#a decade and a half of solitude and she got so close

[esmes]

i'd be twice the wife she was 🎥 @theriddletrades

[buckywritessometimes]

sap.

She’s been here for a long time.

Longer than anyone in the vicinity could possibly remember.

Longer than the locals could imagine the trees, their roots thick and dense with layers of time, having ever existed; longer than the concrete bunkers of an era half-forgotten have been buried under the worm-filled soil.

And for the eons past that she’s spent living and breathing, she has been content in her infinite solitude, arms held open to embrace the loving eternity of existence cast upon her by some unknown figure of grace.

Somewhere far away, church bells ring. She doesn’t know what they are, but she likes the noise; the hearty toll of metal on metal is a curiously unexplainable sound, striking with a solid, unmistakable peal that sends shivers down her spine and delicate flutters of enjoyment through her body.

This is how she spends her days: as a haven for life, an admirer of the cycles of creation, and a permanent reminder of the passage of time, that allowed her to grow into the strong protective figure she’s always consider herself to be.

It’s on a particularly cold day that a man approaches her. He’s dressed in warm clothing, his body bundled in layers of flannels and down-stuffed jackets to protect from the freezing winter weather. His cheeks are pink with chill, his hands worn and calloused from decades of hard work. He’s old, but not overly so; more than anything, he looks kind.

He steps forward and puts a hand on her. She stays steady and unmoving as she watches him, comfortable with how they stand.

There, in the distance; the church bells have started ringing again. Twelve tolls. They’re just as comforting as always.

Suddenly, the man opens the bag slung over his shoulders, and pulls out a plaque.

There’s a woman’s face on it. She’s smiling.

“Do you remember her?” he says abruptly, looking up and meeting her eyes. “Her name was Laura. She used to spend all her time here, sitting up in your branches.”

Her arms sway slightly in the soft, chilled breeze—it’s the closest thing she can give to a yes, of course I remember her, how could I not remember her?

Although she doesn’t know why, she wishes she could give more.

The man kneels down and brushes some of the snow at her roots away, making room for him to sit back. He leans his head against her body, clutching the plaque—clutching Laura—close to his chest.

“She talked all about you, you know. When she was little, she ran out to the woods by herself, and came back just before dinner, giggling about how she’d found the tallest tree in the world, and climbed up to the top of the sky, so close she could practically reach the clouds up above her. We all laughed, told her to eat her green beans, and when she woke up the next morning the first thing she did was race back out to find you.”

He paused, taking several deep, shuddering breaths.

“She’s gone now. My Laura,” he finally choked out. “She got sick, and…” The man put a hand to his mouth, then quieted down, pressing his hand against the sobs fighting to escape from his lips.

A sick feeling unfurls in the center of her body.

She’s never felt grief before. Not when the birds perched high in her outstretched arms get shot down by cruel boys with rifles; not when she loses pieces of her skin or body to sharp-toothed saws; not even when she witnesses her brothers and sisters cut down and carried away. It’s always been with a wonderfully unfeeling acceptance that she’s observed the supposed tragedy that is death.

But Laura she can feel. The ache of loss rubs hard against her limbs; a throbbing sense of pain blossoms beneath her bark, and she can feel her body mourn the man’s daughter, the little girl turned beautiful woman.

Drips of sap ooze down her bark and she realizes with a start that she’s crying.

The sap drips relentlessly, pouring out from all the taps in her skin where spigots once perched, and the memory of the cold metal piercing her skin is nothing compared to how badly she wishes Laura was still there.

The feeling is thick and unwelcoming. Her leaves and branches quiver with unfiltered emotion; up at the top of her branches, little squirrels have curled up tight to avoid being shaken to the floor as she quietly sobs.

A crack of thunder booms from far away. Shortly following it comes the rain, little drops of ice-cold water that push her needles to the floor and chills her porous skin—but still, the man keeps talking, recounting his memories of his little girl, of her excited dinner recollections of running through the forest, of her love of her family and her love of this tree, his resolve to keep talking remaining immovable even as the rain soaks through his jackets and hat and mixes unceremoniously with his tears.

She cannot speak to him. She cannot move more than her arms, no matter how much she strains. She cannot hold him, help him, she cannot fix all of this, she cannot bring back Laura’s excited smiles or her skillful drawings or her brown hair that was always tied up and away—

—so she does what she hopes is the next best thing.

Slowly, she pushes her arms forward, layering needles upon needles to form a sort of rain cover over the man crying into his hands underneath her.

The man looks up.

For a moment, the two stare at each other, a strange sort of understanding passing between them.

He leans back.

“She loved you.”

The second the words leave his mouth, a sudden sense of warmth blossoms from the tips of her arms and spreads to the center of her trunk, and she realizes with a start that she has been loved, and she will be loved, and she will hold that love for the rest of her time here—and perhaps, it will be enough to cling to the memories she’s not supposed to be able to store.

Because Laura lives under her bark, and Laura lives up in her branches, and Laura lives in the plaque the man hammered to her chest and in one singular, too-painful evening, following decades of comfort and adoration, Laura and her beautiful tree have finally been able to become one.

[illarian-rambling]

for the ask game: 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒 !!

👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 — how many people are in your oc's immediate family? how many people are in your oc's extended family? do they have aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, etc? who in their family are they closest with? are they close with their birth family, or do they have a found family?

I suppose Twenari would have the most interesting answer for this!

So, Twenari was raised by her neglectful and exploitative mother, Undeta. Her father was never in the picture (though she always knew she must've gotten her sorcery from him), and her only other family was her grandmother, Idan, the founder of the Tunnel Wasp smuggling ring. When she ran away from home and her fate as a living weapon, she ended up in the custody of Izjik and Sepo. She sees them sort of like older siblings who stepped up to the plate of actually raising her. Later on, Djek joined their little found family as well, firmly cemented as the middle child equivalent.

After some years had passed, through a set of odd and dangerous circumstances, Twenari ended up meeting her older cousin on her father's side, Yedan Devaris. Yedan then introduced her to the extended plethora of siblings, cousins, and in-laws that make up the large and prosperous Devaris clan. This family is where Twenari gets her sorcery from, and all are extremely magically gifted. Prominent figures include Denafra, the family's matriarch, and Oyanna, Twenari’s stepmom and the one who runs the business side of the Devaris sorcery production enterprise.

Twenari also got to meet her father. Azhur never knew about her, as his encounter with Undeta was heavily intoxicated. Sometime after Twenari was born, Azhur married Oyanna and had a son with her. Unfortunately though, the boy drowned as a toddler, causing Azhur, mad with grief, to lock himself within a demiplane of his own making. He was unable to escape as the demiplane was half-formed, and ended up stranded there for a decade of solitude. Twenari freed him eventually (Azhur’s child's DNA was the key to unlocking the demiplane. He intended the plane to be a training space for his son, but Twenari’s DNA worked just as well) but he wasn't in the best mental state after so long alone. However, he does want to be a proper father to Twenari, and offered to pay for her education in a way the Outcasts could not.

That said, Twenari loves both her found family and her biological family. She spent so long without any warmth in her life that she's overjoyed to have not one, but two loving families.

Thanks for the ask!

[mamamittens]

Feels nice to return to an old fic series and get one step closer to finishing it for good.

Now onto sleepy time rambles!

Based off what I've heard of normal park rangers/fire watch, there's a lot of unexpected downtime. So I imagine over the years (assuming Nikia picked up the job around 18~, she's had to have been at her post for almost a decade at this point going by my own age) she's picked up a few hobbies in her downtime. Random things to pass the time during slews of blizzards and bad weather.

Maybe some I wish I had time or energy to get into

Not much point shoveling snow when another foot is going to drop in the hour after all. And despite her best effort, she can't sleep forever.

Sure, she could leave through a balcony but she likes the solitude. So she takes advantage of the isolation to try things out based on books or advice from relatives. She's notated cookbooks with observations on recipes, tweaks she's made depending on her mood or if she's nauseous at the time to make it easier to hold down.

Braids and bracelets she's made in front of the fire. Good luck charms from guide books. Repairs to her clothes and blankets she's made. It's a sort of secondary income for her to sell them or just gift them if she feels like it.

Sometimes, when the silence gets too thick in a whiteout, she pulls out her violin and plays. Enjoying the vibrations and vibrato in her chest. Dancing along her fingertips as she half reads from an old music book that's all finger notations cause she couldn't be bothered to learn sheet music. Her only audience her snail, quietly napping in his terrarium.

Sometimes she just wants the nostalgic sounds of a little kalimba she owns. Tin notes resonating just over the fireplace as she waits for dinner to finish cooking.

At some point she wrote short stories into journals originally given to her as diaries that she could never be bothered to write in as intended. Whatever struck her mood after some time mulling over it. Her hand writing absolutely abysmal because she tends go too fast and swirly in half cursive.

Her father finds some of these and asks if he could have them transcribed and printed under a pen name. She didn't care and neither expected them to sell as well as they did. Some more than others. The romances did especially well though her first success was an adventure novel. Not Uta level or anything like that, but voracious readers with decent trade access would be familiar with at least a few stories.

Thatch thinks the original journals are collector's edition of one of his favorite small time authors and is massively jealous. Kept forgetting to ask where the hell she got them. Does connect some dots when he looks at her cookbook and recognizes the scrawling letters. He can read it pretty well cause Marco's is just as bad when he's on a bender.

Her collection is a little eclectic. Books cluttering the shelves in the den but her real prizes are in her room. Delicate glass figures lining shelves along her walls with the occasional sentimental picture and gifts. Stone animals carved from precious stone. Gems that catch the light just so. Jewelry in miniature display cabinets for safe keeping. Obviously, not things she's comfortable displaying where sticky fingers can take them.

One of the few things she takes out of her room despite the sentimental nature is a curious bolt of fabric, almost a scarf. Yellow silk with a slightly golden pattern woven in so close to the main color it only shows as the light hits it. Scrawling waves and sea life immaculately detailed. She can't see it, never notices it, but Thatch's name is hidden beneath a breaching whale.

She doesn't know it, but it's Thatch's best foulard. The one he usually only wears on special occasions or when he desperately wants to impress without being too obvious about it.

She's... Aware that this gesture means something to pirates. Something quite serious. But Thatch waves off "forgetting" it so she leaves it be. Wearing it around her waist (it's meant to loosely tie around Thatch's broad shoulder, so it's plenty big enough for her smaller figure) as an embarrassingly wistful gesture. If he ever asks if she knows what it means, she'd confirm. Thinks he has to ask if he came by and saw how she wears it so often. Washing it carefully by hand when it gets dirty, mindful of the craftsmanship that went into it.

But when he sees her wearing it for the first time, he just preens. He never thinks to ask if she knows mortified to explain how bold he was, making a claim like that before asking her out. And she never explains, worried that he just didn't follow that tradition and the foulard is a gift for hosting him a whole week. (His actual gift was cooking all the meals, something he also never clarifies).

So close but never far...

[typingdyslexiaisathing]

Beloved Wounded Angel (Trigun) fic

content: Vash the Stampede X OC, established relationship, romance, mention of violence, blood, injury, mature subject of sexual intimacy and making love.

It had been a hard day. Retha having to steer the tomas as Vash was tied to her back for them to get as far away from the bounty hunters as possible. The last town having been a local watering hole for a gang of bounty hunters. Which meant that Vash and Retha got pulled into yet another fight. Thankfully, the bounty hunters had ended up blowing up their vehicles for Retha to steal a tomas right out from under their noses. A tomas that had satchels full of money and supplies. Vash had sounded guilty about taking what wasn't theirs. But Retha had no qualms with theft after what the bounty hunters had put them through.

Retha sped the tomas over the sand dunes to spot a run down and abandoned gas station to head right for it. The building sturdy and at least a dozen barrels of water in the underground cellar. So Retha hefted a half conscious Vash off the tomas and into the cellar. The both of them taking a moment to sit and breathe. Vash giving a wince to keep his prosthetic hand over the bleeding cut in his shoulder where a stray bullet had clipped him. While Retha finally took notice of the blood slowly running down her side. Her top clearly ripped open from the barbed wire fence she had jumped over. So Retha gave a huff to then put a hand over her eyes and chuckle. "What a couple we make, eh? Filthy, leaking in places, and too tired to give a shit anymore. How's the shoulder?"

Vash got super quiet for Retha to turn her gaze to him. The blonde looking so angry and guilty as he grit his teeth to hiss in pure frustration. Hard and bitter words bitten out as he fumed, "It's not funny! They almost killed you, Retha! How can you joke about that?!" Retha gave a patient huff of air to then scoot closer and lace her hand in his. "Reality check. They almost killed both of us. But they ended up blowing up their vehicles and losing a bag full of money. While wasting a ton of ammo and resources for us to have more than when we started. I will take the obvious win and say I'm glad we made it."

The gunman gives a growl to close his eyes and squeeze Retha's hand back. A kind of acceptance settling over him as he shakes his head. "Meryl was right. Humans do crazy things for love. No wonder you never get mad at me for what danger and trouble keeps coming my way for you to get drawn into. Seriously, Retha. Half of me wants to leave you in a safe place and run as far as I can get to keep you alive. But the other half of me... I can't live this life without you in it... After all the decades of choosing solitude... The very thought of losing you..." Vash gives a hard sob for tears to fall as he breaks. "The very thought of losing you scares me to death... Like someone crushed my chest to ruin my insides... It twists my heart and leaves me hurting in ways I never knew were possible..."

Retha lifted their hands to sigh. Her words warm and sweet. "Silly bird. That is what falling in love does. The feeling is mutual. Now then. Let's get patched up." Vash rubs at his eyes to nod and strip out of his coat. While Retha got out the medical kit and opened a barrel of water to use. Yet Vash soon moved to sit Retha down when she wobbled on her feet. His gaze pointed for Retha to take the hint and stay still as he cleaned her bleeding side. The needle and thread used with practiced movements as Vash stitched Retha up first. While Retha chose to start eating a package of beef jerky that was in their stolen supplies. It didn't take Vash long to tend to Retha's injury. So Retha was easily able to do the same for Vash. Washing his shoulder to then stitch the cut closed with effortless movements. Vash downing another full package of beef jerky on his own as he stayed still for Retha. Until the both of them were bandaged up and cleaned of the blood. Retha then got an idea to say, "Hey. Let's see if there's a mattress we might sneak down here."

The two then saw to exploring the gas station interior. Finding a small bedroom with a clean mattress and bedsheets for them to move down into the cellar. Some spare clothes in the dresser drawers for them to take as well and bring back down to the cellar. Retha even gets the idea to lightly ransack the main room of the gas station in case someone comes snooping. The two soon back in the cellar and folding some of the clothes to make pillows. But Vash seems distracted as Retha flops down onto the mattress to carefully stretch. Her gaze soon turning to him to raise an eyebrow. "Okay, Vash. What are you thinking? The only time you get this quiet is when your brain is driving you in circles."

