’t even have to ask Joe what he likes to drink makes Joe smile.

“Did you want your free pastry?” Nicky asks him and Joe smiles at the first real words Nicky has spoken to him.

“Surprise me?” Joe smirks and some of the tension Nicky’s carrying eases. 

Nicky picks a pastry that Joe finds vaguely familiar and when Joe takes a bite he actually can’t help the moan that escapes. 

“Oh my god, this is my favorite.” Joe says around a mouthful of a desert he hasn’t had in years. His mother used to make a variation of this and Nicolò always replicated it when he would learn that fact. 

“I know...I’m glad you like it.” Nicky curses in Italian and Joe can only look at him inquisitively. 

Before Joe can say anything else another customer walks in taking Nicky’s attention. 

Joe walks over to the bookcases and discretely pulls his own book out of his bag, the first volume that Nicky’s collection is missing. He places it on the Borrow a Book shelf and turns back to speak to Nicky.

“Ci vediamo domani.” Joe waves, pleased at the look of shock on Nicky’s face. 

Joe’s about to go to class when he sees a text from Booker. 

[Book: you gave him the book didn’t you?]

[Joe: how did you know that?]

[Joe: did you break into my place again?]

[Book: I have a key]

[Joe: I’m taking it back]

[Book: no you aren’t]

Joe sighs, Booker’s right. He isn’t taking his key back. They all have keys to each other’s place, privacy long since passed between all of them. It’s more enter at your own risk now. But still. 

Joe wanted a little more time with his decision to essentially out himself as himself with this prickly version of Nicolò before everyone else knew about it. 

And everyone else would know about it because Booker likes to gossip. 

He pockets his phone, resigned to spending hours with ungrateful students before he can see Nicky again. 

~~~

Joe thought when he walked into Cup of Joe the next morning he would be met with a shy smile and a ‘how did you find that edition?’ of his book that he dropped off. 

What he did not expect was for Nicky to grab him by the arm and bring him right back outside in such a flurry that Joe nearly falls down. 

Joe takes a moment to steady himself as he takes in the anger and fear on Nicky’s face. 

It’s something Joe hasn’t seen in centuries, although this Nicky is already so different than the Nicolò’s of the past, from his longer hair curling around his ears, the beard around his face, and two gold earrings, but also the fact that he seems to remember is enough for Joe to know this time is different.

“Where did you find this?” Nicky scowls and shakes the book Joe dropped off the day before in front of his face. 

“I…”

“Yusuf.” The sound of Joe’s real name jolts him back into awareness. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I had it in my collection. Thought I could complete yours.”

“Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani.”

Joe sucks in a shaky breath.

“Tell me how I know that’s your name.” Nicky snarls. “Tell me.”

“How? I don’t - ” 

“He’s the moon when I’m lost in darkness and warmth when I shiver in cold.” 

“Nicky.”

“Tell me, Yusuf, how I didn’t have to read a single line in this damn book to know what it said.” Nicky shoves the book into Joe’s chest and he clutches it to him. 

“I - ”

“Better yet. Tell me how I remember you writing this. In Malta, in our cottage by the sea with the windows open while I laid in bed. ‘Nicolò, habibi, stay just like that.’ ‘Are you sketching again, amore mio?’ ‘No, writing about our love.’ Because it is a memory, isn’t it?” 

Joe feels like he’s been sucker punched. 

“You...you remember?” 

Nicky groans and grabs at his hair. Joe doesn’t know how this is possible. So many things in his life haven’t made since but Nicolò, even though they go years without each other, has always been his constant. 

“Tell me how this is possible?”

“I can’t, I…” Joe feels like he can’t breathe and the incoming panic isn’t helping. “I have to go.” 

Joe turns quickly and walks away from Nicky as fast as he can even though Nicky’s shouting after him. 

“Yusuf!”

Joe feels like running but he’s already struggling to breathe so he doesn’t, thankful that Booker and Copley live close to the coffee shop. 

He gets to their door and knocks, barely able to stand. He could use his key but that would require effort. He hears someone’s footsteps, Copley’s probably, and braces against the door as it opens.

“Joe? Why didn’t you use your key?” Copley asks him and then frowns at him.

“James.” Joe croaks out and Copley immediately knows that something is wrong because Joe has called him James exactly one time, and it was when Copley and Booker got married.

“Okay. C’mon. Can you walk?” 

Joe nods and he can tell Copley is checking him over to see if he’s injured.

“‘M fine.”

Joe sinks down onto their plush couch as Copley calls for Booker.

“James? Was someone at the door?” Booker takes one look at what Joe is sure is the most pathetic he’s ever looked before Booker’s running over to him.

“Joe? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Booker’s frantically checking him over and Joe just shakes his head. 

Joe looks up at the sound of more footsteps and cringes when he sees Andy and Quynh. 

“What? You didn’t think we remembered what year it is?” Andy asks as she sits on the coffee table. 

Joe gives her a weak smile as Booker grabs his hands to stop them from shaking.

Copley hands him a glass of water and Joe’s grateful for the cold, as he takes a couple of minutes to get his breathing under control. 

When he’s finally able to take a true breath he looks up at the people he’s called family for longer than anyone should ever live and cries.

“He remembers.” Joe says brokenly.

“Who?”

“What does he remember?” 

“What happened?”

“Nicky?”

Joe ignores the rapid fire questions from everyone and just looks at Booker. 

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Someone tell me what’s going on.” Andy uses her no nonsense voice and Joe cringes.

“He met Nicolò the other day.” Booker sighs after a moment when Joe stays silent. 

Andy and Quynh gasp, which Joe supposes is nice, that Booker didn’t let the cat out of the bag until Joe could tell them himself. 

“He goes by Nicky this time.” Joe smiles at the memory of finding out that Nicolò uses a nickname in this lifetime. 

“He owns a coffee shop with two of his friends, it’s called Cup of Joe.” 

Andy snorts and Quynh swats at her arm. 

“He, well there were signs the last couple of days that he knew things about me, about us, that he shouldn't have. But I just assumed it was me overreacting.”

“I take it the book didn’t help?” Booker holds up the book to show everyone and Joe nods.

“I dropped it off yesterday and today before I even made it inside Nicky was grabbing me and bringing me outside to tell me he remembered every line of poetry.”

“Well, that would make sense if he read it yesterday.” Copley sits down next to Booker, who immediately grabs his hand. 

“He didn’t just remember the poetry. He remembered what we were doing when I wrote it.”

“Gross.” Booker gags and Joe shoves him while everyone laughs.

“No. We were in Malta. He told me word for word the conversation we had.”

“And you remember it?” Andy asks and Joe glares at her.

“Of course I do.” Joe snaps and then reaches out to squeeze Andy’s hand in apology. 

“What do you want to do?” Andy asks him and Joe shakes his head.

“No, it’s not just about me or - ”

“Joe. If he’s remembering you need to tell him. You always do anyway.” Booker says quietly. 

“He was just so confused.” Joe puts his head in his hands, ashamed at himself for leaving Nicky there when he was clearly freaking out. 

“Hey.” Booker grabs his shoulder and Joe looks at him.

“I just left him. He’s all alone and I left him, probably wondering what’s going on.” 

“It’s too late now to do anything. You can go to the coffee shop tomorrow and see him.” Booker suggests as Copley stands to make dinner.

“Tomorrow.”

Joe wants to go now. Wants to comfort Nicky or at least be an outlet for his frustration. Joe’s never had to explain their history to Nicky with Nicky already having a head start. 

“Fine. Copley better be making croque monsieurs.”

“I am!” 

Booker laughs and claps him on the back and Joe nods, resolute to fix this, so he doesn’t lose Nicky this lifetime. 

~~~

Joe shows up at Cup of Joe right as it’s opening, a small bushel of lavender, Nicolò’s favorite, in his right hand, and his poetry book in his left. 

Nile takes one look at him when he gets to the counter and scowls.

Joe takes a step back and holds his hands up. Nile notices the lavender and softens immediately.

“Is that for Nicky?”

“Yeah.” Joe swallows. “How is he?” 

“He’s...been better.”

Joe nods and looks to the side, wondering just how much Nicky disclosed to his friends. They’ve had mortal friends throughout the years, if only because Nicky was mortal as well. A few they’d let in on their secrets but not in a long time. 

Nile sighs loudly and he turns his attention back to her. 

“Look. I don’t know what happened between you two, but he was pretty shaken up yesterday.”

“I didn’t…” At Nile’s scowl, Joe amends his statement. “It was a misunderstanding. I have no intention of hurting him again.”

Nile takes a moment, sizes him up, and must come to some conclusion that he’s telling the truth because she nods and hands him a brown paper bag and a to go cup.

“What’s this?”

“His favorites.”

Joe smells the bag and smiles. “Vanilla latte and blueberry scone.”

Nile smiles at him and Joe’s thankful she doesn’t ask how he knows that.

“He lives upstairs. That.” She nods to the bag. “Will let him know I sent you.”

“Thank you, Nile.”

“Don’t make me regret this!” Nile shouts after him as he goes to leave.

“I won’t!” 

Joe finds the stairs leading to the second floor and smiles at the hanging plants and welcome mat that says ciao at the front door. 

Nicky opens the door before Joe even knocks, almost like he was expecting Joe to stop by. 

Joe smiles and holds up his offerings. “Hi. I think we should talk?”

Nicky holds the door open further so Joe can walk inside and as he takes a look around he smiles warmly at the apartment that is so very Nicky.

“Nile gave me these.” Joe hands over the coffee and scone. “And I brought you these.”

Nicky takes the lavender and brings it to his nose to smell. He smiles a little, even though it’s sad.

