#and I thought the localization is edgy. Damn.

[awellboiledicicle]

Bg3 au where its just the gang playing dnd but its a modded game where all the companions are in the party... because for once everyone had free time at the same time [sans Minthara because she started a new job and just asked for her character sheet to be used as an npc].

Tav is a college student playing a high elf monk. Was talked out of naming their character "Punchy McFisto" by the skin of the dm's teeth.

Halsin is the manager at a hardware store and also Tav's dad. All he wanted to do was play a hot elf druid, because his friends from college used to run dnd and he never got to play a hot elf druid.

Jahira is the paint department supervisor at Halsin's store [aka she's the only one that can mix paint worth a damn] and is just playing her old college character because she found a binder with her old notes for the character and missed her. Updated her from scratch for 5e.

Minsc is the fiscal manager for the store and likewise tore his old storage unit apart for his character notes. Worked out how to just transplant his character into the story because he missed him. Only note was "do not judge me for the voice i will give him".

Lae'zel is a classmate of Tav's and took one look at githyanki and went "i'm going to make someone so indoctrinated. How integral are they going to be to the setting? A lot? Oh i need this woman to be so deeply hardline."

Astarion, another classmate, and deeply wanted to play vampire the masquerade. Adapted the character to 5e and honest to god has no idea what the scars he gave his character say. He just thought it'd be a nice hook.

Shadowheart is the youngest child of a v religious family and works as a receptionist at a dentists office. Friends with Tav from HS. "I want to be on a mission from God and it gets worse from there. What's the worst god in setting to be on a mission from while also appealing to my edgy phase. Shar? Sweet. Slap that darkness on me, baby."

Wyll works in the college library and joined because Tav and Dm invited him. His initial plan was just folk hero because it sounded fun and the warlock part and the bit with Karlach came up later.

Karlach also works in the library and is deeply excited to have been invited. Giggles after she makes her character swear because she does the voice and surprises herself.

Gale is the Dm's cousin that owns a local bookshop. Got away with his backstory through sheer power of puppy dog eyes and employing the irl Tara to stare at the Dm. Dm responded with the orb and he was delighted. Has to roll a d100 to determine how bad his arcane hunger is every time they go into a new area.

Dm hosts and is honestly a little overwhelmed juggling all the players because she honestly expected 4 at a time bc of how schedules lined up and now she's doing her best to not nuke the party from orbit by accident when scaling encounters. She does feel bad about the fetch quests later though, if only because she has to track their progress and every piece they have to go back for is another second off her lifespan.

Getting everyone in the discord for Secret Note Passing Channels was a chore if only because Halsin insisted he didn't understand until he found the bear emojis and promptly spammed the main chat with them for a bit. He apologized but Tav still died inside. Everyone calling Halsin hot in character is done to make Tav wilt.

[thissquirrelgirl]

Doreen has been my muse for YEARS, even before she stepped into the spotlight with Ryan North's (and art by Erica Henderson) The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl. I remember stumbling across The Amazing Spiderman #653, in highschool. And I thought this scene was hilarious:

I started looking for more about Squirrel Girl -- who the hell was she?! (Also, damn girl, let Spidey die over his lack of manners while hurdling toward his death. Poor Spidey). I discovered a badass weirdo who defeated doom at 14 and then later Wolverine in "no claws" combat.

Unfortunately, the 2000's was a time for edgy and dark characters. Doreen is a joke character, and therefore was not conducive to the stories at the time -- I'm just happy that she wasn't buried after her debut in the 90's.

So, waayyy back in 2013, I was fortunate enough to be able to attend San Diego Comic Con. I decided I wanted.l to cosplay for the first time ever and I wanted to be something that I doubted anyone else would be. So, I picked Squirrel Girl. (I think I was right, btw, as I never saw another one walking around in 2013, but the place is massive, so who actually knows!)

A friend of mine helped me make the tail, -- which ended up being a heavy hunk of faux fur that I had to strap to my back with roped covered in fur. I found the costume belt at a garage sale, and I bought a bathing suit and lined it with fur. Then there was that hot as hell green skin suit under it all. But, damn, was it worth it!

I was spotted by some artists on the con, who were just so tickled to see me, that they asked to draw me! (I won't go into too much detail, because theoretically, I could be identified by old social posts, and I'd like to keep that private.) But it was the most wild thing that has ever happened to me! I still have those sketches, professionally framed in my living room.

In 2017, I went to a local convention with the updated Squirrel Girl design, which I even wore a wig for. I also managed to find a tail that was inflatable, so that it didn't kill me to walk around! (Also, bomber jackets are so much more comfortable!)

[blurryfce300]

long ass blurryface characterization post thing

okay so this isnt gonna be very organized uhhh yea very ramble-y and a bit headcanon-y too

blurry’s weird. let’s just get that out of the way, he’s such a strange entity. despite having years, maybe decades, to learn and understand how to operate a human body, he still acts like its a cømpletely new experience, and maybe it is. he walks strangely, almost robotically, like he isn’t used to having legs. he makes a lot of weird hand motions, shakes his limbs around too. he’ll mess with his/tyler’s voice to make sure you know its him. lately, he’s started to lean more into just not moving much. he stays still, maybe thats just because of the limited space up on that platform. but he makes it clear when he’s in control. he wants you to know he’s there.

he operates on fear and threats. he likes to threaten people, but never goes through with them. the typing in all caps ties into this, the caps letters and strange spacing is a conscious decision to appear more threatening. it wørked, but lost the effect over time i imagine as people got used to it, and in turn became less afraid of blurry, therefore making him weaker. of cøurse we still freak the fuck out whenever hes active but not scared. more excitement than fear.

what i find very interesting is the evidence there is that supports the idea that blurry is capable of physically manifesting himself SEPARATELY from tyler for what i imagine to be a very brief period øf time. there were multiple photos from his twitter account that displayed this, two with just tyler and one with both tyler and josh. this is especially interesting because this is not within dema or trench, this is in our world and our reality. he has this ability HERE. the limitations øf this ability are unknown, but i can imagine they aren’t that strong, otherwise he’d prøbably use it more and not just to take photos when nobody’s looking and write his name on an index card and leave it there for a minute. he cøuld also just be able to possess objects, like he seemingly døes with the beanie.

back to more personality stuff, blurry is very unpredictable. he canonically goes øn twitter rants and then rage-deletes them. he’s very angry all the time, he’s rarely calm and constantly wanting to be known, and to be feared. he wants peøple tø knøw whø he is and that he cares what yøu think. he’s insecure, which is fitting før the personification øf insecurities. if that’s true, then damn this entity has sø many issues. my god get this thing some therapy, although he wøuld prøbably be vehemently against it and argue nonstop until yøu just gave up.

he’s also absølutely a complete and total løser. like the møst cringefail pathetic løser ever. wettest cat youve ever seen. like hes all edgy and shit and for what? its all a mask. he hides behind anger sø peøple will be scared øf him and not try to delve deeper intø what makes blurry blurryface (clearly it didnt wørk cause this fucker controls my every thought). hes also just an absolute moron sometimes. like he cant drive (see hds mv), writes the ø backwards, i bet this løser tries so hard to write well then just passes out because its so much energy to do that, and like he has god awful hand-eye coordination and fine motor skills.

i mean cmon blurry, buddy, this isn’t legible in the slightest. this is literally scribbles. i know you can do better.

tldr; blurry is extremely aggressive, erratic, unpredictable, and an absolute loser who cant write and doesnt know how gravity works (see fairly local mv)

———————————————————————————

okay now for just pure personal headcanons because its my post i can do what i want

blurry is extremely competitive and stubborn, like to the point where he will stand by sømething even if it ends up hurting him. like he sees the phrase “i will die on this hill” and takes it literally.

he’s terrible at following directions and gets lost easily, like blurrys the type of entity to get lost in a straight hallway.

blurry is scared to death of the clique and of being known, but feels an innate need/desire TO be known. he’s just really scared of people. he also just doesn’t like people.

hes a weak little bitch physically speaking.

blurry has issues with object permanence

he’s not entirely evil he just acts like it to keep peøple away and to keep up the whole “ooooo im big and scary” facade

blurry gets really frustrated if he can’t do sømething right the first time and instead øf asking før help he is far møre likely tø either get angry abøut it ør give up ør both

i keep løøking through discord messages to find stuff and half of it is just “blurry’s kinda stupid and døesn’t understand how a lot of things work” and yknow what yeah

[srhunt]

Thoughts on Shadow the Hedgehog (2005)

Shadow has been my favorite Sonic character for years. My earliest exposure to Shadow was at my local Boys & Girls Club. We had a GameCube where kids would take turns playing games. I distinctly remember watching several kids try to beat the final boss of Sonic Adventure 2, though I didn’t fully click with it at the time. My first real exposure to him was through cutscenes posted to YouTube in the early 2000s because I didn’t have a gaming console growing up. I would watch Sonic X when I was able, specifically seeking out the episodes with Shadow. When I finally got a PS2, I got Shadow the Hedgehog because, well, Shadow.

I was not great at it. I struggled a lot because of the slippery controls, flying off stages, and bombardment of bullets. I maybe got through one ending if that.

And for the longest time, that’s all I really had. I got a PS2 towards the end of its lifecycle, the PS3 was already out and I struggled to find other titles.

I had other Sonic games like Sonic Unleashed, Sonic Colors, Sonic and the Black Knight, but outside of party games like Mario & Sonic at the Olympic Games and Sonic & SEGA All Stars Racing, Shadow the Hedgehog is still the only story driven game I own where Shadow is playable*.

So, when the recent news about Sonic the Hedgehog 3 and Sonic x Shadow Generations dropped, I decided to finally beat Shadow the Hedgehog after all these years.

Over the course of 4 days, I worked my way through the 8 remaining endings I had left (having completed the true hero path and the semi hero path a few years prior). And after a decade of owning the game, I beat it.

So what are my thoughts?

While I can acknowledge the game’s flaws…I still don’t hate it.

I’ve watched several videos that explain why this game is terrible, from the mechanics to the butchering of Shadow’s character. And I agree.

Chaos Controls

The game is hard to control, I recognized this even growing up, but I mainly chalked that up to “I’m bad at Sonic games”, which is also true.

Until I beat Shadow, I’d never beaten a Sonic game because I lacked the reaction time. We’ve come close, we’re at Eggmanland on Sonic Unleashed, but I had never beaten a Sonic game.

I even tried to play Radical Highway on my friend’s copy of Sonic Adventure 2, and I struggled hard with the controls.

Shadow’s controls are indeed wonky. Multiple times my homing attack would send me flying off the stage, Shadow wouldn’t aim at the enemy right in front of him, and I’d miss jumps because Shadow would stagger on the edge of a platform.

After I learned how to better manage these flaws, the game became much easier. I began to slow down my homing attacks so I wouldn’t fly away, and started jumping before the edge of the platform. This didn’t erase these problems, I still fell off the stage from time to time, but they didn’t happen as frequently. I got so good that I got A Ranks on the neutral paths for Westopolis and Prison Island.

Shadow’s air shoes make him slippery to control, but I feel like all Sonic games are slippery? Maybe that’s just me, but even with Adventure 2 and Unleashed, I felt like I was slipping and sliding all over the place. So, with Shadow, I’d slow down a bit if I felt like I was going out of control. Granted, this is still a Sonic title where speed is key, so the advice to “slow down” is not really the best if you’re going for all A Ranks.

I Think You’re the Fake Hedgehog Around Here

This is the game where Shadow gains his “Edgy Hedgie” status.

He has guns!

He says “damn”!

He hates humans for killing Maria! (Even though…that’s not what Maria wanted)

He wants to learn the truth about his past cause amnesia’s a bitch! (Even though…he already learned hakuna matata in Sonic Heroes, apparently)

Yea, I admit this game is a huge step backwards for Shadow’s development. Post-SA2 Shadow cares deeply for his closest friends, mainly Rouge and Omega, but is reserved around others. He’s a hedgehog of few words. He has respect for Sonic, a little bit of a rivalry, but it’s not to the extreme where Shadow hates him. He doesn’t hate humans, but if push comes to shove, he will defend himself if they attack him first. This side of him is well illustrated in the cutscenes for Sonic Heroes and, yes, even Sonic ‘06.

However, this is not the Shadow we see in his titular game. Shadow’s cold towards Sonic, he sounds annoyed anytime he shows up. Depending on the path you take, he becomes downright cruel. He never really talks to many of the other characters outside of the ones in cutscenes. And when he does speak to them, it just feels out of character most of the time. Shadow has a distain for humanity, commenting how they’re pathetic and he doesn’t have time to for them when the Black Arms begin destroying Westopolis.

However, there are a handful of parts where the Shadow of Sonic Adventure 2 and Sonic Heroes can be seen.

Any level where Maria is your companion is a good example. Especially the cutscene before Lost Impact.

Cryptic Castle Hero, you help save Cream and Cheese, afterwards he heeds them to stay away from Doctor Eggman, showing he does care about them.

The Pure Hero path is probably the closest you get to Shadow’s true character, even though there’s still a few moments that feel off. “This is like taking candy from a baby, which is fine by me” is probably the most out of character line, and you’ll only hear it by doing Hero missions.

Apparently this line still relevant to Shadow, as he steals popcorn from a Chao in an official Sonic Team Racing animation.

This might be a hot take, but the Dark Path on Final Haunt didn’t feel like a sudden betrayal to me? The way Sonic talks during and after the fight makes me feel like he saw it more like a friendly competition. Especially when you compare his dialogue to the other endings where you fight Sonic.

Final Haunt Dark Path

(Before the Boss)

Sonic: “Shadow! Why are you siding with those black creatures?”

Shadow: “Siding with them? You’re joking, right? I’m just siding with whoever goes against you! This time you’re going down, Sonic!”

Sonic: “hehehe, if that’s how it’s gonna be, Shadow, then bring it on!”

(Start Boss Fight)

Sonic: “Alright. Ready to do this? Come on!”

(After the Boss)

Sonic: “…Man…I didn’t think ya had it in ya…”

Sonic’s delivery makes it feel like he’s not angry with Shadow, but that he’s impressed. At least that’s how I read it anyway. He doesn’t sound distraught or scared like he does in the Pure Dark Path, he just sounds exhausted cause Shadow put up a good fight.

Sonic even offers Shadow a “friendly competition” if you do the Hero Path in Westopolis, but Shadow declines because he’s got other priorities at the time. He still doesn’t agree with Black Doom’s mission, he just wants to take Sonic up on his earlier offer.

Regardless, this game has had a lasting effect on Shadow’s character that he’s still trying to shake off. He went from a solemn hero who cared deeply for his closest friends, to an angsty anti-hero who only cares about himself.

Thankfully, it seems like he’s starting to get back to his old self in Sonic Prime (I’ve only seen season 1 and a handful of clips from the recent seasons, haven’t been able to get caught up, so correct me if I’m wrong).

Let’s hope Sonic 3 and Sonic x Shadow Generations continue to repair the damage.

In His World, Your Choices Don’t Matter

Shadow’s gameplay has three paths you can take; Hero, Dark or Neutral, with 10 possible endings. You can mix and match these paths however you please. You can start Dark then redeem yourself, turn on your friends in an act of betrayal, or just say “nah, imma do my own thing”. This freedom of choice was a massive selling point for the game. Do you want Shadow to be a “black-hearted evil” or “brave-hearted hero”?