Vash goes very still for Retha to wait. But then Vash moves to actually begin stripping off all of his clothes. Making Retha go wide eyed to blush from nose to toes as Vash speaks. "No more waiting for the perfect moment. Every time I've talked myself out of this, I spent days kicking myself for it. Retha. I want to... No. I need to give you all of me... No more excuses or holding back..." Vash was soon barren of all his coverings for Retha to gasp and openly marvel at the sight before her. His scars and skin illuminated by the lanterns they had found and lit. Retha noted how Vash was blushing as red as his coat in several places. His gaze avoiding her as he rubbed his flesh hand to the back of his head. "Retha. Please. Have sex with me and make us lovers. Give me all of you."

Retha took a few deep breaths to then start to giggle in sheer emotion. Which had Vash flinch to then give a gasp when Retha jumped up to grab him and give him a passionate kiss. His mewl of desire escaping as Retha all but devoured his mouth with her own. Which left Vash breathless for Retha to lean back and speak into his neck. "Better idea. You strip me down and mark me as yours for the rest of our lives. So get that perfectly sculpted ass in gear." Vash gave a shudder before his growl escaped his throat. All his trepidation and uncertainty snapping for pure passion and desire to take over. So Vash swept Retha up to just rip what was left of her shirt in half. The material falling to the ground as Retha hung onto Vash for dear life. Her pants soon tugged off and tossed for Vash to nip and bite and huff against Retha's neck. Her back hitting the wall for them to kiss and taste. Hands roaming over exposed flesh to tickle and tease. Retha gave a few squeaks to then moan when Vash found a particular place to leave a very big hickey mark. Which enticed her to grab Vash by the back of his head and lunge in to start nibbling on his neck against his pulse. The blonde gasping in pleasure to then turn them and have their bodies fall onto the mattress. Which makes Retha laugh before she muses, "Here we go."

The next few hours are spent in joyful abandon as Vash and Retha make love. Teaching each other what they enjoy for maximum pleasure. An age old and sacred form of worship in the dance of two souls joining into one. Offering themselves in complete vulnerability to the other and savoring this moment as if nothing else matters. Until the two are laying on the mattress in a tangled and sweaty mess. Vash grinning like an idiot as Retha used his chest for a pillow. His whole body awash in bliss and contentment that is rooted in unconditional love. A genuine laugh escaping his lips as he hugs Retha tight. "If I didn't know better, I'd say my heart exploded from all that. Unless I died and I'm in Heaven." Retha snickers to sound highly amused. "Nope. You're still alive. Heart is still thumping away against my ear. We should call it a night and think about resting." Vash huffs out a laugh to sound amused. "After all that fun and chaos. You expect me to calm down and sleep after this?" Retha chuckles to then move up and sneak a kiss to Vash's lips. "Once we get cleaned up and see to finding our sleeping clothes, you will want to sleep for a day. So time to settle in for the night."

Vash nods to help Retha with getting a pan of water hot for them to see to a kind of sponge bath for each other. A few kisses shared as they treasure the afterglow of their commitment to each other. Vash soon laying their sleeping bags on the mattress to also fetch the blankets and sweep Retha into his arms. The two soon laying in the bed for Vash to whisper a promise. "Retha. I have been so thankful that you came into my life. It might be selfish to say this. But I will love you forever and will never let you go. What future waits for us, I will give everything I am to the future that has you with me." Retha hugged Vash to sigh and give her own words of promise. "Together we live. Together in love. Forever and always. Sounds like a plan to me. Now go to sleep."

[somecrazybitch]

It's funny that the following is 100% true & happened in the 2020s.

When in university, I persued institutionalisation. I was unwell due to undiagnosed Adhd & Autism, as well as suffering from a slew of mental health issues & a confusing list of diagnoses that in theory ought to be paired with through treatment. I was in a sorry state & unable to properly care for myself let alone fulfill my duties as a student. I was characterised by an undulating tidal wave of high periods and low periods. In the high periods I headed social events, got involved in school positions, got employed in two separate organisations. In the low I would vanish apart from class, not eat, & cry as I ironed my shirts for the morning after getting home past 1 from the cursed promises "high mood me" had signed up for.

I was unable to secure the help I was looking for from the healthcare system. I find it odd humoures to think about retrospectively, knowing what I know now. The reason I was not provided help, is because if the stark, sharp, & ultimately artificial line drawn within the healthcare system between the physical & the mental.

Neurodivergany is often put in the category of physical illnesses within the NHS despite it having to do with the brain, so when someone is "institutionalised" due to high support needs from autism for example (if someone was incapable of feeding, or clothing themselves, or of paying their bills and calling for home repairs when needed without help) they might get a carer (& a social worker) perhaps they might be sent to a care home for ppl with complex needs.

When a person is suffering from mental illness, they look for harm to the self or others in a far more direct way normally, before they send you to the mad house.

Instead, I got my degree, year & chapters passed. (Getting stuck in central Europe with a lover due to a global plauge & disruption of the political union that allowed us to travel in the first place. Fleeing to the north of the country after graduation, being temporarily without a home & being taken in by an old woman who had lived in this new city for decades and ran multiple houses. She had my partner do work in the houses until we found a gas leak & when she refused to close the house down, we fled again in the night. We quickly managed to go back to renting and stayed in the city for the next 3 years.)

One of my dearest friends passed away days after I spoke to him. The funeral was to be family only, despite him having told me of his deep discontent in the family days before his death. I fell & festered miles & miles away, unable to say goodbye as he was put in to the ground. Once again I felt the damned knock of a bottomless low calling to me, & in madness I surrendered.

He had once been my lover, but had always remained my friend. I could not speak words to do justice to him, so I painted, I continued as my partner packed for our new home. I found myself in an empty room with a canvas & paint on the night we made our way across the city to our current dwellings. A car horn snapped me back & away we went.

After a year of unbearable solitude & insanity at the new house (which I cocooned myself within) I snapped. I called my love, my partner, & let him know I no longer wanted to live. He had been visiting someone far away and arranged to take a train back to meet me. After much ugliness & tragedy, we had a brilliant idea.

We would abandon all that ailled us on this godforsaken island, and fly away to Paris.

So we made our way to the airport, whilst furiously booking things, and found ourselves in Paris that same night.

I spent a month & and a half in Paris. We were truly blessed to have found one of the best most wonderful places in the world to be.

The house was ran by a marvelous matriarch. She was everything one should hope to become. Kind, open, honest, calm, happy. Her home had a large garden that she shared with tutles, two digs & 4 cats, as well as budgies that came and went freely. A small pond nestled under a willow, & benches at the back of the garden provided a delightful view of the wrought-iron chairs that hid below a canopy near the house. A stone round table provided a regularly used place for cheese plater, red wine, and cigarettes.

Occasionally, her breathtaking daughter would sit and smoke green with me .(I must admit I'm a bit in love with her, I think she was in her early 30s, she modelled for some time, studied, rebelled, and lived happily.)

Paris was a dream in every sense. When it came time to graciously relinquish my rooms back to my host, I moved even closer to the center. A frighteningly high up apartment in a vibrant neighbourhood. The hallway would send shivers down the spine of anyone, but the grimes of Berlin ravers, at the top of it was my sanctuary. A lovely flat with a handsome young parisian man who was the roomate of my host. The kitchen window let one see the skies of paris, as did the one in my bedroom, from which I watched the rooftop garden parties, the cats walking amongst the chimneys, and below the old man who owned the taloirs play with his grandson. I still can't believe it but I dined with an amazing girl from Brazil who was studying law. She inspired me so much and truly made me feel alive again. Her freind was a sweet and funny ballerina, I cherished their acquaintance whilst I was there.

Eventually I moved on from Paris, it is truly the best city in the world that I have ever known, sorry new york.

Now I sit, many chapters later. A warm faux fire by my feet, a green smoke in my smoke holder (fashioned to resemble a wand by my love) resting on a diamond shaped glass ashtray, with lana del rey playing as I read The Odessey. Back in my cold, wet, British city. A storm rages outside, they call her Isha. The problems that made me leave are all still real, my feud with the bigot next door was never resolved, my love is sick, and we haven't found a cure, a million other worries await my attention.

But I smile and feel calm. Now I have my castle of ice and snow in Sweden. I can't believe I'm going to be a homeowner this year, a deed in my name, 6 bedrooms, a beautiful kitchen, and most importantly; safety and privacy. In April I will go back and ses my first Swedish spring, and have the keys to my new home.

I feel now more than I have in years that everything may be possible again. I'm excited.

I feel at the back of my mind that we will have another war soon, and safety may be compromised, but I have so many plans, and the story must go on.

[c-optimistic]

Hi!! I love the way you write. I would love if you can write about Lena and Kara balancing their jobs and being a mother. Thank you! I hope you have a great day ♥️

hey anon! I dunno if you’re the same person who sent me a very similar prompt decades ago, but if you are my apologies for the wait, and if you’re not, great minds think alike. hope you like it.

“Have you seen my heels?”

Kara didn’t look up as she answered. “Um, I think the girls kicked it under the couch when chasing—hey, stop it Liz, you’re supposed to swallow your food, not throw it at your sister.” 

“She started it,” Liz protested, pointing towards Ally and narrowing her eyes. Ally, two years older and at the stage where she believed herself to be far superior to her younger sister, mimicked her Aunt Alex’s huff of disbelief and shook her head.

“You heard Mom, Liz,” she said, sounding more like Lena than she did an eight-year-old. “Don’t throw your food. We eat food. Like this.” She mimicked eating, and Liz’s eyes went wide.

Kara winced, bracing herself for what she knew was coming.

“I know how to eat, Ally! Mom, tell her I know how to eat! Mom!” 

“Okay,” Kara said, holding up a hand. “That’s enough. Ally, don’t antagonize your sister. And Liz, stop throwing things.” 

“Yeah, Ally. Don’t antgize me,” Liz said with her chin raised high. Ally opened her mouth, clearly about to respond and extend this argument well into the ride to work with her, when Lena walked over, her shirt still not fully buttoned, wearing only one shoe, the other dangling from her hand. 

“Kara, I pushed my meeting to next week, so you can take care of your assignment tonight. But we’re going to have to cancel lunch if I want to take off early to pick up the girls.” 

Kara grinned, fixing Lena’s shirt and then allowing her to use her for balance as she leaned over to put her other shoe on. “Thank you. I know the assignment was super last minute,” she said, leaning over to press a quick kiss to Lena’s lips. Ally and Liz, united by their mutual dislike of their parents’ PDA, got over their food feud and made retching noises together before dissolving into giggles. “I’ll swing by, drop off some food. I know you’ll skip lunch otherwise.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lena mumbled, waving a hand and turning to the girls. “You two, behave for your mom, okay? I’ll see you at 4:30.” She kissed Liz and Ally on the foreheads, gave Kara one last fond look, then grabbed her bag and left. 

Kara sighed, reveling in the silence that followed her wife’s departure, and then: “Why do you have to work at all, Mom? You’re Supergirl.” 

“Don’t be dumb, Ally,” Liz responded, rolling her eyes. “Mom isn’t Supergirl, she’s a reporter.” She stressed the word like it was something bad, and Kara just took in a deep breath before gathering the dishes from their breakfast and taking it to the sink. 

“Liz, why don’t you go get dressed? And pick one thing to bring with you.”

“Aww, just one?” Liz complained, but she did as she was told, sliding off her chair and skipping down the hallway towards her bedroom. Kara waited till she was sure Liz was safely out of hearing range, and she turned to Ally. 

“We had a deal, Als,” she said, raising an eyebrow, hands on her hips. “It’s a secret until Liz is a little older.” 

Ally—dark haired and blue eyed, looking a little bit more like her father as the years dragged on, but acting more and more like her aunt every single day, and smarter than either of them were at that age—frowned. “You promised you’d teach me more about Krypton.”

“And I will.” When Ally just gave her a disbelieving look, Kara stepped closer to her, dropping to her eye-level. “Look, I have some time off in a few weeks. What if I took you to the Fortress of Solitude?” 

“Just you and me?” 

(More and more, Ally seemed to gravitate towards her more than towards Lena. Lena liked to joke that it was Ally’s Luthor genes shining through, wanting to be close to a Kryptonian just like her father and aunt. 

But for Kara...it felt nice even if she was anxious about it. Because what it was, more than anything, was evidence that Ally—for better or for worse—had chosen to see Kara as one of her mothers, that she accepted Kara the way she was, that she wanted to be involved with aspects of Kara’s life that she hid away for so long.

And yet, Kara wasn’t sure what brought it on, and Ally—much like Lena—was often silent on her feelings.)

“Just you and me,” Kara confirmed. “But we’ll have to ask Mommy for the okay, okay?”

“Aww, that’s what you said about the zoo, too! And Mommy said no.” Ally’s eyes narrowed. “You and Mommy play good cop and bad cop, that’s what Aunt Maggie says.”

“Don’t listen to your Aunt Maggie,” Kara said with a grin, straightening as Liz came running back towards them. 

“I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready!” she sang, dragging a massive duffel bag behind her. “It’s one thing,” she defended when Kara gave her a look. “You didn't say the one thing couldn’t be filled with other things.” 

“Ally, help your sister choose one toy, I need to get dressed.”

(And after much protest, an accident involving glitter, and a brief panic when Ally thought she forgot her books at home, they finally found their way to Kara’s office, only a tiny bit late.

Though if you asked Kara, she wouldn’t really have it any other way.) 

x

“Liz, please stop running, you know I can’t chase after you in heels,” Lena called out, watching carefully as Liz raced towards the swing set at the park. Ally, who was walking to Lena’s right, let out a soft snort and finally looked up from the book she’d been engrossed in since Lena picked the girls up from Kara’s office. 

“Mom said we should tie a bell to her, so that she can always hear where Liz runs off to,” Ally informed her, marking where she left off in her book and snapping it shut as she followed Lena to one of the benches, sitting down dutifully next to her. “I think it’s a good idea.”

Lena reached out, smoothing back Ally’s hair and smiling when this prompted Ally to lean into her. “I do, too. Though we may not need a bell,” she said, looking over at where Liz was now singing at the top of her lungs, ignoring the looks from the other children. “Did you have a good day with your sister and your mom’s office?” 

“Yeah. We got ice cream. I’m not supposed to tell you, but for half an hour, Mom had leave us for a Supergirl emergency. Uncle James watched us.” 

