#Irritable Hearts A PTSD Love Story

[mochiwrites]

title: birds of prey

warning(s): ptsd, paranoia, stalking, graphic depictions of violence

chapter(s): 1/1

relationship: grian & scar | grian & gem

summary:

Grian groans, frustration settling in his chest. Get your head on straight, he thinks, irritated. Some vigilante he is, letting some random bystander shake him up so fiercely; he can’t afford to be a burden like this. He needs to get it together, before he has to watch someone else die. Hotguy is counting on him to watch his six—if Grian can’t do that, then what is he even good for? A faint shadow moving at the edge of his vision is his only warning before a hand lands on his shoulder. Grian jerks forward, fight or flight overwhelming his senses. Wings flaring, he pivots on his heel, ignoring the ache in his right wing and curling his hand into a fist… only to meet the shaded visor of his partner. “Whoa there, Birdie,” Hotguy says, ripping his hand back from Grian’s shoulder. “Little tense, are we?” All the tension zaps from Grian’s body at once. “Hotguy,” he breathes, the name spilling from him with a weak exhale. He wills his heart rate to slow, dropping his arms and relaxing his fist as his brain catches up to his body.

read on ao3 here! or, download the zine here!

POSTING DAY >:D here's my piece for the @hotguycomiczine !!! I had the joy of writing desert duo divorce arc and it was an absolute blast <3 this was a HUGE labor of love between myself @wormtime123 as the cover artist, @definitelynotshouting for the editing, and @sillyfairygarden as co-writer and help with story in this arc <3

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[MERCH] [MISC]

[fictionally-driven]

Prologue

pairing: Wriothesley x f! reader

trigger warnings: violence, blood, murder, imprisonment, suggestive, ptsd, mentions of child abuse

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The streets of Fontaine were bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun, casting long shadows and giving the city an almost ethereal glow. The meeting with the Iudex of Fontaine in Palais Mermonia had been as expected—tense and bureaucratic. Discussions about the affairs related to Meropide were never easy, but the Duke was thankful for the cooperation and support he often received from Monsieur Neuvillette.

Wriothesley’s heavy footsteps echoed against the cobblestones.  He rarely ventured to the surface, but duty had called. Now, as the golden hues of the setting sun bathed the city in a warm glow, he made his way through the bustling streets of Fontaine. The surface world, with its vibrant life and spectacle, always felt a world apart from the fortress he governed.

He exhaled slowly, a sigh mingling with the evening breeze, as his thoughts drifted to the faces of the prisoners. Each one had a story, a past, and sometimes, Wriothesley wondered if he would ever truly understand morality as a whole. Lost in contemplation, he barely noticed the few passersby giving him a wide berth, recognizing the emblem of his station and the aura of authority he carried. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he navigated through the throng of people.

He barely registered the world around him until a sudden impact jolted him from his thoughts. He had collided with someone, and the force of it sent them both stumbling.

“Oh, for the love of–!” The exasperated voice brought him back to the present. He looked down to see a young woman picking herself off the ground, brushing the dust from her garments. Her eyes, alight with irritation, met his, and she frowned deeply.

“Watch where you’re going, will you?” she snapped, not caring that he towered over her. Wriothesley found himself momentarily speechless. The setting sun framed her face, casting a radiant glow that highlighted her delicate features. Her beauty struck him, the kind that seemed to draw the light towards her, making her skin glow and her eyes sparkle with an inner fire.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he managed to say, his voice softer than usual. He noticed then the bouquet of flowers scattered on the ground, petals crushed and stems broken. Flowers? A curious pang of disappointment twisted in his chest. Did she have a suitor already?

"You should be more careful! It is a busy street!" she retorted, dusting off the last of the debris. Her eyes darted to the ground where a bouquet of flowers. "Great, just great. Now I have to remake this bouquet and I'll be late for the delivery."

Wriothesley watched as she hurriedly gathered the damaged flowers, her frustration evident. She handled the blooms with a surprising tenderness, and he felt an inexplicable urge to assist her.

"Let me help you," he offered, kneeling to pick up a few of the scattered flowers.

“These were for a customer,” she explained, kneeling down to gather the remnants of the bouquet. “A difficult one at that.” She sighed, still irritated. Her hands moved with a practiced grace, but there was a hint of urgency in her actions.

“I’m really sorry about that,” Wriothesley repeated, a hint of guilt creeping into his tone. He handed the flowers he’d picked to her and she was already on her feet, clutching the ruined bouquet.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, her irritation giving way to resignation. “I’ll just have to work faster.” She offered him a brief, distracted smile, more out of politeness than anything else, before dashing off down the street, leaving him standing there.

Wriothesley watched her go, her figure soon swallowed by the crowd. He stood there for a moment longer, the noise of Fontaine’s streets fading into the background. The warmth of the setting sun lingered on his skin, but the encounter had left a different kind of warmth in his heart. He absentmindedly reached up to adjust his collar and felt something unusual. Pulling it free, he found a petal of a red poppy flower nestled in the fabric. He held it between his fingers, its vivid color a stark contrast to the muted tones of his attire. The petal, delicate and vibrant, seemed to carry a weight of its own, leaving him with a sense of unease. With a final glance at the direction she had gone, Wriothesley turned and continued his walk, his thoughts no longer solely occupied by the fortress of Meropide. The image of her fiery eyes and the way the sunlight had kissed her features stayed with him. He resumed his journey back to Meropide, the image of the spirited florist and the red poppy petal lingering on his mind.

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[thetavolution]

Full name:  Laura Marion Bates Name meaning:  Laura: bay laurel; Marion: beloved or star of the sea; Bates: the meaning is debated, but might mean boat or lush pasture Pronouns: She/Her  Race: High Elf Age: 28  Orientation: Lesbian Romance: Lae'zel Class: Sorcerer Subclass: Draconic Bloodline (Copper) Origin: Outlander  Theme Song: You Might Not Like Her — Maddie Zahm / EAT ME — Demi Lovato and Royal & the Serpent

Personality Laura is sarcastic, but not cynical. She has a deadpan sense of humor without being unnecessarily mean. (She's only mean to people she believes deserve it.) Laura is blunt about her opinions, but she has some sense of tact. She can be a total dork when she gets excited, especially when it comes to magic. She's as giddy as a school girl whenever she finds a new spell or magical item.

Laura is a natural born leader. She’s talented and brilliant, but she doesn’t trust people easily. Minty and Ingrid are the only two people she truly trusts. She struggles with her self-worth and PTSD, preferring to fight her inner demons in private. Laura doesn’t reach out for help nearly as often as she should. She’s a humanitarian at heart and she’s not a judgmental person. At least, not unless what you’re doing is hurting someone else.

She does show signs of someone who has been traumatized. She can be irritable, even when she doesn’t understand why something is upsetting her so much. She’s easily startled and she can have a full on panic attack if something reminds her of her past. When not adventuring, she has to work to keep her mind busy to avoid thinking too much. 

Background Unfortunately, these would be spoilers for @thebonnevillegame! Just know she grew up far from society. Baldur’s Gate was her first exposure to society at large and it’s been an adjustment period. She has dark secrets she likes to keep to herself.

She was living alone when she was abducted and tadpole’d. She had been working at The Counting House as a bookkeeper. Fortunately, her companions seem much more preoccupied with their own issues and they don’t ask a lot of questions.

Likes: Mathematics, magic, scary stories, knitting, small cottages and cabins, the countryside (she dreams of moving to the country some day), reading, and gardening

Dislikes: Talking about her past, washing dishes, heights, and sports

Fears: She's terrified of her past coming back for her. She doesn't want it to define her or for anyone to find out what happened to her. She's afraid she'll actually have to face it, but she also fears people will reject her when they discover who she really is. She has her found family and she's terrified of losing them.

Quirks: She fidgets a lot. She always has to keep busy with something to avoid letting her mind be taken by her anxieties. If she isn’t reading or knitting, she’s doing something else with her hands. She can be irritable, but she’s quick to apologize. She doesn’t want to be so easy to startle either.

Mental Health:  She wants to move on from her past, which has lead to her ignoring her own trauma. She just wants to pretend it never happened. She ignores a lot of her trauma reactions because she's so determined to be "cured." It only makes it worse.

Her childhood gave her extreme trauma and PTSD. If you are interested in learning more, check out @thebonnevillegame. YES, I AM PLUGGING THE SHOW HERE.

Favorite Foods: Seafood, Sweet Potatoes, Mint Jelly, Baldurian Mash, and Caster’s Stew

Favorite Drinks: Chamomile Tea

Favorite Flower: Foxglove and Oleander

Height:  5’6” / 167.64 cm

Skin: Dark Brown (Blush Tone 11)

Hair:  Black Red. Sometimes if she wants to change things up, she might use magic to temporarily change her hair color. She always goes back to black after a while though.

Eyes:  Brown (Brown 4)

Color Scheme:  She wears a lot of orange/burnt orange, rustic yellow, greens, and cream colored clothing.

Fashion Sense: While she wasn’t born into wealth, she loves high end clothing. She only dresses down on her adventures to avoid ruining her good clothes. But even then, she’s pretty stylish. She loves brightly colored dresses in particular. 

Family: 

I can't say much about her actual family, but her found family?

Minty Lam — Minty is one of her dearest friends. They just get each other and don't have to explain themselves or their idiosyncrasies.

Ingrid Sullenberger — Ingrid is one of the first friends she made in Baldur's Gate and they're thick as thieves. Ingrid is an understanding soul that Laura never feels like she has to justify herself to. Ingrid never demands too much of her either.

Bex McQuoid — Bex is the newest member of the "family." They don't hate each other, but its a slow burn friendship. Bex pushes Laura's buttons sometimes, but they also find each other hilarious. It helps that Bex is pretty nonjudgmental and doesn't confront Laura about her past. She let's Laura go at her own pace when talking about things.

Tessa Chastain — In the BG3 verse, they become good friends. Laura is cautious around her at first. She is a thief, after all, but they gain each other's trust. Now they're like weird cousins that, if texting were a thing in Faerûn, would text each other memes nonstop. Tessa becomes the big sister that Laura wishes she had growing up.

[shreyareadscomics]

Review: Tony Stark: Iron Man #1-4

something about young Tony Stark that really gets me... he's just a lil guy :-(

The way he overwhelms Andy is too funny, this was a really fun introduction to the character.

the rhodeytonybeth agenda is real!! I love it.

I really appreciate the exploration of rhodey's post-death trauma, but I wish there was more than just him using the Manticore to feel less claustrophobic.

Jocasta's dilemma is really interesting too... her position is 'Chief Robot Ethicist' & her role is to help establish an equal relationship between human and non-human life, while she simultaneously wants to feel accepted by her human peers. It's sad to be honest, esp considering her whole backstory, she doesn't feel like she fits in at all :(

the art fro #3's cover is gorgeous!

Aaron Stack's arguments are interesting for sure, but they're over-shadowed by the quip's a little. They also frame Jocasta's desire to enter the e-Scape interestingly...

(All the little robot-jokes are so good though, I feel like it makes the whole issue really light-hearted)

I love that given the chance to choose any character, Tony chooses to dress up as Stephen hahaha

So does this presumably mean that he created the e-Scape to feel equal to all other users?

Jocasta and Tony seek out the e-Scape (and/or image inducer) for similar reasons: dissonance in their own sense of self.. it's pretty interesting to see the parallels.

Okay wait,, slight whiplash here.. I was really seeing the TonyJocasta vision there for a second, but then here comes Jan!

I would really like an exploration of Tony and Jo's similar problems, wether that be romantic or not.. I just want them to talk it out!

that being said... I adore them as a couple, so no complaints at ALL. Look at them, my little sweetie pies with their romcom parallels <3

Honestly, the robot-ethics aspect is interesting. I think it was purposefully made to feel really obstructive and a little irritating to emphasize it's need?

The ending was pretty cutesy. The whole story was interesting. Each issue holds up quite nicely as one-shots even, and the resolution is satisfying and creative.

It definitely makes you want to keep reading the series though, if not to explore the deeper plot of Sunset's scheming, but for more TonyJan in the amazing art-style of Valerio Schiti <3

I really enjoyed the exploration of the personal turmoils of the supporting characters and I hope they continue to explore it (i.e. Rhodey's PTSD and Jo's insecurities). Looking forward to the rest of this series!

[hi-there-buddies]

So dragon ball and dragon ball z is my childhood I watched half of it without understanding anything because it was not translated to my language (my older brother had to endure my constant questions when we were watching it) and I loved it! I loved the characters, I loved the plot, I loved every outfit Bulma ever had, I wanted to learn how to fly and all that ( I was 7 years old). I also loved that later I got my hands on subtitles in my language.

With time I moved on and started enjoying different fandoms and although db was always in my heart I never wandered into the fandom, never saw what was going on.

This week I got a little sick and suddenly got a lot of free time. Somehow led by nostalgia i revisited dragon ball and (after the initial warm feeling of my childhood) got so irritated. I just kept reading some takes on Goku and thought to myself "man, was I really such a bad judge of character" and decided to rewatch dbz. I'm not finished yet but my views from all those years ago didn't really change and Goku is still my favourite.

Anyway I wrote all of this to tell you that I agree with a lot of your opinions and I'm thankful that you are uploading them on the internet. You don't have to answer this but just know that you are now Defender of my childhood ❤️❤️

I feel the exact same way!!! Dragon Ball was my childhood too, and when I grew up I saw a lot of people saying it was actually bad and that everyone who liked it was blinded by nostalgia. Naturally, as a young teen I thought that I was one of those people, and compared to Naruto and Bleach, it wasn’t good at all. I just went with the most popular opinion because I thought “if this many people are thinking it, it must be true, right? It’s only popular because of nostalgia, the other shonen are much better”

Fast forward a few years later and I decided to rewatch Dragon Ball from OG to Z, and wow, I was so wrong for just going along with the public opinion. Because Dragon Ball is good!! It’s so fun and cool and satisfying, and I know it’s not nostalgia, because I’ve seen people who have never watched Dragon Ball before watch the entire series, and adore it!

I think people say that it pales in comparison to other Shonen because Dragon Ball is very subtle with its emotions. It doesn’t have a lot of flashbacks like Naruto, it doesn’t have a huge character roster like One Piece, and it doesn’t have incredibly thought out story lines like Bleach. But that’s not because Dragon Ball lacks any deeper meaning, it just finds a more natural way to convey feelings and emotions.

A really good example of this subtlety is Gohan’s PTSD. And when I say that, I don’t mean him striking Great Saiyaman poses that he got from the Ginyu force. I mean his PTSD during the Saiyan to Cell saga, and the constant nightmares he had. These aren’t one off things, either. He’s had at least 4 of them throughout the show. But he doesn’t dwell on them, so the audience doesn’t. But these nightmares illustrate one of the Gohan hates about himself: he’s always letting everyone down. This is stated explicitly in his beam struggle with Goku before going SSJ, but it didn’t come out of nowhere. It was just (say it with me) subtle

Not saying DB is better than any other shonen btw. It’s actually not even my favorite one, but I’d say it’s at least on par with the big three.

I’ll always defend Dragon Ball❤️

[meowzfordayz]

amid the bittersweet

Kamado Tanjirou x Reader

Word Count: ~600

CW: anxiety/panic disorder, PTSD

Emergency Request Fulfilled: So how about a Tanjiro x F!Reader where the reader has been having nightmares of exactly that and after one more that went WAY too far she decides to tell him. I‘m basically just asking for comfort in hopes that this is over soon

“Hm still ‘wake?” Tanjirou’s drowsy murmur cuts through your stillness, a clingy arm snaking around your waist, his warm nose nuzzling sleepily into the plush above your hip.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” you mutter, skin buzzing from his touches, involuntarily twitching.

Frowning slightly, he blinks more consciously, syrupy, maroon gaze trying to meet your eyes, “You didn’t,” jaw stretching as he resists yawning, “Was just my [y/n] radar going off,” offering you a small, teasing smile, “Seems unfair of me to rest while sleep eludes you.”

In truth, the muddled sour tang of fear had roused him.

“It’s fine,” you shrug, expression blank as ever, “If you’re tired, then you sleep.”

“Are you tired?” he asks pointedly, concern drip drip dripping into his tone, “We don’t have to sleep in shifts, y’know,” playful edge attempting to loosen the tightening worry at the back of his throat.

“I know,” you shrug again, nonchalant sigh hanging in the air, “It’s fine. I’ll sleep.”

“I don’t believe you,” he declares, moving to sit up, pillow propped behind him as he presses the length of his thigh against you, tension in your body obvious, “What’s on your mind?”

“On my mind?” you crack a wry smile, “Not much, no thoughts. Just sitting.”

“Okay,” he nods thoughtfully, “Well there’s plenty of bed for you to lie down too,” gently nudging you, hoping to catch a glimpse of your usual humor.

“I’ll lie down when I’m ready,” you sigh, irritation bubbling, “I’m fine. Nothing wrong with being a night owl.”

A subtle, sideways glance at the tremor in your fingers tells a different story, tension in your body nearly crackling as his firm, unconvinced voice envelops you.

“Whatever’s bothering you, it isn’t a burden for me to listen to you,” dent between his brows deepening at your shaky inhalation, continuing softly, “You aren’t a burden for me to care about.”