This freedom of choice is present in a handful of my favorite games, like Epic Mickey and Undertale.

But, Shadow fails at this “choose your own adventure” format. Yes, your choices impact which of the 10 endings you get, but none of these 10 endings are the true ending.

This is apparently left over from the Sonic Adventure-style games where you had to play everyone’s storyline to unlock the last story, where all the characters join together and fight the Final Boss.

However, this format does not work when we follow one character for the entire game.

In order to unlock the true ending, you have to complete all 10 endings. And if you’re someone like me who always goes for the good endings because being mean makes you feel bad, then this will be a hard pill to swallow.

The Last Way begins with Shadow already in possession of all 7 Chaos Emeralds, we have no idea how he got them, so basically every path you spent hours playing mean nothing. They’re not canon. Only a few parts here and there are still relevant past this point.

No matter what you did, Shadow will always turn on Black Doom, destroy the Black Comet with the Eclipse Cannon, and save the world. Which kinda negates the whole “choose your own adventure” gameplay.

Epic Mickey’s ending is also the same no matter what you do, Mickey still defeats the Blot and frees Wasteland. However, you’re still shown how your actions impacted the residents of Wasteland. For example, if you choose to paint the Clocktower boss, you see it happily playing with some Gremlins. But if you destroy it by thinning its arms, you see it lying in ruin.

Shadow’s endings are more like the ending from Clue.

The only parts that remain canon are the Chaotix story, and conversations Eggman had with Shadow on the Neutral path.

Throughout the game, the Chaotix are digging into old files. Charmy is looking for secret disks on Prison Island, Vector is looking for the notorious computer room on the ARK, and all three were hacking into Eggman’s computer before Digital Circut. The data they found contained a video message from Professor Gerald addressed to Shadow. Gerald explains the purpose of the Eclipse Cannon, and we’re shown it was recorded before Maria’s death, as she pops in at the end.

That is one revelation that enhances Sonic Adventure 2’s story, in my opinion. Professor Gerald created the Eclipse Cannon to destroy the Black Comet when it returns in 50 years, only using it against humanity after Maria was killed.

If you battle Devil Doom past the 9 minute mark (which I did a handful of times because I’m a terrible shot), Eggman will tell Shadow he lied about him being an android and that he rescued Shadow at the end of Sonic Adventure 2, and he is, in fact, the real Shadow. Which…I feel like was obvious because our Shadow had more polygons than the androids.

Also the Sonic Heroes manual straight up says that he is the real Shadow and he survived the events of Sonic Adventure 2, so…

Where There is Shadow, There Must Also Be Light

I’m the type of person who always tries to find the good, even in the worst things. So here’s some things about Shadow that I did love.

The pre-rendered cutscenes look amazing. Almost 20 years later, and they still hold up.

By the way, guess who worked on these amazing cutscenes? After watching the credits 11 times, I noticed a couple names in the credits, Jeff Fowler and Tim Miller. Not ringing any bells? Well, Fowler went on to direct the live-action Sonic movies, and Miller was a producer on them. This is their only Sonic credit outside of those movies, so I think it’s safe to say we wouldn’t have these awesome movies if it weren’t for Shadow.

The soundtrack is also great. “I Am…All of Me” is still one of my favorite Sonic and Crush 40 songs, “Never Turn Back” struck a cord with me, and the rest of the lyrical songs had me vibing while I took a breather during the credits.

It might just be because I had to replay the levels multiple times, but I’ve had a handful of those tracks stuck in my head for years. Circus Park, Sky Troops, Lava Shelter and Cosmic Fall are a few that stick out. “Vengeance is Mine” from Sonic Adventure 2 returns as the soundtrack for the 2P Battle Mode. Yes, it took me a long time to realize it was the same song. Even when Sonic games are “bad”, they never slack on the soundtrack.

Goodbye Forever, Shadow the Hedgehog

I consider Shadow the Hedgehog to be one of my guilty pleasures. I recognize there’s a lot of things that don’t work. Shadow’s character took a drastic turn that he’s still trying to recover from, the controls feel like roller skating on ice, the “choose your own adventure” gameplay forgot about the “choose your own” part, and it’s so edgy you can slice your hand open just by touching it.

But despite all of this…I still enjoy it? Even though I was annoyed and exhausted by the game, I still had fun. The good parts are still good enough that I unironically enjoy them. And the bad parts at least can get a laugh out of me with how dumb they are. “Where’s that damn FOURTH Chaos Emerald?” and “Find the Computer Room!” are classic Sonic memes.

Do I recommend beating Shadow? Oh hell no. Not unless you’re a serious Shadow stan or a masochist. I’d say play as much as you can tolerate.

*in the time since I wrote this, I got a copy of Sonic Heroes. Currently stuck on the Power Plant level with Team Dark. HOW DO I GET PAST THE LAVA??? 😭

[lesbianoctoling]

🖊 malibu !!

Meme

ogh malley. malley malley malley my beloved. i love them so much.

malley isnt even my first agent 3 oc but theyve become such a near and dear one anyways. fun fact! I originally made them for a pearlina story i wanted to write! they were very similar to 'stinky edgy fanon' agent 3. but i couldnt really get far with that story so it got scrapped. this was id say 2017?

then octo expansion was announced! and i made palace, and decided to reuse elements of that malley for this new universe. oh also their name was apparently mallory, but id always call them malley. so i just...forgot their name was mallory and thought it was malibu... until i went through my sketchbook in late 2018 and went oh whoops!

i decided to keep some level of that edgyness to malley though, just not the same. i like edgy fanon 3 a lot because i was 15 when splat 1 came out and thats how old most people saw 3 as too. my splatoon ocs were so so edgy at the time, because i was also going through a rough time myself and i used them to vent out a lot of my problems. a lot of this teen angst stayed in some, but obviously as i grew older i learned how to better handle my emotions and understand these problems i dealt with. but i wanted to kinda nod to that with malley! so i decided that malley themself was a bit of an edgy impulsive teen. they ran away and cut off all their friends during a bad episode after graduation. theyre doing a lot better now, despite everything. teen malley was brooding and sad but adult malley is trying their best to be a ball of sunshine and they do a pretty good job. they want to make people happy and are full of so much damn love. they arent without their problems tho - malley sometimes ignores the actual issues or outright avoids them, or tries to help people when they dont want the help or only want space instead...

(though they werent 15 when they first became agent 3 - theyre about 17/18 at the time. i have to think about the timeline of things...)

the way they dress is also kinda edgy too - but not in the way most fanon 3 is. i liek to take fanon and twist it a bit if you cant tell. but malley is a punk rocker and actually makes a lot of their own clothes, tearing shirts up and sewing new things. they help a lot of locals in inkopolis do the same. theyve probably hosted a few classes on basic sewing too!

malley also really, really wants a pet. they have no idea what kind theyd want though, but maybe a lizard, since they saw how cute sara's was...

malley is also kind of an accidental flirt. i just think thats funny.

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Frankenstein!

Thank you for the ask! From this ask game.

Frankenstein: If you could learn any 5 languages, what would it be?

(Kinda funny question, I mean, I could. I’m just too lazy.)

Hard to decide if that includes already known ones? Also like, do I actually have to learn it, or just... get to know it? Because damn, I did have my edgy teenager wants to look at Finnish phase, but I do not want to learn it anymore, no thank you. I like my words ... shorter.

I obviously speak German and English (no shit), but I also learned Latin for 8 years, and Ancient Greek for 3.

I’d love to remember more of Latin, it’s been so long, and you just don’t use that. Like, what are you gonna do with that? I believe I used to have a copy of a certain popular wizard book in Latin. I’m not particularly interested in finding out if I still do.

I also dabbled in Dutch for a while (not really that difficult, lil bastard child of German and English it is), which is enough to get the gist of articles and memes some friends send me. It’s rather pointless, since everyone there speaks English. Also I am too fucking awkward to actually try. The “I will sit in silence for hours without saying a single word because I cannot” anxiety kind, so that’s fun.

I think Spanish would be cool, because that’s widely used.

Can I add programming languages, because I really wanna learn Python hkdjhaska

I would also love to learn sign language. I know it’s offered at a local school, but ugh... the thought of having to leave my house in the evening when I just wanna die.

It’s 1am, so I’m gonna stop here before I start a rant about every single resource I find online being ASL here ASL there ASL everywhere. Guess what. It stands for American Sign Language (: I have serious doubts I’ll ever need it in my life, huh.

[neurodecadence]

hmm. prime numbers be upon ye

Emily I value you as a friend, but this is evil. I am just a poor sleepy dame and you want me to do maths? to find Prime Numbers? how dare you.

Anyway, let's do it.

2. Do you like to use the term queer for yourself? Or just LGBT, etc? Love queer as a term, adore it. My whole... deal is messy and not easy to discern and being able to say "ehhh you know that whole thing" is nice and easy.

3. Which pronouns do you use? So it's complicated a bit thanks to plurality (we have slightly different pronoun sets), but the shortest answer is "It/It's* for strangers and new people, It/She for friends and closer people". If I ever use She referring to myself, it's specifically one part referring to the other. *(yes I know the apostrophe is grammatically incorrect but the grammar was not written with the idea of it as a person pronoun in mind, so suck it, I am keeping it)

5. Are you "out" publicly? I mean I'm a six foot tall, broad shouldered entity in a wheelchair when I go out, who gave up on voice training because it's too much effort. I don't exactly have much choice BUT to be out, which is fine. I get a lot of kids being curious and I think that's sweet, when they look at me and are trying to process a LOT of thoughts all at once.

7. Are you the "token" queer person in your family? I don't have much of a family tbh. That's not just and edgy statement, my biological familia consists of me and my mother, every other person who shares my bloodline is not welcome near me ever again. I'm glad I don't have contact with them tbh, because I know I WOULD have been a token queer to a few of my family members, and I don't wanna be used like that.

11. Favorite (or just one you love) piece of LGBT media? Shiiiit, hard to narrow it down to one, you know. I might have to give it to The Last Girl Scout, by local tumblr legend Natalie Ironside. It's a story about queer love and building something beautiful in the ashes of the old, about healing, really healing, from trauma and pain, it's about connections and learning who you are through others. It's also about shooting fascists, a cool polish vampire, and communist political arguments. It's a good read, changed my life.

13. Do you choose to reclaim slurs, why or why not? I do it, but it's sorta tricky to express why. It's partly for the same reason I prefer It as a pronoun, it's about taking assumed power. What I mean is, as a visibly trans person, people are always playing the pronoun guessing game before I talk to them, running those guess and assumptions and deciding what they'll use at me. By using "It" as the preferred pronoun, there's a part of stealing that back, a bit of "you cannot have guessed that, and also if you intended to use that to misgender me, oooooh too bad bitch". In the same regard, calling myself a slur feel like taking power out of people's hands. Hands that may seek to wield it against me. I have faced institutional transphobia more than once, but it was always simple chafing microaggressions stacks atop one another. By saying out loud "yeah I'm a fuckin' tranny, what're you gonna do about it", it's like bringing a KS-23 4 Gauge Shotgun to a watergun fight (that's a very big gun by the by). Maybe I've overthought it a bit, and I'll admit, I don't make people in public use It pronouns for me because I don't really get out much (also a Pin for that might save some time), but that's my thinking on the topic.

17. Have you ever attended Pride in a big city/ large metro area? I really do not get out a lot. Also I forget that Pride month is february in Aotearoa and by the time I remember the parade happened weeks ago. So that's on me.

19. Do you feel safe and accepted in your local community? Pretty damn safe tbh. Folks around here practice the stance of "ain't gonna let that ruin my day". Doesn't hurt it's on the edge of a Uni district, lots of 20 somethings doing weird cool stuff. The only times I've dealt with problems have been petty bureaucrats with a lick of power exerting it at me. Then I go holler at higher ups and make their life a living hell. I'd feel bad, but maybe don't misgender me seventeen times in two minutes and verbally attack me on at 9pm on a monday night.

23. Do you prefer loud parties or quiet? Yeah I really don't get out a lot, and especially not enough to go to parties. Still I like a quiet gathering, if it's on the table. Everyone brings some food, there's music playing, no expectations but to be yourself. That kinda vibes.

29. Are you currently partnered, or if not are you interested in having partner(s)? I have two lovely partners, and I adore them to the end of the world and back. I'm not actively seeking any more romantic attachments, but I'm also not saying it's off the table (fate has a funny way with these things). My only problem atm is my dear partners are aaaaaall the way on the west coast of the USA, and I'm down here in kiwi-land. I'm not saying the distance isn't worth it, but I am saying I would like some more hugs in my future. Or sex. That'd be cool too.

31. Post a pic in your pride gear (or it can just be a selfie or anything else lgbt):

Have an image of this beast.

Okay that's everything, done, complete, kaput, finito. This is simply way too many words about myself but I can't NOT complete this order, especially since it's from cool pal Emily. If you read this far, please send me wishes that I get a good nights sleep at some point in June, I feel like I'm going nuts.

Well, Nuts-er, I mean.

[todayisafridaynight]

so actually when you said about aokis further career it like got into my mind and i was like hmm yeah what would it be! cause he's a smart dude actually becase no dumbass could do what he did (even if he WAS a dumbass actually) so he def has skill experience and education and taken into account that he's on his way to Redemption (oooh you wouldn't believe how much thoughts i had about him being slowly accepted by ichigang party and most important getting back to being good friends with ichiban himself-) we just look the other way from bleach japan and 3k plan and what not (and i hope he's also not gettin back to THAT jeez) it WAS a phase

(first thing first imagine if he'd suddenly decided to fight BJ back with ichigang like imagine some of their pool employee face when The Aoki Himself tries to sabotage their work like a little bitch he is and you were 100% he died or something)

but actually i don't think he would stray too far from what he did as aoki - maybe not on the Great Scale Of Big Politics buuut maybe a politican of a local scale? maybe he STILL would be against gray zones™ but this time he would actually help? like trying to fit these poor people into society get em citizenships and jobs? (oh everyones gonna be so damn proud you know maybe hamako can open a real restaurant wow!)

like what's the thought behind it all: i may be foolish to think this man would still want to do the good thing (while being a bit of an edgy bitch as a treat cause cmon he deserves it) but i think he does want to do good. it's just like rn he hangs out with people he tried to erase earlier and not with bj assholes and it's impossible for him to not be influenced by that. and at this point i think he could do anything like yeah boy go learn how to mix cocktails or whatever but honestly? i think he would do what he can do good and that's all this political stuff - even if it's a small scale thing at least it keeps him entertained enough to not went down another spiral about his uselessness. he's useful and he's helping that's all!

thank you for coming to my tedtalk i hope i didn't make you regret allowin aoki essays in your inbox cause maybe its gonna be like that for some time . and oh oh damn it's AN ASK UH OH WHAT DO I DO UHH what do you think about that btw cause im interested in any thought and reply essays cause its going to give me zoomies when i wake up

tbh one of the infuriating things bout aoki's actions for me was the fact he was in a position to totally grant people in the grey zones a more 'honest living' if that's what he really wanted- like as governor of tokyo he undoubtedly had enough influence to give people citizenship and etc

if he were allowed to come back and if he were to continue a political career- first off Good Luck Coming Back Champ LMAO but also yeah it'd be neat to see him use whatever power he had left for the better while not doing a pure 180 since like. aint no one changing their worldview THAT fast but at least he's trying

[duhragonball]

Janwum III Update: 7827

Been a while since I checked in on this front, so let’s pull up a chair, swing it around to sit in it backwards, and discuss the state of this writing project.