“Really?” Lena said, trying not to laugh. “Your mom isn’t very sneaky. I saw her on the news.” Oddly, this made Ally pull away, gnawing at her lip, her fingers running up and down the spine of her book. “What’s wrong, Alexandra?” Lena asked softly, knowing that the use of her full name would let Ally know she was being serious. For a moment, though, it didn’t seem as if Ally was going to respond. “Is this about you wanting to learn more about Krypton?”

“No. Mom wants to take me to the Fortress. She said we’d need your permission.”

Lena didn’t take the bait, didn’t let Ally change the subject. “Come on, Ally. What’s the matter?” 

“Last week, when Mom got hurt, were you..did you...I don’t like Supergirl,” she finished, expression hardening.  

(And, oh, Lena thought they’d have more time. More time with Ally as a kid, a kid who saw her superhero mom and thought it was cool, a kid who didn’t realize how much danger her mom was in every time she put on the suit. 

But Ally was the smartest kid Lena had ever met, even after accounting for her bias regarding her daughter. So of course Ally would catch on, of course Ally would worry, of course Ally would want to spend more time with Kara.) 

“I get scared too, you know. Every time I see your mom on the television, every time she gets hurt. That’s normal, worrying for the people you love.” When Ally turns to look at her, Lena tucks a stray strand of hair behind Ally’s ear. “Loving someone doesn’t mean we can control what they do, though. Do you understand what I mean?” 

“Yeah,” Ally sighs. “Mom has to ask you for permission to go to the Fortress with me, but she doesn’t have to ask you to fight a bad man.” 

Lena chuckles, figuring Ally’s basically gotten the point. “You make her very happy, you know. When you ask about Krypton, want to know more. She wants to share it with you. And Liz, when she’s older. And you should talk to her, about Supergirl. Maybe if you hear from her why it’s so important to her, you’ll see Supergirl differently. Like I do.” 

Ally didn’t respond, but Lena didn’t really need her to. Instead, she got up and held out her hand, waiting for Ally to take it before she called out to Liz, who came running with a big grin.

And together, hand in hand, they began walking home.

x

When Kara made it home that night, it was completely silent. 

She chucked off her shoes and deposited her bag next to the couch before slowly walking towards their bedroom, pausing as she walked by the room Ally and Liz shared. 

The two of them were curled up on the bottom bunk of their bed, Liz gripping onto one of Ally’s hands, the other one near her mouth, as if she’d fallen asleep sucking on her thumb. Ally was sleeping protectively next to Liz, as if she’d fallen asleep talking to her sister. 

Kara blinked as she realized: Ally must’ve fallen asleep telling Liz a story. 

(That was Kara’s job. Every night, reading a story. Sometimes in English, but often—especially when the girls were younger—it was in Kryptonian.) 

She walked over, pulled their covers over them, pressed barely there kisses to their foreheads, and then turned to head out. But then: “Love you, Mom. Good night.” 

And when Kara made it back to her bedroom—when she slid into bed next to Lena, smiling when Lena immediately grabbed her arm and pulled it around her waist, making sure they were snugly pressed together—she couldn’t help but smile and press a kiss to the back of Lena’s neck. 

Tomorrow, Liz would be starting a new daycare and Ally would be going back to school, and there were meetings and late hours Lena needed to worry about and Supergirl duties and deadlines Kara worried about. 

But here now, her daughters were sleeping in the other room, her wife was warm in her arms, and everything was just perfect. 

(And Kara really, really wouldn’t have it any other way.) 

[ninjakitten1699]

More Oni headcanons that I wanted to add on

to @ambrosial-tea post but I forgot until now!

There are different tribes of Oni as stated in the last post. Aka Oni (Red), Ao Oni (Blue), Shiro Oni (Pale/White), and our Kuro Oni (Black/Dark).

We don’t know too much of the Dark Oni we got but we do know that Oni were originally intended to be guardians between Material Plane and Spirit World when the two began overlapping (possibly The Grasslands/Departed, and Cursed Realm before they began separating). Put a tribe of Oni on the Material Plane for a couple years and they’d splinter into subraces of Oni and become more corrupted by the years. Dark Oni became one of the tribes corrupted.

Aka Oni are the most common type of Oni with their dark red colors, large size, and toughness. They’re slightly bigger than the rest of their kin, more violent, unfocused, and pursue immediate satisfaction, disregarding long drawn out plots and schemes. They’re mostly known for strength too.

Ao Oni are known for their unnatural cunning and aptitude for magic, smaller than their red kin but larger than pale, and have different shades of dark blue. They’re the ones you’d catch calculating and meticulously pursuing lofty goals like power and knowledge.

Shiro Oni are known for their aloofness and connections to the spirit realm. They’re the smallest of the main three tribes and the fewest of members. They vary from pale white to light gray. (They may as well adopt other Oni who share their colors and hopefully teach them their ideals.) Pale Oni would rather keep things in balance between the material plane and spirit world as the ancient Oni intended. They guard their locations but will adventure for artifacts of the spirit world and mend balance. If we take that into account perhaps they are another reason why Realm travel is difficult to Oni who try to cross through the any of the realms involving afterlives.

While Oni have no concept of gender since they have both reproductive organs, they also have no concept of sexualities either. Honestly they just didn’t have a name for it when one didn’t feel the need to have sex or when another felt more attracted to the same sex aspects of their partner. (If anything, their type of relationships or way of thinking would be looked up upon because they felt closer to their spirituality and their true selves.) Again they sometimes don’t mate for reproduction but just for the vibes of their partner.

They probably didn’t have a name for having multiple partners at the time either. If one Oni wanted to be a part of what the other two had and they were content with the feel of them, then it was okay. Plus more hands to help raise the cub personally. (Essentially that’s what PolyGarm would basically be. They make Garm happy, they’re happy with him, and Lloyd would basically have more than two parents. At this point Lloyd would just have more dads and Koko is just the one good mom he deserves.)

The second Oni learn what kisses are and how they work, they find it just as addictive as they do with other acts of affection.

Oni are more closer to their family than they are to strangers because in most Oni’s belief, strangers brought suffering to the family. In turn they displayed their family’s name first before their own, showing pride in them and hoping to intimidate any strangers with ill intent towards them.

Speaking of Oni names, they don’t usually have any but when they do their names would be what positive traits the parents wish the child to take on. For example, a son could have “Akihiko”. “Aki” meaning “bright” and “hiko” meaning “boy/prince”. They could want him to be someone brighter than they ever hoped for. For a daughter, “Asuna” with “asu” meaning “tomorrow” and “na” to “greens” or “apple tree”. Maybe the parents are hoping the Oni daughter would lead them to a more plentiful day. And then there’s the family names. The most famous ones are “Hideyoshi” and “Ishikawa”. We’ve heard of these names and the history behind them, I wouldn’t want to come across any of their descendants that carry their name with honor.

Ironically “Harumi” is actually a name for a female Oni in some home brewing lore. One of her meanings is “govern/rule” and “beauty”. Goes to show how far she would take her name literally.

Shiro Oni/Pale Oni don’t have names, but it’s because they don’t want to be too close to the material plane while they guard the spirit realms. They would refer to themselves and each other as “that/this one” instead like how gargoyles in the old days would. If they come up with names, it’s for the sake of working with others on the material plane, but even then it only happens when they really trust the people around them.

Oni have a large appetite that could put the Pythor and the Anacondrai to shame. They could honestly compete against the Great Devourer and other wyrms.

An Oni’s pair of horns are a sign of honor. No pair of horns are alike, not even the closest siblings’ horns look the same. They all have their differences. Their horn length is their pride. Having them sawed off is quite literally shameful to the owner of them but they did do something to deserve it.

It’s possible that some Oni were confused at Garm’s horns not being there at first but they hear about the first time they grew out of his head he quite literally broke them off and bled for a good long while to the point of passing out. (Blood vessels actually go throughout the antlers/horns in animals which is why they aren’t busted right off easily. Why wouldn’t they to Oni horns?) Come to find out it was the FSM’s hate for Oni that made Garm hate himself and how he looked so Garm had them filed down to his scalp or small enough to hide in his hair. It honestly almost hurts the Oni’s look on the FSM even more but hey who hasn’t he hurt? It takes a couple more decades and some therapy before he finally let’s go of his internalized self hatred and trauma that he grows out his horns and finally has pride in himself like most Oni already do.

So it’s not uncommon for Oni to live among other races, whether secretly or not, due to their shapeshifting abilities, however sometimes they’re immediately shunned when their true form slips out. Unless they proved otherwise to the most accepting of inhabitants, they’re allowed to stay. By then they’d have a hybrid appearance with their horns out, either out of their kindness to ease the others’ fear of them or for their own personal benefit.

Oni that do live on their own choose to live in the wilderness or in the mountains. If living in society but still wanting some sort of solitude, they’d either be closer to the outskirts or deep in the downtown where you’d either have to ask directions to specific people to find them or already know where they are. Hence Mistaké with her small tea shop and Wu being able find her.

As stated before Oni have no problems with Half-Oni at all. They’re just welcoming another cub into the pack and it’s just the fact that they are a child of an Oni who fell in love with another humanoid. Although there are some cases of Oni being chased out by the other race with their cub in their arms and they just run until they find the closest tribe. They’d be welcomed into the tribe and the cub is basically adopted by them.

Again half Oni isn’t a problem to them, but they do have a problem with any particular wizards experimenting on Oni breeding with any other humanoids. The know it’s not the parents’ fault neither is the cub’s. If neither parent want nothing to do with them, then the half Oni cub is taken off of their hands by another Oni who was grieving at a loss of a cub (or the realization they couldn’t have any) or a pairing who wouldn’t mind another. The cub won’t have a terrible environment, the parents won’t have to unwillingly interact with the child until they resolve their own issues or they wish to visit and see them grow.

Meanwhile, those wizards will never know peace again until the day they die, even other tribes, who they could be at war with, will catch wind of what happen and help in taking them out. By the time those wizards die, even the Pale Oni who have no ties with Omega or any other tribes won’t be forgiving to them. They won’t do anything too harmful to them, but they will lead them to the terrible part of the Cursed Realm and those wizards proceed to stay there until they fade out of existence entirely.

Enough angst there and let’s go back to fluff. I bet Oni would love dice. Like not even for games but for the click-clack sound. (“Lloyd. They’re metal dice. You cannot have—.” “Shiny sparkly metal bits make pretty sounds! :D” “Garmadon please tell your son not— Not you too!” “Wha~ It does sound pretty.”)

Y’all know how like adult lions play with their babies? They pretend to be hurt and that the cub is super strong to help build up their confidence. Hear me out, Oni do that too. Big goddamn Omega really be taking hits from tiny little cubs, Mistaké be playing with little Garmadon and playing dead on him, then Garm just does the same thing for little Lloyd. (“Koko, sweetie, help. It’s the battle of the century in here. Help, save me. He’s too powerful!” “*tiny war cry*”)

Someone makes a baby Oni cry one time and boy it’s absolutely over. It’s on sight for that person. I’m telling you On Sight!

Oni can purr loud enough to the point where it rumbles in them like a motor and that’s how cubs feel their parents’ purring. Then there’s baby Oni just babbling and the adult Oni just pretend to have a whole conversation with them. Don’t get me started on them playing soft flute music to help the toddler Oni sleep.

We probably only got a few words out of Omega when they first appeared because we were hearing them through human ears. Lloyd’s Oni brain would click on and translates what he knows while Garm in full Oni form can get full sentences out of Omega.

Oni are willing to learn a different language if it helps others understand them and their intentions. Now let’s just think of Lloyd connecting to his Oni side of the family (since let’s face it, the Oni are going to be around longer than most of his friends are) through teaching them sign language.

They also try to teach him their Oni tongue but he can only grasp a few words at a time easily. When he finally learns the language, next thing you know he’s going to be cursing and only Oni will understand. Some (aka Mistaké) want to scold him and others (*cough*Garmadon*cough*) find it hilarious.

Garmadon’s Oni-Dragon hybrid brain wants him to decorate his significant others and now I think of Oni just sharing the precious items they hoard with their mate. Wait till they figure out they can make jewelry and have their significant other wear it.

[marabrosca]

[REUPLOAD] - What You Seek Will Find You (Cullen x Lavellan)

a commission for @cullenvhenan with her OC immy 

words: 3k

summary: Cullen reflects on his heart's desires, and comes to the one thing he wants the most. (Cullen’s pov fic and his falling in love with Imryll Lavellan)

tags: pining, soft, romance, kissing

warning: contains mentions of racism/colorism but is never directly said to any poc

Read it on AO3

It was uncomfortable to see a chantry half full, Cullen decided. He couldn’t remember a time where he and his family would attend a sermon, and be joined by only a dozen people. The chantry in his youth accommodated with every seat and then some, as many late arrivals would continue to listen to the Revered Mother’s litany whilst standing in the back by the front door. Having the room be so scarce, having so many pews be empty, made the ceremony feel far more serious and intimidating than intended.

It was here that Cullen would be fulfilling his dream of joining the Templar Order, taking his vows and swearing to protect Thedas at the behest of the Andraste Herself. He peered over at the towering statue of the prophet, Her pyre burning brightly but expanding no more light into the room than a few candles. He felt himself shrink into his armor, picking nervously at his embroidered skirt as Andraste’s stone eyes bore into him. It was a dull service he had to admit. A withered old chantry Sister recited the Chant Of Light in an almost monotone voice, pausing every few lines to include the sacred blessings given to those joining the Order.

Cullen had practiced his vows more times than he could count. There were formal promises to make, but they came strictly with a list. When he had been given the list, the scroll lay heavy in his hands. The gold ribbon around it had made it seem as resplendent as the Chantry’s interior, and no less important than the impression it made. Each Templar was to choose their own vows, their own honest promises to the Maker.

Everyone is different, and we are all here for different reasons. But now we join as one, and must do what is expected of us. Therefore, it is the responsibility of one who chooses to walk the path of sacrifice, to pave the road they walk on.

It was something that was repeated to him in the upcoming weeks of the ceremony. There were many ways, as it turned out, to prove one’s faithfulness to the Maker. There was fasting, sacrificing of material goods (not that Templars had many personal items to begin with), excessive prayer, public preaching, and at least ten other things that Cullen could remember. There was only one that gave him pause: chastity, and the detachment to romantic relations, even within marriage. Cullen felt weak for admitting it, but the idea of a future in solitude wasn’t exactly appealing. Not that it was supposed to be. The idea was that a Templar-to-be would set aside personal desire and focus solely on duty, devoting themselves entirely to their service.