Silence fills the bedroom, that same muddled sourness raising goosebumps on his forearms, scent increasing in intensity and saturation as you begin curling into his chest, hiding from the sickening tenderness in his eyes. Swallowing thickly, he steels himself, willing away his own encroaching protectiveness, waiting for your response — waiting for your trust.

“I’m having nightmares,” you finally whisper, words muffled in his sternum, fixating on the rhythm of his pulse, the solidity of his posture.

“Nightmares,” he repeats. Quietly. Patiently.

“If I don’t sleep, then I can’t have nightmares,” low whimper escaping, “If I don’t sleep, then I’m safe,” biting at his skin to stifle your surging panic, “They can’t get me!” anguish swelling, “They can’t get me, they can’t get me, can’t get me,” trembling in the steadiness of his embrace Can’t get me, can’t get me, safe, safe, I’m safe…

His heart falters at your confession, stomach churning even as he does his best to remain upright and grounding, sweaty palms flat and repetitive as he strokes your back, lungs heaving with a distinct pressure. Anger. Shame. What do I do? spinning frantic for him How do I help? He isn’t sure how to tackle something he can’t see — something he can’t tangibly grasp.

“I’m here,” he promises, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” fingertips tracing the curve of your shoulders, the shuddering of your breaths, the outline of your heartbeat, “Hey,” reassuring fondness melting into your haze of distress, “Hey,” adoring smile focusing into view as he carefully cups your jaw, loving stare settling decisive and determined, “I’m here.”

“M’exhausted,” you mumble half heartedly, eyelids drooping, “Don’t go away, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” lifting the blankets for you, watching as you slowly ease yourself down, his heat following suit, frame spooned closely behind you, “I promise.”

Nightmares come and go, worsen and retreat.

But Tanjirou hardly sways, an unwavering constant amid the bittersweet.

[uponrightful]

Hi! I love all your writing. I was wondering, how did Wolffe react when Pup told him what she went through/where all the scars came from? Or did she never tell him the whole story?

A/N: This is a little part of Welcome Company that I never alluded to much... But I did have the scene in mind and never found the perfect way to fit it into the main storyline. Thank you for coming over and asking! Here's what happened that day. &lt;3

All my love,

Rightful 🤍

Def not proofread. Mentions of blood. Mentions of injury. Talk and depiction of PTSD and Trauma.

Story of Scars

Wolffe never pushed to find out what had happened to Pup in the time they were apart. He wasn't ignorant enough to believe that she hadn't gone through enough horrors to shift her personality, and her behaviors after they were reunited and settled only confirmed his expectations. It was all in the little things she did throughout the day, just mulling about the house that caught his attention and gave him insights that others wouldn't notice.

One of the most significant was how she never liked letting the hair on the scarred side of her head get long enough for the bare spots to show significantly. It meant she'd spend a couple minutes every week or so shaving down the hairs until they were almost at a peach-fuzz appearance in the refresher. Not only was it a habit that Pup never broke, she'd often close the door to keep Wolffe from entering during the process. Again, he never pushed the issue. Scars weren't only the visible kind -he had plenty of his own- and he loved her too damn much to intrude, but he also worried that it was some wound that she had to keep reopening and irritating every time she shaved the side of her head or looked in the mirror.

It was almost a full year after they settled into their home that Wolffe was eventually forced into helping her work through an issue he'd never live to forget or spent a day not thinking about.

Pup often did the hunting for the pair of them. On the off-handed chance Wolffe had tried to do so, he'd often failed miserably. Not having the patience or the practice to be any good at it So, Pup would always give him a timeframe for her to return, and give the reassurance that if she wasn't back by then, to send out Wolf and have him track her down. For almost an entire year this place had worked without a hitch and Wolffe had never needed to go looking for his wife or send out their canine to sniff her out. Until Pup got herself caught trying to come home after heading out a little further from the house than she normally did.

She'd taken a long route on the hunt for the smaller game that wouldn't be such a struggle to find or carry back home. It took her through a large rocky outcropping that often played roost to some birds she'd been particularly interested in bringing home. The shale-like cliffs weren't the least bit easy to move across, but Pup didn't believe any of her regular paths through this section of the mountainside would be of risk. It was a rookie mistake, and it ended up with her sliding down a razor-sharp, shale-covered cliffside and landing at the bottom in a heap of cuts, bruises, and an entire body that felt so sore she didn't want to think about moving.

Wolffe didn't wait the full three hours before calling in Wolf's help to go out and look for her. He knew birds were fast prey, and she should've been home long before noon considering just how many flocks had been passing over their house throughout the morning. And when they found her -quite quickly- Wolffe was instantly enraged. Not at Pup, but at the fact she'd been injured seriously enough that she couldn't get home on her own. His heart ached and that reminder of just how easily either one of them could die was quickly brought to the forefront of his mind as he got her up on Wolf's back to take her back home.

Inside, Pup didn't have the slightest hesitation about letting Wolffe clean. her up in the bathtub or dress the more serious wounds she'd earned in her fall. Even when he started assessing a nasty bruise forming on her shoulder, she didn't do anything more than answer his questions about her pain and what kind of movements she could manage without feeling some type of discomfort. Together they assumed she'd dislocated her shoulder on the fall and it had slipped back into place on its own. Luckily, it wouldn't be too serious that they needed to call for someone to take a look at it or do any type of treatment they couldn't manage at home. But it made her dominant arm nearly useless. And after a week and a half in bed -per Wolffe's stern orders- her buzzed hair had gotten long enough that she started getting irritated and mad that she couldn't move her arm well enough to get the task done.

It was later that night Wolffe found her out of bed and standing the refresher looking at herself in the mirror with tears streaming down her cheeks and a set of clippers lamely held in her hand. At first, he wanted to instantly grab the clippers away and carry her back to bed before she pushed herself too hard and reinjured herself. Only he saw that there was something else other than physical pain in her eyes and that she was fighting hard with herself.

Immediately, he approached slowly and lowered himself down to his knees just outside of the doorframe, and softly whispered to get her attention away from her own reflection.

"Puppy," His whisper trembled a bit, feeling helpless as to how to help her. "Tell me what you're thinking. I can't help you fight if you won't let me." He added, reaching a hand out to brush his fingers over her leg reassuringly. She looked at him with wide, bloodshot eyes and a look of pure sadness filling them. It nearly broke his heart seeing her like this.

"I hate looking like this," She moaned brokenly, wiping at her eyes and dropping the clippers to the floor with a loud metallic thud. "But I can't make it go away. I can't fix it!" Wolffe instinctually reached out to catch her as she fell down into him, holding him around his neck tightly and soaking the shoulder of his shirt with her tears. He held her back just as tightly, moving her legs to wrap around his waist and holding one hand in her hair and the other on her back.

"Oh, baby..." He sighed, kissing the top of her head and rocking her a little as he tries to figure out what to say to her. "Can you tell me?" His voice drops lower, almost rumbling in a comforting and safe way as his hand rubs up and down her back.

"It-It was... Corrie Guard-" Her voice breaks with deep erratic breaths and sniffs of a wet and runny nose. "When they-they cl-cleared out houses," Her fingers started digging into his back, trying to hold him tighter.

"I was so scared, and I-I didn't know wh-what they wanted from me! I didn't move fast enough, and one-one of them sh-shot his blaster right at the side of m-my h-head." She stumbled and stuttered through the horrific experience, and Wolffe had to squeeze his eyes shut to try and keep himself from failing to control his emotions.

Everything from rage to sorrow and guilt flooded his mind at once. Another reminder of just how mindless he himself had been at that time, and the nightmare thought of what he might've done should they found each other before Rex saved him. That trooper didn't have their own mind anymore, but the. baser part of him wanted revenge for such a transgression that had gone years without punishment. Yet there was nothing he could do now... Other than trying to hold his little wife and attempt to make her feel safe with her own mind and appearance.

"You're so brave pretty girl," he whispered close to her ear. "You... you're safe now. No one... will ever lay a hand on you again," Wolffe felt his emotions getting the best of him again, choking him up so even the simplest of sentences couldn't be uttered easily. "I love you more than life itself."

"I love you too," She sniffed wetly against his chest. "I'm, sorry I got out of bed..." Her eyes met his. Big and innocent with tears beginning to dry on her face. "I just..."

Wolffe smiled sadly, eyes flashing over to the overgrown hair on the side of her head. "I understand my little Pup." He kissed her forehead tenderly, lingering there for a long time just to take in her presence in his arms.

"Would you help me?"

It was a shock to his system. One that made his heart stutter and his chest burn with love and protective instincts for her.

"Yes."

Quickly, Wolffe had her swept up in his arms and sitting on the counter with her bare legs dangling off the edge as he was given the very first opportunity to really get a good look at the burn scars on the side of her head and the very clear imprint of where the blaster charge had been expertly skimmed just over her ear. Wolffe felt himself growl deep in his chest. The trooper hadn't missed by accident. It was a brutal and permanent threat she'd been living with ever since. Right in her face, always close to her mind both literally and metaphorically. He'd wanted her to hurt. Feel fear of him.

As he slowly began working the clippers over her head, following her quiet direction and praise, he thought about just how she'd b been able to live with it. Unable to comprehend just what that must feel like for her... And suddenly, he realized he knew exactly how it felt. His cybernetic giving him the pleasure of looking upon his pretty wife, was a very comparable life-long symbol of loss in the most severe way. And yet, Pup had long ago given him such a different view of the grey eye he possessed that it often slipped his mind that he still had it.

She changed him, and now... he needed to do the same.

"It's beautiful to me..." his voice trembled with emotion and tears began to flood his eyes as his fingers gently brushed the remaining cut hair off her shoulders and ear. "You aren't a mistake for carrying this scar, Pup. It's your claim to life. Your own body shows just how strong of a miracle you are." To keep himself from crying he had to suck in a deep breath. "You show everyone around you just how determined you were to live, no matter the amount of pain and fear you felt..." Wolffe leaned in, kissing her slow and soft. Feeling her lean into him gently, letting her defenses down.

"And if your living, despite that beautiful scar isn't the best fucking thing that's ever happened to me... then nothing in this world matters."

*****

no tags since all my moots have probably assumed I fell off the face of the planet lol 🙃

[everlastingdreams]

Weeping Monk x Reader : The Patience Of A Heart   Chapter 27

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Story Summary: After fire claimed the lives of your family, the monastery of your Uncle Carden becomes your new home. As the niece of a priest you are expected to behave prim and proper, but not even the watchful eyes of the Weeping Monk can see all. An ancient magic returns to life when love and duty begin to blur.

Chapter Title:  Bright Skies.

Notes: The last chapter ;_;

Warnings: There’s a list of warnings for this story: Murder. Violence. Death. Angst. Sexism. Strong Language. Trauma. Childhood trauma. Survivor’s guilt. Mentions of child maltreatment. Threat of Sexual assault. PTSD. Misogyny, Self-flagellation. Gore.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forbidden Love. Romance. Pining. Smut. Spicy content. Little Slow-burn.

Word count of this fic: +130K

Chapter:  27 / 27

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Just before dawn, Lancelot let you return to your room after sharing what was meant to be a hasty kiss but turned out lasting quite a bit longer.

Percival had a tendency to barge into his room at the crack of dawn to ask for anything the boy had thought of the night before and Lancelot would not risk the boy walking in on something he was too young to know about.

The nightgown was almost dry, but it didn’t matter now as you changed into the trousers and leather sleeveless jacket you had come to love.

At breakfast you felt like the whole dining hall knew what had happened that night, which was ridiculous. It was just your self-consciousness trying to strike fear into you.

Lancelot had tried to get a piece of potato on his fork and missed for more than four times because he couldn’t stop stealing glances from you.

Gawain said nothing of it, Pym scrunched her nose at the sight of it.

It was Arthur who pointed it out for all to hear “Lancelot, I’m glad your aim with the sword is better than your aim with a fork.”

“Are you drunk?” Pym blurted out.

The poor Ash Man felt the eyes of the room on him and answered the question aimed at him “No.” he looked at Arthur as well “I have not slept well.”

Well, he had not slept much. It was close enough to the truth.

You kept your eyes on the plate under your nose, chewing the food to avoid smiling at the situation he found himself in.

Arthur showed concern “How come? Are you unwell?”

He had hoped the Manblood would not ask further.

Finally he managed to spear the piece of potato on his fork “No, there was an owl outside my window that kept me awake.”

You barely kept it together, he was truly fishing for a believable lie.

While the rest of the table believed the lie, it was Red Spear and Gawain who seemed more than a little skeptical.

Arthur went on to use it to get on the Ash Man’s nerves “Aren’t you skilled enough with the bow to take care of that?”

He’d show him how skilled he was if the Manblood kept challenging him…

With a glare, he answered “I will not waste an arrow on an owl. We need our weapons for more important matters.”

Gawain stood by him “A wise choice. And we should not let food go to waste either.”

It was meant for both the men who were forgetting about the plate in front of them.

Your own plate was empty by now and you rose from your seat “Gawain is right. Eat, gentlemen.”

Arthur send a charming smile your way upon hearing it, that smile faded quite quickly when he looked at Lancelot again.

He knew Arthur well enough now to know that he would not betray him like this, but that did not mean that Arthur would not try to rile him up.

The Manblood and the Green Knight had become like brothers to him, and he knew brothers could be terribly irritating amongst one another. Still, he rather enjoyed their spirited characters.

You walked past the children at the end of the table, ruffling Percival’s hair and correcting a flower in Neia’s that looked like it would fall out otherwise.

“No fighting during your lessons today.” You reminded them.

“So, afterwards?” Percival quipped.

You struggled to hide the smile “No.”

The boy was just joking, you could tell. Mostly it was to get more attention from Neia who never strayed from the side of her young and brave knight.

You walked past the empty chair where Kaze always sat and asked Gawain “Does Kaze not want breakfast?”

“She left to head into the city earlier.” Gawain explained her absence.

You had feared something bad had happened “Oh, alright. Glad to hear she is not sick or anything.”

He eased your mind “Kaze will be back tonight. She’s one tough woman that one.”

“She is.” You agreed.

After walking past Gawain, you leaned down and stole a piece of potato from Lancelot’s plate.

You popped it into your mouth, chewed and swallowed before licking some remnants of it from your index finger.

He could not believe you would act so ill-mannered.

He could not believe how impossible it felt to look away from you when you brought your finger to your mouth like that.

It was too late, most of the table had seen him stare by the time he regained control over his wandering thoughts.

You were innocence itself “Don’t let it go cold. It tastes really good.”

It earned you quite the look from him, if you had been alone with him you’d be in trouble.

The smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth “Clearly.”

In the time he spend looking up at you, Pym was leaning over and reaching with her fork for the unguarded food on his plate.

Part of you wanted to help your intended, part of you wanted your friend to be successful.

You had placed your hand on the back of his chair, fingers brushing against his shoulder.

While his eyes were on you, he still sensed that something was off.

Without looking, he caught Pym’s wrist and she let out a very started yelp.

Slowly he turned to her “So many ill-manners so early in the day.”

Pym tried to defend her actions “You’re just letting it get cold…”

He released her wrist and the sneaky Pym still managed to have pinned some food on her fork and popped it into her mouth immediately.

While he was busying looking at Pym, you stole another piece from his plate and ate it.

“Gawain.” Lancelot looked to the knight for back-up.

Gawain offered no such thing “They’re right. You’re letting it go cold.”

Neia was giggling at the shenanigans and managed to steal something of Percival’s plate too, to the utter shock of the boy.

Lancelot send you a look again and saw you shrug your shoulders before walking away.

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  Just before midday, you went to find Lancelot again and found him busy teaching Neia and Percival how to wield a sword in the field. Three other children stood at a small distance to watch and the Ash Man beckoned for them to come closer.

They did so with caution, until he offered them a wooden sword.

You kept at a distance, they had not seen you.

The children joined in on the training, which often turned more playful than proper for a lesson and poor Lancelot did not have the heart to tell them.

Maybe he even enjoyed to see them have fun while learning, unlike the way he had learned.

You left them to their fun and went back into the fort and to your room.

It had been a while since you had picked up a knitting needle and you retrieved them from under your bed. The last thing you had made were socks for Anne.

When winter came, many would not have the proper clothing for the weather, it was time to pick the needles up again. Maybe you could even teach others with the little skill you had.

You checked how much yarn there still was, enough for a scarf for Neia and a couple pair of socks for others. A trip to the local market would be necessary soon.

After starting on the scarf, you had made some small mistakes that took longer than usual to rectify and you swore you wouldn’t go more than two days without working with the needles again.

Once it finally began to go smoothly, a knock at your door pulled you out of your concentration.

“Yes?” You called out.

Lancelot opened the door and walked into your room without closing it “Here you are. The children are off to their lessons.”

You could sense he was here to try and distract you “I’m knitting.”

Lancelot stole the knitting needles from your hands and placed them down on the small nightstand “I have something else for you to play with.”

The jest fell from you “I would have preferred some loving words and perhaps a kiss before hearing that.”

It took him three seconds to understand, he looked off to the side smiling “Not what I meant. Come with me.”

You stood up to follow him “What are we going to do?”

He grabbed your sword from where you had placed it against your dresser and handed it to you “It is time I dedicate more time to your training.”

You got excited at the prospect “With the sword?”

He gave a nod “Yes. We can try the bow later.”