Basically, I set out to do a big chunk of the 2023 apocrypha liveblog, and knock out 20,000 words in my fic in the same month.  I had a plan to write 645 words each day, figuring I could liveblog stuff and still have time left over to sneak in the writing.  Also, I keep trying to challenge myself to write consistent daily word goals, and I thought this would be the way to do it. 

But around Day 12 or so I got fed up with switching back and forth, and the GT posts were coming along so well that I decided to shift my focus to just that.  And now I’ve got GT liveblog posts queued up through the end of the Baby Saga, which leaves me just six days to finish the Janwum goal. 

Honestly, I think this worked out for the best, as I now have to average a little over 2k words per day, and I now have a clear shot to do so, where before I was constantly distracting myself with the other thing.  I guess I’m just not much of a multitasker.  Given two jobs with the same deadline, I’ll always try to push as far forward with one as I can go before tackling the other.  Fortunately, I took this into account when I planned the year, but I was just so eager to start the liveblog that I couldn’t wait until after I had written the 20k.  I should have just flip-flopped the order from the start. 

Also, punting a story 645 words at a time is kind of a pain in the ass.  If I’m not feeling it, a small word goal is going to feel just as agonizing as a longer one, and if I am feeling it, I’m just cutting off my own momentum.  I probably should have made sure to reach 10000 before stopping, but I pumped the brakes for a reason and I shouldn’t second-guess it now. 

In any event, critiquing GT has been very instructive for me, as I feel like I have a better handle on what works and what doesn’t in a fictional fight scene.  A big problem I have with writing Demigra is that it’s really unclear what he can and can’t do, and his power level is literally “strong enough to give your OC a hard time, but still lose.” It’s a lot like General Rildo, actually. 

Also, one thing I wasn’t counting on was how rewatching GT has taken me back to 2004-2006, when I first came up with Luffa.  I still remember looking up the “List of Vegetables” article on Wikipedia at my job to pick out her name.  I wanted more out of Dragon Ball, and GT had been such a disappointment that I realized I would have to write my own stuff to get what I wanted, and yet I couldn’t think of a way to continue the canon story that would satisfy me.  So I started thinking about making my own Super Saiyan, and realized the distant past would be a blank slate for me to work with.  And GT’s mishandling of Pan and Bulla had a lot to do with my wanting to make the OC a woman. 

Occasionally, I’ve questioned some of the decisions I’ve made with the fic.  It gets pretty dark and violent in places, but then I rewatch the stale, saccharine hijinks in GT, and I remember how fed up I was with it.  Not everything has to be edgy, but Funimation promoted GT with a lot of grim, ominous ads.  The dub narrator always sounded like he was about to tell local prosecutors how he disposed of the bodies.   But then the anime itself would always be Pan whining about some damn thing, and Goku saying he’s hungry again.  I wanted something with more bite to it, and it’s taken me umpteen years to make it happen, but I’m doing it.

Well, I need to get cracking.  I’ll see you later.

[scumgristle]

The sort of revelations that kill your childhood: So like a week ago I covered Columbine on the show. And part of the coverage centered around the myth of Cassie Bernall and the whole modern martyr "The Girl Who Said Yes" thing and how that sort of reshaped Gen. X American Evangelicalism into this..."edgy, post-grunge, faux-radicalism" about being "on fire" for Christ, and the whole preponderance of Dad Rock Youth Pastors. And I hadn't connected that in any real way to the sudden *explosion* of Christian hardcore and metal bands in the late 90s and early 00s. They were fucking ubiquitous for damn near a decade. Zao, No Innocent Victim, Project 86, As I Lay Dying, Norma Jean, Underoath, Thrice, Demon Hunter, Extol, Living Sacrifice...even bands like Evergreen Terrace and Hopesfall Started as Christian metal bands and shed the label early. But the hardcore/underground metal scene was fucking Inundated with kids who went to youth group and church and found metal records in their local Christian bookstore and started going to shows...and there's been an adjacent scene of kids who have NO connection to the sociopolitical or working class roots of hardcore whatsoever ever since. They came in after Columbine when the broader American Evangelical movement latched onto this New thing "the kids" were doing that had ties to skate culture and a million other places they wanted in to. And so you had bands...funded by Church projects...going on tour with Pastors...who handed out Bibles and tracts and did Altar calls at their merch tables. And NOW...24-25 years later? Hardcore is a bunch of spineless neo-conservative/libertarian chuds, who got into the scene through a crypto-grift by Christian propagandists in the music industry when they were kids. And it is *no* wonder I've been looking around thinking "when did everyone here turn into a Republican?" for the last 5 years. They didn't. They already were. And. If you FOLLOW this trajectory through the early 00s with the hardcore scene as essentially a stocked pond for the conservative movement astroturfed by megachurches (if you think I'm exaggerating go look up who half of Thrice worked for)...it explains deathcore and its tendencies towards misogyny and conspiracism. Because a lot of these guys hit their late teens and early 20s and discovered Alex Jones - who blew up in popularity after 9/11 - and the bits and pieces about kleptocracy, RFID chips, Reptilians, and a global shadow government popped up ALL over the place with bands like Molotov Solution, Job for a Cowboy and Pathology. This burgeoning RW recruitment space spun out, and the reaction was A.) A REALLY pissed off atheist sect B.) Guys with hangups carried over from the conservative spaces they came from...like rape culture, traditionalism, and a tendency toward the Fringe of political thought (the Alex Jones thing). Recognizing hardcore was coopted by the Christian Right sometime in 1999...the last 25 years of it make all the sense in the world all of a sudden.

Moxy O'Brien

[talenlee]

Story Pile: Hazbin Hotel

sigh

so I like this a lot I guess.

It wasn’t like I approached Hazbin Hotel expecting to find a thing I loved. It was something a friend was interested in and I watched it with them because I love them to pieces and it seemed interesting enough. I wasn’t expecting to really enjoy myself so much – in fact my predominant thoughts about Hazbin Hotel prior to that was that it was media made for someone younger than me with a reference pool shallower than mine, an Edgy Cartoon made by someone who bootstrapped their way into heading up an animation studio. Quite frankly, the story to me of how Hazbin Hotel happened was so much more interesting than anything Hazbin Hotel was offering me!

Here’s your line though! This is your Spoiler Warning for a series that’s got hidden information in it (though doesn’t every story), and your Content Warning for a series that’s pretty heavy on cartoon sex references, drug references, and over-the-top violence. It’s pretty funny in terms of what kind of show it is in that okay, aside from more f-bombs than you’d assume and more c-bombs than I’d ever expect, but other than that I don’t feel like it does a lot with its higher rating. Still:

Parental neglect

Drug addiction

Alcohol addiction

Gambling addiction

Sex work

A friendly local neighbourhood serial killer

Hazbin Hotel is a very stealable animated series from Amazon’s animation studio that started its life as a series of speedpaints of weirdo OCs from an artist who then bootstrapped that fanbase into a patreon then that patreon into a kickstarter then that kickstarter into a pilot then that pilot into a pair of series that seems to have legs enough for two or three seasons. One of them, Helluva Boss, I’ll probably talk about at some point in the future because…

I mean, I probably will, but we’re talking about Hazbin Hotel here because Hazbin Hotel is something that got under my skin real fast.

I debated not talking about it in April, in Talen Month, because I after all, have two anime on the roster. I absolutely think that there’s room to call Hazbin Hotel an anime, based on its common visual language and rules it uses for how it presents expressive character language. After all, at the very least, it’s being made by at least one non-white person who probably isn’t being paid as much as she deserves.

Jokes aside, though, Hazbin Hotel is a musical Christian horror animated series set in an American Hell and follows the narrative of Charlee Morningstar, the daughter of Lucifer as she starts up a project for the redemption of damned souls in Hell. The plan is to take people into her Hotel, show them a way to change their life through emotional support, therapy, and trust, and then, stage two question mark question mark question mark, stage three, they go to heaven, redeemed. It follows Charlee as she grapples with the feasibility of her plan — ie, is it possible for a soul in Hell to change — and then the other feasibility of her plan — ie, will Heaven let a soul leave Hell?

And there are songs!

This is a character-driven series. You have to care about the characters to follow them, and I think that all the characters presented have distinct motivations, worldviews, and voices. That last part is a big part of getting into Hazbin Hotel for me because it looks as a series like it was made to suit a particular aesthetic, unified with a colour palette and – I mean, characters almost universally have the same mouth. People – not just the ones in hell – have the big jaggy teeth, and when a bunch of characters share a trait like that it can create a flattening feeling.

I find the characters really different – in fact, somewhat to their detriment, see later! The Hotel has a bunch of characters who are present for their own reasons. It’s fun, too, because narratively, there’s an excuse for why the characters are where they are: It’s a hotel for losers trying to escape Hell, you could have had almost all the cast come for that same central reason and differentiate them for other reasons. In Hazbin Hotel, the cast don’t have that as their motivation – there’s nobody in the cast for as straightforward a reason as ‘I want to do what this Hotel is supposed to do.’

Charlee is there because she believes in the mission, as a way to help people in Hell. Vaggie is there because she believes in her girlfriend. Angel Dust is there to mooch; he sees it as convenient. Husk is there because he’s ordered to. Mimzy is there because she’s been given it as a responsibility. Sir Pentious is there because of a scam. Each of these choices gets transformed through the alchemy of the series into being sincere believers in the mission of the Hotel, and Alastor-

Oh yes.

Alastor.

Phew.

Alastor is a special case. There’s a lot going on with him that I like, from his Old Timey radio voice affect (complete with distortion effect on the track!), to his Arch Serial Killer With Rules vibes, his ‘effortless’ coolness that only works because of how much effort he puts into it, his deeply pagan iconography, his ambitious boiling seething at his limitations, and of course, most importantly of all, how much of a petty shit he is.

Alastor is probably my favourite character if you ignore various image searches for Angel Dust. I like Alastor so much that I’m reasonably confident I’m going to be peeling off things that reference him from his character and imbuing them into other OCs for a few years, like someone making every part of an orange work for a bunch of different meals and even planting the seeds. Alastor is made up of so many, coherently held together things that are my jam that I understand the kind of people who look at a character in media and say ‘it me’ unironically.

And he’s wrong.

One of the things Alastor does in the story, to me, is present the role of the Powerhouse. The Powerhouse isn’t the most important character, they’re not the one going through the most character development. They’re not the one who the story needs to turn to for important emotional responses or themes, because he’s the one who’s there to show up when the story needs power that can be brought to bear on saving or mopping up something someone else did. I love powerhouses, they’re one of my favourite archetypes; let other people take the centre stage, let their choices be the ones that matter, and I will cheer for the one who shows up to save and protect those choices. I have so much fun with Powerhouses, whether they’re the disappointed fixer or the beloved first follower. Alastor is Charlee’s Powerhouse. He’s convinced that when the time comes to fight Adam, he’s going to be able to step up to and meet that and beat it, because he can.

And he’s wrong.

It would be one thing if Alastor could do it! That’d be cool too! It wouldn’t be a bad thing to do. But it’s another thing if all of Alastor’s posing and pushing for power with characters like Lucifer and Adam was based on a very reasonable assumption about his power and the power of his opponents. Because it’s possible to have reasonable assumptions and just not have those assumptions be correct. Alastor carries himself like he’s the scariest man in the world, and he really is for most people who deal with him. It’d be enough for him to merely be amazing.

And he’s wrong.

It’s that wrongness that brings with it the little dash of complexity Hazbin Hotel needed to really excite me. Compexity is how it takes a story set up to make perfectly good, standard interfaces between ideas like ‘what is good and evil’ and ‘how can you live in hell without getting used to hell’ and then take just the slightly less-than-obvious next step in the answers. It involves looking at characters in this fantastic situation and considering them not as inhuman entities shriven of identity, but rather monstrous versions of human entities, with human needs and wants and ideals, and for there to be ways those wants and needs become amplified through the shedding of an idea of hope.

I like how it’s a musical, in that context! It’s full of characters who do something weird and inhuman (sing their feelings in contextually warped fantasy spaces), and then uses that to present very real, very deep truths about who they are, even including things they wouldn’t – or shouldn’t! – say without the song propelling them along.

The songs aren’t all electro-swing numbers, though enough are that I felt pleasantly served. I like electro swing! I like powerful Disney numbers! I like diegetic non-diegetic music! I also like the ways they use the songs for jokes! Multiple songs are interrupted and the interruptions are part of the story! And the complexity of the characters plays out in the songs! Like how Alastor invades a song to be petty, or the moment when Angel Dust realises he’s not going to be ridiculed for joining in a song.

Something I like about song in this genre is when they can stand on their own – when they begin or end cleanly and aren’t interrupted by dialogue from the narrative per se. Like, when the song’s job is part of the story, and the story is not needing to fight the song for its place. The biggest sin of the songs in Hazbin Hotel to me is that a few of them could afford to be longer and more varied – which is to say, hey, I like this, and would like more of it.

I describe it as a Christian Horror series depicting an American Hell. It’s a Heaven and Hell situation in the image of current modern mainstream American Christianity, which is to say, it doesn’t make much sense as presented. Hell in the Bible is not represented as a place with cities and culture, it’s barely presented at all – you get more of a ‘outer darkness’ or ‘neverending burning’ kind of vibe than ‘a city where people can keep doing things that are inappropriate.’

Look also to who gets damned to Hell and why. The complaint about Angel is that he’s a crack whore who burned his original chance. We don’t know what Angel’s life before Hell was like, but his life in Hell appears to be largely pretty harmless; he does drugs, he makes porn. That is to say, he does two things that only negatively affect himself. This doesn’t make sense as an inherent sin or anything but that’s okay because this world doesn’t seem to be one that has any idea about what makes anyone deserve anything; people in hell are present because they are present in hell, and that’s used to tautologically justify their presence there. But people in Hell can love and form bonds and elevate one another and be kind and even have kids –

Unless the kids in hell are there because they died as sinful children, which is okay, that could be what’s happening too.

There’s this book, Only Begotten Daughter, by Jame Murrow. In that book, god has a daughter, with a dude, working at a sperm bank, and she goes on an adventure through various elements of divine life that the Bible presents but doesn’t properly explore. In that book she winds up going to heaven – briefly – and finds to her surprise there are like, four people there; Moses, Jesus, Enoch and Elisha. When she quizzes them about this the response is ‘well, yeah, almost nobody gets into Heaven, it’s just not possible, with all the rules that conflict with one another.’

It’s that kind of heaven that Hazbin Hotel is built around, and it comes with it to show an idea of divine hiddenness. The problem of divine hiddenness is of the seeming contradiction in the idea of a God that exists, is omnipotent and omnisicent, and wants people to believe in him but there are people who sincerely want to and aren’t convinced by what has been presented to them as evidence. How does that work? In Hazbin Hotel, god, as much as they may or may not exist, appears to be abscent. People don’t even talk about them – they refer to powers around them, but no individual who can sort things out.

This god is missing, somehow, in a way that nobody talks about.