But Cullen saw no reason why he couldn’t do both. A part of him, a part he hid from others, was enamored with the idea of marriage. He’d caught himself many times dreaming of the day his soul-mate would enter his life, accepting the promise to live in each other’s hearts. It was indulgent and juvenile, but he wondered if perhaps one day he’d be in chantry taking entirely different vows than the ones he would proclaim that day. As far as Cullen could see, there were no obstacles in finding someone who was Andrastian. They’d have to be, wouldn’t they? Followers of the chantry and the Maker filled every space in Ferelden, and certainly he wouldn’t be traveling far from Kinloch Hold after the ceremony. Frankly, there was no reason to worry.

The young man heard his name and he stood, almost too quickly, and shuffled out of the pew, making his way to the Revered Mother. She looked at him with a kind smile, and he bowed his head in response. The woman’s hand hovered above him, pausing.

“Have you prepared your promises to the Maker, accepting His blessing as a holy child and servant of Andraste?” “Yes.” He replied firmly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

-

Decades had passed since that day, disappearing like a dream interrupted by daylight. At no point would Cullen expect anything he had experienced, or where he was now. Snow crunched under his boots as he surveyed twenty new recruits to the Inquisitor’s forces- the DalishInquisitor – yet they served just as devout to the chantry as he had once been. An uncomfortable, heavy force weighed on him at the thought; a reminder of his skewed mind from the past. It was a part of him he didn’t want to forget, so that he would never become that man again. He didn’t, however, want it to swallow him whole. That part was harder.

Two of the newest recruits, George and Elliott, were sent to fetch a requisition officer that had been surveying the Storm Coast for some time. The men seemed eager, and promising, and gave off an air of charisma that delivered a boost in morale. Soon enough they returned with the aforementioned officer. She was a tall, lanky elf with pale skin and large, striking emerald eyes. Her black hair fell to her mid-back, lips pink and puffy in the cold. Cullen greeted her politely, taking the missives from her hands as she smiled pleasantly at him. The officer followed Cullen to the desk planked beside the staircase extending from the ramparts. He didn’t miss the almost pungent smell of perfume on her, but made no comment. The commander settled the forms into a neat pile, getting ready to turn to his scouts, when he looked up and noticed that she was still standing there. He cleared his throat when she did not have anything to say. “Thank you, Deanna, for going out of your way.”

“No problem at all, Commander.” The elf smiled at him, folding her hands behind her back.

“Ah…was there something else you needed?” Deanna twirled a finger through a lock of hair, her cheeks turning pinker than before.

“Actually, I was wondering if you were busy tonight.” She replied, eyeing the desk quickly before settling her sights on his face. George and Elliott watched the sight, impressed with their Commander’s obliviousness to her body language.

“As it happens, I am very busy tonight,” Cullen answered, turning and handing the papers over to a scout without pause. “There is still much work to be done if Skyhold is to ever be inhabitable. And I fear the most difficult challenges are yet to come. Why? Does something require my attention?” Deanna’s smile sunk to her knees with her shoulders following suit. “Um, no, it was nothing. Thank for your time, Commander.” “And you, as well.” Cullen responded with a nod, watching the elf turn and make her way up the stairs.

-

As busy as the ex-Templar seemed to be, he had set some time aside that evening to have a walk down the ramparts with Inquisitor Imryll. Soon the easy stride had turned to a pause, then to a conversation, then to a kiss. It was clearly unplanned and unexpected- quite the opposite of how Cullen had always carried himself- but there was no doubt in the way Imryll held onto his back and caressed his hair, that she didn’t object to it.

Gossip spread like the Blight within Skyhold regarding the Inquisitor’s supposed “dalliance” with the Commander. A couple of messengers and guards that had been making their way by wasted no time sharing the tale of what they had witnessed, or exaggerating it.

“It was a sweep of passion! He grabbed her and they nearly dipped as if they were dancing!” “I wasn’t that close, so I couldn’t really tell, but Ser Rutherford appeared very harsh with our Lady Inquisitor. Do you think he treats all his women that way?” “She hypnotized him with blood magic, I swear!” The only things the tales had in common was that a kiss was involved, anything else could not be answered, much to the disappointment of the staff who were almost growing bored of the mundane. When the news reached Elliott, he was quick to share what he heard over a drink on the grass with George, who turned his nose up in disgust. “See that, I just don’t get.” “What’s not to get? You don’t know what a kiss is? Do you revolt women that much?” “No, smartass.” George took a swig from his flask before continuing. “I don’t get how someone would, ya know, go for an elf. Does he seem like the type? And that elf on top of it- what’s next, a Qunari?”

Elliott let out a cackling laugh, almost catching his lip between his browning teeth. “Not your type, eh?” “Not anybody’s type.” George tried to adjust himself on the ground, reaffirming his seat in the same spot once the dizziness ceased his actions. “At least you got- at least you got some lookers here, right? Like that one from before…that, uh, Deanna. Them ones with the big eyes and the curves and all- and have you ever seen an elf that was so dark?” “Not before the Inquisitor. Her eyes are black, did you notice? Do you think she’s blind?” “I thought all elves were ivory and lanky and- where did she even come from?” “Somewhere up north.” “Up north, bah.” George, not heeding the warning his body gave him before, took another large gulp. “If you asked me, I’d kiss an ogre any day before I’d even think about kissin’ her. She wouldn’t-”

Before he could finish his ramblings, a pair of hands grabbed them both from behind, lifting them by the collars and onto their feet. George almost vomited, feeling the searing burn shoot up his throat at the assault. Both men turned sharply to be met with the fiery eyes of their Commander. The men could feel their faces turn numb and a pulse beat in the back of their skulls. Elliott dropped his mug without thinking, licking his lips in an attempt to speak.

“Commander-”

“I don’t want to hear another word.” “But-” “Not. One. Word.” Cullen’s teeth stuck out starkly against his reddening face.

The recruits gulped, bugged-eyed as George swayed slightly from the alcohol. Cullen’s gaze locked onto the mug spilling yellow liquid onto the grass. “I see that your night of leisure has given you loose tongues.”

Cullen pondered what kind of punishment should bestow them. Perhaps they were to be bound and brought to the Inquisitor on her throne, and beg at her feet for mercy after confessing their crimes? The idea was enticing, but it was likely the display would embarrass Imryll, and he needn’t put more on her shoulders regarding her reputation. Besides, she hadn’t heard the words herself, so why hurt her feelings? No, that simply wouldn’t do. They needed to learn a lesson…a long-term lesson. Without warning Cullen grabbed them by the collar again and pushed them both face-first into the dirt. “You will clean this mess, and then pack your things. At dawn, you will be deployed to the Hissing Wastes, where you will remain until the hole in the sky is welded shut.” The Hissing Wastes was the most miserable landscape in Thedas Imryll had ventured to that he could think of. It was a constant scorching mass of dry air and sand, flipping the coin completely when all was frozen over at night. Only the most hardened travelers could tolerate its climate. It was a long-lasting punishment for a crime that could permanently scar having landed in Imryll’s ears.

Without another word Cullen turned on his heel and walked back to the fortress, ignoring the groaning coming from behind him. As he moved out of sight, Elliott wobbled down to pick his mug off the ground, and George let go of all the liquid courage in his stomach that had sealed their fates.

-

Days had passed since the new blood of the Inquisition seemingly vanished overnight, but Cullen’s hands still upturned into fists at the memory. He hadn’t been there when they were carted off, but it was reported right before that they wished to beg forgiveness. Cullen dismissed the messenger with a wave of his hand and went back to his business like he was the only one in the room. He scowled, eyeing the ground with intensity as not to scream, a look that caught the eye of the curly-haired elf standing across from him. She walked up to him before he could react, kissing the knot between his eyebrows. All at once he melted, tense muscles going loose for a brief moment as he looked up. Her smile was concerned, and he felt his face relaxing as not to worry her further. “Are you alright?” she asked, grazing the back of her fingers along the side of his face, leaving goose bumps in her wake.

“Yes…I’m fine.” He let out a breath, willing himself to calm down. His hand reached up to grasp hers, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. It made them both blush, and Imryll’s fingers curled in his grasp.

“I had been wondering this for a while,” she started, not pulling away from his hold.

“That day you kissed me on the battlements…how long had you wanted to do that?”

Cullen couldn’t help but let out a laugh, smiling despite the heat in his cheeks. Her tone wasn’t mischievous, merely curious. A part of him advised against telling her; it was unprofessional at the very least to admit that he had wanted his lips on hers not too long after meeting, before Skyhold, even. Despite not being the best of friends at the time, Cullen found himself gravitating towards her, and desired her approval for more than just reasons regarding their duty.

He smiled sheepishly before finally answering her query.

“Longer than I should admit.”

-

Springtime scarcely differed from winter when it came to living on a mountain. Everyone still wore furs up to their noses and the courtyard was rarely full. Merchant deliverers unloaded their cargo as quickly as they could before ducking into the tavern. Orlesian noblewomen paraded their flower-adorned shifts about, calling attention to their “eye to detail”, modeling their appearance after the Skyhold garden. This, in reality, was meant to turn attention away from their unseemly reddening noses each time they needed to lift their mask and cough into a handkerchief.

Despite this -and despite her own hatred for the cold- Imryll could still be found tending to her plants- the ones that would survive the elements. She frowned as she lifted a limp stem with her finger, disappointed she wouldn’t be able to expand her alchemy skills just yet. Vivienne had warned her it was too early to start studying potions that required foliage, but in an effort to impress her, Imryll had tried it anyway. And now she was thinking of a way to dispose of the dead roots without embarrassing herself.

The sound of familiar footsteps behind her turned her attention away from the frozen soil, lifting her mood in an instant. “There you are. I was worried you’d still be out here.” Cullen sighed.

“Oh, yes. I was seeing how things were going,” she replied, gesturing to the frozen soil “Don’t tell Vivienne.” Cullen chuckled and removed his cloak, draping it over her shoulders.

“You’ll catch cold out here.” His touched his forehead with hers, watching as she scrunched her nose at the tickle of the wind.

“Walk me back?” Imryll guided them the long way around, entwining her arm with Cullen’s. Halfway there her legs had “gone completely numb from the cold”, and their only solution was to duck into an archway that housed a small stone bench. The elf laid her cheek on the part of his armor still covered by cloth, and sighed as his fingers glided down her arm.

“Feeling better?” “Not yet,” she replied, moving ever closer into his arms. Cullen held her tighter, making the Inquisitor smile. Her soft, round cheek was squished up against his chest, and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing. The atmosphere was too serene to believe. The moon now overshadowed the sun, leaving the walkway empty aside from them. Imryll gazed out at the greenery that still grew around them. But Cullen’s eyes were transfixed on her. In these escaping moments of peace, he found himself wondering what he would do in the future. If she survived- when she survived the impending battle with Corypheus- what would he do? He had been only a child the last time he lead a normal life, even though nothing for him would be truly normal again. Would she go with him? Would she go back to her clan? His stomach coiled at the thought, as selfish as it was. He wouldn’t blame her for returning to her people when this was all over, but surly he could not join her. The Dalish didn’t welcome humans as passersby, let alone a human lover. What if she left him? Did she not feel as strongly about their relationship as he did? Would she have to choose?

And more importantly, how would he declare the choice he’s made?

He couldn’t imagine a life without her. Despite the hardships and horrors he’s endured, having Imryll walk out of his life would be the breaking point. His gaze solemnly drifted to the bare blackness of the sky, subconsciously tightening his grip on Imryll.  

“Cullen? Is something wrong?” she asked, lifting her head.

“Oh- I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” “No…” the Inquisitor waited for an answer to her question.

“I think we should go back inside. I’m sure you’d be far more comfortable with warm tea in your bed, wouldn’t you say?” Imryll perked up at the thought and reluctantly sat up to stretch.

“Will you be joining me?” Imryll asked over her shoulder, half flirtatiously. “If my lady wishes so.” Cullen responded, chuckling and standing to join her on the walk back to her quarters.

“I do. But is that what you want?”

What I want… Without warning the commander hoisted her up into his arms, leaning his head down to kiss her lips. She let out a yelp before laughing, slapping lightly at his chest as he carried her through the garden. Wind brushed roughly against the pathway flowers, sending a few white petals into the air, catching onto Imryll’s curls. Their white littered the stone, creating an almost snowy effect as he walked. They went unnoticed by Imryll, who was too distracted reaching up to playfully peck at her lover’s chin.

What he wanted…

He knew now more than ever.

-

Imryll had taken some time to teach Cullen threads of Dalish before, but nothing like this.

“Sylaise enaste var aravel…”

The sound of her native tongue caressed his ears. Everything in that moment disappeared except for her; and although he couldn’t understand the words, he felt them in his heart. He wanted her promise to be true, and he trusted that it was.

“I swear unto the Maker and The Holy Andraste to love this woman the rest of my days.”

As the words left his lips, they connected with hers. Perhaps he should have waited until Mother Giselle made the official decree, but he couldn’t wait another moment.

The kiss ended with the faint tickle of Cullen’s breath against her lips. His nose stayed atop hers, soft chestnut eyes barely open beneath his lashes. It was their first kiss as a married couple, a term they could barely comprehend. Cullen sighed blissfully, capturing the moment in his mind down to every detail as the setting sun painted them in golden light, as if the world turned just for them. Imryll’s skin blended with the rays. Her eyes reflected, but were not illuminated by the shine, creating a stark clear surrounding of white around the onyx that seduced him so many times.

Imryll took but a single step before she was whisked off her feet. A surprised yelp quickly turned to giggles as her husband hoisted her into his arms in a true bridal-fashion. Mushy bounced excitedly at Cullen’s feet and wagged his tail, attempting to angle himself so that he could leap up to join Imryll.

“Blasted-get down! I can’t hold the both of you.”

Imryll laughed joyously, taking her lover’s face into her hands.

“How long have you wanted to do that?”

Cullen smiled down at her.

“Longer than I should admit.”

[whump-town]

Puzzle Peices

Warnings: the vague mention of Emily smoking, child abuse bc Hotch, and major character death but like... not heavy

No pairings

Just not the best but I haven't managed to write anything in like forever and this happened today so what the hell?

As a boy, Jack had thought his father something akin to a knight. Adorned in an armor that he could not peel away as simply as the suits he wore to work each morning. As humble as a knight and lucrative in speech and behavior as only one from the highest order. A right hand to the queen, though Jack could never decipher exactly who that was. Perhaps one of his aunts. Many times he’d seen a customary bow out of his father, carrying a wailing Henry around to give his mother a break or moving Penelope’s couch around to as many absurd places as she requested. Even as protective, as demanding as one. Dragging himself limping and bleeding home to recount a lie meant for Jack’s ears only for Emily to tell him, hushed by the late hour of the night and the novelty of time spent together, that his father had done something heroic. Brave but so very stupid.

Bravery, Jack would come to understand, in his father had always been linked in arm with stubbornness.

