#and the water feels strange and sometimes she sees things under the surface

[theinheriteddutchess]

'the Cold Ones', but it's a mermaid au.

[humanpurposes]

Karma is a God, Chapter 17: Blood is Unambiguous

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood.

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Warnings for this chapter: 18+, spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence, angst, mentions of death and war

A/n: Realised I copy pasted the whole chapter rather than a snippet, and because I am that lazy, have the whole chapter.

Full chapter is on AO3

A white raven arrives from the Citadel at Oldtown; winter has begun. Luke has felt the shift of the season, the cold mornings in the training yard when she watches Joffrey swing a wooden sword under the guidance of Ser Lorent, the gloomy grey skies and piercing winds. Sometimes she can convince herself she is back at Dragonstone. Blackwater Bay roars as it tosses fishing boats and the ships of the Velaryon fleet on its surface, as it sends waves crashing against the cliff faces along the shore below the Red Keep.

In the early mornings, before she is due to rise for meetings of the Small Council, Luke watches through the eyes of her dragon as he dives for fish and eels. She feels that he is content with the familiarity of the mist and the harsher weather, and she knows that this is not merely a dream.

She’s found books in the library detailing legends from ages long gone by, of the First Men and the Age of Heroes, warring Kings, whispers of demons from the North, the children of the forest, skinchangers, greenseers, men who could see through the eyes of birds, rodents and wolves. She knows these tales from childhood; Harwin Strong knew all sorts of stories and saw lots of strange things growing up at Harrenhal, trees with faces and bleeding eyes, ghosts and living, breathing memories.

She feels the spray of the sea against her scales, the taste of fresh fish on her tongue, her wings steady through the wind as the Red Keep comes back into view…

In her moments of curiosity she hears the delicate voice of Alys Rivers in the back of her head. “Blood is unambiguous.” 

When she sits before her mirror and watches her handmaiden twist her dark curls into braids, she tries to imagine herself with her mother’s silver hair, with Ser Leanor’s warm brown eyes and his sailor’s hands. When she looks at herself she sees Jace and Joffrey. She sees the man they were told not to mourn when he perished in his father’s castle. Blood of the dragon, blood of the Riverlands. A bastard in the eyes of some, a Princess in the eyes of others, now heir to the Iron Throne.

Jace had always said their parentage was of no consequence, but he had sounded unsure in that himself. Simply as a consequence of age he knew Harwin Strong better than she did and had clearer memories of him. He knew of the rumours whispered amongst the courtiers when they resided at the Red Keep. “It doesn’t matter what they think,” so long as they had their dragons, so long as they had the protection of the crown.

She’s searched the history books, mythologies and legends. Dragons are a different kind of magic, so maester Geradys says, bound to the Dragon Lords of Old Valyria with ancient blood magic, the likes of which Westeros may never know. Rhaenyra says dragons are a power men should never have trifled with, that they are not to be controlled outright. Yet Luke had been able to tell Grey Ghost to dive into the God’s Eye and pluck a body from the water. No command, no tug on his reins. She hadn’t even been sitting in the saddle, it was as if she was the dragon itself, acting on her own will.

Is that proof then? If she asked Rhaenyra if she has ever lived through the mind of Syrax would she understand? Or would she think she was mad? If she asked maester Geradys if the greenmen had ever seen through the eyes of dragons… it would be an impossibility.

Dressed in a black gown, rubies dripping from a silver necklace like splatters of blood against her skin, she determines she is ready to face the Small Council, Corlys, Geradys, Lord Bar Eammon, Lord Masey, Lord Celtigar, the Manderlys, and standing along the left side of the room, the Dragonseeds, Hugh, Ulf, Addam, Nettles.

She takes her place at the head of the table, standing above her mother’s seat. “Well met,” she says. “What news from the Reach?”

Vermithor and Silverwing had flown over King’s Landing this morning, returning from their errand.

Hugh takes a small step forward. “The Hightowers have Bitterbridge.”

The Lords murmur in concern. 

“What of the Caswells?” 

“Lord Caswell’s widow surrendered her castle easily enough; her children have been sent to Oldtown as captives.”

“And what of their army?”

“Some have gathered at Tumbleton, along with the Footlys. Our force there is little over half the size of the Hightower host.”

“But you did not fight?” Corlys asks.

“No,” Hugh says.