The excitement grew even stronger when he took you to where you had been sparing with Gawain yesterday. Without being prompted to, you went to retrieve the two wooden swords that still rested against the nearest tree.

“Leave them.” Lancelot called out.

He had not been happy to see you spar with steel, so you just assumed the wooden ones would be used.

“But-” You started.

“We train with steel. Like you did with Gawain.” He beckoned for you and drew his sword.

As long as Percival was not around to see it, for only heaven knew how he would be able to end the boy’s angry ranting over it.

It worried you “I don’t want to hurt you.”

There was a chuckle, he stopped when he realized how arrogant it might appear “You will not.”

Had he truly just laughed at the idea that you could possibly harm him this way?

You were not amused by his blatant believe “Wow, you really believe I can’t hurt you.”

He ill-worded it “You do not have the skill.” then added “Yet.”

Alright, maybe that was true. But he didn’t have to rub your nose in it.

You did not let it slip “Just so we are clear, you’re not coming anywhere near me tonight.”

He, not so subtly, inhaled deeply.

With a shit-eating grin, he said “We shall see.”

You didn’t know what made your face burn more, him trying to catch your scent or the irritation you felt at his smug demeanor “You unbelievable-”

It took a lot to hold back the words you’d spew at him and instead you let out a loud agitated groan.

“That’s it. You’re asking for it.” You pointed at him accusingly.

It was time to show him that you weren’t afraid to prove him wrong.

Perhaps you lacked the skill of sword fighting, but not the skill to fight dirty.

Your sword was already in your hand and you ran up to him.

As anticipated he easily evaded you, a chuckle escaping him.

Good. That was what you wanted, for him to think you would continue to run around him like a headless chicken.

This time you approached slower, using your sword as a distraction to try and steal the short sword from his side.

It made little sense to him why you would do so and therefore he was almost too late to prevent it. He grabbed a hold on your elbow, you tugged at his cloak and pulled it over his arm.

Like this, you were making it hard for him to actually use his sword to block your shenanigans.

More than once you got really close on purpose to the point where he was both amused and annoyed by it.

It was when you pulled his hood down that he finally took a couple of steps back.

“You-…” He swallowed what he was about to say.

“What?” You grinned at him wickedly.

“Continue this and I will-” Lancelot started.

You interrupted him arrogantly “You’ll what?”

The annoyance was audible in his tone “Just spar with me.”

It was glorious to see him so riled up by your fighting strategy “I am. It’s not my fault that you can’t handle the way I fight.”

For a moment he said nothing, then he tossed his sword to the grass and drew the short one instead “I can handle you well.”

Honestly, it was quite intimidating when he stalked closer.

Your mind was scrambling for ways to defend yourself against whatever he had planned.

Slower than he would normally have, he aimed with the sword and was pleasantly surprised that you did know how to block an attack well.

The knight must have taught you some things indeed.

When you lunged at him with your sword as well, that was when the spar truly began.

He let you experience what it was like to be in close combat and how quick it could be even if he held back.

Steel collided with steel and your arms began to ache after a while even if your sword was light, the movements was not something you were used to.

His aim was to disarm you, you could tell.

And you’d be damned if you let him accomplish that without a fight.

You copied what you had seen from Gawain and him to the best of your abilities.

Your balance wasn’t the best, but the spirit to fight made up for it.

He watched you defend yourself like a feral cat. It lacked grace, but so far he had not managed to steal your weapon from you.

Like Gawain had once taught you, you played it dirty and got your crossguard caught on his on purpose.

With one firm pull at the crossguard that costed all your strength, and your leg strategically placed, you caused him to trip over your lower leg.

There he was, down on his knees, resisting the strong urge to curse.

Not often was he faced with someone who fought dirty like he often had.

You felt quite proud “Gawain taught me that.”

He sat up on his knees, slightly glaring “Did he now?”

To see him like this sure send your mind to wander.

Instead of seizing the moment to gloat, you stepped in front of him and caressed along his jaw.

The change in his eyes was evident, your shadow falling over him took the sun’s bright light out of his eyes.

“Did I do well?” You softly asked.

He had forgotten the pain in his knees quite quickly and held you by the hips to get you closer “Very well.”

You let him move you closer to him.

The corner of his mouth curved up and he looked around himself, when no one was there to see it, he rested his forehead to your abdomen and pressed his lips to it.

The memory of last night rose to the front of your mind, a hot flush coursed through your veins and you shyly looked around you to see if no one was looking “Lancelot…”

He stood up from the ground, not releasing you “What happened between us last night, it means a lot to me. Have I told you that?”

You leaned back a little, shaking your head “Not with many words, but I know you are not a man of many words.”

He placed his hands a bit higher when others walked by “You trusted me with your body.”

You gave his arm a gentle squeeze “I trust you with all that I am, as you trust me.”

His hand curled around your wrist, thumb feeling the bangle that you always wore now “Did you mean it, when you said you did not want me near you tonight?”

To answer that, you removed his hand from your waist “I’ll have to think about it.”

The teasing was unmistakable, there was hope.

As if to persuade and woo, he took your hand and brought your knuckles to his lips, letting them brush over it briefly “Look favourably upon it.”

It was indeed quite persuasive, especially when those eyes glanced at you with such intensity.

He let go off your hand upon seeing Tristan approach.

The archer greeted you both and asked Lancelot “I was wondering if you would like to go hunting with me? We won’t go far into the forest, my wife has cravings for certain kinds of food that I cannot easily find in the city.”

You nudged Lancelot’s arm “Go on then, before Iseult takes a bite out of Tristan instead.”

The Ash Man agreed to help Tristan “Alright, I shall join you.”

Tristan gestured between the two of you “I’ve heard the news about your betrothal, congratulations. Will it be a joining like the ones Fey have?”

Lancelot looked to you for the answer.

You shyly admitted “I hope for a joining.”

It seemed to please the Ash Man to hear it.

“I hope I will be invited. And my wife too of course. ” Tristan not so subtly alerted you to his interest.

You looked at Lancelot curiously.

He saw no reason to not invite the man “You are welcome to come.”

At that, Tristan held out his hand and Lancelot shook it amicably.

“We’d better be off then. If I’m not back before dark, Iseult will throw a fit.” Tristan send him a look.

You voiced your opinion “And rightfully so.”

Tristan regretted speaking now and awkwardly stepped away, Lancelot followed him and threw you a smirk.

Anyone expecting a child had the right to be upset if their partner chose to remain absent and cause them unnecessary worry.

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  You were there to wait outside the door to the dining hall for when the children would finish their lessons. The door swung upon and children ran out the room to their other daily activities. Percival and Neia ran right past you, not even noticing your presence.

You had to call out their names to pull their attention, upon hearing it they stopped and quickly hurried over “I’m going to the market to get yarn. Do you want to come with me?”

It surprised them both and they eagerly exclaimed ‘yes’.

Before heading to the market, you urged them to put on a cloak in case it would rain and came to the realization that Percival’s cloak was torn in many places.

The few coins you had would not suffice for both yarn and a cloak. If needed be, the yarn would need to wait and you’d just get Percival the cloak instead.

If the children questioned you on why you weren’t purchasing the yarn, you would have to lie and say that they didn’t have what you were looking for.

Together you walked to the exit of the fort, you let the children walk in front of you to keep an eye on them.

Gawain came from the opposite direction, letting the little ones pass by “Heading into the city?”

You nodded “To the market. There are some things I need.”

“Such as?” He wasn’t afraid to be curious.

“Some yarn and a cloak.” You gestured to Percival discreetly.

The knight scanned the boy and girl briefly “It’s not easy for Feys to earn coin these days. Most of us trade.”

Did he know?…

“What sort of things would the merchants trade for?” You questioned.

He gave a sympathetic smile and reached into his pockets, pulling out some coins and handing them to you “It will be easiest with these.”

You protested “But-”

Gawain waved the protest away “It is worth investing in a useful craft. Look after the children, do not worry about other things. We all help each other here.”

The appreciation you felt was great “Thank you, Gawain.”

He hinted “I could use a warm pair of socks for the winter.”

It didn’t even need asking “Consider it done.”

Gawain turned to Percival “Stay close to y/n.”

The cheeky boy grinned and nodded.

Oh, you would definitely need to keep your eyes on them.

“Good luck.” The knight said to you, before correcting himself “I mean, enjoy yourselves.”

After sharing a knowing look with him, you left the fort with the children.

  Once at the market, it all started out so well and calm. Neia held your hand, Percival remained close to your side. And then, the stall which sold wares they were interested in came into their sights.

You did remind them to stay close and they impatiently stood beside you while you chose the yarn you needed. Then you went to a stall that sold clothing and picked a cloak with Percival. After that, there was still enough coin and you let Neia choose something for herself from the market.

It took some encouragement from Percival for her to do so, she almost returned into her shell of shyness.

The boy led her to some stall, but you doubted the girl would want to purchase some fish to eat…

Percival’s intention was good, but he needed a little help, which became evident when he looked at you.

You pointed at a stall that sold a variety of items. Trinkets, jewelry, flowers…

There a small necklace caught her attention, she took it in her hands and that was when you recognized the piece of silver.

Neia looked up at you with wide eyes as she held it up for you to see “It’s the one you gave me…”

A brief inspection later and you could only confirm that it was indeed the same necklace “It is… do you want it?”

She quickly nodded and you paid the merchant for the item.

Someone must have traded or sold it again.

Neia struggled to put it on and you knelt down to her height to help.

It didn’t take you long to close the clasp, she was happy to have it back and you were glad to see that she loved it too.

Once you had everything you needed from the market, you walked back towards the fortress with the children.

At the meadow behind the fortress, you went ahead and let the children play with the wooden swords that others had used for practice earlier that day.

Multiple flowers grew on the meadow and you sat down on the grass between them.

Soon the area filled itself with laughter as they chased each other with the swords.

The setting sun caused a magical atmosphere on the meadow.

Never before had you felt more at peace than this, just watching the sun set while the children played in the grass.

When you placed your palm on the grass, you felt the mark tingle pleasantly.

There was some fey magic inside of you and it allowed you to experience some of what they experienced. The close connection to nature, to their kind and the magic that lived in the lands.

Your heart had found it’s home.

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  After the sun went down, you brought the children to the dinning hall where dinner was being handed out.

Kaze had returned from the city as well and was using a knife to stab her food and put it in her mouth.

Red Spear and Arthur were quietly talking to each other, which was rather surprising. Had the Manblood managed to charm the raider’s Captain after all? It appeared so.

You sat down next to Pym, noticing the amount of blood she had on her clothes “Hard day at the infirmary?”

Pym was eager to speak of the idiocy from the raiders she had to deal with all day, she did so quietly to make sure Red Spear would not hear of it.

The door of the dining hall opened again and your betrothed walked in with Tristan.

Blood stained both their clothing, but not as much as Pym’s.

From their joyful entrance, you concluded that at least it was not their own blood.

Tristan went to sit with his wife a couple of tables further away.

Lancelot passed by the back of your chair, leaned over and greeted you “Good evening.”

You arched a brow with a smile “Well, well, you look like you had fun.”

He confirmed it with a nod “I have. Tristan’s archery skill is impressive.”

You touched his aketon “There is blood on you.”

The poor Ash Man seemed unaware of it until you pointed it out “Iseult will spare her husband. I will change after the meal.”

So the hunt had been successful, no wonder he looked so content tonight.

His eyes flickered from yours to your cheek and you saw him resist the desire to kiss it.

He stepped away and walked to his chair to sit beside Gawain.

This time he did not let his food turn cold.

The mood at the table was amicable, everyone was chatting with everyone.

It was like you had gained a new family, one far stranger than you could have imagined and it made it only better.

A new life had begun, one where you did not have to pretend to be something you were not to be accepted.

Life was dangerous, but it was good. You were not alone, you were home.

After the meal, you took it upon yourself to guide the two tired children to their rooms.

And once one asked for some water, the other did too. Like they suddenly became parched at the sight of their beds.

Two trips back and forth between the kitchen and the rooms was the result. But Percival and Neia were happy, and you were glad that they were not afraid to ask you for what they needed.

You retreated to your room and by the time you had changed into your nightgown, you felt thirsty too…

And so began the short walk to the kitchen under the cover of your cloak to shield yourself from the sights of others still awake.

A jug of water and a tankard was your prize and you returned to your room, now more understanding of how the children had felt parched too.

Behind the curtain, you quickly scanned your appearance in the mirror. The cut to your head was healing well, it only stung when you touched it. And your ankle hadn’t hurt in a while either. You were healing in more than one way.

You discarded the cloak on your bed and wandered into the night again.

Once upon a time, you would have had to sneak out off a window to do this, now you could walk through the night with a heart at peace.

It wasn’t long before midnight when you presented yourself at his door.

The door was unlocked, as if he was already expecting a late night visitor.

You followed the candle light coming from the small room and came upon the sight of him cleaning off the day’s build on sweat.

His torso glistened from the water and he messily splashed some on his face too.

It was quite amusing to witness and you bit your cheek to prevent a laugh.

While drying off his face with the towel and without even looking at you, he asked “Will you keep staring, or will you help?”

Never did you think this man could still find a way to get you flustered.

But it had sounded more genuine than a jest and it set your mind to spin.

“This is the hardest choice I’ve ever been burdened with.” You admitted.

He looked over his shoulder at the floor just in front of your feet, a lopsided smirk plastered on his face.

How could you not be appreciative of the sight granted to you now?

It came out in a breath “You are quite something…”

This time he did look at your face, curious what that meant “Something?”

Oh, how you could feel your cheeks just start to burn at your own thoughts.

Surely he noticed how shamelessly your gaze was traveling over him?

You got closer, stealing the towel from his hands to ‘aid’ him.

You took your sweet time dabbing the towel to his chest “Strikingly handsome…”

A very quiet curse spilled from your lips, that was how much of an effect he had.

Dammit, how could one be so handsome?

Why was one look from him enough to stir something inside of you?

It took some effort to remain focused on the task and you did dab the skin of his back dry carefully.

When you put the towel down on the small table, he caught you by the waist before you could step away.

With one swift movement, he trapped you between himself and the table.

If that bowl of water spilled, you’d need more than that one towel…

He nosed your hair, then dipped his head into your neck.

The quiet inhales and exhales betrayed what he was doing and it only got you more flustered.

You almost scolded him for it “Lancelot. Why are you sniffing me?”

He smiled against your neck “I think you know.”

If his ears had been as sensitive as his nose, he would have heard how your heart was trying to beat it’s way out of your rib cage.

Without him noticing, you dipped your hand in the bowl of water and then proceeded to rub the water across his face.

He barely recoiled, slowly getting used to your antics.

“Missed a spot.” You bit your lip.

His eyes narrowed “A lifetime of this…”

You caught a drip of water that was gliding down his mouth “Having seconds thoughts on us joining?”

“Never.” He breathed against your thumb.

You imagined how it would go “In the forest, surrounded by our friends. Percival and Neia causing havoc around us.”

He hummed approvingly, bringing you in closer to kiss along your jaw.

The wet state of his face made you slip out of his hold and out of the small room.

He picked up the towel, walked towards you while drying his face again and tossed the towel back to it’s place “I do hope my bride will behave at our joining.”

You scoffed lightly “Never.”

The answer he expected.

You used it against him “If you want a woman who behaves and acts proper, than I should leave instead of sharing your bed.”

He grinned wickedly “So you did come here with certain intentions.”

Without answering you pulled the sheet back from his bed, got in, and made yourself comfortable under it.

It silenced him to see you huddled up on the bed with a couple of lovestruck eyes aimed at him.

He approached the bed and sat down on the edge of it, on the sheets, by your side “I never thought I would be where I am now, or with whom I am now. You stood by me and I vow to do the same.”

You curled your hand around his “Our lives are just beginning and I can’t wait to spend all of it with you.”

Lancelot lifted your entwined hands and kissed your knuckles “May time have mercy upon us and let us live long.”

He never thought he would wish for a long life, not until he met you.

“Brave of you to wish for a long life with me as your wife.” You joked.

He deadpanned “I always enjoyed a challenge.”

You feigned a glare, then leaned over to steal a kiss from him.

“Twit.” You said, after successfully stealing one.

That rare boyish smile curved his mouth, heavenly eyes cast their gaze on your lips.

It was the only warning you received before his lips connected with your own.

He laid you down and hovered above, his mouth only parting with yours to kiss your forehead “I waited my whole life for you, for someone to reach into the darkness to guide me out. And now that I have you, I will spend the rest of my days loving you with all that I am.”

You gazed up into his eyes, then smiled “I love you too.”

Lancelot took a deep breath before diving into your lips with his, fully intending to claim your mouth all for himself before he’d need to breath in again.

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  The day of your joining began so peaceful, you had chosen to hold it in the evening.

It had been raining heavily, but once foot was set in the magical forest, the rain ceased to be.

What the forest gave was a cloudless night sky littered with stars.

Lancelot had gone to the forest with Arthur and Red Spear first, leaving you in the hands of Gawain and Pym. Kaze came along as well, not willing to miss a joining considering how rare they were becoming these days.

There had been flowers for a bouquet, but those had vanished the night before. Oddly enough, Neia was wearing an array of colorful flowers mixed with the usual white ones in her hair tonight. You didn’t mind, those flowers suited her well and you suspected that Percival had something to do with the disappearance of the bouquet. And now the children walked ahead of you, both excited to witness a joining.