He was four when his mother died, too young to understand exactly what had happened. He wasn’t alone in that confusion. The circumstances of her death had been abnormal. No one seemed to be able to understand, least of all his father. Who had held her body in his arms. Who had been pried away, sedated to get him out of the house. Now laying supine and dazed. Repeating his slurred questions for anyone willing to answer them a third time.

Haley had been an attentive mother and with his father’s attention hazed in and out by drugs, Jack had felt the startling icy fingers of solitude seeping into his bones for the first time in his life. Never before had he been so alone. His mother dead and his father stumbling to follow after. Startled into silence he’d sat by his father’s bedside, left swaddled in his suit jacket to wait out the instruction of an adult more put together than Hotch.

Jack remembers his father’s weak cries, his voice dried out and confused. Asking again and again for Haley, until he couldn’t even manage to get words to pass his pale lips. Until his dark eyes sunk shut.

Jessica took him in her arms that night, a habit she formed that day in the hospital and never kicked until he was too big to collect like a baby and nestle in her lap, and told him about his parents. A story mutilated time and time again to create an almost, not even a half-truth. His mother, the prom queen, and his father the too shy, too reserved bad boy. About the night she won the crown and tore out of that dance with her fancy, expensive prom dress to go dance with his father. The delinquent who had been expelled the week before, who couldn’t attend the dance but was adamant she go without him.

But Jack couldn’t imagine his father like that. Only as he is now, only as he has always been in Jack’s memory. The past he could see written out on his father’s flesh, a roadmap that dated him back to this boy Jack could not comprehend him as. Scars raised like mount peaks and valleys of tissue and muscle that Jack traced his fingers along, hoping to catch a version of the truth in their layers. There was still a boy in the depths of his father’s aged eyes. In his falter to punish Jack, never raising a hand but losing control of his voice. In the hot tears that streamed down his face in the aftermath, in the way that Jack felt more guilt over those tears than what he’d actually done. Sometimes in his father’s light, jovial laughter Jack could catch a glimpse of that boy. The one Jessica could only whisper about, the one she’d thought was buried alongside Haley.

How could his father have ever been so young? Knocked around by emotions too strong for such small bodies. In part, Jack couldn’t understand it because he knew nothing of his father’s childhood. He could trace his fingers along scars and date them by his father’s willingness to speak about them. Accidents, the majority of them. The clumsy stumblings of a twenty-seven-year-old, a story to be told with a gently sad smile. Refocused narratives that tell him more about his mother than the scar. Gunshot wounds and horror movies slasher bad guys with knives. Those were the stories told by the light of the lamp on his bedside table. Told in the low grumble of his father’s sleepy voice, ones Hotch didn’t even look to see just laid there and knew by touch which ones were being inquired upon.

It was the scars on the great expanse of his chest, the perfect circles on his wrists and by his elbows that deserved no comment. That Jack learned to know better than to ask about.

“My father smoked a lot,” Hotch began but his eyes would get this haze and he’d fall silent before shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it buddy,” he’d decide instead. Keeping to himself the secrets of those scars. Bit by bit Jack still learned to put together the intricate truths until he understood for himself how those perfect circles made their way onto his father’s arms. Until he understood why Emily never smoked around his father and why she always did her best to stop. His father’s impressive armor torn to shred in Jack’s curious fingers and he no longer wished to understand the human underneath.

His father was unforgivingly private.

Never prone to gossip nor betrayed secrets, or pried into Jack’s life. He asked about grades when he felt it necessary but trusted that if there was a problem, he’d know about it. He never went through Jack’s room, wouldn’t even take out old laundry or pick up dirty dishes. If asked he’d give one of his solemn nods but never followed it with a comment. Never passed judgment on Jack’s frequently messy room, simply went in and left. It never occurred to Jack he’d do anything different. That he’d search through his drawers or scold him for his mess. The boundaries were set. Parent and child and Hotch did not easily forgive these boundaries being scorned in others.

Jack did not find it easy to reciprocate these boundaries with his father.

His gravely sullen father had only ever interested him. The moment his father left in the mornings or in the death of night Jack would find himself in his father’s room. Unzipping the bags holding those larger than life dry-cleaned suits, softly rubbing at the material. Hoping to find something, a puzzle piece to connect to the choppy image he has of his father. Not even the pictures Jack found of the closet answered his questions. There were pictures of his mother, countless in their abundance with his father appearing seldom. Always in the corner, just out of focus.

That’s how most people see his father. The figure standing just to the side of the action and out of focus.

Between the ages of four and sixteen, Jack heard over a dozen versions of the story about his mother being crowned prom queen. He’d seen pictures of her that young, understood why it was that people liked her so easily. She had effortless charm but Jack was left with his father’s fumbling shy ways, reserved where his mother was bright and cheery. Over the course of that time, the story changed a little every time it was told.

Jack placed his own version, understood what parts were truths and what parts were not.

That night Hotch hadn’t been at the prom (that part is always the same) but it wasn’t because he was expelled, he was in the hospital. There’s a scar on the back of his neck, unphased by time and still thick and ugly despite the decades it’s had to heal. Hotch had flipped his old truck the week of the prom, laid up pretty bad in the hospital. Bad enough Haley had been afraid to leave him for the night. Hadn’t wanted to leave him alone that long or even to go have fun without him. She had gone but only because he’d begged her to and when she’d won she hadn’t even waited for her dance. She’d come back to the hospital in her flowing gown and crown, plucked the silly thing down in his messy hair, and decided she was saving her dance for him.

He’d danced with her three weeks later. Having worked hard to stand again, nurses and his physical therapist standing close by just in case he couldn’t make it through the whole song but he had. She was wearing a summer dress and he was wearing her crown.

But he doesn’t learn this in one fell swoop.

On his seventeenth birthday, he walks out of his bedroom, shuffling outside in his boxers and still squinting through the sun when keys are pressed into his hand. A truck, “I had a similar one when I was your age”, and the customary crooked smile his father often wore when speaking about his childhood. Later that night he’d ask what Hotch’s truck had been like, why he got a truck of all things. And, in the spirit of the day and because at night Hotch was always a little more willing, to tell the truth, Hotch had told him about his truck.

He’d spent two summers saving up for it. Working towards his license and the truck and saving to ensure he could keep it on the road. He’d flipped it when he was eighteen. That’s why he hadn’t made it to see Haley crowned prom queen.

But that wasn’t the full truth either.

Hotch really did flip his truck but those injuries were minimal enough he’d driven home and there his father beat him within an inch of his life. The sort of injuries that left nothing but a gaping hole in Hotch’s memory and the need for a story to tell the nurses. With enough panic and tears, they made it through the E.R. and no one mentioned the lack of blood in the cab of the truck or the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around Hotch’s throat. They noticed. They had to but no one said anything.

Jack doesn’t learn about that truth until he’s in college, old enough to cave to curiosity and far enough away from his father to lack the guilt he should have for prying. He’d spent an afternoon looking over newspaper articles from that time. One article is dedicated to the beautiful, radiant Haley Brooks. All charm and intelligence, no one could think of a better girl to win prom queen. The other a hazy black and white photo of that old pick-up truck and his father, so young Jack can’t believe it’s really him, laying in a hospital bed. A tube down his throat but his eyes opened to slivers, giving the camera a thumbs up.

Jessica tells him about the dance and how serious the injuries had really been. She was only a little bit older than his parents but she’d still been young. Scared watching in slow motion as the weight drop off of Hotch. Leaving him skeletal and so still. They moved him around, kept a walker at hand to try and get him to move but most of the time he couldn’t even manage to hold himself upright. The night of the prom he’d been sitting in a chair by the bed, moved to try and make it look like he’d done it by himself. All for the benefit of Haley. All the nurses were in on it, he’d been hard to argue with during these days. No one really knew if he’d make it and it made his soft request impossible to deny.

So Haley had been welcomed by his illusion, blankets covering the chest tube in his side and pillows sitting him up. Her aim for the night was to stay here with him, another request she knew would be breaking the rules but they were just so hard to say no to. But he’d been adamant, breathlessly fighting with her, until he won. She’d caved seeing him gasping for breath, shaking under the exertion it was taking to fight with her. So she went.

Jack grew obsessed with these stories.

Held onto every piece of his father that anyone was willing to tell him about.

Collected newspapers about him. Articles he was mentioned in. Watched interviews. His intense search for his father made it feel more like Hotch was the dead parent. The one just out of his grasp but Haley had always been available to him. He had home videos of her. Photos in bountiful supply. Stories from everyone who had ever known her. He knew about her childhood. He knew she broke her ankle when she was eight and that Roy had been impatient with her. Harder on her because he thought she was too soft, too comforting and he knew someone would take advantage of that.

His father… there was only mystery.

So Hotch was everywhere Jack could put him. In pictures when he was four. Drawn out like a wisp of smoke, dark and thinly stretching up towards the sky. In the stories he fought out with action figures. The broken hero there to save the day at the very last minute. Crashing through the ceiling, shouting down the hall. The hero.

Hotch always encouraged an open, broad education. Boy scouts. Soccer. Swim team. Drama club. Writing classes. Two semesters of ASL. One semester of Arabic. It didn’t matter if Jack stopped the swim team after three months, so long as he learned something. Hotch hadn’t cared that Jack gave up soccer after sophomore year of high school. Not even when the coaches called and begged him to make Jack keep going. Jack was good but Jack hadn’t wanted to play anymore, so he didn’t.

Jack preferred writing.

Writing out his stories when he thought himself too old for those action figures, even if he keeps the collection under his bed in a tote. Sitting for hours recounting every detail Jessica or Roy or Emily or Dave could give him about his father. Constructing a story for the man he thought without one. Until he had one. Put together slowly through the course of years and bound loosely together. As rough and uneven as his father’s skin.

The one book that remains unpublished.

The one Jack can’t bring himself to speak of. It’s not his story to tell. It’s not even his story to know. But he learned a great deal about his father. That he really can read Jack’s mind but chooses not to. How most people regard his father as this thing to look past or as something akin to a dancing flame, edging around his larger-than-life presence afraid to be burned.

It’s how Jack knows he’s dying.

Writing about people had made him something of a profile. That and growing up with a man like his father had meant a lot of silence, communicating through side-eyed glances and grunts. His partners always hate it, “don’t motion at me, just speak Jack. Tell me what you want”. But the silence is a blessing.

Emily thought it was funny that Jack had found a partner worth marrying in James, a deaf man. His father had nothing to say on the matter but it was funny, they all could see that. No one could deny that.

But with James, the silence was never questioned. It was natural to answer James with his hands, to never shatter the silence his father had taught him to treasure.

“Your father,” James signs one night, the two of them stretched out in Dave’s lawn just watching the ever-growing crowd of his family dance. “Your father is odd.” It takes Jack a long moment to understand. In the ways that Jack is bad about not answering his phone and spending far too many hours at his desk writing, James has a brutal way with words. And not in the “brutal” way that Jack’s publicist compliments him on. In a way that leaves much to be desired.

Jack brushes it off, “he’s always been odd.” But he sees it. He knows what James means.

Hotch is standing a few feet away, eyes watching Hank and the younger kids, while Dave and Emily talk on. His attention not on them at all. There’s something in his eyes, Jack can’t tell what the expression is but it’s not good. It’s a type of sullen he hasn’t seen in a very long time. Not since he was just a little boy sitting by the hospital bed, asking for his mother and hating how confused and weak his father was.

They don’t actually talk about it. When Jack gets a call from the hospital, that his father has had a procedure and can’t drive himself home, he goes without comment. Pulls up with milkshakes and takes him home. Double checks things around the house before setting himself up in the old office, and getting to work. James shows up once he’s off work, welcomed into their easy silence.

James tries to get one of them to say something. He mentions it several times, asks Jack if he’s going to force a confession or not. Jack gets another call, his father’s in the hospital with pneumonia and they needed to contact the next of kin. It’s right there. Jack’s spent his entire life pushing at his father’s for more, to tell him something and now he can’t bring himself to ask, to pry and find out.

So they don’t.

They don’t ever talk about it.

It’s dark now. The bedroom door kept shut to muffle the sounds of the others moving throughout the house. To stifle the rounds of sobs taking them all by surprise. Fine one moment and torn the next.

Jack sits softly on the side of the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. “Hey, dad.” He knows his father can’t see him well, his glasses on the nightstand, and the room too dark. He smiles when he hears his name rasped back, just the thin parting of Hotch’s lips. “James is gonna come in soon,” he promises. “He’s just giving us a minute.” He’s thirty-some years old and he realizes he never came out to his father. Just held a string of girlfriends and boyfriends until James. Of course, he’d been nervous to bring anyone home but he’d never stopped to think to warn his father who he might bring home.

“I love you.”

They’ve always said it a thousand other ways but this time it feels like too much. Too heavy. Too painful. Jack starts to cry, big heaving sobs until he can’t breathe. Consumed by his grief until he curls over himself and leans into the palm Hotch puts his cheek. Lays his head down on his father’s chest and allows himself to be held, to seek comfort like a little boy. Drawn in by thin arms and held close.

James comes in at some point.

Jacks only sort of aware of the two of them talking over him.

This is goodbye.

What had he thought he’d find at the end of this puzzle? It’s done. He put it together. He figured it out.

James folds Jack into his arms and Jack can only cry harder. Recognizes the shift is made. The way James is now the person who’s supposed to love and protect him. That his father’s role in his life has come to an end.

The mystery has died.

[thedevillionaire]

The Answer

Okay, a bit of soap opera time-travelling here. I've had a couple of asks about this, so...here's a thing. This is Cerberus before he and Kia become a couple, but not far before. He's broken up with his first bonded, Lilith, though only recently. And the omnipowerful Demon king may have pushed his formidable abilities just a little far in the quest to impress his new love interest... ---

Closing the door behind him as quietly as he can, even minor sounds seeming to echo through the escalating dizziness and imbalance now, everything feeling off-kilter, hypersensitive, and just…wrong somehow, Cerberus partially leans back against the reliable solidity of heavy wood as he removes his coat and hangs it on the rack by the entryway, sighing. He’s thankful at least that he’d got through the interview before the stronger repercussions of his actions started to manifest, and that as far as Kia was concerned, his assurance of I’ll be fine had been true enough. Or will be by the time he next sees her. A week should be more than enough.

At the moment, however, his world was viscerally misaligned, and worsening.

He sniffles, rubs his nose briefly against the insistent recurring itch but surrenders in short order, sneezing ferociously, unrestrained.

“HehAHHTSSCHHUUU!”