“I guess I don’t have to tell you they’re my favorite, do I?” 

“I’d love to learn everything about you.” Joe blurts out instead of the answer Nicky really wants. 

Nicky takes that for what it is as he puts the lavender in a vase and then opens the brown paper bag and moans when he sees the scone. 

Joe chuckles. “You like your own baking that much?”

Nicky looks at him oddly and then shakes his head as he takes a bite. “I don’t make these, Frankie does.”

Joe pauses and then smiles as he remembers that he always made Nicolò scones, an old family recipe that puts…

“Brown sugar in the batter.” Nicky finishes and Joe realizes that he said the last part out loud. 

Joe smiles, sheepish, and holds up the book instead. 

“I wanted you to have this.”

“Why?”

“Well, frankly, it’s yours.”

Nicky nods and hands Joe a glass of water and Joe is grateful for something to do with his hands as he waits for Nicky to answer. 

Joe hands it to Nicky who runs his hands over the cover like it’s something special and precious.

“This was the only one I couldn’t find. The others, they’re not a true collection, different authors.” Nicky grins. “But I knew they were all by the same person.”

“Did you?”

“Know it was you before the other day?”

Joe nods, wondering if Nicky’s been remembering his past lives his entire life.

“No. And before you ask I didn’t start...uhh, the, uhh, un riccardo, how do you say in English?”

“Memory.”

“Right, the memories didn’t start until we met the other day.”

“When we touched?” Joe remembers the jolt he felt, unfamiliar and familiar at the same time. 

“Sì.” 

“I’ve had these feelings my whole life, inklings, I think. Like with the books, the scones, things like that, but never actual memories before.”

Joe looks around the apartment and notices the tapestries and rugs that match the ones they have in their home in Malta. The artwork on the walls, reproductions of both Booker’s and Joe’s art. The same nine books of Joe’s that he has in the coffee shop. Little pieces of their lives together and Nicky had no idea.

“It’s all familiar to you?” Nicky asks him quietly and Joe nods.

“Will you tell me about it?”

“About what?”

“Our life...lives.” 

Joe looks shocked for a moment. “I thought you?”

“I want to hear it from you, if you’re willing?”

“Yes. Yes of course.” Joe smiles, pleased that Nicky’s willing to hear him out. “Where do you want me to start?”

“The beginning.”

“It’s quite a long story. I’ve been alive a long time.”

“I’d like to hear it. I need to...make sense of everything.” Nicky points to his head and Joe smiles.

“Alright. I’m pretty sure you killed me during the Crusades.”

Nicky laughs and Joe can’t help it, he laughs too. A thought occurs to Joe and he gasps.

“Is that why you were so cold to me when we first met?”

Nicky’s cheeks turn a bright pink as he ducks his head and Joe warms at the sight.

“I didn’t know what was happening. I was confused. Seeing things that couldn’t have been real, in languages I didn’t know I knew.” Nicky shrugs. 

“You know I don’t blame you, right? We’ve long since worked it out.”

Nicky gasps and Joe’s glad that he can read this version of Nicky. 

“The love of my life was of the people I’ve been taught to hate.” Nicky recites and then shakes his head and Joe steps closer, raises his hand to telegraph his movements. 

Nicky nods and Joe squeezes his hand, gasps as the buzzing returns but then settles. 

“I love you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“You’re right, I don’t know this version of you, but I know your heart. I know the pain you still feel about what happened, but I’m telling you, the Nicolò I love has grown to realize the mistakes he made when he marched on Jerusalem.”

Nicky squeezes his hand before he steps back and Joe lets him go, stepping back a little himself. 

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you about our lives together, and you tell me about you.”

“You want to know about me?”

“I want to know everything.” 

Nicky smiles and turns to put on a kettle. Joe warms at the thought that Nicky still loves tea even though he owns a coffee shop.

“Chamomile? I think we’ll be up a while.”

Joe nods and takes a sip of the tea when it’s done, smiling when he realizes it’s just the way he likes it. 

Joe walks over the couch and settles with a blanket as he gestures for Nicky to join him. Nicky chuckles softly and goes to sit down.

Joe immediately shares the blanket as they settle in. 

“I think I’d rather hear about you first, especially if you remember a lot of our lives.”

“I’m not that interesting.” 

“Nicolò.” Joe waits until Nicky looks at him. “You are the most interesting person to me, always.”