It was one of the few things that made the joining memorable.

For the Fey, the forest was their home. For you, the forest in the dark was more tricky.

Your pretty gown got stuck on a branch and it delayed the whole ceremony for a while.

After Pym had tried to help, you asked Gawain to “Just cut the piece off that’s stuck.”

After some hesitation, the knight cut the fabric of the skirt and freed you.

Your poor intended had waited patiently for you in the forest.

Arthur was beside him, trying to get him to relax while also getting on his nerves.

Gawain placed you before Lancelot, and then went over to speak to the Fey elder who was asked to bless this joining.

Lancelot dropped his attention to the skirt of the stunning gown you wore “Your skirt is missing a piece.

“The forest stole it from me.” You deadpanned.

Gawain overheard it and offered an explanation “She got stuck on a bush.”

Part of him had feared his bride had run off into the night. But no, it was just the forest stalling you.

“Let’s hope it’s not a bad omen.” Arthur jested.

Lancelot paid him no mind, his gaze was moving over your form “It is not. Not even a magical forest will stop my wife from returning to me.”

He had sounded so certain and proud of the matter.

The Manblood did not stop his pestering just yet “She’s not your wife yet. She has to say ‘I do’ first.”

Both you and your soon-to-be husband gave him a side-eye.

Tristan and Iseult had arrived to the ceremony as well and Iseult scolded Arthur for teasing an already nervous Lancelot.

The Ash Man took you by the arm and steered you towards the knight and the Fey elder.

“If you have any doubts, now is your chance to speak.” He was quite nervous for what was to come.

You leaned into his side “I have none. And you?”

He was relieved to hear it “None.”

His fingers laced through yours, both now standing before the Fey elder.

The Tusk Elder’s hair had long since lost all colour and was now a bright white “Are you ready to proceed?”

The attention of all present turned to the elder and you.

Lancelot looked at you expectantly.

“We are ready.” You answered.

The elder politely asked “You may hand me the piece of rope or cloth for the handfasting.”

Panic washed over Lancelot’s face and soon it became apparent that the needed item was forgotten.

“Oh no…” Little Neia uttered.

Percival winced at the display, then the idea struck him. The boy rushed towards the Green Knight and pulled the piece the knight had cut off from your gown from where he had wrapped it around the pommel of his sword.

Hastily, Percival ran up to you and Lancelot “Will this work?”

The Ash Man took the piece of fabric and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder “Well done, my boy.”

Lancelot ripped the piece in the middle and made it longer that way.

“Do you think the forest knew we forgot to bring something along?” You questioned out loud.

He gave a shallow nod “I believe so.”

The Elder was handed the piece of your gown, he looked at it curiously but snapped himself out of it “Take her hand, Ash Man.”

You held it up for him to take not a blink later and saw a couple of people try and hold back a chuckle.

Lancelot did as asked and took your hand in his.

The piece of linen was used to bind your hands together, uniting them.

The elder spoke “With the Hidden as our witnesses, I bind thee together by body and soul. Do you vow to respect this promise of love?”

You locked your eyes on those heavenly ones “I do.”

That boyish smile spread on his face “I swear it.”

The elder took a step back and concluded “You may now seal your promise of love.”

Gawain went ahead and tried to shield Percival’s eyes with his hand, using the other he tried to shield Neia’s, then chuckled when both children pried their eyes free from it.

They witnessed the sealing kiss between you and this time no ‘yucks’ were heard.

Under the starry night sky your joined life together began.

Many a night later, when Red Spear became the rightful queen of Camelot and took Arthur as her king, Lancelot was lifted to the status of king among the Fey.

Kaze, Tristan and Pym were all knighted by Gawain and Percival.

A new era for the Fey had begun, one where Manblood and Fey lived together in peace for the first time in centuries. Nature thrived, villages were rebuild and the economy flourished.

The removal of the Church’s power over the land and it’s people allowed them to grow far beyond the possibilities they had under the Church.

And you?

You became known as the Ashen Queen, carrying the legacy of the Ash Folk not only on your skin but also in the growing life in your womb.

A new era for the Fey and for the Ash Folk.

Taglist:

@ourlazydetectivekitten​​ @the-great-adventures-of-me​ @linkpk88​​  @fxrchxldws​​  @elenaoftheturks​​ @slytherlight​​ @beananacake​​    @crystallizedtime​​  @moonlightaura03​​  @angrygardendeer​​  @have-aheart​​   @5am-cigarette​​ @arcanenature​​  @thewinterskywalker​​ @notyourwildestdream​​ @coloursforyourportrait​​ @koressecretidentity​​ @nike90​​ @n1ghtlux​​ @rachlovesactors​​ @luckyzipperscissorsbat​​ @morena-doing-stuff​​  @the-fangirl-diaries​​ @gipsydanger17​​ @heavenly1927​​  @phantasmalbeiing  @labyrinthonmymind  @asarcastic-thiamstan​​  @rainyv-skies​​

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist of this story.

[kats-kradle]

hi hello hiiii 🥰 so... you wrote ze besstttt works on bouc/poirot stuff on ao3 and i remember we KINDA discussed with you in the comments upcoming movie SO hence the question:

your thoughts on A Haunting in Venice 👀👀

also thanks once again for your amazing works!!! truly the blessing 🙏

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEkabsmabamsbsn thank you for your kind words😭😭😭💖💖💖

I think the movie has been out long enough that I don’t need to worry about spoilers but just in case SPOILERS FOR A HAUNTING IN VENICE FOLLOWING

Short answer: eh. It was okay.

Long answer: (and I am sorry for the almost 1,000 words of an essay this is. I am sorry).

It’s been a few months since I’ve seen it which I think will be a good indicator as to what stuck with me and what didn’t. I immensely enjoy the way that Kenneth Branagh plays Poirot, so I loved that ofc. I knew nothing about Agatha Christie until Murder on the Orient Express came out so he was my first Poirot and I’ll always have a special place for him in my heart. I do think he plays some aspects of the character better than David Suchet, but David Suchet is a far superior Poirot. Anyways.

I was pleased with the tone of it because it was advertised more as purely horror but Kenny boy toed the line between extra creepy mystery and horror very well. I was also very relieved that there weren’t quite as many flashing lights as in the trailer😂 And of course since it’s Kenneth Branagh, the cinematography was AMAZING. Lots of Dutch angles tho which was strange. I thought it was interesting how Kenny touched more on Poirot’s PTSD, and as an angst/whump lover, it was delicious. The music was amazing. The story… not so much. 

I think I’d have to watch it again to fully gather my thoughts on the story, but I went away with the impression that it moved too fast and was lacking a lot in certain areas. I didn’t see the twist coming at the end, but again, it was disappointing. Even my sister (who hasn’t read much Poirot) said that it didn’t seem very complex. And I love Kenneth Branagh but first and foremost Agatha is my girl. I have been known to reference her as my best friend at times. One of the things I enjoy most about Agatha Christie is that she puts like a minimum of 4 twists with the reveal, because she understood that once you reveal the killer, the story is over and most people will lose interest. And it tends to be underwhelming when the entire story has been building to a point that is over in three seconds. There were a few twists scattered through the movie, but ultimately if Kenny wanted to use a Christie book as source material, I think he should have stuck with her formula of hitting people with a bunch of twists at the end. 

I did like how he kept the supernatural aspect ambiguous. I would have been foaming at the mouth in rage if he tried to make ghosts a canon part of the HPCU (Hercule Poirot Cinematic Universe). I didn’t like Oliver at all in this, which is a shame because I love her in all the Poirot books she’s in. I can tell what parts Christie is venting about writing through her which is really entertaining to me. But the actress who played her in A Haunting in Venice was… irritating. She had a lot of exposition to deliver, and while the script was tipping on the edge of having the exposition be clunky, I think a better actress would have been able to salvage it. She was so wooden. It was irritating. 

For example, in Death on the Nile there’s this awkward introduction where Bouc is rattling off the names and motives of the wedding guests (which I have a problem with in itself. That movie is SO LONG and they introduce everyone in under 1 minute and then spend an hour getting to the murder part. Literally this clip is 53 seconds. Tom Bateman barely had time to breathe. Surely they could have introduced the characters in a better way with the HOUR of screen time they had before the murder). The scene is inherently clunky, and the writing is… not great. It sort of makes sense for Bouc to be telling Poirot who is who, but to give motives as well… not great. 

But even with the awkward dialogue, Tome Bateman delivers the lines so smoothly that you can almost look past the weird writing.

Speaking of my boy Bouc, I was very disappointed that he wasn’t mentioned at all in A Haunting in Venice. He was a vital part of the other two movies, and up until this point in the HPCU, he has been in every Poirot movie. It’s my opinion that if you 

1. Have a character appear in more than one movie 

2. Have established that character as a very good close friend of the main character, in fact, the only person the main character can trust 

3. You kill that character and show that his death had an impact on the main character 

You should mention it in the next movie. And especially since it’s implied that Poirot gave up detective work completely after Bouc’s death (probably even because of Bouc’s death) and this is the first murder case he’s been involved with since… I just think it was a missed opportunity to not even reference him in passing. And especially since the movie was playing into Poirot’s PTSD; surely this is a scenario that would at least make him briefly think of his close friend who he lost the last time he was in this situation.

I am approaching the movie from the point of view of a diehard Agatha Christie fan and someone who enjoys critiquing any movie I watch, so I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as I make it out to be.

All in all, I would rank the movies as: 

1. Murder in the Orient Express 

2. A Haunting in Venice 

3. Death on the Nile 

I have so many issues with Death on the Nile that pretty much anything is going to be better than that. I wrote a whole essay about it for my English class. 

Anyway if you made it this far congratulations😅😂😂 What were your thoughts about it?

[lilover131]

Chapter 68 Analysis

It’s new chapter time!! And boy, was this a good one! I haven’t been this excited about the next chapter in quite some time, but that’s how you know for sure that we’re definitely in the climax of the story!

Also, this gif totally was my vibe while reading this chapter. 

Without further ado, let’s delve in! 

Call it Tsubasa PTSD if you wish, but seeing a absolutely adorable color page always has me worried that something bad is about to happen. Lmao! CLAMP has a tendency to give us these really heart warming pictures before crushing our hearts, but I’m going to have faith that there is a different meaning here. Perhaps this is to remind us of Syaoran’s promise to not let Sakura become unhappy. Or perhaps it is also a reminder of what Sakura said when she made the new Mirror card. She said she wished she could look in the mirror and see herself the way everyone else does. And in a way, Syaoran becomes her mirror in this chapter, but I’ll delve into that a bit more further into this analysis.

 The chapter starts off very similarly to the ending of chapter 50 where Momo narrates and asks what happiness is to her, and how it is that she can always believe everything will be all right even during times of hardship. ‘Alice’ comes to on a gondola-like boat moving down a calm stream between two huuuuuuge shelves containing thousands of books (I wish I had a library like that). I love CLAMP’s landscape designs once again, but the incorporation of the trees is quite nice here. It gives the vibe that this library is not just full of books but is alive.

The Red Queen asks ‘Alice’ whose voice she heard and asked if it was something important. Something flashes across her face that indicates that perhaps for a moment, a brief moment, Sakura is starting to remember who she is. The smile in particular feels much more like herself than the character of ‘Alice’. And it seems practically confirmed that she did have a brief glimpse of self recognition based on ‘Mr. Cat’/Kaito’s brooding expression and clenched fists. Lol!

 Kaito seems most displeased and doesn’t hesitate to let Momo know he doesn’t appreciate it by asking her not to give Sakura any more hints. He also reminds her that she’s supposed to not assist the characters in the book. Momo explains that it’s ‘narration’ she’s helping move things along by facilitating and not assisting in any way. Lol. Kaito gives his usual smile at her scolding, which is so weird on Syaoran’s face, and I feel this is his way of covering up how irritated he actually is by this. Hahahaha. He lets Momo know he’s still not particularly happy about it, but decides to let it go for now so they can continue following them.

 ‘Alice’ comments on all the books surrounding them, and the Red Queen states that books are incredibly important in this land, and that they have always been there for her. As we know, it was shown many many chapters ago (our first glimpse of Akiho’s past) how she had no friends as a child, and books were her only friends, so it seems almost like a flash of the real Akiho here. She’s still in there, though not out quite yet.

 However, these books in this library are no ordinary books. The Red Queen explains that each book holds a person’s memories and serves as a record. They contain a person’s feelings, hopes, and even the magic they created. I am totally creeped out by this because we know Akiho’s Clan (aka the Squid Clan or Asshats), performed a spell on Akiho so that she would absorb the contents of all grimoires that pass before her and engrave them on her very soul. She is an artifact meant to absorb magic, so all of these books….are potentially magic and memories she’s stolen (unconsciously I’m sure) from people. And that’s absolutely horrifying to think about. I figured she had absorbed a lot of magic from people, but that is way more than I ever imagined, so it’s no wonder why she’s so close to breaking!

 This also brings another theory to mind. Since we know they are in the Alice in Clockland book, I find this fascinating how when Akiho tried to absorb Sakura before in the pool chapter, it was pages of a book that sprung from her feet to capture her to ‘bring her magic inside the book’. And now that we know what else the Alice in Clockland book contains (memories), this leads me to believe that the book isn’t just something that Akiho owns, but is a reflection of her own soul. And currently, it is writing Sakura’s story within it to ‘record’ it too (this is a theory, so I’m not stating anything definitively here).  This might explain why Akiho can read the book when no one else can, why she dreams of the stories within its pages, why Kaito seems to be so invested in Sakura’s life and history, and even why Momo said before that they were synchronizing. What if Sakura’s story and magic are being written inside of the book that is Akiho’s soul? The one that was considered a ‘blank book’ by her clan before. What if they actually turned her soul into a book so it could literally be written upon?

Sakura seems confused by the name of the book, as she still is recognizing herself as ‘Alice’ and asks Akiho if she is the Red Queen. She states she does not remember who she was before she came to Clockland, but that she remembers she had a very special person and that ‘Alice’ has a name more befitting of who she is. The Red Queen begins to lift her veil, and it seems in that moment that she has returned to being Akiho and is bringing Sakura back to remembering her own self. @meimi-haneoka​ also mentions in the Japanese version that the font changes in her speech, which collaborates with Akiho coming back to herself (strong girl!).

 However, it seems it wasn’t needed as Syaoran comes to the rescue, shouting her name loudly and cutting through the world to get to her (I love how the cuts reveal book pages. Guess Syaoran skipped a few chapters. Hahaha). Kaito is quick to respond to this interruption and he applauds him for managing to not get kicked out of the world by the trickery he pulled earlier using Mirror. He states that only one cat can be here right now, and he lunges forward to try and grab Syaoran. But suddenly, Syaoran seems to vanish in his grip and the light left behind zooms behind Kaito to..Syaoran? That’s right everyone, Syaoran fooled Kaito using Mirror, and I am absolutely living for it. Like, I am so proud of my boy, I can’t even. What a freaking 1000 IQ move.

Sakura calls out his name, indicating she is fully herself now, and Syaoran apologizes for his late appearance (not that he needed to, since he totally made up for everything in that moment). Sakura shakes her head and gets emotional (man, I would too) about how she couldn’t remember who she was until he called her name (which is exactly why Kaito wanted him to stay away!). Syaoran continues being cool af by telling her that she will only ever be Sakura to him and no one else, which seems to reassure Sakura that everything will be okay. It’s almost like he was telling her “I will always help you find your way back”.

Kaito returns to his usual form, but potentially not by his own doing? He states that Syaoran didn’t just retrieve the Sakura card version of Mirror, but that he also dispelled the illusion created by the new Mirror. It’s unclear if Syaoran forced this change on his own or if just happened by default due to Kaito’s ‘attack’ on him. Momo had mentioned before that even the slightest of magic tricks could ruin his disguise, so it’s possible.

 Syaoran is looking up at him rather intensely, and Kaito starts to analyze Syaoran again, praising him for a moment at his magical growth, before stating personal details about him. I swear to god, Kaito get so chatty when he’s around Syaoran, and I find it so fascinating to observe. I speak a lot more on this particular subject in my post titled “Syaoran and Kaito Analysis” which you can find here.  It has definitely been observed by me and others that Kaito particularly likes to bring up details about Syaoran’s life to him, and it’s unclear exactly why he does this, but it’s entirely different from how he interacts with other people, and I love it.

 Technically, he mentioned Syaoran’s mother and her divination skills once before, but since time was turned back the last time they fought, Syaoran actually doesn’t remember this conversation, so it is a bit of a repeat now. However, he does actually say something not entirely confirmed before but now is. He confirms for us that Akiho’s clan (the Asshats) takes particular interest in the Li clan and despises them due to their connections to Clow Reed. Now, this was implied before in Akiho’s first backstory chapter where the clan was ranting about Syaoran’s birth and how they felt they were being beat by the Li Clan due to Akiho being the only child of the same age and having no magic of her own. It was very likely this anger over Syaoran is what stirred them to do what they did to Akiho, but having Kaito confirm this just gives it another creepy factor. I mean, in a nutshell he just told Syaoran “I know this information about you because this magical family who hates your family stalks the ever living shit out of you”. Being “famous” to a clan that hates you is not a good thing at all. Not good indeed….