“I would have thought Silvering and Vermithor would be more than enough to match the strength of one young dragon?”

Ulf scowls. “And if the Northmen had marched when they were summoned, we might have a sizeable army by now.”

With a sharp look from Luke he is silenced. 

Jace trusted Lord Cregan enough to think she would be safe with him when her body was still broken, enough to protect her. They swore oaths to each other sealed in blood. She must also trust he will come to her when the time is right. 

Master Geradys speaks next. “Rather crucially, Princess, this morning I received a raven from Winterfell. Cregan Stark has begun the march south, with twenty thousand Northmen at his back.”

“At long last,” she says. It will take them a month at the very least, assuming they do not meet any resistance on their journey, which could be very well if the Riverlands are not secured. When Cregan makes it south their fates will be sealed. Armies will collide, the fields of the Crownlands will be watered with blood. The war will be won or lost. And in time she will be made his wife– the thought weighs heavily in her stomach. A month. Can we hold King’s Landing for another month?

“You will be grateful for our Lord’s support when his army comes,” Torrehn Manderly says with a pointed look to Ulf.

Luke turns to a map, upright, carved with the landscape of the continent. It marks King’s Landing, Bitterbridge, Tumbleton, Harrenhal, Casterly Rock, The Twins, Winterfell.”

“What footing are we left with in the Riverlands? Does Sabitha Frey continue to besiege The Twins?”

“She will make quick work of it now,” Lord Celtigar says, “Jason Lannister will receive no relief from the Westerlands now that the Greyjoys are attacking from the sea. By all accounts, Lady Joanna has locked the gates of Casterly Rock and will wait out the raids.”

“The path through the Riverlands should be clear then,” Luke says. While the Lannisters are overwhelmed and Criston Cole’s men are scattered, the Blackwoods and the surviving men of the Riverlands are regrouping, readying to march south. 

“We’ll send a raven to Dalton Greyjoy and tell him that Queen Rhaenyra is thankful for his efforts,” Lord Corlys says.

“For raiding innocents at Lannisport?” Luke says.

“For keeping the Lannisters occupied, and so that we may focus our efforts where they are needed most.”

Her chest sinks. She cannot deny that the Greyjoy’s are doing them a service, and it surely cannot be worse than what the Triarchy did to Hull and Hightide. Fire for fire, blood for blood, an endless exchange. 

She moves to the map. Her fingers ghost over Storm’s End and Bitterbridge. “Our efforts must go towards ensuring the city’s defence,” she says.

“So we will sit and wait to anticipate an attack?” Lord Celtigar asks.

Doing otherwise was Aemond’s mistake when he held King’s Landing. Without Vhagar, the city was theirs to take. She will not repeat his shortcomings. She cannot afford to. “The throne is ours to defend. We keep our strength here.”

“The dragons,” Hugh says. The eyes of the lords fall upon him as if he has stated some sort of insult.

One dragon remains against their own and armies will burn easily enough.

“Ulf and Hugh, you will go to Tumbleton and ensure the town is defended. Daeron is a capable dragonrider, but he will not make the mistake to challenge Vermithor and Silverwing together now that he is vulnerable.”

The men exchange a curious look.

“If I may be so bold, Princess,” Hugh says, keeping his hands clasped in front of him, still wearing his riding leathers from his flight on Vermithor, his silver hair pulled out of his face. “As Queen Rhaenyra now holds King’s Landing, and we all have valiantly continued to defend her throne, one cannot help but wonder about his own standing.”

“Your standing?” Luke says.

Ulf takes a step forward now. “The realm is full of traitors, Princess; Hightowers, Baratheons, Lannisters. Did Prince Daemon not say he would see an end to their lines?”

“Do you fancy yourself a new Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Ser Ulf? And you?” she says to Hugh.

His face is not so severe, a little hesitant, but he finds his boldness. “I would have Highgarden.”

“Highgarden!” Lord Celtigar cries. “Now that is an ambition, when the Tyrells have sworn to take no part in this war?”

“The Lord of Highgarden is a boy, and his mother has sat idly while her bannermen have taken up arms against the true Queen,” Hugh says, only ever looking at Luke. “Would it not serve you better to have Lords who are loyal to you?”

Now she feels the eyes of the council upon her, men who need to respect her orders, her authority, her legitimacy. She slowly traces her steps back to the head of the table. “It would disturb the order of the world,” she says.