Lilith, with a startled squeal, peers out at him from behind the door to the library chamber, accusatory. “Gods, Cerbie, some warning?!” She rolls her eyes. “Bless you, I suppose, though you did just give me a heart attack.” She’d been confident that her solitude would not be disturbed, allowing her easy time to gather various bits and pieces, arriving and leaving smoothly, simply, unquestioned. He’s never here this day, this hour. She has almost a decade of precedence, and she’d chosen this time for a reason.

Cerberus, as taken aback by Lilith’s presence as she is by his, and entirely unclear on why it should be incumbent upon him to provide warnings of any sort to unexpected visitors, doesn’t have the luxury of time to process the situation further or, indeed, respond to her, as the sharp frisson of irritation refuses to be sated – although he does make an attempt to temper the inevitable reaction somewhat this time, bringing his elbow to his face in cover. “Hh-TSSCHH-uu! *snf!*” He blinks hazily; the very fabric of the house seems to waver in reality a moment. Ah, gods. Moving to walk through the foyer to the lounge room, he meets Lilith’s gaze momentarily, his focus uncertain. He sniffles again, breath catching.

Tucking the books she’s collected so far under one arm, Lilith exits the library with a sigh. “What are you doing here?”

“HuhTSCHuu! *SNFF!*” Another wave of disorientation ripples through him; he nevertheless manages to gather enough wherewithal to reply. “Sneezing, currently.” He pushes his hair from his face, sniffles again and frowns at her, vaguely wondering why he’s not managed to get the keys changed yet, or hers back, or…something. “I live here. What are you doing here?” Should have put a Barrier up.

Taking a tissue from the box on the coffee table, he wipes his nose and distantly wonders if his hand actually shakes or his perception is just that disordered at the moment. Everything seems shifted, awry, as if he was somehow not quite tuned in to himself, various senses trying to reset but not quite knowing how to do so. Fascinating in its own way, he supposes, though his ability to function as objective observer is proving…erratic.

Lilith regards him warily. “What’s wrong with you? You look dreadful.”

“Mm, I expect so. What are you doing here?”

“Just picking up a few more things,” replies Lilith, indicating the books with a nod and crossing back over to the lounge, their paths temporarily intersecting, “which I’d planned to do uninterrupted, hence why now, since you’re not supposed to be…”

A sudden paroxysm of coughing interrupts her. Cerberus excuses himself reflexively, presses his fingers to throbbing temples, his capacity to concentrate becoming ever more depleted and his interest – or, come to that, ability – in maintaining this conversation lessening by the second; there were more pressing concerns at hand. Another sniffle.

“Ugh, don’t breathe on me.” Lilith shoots him a look of distaste, steps further away. “I do not need a cold right now, thank you very much.”

“It’s not… *snf!* I don’t h-hh…” His breath catching against the buzzing distortion his body cannot yet reconcile, Cerberus knows that sneezing again is hardly going to help the situation but he’s also far past the point of caring, not that he can do much about it anyway. He leans against the back of the couch for support, his equilibrium and balance increasingly tenuous, and with deep inhalation sneezes into crooked elbow once more. “Hh-hh… hhAATSCHH-uu!” With a soft groan, he exhales heavily, tiredly, murmurs an apology through another series of sniffles, knows she won’t believe him. “I don’t have a cold.”

Lilith’s tone confirms his expectation as she regards him with unveiled cynicism. “Well, you could have fooled me,” she says flatly.

He sighs. “It’s aftershock."

Lilith half-laughs, half-scoffs a pointed dismissal. She expects his denial of early-stage illness but he usually has a better line in self-deception. “Don’t be ridiculous. What on earth would you even get aftershock from?”

Cerberus, exhausted and disinclined to elaborate or explain, moves to the staircase. He pauses for a short but necessary moment at its base, resting a hand on the banister, entirely done with the whole situation. “I’m honestly not up to this now, Lilith. If you desperately need anything from upstairs, kindly just…go about your business around me.”

He continues up the staircase.

Frowning in confusion, Lilith recognises the abnormality of this – of him not arguing the point, of him voluntarily admitting dysfunction of any kind, of him even being here at all right now, really. Gods, is he telling the truth? But he never… What could possibly…

“Cerbie,” she says with genuine curiosity now, “Cerbie, are you really…?”

He doesn’t stop nor does he turn to look at her, and she sighs. “Okay, okay, wait. I believe you, okay? Cerbie, wait.”

Again, he doesn’t.

Lilith moves to the staircase also, though she stops at its base. She looks up at him as he takes the few further steps to the master bedroom, still without any acknowledgment that he was even listening to a word she said. “Cerberus! What from?”

Cerberus, his senses disharmonic and finding his surrounds inconstant, opens the bedroom door as if from within a dream, as if experiencing a simulation of himself, and still does not look back towards his ex-bonded. He steps inside and hesitates a moment, gazing with a slight frown at warping, incorrectly angled walls which should be entirely familiar, sniffles sharply as a fresh and sudden vibrating shiver runs through him, triggering a rapid pair of sneezes almost before he entirely registers what’s happening. “HuhTSCHuu! Ah-TSSCH-uu! Oh, gods. *snf!*” The force of it leaves him more than a little lightheaded, and he puts an unsteady hand to his forehead, pushes back disarrayed strands of midnight, takes some time to steady himself – or at least reach the closest approximation of steadiness he can manage – but he finally offers Lilith a murmured reply, rich timbre and diction rather than volume carrying his words.

“Resurrected Sphynx.”

He closes the door behind him moments before collapsing across the bed, unconsciousness following almost immediately; he doesn’t even manage to take so much as his shoes off.

Lilith, stunned, is sure she’s misheard. She knows she hasn’t. She must have, though. She must have.

It’s not possible.

It can’t be done.

It’s simply…it is not possible.

Nobody should be able to… Nobody has that kind of… Nobody would even consider…

Except.

“You WHAT?!”

By the time she finally finds her voice she does not expect an answer; and, indeed, she does not receive one – not to that, nor the other question that enters her mind in short order. A question she doesn’t speak, but perhaps the more important, more interesting of the two: why?

Why would you want to? What reason could you…have for...

Ah. And she shakes her head as it occurs to her: there is only one answer which makes any sense.

She wanders briefly back into the library, writes FYI: Necromancy isn’t flirting xx on the notepad atop the desk there, smiles to herself in wry bemusement, and wonders if Kia has any idea yet.

[mobscene-london]

BASIC INFORMATION:

NAME: Olivia Coppola.  AGE: 29. PLACE OF BIRTH: Launceston, Massachusetts, United States. AFFILIATION: The Sovrani. The French Organization, loosely. OCCUPATION: Owner of Nomentano. FACE CLAIM: Adeline Rudolph.  AVAILABILITY: OPEN.

BIOGRAPHY:

They said that nobody dreamt of a life like theirs. 

The other women she spoke to (very much a community in their own right, no matter how much some tried to hide it) seemed to struggle.  

To be a mistress was an inherently lonely way to live, despite what the wives would guilt people into believing. They were lucky to spend dinner together more than a few nights a week, and even then, he would always return home to his family afterwards. They got secretive weekends away that usually ended up as business trips rather than the romantic vacations promised to them. Holidays were spent in solitude. Parties were attended with nobody at their side, because whilst they couldn’t claim a married man as their own, they sure weren’t allowed to show up with anyone else, either. Olivia could still remember being told by a woman who had been doing the same damn thing for two decades that they were property to be paraded more than they were half of a functioning relationship. 

So why the fuck did they stay if they hated it so much? 

Olivia never understood the negativity. Even when they patronised her, saying she was just young. 

Eventually she would want children, they told her. Eventually she would want to get married to Giorgio, and that was never going to be on the cards, no matter how much she wanted it. 

Sounded to her like they were fucking projecting. 

If she was going to pick any man to fall helplessly in love with, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Giorgio Pecatti. Whilst he certainly ranked amongst the most charming men she’d ever met, the very fact they were together at all proved that he was a piece of human garbage. Olivia enjoyed what they had. She loved him without being in love with him. But she was not the type to eventually serve him the ‘it’s me or her’ ultimatum, and perhaps, that’s exactly why of all the women he saw behind his wife’s back, she was his favourite. 

The least complicated, and the most loyal. 

To his money, especially.  

That had been the initial draw. When they’d first started dating, not long after he’d arrived in Launceston, Olivia had been as close to a peasant as one could come in a place like Valence. Koreans were treated like the scum of the earth in their city, and her mother was too proud of her heritage for anyone’s taste. To the people of Little Italy, though, they somehow hated people like her more for tainting the fucking bloodline. Olivia got the feeling they wished any outside of their shitty Italian circles—despite the fact her father was from Naples—kept to themselves. They wanted pure Italians, and the only thing worse than a pure Korean were Korean genes watering down their marinara blood. Dicks. 

Still, her father had always supported his family in the face of discrimination. Giorgio had been unreasonably kind to her, in spite of it all, too. Olivia hadn’t had much of that in life.  

Maybe that was why she cared even though she knew she shouldn’t have. 

Olivia knew he had a family on the other side of the country. Maybe if she was a better person, she would have felt guilty about it. Sometimes, Giorgio spoke of them, though not often, and she always wondered if perhaps his blatant loneliness was the reason their one drunken ‘no strings attached’ night at the bar she worked turned into a reoccurring thing. Not that she was complaining. Olivia did not oppose his company in the slightest, maybe because she was lonely, too. For all the shitty men she’d had in her life, at least he treated her well. Looked after her when life seemed intent on keeping her the fuck down. 

For the two years Patrizia was absent, even when Giorgio had other women in his life, she was his priority. If he needed a date for a party, or he needed company to show off when he and Vincenzo paid visits back to Italy, he turned to his favourite. Most of his friends adored her. Whilst she was smart enough to know her place, she had just enough of a sassy spark to keep them interested. Giorgio bought her an expensive apartment near the beach. Designer clothes, handbags, a new car. Most importantly, though, she knew that if she ever had a fucking problem, with anything or anyone, he could always make it go away. 

For a woman who had spent all of her life until him with nothing, it soon became addictive. 

Even her parents eventually showed concern for her new lifestyle; particularly a penchant for partying she’d picked up as a means to flash her spending money. Anderson Island had always been her favourite part of Launceston, but it was also, rather notoriously, territory of the French Organization. They caused no issues. Olivia had already been briefed that they were allies, and she would always be safe there. But the cocaine they funnelled into the area absolutely did become a problem. So did some of their men she sought the company of. Any drugs were a no-go so far as the Italians went. If you weren’t clean, they kicked you the fuck out, no questions, no excuses. She knew all of that. Had been warned.  

But she just couldn’t help herself...

Hiding it from Giorgio was easy when he was so frequently absent. His nosy fucking bodyguard, though—one she suspected he tasked with keeping an eye on her specifically—picked up on her cocaine problem like a damn sniffer dog. Olivia didn’t appreciate the threats to stop, mostly because she knew that if push came to shove, her boyfriend would choose Rina over her. In the beginning she’d offered help, but why the fuck would she take it when she was having such a good time? 

Maybe, if she’d been smart, Olivia would’ve declined the offer to join him in London. 

Sorted herself out. 

She could’ve been rid of her watchful glare. The expectations and rules. Him. 

It also soon became apparent that Patrizia knew about their affair, and despite the fact his wife claimed she was ‘not happy, but understanding’ so long as they kept it discreet, she wondered if she’d spend most of the time in the new city looking over her shoulder. But reality quickly set in. Olivia’s life for the past two years had been built around him. Everything she owned, the lifestyle she had cultivated, the people she called friends; all because of Giorgio and his influence. How could she let it all go? What the fuck was she supposed to do with her life if she did? What did she have without him?

Evidently, he didn’t want to be without her, though, and that meant more than she’d expected it to. Even with his wife back in his life, he was still making time for her...  

Nomentano had been the same of the very bar they’d met at in Launceston. Foolish sentimentality on his part, she supposed, but still sweet enough that she wondered if there was more to it than an excuse to keep her around. Even when he had provided her with everything she’d needed, Olivia had never stopped working, and to be able to have her own place in London was something she never could have imagined. Not only was it the gift to end all gifts, but if things really did go south and she had to end things between them, she suspected the man cared just enough to let her keep it—a means to stand on her own two feet without him. 

Granted, with many reservations still nagging, she is not sure what to expect from the new city. Olivia doesn’t know what the declining relationships with Rina and Patrizia mean for her future. But, once again, Giorgio has done just enough to keep her wrapped around his little finger, and she can’t find a good enough reason to say no to a man she is, for perhaps the first time in their relationship, feeling genuinely indebted to. 

SOCIAL CONNECTIONS:

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Giorgio Pecatti (boyfriend) FAMILY: None playable. CONNECTIONS:

Alexandre Toussaint: Good friend. They first met in Launceston just over a year ago, and hit it off almost immediately. If she ventured to Anderson Island, it was usually for him. Though discouraged from keeping French Organization loyalists as company, especially ones who fit all of the stereotypes like he did, it wasn’t technically a no. Still, Olivia kept their friendship on the down-low from her Italian friends. Knowing Alex had already made the move to London certainly eased some of her hesitations about leaving home. It’s also something of a relief to know that she’s still going to be able to get herself a reliable fix, even in a new city...

Cristiano Messina: Friend. Perhaps her favourite of all those Giorgio’s introduced her to. Though most of his friends keep her at arm’s length, preferring instead to show loyalty to Patrizia (even if they like Olivia’s company, too) Cristiano never chose sides. If things between herself and Giorgio ever become turbulent, she knows that he’s always there for her. It’s certainly an unexpected friendship, and she’s heard things about the kind of things he does for the Sovrani that makes her wonder if keeping him close is wise, but she can’t help it. Olivia adores him, and doesn’t see that changing any time soon.

Rina Olivetti: Dislikes. Olivia knows that she’s Giorgio’s best friend, but the feelings of they both have for him do not extend to each other in the slightest. Ever since the bodyguard found out about her going against the Sovrani’s rules and dabbling in drugs, she’s been holding it over head like a punishment. Rationally, she knows Rina is just worried for her friend, knowing Olivia’s poor decisions could tarnish his reputation, but she’s such a fucking asshole about it, she doesn’t care.

[skvaderarts]

Devil May Cry OC Week Day 6!

This is the day of @dmc-oc-week​ that I’m most excited about! I even made the family tree! It’s below the cut XD

Maybe if I didn’t make these posts so late at night people would actually see them! That’s a shame too because this is the important day! But that’s my fault lol! Anyway, this segment is going to have spoilers for Sirrus’s backstory that will reveal who and what he is, so if you don’t want to be spoiled by that, there is a spoiler free version above the cut. Otherwise your in for a world of shock if you read my fics lol because this is gonna give away so much stuff! You’ve been warned! This really does give away A LOT! It also pretains somewhat to his role in the actual book I;m writing with him in it, though not quite as much. But again, still a spoiler.