 But Kaito doesn’t say much more and flashes his pocket watch, claiming that Syaoran cannot stay here. His pocket watch looks more broken than ever, a metaphor for his life, and it really seems he doesn’t have much time left. Syaoran, not sure of what is coming, uses Mirror to copy Flight, and OMG THE RESULTS ARE SO FREAKING COOL. SYAORAN, WHY ARE YOU SO COOL IN THIS CHAPTER?!! He forms really cool looking wings made of glass, which resemble the glass pieces that stem from the Mirror card’s back, and Flight respectfully goes to both Sakura and Akiho. I was seriously wondering how much Mirror would be able to help him last chapter, but holy moly is he making amazing use of her.

The chapter ends with an intense stare down between the boys and Syaoran making a declaration that he will definitely bring Sakura (and Akiho implied too in the Japanese version) back with him, which obviously goes against Kaito’s master plan. It seems obvious the next chapter is going to include an epic fight between these two again, and I cannot wait!!!

I also cannot forget to mention Akiho’s sudden quietness once Syaoran appears. Her lack of reaction and the fact that CLAMP specifically keeps her face concealed has me incredibly concerned that she’s gone into ‘book-mode’ and that will certainly complicate matters in the next chapter if so. GOD, I’M SO EXCITED.

 Anyways, I’m very much looking forward to the Christmas chapter, and I hope you all have a wonderful holiday season!!

[divorce-fiction]

A Fire So Wild by Sarah Ruiz-Grossman

Opening Tally

Marriages: 2 Divorces: 1

If I had a nickel for every piece of media I’ve consumed that had an snooty Jewish mother named Naomi in it I’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice. ((all my love to 'Crazy Ex-Girlfriend'))

Climate Fiction's newest entrant, A Fire So Wild, has its heart in the right place and its words in all the wrong ones. The few positives (evocative descriptions, diverse characters, normalized queerness) do little salvage a story that feels like it was meant to be a shared universe anthology. The few characters whose endings seem hopeful are still saturated with despair, and the book's message is unfortunately, inevitably "There is no light at the end of these tunnels".

There’s a noticeable awkwardness to Ruiz-Grossman’s style of writing. Her sentence structures and noun usage is repetitive. Cliches are dropped almost like placeholders into otherwise well-crafted scenes (“As Xavier walked off, his jeans hugged his legs in all the right places.”). An attempt at building tension draws a reader's gaze to the cast's empty gas tank, but her foreshadowing is clumsy and thus overly obvious. It's a bumpy drive on a beautiful road with unavoidable potholes.

The main characters, defined here as anyone (8!) with a POV, suffer from a lack of time. Each character gets the in media res scene, the sad backstory, and then they fade into the ensemble until the big event (the fire!) which inspires their lifestyle change. It’s a tiring setup with a generic payoff for every single character. Those 8 include: Mar (high school senior) and both of her parents, Camila and Gabriel, Xavier (high school senior) and his moms, Abigail and Taylor, and Sunny and his wife, Willow.

The characters are incredibly diverse, a obvious plus! But the mixed-race lesbians, cross-cultural South Americans, indigenous alt-girl, homeless Asian man, and more suffer from the leftist writer curse of tokenism. The nonbinary shelter volunteer isn't a character, but a flat plot device who feels kept around for the sole purpose of having they/them pronouns checked off the Marginalized Communities list. I want so badly to read about these people and their inner worlds, but they need to be more than cardboard cutouts to tape labels and trauma to.

Speaking of trauma: Willow. A runaway who's all grownup, living in a van with her husband Sunny and their dog Aso, she is the severely depressed girl with PTSD and nothing more. Her sections are only ever about how her trauma was bad and that makes her life bad. And I really do feel for this character! She went through a harrowing sexual assault at the hands of her stepfather and was never given the resources to properly recover from it. But……..she’s also been with her husband for over a decade, since they were teenagers, and has never once told him about it. The guy she refers to multiple times as her reason for living. There's a shallowness to her that renders the whole character irritating. What does she want? What does she believe in? What else does she remember from her life? Trauma does terrible things to a person and it affects everyone differently, but Willow is JUST her trauma.

There’s also a section that jumps very quickly from Willow running through a forest fire (and thinking about her trauma) to Mar hooking up with Xavier. It’s tonal whiplash hell as both events are described with the SAME LANGUAGE, specifically noting how Mar enjoys being “smothered” by her hot boyfriend as opposed to Willow being “smothered” by her rapist. Maybe this wasn’t intentional, maybe the author is trying to draw some kind of parallel. But it was gross when it didn't need to be.

Willow dies in the forest fire, by the way. She lays down, thinks about how traumatized she is, and lets herself burn alive. There is no catharsis here, the most crucial part of a tragedy. It's pornographic hopelessness, and it's pointless.

A knock to my particular copy of the book: some pages didn’t print properly, so one side would have very thin, hard to read lettering while the next page looked entirely bolded. It was annoying to read, especially in low light, but that's the fault of the printer, not the author.

This book is weak. Its main sin was trying to do too much with too little: too much soapboxing, too little characterization. Besides Sunny, a bright spot in the lackluster lineup, there is almost no depth to the characters beyond their assigned social justice crisis. A Fire So Wild wants to be about homelessness and climate change and classism and trauma and depression and recovery and growing up and choosing yourself and natural disasters and grief and cycles and systemic disenfranchisement, but there isn’t any time with 8 protagonists and only 196 pages to be about those things. And so it ends up being about……nothing at all.

Abigail and Taylor get divorced after their son leaves home.

Camila and Gabriel stay divorced, though friendly.

Sunny grieves Willow's death and begins the groundwork for a youth shelter.

Mar and Xavier breakup as Mar goes to college and Xavier joins a group of climate activists.

Closing Tally

Marriages: 0 Divorces: 2 Widowers: 1

Rating: ★✮☆☆☆ (1.5/5)

[theserpentineoracle]

The Desire to Heal: Integrative Process

I am really not in a space to make this post pretty and presentable.

I am actually sitting in a cathartic state and wanting to express and hold the information I am receiving from myself in the moment.

There are some key things that stand out to me in this moment:

A) A mentorship I had a couple of years ago that featured a dream I had after a betrayal that proved to be pretty traumatic for me.

B) The psycho-spiritual work that I am currently invested in that focus on archetypes in a more supernatural way such as the 'Vampire'-for reference because she is amazing: The Underworld Queen on IG (Kristen Ramezzanna)

C) My personal journey through 'Eden' with 'Lilith' as a metaphor for leaving my abusive relationship, enduring a tough love teaching around trusting my body and and its responses to the environment, and deciding to live differently all together.

Now, we all have these fantastical ideas that we can clean up years of trauma and get back with the program. At least I do, and this is part of my toxic love affair with myself. I seriously underestimated 2023.

This turned out to be a year of 'seeing' and 'sensing'.

The image I get in mind is that of a hoarders episode. The mess gets bigger, I am always fucking irritable, but I am also learning who and what really matters. I start to let go and the process feels long as hell but eventually my home is clear. My foundations are clear enough to start again.

My old mentor once said, 'the person with the most power in the room holds the most projections.'

When I heard this the first couple of times they said this, I rolled my eyes. While it made sense, I also felt that there was a tinge of an excuse to be a dickhead behind it.

Reflecting on this today, this teaches me that it really does matter whose mouth is speaking the thing and who is available to receive it.

If I am honest, I think we saw each other very clearly and we triggered the fuck out of each other.

It is now about 2 or 3 years later and I am noticing that I keep experiencing some of the same symptoms from that event (I'm trying to keep all of the extra woo out of the story) and as I am reflecting on my narcissistic bully stalker (implying that there is still a lot of confusion for me as to what actually happened in this scenario) I am finally starting to see the truth of this situation and because of this, how strong and activating the energy of the heart really is.

I've always knocked my heart space for 'getting me in trouble'. But the truth is, this is what people see in me. It's like a BIG ASS golden ball moving in the room that when people feel depleted, they come into my field to 'feed' off of. It's not always intentional, I don't mind sharing, but there is a HUGE boundaries land self-respect lesson here.

Anywho...

I have done four days of past life meditation and somatic movement in-between experiencing heavy PTSD symptoms. My current mentor mentioned above, has also offered some pretty simple and powerful shamanic practices that I can include in a daily practice to handle the 'energy' side of things.

Since actively moving parts around in my psyche and body, things are coming in somewhat clear including my role in the creation of these events (what I am allowing and how my tendency to 'fawn' or 'friend' the threat I am sensing is the thing that creates a trap for me.)

Which, in truth, fucking sucks for me because I love loving on people. But the time for loving people when they are being little shits is coming to an end....

Anywho...more tangents...

My abandonment wound tends to make things about me. So anytime something happens, I think I did something to make it happen. Press on this wound, and entities (spiritual or human) can feed on this for days, years, forever. Abandonment is a core wound which makes it potent.

On the spiritual side of things, it leaves you open to being re-traumatized for intentional feeding.

For example, an intentional magician can send 'entities' in your direction, have them poking around in your field, wreak havoc, to pull your energy and/or essence back into their field so that they can continue to use it in ways that support their cause (or facade) AKA predatory spirituality.

On a human, mundane level this looks like someone who is deeply insecure, has a lot of things going on in their life and they meet someone who may or may not have it better than them, but it is their perception that is causing separation. In other words, the separation is not real. One just understands themselves more than the other.

Insecure person gets a sense of power by testing the waters at first and then building off of their findings. The make the first digs, maybe verbally, emotionally or physically. They watch how you react-

Then they create minions to siphon more power from you.

Watching you being attacked under the facade gives them a sense of power. They get addicted to that power and begin to manufacture situations to get more of it.

If they can bamboozle even the 'smartest' or 'higher food chain' people in the room this is 'supply'.

Get too close to figuring them out and they turn the tables on you.

This why having a strong sense of self and a whole big ass self-care tool box is important. Things get really sticky when they sense they are losing power or control.

At the core of this power dynamic of 'predator and prey' for lack of better words, is the desire to be loved and seen as we are where neither may feel they are but one is more attached to the sentiment of being seen in a specific way.

My entire year has been committed to learning lessons in Love and Desire and to deepen my understanding of it beyond how it is described in books and media.

And if I am honest, the energetic experience of Love and Desire has more weight and beauty than the surface level shit we are bombarded with every day.

So far, I have learned that to love yourself and others does feel a lot like going to war with what is not loving because of the level of vulnerability and truth required to maintain healthy connections.

I have also learned how many of us -really- have no clue what we are doing in relationships or with each other. We don't actually know each other, our relationships are mostly transactional. We think we don't deserve better love (romantic or platonic) because we've never actually seen it we say-but taking some time to examine your own responses to all kinds of love you may be receiving is the answer right there ; )

Desire is an overwhelming yearning that has nothing to do with sex, but takes enough sexual energy to nourish the vision of your heart.

For example, there is nothing sexual about wanting to finally open my mystery school but I can feel it in my body that it is a strong passion of mine and so I need to build and channel that 'pleasurable' feeling.

I'll be creating a template so that my writing is more organized and can be used as a reference for readers.

Today, this was just for me....

[keira-draws]

long post, but here were my live blog notes from rewatching punisher ep 1 (i've rewatched the series like 14 times through):

((anything with ** in front means it mentions TV depictions of violence/death))

- contrast to Frank singing with his daughter, and then the way it jarringly flashes back to him screaming from PTSD (heart breaker of an intro, one of my favs though)

-ONE BATCH TWO BATCH PENNY AND DIME RAHHHH

**- frank killing the cartel member from El Paso is just so good**

- HIS BOOTS

- THE SKULL

- THE SHUSHING JSJSJDKSJS

- "I got a family of my own-" "I don't 😐" SO GOOD

- Pete castiglione my beloved

- The fact that after he finished his mission, he literally just slaves away at concrete walls is so sad

- He's literally a walking corpse

**- I hate lance, he threw a rock at Franks head, AND his buddy called frank a slur killing them real**

- Love that frank just eats his sandwich alone what a view

**- The carousel flashbacks and screaming is so heartbreaking**

- THE BLOODY SLEDGEHAMMER

- frank let me give you a hug please

- His living space is so small, I'd be so claustrophobic

- His scars are so personal to me

- The fact he reads in bed next to his family's picture I'M SO EMO

- Maria waking him up :(

- I really hate Franks coworkers holy-

- He kicked his sandwich, and for what?? AND THEN HE STEPPED ON IT I CAN'T

- Donny tries to be nice at least 

- Also I wonder what his tattoo represents?? 

- "I come up here because no one else does" HE'S SO FUNNY

- I love how Frank is so blunt, but he's always so polite?? Like he really doesn't care about this guy, but he says 'appreciate it's, and means it! Idk it's just interesting that he always says thank you

- Also I love how Frank will just mutter stuff, you never know what he's saying, but he just mutters, and takes a minute to figure out what he wants to say sometimes

- More flashbacks :(

**- Accidental triggers sending him right back to the day :((**

- CURTIS <333333 KDJAGSJDOKEJS

- I love that his story is reflecting Frank's story, parallels <3

- I forgot Lewis was introduced so early

- O'Connor is such an irritating character, but I love how his reckless right-wing ideologies cause catastrophe, it shows how important one's actions and words are to influence others

- Lewis' story is so sad :((

- What does copacetic mean??? 

- There it is again!! 'I appreciate it'

- "can I have some coffee? :(" UGH I LOVE HIM

- "happy is a kick in the balls waiting to happen" I LOVE HIM SO MUCH

- ok honestly love how good of a friend Curtis is to frank </3

- "Thank you or the coffee" 😭😭😭😭😭

- Frank is so self damaging and for what??

- MADANI MY GIRL BOSS MY BESTIE MY INSPIRATION

- SAM!!!!! SAM!!!!! MY FAVORITE

- "Stein sounds like a large beer glass" I can't with him

- Dude the actor who plays Sam Stein looks so much like Michael Hernandez omg

- Wolf pisses me off so much

- Sam and Madani act like such siblings in in love with them 

- Poor Rhonda,, has to deal with Franks stupid coworkers

- Donny makes me so sad, like I'd never spend 344 on assholes

- Maria :(

- "Hey sleepyhead" :((

- Love how Frank taps his fingers, I do the same thing, idk cool that we both do that hehe

- Gnuccis!! Love how they pulled that from the comics! -

- They're so huge in the comics though omg

- Tbh I think trash talking the guy who swings a sledge hammer around 24/7 is not smart

- I always wondered why Lance chose Donny to take over after Scut got hurt :/

- FRANK LOOKS SO MUCH LIKE JOHN WICK OMGGGG

- I think Madanis relationship with her mom is so interesting, like clearly there's a lot of love, but there's definitely some hurt too?? Like she can't stand the softness of her mom, but you can tell how much she still cares for her

- So the two books Frank reads is Moby Dick and the Crack-Up,, I gotta look into those books see if there's any meaning behind them

- Why wouldn't Lace grab the money?? 😭like he's clearly more experienced??? 😭😭😭

- BRO REALLY SAID GREASE BALL I CANT-

**- AND WHY WOULDN'T THEY KILL THE GUY WHO SAW HIS NAME!??** 

- In love with the way Maria kisses Franks nose bridge

**- The suddeness of her getting shot is so sad :(( Like the way Frank knows it's gonna happen too :((**

- The way he hits his bedpost :(( the utter grief is so ougahhhh I can't bro-

- Also poor Donny, they were really gonna do the absolute worst to him </3

**- And the way they gang up on him :((**

- THE fight is coming up :)))) 

- HELL BROKE LUCE BY TOM WAITS JAISJJSJSKSL

- THE WAY THEY GET NO HITS IN

- THE BLOOD ON THE CAMERA

- BRO IS JUST SWINGING JD JSJSJDKSJS

- HIS EXPRESSIONS IN THIS SCENE

**- SNIPED HIS ASS WITH A PISTOL**

- HELL YEA FRANKKKK

- ok, bad timing, but Franks hair looks so soft in this scene

- Frank screaming is my fav thing ever

- "Leave town" in blood, Franks such a drama king

- **This scene is so cool, cause there's little to no visibility, and the way Frank uses that to trick the Gnuccis into killing each other is so cool**

**- DAMN BANG RIGHT THROUGH THE EYE**

- home Depot music I love it

- MICRO DAVID MY BBG MWAH MWAHHH

- WELCOME BACK FRANK LIKE THE COMICS JSJABJAJSNSKDMSM

[txemrn]

I posted 1,309 times in 2022

382 posts created (29%)

927 posts reblogged (71%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@ao719

@kat-tia801

@sfb123

@socalwriterbee

@moodmusicmonday

I tagged 1,063 of my posts in 2022

Only 19% of my posts had no tags

#reblog - 415 posts

#the royal romance - 359 posts

#hey queue - 313 posts

#open heart - 220 posts

#choices fanfic - 195 posts

#liam rys - 186 posts

#ethan ramsey - 185 posts

#you asked - 178 posts

#choices trr - 173 posts

#tathan - 150 posts

Longest Tag: 122 characters

#i have a vague idea of what is going on in tna right now but in my perfect universe these two are together and flourishing

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Happy Belated Birthday, @charlotteg234 !

We love you so, so much, and we hope your day was just as incredible as you are!