All this appeal isn’t to try and imply that Hazbin Hotel is immune to criticism. To laundry list it all that I have problems with is kinda unnecessary, but just off the top of my head, there’s a certain way the story allocates indulgences to specific characters. Any and all sex jokes are going to go through Angel Dust, which means they are going to come across as gay, rather than necessarily bi or pan. The result that seems to come from that is that Vaggie and Charlee despite being girlfriends from day 1 and sleeping in the same bed, seem kinda sexless, because all the Sex Stuff happens through Angel Dust.

In the same vein, this vision of Hell talks about ‘bad things’ but keeps those bad things in a very specific vein, like murder and being a participant in some things. Pornography isn’t bad! Liking your phone isn’t bad! The way that the story seems to position these as demonically empowered things on part with, uh, cannibalism, is a little strange, and it feels muddied.

Character design has some samey traits; the lack of noses and the commonality of jagged-tooth mouths mean that some characters can look similar, and worse, make it so that when a character uses that kind of expression it doesn’t necessarily evoke anything but ‘that is a mouth.’ The Vees are set up to be villains for later, but it feels like since one is a rapist and the others are uh, assholes, that maybe there’s going to be a problem keeping those characters in a reasonable space compared to one another.

It also feels like it can run the risk of getting bogged down in lore. I don’t want to watch a 27 minute explainer video on why Lillith must be the demon to whom Alastor is bound. Just – you know, just let the story do what it’s doing and wait until it’s done before you try and dive into the metaphysics of a multiverse, please.

I like Hazbin Hotel. I don’t think I’m supposed to, I’m a very uncool not-even-a-goth. But I like it, and I want to see more of it. And when I have seen more of it, I want to be able to say that I liked what it wound up doing with the character of god.

Which is a pretty tall order, huh?

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[nyaagolor]

Decided to overanalyze the Magolor Soul original pause screen despite not knowing a word of Japanese because hell yeah. DeepL and Jisho my beloved. Stuff under the cut bc it got long

Original Text: クラウンのもつ むげんの力に 支配された、哀しき姿… もはや彼がクラウンそのもの。 憎悪と 執念にとらわれた マホロアの魂を、ときはなて！

My best educated guess at a translation, edited for flow: Magolor has been possessed by the limitless power of the Master Crown. This miserable form... Magolor has become one with the crown and is no longer himself. His soul is taken prisoner by hatred and obsession-- set his spirit free!

Detail stuff with highlights on specific words:

クラウンのもつ むげんの力に 支配された

"The crown's limitless power possesses (him)"

もつ - To hold / maintain / possess

むげん - infinite / limitless / eternal

力 - Power / strength / ability

哀しき姿… もはや彼がクラウンそのもの。

"A miserable form... One with the crown, he is no longer himself"

哀しき - When referring to a person it means miserable / sad, when referring to a situation or action it's closer to lamentable / deserving of sympathy

憎悪と 執念にとらわれた マホロアの魂を

"Magolor's soul is held prisoner to hatred and obsession"

しゅうねん - obsession, tenacity, occasionally grudge

ぞうお - hatred, loathing

とらわれた - To be captured by / to be taken prisoner by / to be made slave to / to be seized by / to be swayed by

魂 - spirit / soul

ときはなて！

"Set him free!"

ときはなて - release / free (it)

[neiptune]

if i get burned, at least we were electrified

(sanemi x female reader)

warnings: mentions of abuse, wounds, mild sexual harassment, cursing, one small reference to alcohol

a/n: am i still taking a break from writing for kny? yes. did this sanemi piece have to come out anyway? also yes. is the title a taylor swift reference? hell to the fucking yes.

"Can you slow down?", you hiss, feeling the fabric of your traditional wedding kimono stick to your sweaty back because, apparently, it's three thousand degrees outside and neither of you had any say in the clothes you were told to wear.

"No", he replies dryly, not even sparing you a glance.

"Fuck you, then", you mutter between gritted teeth, doing your best to keep up with his annoyingly fast and steady pace.

"If you're this slow in battle as well, we're both fucked".

"Your clothing isn't as uncomfortable as mine, Shinazugawa", you do your best not to sound desperate, feet hurting in those damn high heeled wooden geta, strands of hair escaped from the elaborated hairstyle Mitsuri has helped you improvise and sticking to your forehead, the knives hidden under your kimono painfully poking your thighs.

"Get rid of the shoes", he does nothing to hide his irritation, which has the pleasant effect of enhancing yours.

"The road is muddy".

"Do you want me to carry you or something?"

"Thanks, I'd rather cut my arm off".

Sanemi is still not looking at you, which is why you fail to notice the little smile he tries so hard not to crack.

Truth is, he's grateful. Honestly, thank fuck for your endless complaining, your frown, the edginess of your voice, the distance he can keep between you two. All of that is essential to keep things normal. As normal as they can be anyway, considering the ridiculous situation master Oyakata has forced you two into.

Some rumors came from quite a few villages of the Kento region, fear spreads like a wildfire and soon enough the corps came to know about something allegedly attacking civilians. Wed or newly wed civilians. It all sounded ridiculous, but demon slayers were never in the position to doubt or stall, so you two got ready the second your master asked you to. Mitsuri and Shinobu were busy and there was no other girl in your group, obviously. Oyakata-sama could've picked someone else to accompany you as your husband, anyone, but for some reason, Sanemi's dumb ass volunteered. Sure, he did before the master got to specify the whole fake wedding situation, but still, he did.

You wanted to ask him why he saw fit to send two hashiras on an apparently easy, regular inspection, but you knew better than to question his judgement. So you kept your mouth shut, let Amane-sama and Mitsuri fix your clothes and hair, resisted the urge to compliment the appearence of one of your most irritating comrades when you met him outside your master's mansion. You clean up well, you wanted to say. He looked nice in traditional, civilian clothes, with his hair fairly tamed and a frown less deep than usual. For a second, you thought he was going to say something to you as well, and you could've sworn that something was not going to be one of his usual barked insults. But he said nothing, he just turned around and started walking in the direction of the village you were supposed to patrol, faded green travel bag bouncing on his shoulder at every step.

It's sundown when you arrive at the village. You have a chance to take a look around and take note of the incredibly low number of people you encounter along the way. When registering at the family owned inn you're supposed to stay at for the night, the old lady behind the counter smiles kindly and explains that the locals prefer not to be outside when it gets dark, as quite a few people have been disappearing lately.

"How many?", you ask, trying to sound as worried as possible.

"Oh, I think it was at least three. Or was it four? People say they've been kidnapped, but maybe they simply decided to leave. There's nothing to be afraid of, this is quite a boring village my dear".

"We're gonna need a room", Sanemi's tone is hasty and it's hard to resist the urge to step on his foot. You wonder if he's gonna be able to pause the absolute aversion he has for you and actually commit to the mission enough to pretend you're his wife. But when you reach over to take the keys from the old lady, he's quicker. Not only he grabs them, he's also incredibly swift and graceful as he balances them in his left hand along with both of your travel bags, while the fingers of his right hand easily slip in between yours.

"Thank you", he bows and leaves you zero time to react as he practically drags you away from the counter, and you really have nothing much to focus on except for how big and solid and warm and nice his hand feels.

He doesn't let go until you're inside your room, travel bags sbruptly dropped on the floor as he moves over to the dresser to look inside and snorts.

"Should've guessed it", he grumbles and you peek over his shoulder to see the single, neatly folded futon.

"I hope the floor is comfortable", you smile sweetly.

He just grunts in response, leaving the room without saying a single word to take a bath before dinner is delivered. You have to wait until everyone's asleep to go out and actually start doing your job: a job he really cares about doing well, it seems. Definitely more than what you had anticipated.

Nothing. Not a single clue, a scream, a scent, some loose soil, a noise. Hours spent wandering around the village, jumping from tree to tree, exploring roofs, listening intently for any change in the cool air of the night. Nothing.

The sun is basically about to come up when you surrender and head back to the inn, grumpy and tired and honestly hoping no one will catch you sneaking back in your room with leaves in your hair and clothes so different from the ones you were wearing a few hours prior.

You make a stop to the restroom to freshen up and get into your nightwear, leaving him some time to do the same. You've never been on a mission together, the vast majority of the information you have gathered about Sanemi comes from a few sparring sessions, some meetings, the comments of your other companions. He dislikes you, although you doubt it's personal, as he seems to dislike everybody equally. Well, maybe he hates Kyojuro a little less, and Tomioka a little more, but his standards are frankly beyond your understanding. It's just weird, the thought of having to be alone with him for a few days. Sleeping in the same room, pretending to be his spouse. He's someone you've never really talked to, it just was automatic, the way you responded to his aggressive behavior with equal hostility. But was there a point in being hostile, anyway? Maybe you could smooth things over, at least for a couple of days. If he's willing to take your hand, from time to time, maybe he's also willing to get along.

When you close the shoji doors behind you, he's already in a dark blu jinbei, busy drawing the thick, dark curtains to protect the room from even the slightest hint of sunshine. He's also already laid out the futon for you. A nice gesture, just what you need to reciprocate.

"Hey", you approach in the friendliest way possible. His eyes are on you in an instant. Is he nervous?

"We can share it", you declare as you sit down, cross legged on the soft sheets. He sits on the tatami floor, right in front of you.

"Thanks, I'd rather cut my arm off", he retorts mockingly. It's a second, a fraction of a second, but you see it as he sits. A flinch, the slight spasm of lips.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?", you ask, confused. How is it possible? You haven't faced anything. Yet.

"My ears are hurting, so shut the fuck up and go to sleep", he grumbles. You don't buy it and, on all fours, you're quick enough to reach him and lift the corner of his shirt. His hand is quick as well, as it violently slaps yours away. Not quick enough for you to miss them, though. Stitches, probably a courtesy of Shinobu.

"What the fuck?!", he snarls, eyes burning with something similar to both anger and embarrassment.

"That's it, you're taking the futon", your tone is firm, and you hope to the gods he's tired enough not to indulge in further debate. Wishful thinking, of course.

"Get fucked".

"What are you being so stubborn about? Just take it!"

"I don't need your pitiful sympathy".

Jesus, getting along might be harder than you had imagined. But the beauty of obstinacy is that, usually, it's a game two can play. And you take pride in being one hell of a player.

You absolutely ignore his fiery gaze as you crawl on the tatami floor and casually lie down right next to him with a content sigh that has an infuriating effect.

"What are you doing?", he asks between gritted teeth, frown so deep you would find it funny hadn't it been for your eyes being already shut.

"Going to sleep. Can you be quiet?"

"I'm too tired for this bullshit, get in the damn futon".

"I think the floor is a nice change, I like experimenting".

He lets out a guttural growl.

"Do you have to experiment right next to me?"

If you had known Sanemi Shinazugawa a tiny bit better than you did, you would've sensed the absolute tension and nervousness coating his angered tone. But you don't know him well enough, so you simply can't tell that he is embarrassed, and overly self-conscious, and absolutely fuming at the fact that your proximity is making him so tense. Why aren't you nervous? How can you be that relaxed, lying on the floor, eyes shut, absolutely vulnerable and exposed and feeling so normal about it?

You turn your back to him and curl up in a fetal position, which allows you to hide a smile.

"I'm scared of demons", is your blunt reply.

Sanemi snorts, body still completely frozen. God, you're such an infuriating idiot. So, what now? Does he actually lie next to you on the stupid floor just to prove his stupid point? Does he drag you inside the stupid futon? Does he crawl inside the stupid thing himself because those stitches are, indeed, giving him hell?

"Fine, dumbass. We'll sleep together", he snaps, with a wording so inappropriate you can't stop yourself from peeking at him from over your shoulder with an amused grin.

"Not even buying me dinner first?"

In disbelief, he stares at you, and hadn't the room been almost completely dark, you wouldn't have missed the pink suddenly coating his cheeks.

"Kidding, joking, please don't go apeshit", you're quick to avoid his gaze and crawl back into the futon before he gets the chance to explode in another one of his fits. But, much to your surprise, he's quiet as he tucks himself in, filling the empty spot right next to you.

Despite his roughness, you really want him to be as comfortable as possible, and that simply won't happen if your awfully close bodies touch more than an appropriate amount which, according to him, is probably none. No appropriate amount to justify your leg or arm brushing against his, no appropriate amount would excuse your breath reaching his shoulder or your hair tickling his neck.

So you turn your back to him once again, doing your best to curl up into yourself as much as possible, not even caring about being slightly off the edge of the futon as you whisper a cautious good night.

Sanemi is conscious of the annoyingly narrow space you're sharing, but he's not overly conscious of it. How could he, when you quietly went out of your way to rest as far away from him as possible? He's not offended, it's obvious that the whole thing is about his comfort rather than yours. You weren't just being nice or sympathetic, you genuinely wanted to give up the futon because you're considerate like that. Of course you are, and of course he knows. He's aware of the qualities of each hashira he's met. Just as Gyomei is wise and sharp, or Kyojuro is strong and selfless, you're considerate. And smart, and strong. And stupidly charming, with your witty jokes and sharp replies that can sting just as much as his.

Apparently, you also adapt easily, a quality that explains how you're able to fall asleep in the most uncomfortable position known to mankind, within just a couple of minutes. You don't care that someone as aggressive and unpleasant as him is laying right next to you, someone who's practically a stranger, someone who finds himself listening to your quiet, heavy breaths, focused on how your shoulders lift ever so slightly with each one. Someone who discovers that your peacefulness has a calming effect on him, and is actually able to shut his eyes and relax his muscles and let his breath grow heavier in turn.

It's a smaller village, the one you're strolling across this time. You had left the previous one after rumors came about another married couple having been attacked in the middle of the night: the husband is still missing, the wife is still in shock and wasn't able to provide any useful information. She had just mentioned a woman, a beautiful woman with red hair and green eyes. Everything else was drowned in tears and shaky sobs. When you offered to take care of her wounds and bruises, she had started screaming so violently your body froze in shock and Sanemi had to drag you out of the house, hands on your shoulders and jaw painfully clenched.

Now his right hand is holding yours again, something you've grown used to with surprising quickness. Whenever you're in public, he becomes someone completely different from the person you've always known him as. Sanemi takes his missions seriously, he's focused and absolutely committed to his job, especially if there have already been casualties. However, with each passing day, you can tell that he's growing increasingly restless. You have yet to encounter a single clue and people keep disappearing and, you suspect, he's also tired of keeping up the dumb marriage act your master has forced the both of you into.

You know he's sick of you, but that doesn't stop you from trying to ease his suffering by trying to make some conversation and indulging in some innocent teasing.

"Your palm feels clammy", you whisper. He tenses up right away, making you chuckle.

"Shut the fuck up", he whispers back, eyeing a street vendor who's shouting something about the quality of his tea leaves.

"Ask nicely, dear husband", you reproach, giving his hand a light, playful squeeze.

Sanemi huffs in response, much less annoyed than you would guess. Your presence is easy to get accustomed to and, truth is, he doesn't really mind it anymore. Pretending to be your husband while in public? Easier than he had anticipated. Sleeping in the same futon? Weirdly comfortable, given that he actually sleeps. He had been so ready to feel itchy and tense and stiff, that your ease had taken him by surprise. Gave him no choice but to adapt in turn. And he's now so adjusted, he can't bring himself to tell you that your composure is absolutely useless, because each morning, without fail, he wakes up with your head on his shoulder, your feet poking at his legs and your arm thrown across his chest. And it's interesting that he doesn't mind, that he doesn't feel embarrassed. He just feels peaceful. Your breath is quiet and sweet as it tickles his cheek, the way you hum in your sleep and your soft snores are amusing. It's kinda... cute? The way your hair's all over the place. You're so different when you're unconscious, so much easier to get along with, he finds.