“And is that not precisely what we are?” Hugh says, letting his insinuation linger for just a moment too long, “us Dragonseeds? The Queen has established a new order, she did the moment she called upon us to claim the dragons.”

“You would do well to remember your place nevertheless,” Corlys says.

Ulf scoffs. “What of the place of your own bastards, my Lord? Would you remind them of their place?”

Addam shifts on his feet, a man with a gentle enough disposition, a fighter nonetheless. Nettles meets his eyes and shakes her head softly. All the men at the table are getting restless.

“Only the Queen has the power to grant you what you seek,” Luke says, “and alas, I am not the Queen.”

Hugh is a man of formidable strength, a blacksmith, with well worn hands that have bent metal to his will. He rides what is now the largest dragon in the world, he has the silver hair of his mother’s house, some might say the image of a King. 

Luke remains steadfast. She cannot afford to be anything less. If they all share the same blood then what distinguishes them? She is the daughter of the Queen. Out of right or circumstance, the gods, in their strange workings, have placed her at the head of this council.

Hugh’s shoulders soften. “When would you have us fly to Tumbleton, Princess?” he asks.

Luke ensures that he holds her gaze. “On the morrow. Perhaps the morning will be best.”

“Very well,” he says and strides from the room, Ulf trailing behind him like a dog.

Their business continues in a solemn quiet, as if they are gathered around a grave that no one dares to mention. 

Once the council has dispersed, Corlys remains seated and catches his granddaughter’s eye. “I do not trust those men,” he says. “They will keep pushing to see their demands met.”

“They command dragons,” Luke says. He knows as well as her, this cannot be undone.

After breakfast, Luke leads Joffrey down to the entrance yard. He takes up a small wooden sword and puts all his might into swinging at a stack of straw, occasionally corrected by Ser Lorent. He often makes the promise to himself that he’ll be as fierce a fighter as Jacaerys or Daemon. 

“You fight well, little knight,” Luke says when he has finally exhausted himself.

He frowns, knowing he’ll be wanted inside for his lessons, a venture he finds far more tedious than swordsmanship. “Couldn’t we stay out a while longer?”

“A Prince has other duties than battle,” she says.

“Couldn’t we go to the Dragonpit? Tyraxes must miss me terribly.”

The thought makes her heart sink. Tyraxes has spent his life on Dragonstone, by his rider’s side or roaming the Dragonmount. He is still young, grieved to be alone as all children are. 

“Perhaps another time.”

“Why not now?”

It can be heard in the sounds of the city. The markets are desolate. No food has come from the Reach since the outbreak of war. The Velaryon blockade has been lifted and allowed trade in from Essos, but the sea is depleted of fish and many in King’s Landing do not have the coin to pay for food. Ser Luthor Largent of the City Watch says the people of the city are becoming like dogs tearing each other apart for scraps.

Luke leads her brother back towards the Keep. “It is safer for us inside the castle walls. These are dangerous times.”

“But you still get to ride Grey Ghost.”

“Grey Ghost is wild. I do not think I could command him to go to the Dragon Pit if I tried.”

Joffrey’s head hangs as they climb the steps to the entrance hall. “Tyraxes doesn’t like to be apart from me.”

“You’ll be returned to him soon enough, I swear it.”

A distant roar pierces the air. On the battlements and beyond the walls are cries of “dragon!”

Joffrey clings to Luke’s side. She turns her gaze to the sky, unsure of what to expect.

“It is Vermithor and Silverwing!” a voice cries from the castle walls.

There is a sense of relief amongst the men, the scorpions positioned towards the sky are eased in their aim. The panic has dispersed but Luke’s grip on Joffrey’s hand tightens. On the morrow, she said, but Hugh and Ulf have brazenly disobeyed her orders. 

The doors open twice a day, once as Geradys enters, and again when he leaves. The guards watch Aemond from within their armour, hands on their swords. He stares back as if he knows he could kill them with his bare hands. At least they fear him.

Geradys sees to his wounds, brings him broth boiled from bones and gritty, dry bread. He has asked for proper meat only to be old there is none for him. He might as well starve, at least he would not have to have such a poor excuse for food pass his lips.

He is restless, pacing the room, lying in his bed, sitting on the edge of it and staring down at his hands. Sometimes he stands by the window to remind himself that there is life beyond the walls of this chamber. He counts the tiled roofs and watches people moving through the streets like Helaena watches her pets through the bars of their cages. By the time he left King’s Landing he was hated by the smallfolk. What of it? They are made to obey, to revere Kings and Princes. What sort of life can Rhaenyra offer them that he could not when he wore the crown?