Nicky blushes again and Joe’s enamored. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, he can’t wait to learn everything about this Nicky. 

~~~

When he leaves Nicky’s apartment the next morning, he’s smiling from ear to ear, with a spring in his step, even though he didn’t sleep.

They spent the rest of the day and all night talking, trading story after story. He knows they didn’t learn everything but he feels closer to Nicky than he ever has before, not realizing he was missing a partner that just knew things about him.

He also managed to get Nicky’s number and plans for an actual date tomorrow night, since all they ended up eating was leftovers. 

He’s giddy with the thought of dating Nicky. Of learning about all of the little things that make this Nicky decidedly his own. 

Joe doesn’t know how he does it but he makes it through all of his lectures and office hours. He even makes it through dinner with the family, overjoyed to tell them about his night and plans for the next day. 

He wakes up happier than ever, eager for the day to end so he can take Nicky out on their date. 

“I’ve never seen you like this.” Booker comments as they make their way to Cup of Joe the next morning.

“It’s all so new, we’ve never dated like this before.”

“You’ve dated.”

“But not like this. Not where he knows.” Joe knows he’s practically bouncing as they walk down the street, smiling from ear to ear. 

Booker chuckles and he shoves his brother lightly when he sees Nicky, Nile, and Frankie setting up their patio outside the coffee shop.

Joe also knows he has a besotted look on his face because Booker gags and then groans.

“Oh god, it’s like that already?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Joe says innocently and Booker smiles.

“It’s good to see you like this, brother.” 

Joe smiles warmly at Booker before he looks back at the trio outside the coffee shop. They’re just crossing the street and he calls out for Nicky. 

“Nicolò!”

But just as Nicky turns to smile at him, a car comes barreling down the road, completely out of control, and Joe can only watch in horror as the car hits the curb right in front of the coffee shop, flipping and careening right into the patio in a sickening crunch. 

“Nicolò!” Joe screams as others nearby scream and he and Booker run towards the wreckage. 

“Nicolò!” Joe slides to where Nicky was standing and sees him lying lifeless on the patio. He briefly touches Nicky’s forehead and looks around and sees Nile and Frankie lying at unnatural angles.

Nicky’s body is shielding them like he tried to push them out of the way. 

“Nicolò.” Joe croaks as Booker tries to pull him away.

“No. No!” 

“Joe. We have to call for help.”

“I can’t leave him!”

“Joe. He’s gone.”

“No! No!” Joe sobs as he cradles Nicky’s head. “No.”

“Yusuf.”

“No.” Joe knows he’s not breathing right, the hiccuping sobs making it harder to think.

“Nicolò, destati.” Joe sobs as he brushes Nicky’s shoulder softly. 

“Destati.”

[rabid-heart]

Through the Threads of Space and Time (I’ll Always Love You)

Kicking off Sefikura Week!

For @sefikuraweek 2021. Day 1 - Prompt: Meeting In Another World

After living and dying countless times, Sephiroth and Cloud finally find paradise, with each other. But all good things must come to an end.

Rating: Teen and Up

Warnings: Some implied sexual content and a description of a serious injury.

Read on Ao3 here.

--- 

It took them far too long to come together. They had danced in a battle across the threads of time and space, the clash of their blades louder than any words or feelings they might have wished to share. At the start, there was nothing more than bitter rage and anger – how could Cloud feel anything else toward the man who seemed destined to destroy every world he awakened in?

But then something changed. It might have been the hundredth meeting – might have been the thousandth, for after years and lifetimes, it was hard for Cloud to keep track – but this time, when his sword cut through Sephiroth’s body, the man did not look at him with shocked arrogance or disdain. Instead, those green eyes were glazed with tears of longing, of hope, of relief, of thanks.

When Cloud awoke the next time, he was haunted by those eyes and the ghosts of unspoken words that swirled behind them. Over the following lifetimes, over the repeated sight of those green eyes, Cloud had tried to push the dangerous thoughts away – the traitorous what ifs that kept him up at nights, that made him hold his sword with just a little bit more uncertainty. He had stubbornly convinced himself that there was no other path to follow. And why wouldn’t he? In all the lives he ever lived, there was only one constant: Sephiroth would destroy and Cloud would be his executioner.

Maybe he was tired. Maybe there was a part of him that thought to simply try something new. Or maybe the thought of seeing those eyes grateful for the death that Cloud had given them had vexed Cloud’s last nerve. Because at one point, finally, the warrior had had enough.

When he let go, stepped back and let that long silver blade pierce straight through him, Sephiroth’s green eyes were not thankful. They were not triumphant either. They were afraid. They said, pleaded, begged, please don’t leave me alone.

In the next life, that was all Cloud could think about.

In hindsight, the fact that it took them this long, this many cycles, this many lives, to get to this point was ridiculous. Cloud and Sephiroth were tied together, irrevocably, inescapably. It was a fact of the universe as was the force of gravity. No matter how far they were at the start, they would always collide. But this was a different type of collision – not of swords, but of lips and limbs and bodies and hearts and souls. It only took one night together for the realization to sink in: this was what they were meant to be. For there was no one else in the world that understood the dark crevices of Cloud’s mind and cherished him for it. And in turn, there was no one else in the world that Sephiroth knew would never truly leave him. It was perfect.

But the Planet itself seemed to disagree. It clawed its way between them, tried to tear them asunder, tried to set them back on the fated paths they were always meant to walk. It was too late, though. Cloud now knew what paradise felt like and it was waking up to silver hair and dazzling green eyes and warm arms. And if Sephiroth kept one thing from his repeated reincarnations, it was obsession. They would never stop fighting for each other, even if it would tear the strands of the world apart.

In the end, they had decided to run – find a corner of creation that would be theirs and theirs alone. And it is here that Cloud finds himself now, in a meadow of wildflowers and late summer breezes and clear blue skies. He feels like he once did as a young child, without worries or care, warm inside like nights by the fire with a mug of hot cocoa. He is walking as he does on some mornings, listless and barefoot, letting the flowers and tall grass graze through his fingertips. In the bed inside the house up the hill, Sephiroth is still sleeping.

Cloud rarely wakes before the man, but when he does, he walks. Because it is in the hazy morning light that Sephiroth looks the most human, asleep with his hair falling out of the tie that had come undone during the night. When Cloud sees that profile, feels the soft breath on his forehead, hears the steady heartbeat under his ears, it is just shy of overwhelming. The sight never fails to awaken something in Cloud: the mounting of a thousand promises, of heartfelt devotion, of the desire to remain there pressed into that man’s chest forever. Because in those mornings, he is reminded that he loves Sephiroth so much, that he can hardly breathe for it.

So, Cloud gets up and walks, for fear of drowning. He knows now that Sephiroth does not mind. He even understands, watchful eyes always assessing, always knowing, always wanting. He will stay in bed until Cloud is ready to come home, offer the fond and sleepy smile that he has now learned to give so freely, and allow the blond to climb onto his lap and show him just how much he loves him. It is a ritual now that feels even more exhilarating than the battles they used to perform (though every once in a while, they dig up their blades from storage and enjoy a dance or two, for old times’ sake).

Cloud thinks about that routine now and looks back at the house, anticipation and excitement and joy curling in his heart. He begins to make his way up the hill, when he notices dark shadows rumbling over the grassy fields, green cracks of lightning shooting through the sky. The edges of the world around them begin to dissolve, like sand in water, and as the air begins to thicken with smoke, so too does the fear grow in Cloud’s heart.

They’ve found us.

He runs, bare feet pounding hard against the dirt, still wet from the morning dew. Though it has been many years since he called upon it, the old speed still has not left Cloud, and it only takes seconds before he crosses the threshold into the cottage. He tracks dirt in as he makes his way to the bedroom, and belatedly thinks about how Sephiroth would chide him for the messes he makes.

“Sephiroth,” Cloud breathes, standing in the doorway in his mud-covered feet. The man in question had still been asleep when the blond had wandered in, though Sephiroth was now groggily starting to stir under the sheets. Cloud moves to the side of the bed, shaking him more urgently. “Get up, we have to run.”

“Run?” Sephiroth counters cautiously, still blinking away the sleep from his eyes. As a by-product of no longer spending the days fighting, the former General had begun indulging slow rises, among other comforts he had not enjoyed before this life. It is almost endearing, seeing him this way, vulnerable and confused and still unbelievably handsome all the same.

But Cloud does not have time for this, not if he wants to keep this life he’s built alive another moment. He takes the other man’s face in his hands, brings it close, their eyes locking, and says, “The Planet, it’s come for us, Seph.”

It takes a moment for the understanding to dawn. When it does, Sephiroth shoots off the bed. He moves toward the closet, pulls on a shirt and some pants, and states, “Get your things. I’ll get your swords.”  

Cloud does as he is told. He shoves a bag full of some of clothes, and rushes to the front closet to grab their boots. By the time he returns to the bedroom, Sephiroth has retrieved First Tsurugi and its accompanying harness from the storage closet in the basement. Cloud does not bother with the harness, simply grasps the combined blade. “Can you get us out of here?” he says, pleadingly.

Sephiroth closes his eyes for a moment, trying to dust away the cobwebs of the old magic he used to wield so effortlessly. After he had created this space for him and Cloud, he hardly practiced the art anymore. Most of his god-like abilities, he had abandoned, and if his wing ever made an appearance, it was only in bed and at Cloud’s request. The reduction was a sacrifice he had been willing to make for a lifetime with his love. But neither of them had counted on this.

The man tries to conjure a portal to another world, but the threads of the spell slip from his fingers. “I’m sorry, I’ll need time.”

“We don’t have it,” Cloud says, slinging the bag over his shoulder and moving closer to the silver-haired man. “But maybe we can buy ourselves some.”

Sephiroth nods and wraps his arm around Cloud, holding the smaller man as to him as tightly as possible. He conjures his wing and a moment later the two of them are in the sky, soaring far away from the cottage they had lived in for nearly countless years now. As they fly, Cloud watches as the dark shadows and green tendrils begin consuming the entirety of the peaceful meadow, swallowing their home whole.

Cloud tries not to let the feelings overwhelm him now, but they are there, building armies in his mind. Despair, for one, which is ironic and terrible and cruel in itself. But there are others, like fear and anxiety and desperation, too. He had thought that they successfully escaped from it, the cycle of repeated lives and lies and deaths, the dreadful fortune the wheel of fate continued to turn and turn for them. He had thought that they had defied destiny itself. But despite all their strength and power, they had failed. And now, they could lose everything. That alone was enough to break the dam of his tears, and Cloud finds himself crying soundlessly.

Destiny, it turned out, was a stubborn mistress.

“Cloud,” Sephiroth whispers, pausing for a moment mid-air. He notes the dampness of the shoulder of his shirt. “You’re crying.”