"Stay here", he orders as he lets go of your hand to head towards the stand of another street vendor, probably to gather some more information.

You smooth out your yukata as you look around as well, silently memorizing how the houses are positioned, which stores you can distinguish from there, searching for someone you can approach as well. You spot a young woman, arm in arm with a man that looks just one or two years older than her. Praying to the gods that they're married, you decide to try your luck.

"Good evening! I'm so sorry to bother you", your tone is friendly as ever while you bow, "I was wondering if you heard something about the disappearences going on around here? It's just... I'm having so much trouble sleeping at night", an apologetic smile finds its way to your lips.

The man untangles his arm from the woman's grip and, somehow, his arm is suddenly around your waist as he pulls you shockingly close.

"I can keep you company at night", he grins, and you can tell that tea is not exactly what he's been drinking throughout the day.

Keep it professional. Don't sprain his arm. Dont break his nose.

"Brother!", the woman reproaches, outraged and embarrassed at the same time. You gently remove his arm from around your waist, taking a step back.

"That's not what I asked. Regardless, I wish you a pleasant evening", you bow again, gaze intentionally fixed on the woman, who bows as well with a desolated look on her face. The man grabs your wrist just as Sanemi is by your side again, but he has no chance to open his mouth or intervene in any way because you pull the dickhead closer, step one leg beside him, easily free your wrist to grab him by his shoulders and push him backwards while swiftly sweeping your leg around and behind his ankles to take him down.

The woman gasps as his brother groans, muttering something under his breath. Sanemi is startled, probably annoyed to some degree, but he doesn't say anything. As you search for his gaze and take note of his clenched jaw, he simply takes your hand again and silently urges you to walk away with him with a pace the tiniest bit faster than usual.

He doesn't ask if you're okay, he knows that you are. Perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, as any other hashira. But still.

"You could've told him you're married", he makes it sound like he's thinking out loud, but you don't miss the slight tension in his voice.

"I hold the authority over my choices. He shouldn't respect my husband, he should respect me", you're casual about your reply but Sanemi feels the way your grip on his hand gets a little tighter. You're upset, angry even. Yet, what comfort can he offer? Tell you that you're right, go back and crush that asshole's face under his shoe?

He settles for saying nothing, as his grip grows a little tighter as well.

It's unsettling, the way he wakes up. So bizarre that, for a split second, Sanemi thinks there's a threat in the bedroom. But there's not, the only unsettling thing is the empty and cold spot next to him, the absence of any weight on his leg or chest, no one quietly sleeping on his shoulder. As he sits up and the room becomes purple for a second, he spots you sitting on the floor in the opposite corner of the room, back pressed against the dresser.

"What's wrong?", he rasps, then clears his throat cause his voice sounds terrible right after he wakes up.

"Nothing. Did I wake you?", your tone is considerate but there's also a weird vibration to it, something similar to... unease? Alarm?

"Why are you awake?", he ignores your question. The sudden, loud crack of a thunder makes you flinch, any possible reply caught in your throat as your back hits the dresser with a loud thud.

If Sanemi could be bold enough, he'd simply say something along the lines of come back to bed. Or I'm here, no need to be afraid. But he isn't, so the only thing left to do is try to be smart about it.

"I've been thinking", he begins, legs crossed as he gets comfortable. Your gaze flickers from the floor to his eyes.

"There's something we're not getting. The bitch doesn't show up, she doesn't seem to care that we're married. We're stuck".

You let out a shaky breath as you hug your knees, grateful to have a distraction.

"Yeah. Should we send a crow to master Ubuyashiki?"

"No, we have to figure it out. He trusted us to fix this, so we'll fix it".

So you were right, he is sick of you and of your silly little act. Even if you do your absolute best not to bother him. Even if you'd rather sit on the floor during a thunderstorm, than to stay in the futon and risk waking him up. He's tired and wants to go home. Which is fair, obviously. You had just hoped that he'd find the whole thing at least a little more... bearable.

"There's only two villages left, we'll check one tonight. We'll draw her out of her hole", you promise, wincing again as another thunder echoes violently throughout the room.

"Do we have to keep talking like this? Come here, you look like a cornered rat", words come out the wrong way but he honestly has no idea how to make it sound better, less intimidating or mocking. Thankfully, you just roll your eyes and carefully crawl back to your empty spot next to him.

"You wouldn't last three days as an actual husband", you grumble, pulling the covers over your legs as you carefully lie down. He soon follows, but he lies on his back, in contrast with the position he usually sleeps in.

"I don't plan on becoming one", Sanemi replies. You squint your eyes as the ceiling is illuminated once again.

"Scared of commitment?"

"Yeah. It's definitely that and not that I'm probably gonna end up dead in a ditch soon enough".

You slightly turn your head to look at him, surprised.

"Don't get all pessimistic on me, you're a pillar!"

He looks at you as well, a single brow skeptically raised.

"Pillars can't die?"

"Not the ones who have someone they'd leave behind".

"I swear if this is a marriage joke–"

"I meant your brother, idiot ".

Sanemi grows quiet as his eyes are focused on the ceiling once again. I hope to die before him, is what he's thinking. I pray that I won't be here to watch it happen.

"He's not my brother", is what he says, and you snort loudly.

Privileged asshole.

"You know, you could cut the bullshit and actually cherish whatever time you have left with him. I wish I still had a brother to argue with", your reproach comes out much more bitter than you mean it to. It's none of your business, his personal life. But you have met Genya, multiple times actually, and the admiration he has for his older brother breaks your heart every time. You don't have someone loving you like that anymore. You probably won't live long enough to have someone like that ever again.

He stays silent longer than you expect him to, so much that you think he's fallen asleep. But Sanemi's eyes are still scanning the ceiling.

"You've been unlucky", he eventually mutters, voice so low you wonder if he's actually talking to you.

"With luckier lives, we wouldn't have been here".

He scoffs.

"No, I mean this mission. You could've been here with someone like Rengoku or Himejima. For some reason you even like Uzui and Tomioka". They'd say the right thing.

You gently nudge his calf with your toe, chuckle at his flinching cause you're well aware of how cold your feet are.

"Well, you could've been here with Mitsuri or Shinobu. You've known them longer".

The rain is heavy as it beats on the windows, but you can tell the storm is moving farther away, perhaps over the same village you're going to patrol after a few hours. Just a few hours before you're hashira on their duty again. But right now, you're just two normal people comfortable enough to be lying beside each other, some sort of hushed intimacy having settled over any usual miscommunication or banter.

I don't mind this, he'd like to say.

"Would've found them annoying as well", is what he says.

You roll your eyes again, but Sanemi can practically feel your smile as you speak again.

"Well, I don't mind this".

As you leave the house of yet another traumatized and shocked woman covered in bruises, realization dawns on you. It's sudden, and as painful as it is unexpected. Sanemi is cursing under his breath because you still have no leads but you stop in your tracks a few feet behind him, frozen. He turns around, a questioning expression taking over his features as he notices your horrified one.

"We got it all wrong", you mutter as you move closer to him.

"She's not targeting married couples. She's targeting husbands".

Sanemi's frown deepens as every piece finally falls into place. His jaw is clenched once again.

"So what do we do?"

You guide him towards an empty spot right behind what looks like the empty shop of a carpenter.

"Punch me".

Sanemi opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again, almost starts gasping like a fish.

"What? ", he hisses.

"Yeah, give me a black eye. Or slap me, I don't care, just do it".

His heart drops to his stomach when he realizes you're being serious. Horrified, he doesn't know what to say for a solid minute while your eyes silently encourage him. When they squint in preparation as he slightly bends forward, he breaks.

"No", he slowly lets out, tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth.

"Come on, you can't stand me anyway, should be easy!"

"That's not–", he interrupts you so sharply you jump a little.

Sanemi is not dumb, by any means. He's perfectly aware of the vibe he gives off and, as long as he's a slayer, he intends to maintain it. People can get cuts and bruises from how sharp his edges are, but he has some ground rules and boundaries and, he discovers, the sole idea of beating a woman up just for the sake of it is enough to make his head spin and his stomach churn with nausea. His sparring sessions with other slayers are brutal, but what you're asking is different. Especially because you think it would be easy, for him to hit a woman just because he doesn't get along with her. It's mortifying.

"I won't. I'm not that kind of man". I hope to the gods I'm not, he thinks, as memories of his father flash before his eyes and he has to clench both his fists not to punch a whole in the tree you're resting your back against.

Shame blossoms in your chest, threatening to become a storm powerful enough to drown you.

"I didn't mean–", you murmur, shocked at your own insensitivity, "I would never imply that. I was just trying to make it sound like less of a big deal", you're almost begging at this point, searching for a gaze that still doesn't meet yours. There's nothing left to do but to push it and as you lean forward as well, forehead incredibly close to his, you feel so small and stupid there's nothing you'd want more than to hide in a hole.

"Sanemi", his name sounds weird when you say it for the first time and he must think the same thing as his eyes finally meet yours. It's heartbreaking, that look. It's a look you'd never think you'd see from someone like him.

"I'm sorry. I would never think you'd actually do it, I was just trying to think of a strategy. Please believe me?"

"What if others think I'd actually do it?", his voice comes out in heated whispers, "What if other women think I'd–"

"You're unpleasant to be around but that's simply not enough for anyone to think you'd hurt women. You wouldn't be a hashira and neither our master nor Genya would love you as much if you were someone capable of doing that".

You hope you sounded convincing enough as he pulls back slightly, gaze still clouded by doubt.

"We can fake it", you cautiously suggest, "or come up with something else. Now that we know what's going on, we'll find her".

He takes a deep breath, spares you a glance, distractedly remembers how different his name sounded rolling off your tongue.

"We can fake it", he decides.

You're not gonna think of this as one of the worst missions you've been on, you decide. How could you? When the usually insufferable prick walking back to Oyakata-sama's mansion right next to you is now someone you'll look at so differently.

You're sure he hopes to leave this whole mess of a week behind, forget about it as soon as possible. Never mention how you two have slept wrapped up in the same sheets, held hands for a time that occasionally seemed to unnecessarily stretch. Tomorrow he probably won't even remember the way he had insisted on carefully smearing the mixture of oils and crushed verbena flowers on the side of your face, frown so deep it almost felt like he was giving you real bruises. You never thought his, of all hands, could feel so gentle. You never thought he'd get distracted and direct his worried gaze towards you in battle, even if for just a barely noticeable second.

"Why the fuck are you still so slow? We're wearing our clothes", Sanemi hisses, and he's surprised to find out he has to make an effort to actually sound annoyed. It's not really infuriating, your slower pace. Especially because he's practically sure your usual, considerate ass, is doing it on purpose. So that he stays off his right leg as much as possible, the leg he had allowed the demon bitch to basically rip apart to let her close enough for you to slice her head off. The leg you had insisted on bandaging as tightly as possible, because he had barked insults at each kakushi who had tried to treat his wounds, ripped stitches and everything.

You, however, had been adamant. "Treatment for fake wounds demands treatment for real wounds", had been your dumb principle, with reference to him carefully wiping your face to get rid of those horribly realistic, fake bruises.

The time spent together had teached Sanemi to just let you. Let you decide to share a futon with him, let you dig your cold feet into his calves each night, let you win the eating just steamed rice means you're not having a balanced breakfast argument, letting you laugh at your own, stupid jokes, while aggressively pretending not to be fighting back a smile whenever you cracked one all of a sudden.

Sanemi finds comfort in you not rolling your eyes or retorting with a sour comeback to his irritated tone. It means that something has shifted and that he's not the only one who has noticed. Luckily, the leg hurts badly enough for him to be unable to focus on what that shifting actually means: the urgent need to find a new balance, the burning hope not to miss your presence in his futon at night, once he's back to his estate.

The wish for there to be stormless nights only, from now on.

[bookishofalder]

Saviours Coffee House [Prologue]

Summary: Negan hires a new manager.

Warnings: Language! We’re starting off tame, but get ready because future parts get dark. WC—+2.7k.

A/N: Even if you aren’t a The Walking Dead fan, you might like this story—it’s a coffee shop A/U, I really only take the characters from TWD!

Now

Your eyes were only on Negan as he stalked forward, his normally bright eyes dark with fury as he clenched the baseball bat in his hands. You’d never seen him so angry...you’d never seen anyone so angry. Apprehension coiled in your gut, your mind blank, a doe caught in the headlights. You knew you had to move, to stop him—but part of you almost didn’t want to.

It was the part of you that had been beaten and broken over and over screaming for it to end. Screaming for you to let it happen.

And fuck, you wanted to listen to her.

Maybe you would.

—

Way Back

Negan Dean was sat at his desk, staring at the computer monitor in front of him without really seeing it. His mind had wandered away from the shop's accounting, the task he needed to complete. He had reason to be distracted, though, as he was in desperate need of a new manager, and he had a few interviews lined up that afternoon.

He’d put off rehiring for too long, left the manager position open and simply worked himself to the bone, running the place and leading it. But it had been months.

He’d needed to keep busy, after Lucille...no, he wasn’t thinking of her today. He needed to get the accounts sorted, have some lunch, and then start the interviews.

That was today’s game plan, and he was sticking to it. The extra work had finally caught up to him, as he knew it would. He was ready to step back because he was fucking exhausted and wanted to focus on his role as the owner of the Saviours Coffee House, behind the scenes. He needed a full-time manager to run the floor, someone smart and competent and good with people.

Simon had been on his ass for a while now about it, but he’d resolutely ignored his long-time friend, too stubborn for his own good. He knew Simon was right. But it was going to be on his fucking orders that a new person joined the tea—his family—even if it meant he’d fallen asleep in his office some nights, slumped over his desk in pure exhaustion.

Negan finished his task and stood, stretching out the kinks in his back, before making his way out onto the loft that overlooked most of the shop below. He had a few couches up here, and a little kitchenette next to his office, the area acting as a staff room in many ways; customers could not come up. At the opposite end of the loft, a door led up to the next floor, which was Negan’s condo. He’d bought the entire three-storey after the recession, gutted the whole thing and, working with a crew of mostly friends who had various trade jobs, renovated it entirely.

Negan was proud of Saviours Coffee House, a dream that he hadn’t always had come to life in the walls of what used to be an old, relatively small, textile factory. Now situated in the heart of downtown, it was the perfect spot for an edgy, laid-back place to unwind, meet friends, go on dates. Hell, Negan loved looking down and seeing a customer stay the whole day as they worked, even if they only bought one coffee. As far as he was concerned, the moment you spent a dime in his place, you were a customer for the day. And that had been a hit with many of the locals and students from the nearby university. Open five-thirty in the morning till eleven-thirty in the evening, Saviours welcomed all. So long as you kept your feet off the fucking tables and minded your manners.

In his former life, Negan worked as a high-ranking guard at the nearby penitentiary. It was a minimum-security, well-funded place where non-violent criminals ended up. He’d loved his years there, but after getting stabbed for the second time (the first was when he was young enough that he’d bounced back almost instantly) he decided to retire.

He sunk all of his savings into this dream, and years later had a lot to show for it. He’d also met a lot of down on their luck men in his time as a guard, so after Saviours became successful, he started a hiring program for white-collar criminals who completed a local, not-for-profit reintegration program. He only kept two on at a time, and most moved on after saving up enough.