💜, @kat-tia801 & @txemrn

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77 notes - Posted May 27, 2022

#4

Boughs & Mockingbirds

Part 8

Need to catch up? B&MB Masterlist

Book: The Royal Heir

Sunmary: King Liam Rys painfully recounts the final week leading up to the birth of the royal heir during Riley’s hospital stay-- in ICU.

☆☆☆ Canon deviation of the end of TRH book 1/beginning of TRH book 2)

Warning: language; fairly angsty; some NSFW material

⛔ TW for Sensitive Readers⛔ heavy discussions and depictions of medical emergencies during childbirth, including some descriptions of newborns that may be dark and unsettling; some main characters will face life-threatening situations while others experience PTSD and heavy grief; please use discretion

Pairings: King Liam Rys x Queen Riley Brooks-Rys; Maxwell Beaumont x Hana Lee

Word count: ~6100

Series Song Inspirations: “I’ll Never Be Ready “ by Veridia 🖤 “Soon You’ll Get Better” by Taylor Swift 🖤 “Head Above Water” by Avril Lavigne

A/N: To my readers that follow this series: thank you for your kind words and encouragement to get this chapter out! This story took quite a break between chapters, but it's back (we're still not at the Last Apple Ball, but it's coming). Also, a HUGE thank you to all of my sweet readers and brainstormers (@ao719 @charlotteg234 @kat-tia801)! This was a group effort, and I can't thank y'all enough for your wisdom! Also, this chapter wasn't truly beta'd, so please forgive my errors. Also, the characters, the plot, and some dialogue belong to Pixelberry.

~🖤~

Present Day

Liam carefully opens his irritated eyes. Holding his aching head, he peers through his fingers, taking in the disarray of his wife’s hospital room. Empty syringes and medicine vials litter the floor.  Furniture is tossed chaotically against the wall. Bags of fluid and blood that were once feeding into Riley’s veins now hang desolate in the air on metal poles.  In the darkness, it looks like a post-apocalyptic scene from a horror movie.

But, for Liam: wasn’t it?

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83 notes - Posted April 3, 2022

#3

It's that time again!

Hey, sweet friends!

Firstly, if you are being tagged, that means that at some point, you enjoyed something that I've written and asked for a tag. And for that, I want to thank you so much for the support! 💜

See the full post

90 notes - Posted September 19, 2022

#2

Pour Two Glasses

Chapter 2: "... the fear that I can't control this."

Need to catch up? Click Here!

Book: The Royal Romance (post series)

Word Count: 5385 (+/-)

Series Synopsis: In the midst of a violent political war, Queen Riley Rys’s life is dismantled overnight, forcing her to flee Cordonia to live in hiding as a commoner with a loyal, best friend

Series Song Inspo: “Pour Two Glasses” by the Movielife

Chapter Song Inspo: "A Place to Start" by Mike Shinoda

Series Warnings: angst; profanity; major character death; grief and mental health discussion; discussion of violence & war; alcohol use; NSFW material

AN: It's back! It's back! And this girl could not be any more excited! I love this story, and I hope you will join me in this adventure as Riley learns to live and love again after tragedy. HUGE Thanks to everyone that helped over the past year to help bring this story to life! To my beautiful writing sister-in-crime @kat-tia801: thank you for all of your encouragement in keeping me focused and for pre-reading! These characters and some plot points belong to our friend at Pixelberry.

AN2: Block quotes are not working for me. When there is a change of scenery, it will be indicated by a separation with (----------); if the scenery deals with a change in time, it will be labeled as such at the top of the scene (ex "present", "past", etc). If it is a flashback, that entire section will be italicized. I hope this helps.

~🖤~

Present

It has been almost two days since King Liam's aircraft was savagely shot down off the coast of Tunisia, approximately two-hundred twenty kilometers southwest of Malta.  Rescue efforts were made by both Tunisian and Italian officials, Cordonia joining them the next morning, but gravely, only remnants remained of the plane. The hope for peace appointed by the UNM now lays desolate, set adrift in the darkness of the sea.

Two days.

A mere forty-eight hours is literally all that stands between Drake Walker and seeing his childhood friend alive. 

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96 notes - Posted May 6, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Stay

Prologue: a Shadow in the Dark

Pairing (current): Liam Rys x MC (Riley Brooks); Drake Walker x f!OC (Jodi); Leo Rys x Madeleine Amaranth; Constantine x Eleanor

Word Count: ~5250

Summary: With her family facing deportation back to Auvernal, fun-spirited Reid Ambrose quits college to support her family. But as fate would have it, she accepts a temporary job as a caregiver for the royal family, an experience that will challenge her, break her, and devastate her world in the most exciting of ways.

Series Warning: ⛔ Please Be Advised: 18+ Only ⛔This series will contain mature material, including foul language, NSFW 🍋, discussion/depictions of war, violence, gun violence, assassination attempts; medical situations, including major character injuries; ethical dilemmas including euthanasia & bodily autonomy; mental health, including depression, PTSD, suicide

Series Music Inspo: "Awake" by Secondhand Serenade

Chapter Music Inspo: "Nothing Makes Sense Anymore" by Mike Shinoda

AN: I know, I know. I have no business starting a new series, but the inspiration was there, so I hope y'all don't mind. In the meantime, thank you so, so much for sticking with me as a writer. Majority of these characters and some plots belong to our friends at Pixelberry. Special thanks for my sweet friends that read over a few excerpts. This was never fully pre-read or beta'd, so chances are, there will be mistakes. Please forgive me! Also, you will recognize some items from canon; other items may be completely contradictory to canon. Just got with it, and enjoy the story. 😊

~🖤~

A harmonious chorus of early morning robins resound across the sleepy Cordonian countryside. The brilliance of the new-day sun remains hidden under the horizon; however, the sky splashes with vibrant hues of violet and indigo in anticipation of its grand arrival.

The fresh scent of the springtime gardenias wafts gently with the cool breeze into the bedroom suite. With the tickle of pollen on his nose, Liam quickly stirs from his deep slumber, absentmindedly scratching his face. He then allows his entire body to grow rigid, stretching out the tightened muscles of his physique, his feet falling off the edge of the bed: one of the sacrifices he makes staying over at her place.

Blinking his eyes awake, they carefully adjust to the various shapes of the darkened room, his favorite laying mere inches away from his own exposed figure. And he smiles. The slope of her bare hips, her perfectly tossed lavender-scented waves, even the melodic hum of her tiny snore: Liam is completely helpless, completely captivated with his girlfriend Riley Brooks.

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115 notes - Posted March 21, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[lostmyremembrall]

𝒩ℴ ℳℴ𝓇ℯ ℋ𝒾𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔

Tom Riddle x Gender Neutral! Reader Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance Summary: Tom Riddle is plagued by his trauma of the Blitz. He always pushes you away, but this time you decide, you're done watching him struggle alone. Warning: Mention of Trauma, PTSD Inspired by this amazing TR headcanon. Sending lots of love to @themothertruckingdarklord

Recommended music: I need my girl by The National

“3, 2, 1…” 

Everyone is staring at the large glowing countdown in the sky. Their breaths held in the stinging cold air of winter.

“Happy new year!”

Along with the impressive display of fireworks, the students' cheer erupted in the courtyard; hugging, singing auld lang syne with their arms wrapped around each other. The older students, perhaps a bit too drunk. You grin as well, watching the professors shake their hands and hug.

You turn your head in slight hope that Tom would suggest kissing. But, your smile dropped as soon as you sensed something wrong with him. Your boyfriend seemed like he wasn’t fully there. Frowning and staring, actually, more like glaring at one specific tile of the cobblestone ground. His breathing was quickening by the second. He did not seem to be registering his surrounding.

It was alarming. You’ve never seen Tom act like this before. Tom Riddle, who was always calm and stable, was disturbed by something. What could possibly cause the most grounded man to have such a strong reaction? “Tom?” you asked gently.

He didn’t respond. Your eyes dashed around you, wondering whether anyone else noticed. But, in the midst of celebrating the beginning of 1945, everyone seemed to be preoccupied with the mesmerising fireworks. Your heart thudded heavily. Was he hexed? What was happening to him?

You raised your hand, hesitated, but decided to gently touch the hem of his sleeve. Tom snapped his head to you; being on the receiving end of his angry, distraught eyes was enough for you to take a step back. “T–, Tom?” your voice slightly trembled this time.

“I–,” Tom’s voice shook. It seemed he was finding it difficult to even speak. “I’m going to head back.”

“Are you sure–,”

“I’m fine.” Tom snapped. The irritation in his voice was enough to shut you up. 

You bit your lip, knowing he was far from fine. You weren’t hurt, upset even, that after a year of being together it still took a lot for Tom to open up to you. The man’s gone through a lot. He never showed, but based on his childhood stories told so casually with a shrug, one can easily guess the emotional baggage he had suppressed within him.

What bothered you, however, was how helpless you felt. Just waiting for the convulsing pain that clawed at his heart to cease. Always watching from afar. Always hiding. Always lost with words. But when Tom said no, there was no further discussion to be held.

Your gaze fell; you just nodded. Tom’s eyes considerably softened, seeing the anguish and conflicted feelings in the drop of your shoulders as you gave in reluctantly. “I should get back to my studies,” his regret of snapping at you was evident in his soft murmurs. Tom bit his lip as well. Wanting to say, yet unable to say.

He pursed his lips into a smile. A gesture of reassurance. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.

You returned with a feeble smile, knowing full well that Tom did not purse his lips when he was genuinely fine. Tom nodded, and you watched Tom briskly walk back into the warm light of the fire inside the castle. Your sigh emitted a cloud of air, rising and disappearing into the dark, starless night.

*

You winced as you heard the bones crunch underneath you. You shivered. This hellish place was always colder than any part of the castle, perhaps even more than the outside. You absolutely hated this place, but your concern for Tom far outweighed your disgust for the snake den.

It was the only place you could think of when Tom did not return.

It was surprising that the booming sound of the fireworks still reached underground. You squinted up to the vast cave system that possibly had an opening to the outside. Amongst the echoes of booms above ground, you proceeded further into the Chamber of Secrets, keeping your ears strained for any sounds of slithering and scraping against the cold stone ground.

You crouched and squinted in the dark. “Tom,” you breathed out. There he was. Sitting in a dark corner of the cave under the low-hanging ceiling. It was a wonder how the tall man fit in there.

He did not respond. He was hugging his legs. Rocking himself back and forth. A sense of alarm started rising in you when you noticed that he was hyperventilating. Trying to heave as little as possible. Trying to take as little space as possible. 

Confined in the claustrophobic space of the cave, the tall man seemed a lot smaller than usual. 

You were suddenly struck with an urge to be close to him. Never have you seen Tom Riddle jr. so broken. So alone. So forgotten. You lowered on fours and crawled over to him, watching to not hit your head. 

It wasn’t pity that drove you. 

You huffed, twisting and turning your joints to fit through the narrow space. 

It wasn’t kindness. You army crawled, breaking a sweat at the pile of dirt that was blocking your way. His knuckles were white as his hands held each other. His face was buried in between his kneecaps. You called out his name that he abhorred so much but you so loved. Still, he remained silent. You squinted in the dark to find that Tom’s eyes were shut tightly. He couldn’t hear you. He was shutting out the world.

You noticed then; it was fear. It was fear that was driving you to so desperately reach him. Something about it all, seeing him engulfed and overpowered by a dark aura, made you feel like you might lose him forever. You grunted, stretching your arm towards him. Your muscles screamed. Your hand wavered, only hitting the cool air trying to reach for his warmth. Trying to reach for his strength and fragility. His hopes and fears. His humanity.

Tears were threatening to spill from the corners of your eyes. You simply had to get to him. No more hiding. You were going to stay right there with him, as long as it took.

With one last push, your hand landed on his overlaid hands, slowly but gently enveloping them in yours.

His rocking stopped. You held your breath, unsure of how Tom would take it. It was a tossup between an explosive outburst at his wish unrespected, a cool voice asking her to go away, or some form of a subtle hint that he wanted you here.

What you didn’t expect from him, however, was nothing. He remained still, simply allowing her to hold him. He did not object, but he did not welcome either. He was a robot, limp and spent.

But you decided this was good enough. If he wanted you gone, you would do so. If he wanted you to stay and just hold his hands, you were going to do exactly that.

The distant fireworks echoed in the caves as Tom’s breathing started to ease. Compared to the loud booms, his shuddered breathing was so much quieter, yet felt so much more violent. Your thumb involuntarily caressed his sweaty hand as you talked him through to take slow, deep breaths.

Tom let out a long shuddered exhale. You stifled a sigh of relief as his heaving relaxed. It did not even occur to you that you were holding your breath this whole time, biting down your lips anxiously to stop yourself from screaming yourself.

Your mind wandered to why it was that Tom chose the possibly most remote area of the castle. Cold, wet, claustrophobic. It was not the most comforting place, but it offered absolute privacy, except to those he trusted enough to teach simple parseltongue, namely you.

Your brows furrowed as a realisation dawned on you whether, whenever he excused himself, Tom had been coming here to have a panic attack alone. You bit your lips, refusing to let a tear drop. You were not there to pity, cry, or admonish yourself for not noticing. You were there for him.

Your thoughts were interrupted, however, when Tom stirred. He slipped his hands out from underneath yours, his eyes still closed. Still refusing to look up, he placed your hand in between his. A wave of relief washed over you as the Tom Riddle you knew returned to you. His warm, large hands shielded you from the cold. A reassurance that whatever it was, you were going to face it together. You held his hand back.

“It came back all at once,” even with his voice muffled against his kneecaps, exhaustion was noticeable. “It was like I was there. The shelter. The air raid sirens. Killing your breath. Waiting for it to end. Trying to guess how close the last one was.”

Tom drew out another shuddered breath and he finally looked up to you. Noticing you covered in dirt and the distinct slime of the chamber’s filth, he pulled you up to sit beside him.

“Crying and screaming kids,” Tom continued in a deep, grave tone. His gaze drifted across the cave to anywhere but your eyes. “The older ones were afraid too. Even Eric was quiet, for once.” You nodded, remembering the name being mentioned a few times when Tom, having returned from the orphanage after a summer, had a lot to complain about the ridiculous suicidal inclination of nationalism and its effect on youth.

Tears were welling up in his eyes. “I–,” Tom’s voice strained. He heaved a deep breath as he looked up to the rough texture of the cave ceiling, desperately trying to maintain control. He gulped.  His voice barely audible, “I didn’t want you to see me like–,” his voice faded through gritted teeth. His breathing was quickening again.

You peered into his eyes, which were still averting yours. His eyes showed myriads of emotions: fear, shame, resentment at the world, resentment at himself.

No more hiding. A voice echoed inside your mind. You inched closer, facing him and without a word, wrapped your arms around him.

Tom froze. He seemed to be processing what had just occurred. He smelled like the slime of the chamber, mixed in with his sweat. A hint of his cologne from this morning was ever so slightly present. He was your Tom Riddle.

It was impossible to find the right words. You’re going to be okay. But no, you didn’t really know that. I understand. But no, you didn’t. Living in the countryside, your limited knowledge about the Blitz only came from newspaper coverage. Nobody could. Not a single person could ever truly understand what another person felt. Don’t be ashamed or afraid. But Tom had every right to feel every one of his emotions.

In the end, the only thing you truly comprehended was your own thoughts and emotions. And you knew that you were thankful to be in the same space and time with him, sharing this moment with him. “Thanks for sharing this with me,” you mumbled against his shoulder.

Tom’s frigid arms raised themselves and tentatively settled on your back. He slowly lowered his head until it perched on your shoulder. Hesitantly, he nuzzled against your neck as he settled in. Slowly, his palms clenched the cloth of your robe into his fist.

And then, he finally let go. 

Tears overflowing down his cheekbones. His emotions pouring out in swears and gasps for air. Everything spilling over simply because he was caught in the crossfire of the whims, convenience, and agony of adults. 

He sobbed and sobbed into the nape of your neck. His teeth were still gritted against your skin. Tears after tears rolled down your neck and wet your blouse. He wasn’t just shedding tears. He was actually crying. His fingers painfully clenched and pulled on your robe, clinging to the cloth like you were about to disappear. You wrapped your hand around the back of his head, rocking him back and forth. You gently pecked his wet cheek.

Then it dawned on you. He has been an adult since he could talk. Forced to grow up so early. 

Spat out by the cruel world into a society of selfish adults who never allowed him a proper childhood. Tom cried his heart out while the very same world above them cheered and revelled in the new beginning. 

He was only 17. Not an adult even by legal definition. 

For the first time in his life, Tom Riddle was a child.

*

A/N: Some PSA. Tom didn’t see anyone die. But Tom isn’t any less or weak for getting PTSD compared to say, a soldier in the trenches. It’s not up to anyone (including the person w PTSD)  to judge what’s traumatic enough to hurt you. It’s not about who deserves help, who’s strong enough to come out unscathed, whose fault it is. If anyone is having mental health issues, it’s not your fault and you don’t have to feel guilty about receiving help.

[ahh-fxck]

Warrior’s Blues Anniversary Repost Event!

Welcome readers, new and old! Today is the second anniversary of the first fic I ever posted in this fandom, a fic that is still, to my shock, going stronger than ever 2 years later. This story was written in response to Geraskier Pride Week 2020, and over time it has become a love note to all those queers who fought and bled for us to be where we are today. I think, especially in these times, that remembering our history (and writing fiction about it!) is important.