“I’m fine, keep moving,” Cloud whispers, curling into his lover tightly.

Sephiroth opens his mouth to say something, but lightning strikes suddenly through the sky, and the next thing Cloud knows, they are falling. He sees Sephiroth’s eyes, wide with a fear that the man rarely shows, and Cloud knows own his eyes mirror the same expression. The inevitability begins to sink in as gravity takes over. And still, Sephiroth grasps him tightly, shifting their positions to brace their fall, and before Cloud can protest, they land in the dirt, hard and with a sickening crack.

For a moment, there is silence, and Cloud wonders if he had briefly passed out, if this is all just a terrible nightmare, if he will just wake up and be in that bed that he had made with his own two hands, in the arms of the man that he loves more than the world itself. But unfortunately, when the blond opens his eyes, only the latter is true. Sephiroth is still holding him, but his breathing is ragged, as if he is trying to stifle the pain that keeps rising out of his throat. Quickly, Cloud rolls off of Sephiroth and surveys the damage. The man’s wing had torn into shreds from the lighting strike, the bones of it broken and jutting through the feathers from the stun of the fall. He looks at Cloud now with watery eyes that still hold such fondness, such resilience, such power, such grace.

Like a fallen angel.

“Are you alright?” Sephiroth breathes, reaching out to Cloud.

Cloud just sobs in response, moving to cradle Sephiroth’s head in his lap. “Oh, Seph, I’m so sorry, I—”

“It was my fault. I shouldn’t have stopped.”

But he did, because Cloud was crying and Sephiroth, for all his logic and strategy and intelligence, loves him far too much to not try and comfort him. It is so bittersweet that Cloud apologizes again anyway, pressing kisses to that perfect face. He can taste the hint of salt on his lips, but whether it is from his own tears, or Sephiroth’s, he does not know.

“Is it bad?” Sephiroth asks, half-jokingly.

Cloud hates it, hates that the man has tried to develop a sense of humor to entertain him over the years, hates that he is using it now. But he leans forward and presses his forehead against Sephiroth’s and says, “No, it’s fine.”

Sephiroth closes his eyes, because he knows Cloud and knows well enough when he is lying. “Then you have to go.”

“No.”

“You are running out of time.”

“I am not leaving you.”

“You have to.”

Cloud shakes his head furiously. “No. No. I’m never leaving you. I’m never leaving you, ever. I’m yours and you are mine and we are never going to be apart, ever again.”

“If only that were true, my love,” Sephiroth murmurs back, and reaches a hand up to tangle in those blond spikes.

“I’ll make it true,” Cloud says. “With everything I have.”

But as the words leave his lips, they both can feel it, the dark shadows approaching. They had ages here, in this world they created, days and months and years folding into each other. And somehow now, with only minutes left until the end, Cloud feels that all that time is not enough. He wants more. He wants forever, an eternity. He wants Sephiroth, the only thing that had filled the empty chasm in his soul, the only thing that makes him feel real and whole.

Sephiroth looks at him, and Cloud swears he can see the man’s heart breaking. “You must go, Cloud.”

“No.”

“They’ll take you. They’ll take you and take me and in the next life, they won’t let us be together, not again.”

“Then I’ll make them,” Cloud fires back, and in his eyes are anguish and fear but also devotion and steel, all the things that make Cloud so utterly irresistible and utterly unbreakable. Sephiroth wants to believe him, wants to believe in that strength that had challenged and defeated him again and again, wants to believe that it may be enough. He looks at that sunflower hair, that freckled face, those dazzling eyes, and thinks that there cannot be anything more beautiful to believe in than this. For if there is something more stubborn than destiny, then it had to be Cloud Strife.

 And Sephiroth himself never went down without a fight.

“Then I will find you. In the next life, I promise, I’ll find you,” he says.

Cloud responds, “And I promise, I’ll save you.”

Sephiroth seals the vow of meeting again in another world by pressing his lips against Cloud’s, fierce and full of all the longing in a heart that he had thought lost all capability to love long ago, in a heart that he knew belonged to this man, forever. Then, the darkness descends upon them, tumbling through their bodies and ripping their souls apart and away, leaving nothing behind at the edge of creation, except the ghosts of that kiss and the last words they whispered to each other.

I’ll always love you.

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Last Dragon | The Witcher & Game of Thrones

Chapter 7: Nightwraiths and Impulsive Decisions

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Word Count: 6,260

Note: Click here to read the previous chapters ♡

“Two rooms please,” The man working behind the bar moves his gaze to Visenya, an oily grin snaking its way onto his face. He’s a short, chubby man with beady brown eyes that focus on her too intently, lingering on her chest area.. His mousy brown hair is greasy and slicked back, an unsuccessful attempt to hide his bald patches, it would seem. The longer he looks at her, his grin creeps wider and wider until Visenya can see his teeth, the ones still in his mouth at least. Majority are blackened while the whitest of them are yellow and the stench of something rotting hits her nose.

He pulls out a heavy book from behind the counter, slamming it on the bar, faintly humming as he thumbs through the pages. With each page turn, he makes a show of licking his fingers, eye raking up and down Visenya as he does before moving his eyes down to the page.

“Looks like we only got one,” he says. His eyes peer up at Visenya, a grin sleazier than the last, if possible. “However, I’m sure I could arrange for somewhere else...like my room perhaps. Free of charge of course,” Visenya’s jaw tightens as she rolls her eyes, slamming a few pieces of gold on the counter with more force than necessary. The rat of a man jumps a bit in surprise, sliding the coins towards him with shaky hands.

Men are the same no matter where you go.

“I’ll just take the room, along with some drinks for me and my friend,” Visenya says, nodding her head towards Jaskier, who’s sitting at a table nervously fumbling with his lute. The man grumbles under his breath while putting away the room ledger, replacing it with an old rusty key. She grabs it and moves towards Jaskier, taking a seat across from him.

“Oh, there you are! Any luck?” Jaskier says upon noticing her. In response she throws the rusty key on the table, untrapping the sheath of her blade and resting it beside her. “Just one?”

“It was all they had,” she says. A barmaid approaches their table, two drinks in hand. She sets them on the table and quickly scurries away before either of them could so much as glance at her. As soon as the drinks touch the table, Visenya grabs one of the cups and takes a large gulp, the ale leaving behind a slight numbing sensation as it flows down her throat. It’s not the smoothest ale she’s had, but also not piss poor swill.  

“Well, I’m sure we can make it work,” Jaskier says.

Visenya just grunts in response, throwing her ale back and finishing it off. She holds a hand up to gain the attention of a barmaid that is currently bustling around the tavern like a rat. A moment later she swings back to their table, wiping her hands onto her dingy and stained apron.

“Another ale for me,” Visenya says. The woman nods and rushes off, yelling Visenya’s order at the man behind the bar, returning a moment later with a full mug of ale. She places it in front of Visenya and turns to leave, however before she can, Visenya slips a gold coin in one of her deep pockets. 

“Ah, I knew you had a heart somewhere in there, Jane,” Jaskier says. His tone is light and teasing as he places his lute in the chair beside him. He takes a drink from his ale and promptly begins to sputter and cough, putting it down as quickly as he picked it up.

“I don’t know what you mean.” She hides her smirk behind her mug as she slowly sips her drink. Amusement dances in her amber eyes as Jaskier continues to cough for the next few seconds. 

“Don-- don’t think, I didn’t see you slip that coin into her pocket,” Jaskier says, smacking his hand against his chest a few times before his breathing returned to normal. He sighs in relief and pulls out his water skin, taking a large gulp from it.

“So? It wasn’t like it was mine,” she says, raising a single eyebrow at Jaskier. His brows furrow and he purses his lips, before suddenly his eyes widen and he frantically begins to pat his pockets. 

“You took my coin pouch!” he yells, pointing his finger accusingly at her. “I can’t believe you would do that to me, what if we were to get separated and I needed to get food so I don’t starve to death? What would you do then, Jane? Hmm. Bet you didn’t think about that!”

Visenya turns her attention away from Jaskier’s ranting, scanning the current occupants in the bar. There’s the usual hunters and rangers, people traveling from one place to another, and then the workers. Her attention is captured however, when someone new enters the inn. Long snow-white hair, a bulky stature that could intimidate a giant, and two swords strapped to his back. 

Geralt.

He approaches the bar, giving his order to the rat behind the counter, and she imagines him using a harsh tone, his words clipped and cold. He sits down on a bar stool, folding on himself as he lowers his elbows onto the counter. His position is the perfect spot, allowing everyone in the room to be visible to him, while staying hidden in the shadows himself. 

Visenya's eyes lock onto him and as his eyes move through the room, their gazes meet. The bartender timidly places Geralt’s drink in front of him before scurrying off to the other end. She offers him a sly smirk, raising a single eyebrow at him, daring him to come over. 

And he does not disappoint. 

With an ale in one hand, he stands from the bar and starts to walk towards Visenya and Jaskier's table. The crowds part for him, granting the intimidating Witcher a wide berth. And for a second, the thought of traveling with Geralt and never having to deal with people’s bullshit crosses Visenya’s mind. But then her eyes rest on Jaskier - who is still ranting about his coin pouch - and in that moment she knows she couldn't leave him. This idiot wouldn’t last a day without her.

“Geralt!” Visenya says. Jaskier stops mid rant, moving his gaze to the approaching Witcher. 

“Oh yes! This is perfect, brilliant even.” Jaskier says, his tone bursting with excitement. “Whatever grand quest Geralt is about to complete is going to make a fantastic song!”

 “Jaskier, do me a favor.” Visenya says, eyes not moving an inch from Geralt.

“Of course, anything My Lady.”

“Shut up,” Visenya says just in time for Geralt to reach their table. “If I didn’t know any better, Geralt of Rivia, I’d think you were following me,” she says, granting him a sly smile, a stark contrast to the frosty glare she wore moments ago. Geralt grunts in response, a hint of a smile hidden under his stony facade, and pulls out the chair beside Visenya.

“Jaskier.” Geralt says, nodding his head towards the bard. Something glinting in the light gains Visenya’s attention, her eyes drawn to one of Geralt’s swords. Resting on the hilt of it is a familiar broach, with a sword cutting through the middle of it, surrounded in gems. 

Renfri’s broach. 

Her smile dims a touch, the mischievous expression turning bleak and hollow. She hasn’t thought of Renfri since Blaviken, unwilling to think about any of it. Visenya managed to tuck thoughts of Renfri in the same box she kept all of her memories of Westeros, locked deep enough away to continue on with her life. But seeing the broach that belonged to her - something so intricately tied with Renfri and her history - is like the box being thrown open and it’s contents spilling to the ground. 

“You kept it,” Visenya says, voice barely above a whisper. Geralt looks at the broach then back at Visenya. Neither of them say anything, not that Visenya trusts herself to form a coherent sentence.

“The broach? Should I know about this broach, it seems like a big deal. Jane I didn’t know you liked jewelry?” Jaskier interrupts, pulling Visenya from her reverie, firing off his questions like a hyperactive rabbit.

And just like that the box is locked again, it’s contents neatly folded inside.