Currently at the bar was Dwight, who’d been with Negan the longest now, having started just over a year before after getting out from serving time for drug possession. If Negan was proud of anything, it was Dwight. He’d seen the man evolve from a quiet asshole who barely grunted when customers paid, to a friendly bartender who mixed both amazing lattes and delicious cocktails, even if he grumbled about it. He was a fixture here now as much as Negan—and probably more well-liked, but Negan didn’t care about being liked. As long as people were happy, he was just fine.

It was the post-lunch lull now, so Dwight was wiping up the counters and switching the signs around from daytime menus to evening. Maggie, who had been working at Saviours for about two years, was wiping down the tables while Fleetwood Mac played over the expensive Bluetooth stereo system. He’d asked Maggie if she wanted the job, but she’d only laughed before telling him plainly that she had no desire to work full time or see him that much. He’d figured as much, seeing as she was in university, but he had wanted her to know it was hers if she did want it—she’d earned it.

Dwight was happy where he was, and didn’t want to upset the balance in life he’d worked so hard for, which Negan respected. His newest employee, also a convict hire, wasn’t up to scruff to become the manager, as much as he liked Paul, or ‘Jesus’, as everyone called him. He was a nice kid, worked hard, but seemed content working three part-time jobs. That had left Rosita and Tara, both part-time and students, and then Carol, part-time and not interested as she worked as a volunteer at the Children’s Hospital and didn’t want to give that up.

Which left him where he was now, stomping up the steps to his place to have a quick lunch before back-to-back interviews of promising contenders for a job he wished like hell he didn’t need to fill.

+

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ.” Negan slammed his hands onto the marble counter in frustration as Dwight watched him. He smirked as he tidied up the barista station.

“That bad, boss?” Dwight was shit at keeping the amusement off of his face. Negan scoffed, glancing behind him to ensure no customers were listening, but it was busy enough now with the after-class and work rush that the cacophony of voices and music allowed him to speak privately despite the location.

Negan held up one hand, holding his thumb and index finger a sliver apart. “I’ve got this much fucking patience left. Only one candidate wasn’t a god damned catfish and I didn’t like him,” He sighed, nodding gratefully when Dwight pointed to the espresso machine, knowing Negan needed his usual five o'clock pick-me-up. “I’ve got one last one; Daryl's friend. If she doesn’t fit, I’m going to have to beg Maggie—and you know she’ll love that too much to say yes.”

With a laugh, Dwight nodded in agreement, expertly moving about making Negan’s latte. “Carol seemed pretty sure you’d like her, said Daryl thinks of her like a little sister and when he heard you were looking for someone he was adamant she’d be perfect.”

Negan sighed, “Yeah, and I like Daryl so if this doesn’t work out and I have to start hating him I’m going to be real pissed off. Thanks, D.” He added when Dwight passed over the piping hot drink, still grinning at Negan’s displeasure.

Dwight dipped his head forward, eyes behind Negan, “I think that must be her, don’t recognize her and she’s dressed too nice for this place.” With that, he turned away and started loading dishes into one of the dishwashers. Negan turned, eyes scanning for the potential candidate, and he didn’t have to look far.

Because there you were, right out of a fucking dream.

Dwight had been right, you were dressed far too nicely for Saviours, but perfect for an interview (which instantly gave you points over a few of the previous interviewees). You were weaving by a few men who were standing at a high table and hadn’t yet noticed Negan, which allowed him to survey you.

The pretty green dress paired with a smart leather jacket and shiny kitten heels gave off an air of sophistication, accentuated your curves beautifully, and rendered his mind to mush for a brief moment. You wore your hair down, and it fell in elegant waves around your shoulders. Fuck, though, if you weren’t the prettiest woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

He thought Carol had mentioned you were in your mid-twenties, but you walked with more confidence about you than one usually saw in those formative years. Already impressed, Negan pushed himself away from the counter, stepped forward and smiled.

You looked around, his movement catching your eye, and returned the smile warmly as you approached. No doubt, you’d looked up their social media, seen pictures of Negan. Any smart candidate would do that, and Negan could already tell you were a clever girl. He called your name over the music, and you nodded, extending your hand

Negan took it into his and shook, enjoying how small your hand was compared to his. You were curvy and petite in the best ways, so much shorter than him but fully voluptuous, and you dressed like you knew you looked damn good, fuck whatever society said about beauty standards. “Mr. Dean, it’s great to meet you, sir.”

Negan grinned down at you, then pointed toward the staircase to your left, “Come on up, it’s quieter in the office.” And he led the way.

When he glanced back to make sure you were following, Negan saw you looking toward Dwight, giving him a friendly wave. He gave you a nod, a near smile, a pretty decent result from the house grump. He needed a manager who could get along with everyone, so right there was another point in your favour.

Closing the door brought the loudness of Saviours down to mere background noise, the evening crowds were always loud as shit. Negan loved it, the differences between the start and end of days, the energy. He gestured toward two armchairs he had, hating the process of sitting behind a desk to interview like he was some hot shot lawyer. He preferred the less intimidating, friendly way. It was just a coffee shop, after all.

A damn good one, though.

When you settled, Negan took his seat across from you, suddenly feeling a little distracted under the gaze of your bright eyes. “Well I’ll get straight to it; you come highly recommended by both Carol and Daryl. I won’t lie, I’m a pain in the ass to work for and I’m looking for someone who can handle hard work, long hours and most importantly, get along with my people. You really think that’s you?”

You were sitting with your back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands in your lap. You looked entirely at ease, meeting Negan’s eyes straight on as he spoke. When he finished, you leaned forward almost imperceptibly, your response instant.

“I’m exactly what you’re looking for, sir. I love people and get along with everyone. Do you think I’m best friends with Daryl and don’t know how to deal with a pain in the ass?” At this, Negan smirked, “I’m hardworking, and I have no other major commitments, so full time and long hours will suit me just fine.” You had a lovely voice, which was probably why you’d stayed working at the sales call centre for years before now.

In your resume, Negan had noted the year gap in wor—you had stopped working for the call centre just over a year ago, though it was noted you were a freelance writer and kept income that way. But he found it curious that you’d been working since you were a teenager and yet hadn't worked a solid job in a year. And now that he’d met you, he could see you were the hardworking type. Carol hadn’t known why you’d been away from a job for so long, stating that Daryl knew but didn’t tell her. He had said it didn’t matter, and that was good enough for Negan.

“Well, I’ll admit, on paper you’re ideal, which is why I scheduled you last today. I wanted to have time to read you.”

“And,” You interjected, a small smirk on your lips, “You know that keeping someone waiting the whole day for an interview will shred their nerves and leave them more susceptible to letting their true colours out.”

Negan stared, surprised, “Can’t get much past you, eh?”

You shrugged, “It’s a good tactic. But I assure you, I’m just as competent in the evening as the morning, and I think if you give me a chance to prove myself, you’ll be very happy with hiring me, Mr. Dean. I want to work here, you have an amazing place. It’s a part of this community, and the reintegration program is something I respect greatly, I have no issues working with men hired from there.” You paused, adjusting yourself slightly, palms falling open on your legs, “And, I’ll be frank, I want a job that has long days, that’ll keep me busy and tire me out and let me build relationships with customers. When I found out you were hiring, I jumped on the chance for Daryl to have Carol put in a good word for me. It just seems...right, to work here.”

“What about your writing, do you still do that?” Negan watched your face closely, and it didn’t waver, instead, your smile widened.

“I can write anywhere, anytime. And I make my own schedule with whatever commissions I take on, so it’ll be easy to write on my days off, or breaks if I don’t have a day off,” You pointed at Negan’s phone, which he’d set on the wide arm of his chair, “I can also help with writing any social media or website content, I know Carol mentioned you wanted to expand that presence, and I’m comfortable with that sort of work.”

Negan considered you, letting a comfortable silence fall as he thought over your words. You did seem eager, excited, and the fact that you’d researched what he was looking for impressed him further. Breaking eye contact, he glanced down at your resume once more, though he couldn’t think of anything else to ask. If he was honest with himself, he was ready to hire you after the first two minutes.

“I like you,” He said, thrumming his hands on his knees, “When can you start?”

“In the morning? Or I can go home, have my dinner and come back dressed more appropriately for work, if you need me straight away, sir.”

Negan shook his head, both as a response and in an attempt to toss away the thoughts that stirred up in the back of his mind every time you called him ‘sir’. “Tomorrow morning is perfect. And since you work for me now, you can call me Negan, asshole, or shithead, no more ‘Mr. Dean’ or fucking, ‘sir’, okay?”

When you smiled at Negan, it was the most dazzling he’d seen yet, bright white teeth and sweet dimples making his heart stutter. Damn, you really affected him. He needed to get a gri—you were half his age, for Christ's sake.

“Thank you, Negan,” You stood, holding your hand out and grasping his when he offered, your head tilting back to look at him as he stood before you. “Really, I promise I’ll make you proud.”

“Kid, I don’t doubt it.” He replied softly, and for a moment you simply looked at one another. Negan wasn't sure if you felt it, but he did; it was a spark. Fleeting, but strong enough that he knew life was about to get interesting again.

Taglist: @mermaidxatxheart @paintballkid711 @ladydmalfoy 🤍

[pillage-and-lute]

An Ever Fixed Mark (part 4)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 (here) Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,

Read it on Ao3 HERE

A little bit of BAMF! Jaskier, a lot of emotionally constipated/self flagellating Geralt, some miscommunication, and a secret.

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Geralt awoke slowly. The anxiety and excitement of the wedding had taken its toll, and the comfortable bed had enveloped him nicely. There was also the warm, comfortable weight in his arms.

Jaskier.

It was Jaskier in his arms. The young man was curled up, still fast asleep, with his head tucked against Geralt’s chest. Geralt wondered who had gravitated to whom in the night. Had he vvmoved unconsciously hold Jaskier? Perhaps. Jaskier must have cuddled up to him too, though. There was no other way to explain the way Jaskier’s hand was curled, lightly, around Geralt’s medallion. Holding on to Geralt. On his other hand, the wedding ring glittered.

Used to assessing battle situations, this train of thought happened in thirty seconds or less. His processing was significantly sleep slowed, however, because he finally became aware of what had woken him.

There was a pounding on the door. The urgent pounding of someone who desperately wanted to speak with the occupants but didn’t want to make others aware.

Without other options Geralt gently extricated himself from Jaskier, accidentally waking the young man in the process, pulled on the pants from the day before, and crossed to the door.

It was Eskel.

“What?”

“It’s almost ten in the morning,” Eskel said. “Vesemir wants us to leave really soon. Um, check if Jaskier has people he wants to say goodbye to.”

“Our things,” Geralt began.

Eskel waved a dismissive hand. “Vesemir had them packed up last night, but he really wants us to leave and he won’t tell us why.”

Geralt shrugged, reassured his brother, and closed the door.

Jaskier was sitting up in bed, his undershirt, a large, flowy thing, had slipped off one shoulder. Geralt’s stomach lurched, rolled, and finally curled up. Somehow it wasn’t in an unpleasant way, though. The skin was pale gold in the torchlight. It brought thoughts of sinking his teeth into all that glowing skin, gripping as he folded his body over Jaskier’s and...

Geralt dunked his head in the washbasin.

“Is that an okay temperature,” Jaskier said, slipping on his wedding attire from the day before. “I think it was warmed up for us last night but it’s probably pretty cold by now.”

It was doing exactly what Geralt needed it to, so he just grunted.

“I don’t have anyone I need to say goodbye to,” Jaskier said as Geralt wiped water from his eyes. “We can leave whenever.”Geralt nodded and pulled on his wedding doublet. Jaskier, all in white and pearls still looked like some sort of angel. He took Jaskier’s hand, and they left.

It was Jaskier’s guidance, of course, that brought them back to the rooms that had been for the witchers, and Vesemir was outside the door already.

“Was worried you two would linger,” he griped, but it was good-natured.

“Yeah honeymooners, how’s married life feel?,” Lambert smirked. He had packs over his shoulder, so did Eskel, and Vesemir. Eskel offered Geralt his pack and swords. Geralt shouldered them and took a much nicer pack from Lambert, obviously Jaskier’s. Vesemir picked up a lute from where it had been leant against the wall and Jaskier took it gratefully, a hint of a smile touching his round cheeks.

Then the odd little party left.

After all the anxiety and waiting and intrigue and the wedding itself, just walking down to the stables as an little group felt strange. No one stopped them, though. 

The witcher’s horses had been cared for, but were otherwise untouched. There was a fifth, a black and white stallion, big but not a battlehorse by any means. Jaskier reached forward and kissed it’s muzzle. The horse responded by huffing in the way horses do and tossing his mane.

They mounted up and were off before the bell in the town center tolled eleven. It just didn’t feel real.

“We’ll ride with you to Egerbak,” Vesemir said, naming a town a day’s ride from Chateau Lettenhove. “From there we’ll go our separate ways, not good for witchers to be all in one group.”

“Why?” Jaskier said, looking puzzled. “Wouldn’t it make fighting monsters easier?”

“Sometimes,” Eskel said, “But if the terrain is rough you can get in one another’s way.”

“Get paid less too, the locals think it’s easy and give up less coin,” Lambert said, a little sourly.

“Most jobs need just one witcher,” Geralt said, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “And villagers get edgy if there’s more than that, they fear an attack.” He didn’t mention why. Surely Jaskier knew the reason he was called Butcher. “But there isn’t many of us left, either. We four are all of the wolf school. If there were people who wished us harm, having us all in one place could exterminate our school.”

“That’s horrible,” Jaskier said, blue eyes wide. The color was muted today, Geralt noticed. The sky was overcast and his eyes seemed to reflect the blue-grey light that filtered down.

“Do you think we’re in danger now?” the young man said.

“Depends, do you think your father would send people after you? To kill you I mean.” Vesemir didn’t even raise the question gently.

Jaskier sat, moving steadily astrid his horse, looking straight ahead. After a long moment with just the sound of five sets of hooves he said quietly, “I think maybe we should move a little faster.” He nudged his horse into a canter and fingered his lute strap nervously.

Without further instruction, the witchers formed up. Eskel, keen with magic and with the same good senses of any witcher, rode in front. Lambert, with his predilection for blowing things up from a distance, rode behind. Geralt and Vesemir rode along in the middle, Jaskier between them. He was probably the safest man for a hundred miles.

“You really think he might try something?” Geralt asked quietly. He knew speaking softly wasn’t the same as being tactful, but it was about the best he had.

Jaskier nodded. “It makes sense. If his goal is to start war with the witchers. To say you mistreated me and voided the contract, that’s one thing. But it makes a better story to feed to people if his beloved son is killed the day after the wedding.”

“I just don’t get it,” Geralt said, frustratedly. “Why does he want a war with witchers? I understand he doesn’t want you to be his successor, but he could just disown you, couldn’t he?”

“I was thinking about that,” said Jaskier. “It would look bad if he did, but he could. I think he wants a war with witchers because he wants a war with other countries. Any place that didn’t immediately turn against witchers-- all witchers, not just your school--well, he could declare them an enemy of Lettenhove, which is a big province. That makes it an enemy of Kerack and then Kerack goes to war with anywhere that decides they need someone to fight their monster problem.”

“That’s...” Geralt said.

“Despicable?”