Still here? Now to the backstory!

Spoiler Free Version:

During Sirrus’s early life, his parents split up and his father left to go and deal with his own nefarious plans while he stayed with his mother. As a direct result of the fact that Sirrus took heavily after his father aside from his trademark red hair that he got from his mother, his mother does not like him. She actively avoids spending time with him to do literally anything else, and as a result, the high society people that he was raised around see him as a sort of back sheep, not least because of the fact that he is a half breed of unknown blood. (none of his mother’s people know who or what his father is. it’s kept a very close secret.)

After some extremely traumatic things happen to him as a young teenager, he leaves to go and live with his extended family for the rest of his teen year and into his adult years. That’s where he got his blade from and where he learned to fight. It’s also where he picked up some of his opinions about authority and what it means to actually care about other people. He attempts to reach out to his father at the end of this period only to find out that he has remarried a young woman who is actually quite a bit younger than he is by the name of Aluta Ludwig. She was then betrayed by her husband, and Sirrus sided with her and her family over his father, leading to more than a little bit of animosity between the pair. He then left and joined his current employers, fueled to do right by his tumultuous upbringing. And that’s basically where everything in the fic picks up.

There is a family tree below, but it’s slightly spoiler as it give away his last name. Aside from that, you’ve got the main idea.

Spoiler Filled Version! Last chance to turn back!

Okay, I warned you XD

Early Life: Sirrus was born to Lilith Sanguine and Cirus Centurius smack dab in the middle of the victorian era. His father left shortly after to pursue his study of the Beast Heads in order to further his own agenda. As a result his mother developed a disliking to her son who she believed to be a monster of sorts due to his father being an angle and herself a sort of half devil. In truth, she actually fears him, but she would never allow that to be known. She also thought he looked to much like his father, sharing his general angelic look aside from his trademark red hair that he inherited from her. As a result, he was ostracized by literally everyone around him until he was nearly killed as a 14 year old and he ran away to join up with his uncle and their covenant of peacekeepers. He trained under them and stayed with them until about WWII. he was so disgusted by the bloodshead that he saw while he was living in the area at the time that he decided to take a nap for about half a decade and then when he awoke he decided he couldn’t stand idly by and do nothing anymore.

After seeing all of that awfulness, he moved away and studied in solitude for a while with his cousin before deciding to join his current employers. He quickly became bored, but stuck with the job through to current day in order to make sure that things were running as they were supposed to, still working on the side with his uncle. His uncle is his mom’s half brother.

After the events of Temen Ni Gru attack, he was assigned to keep a watchful eye on the regeon. Several more attacks occurred during that period (The Abigale Attack, the Savior Incident, the Redgrave Fragility, and all the attacks in my fic including the fire at the port city and V’s run in with the death cult in the woods as a teen) until the events of the book finally made it clear that he needed to come and check things out. The Conduit going critical was the last straw.

From there, the fic takes place, and he becomes involved with the DMC Crew, although he had been quietly watching their activity from affar. He didn’t know who they were individually, but he knew that a group of devil hunters were working in the region and that they seemed to have everything under control... well, until V was brought back from limbo and Belial’s Death cult descended upon the city. But the fic fills all of that in better than I can.

Here’s a family tree. It only covers people currently living, so it is missing quite a few people. Didn’t want to make things more complicated than they already were! But either way, here you go! Let me know if you have questions!

[jaskiersvalley]

So idk if you'd be interested but I had the idea of like the witchers when they were still lil maybe before the mutations or maybe right after and lil lambert having a nightmare and lil geralt and lil eskel giving him a cuddle and making him feel better

I’ve not been able to get the idea of little witchers out of my head since you sent this in, Nonnie! And finally, I have an idea that I feel is good enough for this prompt - might lack a little on a literal nightmare but...hopefully the rest of it makes up for it. :D

The winter at Kaer Morhen was more lively than it had been in decades. It wasn’t just the usual four witchers there, this time Jaskier was there and Yennefer too. It was noisy, for want of a better word. With Jaskier around, there was always laughter and music. Even if he wasn’t the one making racket, he had a wonderful knack for inspiring the others to revert to something more lighthearted.

Truthfully, it was a little tiring. Lambert, Eskel and even Geralt had a habit of becoming so much more animated. It wasn’t a bad thing by any means but Vesemir did miss the quiet of the keep, the warm nights where they were all settled by a fire and reading or playing gwent in relative silence. Now, there was an almost constant jesting, scuffling and running around that was worse than when they were children. So, really, Vesemir couldn’t be blamed when he announced he was going to go hunting for a few days. He wasn’t running away. Simply, he was taking a breather and enjoying the silent solitude of the mountain. It wasn’t like he was leaving behind literal children, they could keep everything ticking over while he was gone. As planned, he left.

Breakfast without Vesemir was unusual. Lambert sat opposite Geralt and Yennefer who was trying her best to ignore the bickering and the fact that Jaskier’s swinging legs were kicking her ankle every few seconds. They were noisy, ribbing each other, Lambert was trying to cram a whole egg in his mouth while Jaskier was trying to make him laugh so he couldn’t do it.

“You’d look more graceful gargling a ballsack,” Eskel barked on a laugh and nudged Yennefer who was next to him. “Trust me on this one, I know.”

Obviously his comment hit its mark because Lambert threw a half eaten slice of toast coated in jam at him. Only a quick aard stopped it from splattering on Eskel. However, it instead ended up, jam side down, on Yennefer’s shoulder and hair. Silence engulfed the room as everyone watched her reaction. Without a word, she stood up and stalked out.

“Yennefer! Wait!” Jaskier was up and after her, knowing that of the lot, he would have the greatest chance of appeasing her (and probably most capable of getting jam out of hair with minimal pain).

Just outside the hall, Yennefer spun on her heel and glared at him. Not that it made much of a difference, Jaskier had grown immune to most glares and threats over the years.

“They were just having fun,” Jaskier tried to appease. “They’re home, relaxed and without the pressing worries of the Path. Childhood home and all that.”

There was a glint in Yennefer’s eyes and her smile held nothing nice. “Exactly like children,” she nodded. “They can be as they behave.”

Stepping around Jaskier, she carelessly flung a bright purple spell into the hall and turned to Jaskier. “Have fun with the kids.” Before he had a chance to ask, she opened up at portal and walked away without a backward glance.

“Shit.” Jaskier tried to listen through the door before he returned, wondering whether he’ll find three witchers knocked out or turned into goats. In the end, it was so much worse than that. Because when Jaskier returned to the hall, he wasn’t greeted by goats. Not even three idiots asleep, face first in their food. Instead, three sets of large, terrified eyes peered up at him from shirts that were too large.

Eskel and Geralt couldn’t have been more than five while Lambert was probably about three. They watched Jaskier walk in and backed away, distrust and fear clear in their little faces. It broke Jaskier’s heart.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier dropped his voice to something soft and gentle and he crouched down. “I’m a friend.”

They were obviously children but some of their memories must have remained because Geralt suddenly made a run for him, arms out stretched and a cry of “Jaskier!” as he barrelled into the bard. It was only because he was so small and light that they didn’t go toppling over.

“You’re alright, Geralt,” Jaskier soothed as he wrapped arms around the tiny witcher who was utterly swamped in his old shirt. “You two okay?” he asked Lambert and Eskel, standing up. What Jaskier didn’t anticipate was for Lambert’s lips to wobble precariously as he backed away, tripping on his own shirt. The wail of distress was only made worse when Eskel pulled himself up to his full height and bravely stood between Jaskier and Lambert without a word. He was quivering and shaking, turning a little from Jaskier but standing his ground all the same.

“Oh sweethearts,” Jaskier breathed. He crouched down and extended an arm for Eskel too. “I’ll look after you all.”

Turning away, Eskel reached a hand for Lambert and pushed him up. While keeping a tight grip on him, he edged closer to Jaskier. Close enough, Eskel made a quick dash and wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s neck while Lambert tentatively took hold of the outstretched hand.

Three baby witchers wrapped around him, Jaskier looked around and sighed. It wasn’t going to be easy and he silently cursed Yennefer’s vindictive ways. There was no telling how long the spell would last or when she or Vesemir would be back. For a change, Jaskier had to be the adult and the one to look after everyone else. The first challenge was standing up with three child witchers in his arms. With a groan and a heave, he managed and staggered over to the table.

“Right, we need to make sure you’re all fed.” He knew next to nothing about children and diets but he suspected that the mead on the table was a no go. Adult witchers might be idiots to drink at breakfast but Jaskier wasn’t. He pushed that out of reach and looked at the rest of the table. “Jam toast, who’d like some?”

Three small hands shot up immediately. Which was a good sign, surely. Pulling the bread close, Jaskier cut three slices and made sure the witchers stayed in their seats while he toasted the bread. Once it was lightly brown and crispy, Jaskier returned and was surprised to find Eskel had already managed to grab the jam jar and was wielding a knife.

As alarming as it was to see a small child with a knife, Jaskier let him put jam on his own toast while he sorted the ones for Lambert and Geralt. Only, Eskel seemed to have beaten him to it, the toast now sticky with lumps of jam was pushed towards Lambert who picked it up, uncaring of getting his hands messy.

“That was very kind, Eskel,” Jaskier said and passed him another slice of toast while giving Geralt one too. He watched them eat, smiled at Geralt’s polite “thank you”. So far, he’d heard Lambert cry and Geralt speak yet Eskel remained oddly silent.

Washing three sticky and squirming witchers was a task and a half. Jaskier was reluctant to let them out of his sight, not trusting them around the crumbling old keep. But they seemed determined to run around like children were wont to do. Tidying away the breakfast table, Jaskier watched them and realised something that made him sit down for a moment. For all their play, there wasn’t a single bit of laughter. There was a wariness to all three, they were protective of each other. While they remembered Jaskier to a certain extent, they seemed stuck in a limbo between being true children and people who have experienced a century of horror. It didn’t bear thinking about, what they could remember and how their current state allowed for the processing of it.

Not that Jaskier had to wonder for long. All too soon the three little terrors had quieted down, looking sleepy. Which meant it was probably time for a nap.

“Come on, you lot,” Jaskier herded them towards their bedrooms. “Afternoon nap.”

It would mean he got to at least prepare dinner without having to worry. Geralt’s bedroom was the first and Jaskier tucked him in, unable to miss out on a kiss to his forehead. Next was Lambert who kicked up at little fuss but Jaskier twisted the corner of a throw into a makeshift cuddly toy and he watched as Lambert shoved the tip in his mouth, eyes drooping. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find Lambert sucking his thumb when he fell asleep. Last was Eskel who was still as silent as before. He clutched at Jaskier’s hand, obviously reluctant to be left alone to sleep but it had to happen. Jaskier had other things to do.

First things first, Jaskier returned to his room. He cast his lute a longing glance but knew it wasn’t right. Looking after three child witchers was exhausting, he sat down on his bed heavily and tried to figure out what to do next. Dinner preparations. Maybe find a storybook in the library. It was easier to think with his eyes closed. And if he lay down for just a minute, to rest while he plotted out a course of action. The bed was soft and warm, he could safely think there.

Jaskier jolted awake to the sound of wailing. It was an utterly terrified child crying tears of distress. Stumbling out, Jaskier rushed towards the noise coming from Lambert’s room. The door was already open and he blinked to see Lambert, tear streaked face red and mouth curved down into the unhappiest of frowns. However, Eskel was hugging him from one side while Geralt was clambering up onto the bed too.

“Bad dream?” Jaskier asked and he perched on the edge of the bed. He didn’t expect Lambert to nod.

“Big monster.” His voice wobbled and fresh tears sprung up. “It bit me. Wanted to eat me.”

It was all too easy to reach for the bundle of witchers and pull them in for a cuddle. Lambert sniffled and described the monster while Geralt looked at him and nodded along.

“Kikimora.” Geralt suddenly said. “That’s what tried to eat you. It bit me once too.”

Jaskier could see the confusion on Geralt as he said it, the war of memory versus his current state made him frown. Especially when he peered at his shoulder where Jaskier knew he had a scar which wasn’t there in his current form.

“You’re very brave for not letting it eat you,” Jaskier added, stroking through Lambert’s hair. “How about we go down to the hall again? I could tell you a story.”

Keeping Lambert in his arm, Jaskier led the way, one hand holding Eskel’s while Geralt kept his fisted in his breeches. The fire had died down and the room was cooling. Jaskier would need to rekindle it but before he had a chance, Eskel raised a hand in a familiar sign and a powerful burst of flames shot out. It was a little too much, flames raced up the walls for a moment before dying down.

“Good job!” Jaskier said all the same. He knew witchers could cast signs but he’d never seen one so powerful.

They settled on the throws and Jaskier tried to think of old tales that would be suitable for children. Preferably none with monsters or anything that could upset them. His pickings were slim but he finally found one, a noble night and his horse on a quest to retrieve the crown for the king. It was easy enough to change a few details, come up with pit filled with spikes to swing over using vines rather than hyrda’s thousand heads hissing in a pit. All three witchers listened raptly, eyes large, gasping at all the tense bits and Lambert let out a little cheer when the knight got to the crown.

Dinner was a simple affair. Jaskier found some cured meats and fruits. While the three ate, he went to get his lute. They could have a quiet evening together. Really, the witchers were already drooping into their plates. It was kind of adorable.

Settling them on the rugs, Jaskier piled blankets and pillows around them, fussing to get them comfortable. Once they were settled into a cuddle pile, he picked up his lute and began to play. Slowly, the songs morphed from nursery rhymes to lullabies and the witchers fell asleep one by one. Placing his lute to the side, Jaskier tucked them in securely and smiled. They looked so peaceful and cute when asleep. Plus, he had been right, Lambert did suck his thumb. Grabbing a fur, Jaskier settled down and fell asleep, knowing that he would wake if anything happened over night.

Nothing did happen and Jaskier woke to the sound of the door slamming shut in the morning.

“What the hell?” Vesemir’s voice was full of disbelief, a deer slung over his shoulders and a handful of quails and rabbits hanging from his hands.

“I can explain!” Jaskier mumbled as he sat up. The witchers were quicker though and they were all backing away from Vesemir as he approached. Geralt pulled Lambert behind Jaskier while Eskel charged. With all the determination and bravery of a child, he stomped up to Vesemir and kicked him in the ankle before turning and running to hide behind Jaskier, clutching at Lambert.

Obviously, on some level they remembered the Vesemir had trained them. Jaskier didn’t know the full level of his involvement in creating witchers but the three cowering behind him told him enough.

“Yennefer got pissed off yesterday morning,” Jaskier offered with a hopeful look. “Maybe the spell will wear off.”