“It’s nothing.” Visenya quickly answers with a stiff tone, turning back to her drink and taking an even larger swig than before. 

“Well, it doesn’t seem like nothing.” Jaskier rebuttals and Visenya glowers at him, not ready to deal with anything that involves Blaviken.

 “Leave it, Jaskier.” Geralt says, leveling a firm glare at him, eyes demanding for him to drop it. 

“Fine, Fine I know a touchy subject when I see it. But how did you two meet anyway? Back during the whole Filavandrel situation you two seemed well acquainted.” Jaskier asks, taking a small drink of his ale, and it brings a twinge of amusement to Visenya to see him struggling to swallow it.

 “You’d think by now this one -” he points over at Visenya, “would tell me but no, I’m not worthy of her tales. Haven’t even gotten her last name.” 

“Blaviken,” Visenya answers, managing to make her voice even and strong, laced with her usual ice. “And I do have a last name, you’re just not privy to that information,”

“Truly, Blaviken? Wasn’t half the town burnt to a crisp? Were you present when it happened? Do you know what caused the explosion? How could you leave the details of this riveting tragedy from me!?” He exclaims, enthralled by the story he already weaved in his mind.

“No, I wasn’t there,”

Her eyes glaze over, grip tightening on the mug in her hand. Images of people burning in a building flash before her eyes, their screams echoing in her head. The smell of burning flesh - the stench still lingering in the depths of her mind - causes her stomach to turn. And she swears that her mug starts to heat up, the ale coming to a vicious boil the longer and longer her mind wanders. Physically she is there, but mentally she’s miles away, until Geralt snaps her back to her body.

“I see you took your own advice about hair oils.” Geralt says, noticing the tight grip on her cup and the haunted look in her eyes. He knows it well, he’s seen it painted on other people’s faces many times. His eyes are locked on Visenya’s hair, braided in an intricate fashion, securely out of her face. It’s still that same disgusting brown, but not nearly as much of a state as before, the ends much more manageable. A playful smile appears on Visenya’s face, the ghosts of Blaviken disappearing from her mind, and she lightly smacks him on his broad shoulder, not worried about actually hurting the giant of a man.

“Shut up and drink your ale,” she says, gesturing towards the drink the barmaid slipped him earlier. “Why are you here anyway?” she asks as he drinks his ale. 

“A Nightwraith,” he answers, “There’s been one lurking nearby.” 

“Well, I doubt it’s in this inn, so why are you here?” Visenya asks. 

“Nightwraiths only come out at night, so I’m getting a drink.” Geralt says, gesturing to his mug.

“And that you might’ve possibly heard we were here,” Jaskier said, forcing himself into the conversation. “A few men in the town were getting too comfortable and Jane set them straight,” Visenya levels a glare at Jaskier, not liking the implications in his eyes, the accusing words dripping from his smiling lips. He instantly flushes, beginning to nervously play with his sleeves, the confidence there only moments ago nowhere to be seen. 

“What are you implying, Jaskier,” Visenya asks, a thinly veiled threat laced in her words, promises of reintroducing him to her fist if he isn’t careful.

“I’m just saying, this is what… the third time you’ve run into each other and the two of you seem very familiar with each other” he mutters. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt says, utilizing the same tone as Visenya. And she doesn’t doubt that Geralt’s probably already hit the bard too. 

“I didn’t say a word,” His expression is similar to a cat that got the cream, smug with a satisfied glint in his eyes. His eyes slowly move from Geralt to Visenya, back to Geralt then Visenya, before landing on his lute. He picks up the instrument and begins mindlessly strumming it, humming different lyrics quietly as he does.

Geralt rolls his eyes, while Visenya fidgets with one of her daggers.

Stupid bard.

They idly sit there for a few more minutes and once Geralt finishes his drink, he stands up to leave. 

“Wait Geralt,” Visenya said, grabbing onto his arm, causing him to look down at her. “Let me help you fight the wraith.”

“No,” he said, his tone flat, not even allowing a second to consider the offer.

“Why not?” Visenya presses, refusing to accept no without a reason, her pride rearing its ugly head. Does he think she’s incapable of holding her own in battle, like she’s some damsel in distress?

“It’s too dangerous,” he simply says, pulling his arm free from her grasp and leaving the inn. Visenya huffs in frustration, reaching across the table and swiping Jaskier’s full mug of ale.

When was the last time she got to hit something that could give her a real fight?

“Hey! That’s mine,” Jaskier exclaims, but makes no move to try and take it back. 

“Well I need a drink and I got tired of you sipping on it like it’s some high class wine,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes. Jaskier huffs, but says nothing else. He leans back in his chair and Visenya finishes off his mug. There’s silence surrounding them for a moment, blocking out the intruding tavern ambience

“You really are something else, Jane,” Jaskier says, bringing Visenya’s attention back to him. His eyes are intently watching her, lacking the lightheartedness he usually possesses. Her smile slowly vanishes, meeting Jaskier’s gaze, and not for the first time, Jaskier proves himself more perceptive than most people give him credit for. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, averting her eyes to her hands, tracing the details of the small ring on her finger.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about what you said to Filavandrel,” he says. Visenya’s eyes snap towards Jaskier. She opens her mouth to reply, but Jaskier cuts her off. “But, I won’t push it. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.” 

Visenya’s mouth opens and closes a few times as she tries to form a proper sentence. 

“ I- Thank you,” she finally says. Finishing off the rest of her ale, she grabs the key from the table and stands up, Jaskier mirroring her actions.

Silently, they move across the room towards the stairs to get to the second level. 

“So who’s getting the bed?” Jaskier asks, a hair too close.

“Me,”.

“Or we could share…?” Jaskier suggests.

“Or you can sleep outside in the cold.”

                                                  o0o0o0o

The soft grass gives out underneath the weight of Visenya’s footsteps, leaving behind a trail of her tracks as she quietly moves through the meadow. There’s no sun to guide her, the darkness only allowing for faint shadows and delusions of monsters at every corner. There’s a chill in the air, an ominous feeling creeping up her spine that nearly makes her heave up her dinner. She’s not sure what possessed her to do something this stupid; it could be pride or the need to prove a point. Either way, it’ll probably get her killed one day. 

The townsfolk were more than willing to tell her everything they knew about the wraith plaguing their home, even giving a general location. It’s a few hours past sundown and approximately ten minutes after she saw Geralt exit the town. Armed with a sword and donning her leather armor, the sinking feeling that she’s in over her head sets in, a pit forming in the depths of her stomach. 

But it’s too late to turn back now.  

It’s silent, so much so that Visenya can hear her breathing, the deep inhale and exhale seemingly as loud as a Dothraki screamer. The air is ice cold, so cold it could make Winterfell feel like Dorne. Each breath is clearly visible in the air, the condensation nearly freezing it into small icicles on sight. Her heart speeds up, the ominous feeling that previously felt more like a nagging sensation in the back of her mind is at full power. There’s a tickle in her left ear, the feeling of someone a breath away from her skin. She whirls to the left, and there’s nothing but empty air, and just as she turns away--.

A screech rings in the still air, so piercing Visneya has to cover her ears in fear of losing that ability to hear. She whips her head to the left, keen eyes trying to see through the inky darkness surrounding her, and then she sees it- a glint of silver in the distance, flashing so quickly, it could only be the dangerous dance of one person, Geralt.

Without allowing a moment of hesitation, Visenya draws her blade and charges. There’s a sliver of fear in the back of her mind that she forces away. She’s never fought a wraith - or any monster of any kind, but there’s no turning back now.

The closer she gets, the clearer the noises becomes. She hears the sound of metal clanging together, heavy breathing similar to a snarling wolf, and another scream - this one not as loud as the first one. About 20 feet away, a spectral figure comes into sight, wearing a torn up nightgown, the once pristine white fabric stained red and black. A blackened tongue oozing with dark ichor hangs from its mouth, nearly reaching its spectral feet. A shimmering purple barrier surrounds it as Geralt hacks away at it, moving as if he’s made to fight.

She grabs one of her silver daggers - the first weapon she bought here, still charging at full speed. It leaves her hand, cutting through the air, landing where its heart would be. A clean shot, just like Jon taught her all those years ago, hidden in the Godswood. 

Geralt’s head whips towards Visenya, the distraction allowing for the wraith to drag it’s razor sharp claws across his chest, the leather armor taking the brunt of the damage. He staggers backward, but tosses a vial at the wraith. It explodes on contact and leaves behind a luminous glow in the area. The creature screeches in pain as it flies towards Geralt. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Jane?” Geralt yells, anger evident in his tone as he dodges an incoming attack.

“Helping you!” she replies. She brings her blade up and slices into the creature. The sword passes through it, leaving the wraith unharmed.

“Your sword won’t do anything!” he yells, hitting the wraith with his sword, a line of flames following the swing. “It’s steel, only silver kills monsters.”

“Well fuck me then!” Visenya tosses the sword away, pulling out a second dagger, this one also forged from silver. It leaves her hand and lands in the center of the creature’s forehead, falling to the ground as the shimmering circle around them disappears. The wraith becomes incorporeal again and swipes one of its hands towards Visenya, scratching along her chest.

 A howl of pain echoes from her mouth, a burning sensation lights her body on fire, but not the type of fire she’s familiar with. This one is darker and twisted, making her toes curl inwards as it feels like her life essence is being drained. Visenya staggers backward and attempts to gain her footing. However, before she has a chance to recover, it swipes at her again with its other hand, scratching across her chest again, creating an X. With another cry of pain, Visenya falls backward. 

The wraith glides towards her, its scream making her ears bleed. She attempts to stand but doesn’t have the strength, it feels like her body weighs a ton. The closer the wraith gets to her, the faster her heart speeds up, the feeling of impending doom growing stronger. And as it draws closer, on instinct she throws her arm up, an attempt to shield her body from the creature. And as she screams, pain flaring in her body from the simple action, a flash of fire follows her movements. It smacks against the wraith, burning away the rags it wears and the black ichor dripping from it. The creature recoils and shrieks once again, however, before it continues its advance, a sword pierces it from behind. With a final scream, the wraith disappears, leaving a sticky substance behind in its place, that too dissipates after a moment, only leaving behind burning injuries in its wake. 

Silently, Geralt steps in front of Visenya with a hand outstretched towards her. She takes it, his hand is surprisingly cool to touch, a startling contrast to her burning skin. He slings her arm over his shoulder and the two of them begin the trek back to town. On their way past it, Geralt bends down to grab her sword from the ground. 

The walk back to the inn is completely silent, Geralt saying nothing and Visenya wanting to speak, but not knowing what to say. It isn’t until they’re in Geralt’s room, the door firmly shut behind them, that he says anything, or even looks at her.