“Well, yes, but I mean, it’s a lot to comprehend,” Geralt said. He felt a little at sea. This wasn’t his job, all this, this politics. He was a witcher. Find monster, swing sword, kill monster, get coin. That was what he did. Alliances and assasination and wars and marriage, they weren’t supposed to factor in.

“Yeah.” Jaskier said. 

They rode on, safe inside the wolf school’s formation. After perhaps a quarter of an hour Jaskier slung his lute around and began to pick at it idly. It had a case, but he’d tied that onto his big stallion instead. Apparently he liked having it available.

“Why does he want a war?” Geralt asked after a little longer. “What does your father get out of it?” 

Jaskier stopped plucking. “It’s part of the earl thing, in his case the position has a lot to do with finances and the kingdom’s treasury. Wars mean finances are more important, which makes him more important, and he get’s more power.”

“All of this is just a power grab?” Geralt said. “That’s daft.”

“That’s politics,” Jaskier said, a tad tiredly. “He probably thinks he could be made a duke. And yes, daft is a good word for it all.”

After that they just rode, stopping only briefly for lunch and to rest the horses. Jaskier played his lute quietly, most of the journey. At one point he pulled a notebook and charcoal stick from his bag to jot things down and muttered as he played.

Geralt had no idea if the lad’s music was impressive, but he was impressed with how he sat a horse, multitasking as if he was part centaur. He did most emphatically not think about how nice Jaskier’s thighs looked in the clothes he’d changed into at their lunch stop.

The wedding attire was very fine, but Jaskier looked somehow...right in the clothes he wore now. Blue trousers of fine but durable material and a white chemise under a blue doublet. He’d asked if he should wear the basilisk leather, but Geralt had shook his head. It was a fine spring day and basilisk leather kept heat like a fur coat, he didn’t want to cook his husband before they’d been married a whole day.

And wasn’t that a thought that clanked about in Geralt’s head. Husband. Husband husband husband husband husband. They were married and Geralt had a husband. Who was nobility. And Geralt was his husband.

And Geralt kind of wanted to kiss his husband.

That was his problem, however, not Jaskier’s. Whatever the damn ‘implied hidden fidelity clause’ said, Jaskier was free to sleep with whomever he chose. Why would any young man, in the position to choose, pick a scarred witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken? Who could choose Geralt?

Geralt suddenly felt very bitter, for himself and on Jaskier’s behalf. Neither of them had asked for this, and the witchers weren’t even going to get anything from it. Now he had a husband, a semi-disgraced noble, who apparently had musical talents. Bardic? Geralt didn’t know but it seemed...right. 

Regardless, he needed a place to drop Jaskier off. Somewhere safe. It couldn’t be claimed he mistreated the man if they weren’t together. That way, Jaskier couldn’t...

Couldn’t what? 

Geralt had never before actually contemplated all the ways a normal human could be hurt on the Path. Witchers, sure, he knew about that but humans were delicate. Geralt had been told once that you shouldn’t just eat rabbit because it...it did something and you would get sick. Or maybe starve? Because the meat was wrong somehow. Too lean? Not lean enough?

It didn’t matter because he wasn’t a human. He remembered a dreadful three weeks when coin had been lean eating just rabbit and he’d been fine. Jaskier might not be. Geralt hardly earned enough coin for himself how was he supposed to feed and protect them both. 

Not to mention things like sleeping rough and rainstorms and all the little pitfalls of traveling.

It had seemed fine in theory before. Jaskier would have his basilisk leather and would stay at camp but now reality was setting in. 

Tired from the road, the whole group spoke little as they set up camp. Geralt pitched the tent that he would share with Jaskier then set up the fire while his brothers put up their own tents and Vesemirs. Vesemir went hunting.

Geralt was almost eighty five years old, and had been hunting for most of those years, but not one of the younger wolves could match Vesemir’s skill. 

Dinner was stew, with meat courtesy of Vesemir. Dessert was no talking at all. This wasn’t unusual at all for the wolves, but Jaskier was looking around nervously. 

“You’re safe,” Geralt said. “It’s fine.”

“Okay,” Jaskier said. It seemed odd, because he’d been so vibrant and chatty back at Chateau Lettenhove.

“Pass me your dish,” Geralt said. Wordlessly, Jaskier handed him the shallow bowl. Geralt scraped it onto the grass.

“I’m sorry about the whole...assassin thing and, and everything,” Jaskier said after another silent minute.

“Hmm,” Geralt said.

The overast sky finally gave way to the rain that had been threatening all day and with a sigh the witchers each turned in for the night. Jaskier crawled into the tent after Geralt and settled down onto one of the bedrolls.

Geralt went about his nightly routine as if nothing was different, untying his hair and stripping himself his clothes. He felt oddly flattered when Jaskier let out a tiny gasp as he divested himself of his smallclothes. A glance showed him the young man, wide eyed in the dim light, kneeling on his bedroll. 

The tent smelled of lust.

Geralt pulled on the well-worn loose trousers he preferred and nudged Jaskier’s pack at him. The boy took the hint and rummaged in it, pulling out similarly loose sleep pants and changing quickly. Geralt looked away for decency’s sake. They may be married but that was no reason to take liberties. Unfortunately, Jaskier was wearing another loose chemise to bed, and Geralt’s thoughts dragged back to the tantalizing view of shoulder from that morning. 

“Wrap up tight,” he grunted, annoyed at himself for even thinking of that. “If the temperature drops in the night I don’t want to have to deal with you getting sick.”

The lust smell, which had waned somewhat, was entirely gone, replaced with a scent Geralt had smelled on Jaskier before. 

“Okay,” Jaskier said quietly, and tucked himself obediently into his bedroll.

Jaskier smelled sad. Like he had the night before.

Geralt rolled into his own bedroll and cursed himself. Of course the boy was sad. Dragged onto the Path with a husband more monster than man. Boyish hormones made him horny, not any desire for something like Geralt. And he was a boy. Nineteen was legally an adult but it was like...what was the phrase Vesemir had used? De jure is not de facto. Legallity is not truth. 

Geralt listened to Jaskier’s breathing and thought about their ages. Eighty years for a witcher was still considered a mere stripling youth when considered in the course of a witcher lifespan. For Jaskier, though, he would live to be eighty only if he was lucky. On a witcher’s Path he almost certainly wouldn’t be. 

Jaskier’s breathing hadn’t slowed into the deep, even pattern of sleep. Geralt wondered what was keeping him awake. Then again, if he was sleeping beside a monster, he’s lie awake too.

It seemed as though neither of them would ever sleep, both of them laying, inches between them, on their separate bedrolls. Then, between one blink and the next, Geralt must have slipped into sleep.

He awoke to a damp world. It had rained through the night and the rain was still drizzling against the tent when he opened his eyes. The humidity and the little moisture that seeped through the cloth of the tent had built up and everything felt sticky and muggy. 

Although every item of clothing in his pack had been put in dry, almost nothing felt entirely dry as he struggled into proper clothes. Jaskier woke too, blinking his eyes open muzzily and wrinkling his nose at the damp feeling. He also dressed in silence, frowning as he pulled on his clothes. 

There was no dry firewood for a fire and Eskel, gifted though he was with magic, couldn’t make a fire last on soaked wood. The group ate cold rations. Jaskier tried to start up a conversation with Eskel about literature. 

Geralt smiled inwardly, but let none of it show on his face, lest Jaskier think he was mocking him. Eskel, despite the best efforts of everything the wolf school could do, was so far from being a morning person as to be out the other side. He could stay up all night, but wasn’t conversational until nearly noon.

Jaskier looked disheartened, though. Geralt wasn’t a substitute for literary conversation, so he just packed up Jaskier’s horse for him. For some reason, Jaskier frowned at that, but then nodded at Geralt and they all mounted up. 

It was an hour’s ride to Egerbak, where the witchers would part. From there, Geralt thought, mapping the journey in his head, he and Jaskier could turn for Oxenfurt. The journey would be almost a month, and Geralt would have to hunt along the way to earn coin, but Jaskier would be safe there.

While Geralt was musing, Jaskier was trying to strike up a conversation with Vesemir. The old wolf was more of a morning person than Eskel, but not a conversationalist, so Jaskier eventually shrugged a little sadly and pulled out his lute. 

He plucked a tune, editing it again and again until he seemed satisfied. It was catchy, an earworm Geralt was sure would never leave his head. Then Jaskier began to hum.

Geralt himself was very nearly tone deaf, and frankly didn’t like music in most cases, but Jaskier’s voice sounded okay. It was only humming, anyway. 

Geralt’s ears pricked and he saw the shoulders of Eskel, riding point, tense up too. He knew all the witchers had heard the noise. Hoofbeats were approaching fast. Geralt craned in his saddle to see the rider, but could make out little between the rain, which had graduated from drizzle to downpour. 

Vesemir coughed, flexing his hand on the reigns, opening his fist then closing it again. The witchers drew together, closing their formation. To the rider it would likely look as if they merely were drawing towards one another to give him room. It worked to do that, for sure, but it was also a defensive maneuver, trained into them and beaten into their memory. Witchers rarely fought alongside eachother, but when they had to they were prepared. Closing ranks also had the benefit of enclosing Jaskier, like a hand wrapping around a precious stone. 

Geralt’s steel sword had been tied at his hip, and his silver along with the saddlebags. It made him look less threatening, more like a knight errant than someone ready to battle at any time. In truth, the change from being slung at his shoulders was practical. In combat he could draw the sword from his hip and be prepared, rather than having to reach up to draw his weapons. It left him less exposed on horseback. He reached down to his hip and, in a smooth and almost impercepitble motion, flicked the tie open on the sheath of his sword, loosening its hold to make the sword easier to draw. He turned the movement into a casual stroke of Roach’s flank. 

The rider pulled up alongside. “Sir witcher,” he panted, “I must speak with Master Julian.”

Geralt glanced at Jaskier but the boy looked...different. He was sitting his horse more stiffly and looked more haughty and aristocratic than Geralt had ever seen him. Nothing of his clothing had changed, and he was in poor garb compared to the silken doublets he had worn before, but in a second his posture had turned him into the spitting image of his father. 

“Speak, man,” Jaskier said, waving one hand dismissively. 

“You left without your dowry.”

“Dowry,” Jaskier said coldly. 

Geralt felt cold for a different reason. He’d seen a ring on the hand of the rider, the left hand’s index finger. It was large, with a heavy stone. He was a slim young man in the dress of a footman, but something in his build said otherwise. This was an assasin, Geralt would bet his medallion, and the ring held poison, or something equally nasty. 

“I have no need of a dowry,” Jaskier was saying, passing straight through haughty and going for enigmatic without bother to slow down. 

“Your father insisted,” said the assassin, sidling his horse closer. Geralt nudged Roach and she deftly stepped in the way. 

“My father can take back his coin,” Jaskier said, even as the man offered a bag, slightly open to show gold coins. “I am no maiden, and my marriage shall produce no heirs.”

“But--”

“Don’t speak over your betters,” Jaskier said, every words ringing like steel. “A dowry is to set up a household. Well my household, such as it is,” here Jaskier gestured about him. “Is set up. Traditionally, if the wife dies without producing a male heir to the marriage the dowry is returned. I shall produce no heirs, so I’m returning the dowry preemptively.”

The assasin looked truly stumped. “I must give this to you,” he said, reaching forward, across Roach’s rump to hand the bag to Jaskier. Geralt saw the man’s thumb hover over the poison ring, as if about to flick open the compartment. 

“No,” Jaskier said.

“At least dismount so that we can discuss this,” pleaded the rider. 

Geralt looked about them. They’d been riding through woodland all day, but it was dense here, just the place one might lie in wait. Then he saw it, the thing he’d been waiting for since they’d left Lettenhove. A glint of light off of metal in the underbrush. Vesemir caught his eye, he’d seen it too. 

“Melitele help us!” Jaskier cried. “There’s bandits in the woods!”

Geralt saw anger and annoyance flash onto the face of the assassin. “No bandits in these woods my lord, I’m sure,” he said smoothly.”

Geralt knew the plan in that instant. Jaskier would be found dead on the roadside, the rider would stagger back into Lettenhove, or perhaps onward into Egerbak and tell how the witchers had cruelly murdered Jaskier and made off with the dowry, leaving him for dead. These hiddent troops were presumably to subdue the witchers while Jaskier was murdered. 

Finally, Geralt drew his sword.

Damn. If they killed the Earl’s men that would also look bad. 

Jaskier, switching from enigmatic to foppishly distressed. “You simply must turn back,” he was saying to the assassin. “It’s quite alright, I have all these big, strong witchers to protect me, and before I left lettenhove I sent a xenovox message to a mage in Temeria, a friend of mine. I have a powerful protection on me.”

“You do,” the assassin said, edging his horse back a step. Protection spells tended to get messy in a guts and gore way for those who crossed them.

“Oh yes, and my darling husband, isn’t that right, dear heart?” Jaskier said, giving Geralt doe eyes. Geralt blinked.

“Uh, yes, Triss Merigold,” Geralt said, thanking his lucky stars, which most of the time had utterly failed to be lucky for him, that he actually knew a mage in Temeria.

“Merigold,” the would-be assassin said. “The name rings a bell, I’ll just,” and he rode off, back towards Lettenhove. 

Jaskier spurred his horse. “Let’s get out of this rabbit snare,” he muttered. The witchers rode double-time to clearer ground.

“Well,” Vesemir said, once they were well and truly clear. “Quick thinking, lad, and some of the most pretentious acting I’ve ever seen.”

Jaskier bowed in his saddle, smiling like a moonbeam. “Thank you, although I’m just glad Geralt had a real name to back me up.”

“Should do,” Lambert snorted as they rode past the first few buildings of Egenbak. “She practically sewed his guts back into his body after a Striga--”

“Shut up,” Geralt growled, but it was too late. Even in the rain, Jaskier’s eyes were sparkling. 

Greed, Geralt reflected, and indeed, lust, came in many varieties. Jaskier’s father may covet money and power, but the mere mention of a story had Jaskier coveting it just as viciously. What could be so boring, so lacking in a wealthy young man’s life, Geralt wondered, that he was so starved for adventure?

They bid their goodbyes to the other witchers, Jaskier surprising them each with a hug. Vesemir huffed, but Geralt caught the slight upward twitch of his moustache. 

“Fair roads,” Jaskier said, waving to them all. Geralt waved too, and then his brother’s and Vesemir rode away. 

So did Jaskier and Geralt, but it hadn’t been three minutes when Jaskier asked, “Striga?”

“Mmmhm.” 

“What is a striga?” Jaskier pressed.

“Monster.”

Jaskier huffed. “What sort,” he said, with a bit of a whine. “How is one born...made? What does it look like? What does it do? Why have I never heard of one before?”

“Made by magic. Looks ugly. Does messy awful killings. They’re rare.”

“Please, Geralt, tell me the story?” 

Geralt didn’t look over at him. Wasn’t going to. If he caught a glimpse of that face and those eyes pleading he’d give in.

“The rode is going to be awfully boring, Geralt, a story would really help,” Jaskier said, still begging.

“Just focus on riding,”Geralt growled. “I don’t want to have to deal with you if you fall off your horse.” Then he urged Roach on ahead. 

It was indeed a very long and boring ride. After a while Jaskier pulled out his lute and began to play.

“Toss a coin,” he sang quietly, then he changed the cord and tried it again, a little higher. “Toss a coin to your witcher.”

“Don’t make up songs about me,” Geralt growled.