So without further ado... the first chapter of Warrior’s Blues!

Chapter 1: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

Beta: @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog

Tags/warnings: Internalized homophobia, mild blood, mild Geralt whump, alcohol, PTSD

Ao3 link in reblog!

“Ouuuuwww!” A man howls joyously, and his attention snaps in that direction. In the distance he can see someone leaning against one of the ubiquitous red brick storefronts that line the old city streets. Turning, he heads towards him, the only thing that currently seems real in the blurred landscape around him. As he gets closer, he sees that the tall man is grinning hugely, his eyes hidden behind huge round sunglasses with sequined rims. A fall of artfully cut short brown hair drifts around the frames. He is wearing denim shorts that barely qualify as more than a few ratty pockets and belt loops, the curve of his ass hanging out of them and dragging on the brick wall behind him. On his hairy chest is a cropped white t-shirt, with a huge rainbow heart in the middle of it. Emblazoned in sequins on the chest is the legend ‘COCK.’ Astonished, he pulls up short, his feet rooting to the spot.

The road is shimmering with heat haze. Stretching before him long into the distance, a line of cars clots the highway. Leaving the military base had proved simple, but it was turning out to be the only simple thing about his day. His ancient truck growls and rumbles in the heat, beginning to give off a warning whine as it inches along the blacktop. His fingers alternately clutch and tap at the steering wheel, jaw working as he desperately scans for a way to get off of the highway before the damn thing breaks down altogether.

He hasn’t driven it in years; Hadn’t honestly expected to see it again so soon, much less be forced into the damn thing so quickly. As the truck whines and sputters up the road he cranes his neck, trying to see up ahead. Finally, just as the engine is beginning to well and truly overheat at the near-idle pace he’s been forced to keep it at, he sees an exit up ahead. He hesitates for a moment. After a lifetime of loyal military service, the prospect of breaking traffic laws still gives him pause.

But.

That is no longer a factor. The fat sheaf of papers sits in the cab behind him, rustling in the blasting heat coming out of the blowers he is running in a desperate attempt to keep the damn truck going for just a few more miles. Dishonorable discharge. Might as well be dead, as far as society is concerned.

Fuck it.

A determined expression settles over his face, and he shifts the truck into gear. It coughs, gives a roar, and he pulls haltingly out into the breakdown lane. Sweat drips down his cheeks in the soggy, relentless heat as he cranes his neck again, scanning the road for police officers one last time. Seeing none, he guns the engine, the truck bucking into motion at long last. He bowls his way up the breakdown lane, barrelling towards the exit, pulling onto it with a thump and a screech of tires, horns chorusing around him. Something about that causes his fraying temper to snap, and he sticks his middle finger out the window at the irritated drivers as he barges his way back into traffic.

To be perfectly honest, off the exit is even worse than the highway. The cars are gridlocked as far as he can see. What the  fuck could have locked down the city like this? He growls in frustration, pulling back out of traffic and forcing his truck over a curb. It goes over it with a thump, starts rattling, coughs, and then bucks forward through a parking lot onto a side street. All he wants is to get to his damn storage unit, but it is all the way across the city and the main streets are proving to be impassable. The truck blessedly settles into a lower rumble as he drives along the narrow alleys and back streets of the city. It is cooler here, shaded with drooping maple trees that are limp and listless in the heat. Before long, he is hopelessly lost and his temper is spiraling out of control.

When the truck finally dies on a hill not far from the center of the city, his boiling temper overflows. “FUCK!” he shouts, slamming his hand on the dash. Seething, he uses the slope of the hill to inch his truck into a parking space, cranks the emergency brake hard enough to nearly break the shaft, and bursts out of the truck.

He spins and wallops the trunk of a maple tree nearby with a closed fist, splitting the skin on his knuckles instantly. Snarling in pain and rage, he strikes it, again and again, until his hand is raw and bloody and his rage and grief are momentarily spent. Panting, he shakes the sweat from his eyes and wipes his undamaged hand over his face, smearing the sweat droplets up into his short cropped white hair.

What now?

Staggering back from the tree, he turns and leans against his truck, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he tries to gather himself. The stinking heat gnaws at him, impairing his every attempt to form a coherent thought. His cheeks are red and hot, and he knows if he doesn’t find some sort of shelter soon he is going to become ill. Realizing he had better start moving no matter what, he turns to open the truck door. He might not have a plan, but he did know that he wasn’t going to accomplish anything by allowing dehydration or heat stroke to take him down. That meant finding water, a cool place to collect himself, and, with any luck, some kind of a damn map.

Reaching across the back seat, he grabs his camouflage print khaki backpack and pulls out a water bottle. It is mostly empty, but he drinks the last of it as he eyes the discharge papers. He doesn’t want the folder with him… but even worse, he doesn’t want the papers to be towed away if he isn’t able to return to his truck in time. He knew there was at least a chance they would find the truck after discovering he’d been kicked off base. While he can’t bear to face them, not yet, he doesn’t want them worrying that he is dead. His body hums with tension as he looks at the papers, twisting the water bottle back and forth in his hands.

Finally, his shoulders set as he comes to a decision. He grabs them and stuffs them roughly into the bag, zips it, and flings it over his shoulder. Then he pats the truck apologetically, feeling obscurely guilty for losing his temper, turns, and begins to make his way downhill towards the heart of the little port city. He cradles his bloody hand close to his chest, keeping it above his heart, trying to keep the swelling from robbing him of its use altogether. As he walks away from the truck, away from his last clear means of returning to them, his heart sets up a gnawing ache in his chest.

It is some time before he exits the industrial district he has left his truck in, and as he does so, he feels a strange sensation in his stomach, in his bones. As he approaches the main street, the sensation resolves into a pounding bass rhythm that he feels more than hears. That’s fine, he can handle the pain of it, but when he turns the next corner he feels like he has walked into an absolute wall of color and sound. He freezes, eyes wide, as he takes in the sight before him.

Rainbow flags adorn every available surface. Children in nylon faerie wings chase each other screaming around a nearby fountain, and in the distance, a few streets away, a parade is in full swing. People of every possible description are out in the heat, dressed in glitter, dressed in leather, towering drag queens and tiny leather dykes mingling comfortably on the summer streets. His heart plunging, he suddenly feels desperately out of place in his sweaty green t-shirt and camouflage print pants.

He is too hot, too overwhelmed, and too heartsick. His whole body feels raw with grief as he looks upon the scene. Everything he has lost is thrown into a mocking highlight, reminding him that all he has ever loved has been stripped away because of one fucking stupid mistake. The organization he has spent his entire life serving had rejected him for the very thing these people were celebrating, and seeing it is like slamming into a brick wall. The world whirls around him, heart rallying and heading for his throat now as a feeling of overwhelming despair and panic begins to overtake him. His eyes flutter shut and his adam’s apple bobs as he fights for control, fights for breath, the world fading from around him until there is only oppressive heat and the hammering of his heart. He clutches his injured hand against his chest and focuses on the weight of the sack on his back, trying to block out the spinning. It isn’t the first time that he has abandoned himself so shamefully. It likely will not be the last.

Gradually, as time passes, the world begins to trickle back in. Glimmers of noise and color flit across his awareness, beginning to cohere into a solid impression once more. The sound of the nearby children laughing swims to him as if from underwater, followed by an arc of glittering light floating between his partially opened eyelids. As he tips his head forward and opens his eyes, it resolves into a huge pink and silver banner being dragged by laughing men a few streets up, floating in the air like a kite. He feels his chest spasm, and he finds himself stepping back unbidden. Then, blindly, he begins walking up the street that runs parallel to the parade, breath coming in short huffs and gasps.

It would be impossible to tell how many blocks his feet have carried him before his mind starts to come back to him. He could have been miles from his truck, for all he knew. And at this point he couldn’t have said more about the little park than that it had had children in it, little winged fairies dancing in the noise and light. Disoriented, he lifts his head and looks up around him, trying to get his bearings.

He drops his injured hand to his side as he scans the nearly empty street, feeling the heavy backpack shift on his back. His hand gives a slow, distant throb, barely felt in the depths of his daze. The street is scattered with wrappers and glittery garbage, feathers, fluttering bits of paper twisting slowly in the humid breeze. The parade has already passed by here, and the few remaining hangers-on are dispersing as he watches. He licks his dry lips, searching for familiar landmarks as he tries to orient himself. His concentration is broken by a piercing wolf-whistle from about a block and a half up the nearly empty street.

“Ouuuuwww!” A man howls joyously, and his attention snaps in that direction. In the distance he can see someone leaning against one of the ubiquitous red brick storefronts that line the old city streets. Turning, he heads towards him, the only thing that currently seems real in the blurred landscape around him. As he gets closer, he sees that the tall man is grinning hugely, his eyes hidden behind huge round sunglasses with sequined rims. A fall of artfully cut short brown hair drifts around the frames. He is wearing denim shorts that barely qualify as more than a few ratty pockets and belt loops, the curve of his ass hanging out of them and dragging on the brick wall behind him. On his hairy chest is a cropped white t-shirt, with a huge rainbow heart in the middle of it. Emblazoned in sequins on the chest is the legend ‘COCK.’ Astonished, he pulls up short, his feet rooting to the spot.

Before him, the man bites his lip and lowers his sunglasses slowly, sweeping his eyes from his head to his feet unhurriedly. The shock as their eyes connect on the way back up runs along his entire spine, leaving his head vaguely tingling.

“ Hello,  there,” the man hums merrily, his eyes glittering. It is only then that his eyes focus fully, and he realizes that the man has a long white popsicle in his hand. His other hand rests on a quietly whirring portable freezer, whose power cable snakes back into the dimly lit building door at his elbow.

“Uh?” he says, feeling his already sweaty face turn a deep red.

With a flick of his hand, the man stuffs his sunglasses into a barely adequate pocket, revealing sparkling blue eyes that crinkle in amusement, and then gestures to the freezer. “Would you like one?” he offers. “You look hot.”

Eyes traveling down the length of the other man’s arm, he realizes that the freezer must be full of more popsicles. Dumbly, he nods, not entirely sure he understands what’s happening. With a little flourish the blue eyed man opens the freezer case and steps aside to allow him to look inside. He steps forward, feeling as if his head is wrapped in cotton balls, and peers into the depths of the little case. As he leans, he holds his bag steady so that it doesn’t knock his elbow as it shifts.

At the bottom there are boxes of plain-wrapped popsicles, one indistinguishable from another in their white plastic wrappers. He can feel burning scrutiny along his back as he leans over to swipe one from the freezer, and a low heat pools at the pit of his stomach even as his head swims. As he turns around, he finds the man a respectful distance away, innocently gazing up at the clouds as if assessing the weather and sucking on his white popsicle. Feeling off-balance, he turns and paws the freezer closed before opening the flimsy wrapper on his own cold treat. It turns out to be green, and the frozen sweet tang of lime on his tongue is sharp and grounding. He brings his bloody, mangled hand up to wipe his face, and the other man hisses in sympathy.

“Oh, darling. That looks like it hurts.”

Bewildered, he stops and looks at his hand. The pain swims back, pulsing vaguely in time with his heart, as he stares at the injury like he’s never seen it before.

“Let’s get you inside and take care of that.” Tutting, the man sweeps up behind him and ushers him through the door, into the cool sanctuary within. He’s too out of it to protest. Once inside he stares around the room, eyes wide and bewildered, feeling lost. The high walls are raw wood, scattered everywhere with tiny, colorful pieces of artwork.

He finds himself installed at a bar in the far dark corner of the place before he has time to protest. It is silent and empty at this time of day. Remembering the popsicle in his hand, he tentatively licks at the drip of lime forming on the base of it and waits for his blown-out pupils to adjust to the relative darkness. The straps of his bag are starting to cut into his shoulders, and it is difficult to sit comfortably in the chair, but he can’t rally his faculties enough to take it off.

He can hear bustling noises close by, clinking glasses and running water. It’s too hard to focus yet, so he doesn’t try, closing his eyes and letting the noise and heat of the street finally begin to bleed off of him. He curls his mangled hand back above his heart, trying to ignore the throbbing pain that pulses in time with his heartbeat. His awareness of the popsicle in his other hand fades away, along with everything else, as he sits at the bar and breathes in the quiet. There is a wall at his elbow, and utter silence behind him, the large room all the more reassuring because of the hugeness of its emptiness. No people. No crowds. No sounds.

A damp thunk near his wrist causes him to open his eyes. The dark haired man is right in front of him, his face kind and curious. He stares in confusion as the room filters back into his consciousness. As his gaze comes into focus, he notices exactly how blue the man’s eyes are, a rich cerulean like rippling coastal waters in sunlight. His heart stutters in his chest and he quickly looks down, feeling even the tips of his ears begin to burn. Right near his arm is a tall glass of ice water, droplets already beading on the outside in the mercilessly sticky heat. The popsicle droops in his fingers as he stares at it for a long moment, trying to find his tongue.

Clearing his throat, he eventually manages a hoarse, “Thanks.” He grabs the glass in his injured hand and hisses in pain as the cold touches the sore, swollen underside. Undeterred, he takes a large swallow before raising it to run across his forehead and cheeks, trying desperately to cool himself.

The other man vanishes only to return a moment later. He delicately pries the forgotten popsicle from his hand before placing it in an empty cup on the bartop. Startled by the touch, he looks down at his sticky hand in confusion before glancing back up into those soulful blue eyes again. Something at the bottom of his vision moves and his gaze drops. The brunet extends a towel towards him, a gentle little smile playing about his lips. He puts down his glass and takes it between numb fingers, tentatively beginning to wipe the sticky green syrup off of his hand.

“Wait a moment, I have some hydrogen peroxide around here somewhere…” the man has already bustled out of sight again, leaving him in peace to inspect the damage to his right hand more closely. He probes it tenderly with the wet cloth, and hisses as it comes away red. As he focuses, he realizes that the blood has run between his fingers and snaked up his wrist, clotting on the knuckles and fingertips where it dripped when he had dropped his hand to his side.

In front of him, he hears a gentle tut. Turning, he finds that the man has returned with a bowl of warm water and a surprisingly generous first aid kit, which he lays out on the bar unhurriedly. He opens it, glances across the bar at him, then holds out his hand.

“May I?” he asks.

Dumbfounded, he nods, allowing him to draw his hand across the bar to inspect it more closely. Any other day, any other time, and he would have probably picked up and left. But right now, dazed and heartsick, it is easier to say yes. He is lonely, far from the only people he knows, full of gnawing grief and sadness. The unaccustomed gentle touch as his hand is lifted and cradled leaves him dizzy, feeling guilty for how suddenly and deeply he craves it. The sudden impulse arises a moment later to yank his hand away, but the man glances up at him with deep blue eyes just before he does. His stomach flips hard and he subsides, allowing himself to be tended to.

The man bends over his hand carefully, chestnut brown hair falling over his eyes as he does so. He shakes his head slightly to dislodge a few inconvenient hairs, then begins very gently to clean and dress his wounds. Silence stretches between them, strained and intimate. The man finishes and withdraws to put away his medical supplies before returning to his guest.

As he waits, unsure of what to do next, he empties his tall glass of water and crunches on the ice cubes at the bottom. The jarring cold of them, combined with the relief of having his hand finally wrapped, brings him back to himself fully. He blinks, cautiously withdrawing his bandaged hand, studying the man in front of him with more focus now.

“There you are,” the man says warmly, cocking his head to the side and studying him right back. He has lovely, almost elfin features, high cheekbones, and a delicate nose. He is younger, slightly shorter, broad-shouldered, with a lean and rangy frame that is enhanced by his daring clothing. His lips are expressive, currently pursed as he eyes the older man with unabashed curiosity. “Hello, darling. Now. What’s your name?”

He is pretty sure he has never been called darling this many times in a conversation before… maybe not even in his  life. Very few people have called him pet names of any sort. Pulling his glass in front of him awkwardly, he hesitates, then says roughly, “Geralt.”

“Hmmmm. Well, Geralt,” the other man says with a quick grin that sets his pulse racing, “Why don’t you take off that backpack and relax a moment? I’ll make you a quick snack.” Without waiting for a reply, he snatches the cup out of his hand and spins away to refill it with ice and fresh water.

Geralt gulps, startled, and stammers out “I, uh, I can’t-”

“On the house,” he says, turning back and placing the cup in front of him, alongside a tall pitcher with some sliced lemons dropped into it. Shocked back into silence, Geralt nods and carefully pulls the glass back across the bar to hold. His fingers trace droplets up and down the cold glass as he watches the man vanishing into the back of the bar. He notes in surprise that across his broad back, the crop top is decorated with a pair of glittering sequin wings.

As the clatter of kitchen implements begins somewhere out of his line of sight, Geralt slowly relaxes back into his seat. His bag bumps against the back of it and he startles, finally remembering it. Standing, he slings it under the counter at the base of his tall bar stool before resuming his perch. The blessed silence settles down across him, frayed and sizzling nerves finally beginning to quiet. He presses the cold glass to his forehead and closes his eyes once more, falling into a fuzzy exhausted numbness at last.