“You shouldn’t have come.” Geralt says, his voice holding the usual coldness, keeping everyone at arm's length, but contained under his words is a burning anger. He grabs a medicine kit from his pack and walks over to Visenya, a poultice in one hand and bandages in the other. “Take off your shirt.” 

“But I did come,” she says as she took off her leather tunic, leaving on her breast band. Her vision is slightly fuzzy around the edges, but much clearer than it had been in the field. The burning sensation isn’t nearly as intense, but that doesn’t mean it’s healing, in fact the wound looks worse.  It’s like when you cut your finger on parchment, the pain doesn’t go away, instead it lingers in the back of your mind, until it finally leaves entirely.

“Yeah and you almost got killed!” he says, aggressively cleaning the deep claw marks that mar her skin, adding to the collection of scars covering her body. She hisses in pain at the contact but does nothing to stop him. She watches his eyes, a storm brewing in them. His mouth is pulled in a tight line with his jaw tightly clenched. His hands held the rag so tightly she could see his veins popping out on his arm. 

“Like that’s the worst thing that could happen! Not that it matters, because I didn’t die but the wraith did. End of story.” She shouldn’t have said that, and she knows it. The second the words fly from her mouth she regrets them, but it’s too late. Her pride is wounded, hurting as much as the claw marks on her chest. 

“Like hell that’s the end of the story. Do you not realize how stupid what you did was?” he snarls, throwing the rag in his hand to the ground, pure unbridled rage in his eyes.

“Who cares, I clearly don’t! Can’t you say thank you and move one,” Visenya exclaims, over this argument the moment it started, but unable to concede and admit fault. She’s too stubborn for that.

And he laughs.

Not a full belly laugh that makes your stomach twist into knots, or the type of laugh that is like the first spring air touching your skin after a year of winter. No, this one is cold and sarcastic and cruel. 

“You want me to thank you? Is that it?” he asks, his eyes wild and crazy, his mouth twisting into a mocking grin. 

“Would that be so bad?” She stands from the bed, pain immediately rearing its hateful head at her, but the anger coursing through her bones overpowers it, blocking out her senses and common sense. 

“Enlighten me then Jane. Why should I thank you, hmm? What did you do in that fight other than distract me,” he asks, raising his eyebrows at her, his eyes egging her on, demanding a response. 

“I helped you, you fucking idiot!” she replies, shoving him with all the strength she could muster. He staggers back just a hair, quickly gaining his footing back.

“And if you died? Would that be helping me? When they had to bury--” 

Smack.

She brings her hand up, cracking it across his face with a clean smack, the noise reverberating around them. And it’s silent, beyond their heavy breathing and the crackling fire. From the force of the blow, Geralt’s head turned left and stays that way for a moment, his left cheek bright red. The shock on his face disappears, like fire melting ice, while Visenya stares at him, unsure of what to do next. Her hand thrums with pain, his face harder than she’d anticipated. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she mutters after a moment of silence. Flashes of Walder Frey and his soldiers, Robb falling dead to the ground, and Visenya’s knees meeting the dirt, only able to cry as bolts pierced her skin. 

They maintain eye contact for a moment, Visenya lost in her thoughts and Geralt trying to digest what she said. And then like the first snow of winter, the broken dam that lets the river flow freely, Geralt breaks the silence.

“Sit down, I still need to wrap your wound.”

In a daze, Visenya sits down as Geralt starts spreading a foul smelling poultice on her wounds, yet she can’t even bring herself to grimace at the smell, too lost in her head. Visenya stares at the wall ahead of her, lost in her own thoughts. A sigh escapes her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Visenya says nervously, biting her bottom lip. “I shouldn’t have come, I don’t know anything about monsters and charged headfirst into a fight without a proper weapon.” A chuckle escapes her throat, the tone self-deprecating and sardonic. 

“I’ve noticed you don’t think too much before acting,” he said, his tone lighter than the anger in it only seconds ago, her apology calming his rage. Visenya snorts, remembering all the times she’d been scolded for her hot-headedness by the Starks - mainly Catelyn and on occasion Jon too. 

“So I’ve been told,” she says. Geralt begins applying the bandages over her wounds to protect them from getting infected. He doesn’t say anything else, but Visenya can hear the questions swirling in his mind. 

“Go on. Ask away all the questions I know you have.” Visenya says. Geralt pauses his actions but continues nonetheless.

“I do have questions, but I know if you wanted me to know the answers, you’d tell me.” Geralt replies. He finishes dressing her wounds and steps away from her. He begins gathering the remaining supplies and places them back into his pack.

“Do you miss her?” Visenya asks, watching Geralt intently. He doesn’t pause his actions, but he does throw her a quick glance. “I mean, you still have her broach. She must’ve meant something.” Visenya ponders aloud. Geralt throws his pack across the room onto a chair.  He quickly removes his leather jerkin, expertly undoing on the ties and clasps that keep it in place. He’s left wearing a simple tunic and his sturdy leather pants. He then sits beside Visenya on the bed. 

“I will admit, she had an impact on me.” Geralt says, handing her a water skin. She takes a large drink from it, the cool water refreshing against her dry throat, then Visenya passes the water back to him, wiping at her mouth. 

“I feel like every time I close my eyes to sleep, she’s there. A faint whisper in my dreams that never leaves.” Visenya says, her voice barely above a whisper. Geralt doesn’t reply but continues to watch her, his expression is unreadable. 

“I was gonna leave with her, did ya know?” Visenya says, softly laughing after, tracing the grain in the floorboards. “We were going to take the world by storm, no one safe from our chaos.”

“I’m sorry.” Geralt mutters.

“Don’t be, she was determined to burn down the world. Nothing we could’ve done,” Visenya replies, trying to convince herself more than anything. Her need to destroy those who’ve wronged her led to her downfall, a moral point of no return. It reminds Visenya how fickle someone’s state of sanity is. One wrong move and everything snaps. 

That could’ve been Visenya if not for the Starks.

It could still be her.

And that thought terrifies her.

“How long did you know her?” Geralt asks. 

“Not much longer than you,” Visenya says, snorting obnoxiously. “It seems stupid, being so torn up about the death of someone you’ve only known for three days.” 

“People have done crazier.” Geralt replies. Apprehensively he puts a hand on Visenya’s shoulder as an attempt to comfort her. She accepts it and leans against his touch. Forming a small smile on her face, she looks up at him.

“Like charge into a fight against a wraith unprepared.” she quips.

“Some might say that,” he says. He moves his hand so his arm is wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her closer to his side. 

“Would it surprise you to know I’ve done far stupider?” Visenya asks, her eyes shifting to his wolf medallion, tracing and retracing it. 

“Would you be offended if I say I’m not.” Geralt says. She can feel his gaze on her, so intense it might burn a hole through her.

“I can’t be offended about anything after the stunt I just pulled,” Visenya says. She pulls a centimeter away from Geralt, sitting up to be eye level with him.

Easier said than done, considering how tall he is. 

She rests her hands on top of his shoulders, attempting to balance herself. His eyes follow her every move but he does nothing to stop her. Her eyes trace his face, taking the moment to memorize each curve and scar. His face is angular and sharp, faint white lines dancing across his face. His lips - soft and full, an intoxicating contrast to the sharpness on the rest of his face. From the moment she saw him, Visenya knew that Geralt was attractive. But being this close to him, with his eyes looking at her like they are, now she knows how attractive he is.

“Everyone always told me I was too impulsive,” Visenya says, leaning her weight against Geralt as she swings one of her legs around him, straddling his lap.

“Hmm. And where would they get that idea?” Geralt replies, moving his arms to coil around her waist like a snake tightening around its prey. 

“I have no idea,” Visenya says, moving her face closer to Geralt’s. He doesn’t move towards her, but he doesn’t move away either. His grip around her does tighten, however. She continues until their faces are barely a centimeter apart. They’re so close she can feel his breath fanning on her face as her eyelashes delicately tickle against his skin. The two of them continue to stare at each other, daring the other person to make a move. Her eyes search his - unsure of what she’s looking for, but searching nonetheless. 

There’s a little distance between them.

Until there isn’t.  

Geralt closes the gap between them, pressing his lips against her, like a starving beast that finally found a meal after days of searching. It’s all teeth and tongue, desperation clawing at both of them. His lips are slightly chapped from the biting wind outside, but still so soft. It’s like the first time Visenya wore a dress from silks, drowning in the soft fabric that felt like a million gentle caresses. 

Gods, his lips are softer than they have the right to be.

 Her hands move from his shoulders and weave themselves into his hair, lightly tugging as she does. He pulls her closer to his body, the heat radiating from Visenya hotter than any fire. The adrenaline from the fight with wraith returns tenfold, a roaring fire burning away the pain lingering in her chest until there’s nothing but a dull ache left. Visenya can feel herself getting addicted to the sensation of his lips, desperately craving more and chasing his mouth during those few seconds they pull away for air.

On pure instinct, she begins to grind against him in the same rhythm of her ragged breathing, desperate for some sort of friction. His hands that were previously around her waist slide down until he’s gripping both sides of her hips. He starts to guide her movements, clearly well practiced in this department. The sensation elicits soft moans from Visenya that Geralt swallows. 

Geralt breaks the kiss, moving his mouth to her neck, leaving marks wherever his teeth touch. Visenya gasps at the feeling, tugging on his hair harder than before. Geralt growls and continues his assault. A warm feeling inside her continues to grow the longer they stay like this until it’s nearly unbearable. One of her hands untangles itself from his hair, moving to grip his chin. 

She forces his head away from her neck to face her head-on. A predatory grin forms on Visenya's face, the control she holds over him in the moment exhilarating. Usually, Geralt maintains control of a situation, both in combat and in conversation, he’s holding the reins. But in this moment, with his eyes practically begging for her to do something - anything as he tightens his grip on her hips, he’s as helpless as the damsels in Sansa’s stories. His amber eyes appear nearly feral, wild and blown out. His hair is a tangled mess from where Visenya brushed her hands through it, his lips are bruised and swollen, evidence of what just happened between them. 

She continues to grind against him while maintaining her grip on his chin. A series of low grunts escapes his mouth, the sound spurring Visenya on. She quickens her pace and with her hand still in Geralt’s hair, she pulls harder and forces his head upwards to expose his neck. His jaw is clenched, veins in his neck popping out. She leans her face forward, burying her face in his pulse point, leaving trails of phantom kisses leading up to his jawline. She begins to nibble at his jaw, slowly moving towards his lips. She moves her hands onto the tops of his shoulders, leaning most of her weight against him. Geralt leans forward, attempting to connect their lips, but Visenya pulls back. Far enough that he doesn’t reach her, but still close enough that her breath tickles his lips. A low grunt of annoyance leaves his mouth, but he does nothing else.