“I’ll get the potion to break the spell ready. You get them each a mug of warm milk.” With that, Vesemir walked to the pantry, dumped his collection on the ground and left.

Orders given, Jaskier set about getting things ready. He settled the three witchers at the table, put some fruits in front of them to snack on so he could warm up milk and pour it into mugs. By the time he was tipping the saucepan over the mugs, Vesemir had reappeared with a vial in hand.

“How have they been?”

“Fine. Minus the nightmares. Eskel hasn’t said anything though. But he has one hell of an igni.”

A world weary sigh left Vesemir. “That’s them for you. Geralt was always polite and well behaved. Eskel was all but mute until long after the trials. We knew he could speak but he only did that with Geralt, Lambert and a few others. Being more magically inclined, he had a knack for all the signs. Meanwhile, Lambert was, well, nobody expected him to survive the trials.”

“I hope you never told him that.” The look Vesemir gave Jaskier told him everything. “Well then, let’s get them back to how they should be, right?”

Three mugs, each with two drops of the potion. It turned the milk a vibrant yellow. Vesemir’s “at least it will taste sweet” was only mildly reassuring. None of the witchers let Vesemir approach so Jaskier set down two mugs then turned to take the third from him.

“You need to drink it to be big, strong witchers,” he said. There was a reluctance from the three until Geralt piped up.

“Will it hurt?”

“No.” Vesemir was cast suspicious looks and nobody touched their mugs.

“It shouldn’t,” Jaskier said and that seemed to ease things a little. “If it does, I’ll be here to help.”

Hesitantly, Geralt reached for his mug, too trusting. He took a sip and his eyes widened in delight before starting to chug it with childish delight. Taking his lead the other two picked up their mugs and drank too.

At first nothing happened and Jaskier looked nervously to Vesemir. Then he saw Geralt’s face fall into a frown, a hand going to his stomach. There was a soft poof of smoke and the next moment Geralt was sat there in his scarred, adult form. Two more puffs and Lambert and Eskel were back. They all blinked owlishly, looked at each other then at Jaskier and Vesemir.

“Oh fuck,” Eskel gasped, a hand flying to his mouth. “I kicked Vesemir in the ankle.”

“Just don’t do it now and I’ll forgive you,” Vesemir smiled. “Everyone alright?”

Three mute nods were his reply and everyone tried to make sense of what had happened over the course of the last day. While there was a silent agreement that they would never mention it again, Vesemir wasn’t surprised to find the four of them in a pile in front of the fire come evening. He didn’t even roll his eye when he saw Lambert hadn’t yet managed to shake his old habit of sucking his thumb.

[randomoranges]

just some canon things about thoughts and things. :)

title from Miss you from The Rolling Stones

Been Holding Out so Long [Been Sleeping All Alone]

September 2021

Edward waits impatiently for the video call to connect. He holds his breath as the beeping ends and the screen fades in to reveal Étienne, sitting on his living room couch, with Mercury by his side. He lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in and just the sight of his boyfriend is enough to ground him.

 “Hey, hey,” The video image of Étienne says and Edward desperately wants to reach out for him and hold him close. It feels like a lifetime since he’s last seen him and the end of summer has been a roller coaster on him. Étienne, on the other hand, seems more like himself than he had at this point last year. He looks absolutely charming in his short sleeved shirt and sun kissed skin. Edward can tell that the weather has already cooled some, if only by the absence of Étienne’s proverbial tank tops and the fact that he’s let his hair down. It’s gotten longer still, now well beyond his shoulders and Edward would love nothing more but to run his fingers through it and feel the soft strands slither between his hands.

 “It’s good to see you,” He says and he does mean it, even if it sounds like a platitude. He would rather have Étienne seated next to him on the sofa, doing nothing and just – sharing the space together, but he’ll take what he can. At least, now, they have this. They can actually see one another instead of the simple phone calls and letters of before. It helps with the solitude – a bit.

 From across the screen, Étienne beams and Edward drinks in the way his lips curve up as he smiles. He lets himself feast on the fold of his eyes and the way the green of them comes through in this lighting. He doesn’t think he’s given them enough attention recently and stays there for a moment longer, until Étienne frowns slightly and Edward realises he’s been quiet and lost in his own thoughts for a beat too long.

 “Everything okay?”

 “Yeah, yeah,” He says quickly, dismissing Étienne’s fears even if they aren’t completely unfounded. He’s felt off as of late and even though he knows why, he doesn’t want Étienne worrying from his own end of the world, when he has his own issues to deal with. It’s not how it works.

 Étienne gives him a look that clearly means he’s not buying it but that he’ll let pass for now.

 “Calvin doing okay?”

 He hesitates for a moment and then nods, “As good as can be.” He doesn’t mean to sound short, but he does and Étienne clearly notices.

 “You still haven’t spoken to him?”

 “No – I have...” It’s the truth. They have spoken. They’ve exchanged words about certain recent matters, which has been an improvement from the silent treatment he’d been giving Calvin. In his defence, it had been merited. Should they both move on? Maybe, but he’s not there yet.

 “Lemme rephrase that,” Étienne starts with a small sigh, “Have you forgiven him?”

 Edward remains silent. He has not. He’s still mad and in his opinion, he has every right to be.

 “Maybe you should?” Étienne suggests when Edward doesn’t answer. “You didn’t make a big stink about my own social adventures...”

 Edward rolls his eyes. His boyfriend doesn’t get it. He’s not here, living through this hell of a hot mess. “That was different. Yours were – contained.”

 Étienne laughs, “Please; did you see the crowds? Hell, you were there! We had to wait inside the stadium for over an hour before we could get out because of the outdoor crowds. People were just as reckless here as they were there.”

 “Yeah, but at least you weren’t aching for it. You – your people – you weren’t just acting as if it was all back to normal. There were still precautions put in place. To try and be careful. Instead of just – opening the flood gates.” He lets out an irritated groan and scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, just forget it, okay? I don’t want to get in a row with you as well. One boyfriend is enough.”

 Étienne opens his mouth to say something, but then shuts it, as if knowing better and for that, Edward is thankful. He knows it sounds very hypocritical. He is perfectly well aware of it. And he hadn’t exactly been pleased with the videos Étienne had sent him either of the crowds, but – maybe the distance had made it better. Maybe knowing how hard it had been on Montreal had made him look the other way. He doesn’t know. And he doesn’t want to analyse it. Maybe it’s just the way Calvin phrased the whole thing that had set him off. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t want to think about it or anything else going on.

 He’s exhausted from everything that keeps happening and is happening and he just wants to shoot the shit with Étienne and talk about literally anything else that will keep his mind from spinning on itself. He looks out his window and tries to center himself on something that won’t make him want to punch a hole in the wall.

 He watches the leaves rustle on his tree in his backyard and follows one that falls to the ground in a lovely yellow spiral. Summer has indeed come and gone and he remembers how just one year ago, Étienne had returned to stay with him, seeking shelter from his own mind. It may not have started as the best of visits, but Edward would give anything to go back to those – somewhat easier moments.

 He looks back at the screen and finds that Étienne is still there, giving him the space he needs and petting Mercury who stands guard besides him, observing him from the screen as well. He remembers first seeing her, a little over a year and a half ago, and how tiny she’d been then. It’s hard to believe that she’s the same dog he’d met then.

 “Any chance of a surprise visit from you sometime soon?” He asks, even though he knows Étienne won’t be coming over. Not now that things are “back to normal”. (They’re not, but that’s what everyone keeps saying. He’s not sure what they’re looking at or in which universe they’re living in.)

 “I wish.” Étienne says with a dejected little pout. “But we’re back in person so I can’t work from home anymore. It’s been a mess and even though I had to get up earlier it was kind of nice. I don’t have any weeks off either before the holidays, so if I did decide to visit it would be early to mid December at the earliest...”

 Étienne could have told him he’d be over in his next lifetime and at that moment, it would have sounded the same. He doesn’t know why he’s disappointed, but he is.

 “Probably for the best, the way things are at the moment over here...”

 “I did think of it though, but I’d need to find a reason for my classes to go online.” Étienne cuts through and Edward gives him a look as though he’s a mad man.

 “You better not, Maisonneuve,” He warns, low and dark. This isn’t how things work. He’s usually the one who goes out of his way for people, not the other way around.

 “I might have to stretch the truth a bit,” Étienne goes on, as if he hasn’t heard him, “Might have to say my partner is going through some stuff and I need to be by his side. Boyfriend would be too – insignificant, but they’d agree for partner and it’s not that big of a deal, right? You are going through some stuff and if we don’t count the near twenty-years we didn’t really talk, we’ve been together for like, over four decades, so it could work.” He says matter-of-factly, rattling off the facts as if it doesn’t mean anything – as if it doesn’t have some momentous weight that moors Edward’s heart.

 “You will do no such thing. Don’t go out of your way for me, really. We’ll see each other when we see each other and that’ll be it. We’ve gotten soft with the consecutive months we spent together. It’s fine – don’t go doing something impulsive on my behalf.” He doesn’t want Étienne to change his schedule for his sake. Doesn’t need to be that person. He’s fine, really, if only a little lonely, but he doesn’t mind the loneliness. He’s never minded it. He just – got used to having Étienne around and is having a scuffle with Calvin, so things are just this side of quiet and with all the other issues going on in the province, he’s just a little unsettled, it’s all. It’ll pass and everything will be fine and he doesn’t need his boyfriend to make arrangements to change his classes to online just to be here with him.

 “Hey,” Étienne cuts through and his voice is steady and firm and commands his attention through the miasma of doubt and fear and anxiety of his mind, “I will go out of my way for you if I want. You’re important to me. You’ve always done it for me. Lemme return the favour.”

 Maybe it’s a good thing they’re not sitting together. Edward would hate for Étienne to see the way his face flushes and read emotions on his face he’d rather keep buried.

 “That’s not the point,” He says, feebly.

 “It really is the point. If I want to come over and look after you, I will come over and look after you unless you specifically tell me you don’t want me over, obviously. I don’t want to impose but I also don’t want you to dismiss the idea just because you think you’re some bother to me. I’d like to spend time with you as well and for the record, I also miss you. So there.”

 It sounds so very childish that Edward can’t help but laugh, “You’re so ridiculous.” He says instead and Étienne sticks out his tongue at him.

 “You could always come crash at mine, if you want and can. That’s an option too, if you don’t want me to change my schedule on a whim just to come and dote on you in person. It’d be like some weird role reversal on a situational point.” Étienne grins at his clever joke, but Edward actually considers it for a moment. He hasn’t thought about the possibility, (mostly, because some part of him still couldn’t believe that Étienne would want to have him over – which is silly, he knows).

 “Calvin could come too – eventually, if you wanted,” He adds quickly, as if afraid that Edward will judge or think little of him if he doesn’t.

 “I’ll – I’ll think about it,” He blurts, unsure what else to say and still shocked by this other possibility. It would be nice to step away from the chaos of home at the moment. There a few odds and ends he’d have to take care of, but – it could work.

 “And it’s fine if you can’t or don’t want to for whatever reason, but it’s an option and I don’t care if you give me five minutes warning or five weeks. I’ll also look into changing my courses – maybe for the winter term it might be easier. I’ll let you know.”

 He wants to argue against that last point, but he knows there’s no point to it; not when Étienne has that determined look to his face. “You’re a mad man,” He says instead with a sigh of his own. He knows a last cause when he sees one.

 “Maybe, but maybe I’m just a poor sap who wants to see his boyfriend as well.”

 Edward looks him over once more and he swears he can spy a flicker of loneliness on Étienne’s face as well. He reminds himself that, if anyone would get it, it would be Étienne. Instinctively, he reaches over to the screen, as if wanting to touch him – to feel that Étienne really is there with him, but instead, his fingers connect with the screen of his laptop and his saddened smile is mirrored on Étienne’s face.

 “I promise things will work out.” Étienne murmurs, as if reading through every turmoil that has been rooted in his head for the past while.

 Edward closes his hand on an imaginary one he wishes was there and spares another thought to the crazy ideas Étienne mentioned moments ago.

 “I love you, kay? M’here for you too.”

 He nods, suddenly overcome with emotions, and wonders if they aren’t some accumulation come to crest over to clear off the thoughts that have been plaguing him. It would be nice, if cathartic, but it would be nicer still if they can wait until the call is over.

 “Talk to Calvin. You’ll feel better.”

 Edward wants to make some petty joke about self-sabotage and a comment about Étienne suddenly being on board with his relationship with Calvin, but it feels trite and misplaced, considering the fact that he knows Étienne genuinely means well. Instead, he nods and promises to do his best.

 FIN

[of-elitiism]

🎉💋 ~ forrrr Marcus??

New Year's Kiss - accepting

The night between years isn't something he'd usually celebrate; Marcus is too humble and subtle in his own little space to pin a heavy significance unto the event. However, now that he's got company it just felt wrong not to mark it differently than usual. Especially since all that's happened between himself and the woman; how could he not be thankful and appreciative that she still accepted him around? Besides, Qistina was nothing short of a sophisticated lady in his eyes, anything less than the best would be an insult from him to her.

So he did the best he could with what he had. A venison stew marinated in wine and herbs, apples baked over the fire and spiced with cinnamon and warm chamomile tea to keep them warm into the night as they sat around the large campfire in front of his home. Below the floorboards of his cabin lied hidden a decades old wooden flute, a treasure of his youth, which the old wolf tentatively brought to life with folk songs he nowadays only remembers by the half. But such dear and personal they feel to his aching heart, sharing them with another feels almost as if opening a door to his soul for them to step into.

It wasn't until hours later, when the half moon shone brightly just in the right place, when he'd realize the time must've already come. So he smiled and leaned forward, pulling the blanket further up over her shoulder and gently tapping his cup against hers.

"...Happy New Year, Qistina--" his voice rang smoothly with a smile. He wanted to say something more but--- in the close proximity Marcus looses his words when he feels her breath against his skin. And then feels her gentle kiss upon his lips. Shy, warm and over before he even registered it properly. Large and imposing as he is, the wolf is left blinking and feeling his cheeks warming up underneath his beard. But he doesn't pull back. Not this time. He remains in the moment, swallowing dryly the building tension in his throat and then leans back in for his turn to return the affection. Just as slow and unsure, lasting only a few moments longer than her own. He never even realized when he'd closed his eyes or for how long he seemed to have held his breath.

Still, golden eyes avoid her gaze, shyly turning to look at the crackling campfire. But his arms wraps around her shoulders and brings her close for him to rest his cheek upon her head. There's no fireworks, no booming music, no cheering crowds. Just two old souls marking the passing of another year in the solitude of mother natures.

And maybe, just maybe, the start of something new and unknown as well.