It is some time later that a plate of food being plunked down in front of him announces the return of his host. It is simple fare but generous; a thickly stuffed roast beef sandwich with some sort of pink dressing, potato chips, and a generous helping of julienned pickled vegetables. He glances over the plate at the handsome man, who fixes him with a sunny smile and leans back against the counter behind him, bringing his foot up to rest on one of the shelves as he relaxes.

“You look like you’re new in town. Reassigned to Fort Morhen?” He inquires, eyes following Geralt’s big, scarred hands as he picks up the sandwich.

Geralt hesitates, thinking, then takes a huge bite. He hums quietly in pleasure. Then he nods, opening his eyes to see his host’s face. To his surprise, those bright eyes are soft, crinkling slightly at the corners.

“On leave?” he inquires, picking up a toothpick and beginning to toy with it. Geralt is beginning to get the impression that the other man is rarely still, watching as the toothpick flickers back and forth between long, capable fingers.

“Ah… no.” Geralt says after he swallows, chasing the mouthful with a generous gulp of water. He grimaces before taking another bite. He takes the time to chew before answering. “Was just discharged.”

The younger man’s face falls, and he drops his foot back to the ground. “Oh, no, I’m sorry.” His eyes flick up and down Geralt’s body again, softly curious. “Medical?”

With a grunt, Geralt jerks his head in a short ‘no.’ He mechanically takes another bite. “Dishonorable,” he says around the sandwich, avoiding eye contact, seeming to collapse in on himself. The younger man falls silent and still, and Geralt feels himself wishing that he could sink away through the floorboards. Bad enough that he betrayed the only people he loves. Now this man can hate him too.

Eventually, the man behind the bar grabs a glass and begins to fill it with beer from one of the taps. “Did someone ask,” he asks, very quietly, “...or did you tell?” He is careful to keep his eyes on the glass in his hands, waiting patiently for Geralt’s reaction.

Geralt’s throat constricts into a stunned knot as he stares at the sequined wings on his back. They glitter softly with every shift of the man’s broad shoulders. “Uh…” he chokes out after a long pause. He had been expecting to be kicked out of the bar, or for the man to scoff... had been expecting literally anything but that  question. Caught off balance, he reels.

The other man peeks over his shoulder, a sad smile playing about his lips. “I own the gay bar nearest to the base, darling,” he explains, turning back around and placing a frothing tankard of beer next to Geralt’s plate. Geralt’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to protest again. With a flap of his hands, the man cuts him off. “On the house,” he reminds him with a soft, bittersweet smile. “Everything’s on the house for you tonight. Stay as long as you like.” He turns away again, becoming absorbed in preparing the bar for the rush due in a few hours.

Geralt’s gaze follows the glittering wings back and forth behind the bar as he eats, descending into thoughtful silence. He’s still thrown, but he feels strangely warmed by the man’s quiet acceptance, which gives him a dizzy, fizzing feeling in the pit of his stomach. After a while, surprised to find himself speaking, he volunteers, “Didn’t have to tell. New security camera did the job for me.”

The man pauses, rag in hand, and glances over his shoulder at Geralt. He is grinning, eyes sparkling. “Oh,  my  ,” he says. “Caught doing the  good  stuff, hmm?”

Geralt feels like those inquisitive blue eyes are pinning him to the spot as he reddens, then nods shortly.

“Mmm.  Well. At least you went out in a blaze of glory,” he hums pleasantly, resuming wiping down the counters behind the bar.

Geralt chokes on his beer, sputters, and puts the glass down on his coaster. The shorter man laughs easily, tossing him a rag to wipe himself with. Geralt paws the rag off of the bar and begins to dab at himself. Something is nagging at him, and as he wipes the beer off of his green shirt, he finally puts his finger on it.

“What’s  your   name?” he asks, placing the rag back on the bar. The man’s whole face lights up as he turns back towards him, holding a stack of glasses.

“I was  wondering  when you’d finally ask,” he grins. “My name,” he flourishes a little bow, glasses clinking, “Is Jaskier.”

This is met with silence. So much silence that he straightens from his bow a little hesitantly, giving Geralt a queer look. Geralt gives him one right back, a slow half-grin creeping up his face. “...Jaskier? That  cannot possibly be your real name…” he takes a long, slow swig of the beer out of his tankard. “Buttercup.” Amber eyes glitter over the edge of the glass, watching Jaskier light up with laughter.

“Yes,  yes!  Where are you from, Poland? I thought I detected a little accent…”

“Mm,” Geralt grunts around the edge of his tankard, draining the cold beer. “No, but the colonel always spoke it at home.”

“Ooh,” Jaskier trills. “Army brat?” He continues bustling around, now chopping lemons and limes for drink garnishes.

Geralt nods, putting the empty tankard back on the counter and twirling one of his remaining potato chips between his fingers. “Lifetime on the bases. Yeah.”

“Father an army man?” Jaskier continues, swiping the empty tankard on his way by and refilling it.

“Mm.” Geralt hums an affirmative, taking the tankard from him with a nod of thanks. He half-drains this one, too, grateful as the warm numbness of the alcohol begins to soften all the jagged edges inside of him. “He died when I was a baby. Got adopted by the colonel.” He drains the rest of the beer in one gulp.

“No mother?” Again, the tankard vanishes, and again it appears, refilled. Geralt pulls it close, sipping at it, slower this time. The beer is good, yeasty and bitter and cold. He shakes his head, leaning his elbows on the bar, slowly beginning to relax.

“Nope. AWOL in Korea, never heard from again. Happened a few months after my father died.” He sucks some of the foam off the top of his glass, licking the bitter treat from his lips. “Never lived as a civilian before,” he adds, then pauses. “You still haven’t told me your name,” he reminds Jaskier, who laughs easily, tossing his hair out of his eyes.

“No, darling, I haven’t. I suppose that’s a bit rude of me, but I don’t tell many people.  Julian is just so…” he flaps his hands expressively, searching for a word, “boring.”

Geralt laughs, genuinely amused. “So you went with ‘Buttercup?’” he asks dryly, tilting his head to the side, his eyes dropping to follow the swaying of Jaskier’s ass as he moves about behind the bar.

“Not everyone speaks Polish, you know,” Jaskier trills, unphased. “Besides, they’re my favorite flower. Say the name of your true love while a buttercup is under your chin, and it will light your chin up yellow. Hmm. I loved playing that game as a child. So romantic!”

Geralt smiles lopsidedly, charmed in spite of himself. “That’s just a children’s game,” he rumbles. “No truth in it.”

“Ah, who needs truth when you can get kisses?” Jaskier says easily, moving out from behind the bar and heading to the entrance of the club. His shoes, it turns out, are sequined the same color as his sunglasses and wings. With practiced, efficient movements, he hauls the freezer back into the darkness of the building and rolls it across the floor, past Geralt, and into the kitchen beyond.

Mesmerized, Geralt watches him go, picking at the pickled vegetables and following the motion of Jaskier’s muscular legs. He tries to think of a time he’s ever spent around a man this flamboyant and easygoing. Wracking his brains, he draws a blank. Even the few dalliances he had allowed himself were very discreet in the way they presented to the world, never flaunting themselves like this man did so easily. He is dizzy with the newness of it, unable to distinguish the metallic tang of full-body fear from the arousal pooling low and hot at the base of his spine. Jaskier either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, fully absorbed in the task of setting the club up for the night.

It was some time before Geralt found the means to speak again, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “What… ah… what was that event outside earlier?”

“What?” Jaskier says, muffled, from the back room. “Oh! You mean the Pride parade?” He comes out of the back room carrying a load of boxes stacked precariously in his strong arms. Walking over to the seating area out in front of the bar, he delicately negotiates around the tables until he reaches the largest one, directly between Geralt and the empty dance floor. Setting them down, he begins to sort them out and pull decorations out of them, fairy lights and rainbow streamers and more, cascading out until there is a giant pile. To Geralt it looks like chaos, but the man seems unruffled as he goes about beginning to decorate.

“...The what?” he asks, genuinely confused. He swivels his stool around so that he can face Jaskier fully, curiosity bubbling.

Jaskier looks over his shoulder at him, lips parted, eyebrows drawn up quizzically. “Pride…? You know, once a year when all the queers come out and…” he flaps one hand, searching for a descriptor, “riot with giant speakers playing the Village People and glitter bombs?” Seeing Geralt’s obvious confusion, he turns to study him. “Seriously not ringing a bell, darling? How long have you spent overseas?”

Geralt’s face feels numb, his tongue dry, and it takes him a moment to even move to finish his beer. He swallows the last of it awkwardly, rolling it around his mouth and trying to find his words. The man’s piercing gaze is rooting him to the spot, and as he looks at him, beautiful and lanky in the half-light, he thinks that he has never felt more out of his depth than he does right now. “Uh,” he says.

Jaskier shifts, lifting a long hand to brush hair out of his eyes, and Geralt feels a wave of hot prickliness wash over his body. “Uh… Long time. Most of my life.” He gulps, realizing belatedly that he is starting to get hard under the lovely man’s penetrating stare. Leaning forward, he shifts his hips subtly in an attempt to adjust himself without drawing any further attention to his predicament. A small, knowing smile flickers across Jaskier’s face for just a moment, quick enough that Geralt isn’t sure that he actually saw it, and then the other man is turning away again and resuming the task of decorating. As he does so, he speaks.

“Pride started out as a riot, love. We got sick of being beaten by the police, so we started fighting back. It lasted four nights, and… well, it changed the way people talked about us. This was in the 70’s…” he makes a little buzzing, humming noise as he thinks, “Mmm, no, tell a lie, it was 1969. And the next year was the first march.”

Geralt shifts again, taking the opportunity to get more comfortable, turning his stool back so that he is no longer facing the lithe man so directly.

Jaskier begins running the fairy lights along the base of the wall, unspooling and untangling them before hanging them. “And every year since, in June, cities have held marches.” Backing up carefully, he navigates around a corner with the mess of cords, and continues, “Every year, more and more cities have had them. We’ve had ours since 1976, and we have gotten quite good at them.” He smiles, squinting up at the ceiling as he considers a dodgy looking fastener above him. “And tonight, is the busiest damn night of the year for the Pegasus…” His eyes slide sideways to meet Geralt’s again, flashing him a sly smile full of teeth, “Affectionately known as the Peg.”

Geralt doesn’t know what that means, but the look makes his cock twitch uncomfortably in his trousers. Hurriedly, he turns back to his last few pickled vegetables, feigning great interest in them. “Hmm,” he says, around a mouthful of julienned carrot.

Behind him, Jaskier watches him for a moment, eyes considering. Then he withdraws, retreating into the back room once more before emerging with a ladder. He seems content to let Geralt sit in silence at the bar now, letting him finish eating in peace.

Geralt’s head whirls. His whole life has been the military. Early mornings. Strict obedience to the chain of command. Upholding the code of conduct as a professional at all times, even off base. Sodomy was strictly forbidden, as codified in military statutes written well before he was born. The fact that there is not only a whole club, but a whole culture, a whole country full of people who live this way is… unimaginable.

He crunches through a potato chip slowly, dragging the salty pieces across his tongue and focusing on them to keep himself from sinking too deep into numbness. His heart feels ragged and raw as he looks around the walls, focusing on the artwork for the first time. Many of them are little squares of stark black-and-white imagery, queer men and women captured in moments of impeccable geometry. The squares are bordered in frames, obviously handmade, covered in sequins and glitter, feathers, even funny little toys from gumball vending machines. He peers at the one closest to him, and at the bottom there is a legend with the name of the artist and title of the piece.

Robert Mapplethorpe - “Smutty,” 1980 New York, New York.  

Geralt gapes at the image, eyes wide and lost. He doesn’t even notice at first when Jaskier slides up in front of him, pushing a shot glass full of clear spirits across the bar towards him. When he clears his throat, Geralt startles out of his reverie, spotting first the shot glass by his elbow and then, eyes traveling upward, finds Jaskier regarding him kindly again. He picks up the shot glass in numb fingers and sips. Vodka. The liquor burns warmly across his palate, making his tongue curl and his cheeks flush. The welcome sear of the alcohol turns into a dull spreading heat inside of him. It blurs the ragged, churning ache he is desperately trying to escape.

“This is all rather a lot for you,” Jaskier observes quietly, eyes flickering over Geralt’s stiff face and hunched, unsure shoulders. Looking into his glass, Geralt nods, then slugs back the rest of the shot with a grimace. The lovely man’s face softens into a look of thoughtful concern, and he drums his fingers on the counter as he ponders something. As he comes to a decision, his fingers make a decisive tap. “Look. Do you have anywhere to be right now?”

A ‘yes’ comes rushing to Geralt’s lips, seeing an opportunity to flee the situation, but then those blue eyes fix him with such a look that he is rooted to the spot. A look like that, Geralt gets the tingling feeling that he’d know the lie the second it got out of his mouth. He swallows it.

“...No,” he admits reluctantly, his voice husky and quiet.

Jaskier nods, taps firmly again on the counter, then straightens up. He emerges out from behind the bar and stands before Geralt, long and tall in the half-light. Geralt’s head tips back, and he eyes him uncertainly. “Come with me,” Jaskier says. “I have to open in about an hour, and it’s going to get very rowdy out here…” A sly smile spreads across his face. “And a beautiful man like you won’t last a minute before some little twinkle-toed little horndog comes sniffing for you, darling.”

Geralt gapes at Jaskier, who reaches out a hand, gently but firmly pulling him out of his chair in a manner that brooks no argument. His whole body lurches at the touch, the feeling somehow nauseating and exquisite all at once.  

“I have a bed in the backroom, in my office. I use it sometimes if I stay too late doing the books,” he explains. “You look like you need a rest.” He smiles, tugging Geralt along. Stunned, Geralt stumbles after him, remembering at the last minute to swipe his backpack from under his seat on his way by. A sure, strong hand pulls him across the floor of the club and into the storage room. Too exhausted to resist, it’s all he can do to keep his feet as he’s pulled along. They pass stacked kegs, boxes of paper towels, cleaning supplies, and at the back of that room is a nondescript steel door. Jaskier pulls keys out of his pocket, unlocks the door after only a moment of fumbling in the dim lighting, and slips inside to turn on the light.

As it flickers on, he blinks, looking around. The office is tiny, smelling mostly of stale brick and old wood. There is a tiny wooden desk that looks older than the building crammed right towards the front of the room, stacked high with ledgers and bills. Behind it are two filing cabinets, and at the very back, a rumpled bed with some raggy but comfortable looking blankets crumpled at the end. Jaskier steps forward and flicks on the little lamp on the desk, turning out the overhead and significantly dimming the light in the room. Then he begins jerkily clearing away the ledgers and bills, muttering to himself.

Geralt stands dazed in the doorway, backpack swinging from his fingers as he observes Jaskier’s chaotic movements. Then, his eyes drift to the bed, and upon seeing it his body feels suddenly crushed with exhaustion and sorrow. He can barely stand under the weight of it. His soul aches, and all he wants to do is forget for a few hours.

When Jaskier looks up, he sees the lost and haunted look in his amber eyes. He pauses mid-motion, laying the papers slowly back down on the desk, as if being careful not to rustle them. “The bed’s back here. Sorry, I guess I don’t need to clean up all the way right now…” He grins awkwardly, fluffing the back of his short hair in a nervous motion. “Uh. I’ll be out bouncing at the door if you need me, once things get in full swing. The bartender’s name is Lars. If he tries to charge you anything, come get me and I’ll set him straight.”

Geralt nods to show that he has heard, but finds himself locked in place, struggling to figure out what to do next.

Jaskier looks him over in concern, then purses his lips and hums softly. He advances on Geralt, taking him by the shoulders and gently, ever so gently, guiding him to the back of the cramped little office. He can feel Geralt’s shoulders stiffen under the contact, and with a sad look that Geralt can’t see, carefully withdraws his hands. “Sleep,” he suggests. “I’ll be back to check on you later if I don’t see you.”

Geralt nods again, a moment too late, the door already closing behind him. His body is still snapping and crackling with the unexpected touch, the imprints of Jaskier’s hands burning on his shoulders through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Dropping his backpack, he heaves a heavy sigh before sinking to the bed. The cheap springs of the metal frame shriek under his weight, and he grimaces as the sound rakes across his raw nerves. The drinks have mellowed him, though, and the room is blissfully cool and quiet.

While he feels like he really ought to leave, ought to go anywhere else, it is beginning to sink in that he has nowhere to go. Even if he gets to his storage unit, what is he going to do? Sleep in it? He can’t load anything into his dead truck. There is no place to take his few things to. He has no place to sleep. The money in his bank account won’t last him long. And he’d broken the last safe place that he was supposed to have, long ago. This latest episode of stupidity was only the final nail in the coffin. He can’t even bring himself to call them. Not yet. The future stretches out before Geralt, an unreadable mass of uncertainty that makes his stomach churn. He’d never not had a plan before. The military had provided him a life of strict routine, a clear future, stability. Maybe even a nice little grave with a flag at the end of it all. Now, he didn’t even have that to look forward to.  

Finally, heaving a sigh, he awkwardly unlaces his boots and lays down. He pulls the covers over himself and settles onto the battered pillow. The whole world is too much, and he just can’t process it anymore. As he nestles in, he notices that the whole bed has an oaky, musky scent, fresh soap and sweat and Jaskier. His head whirls with it as his body begins to relax, then, abruptly, turns off.

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