“Short of you telling me stories I have to make things up,” Jaskier said. “I know nothing about you.”

“So you write me a song?”

“I think you deserve one,” Jaskier said, as if his very believing it made it fact. 

Geralt urged his horse on ahead. 

“Come on,” Jaskier said, nudging his horse faster too. “My singing can’t be that bad, can it?” he asket.d lightly.

“Yes,” Geralt growled. “It can.”

They rode the rest of the day without speaking. Jaskier plucked sullenly at his lute. 

Geralt was angry, and worse, he didn’t really have any right to be angry. He knew he’d messed up. Day two of marriage and he’d fucked up spectacularly. He was bad at this, and he was angry at himself. Somehow, though, he felt angry at Jaskier too. What was Geralt supposed to do? Answer every childish question? Tell stories? Discuss literature like Eskel could? Like probably all of Jaskier’s high class friends at Oxenfurt and Lettenhove could?

He was a witcher. Witcher meant solitary. It meant silence. It did not mean infernal music and being pestered about a story like a nanny.

He was being an asshole and he knew it, but damnit, he’d been an asshole so long he wasn’t about to stop all at once. It was practically baked in at this point. Being angry was better than trying to be kind an failing. Silence was easier than speaking.

Jaskier drooped in his saddle though, and Geralt felt like a cad.

They stopped for lunch at the side of the road, eating soggy rations and not talking to one another. They were both soaked to the skin, despite heavy cloaks, which were too hot in this late spring storm. Jaskier dripped miserably and carefully wiped down his lute, putting it reverentially in its case.. Up until that point the instrument had been mostly safe from rain, cradled against his body under the cloak. He’d clearly come to the same conclusion that Geralt had, however, that if the instrument stayed out any longer, cloak cover or no, it would get truly wet. 

“Raining cats and dogs,” Jaskier said, tentatively. It had the same feeling as a man dipping his toe into water to see how cold it was. 

“Hmmm.” Geralt said, neutrally.

Apparently seeing this not outright aggression as an invitation, Jaskier, metaphorically, jumped into the pond. 

“See, I think that saying is really rather silly,” he said. “Not only because it, obviously, doesn’t rain animals, but really, cats don’t even like water.”

He continued chattering as they remounted and rode on.

“Dogs do like water of course, well, some, but so few like rainstorms, especially thunder. I wonder why we have that saying then.”

His mind seemed to skip back and forth between subjects like a grasshopper. 

“I understand why dogs don’t like thunder, of course, and I don’t care for lightning much myself, but the thunder must be so loud with their sensitive hearing.”

He paused for a split second and Geralt wondered if blissful silence would return but then,

“I imagine thunder must be dreadful with your hearing, right?”

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. Shut up, he thought.

“Oh that’s awful,” Jaskier said. “Do you think it will thunder tonight? I hope not. If it does - or perhaps even if it doesn’t - I think we ought to get a room in an inn tonight. Give our clothes a chance to dry.”

Melitele’s tits. Geralt couldn’t believe one man could talk so much. It was almost like nervous chatter but it grated on his already fraying nerves.

“An inn would be perfect don’t you think? And I could play there. I’m a bard you know. Now I know what you’re thinking, ‘you’re a Viscount, Jaskier,’ and that’s true, although I suppose not anymore, technically from the moment I said ‘I do’ that honor was passed to my half-brother but, I’m a bard as well.”

“Shut up.”

“What?” Jaskier said.

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling as he did so cold water drip from his hood onto his face. “For the love of all that is good just shut up,” he growled. 

“Maybe if you said something back occasionally it wouldn’t be so one sided,” Jaskier said sniffily.

“Maybe if you had any brains in that empty head of yours you’d have something worth while to talk about.”

“I have brains,” Jaskier said, affronted.

“Clearly not enough to know when to shut up,” Geralt sniped back. “I don’t want to have to deal with your incessant chatter all the way to Oxenfurt.”

Jaskier stopped his horse and dismounted, in the middle of the road, in the pouring rain. 

“Get back on your horse, have you lost your mind?” Geralt said, but he reigned Roach in.

“Oxenfurt?” Jaskier said, quietly. His voice held no emotion and Geralt felt suddenly that he had really fucked up this time. He dismounted.

“Yes,” he said. “You have friends there, I thought it would be a nice place to go.” He wasn’t sure why he didn’t tell Jaskier that he intended to leave him there, but he felt that, at this time, that wouldn’t go over well.

Jaskier’s face softened. “You thought it would be nice,” he said. “For me to go back there.”

Geralt shrugged. “One destination is as good as the other on my Path, often I just wander.”

Jaskier smiled softly and remounted. “Okay then,” he said. “To Oxenfurt.” He chuckled. “I’m sorry, I suppose dismounting was dramatic, I guess I thought you were taking me somewhere to get rid of me.”

It was like having ice shoved into Geralt’s spine as he mounted Roach again. “I wouldn’t get rid of you,” he said lowly.

“Oh, not ‘get rid of’, like that stupid assassin. I meant...discard, abandon, leave, wash one’s hands of, cast aside.”

They rode on, Jaskier chattered, but less. Geralt didn’t say a single word.

They didn’t make it to a town with an inn that night so they made camp in a soaked clearing again. Guilt ate Geralt as he was eating cold rations and chased him into their tent. He lie awake feeling heavy with it as he heard Jaskier’s breathing drop off.

Jaskier wouldn’t like being left at Oxenfurt, but it would be for his own good, Geralt thought. He didn’t have to tell him right now, anyway. That was a discussion that could wait until Oxenfurt. 

Geralt’s guilt didn’t lift completely, but it eased enough that he slipped into meditation.

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

I’m still pretty sick with mono, so this took me ages to manage, but its here at last! So psyched to write the next part too.

Tag List!

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[phantomphangphucker]

Phic Phight - The Weird Little Shit

For: @darks-ink

A class discussion held by Wes about Danny’s weirdness was never not going to be an absolute cluster fuck

Wes smacks the board, “alright, fuckers, thank you for coming-”.

“We’re only here because we lost a bet”.

“Shut up, Dash. You shouldn’t have to be strong-armed into learning the truth”. Everyone rolls their eyes at Wes pretty actively. “Anyway, since you all refuse to see or even listen to the truth of what Danny Fenton is. Instead, this. Weird shit about Danny Fenton one oh one”.

Dash snorts, “now this I can get behind, little shit weighs, like, ten pounds or some shit”. Wes points at him aggressively, “exactly”. Scribbling down ‘weighs less than a sack of potatoes' on the board. Star throwing in her two cents, “yeah and I’ve seen Sam just pick him up under her arm and run off”.

Brittney smacks her desk, “half the time he makes food directly in home ec it’s fucking cold, which ew, but also really weird”.

“Oh yeah he does that with his drinks too. He whole ass ‘drank’ a solid chunk of ice, major power move honestly”.

“And remember that snowball fight? I don’t think he ever actually made any snowballs, he just kept acquiring them”.

“Kid made for a great air conditioner when all the windows got stuck shut though; guy runs cold as fuck”.

Wes is just aggressively scribbling more down with a mildly manic grin.

“We should totally invite him to parties so he can keep the fucking beer cold”.

Dash laughs loudly and smacks Dale on the arm, “now there’s an idea!”, deadpanning, “still not inviting freaky Fenton though”. Dale chuckles very awkwardly.

“Well he’s an ice sculptor so that’s not surprising”.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘ice sculptor’? He clearly lifts weights in his spare time”.

“Oh yeah, he lowkey picked up the back end of my car once”.

“James, your car is a tiny little piece of shit. I could lift that damn thing”.

“Hey”.

“Anyway. Like I was saying, people who handle cold shit all the time, you know, like ice sculptors, usually have cold hands”.

“He lifts weights! Not ice sculpts!”.

“Here I though he was a painter”.

“Why the fuck would he be doing that?”.

“Well he’s always randomly splattered in green paint”.

Basically everyone pauses to look at Hanna. Kwan blinking, “the green is ectoplasm, duh”. Emilie shrugging and nodding, “everyone knows that”.

“Well I thought it was paint”.

“Well you’re clearly stupid”.

“Shut up”.

Dash waves everyone off, “so clearly not a painter or weight lifter, because have you seen his goddamn noodle arms?”.

“He lifts weights!”.

“No he doesn’t!”.

“Who cares! Have you seen his dad? Of course he’s a strong little shit! What really gets me is him getting out of locked rooms”.

“Oh he whole ass climbs out windows and shit”.

“All that ecto that gets on his skin makes his hands all sticky, hence why he can climb the side of buildings”.

“When the heck did you see him doing that?”.

“Oh I totally saw him showing off knife swallowing to some elementary kids”.

“I think he hangs out and does drugs or some shit on the roof”.

“So he climbs up the school building to do drugs? Why wouldn’t he just use the hidden steps like a normal person?”,

“I’m pretty sure the kitchen staff actually include him in their budget for missing utensils cause he eats so many of them”.

“Julie, no one’s saying Danny’s close to normal. Also kids got an iron stomach damn”.

Dash has to jump in there, “I totally made him eat my underwear once”. Earning him a round of judging glances. “What? I didn’t expect him to actually do it. I was planning to mock him for pussying out. But then the little fucker went and did it”.

“Power move”.

“Shut up”.

“You fed your underwear to a guy who builds guns?”.

“Excuse me but what?”.

“Maybe him doing so much dangerous shit is why his heartbeats all slow and stuff”.

“Again, excuse?”.

“Well we totally tested everyone’s heart rates and breathing and shit and he’s super low. He blamed his corn supper”.

“That’s stupid”.

“His corn supper had teeth, Todd”.

“Back to the gun making because what?”.

“FentonWorks is a weapon company what do you expect?”.

“James, he made a shotgun out of a pencil, two toothpicks, an elastic band, and a snapped in half penny. The thing was magically welded together”.

“You can’t weld a fucking pencil. It’s wood, moron”.

“Well it was goddamn wielded”.

Wes grumbles, “yeah he welded my binder zipper together once, stupid pyrokinesis”. Star glares at him, “I thought this wasn’t about your crazy conspiracy crap?”. Wes glares at her like she’s stupid.

“Ignoring Wes being crazy again. You guys do know he has laser beam lipstick right? He could totally weld stuff with that”.

“Didn’t he have a tail that one day?”.

“Huh?”.

“That lipstick of his is the plasma peach one right? Because girl I so need some, it makes amazing blush”.

“Oh no a dog just crawled under his shirt. I think he was trying to hide the treats or some shit?”.

“Fucking where? in his shoulder blades?!?”.

“Oh my god that’s right, he can totally pop all his joints out so probably yeah”.

“Since when could he do that? Better yet, why? Fucking ow”.

“His fingers also glow green when he cracks them”.

“Right Right I remember that! We also got him under a black light, totally wild”.

“I wish I could pop out my joints randomly”.

“He probably just eats glow sticks and they leaked into his joints and shit”.

“THAT MAKES NO SENSE”.

“Who cares, take him to a rave”.

“Oh my god yes he does amazing makeup”.

“Wait Fenton does makeup now too?”.

Wes points at Dash, “he’s got to cover up the dead parlour to his skin somehow”. With half the class shouting, “HE’S NOT DEAD”.

Emilie pursing her lips, “but what if he was, that would be hot”.

“EXCUSE ME!?!”.

“Oh get off your vanilla basic bitch high horse, Karen”.

Wes rubs his forehead, “not this shit again”. Smacking the board, “weird shit about Fenton, people! Not y’alls weird necrophilia fetish!”.

“Hey that’s just Emilie”.

Jesse looks genuinely offended, “bitch what? Have you seen a ghost? That glow? Mmmmmh yeah, daddy”.

Star chokes, “oh my god. I love our town”.

Wes sighs, “I should just start blocking you people from seeing ghosts at all. Cover those eyes until you stop BEING FUCKING BLIND”.

“Eyes never stop seeing, they just get covered”.

“NO! NO! BAD!“.

“That weirdly reminds me that Danny can totally walk with his eyes closed”.

“That’s weird how?”.

“How ‘bout you fucking try it then!”.

Dash shrugs, “well his eyes go glowy green all the time so no surprise he can just see through his eyelids”. More than a few people look to him, “why did you not add that to the weird list?”.

“Because it’s not weird”.

“Dash... do you know anyone with goddamn glowing eyes... besides ghosts”.

“Uhhh the entire Defect Quartet”.

“Excuse?!?”.

“Honestly him biting open pop-cans is weirder”.

“Oh god yeah, that’s horrible to hear”.

“He dead ass cut his lip up once doing that and just... kept doing it. There was blood all over his neck”.

“Why the heck didn’t anyone take an edgy aesthetic photo of that? Goddamn”.

“I feel like this is more an off-the-books class on discovering that Danny might actually be hot”.

“You wanna say Fenton’s hot again? I’ll goddamn choke you, motherfucker”.

“Do it you fake ass bear dom”.

A couple of people shuffle out of their desks and away when Dash actually throws a punch at Jasper.

“On a side note, once saw Danny sleeping in a trash can”.

“How is that weird”.

“How isn’t it? It’s a trashcan”.

“And he’s trash, your point”.

“YOU'RE GONNA HAVETA HIT HARDER IF YOU WANT TO MAKE AN IMPRESSION ON YOUR TWINK BOY! HE’S DURABLE AS FUCK!”.

“FUCK YOU!!!”.

“Huh, he did survive falling from the ceiling multiple times and that drowning once”.

“Fucker wasn’t drowned, he can breathe underwater”.

“Excuse me?”.

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!?!”.

Dash snapping his head around, “IM TEACHING HIM A LESSON!”. Jasper just smirks, “I DON’T NEED BREATH PLAY TIPS FROM YOU!”. Dash tries punching him again.

“This is ridiculous, I mean really, Danny would be the dom”. That silenced the entire room.

“What?”.

“Come on, he ate Skulker once ‘cause the guy was coping him an attitude”.

“DANNY EATS GHOSTS?!?”.

Wes turns around and slams his head on the board, “God fuck this is such a cluster fuck”.

“You’re hosting this and holding us hostage here”.

“YOU’RE NOT MY HOSTAGES! YALL LOST A BET!”.

“Oh suck my toes”.

“WHAT?!”.

“While Wes loses his mind for the fifth time this week, what we’ve got is he’s icy as shit, likes welding and makeup and ice sculptures and weight lifting, weighs fuck all, just vores goddamn everything, and climbs shit weirdly well?”.

“You’re forgetting all the glow shit”.

“HA! Glowing shit”.

“Fuck Todd, you are a dumbass”.

“IN SHORT LOCAL ELDRITCH TEEN BUT HE’S STILL NOT A GODDAMN GHOST WES!”

“FUCK YOU! IT’S SO GODDAMN OBVIOUS HOW ARE YOU PEOPLE LIKE THIS OHMYGOD!”.

Just then Danny Fenton opens up the door, the class going dead silent while he glances around slowly. Him looking to the whiteboard, then slowly back to his fellow teens, speaking “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no”, while slowly backing out and closing the door.

At first, no one says anything before Star snickers, “pffft”; the entire classroom bursting out into laughter directly afterwards.

Wes turning around and smacking his head on the board once again, “why. Just. Why me”.

END.

Prompt: Wacky reveals (ex: Danny drying up too quickly bc intangibility, Danny's drink stays cool way too long, people's electronic devices are always more charged when they've been near Danny, etc)