Otherwise he has taken to tormenting himself to pass his hours of isolation, because all he can think of is Lucerra.

She is in the same castle as him, wandering the halls, making commands of those around her, her mother’s heir. Every time he hears footsteps outside his door he holds his breath, waiting to see if the door will open and if she will enter his room.

Days pass since that first night and she does not come.

At night, when he tells himself the gods will turn their eyes from him, he clutches his hand over his throat, imagining it is hers. He feels the weight of her on top of him and pictures her legs straddled on either side of his body. He traces his fingertips along the same path down his chest, over the array of bruises around his ribs, stomach and navel.

She had been so delicate, ghosting over his skin like a gentle breath. His lips had been so close to her. If he had not been so startled he might have kissed her. An unusual impulse, one he had entertained the night his father died, and then some.

He can picture that less clearly with time, her sighs of pleasure as she slowly gave into him, the heat of her tight, wet cunt around his fingers. It made sense, didn’t it? Everything she had taken from him, wasn’t he owed something from her? He supposes now they are far past the constant exchanging.

“How many dead?” Rhaenyra asks from her throne. She keeps her hands in her lap, shrinking into herself so no part of her skin can touch the blades she sits upon.

A matter of days into winter and the violence has already begun.

“We lost at least twenty men,” Ser Luthor says, helm under his arm and his gold cloak splattered with blood. “We anticipate perhaps a hundred smallfolk have lost their lives, either in the crush or at the hands of the city watch. There may be many more injured.”

Rhaenyra remains unchanged in the face of the tragedy, beautiful and cold.

The crown’s coffers were empty when they took the capital at the orders of Tyland Lannister, as he confessed under sharp questioning. He sent the gold to a number of Green strongholds and he is yet to admit exactly which. What does it matter where the gold is? If it is in the Reach or the Westerlands, they have no hope of retrieving it.

Daemon said from the outset, the city cannot be held without gold. The war cannot be fought without gold. 

Under Rhaenyra’s orders, tithes have been taken from the people of King’s Landing and the rest of the Crownlands, gold, weapons and armour, food, livestock for the dragons, all in the name of protecting the realm, ending the war, defending the throne.

This is what it has come to. A cart containing stores of grain and enough gold to pay Rhaenyra’s men-at-arms had been brought through the city and the people descended upon it like vultures to a carcass, only there were more than scraps to be had, more than slivers of rotten flesh clinging to bones. Not even the horses had been spared, ripped apart for their meat in the frenzy.

“How can the captains of the city watch have allowed this to happen?” Corlys demands, standing at the foot of the throne. Luke stands beside him.

“My Lord, we are commanded to bring order to the city. Those who attacked the cart were not deterred by our threats. Something had to be done.”

“And you chose to deal them death,” Corlys says.

“We did what we could to protect the crown’s property.”

Corlys brings his hands in front of him in defeat and disgust. He turns to the Queen and says with no amount of subtlety, “this cannot go unanswered.”

Rhaenyra turns her head, her eyes full of fire. “I will put this right by ending the war.”

As the court is dismissed and disperses, Corlys leans into Luke’s ear and hisses, “a war she herself refuses to fight.”

An uncertain feeling flashes through her heart. Corlys’ doubt feels like a betrayal. “You would not suggest our Queen put her own life at risk, I hope,” she says gravely, carrying a warning in her voice.

He gives her a questioning look. “My ships still defend the city, my men are sworn to the true Queen.”

“And with your support, we shall prevail,” she says.

Rhaenyra descends the steps of the throne, the crown set upon her head, her gown heavy and scaled like the hide of a dragon, save for a cut of red fabric in the skirts, like a tear through flesh. “Come, daughter,” she says solemnly, reaching out her hand for Luke to take.

With a final look to her grandfather, and a check to make sure Ser Lorent was indeed out of earshot of their musings, Luke obeys her mother.

They walk through the castle and return to the Queen’s chambers. A handmaiden waits to remove Rhaenyra’s crown. She cannot get it off fast enough, nor her gold rings and her heavy necklace while Luke waits by the door.

“You sent Vermithor and Silverwing from King’s Landing,” Rhaenyra says.