“Nuh uh uh. Not yet,” she tells him, giving him a grin that shows all her teeth. “You’ve gotta earn it.” His grip on her hips is so tight, Visenya’s sure it’s gonna leave marks. His movements become jerkier and rougher as he guides her hips against his crotch. A pit grows in Visenya’s stomach as she grinds harder against him. A slew of curses leave Geralt’s mouth, but he maintains eye contact with Visenya like he’s entranced. 

“Fuck, Geralt. There you go, that’s right.” Visenya moans, closing her eyes and fully enjoying the sensations. “If it’s this good when you’ve got your clothes on, I can only imagine when you’re not.” she says, fluidly moving with the pace he set. 

“Why don’t you find out,” he grunts, his breathing unsteady. Visenya simply laughs at him, opening her eyes and leaning into him. 

“Not yet, this is only the third time we’ve met. A girl has to maintain some propriety,” She presses her lips against his, slipping her tongue in his mouth, but pulls away before he gets a chance to react. 

“You’re a fucking tease,” Geralt says, attempting to chase her mouth. 

“The door’s over there, I’m sure there’s a nearby brothel that could help you out.” Visenya says. However, before Geralt gets a chance to respond, she digs her fingers into his shoulders. She rubs against him with rigid backward and forward motions, chasing the high that she instinctively knows is so close. She clenches her legs tighter against him as a tingle fills her body, starting from her head down to her toes. Almost simultaneously, a throaty groan leaves Geralt's mouth and he presses his face into the crook of her neck. The two of them slow their movements until neither of them are moving. 

They stay like that for a while, neither of them saying a word. Visenya eventually manages to catch her breath and steady her heart. The adrenaline previously pumping through her diminishes as she gains control of her brain. 

“Stay.” Geralt asks - no demands. His eyes meet hers with the same intensity his gaze always holds, but something softer is mingled with it. 

“Jaskier will know if I don’t come back to the room.” Visenya reminds him. “And I really don’t want to deal with that.” 

“To hell with the bard.” Geralt argues, tightening his grip around Visenya and pulling her closer. 

“You said it, not me.” Visenya quips, leaning forward to meet Geralt's lips again. 

                                              o0o0o0o

Tags: If you’re name is crossed out, it means Tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you. 

 @sunlithours | @1967-chevy-impala-called-roscoe​ | @historicallydysfunctional​ | @stuckupstucky​ | @aknerdchick​ |  @ayamenimthiriel​​ | 

[corancoranthemagicalman]

42 and Geraskier, for the fic prompts :)

Hello~! 42 is “If Ever You’re In My Arms Again” by Peabo Bryson which I have been saving for Geraskier inspiration anyway!! You’re too attuned to me already to have picked that number and that ship. I was gonna double this as your Christmas gift, but the Sick got to me and totally delayed everything. Sigh. Take this small little pining thing belatedly and I hope your Holiday was very happy!!! (also whoops pre-geraskier, does this count?? If not, you know I’ll always refund you ;))

You can read it on AO3 here!!

Here you can prompt from my 700 followers/100 songs!!

💙💚💙💚💙💚

The winter had gone quickly in Kaer Morhen this year. Geralt was certain this was because of the non-Witchers who had stayed during the season. His focus had been Ciri’s training and helping Yennefer to heal, and both responsibilities had taken up much of his stay this winter. It had certainly broken up the monotony of repairing the old keep with Vesemir.

Kaer Morhen had not been graced with half as many guests in thrice as many decades. It seemed more lively with a new Witcher to train and Yennefer to verbally spar with. How two lives could sweep away the cobwebs that had long since settled into the corners of the keep, Geralt would never know. Perhaps this too is how time passed so quickly.

Now it was time to move on from Kaer Morhen and to continue on the Path. Now, Geralt’s Path he would walk with Ciri and Yennefer both. Walking the Path with someone - purposefully - and not senselessly bumping into some companion to endure them for a time was not something Geralt was accustomed to.

He halted his packing, furrowing his brow at the thought. While it was not intentionally a lie, it lingered as much in his mind. There had been one companion whose presence had lasted much longer than the rest. Geralt could not deny that the bard had purposefully sought out his companionship, even if that had never been an intention of Geralt’s while they had met along his Path.

Geralt’s fingers caught on a small wooden trinket that rested atop the bedside table he used to store his belongings while resting in Kaer Morhen. Jaskier had called the phenomenon Witcher-hibernating and perhaps he was not far off, except there was always work to do even in the winter. The work just wasn’t hunting to empty the coin purses of men.

The trinket beneath his fingers was a wolf carved carefully by a young girl from a small village whose name Geralt could not remember. It had been quite a few years ago when Jaskier had commissioned the girl to craft the souvenir. The village did not see much coin pass through and had barely been able to scrape together payment for Geralt’s services. Geralt had assumed Jaskier was doing the young girl a kindness, paying her several marks for the small trinket.

Then Jaskier had tuned and immediately placed the knickknack in Geralt’s palm. The bard had smiled secretly, turning that smile into something far more flashing and affectionate as he spoke to the girl and left Geralt to hold his purchase. Jaskier had often passed off his baubles and purchases for Geralt to hold, so Geralt had merely carried the purchase until later that evening. It had been a surprise, then, how Jaskier had merely frowned at the wood piece instead of taking his purchase back.

“It’s yours.” Jaskier had said simply before turning away and resuming preparation for his performance. Geralt had been left sitting there to stare at the wolf’s wooden gaze in the dim light of their rented room.

Huffing a breath, Geralt felt the weight of his words from the mountain press upon him again. It was a loathsome burden to bear and yet Jaskier’s fallen expression was as much a ghost as Renfri’s dying breath had been. Not a lifeless body in his arms but a heartbroken within his blood-coated hands that he had carried with him since.

And Geralt was not fool enough to have not seen it, the wandering gaze and the small smiles reserved for him. There had been some sort of infatuation that Jaskier had held for him in the beginning, but slowly that had become something almost fond. Geralt had felt something bubble beneath his skin at Jaskier’s attention. As if Jaskier had looked to him and not seen a Witcher or a Butcher, but… Geralt. And Geralt was all of those things and none of those things all at once beneath Jaskier’s gaze.

His chest felt collapsed beneath an invisible weight as his mind swam toward thoughts of the bard. Ribs puncturing vital organs as if he had taken a beating. Geralt sat on the side of his bed, the weight of the wooden wolf just as heavy as the one on his chest. Turning it over in his hands, Geralt could recall not even remembering this was still in his possession when he had made it to Kaer Morhen that winter. It had been a surprise amongst his belongings and he had carelessly thrown it into the bedside drawer for lack of anything else to do with it.

Geralt, however, could not recall how the wolf found its way from the bottom of the drawer to the top of the table between that winter and this winter. He knew it had not found its place there that first winter surely, but it had been there this last winter past. How long had it been there? Unassuming and yet just as much a part of Geralt’s belongings as the armor adorning his form?

It brought Geralt’s thoughts to the ruined tunic that had been used as a rag rather than a fancy dress for the past four years. It had been muddied and torn on a particularly vicious kikimore hunt and Jaskier had given it up without further preamble. An oil rag for cleaning, he had muttered, if one could use something so filthy for cleaning.

With a furrow of his brow, Geralt turned to his swords. Atop of the hilt of his steel blade was Renfri’s brooch. He could still remember the weight of her body against the blade - steel for men. Steel against this stolen princess of a dark moon. Her life flickering behind her eyes before extinguishing forever.

Geralt did not carry many things with him, such was the nomadic life of a Witcher; however, he would always carry Renfri and her death with him. There would be no forgiveness from her, only penance. It seemed that this wolf would be as Renfri’s brooch - a reminder. A sentence from which he could not be pardoned.

Geralt turned back to the wolf in his hand. And yet, there was still time to be had with Jaskier, was there not? Jaskier was not as long gone as Renfri, not yet. At least, Geralt was certain that if the Master Dandelion had passed, the entire civilized Continent would know about it. Geralt would know about it.

If he found the bard again, if the bard would forgive him his transgressions from atop the Mountain, if he could find a time where Jaskier was in arms’ reach - endless ifs, Geralt thought in that moment. If he had ever found him, Geralt would not take the opportunity lightly. It was a silent vow, but these were the vows most familiar to Geralt.

Placing the wolf within his pack, determination poured his veins as good as any potion. Geralt inhaled sharply, resolving to put things right. Perhaps Jaskier would rebuke the apology, but that was not the point. The point was the attempt. It was the intention. Geralt could recall Jaskier saying such things about a romantic play almost a decade ago. A lifetime ago.

A gentle smile tugged at his lips at the memory. Geralt slung his packs over his shoulders, moving to meet Yennefer and Ciri down in the kitchens of the keep for one last meal before send-off. His Path would be clear this year. And to whatever power was listening, if Destiny had any say in it, Geralt hoped he would meet his bard again sooner rather than later.

He was willing to wait however long it took for a second chance in a lifetime.

[whereflowersbloom]

Shadows and thorns

Part I

The ‘Princess of thorns’ they usually call her, among other names, cursed child, witch. Some said born with the gift, others the curse. The promise of a witch had been sacred for a long time. Ages before her birth, but unfortunately it comes with a high price. Her innocent mother suffered the consequences. Her dying mother weakly lifted her head to look at her, for the first and last time, a stormy night. The Queen closed her eyes, content, exhaled her last breath as the baby girl let out her first cries. Her wailing resonating through the empty halls. Born with unnatural powers, a girl with soft silver white hair, big stunning violet eyes, shinning like jewels, pale skin almost transparent and a gentle heart. Growing fast, possessing incomparable beauty, showing surprising powers that needed to be groomed with care. The people of her land utterly devastated by the loss of their last Queen. Fearing the cause. Her. Afraid of the uncertainty, no sovereign, the birth of a cursed child, with tremendous powers. A witch. Her people talked. She must be hidden from the other Kingdoms, the rest of the world they decided. Forced into isolation. She spent her days secluded, in her own castle, learning everything she could about plants, and the arts of magic, devouring every book she gets her hands on. Accompanied by the animals, they do not fear her powers. And the exception of a few servants and her guardian.

She’s the sole and last daughter of Azarath. Her nation was relatively small and poor compared to others. Nothing like Nanda Parbat which was vast, rich and extensive. Now she would be traded away to secure her territory. At the age of 16 years old, John Constantine declares she’s to be married to Wallace West, nephew of the King of a Kingdom not too far from her own. The King Bartholomew had no children, so he declared Wallace his heir. Her guardian assured her, the young man was a brave and powerful warrior. He was capable of protecting her, and her powers would remain a secret to the rest of the world. He’d guard her as his queen. Constantine gave her his word.

But will he love me? A silent question her heart whispered, full of thirst for deep affection. Unlikely. Her mind answered.

Constantine meant well, she knew it. It was such a sweet and empty promise. A bittersweet kiss of destiny. She smiled faintly and thanked her guardian for staying by her side all those years. She tried to find comfort in the idea of freedom.

~~~

“You asked for me, Grandfather?” The prince asked firmly with his deep voice as he entered the throne room. He was wearing his gold and green armor, the colors of the house of Al Ghul. He looked up at the king whose wild eyes seemed to scatter, looking for something in every corner of the grand room.

Ra’s Al Ghul scorned down at his grandson and spoke heartlessly, his expression showing disdain. “I did. Your safeguards should have informed you the banquet and tournament will be held in a month.”

The prince clenched his fists in frustration and annoyance. He did not wish for this. However, fighting his grandfather on this would lead to punishment. He subdued his discontent, wearing a neutral mask. “Very well.”

Ra’s eyed his grandson suspiciously, he wasn’t showing resistance anymore. “Heed my warning boy, you will choose a suitable bride by the end of this tournaments or I’ll do it myself. If you weren’t my only heir, I’d remove you from succession.” The prince narrowed his eyes, getting the message.

He inclined his head, showing respect to his grandfather and king. “I understand.” He wondered what his ancestors would think of the cruel monster ruling the empire they had build, the whole Nanda Parbat nation called King. There wouldn’t be need to take such drastic measures, he’d find a bride at the banquet and then he’d remove his grandfather as king. It was the only hope to save his people. Avoid the war his grandfather had planned.

“Do what is expected and do not bring shame upon the Al Ghul name, boy or I’ll have you killed.” His grandfather threatened anger reflected in his eyes. “GET OUT OF MY SIGHT NOW.” The king barked.

Damian Al Ghul bowed, not saying a single word,striding from the room, before his grandfather came up with new ways to torture him. His safeguard and spy master following, falling behind him like a shadow. Richard.

To the rest of the kingdom this tournament was the king’s way of boasting the wealth of their house, choosing a bride for the dutiful prince. To Damian and his loyal followers it was the first step in becoming the new monarch the land urgently needed, establishing his line.

A wife was all he required. Love wasn’t necessary.

~~~

Nanda Parbat was far from what she imagined it would be, larger, deep in the mountains, there were some charred ruins of epic proportions, each of its five main towers reaching into the sky. It possessed an ancient beauty. The castle was alive with activity, servants rushing past with bolts of cloth and platters of different kind of foods. Shadows as they called their assassins, sprinting back and forth with curved pieces of steel in their grip, royalty from other nations, high lords and ladies strolling the grounds, admiring the wondrous city carved into sandstone.

There she had met her betrothed, Wallace West from The Westlands. He was everything she had heard about him, rumors from commoners. Wallace was muscular and strong, with reddish locks and sparkling green eyes, he moved with the confidence of a man who knew he was the best sword in the capital, smiled at her as if he expected her to be impressed by it. Other ladies would describe him as charismatic and charming. Not her though.

Rhachel did not feel her heart hammer in her chest when she was in her future husband’s presence. She did not feel her palms sweat or heat rise to her rosy cheeks. She did not feel a ball of nerves ladies speak about, or desire and want pool in her stomach. She did not want to launch herself in his strong arms and stay there. She did not wish to engage in a conversation with him that lasted more than five minutes.

In her mind she’d gladly marry a commoner if she was in love with him. No seconds thoughts. If it meant it was her choice. Unfortunately, her duty consisted of being the wife of a prince. A queen to give him one or two heirs. That was her role to play from the moment she was born or so she had been told. She longed for freedom. Would she ever belong to herself? The wildness of her soul suffocated by the chains of her obligations screamed for release.

“You’ve been neglecting your soon to be husband.” Her guardian chastised her. “This alliance with Westlands is very important. A matter of survival.” Constantine hissed before he lowered his voice to a whisper. She felt like a mare sold to the highest bidder. She reminder herself she was doing it for her nation.

“I understand you wished for love. But it’s your duty. Azarath needs it. You may grow to like him.” John spoke directly, looking her straight in the eye. He rested a comforting hand on her bare shoulder. A gesture intended to give her hope. But I won’t, she gulped down those words that wanted to come out. She knows. Whatever he was willing to provide, he could give to her. It wouldn’t quench her heart and spirit.

With her fists clenched tightly, her blood boiling in her veins so hot it burned, a knot started to form in her throat, yet she refused to let a single teardrop leave her eyes. She was the last daughter of Azarath. She felt both anger and sadness started building up in her chest. She held her tongue. She couldn’t lose control here.

“So I have the rest of eternity to speak with him.” She says bitterly, over the muttering of the other visitors.

Rhachel saw members of the safeguard walking nearby, a man richly decorated in black and green standing in front of them, guards shadowing him, a massive sword to match his height on his hip. Midnight dark hair, olive skin and emerald eyes instantly caught her attention.

“Who is that?” Rhachel asked, fire and curiosity sparking in her eyes, pointing to the man.

Constantine snickered, pushing her hand down discreetly. “That, dearest Rae is Prince Damian Al Ghul.” Giving her a reproachful glance.

It was her first time seeing the Prince, if only she could get closer for a better look but a crowd of astonished nobles had gathered around, making it almost impossible. “I heard this tournament was a ploy for The Prince to find a bride.” She said quietly, eyes still fixed on Prince Damian, who was kissing the hand of a noble she recognized, Donna, the Amazonian princess. The epitome of a lady. She focused on the Al Ghul heir again.

She had only heard good things of the Crown Prince, Prince Damian was said to be everything the folk stories described: tall, imposing, brave and mysterious. A true maiden’s dream. He was said to be well read, chivalrous, a great swordsman, never lost a single match, loved by the commoners and nobles equally.

Her governess had taught her about all the noble families, the most important kingdoms, the lineages, everything she required to know. She read about the Al Ghul, they were said to have cursed assassins blood in their veins, with a large army of cold-blooded Assassins, called Shadows.

The moment she laid her amethyst eyes on Prince Damian she found him too beautiful. Rhachel could not imagine cursed blood or shadows being associated with him. She felt a strong and magnetic pull towards him. Questions running through her mind, if the rumors were true, if he was everything he appeared to be. Who was the real Damian Al Ghul? She shook her head, repelling those impermissible thoughts invading her. “I need some fresh air.” She let know to Constantine before leaving the palace.

~~~

The night was completely clear. The light of the moon gushed down onto Nanda Parbat and illuminated everything in such a romantic way Rhachel could not help but give a little sigh. It was so different from Azarath. Things looked entirely different in moonlight. She felt like a breath of fresh air had been blown across her caged soul. She wore her feelings upon her shoulders, carrying the weight of her duties and past. For a moment she wanted nothing but forget all about it.

Once out of the castle, she headed toward the royal stables. She looked around until she found her horse and smiled instantly. “I’m sure the stableboy will have a nice apple for you, Melchior.” she said, patting her horse’s neck and looking into his big dark red eyes. Melchior has been a gift from John after her twelfth name day. He had become her constant companion. “Maybe I can convince him to give you two apples. What do you say, my friend?” The white stallion nuzzled at her neck. “I see you’ve missed me. Two it is.”

One of the stable boys had mentioned her that buried deep in the trees there was a stream and that the banks were soft and clear enough for a horse to get up to full pace uninterrupted. Perhaps she could explore the unknown territory with Melchior tomorrow. “What do you say, want to go ride tomorrow?” Melchior exhales a deep fluttering breath through his nostrils. “I’ll make sure they give you enough apples.” Rachel promises, encouraging him. The horse seemed to sense her mood lifting and snorted in anticipation. She loved the white stallion, riding him. It gave her a sense of freedom. He’s the only one who understands she told herself.

She was running her fingers through Melchior’s hair when she hears the horse next to her own, nickering to her, as if it were calling her, seeking her attention. She looked at him, studying the beautiful creature. It was an elegant black stallion, huge, an Arabian purebred, dark as night with shinning amber eyes. Magnificent. “Hello, maybe you want some apples, too?” Rhachel smiled warmly at him. She reached out to touch him, slowly, carefully, showing him she meant no harm. The dark stallion lowers his head, allowing her to touch him. She rubbed his long neck gently. He seemed to be enjoying it. “What is your name?” She asked the horse as it were to answer her.

“I must admit I’m impressed. Goliath does not allow strangers to touch him. I’d even dare say he’s taken a liking to you.” A deep voice announced from behind her, startling her. Promply the princess whirled around to see Damian Al Ghul standing there in all his finery, watching her with an amused expression as she petted the horse and talked to it.

So first part of new AU 🤷🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️🙈🙈🙈

What do you think about it? Questions, suggestions, open to anything.

@ravenfan1242 it’s here