“The Hightowers took Bitterbridge. They could be weeks way. Hugh and Ulf will hold Tumbleton and deter the approaching army.”

Rhaenyra says nothing, taking a seat at a desk by the window, facing the daylight.

“Seasmoke and Grey Ghost will defend the city well enough if Daeron tries to attack, but he will not risk it I think, not without an army.”

“What of our army?”

Luke hesitates, unsure of what Rhaenyra will know, how far she has been briefed by Corlys or maester Geradys. “Cregan Stark has left Winterfell, the Rivermen are regrouping. I thought I might send Nettles and Sheepstealer north to encourage our allies.”

Her mother has been silent for days, even a simple hum of agreement feels like a victory.

“And Baela remains on Dragonstone, we could easily summon her should we need another dragon.” In her mind it all comes together easily, as long as their allies do not delay, as long as the Baratheons continue to wait, as long as they have the dragons, as long as the city holds.

There’s a nauseating feeling in her stomach, the scent of blood lingering in her nose. Blood on a golden cloak. Blood stains at the foot of the Iron Throne. 

“You are so like your brother,”

Something inside of her shatters, crumbling foundations. The space behind her eyes burns but her hands are cold and the grip she has learned to have on her own mourning slips through her fingers like water.

“He was like this too. When you were gone he knew what to do. How did he know what to do? He was scarcely a man, he had seen no battles or wars.” When Rhaenyra looks over her shoulder, the dying daylight burns like a fire behind her, catching in her silver hair. “The two of you, so pragmatic.”

Luke took no fall for Jace, no sword in her gut. No fire burned her to charred remains. Her skin was not left bruised after he died, but the pain has lingered for far longer than any other she has known. She can’t stand it, the anger it fuels. Why remind me? Why remind me he is dead?

“You should meet with the Small Council on the morrow, mother. Your Lords may begin to rue your absence.” They already have.

Rhaenyra’s silhouette against the light does not seem to shift. 

Geradys comes as he always does. Aemond drinks the vile bone broth and forces stale bread down his throat. His bandages are changed, some strong smelling oil placed on his temples, honey lathered over the cut on his lip.

Then he is instructed to stand, to raise his arms as though a squire is about to dress him in armour. Instead he winces at the aching in his chest. Geradys pats his hands around the bandages. “You are making progress, I think. How is the pain?”

It is easing, little by little. “Tolerable,” Aemond says.

When night comes and he is alone, he waits for sleep to claim him so he can see the faces of his family, but even his dreams have abandoned him now. He is restless for hours, fading in and out of darkness until the first glimpses of sunrise.

What would Alys say to that, dreamless sleep? She might say the gods have forsaken him. She might say he is nothing now, a being of purely organic existence, mechanical like the life of an insect, an animal kept captive.

But what did any of his dreams mean to her? “Retribution will come with fire and fury,” she said, but in the end she meant it to come at the point of a knife wielded by her own hands. Why? Why taunt him with her visions? Why had he allowed himself to be tempted?

He had thought it meant Lucerra. If anyone should claim retribution in the ending of his life, surely it would be her.

He is not absolved and he knows this, but perhaps he has outlived his usefulness. Helaena and his mother are in the same castle as him and now their enduring lives are a matter of strategy, as Lucerra had made clear. In a silent prayer to the Seven, he wishes– begs that his brother can stay hidden, dead or alive. Just until Aemond can regain his strength, until he can fight his way out of this room, or to find some other advantage.

Since when did a locked door render him powerless?

There are two people left in the Red Keep who may know where Aegon is. 

Alicent Hightower stays in her chambers. Rhaenyra allows her to keep a Septa in her company and the guards say she does nothing but weep and pray. Maester Geradys says her knees are bloody and bruised where she kneels on the stone floor, clutching a pendant of the seven pointed star until that too pricks at the flesh of her palms. 

When Luke enters Helaena’s chambers the air is stone cold. No fire is lit despite the turning weather. Helaena sits on the floor amongst a collection of pillows and furs, deeply concentrated on a piece of embroidery. When she hears footsteps, her head lifts to the door, eyes are wide and more alert than they have been for months. “You’ve come to ask something of me,” she says.

The air of the room is fragile. Luke’s heart races in her chest knowing what her question will bring. She steps towards Helaena cautiously, smiling as kindly as she can, lowering herself to sit beside her.

Helaena’s hands are frozen in her work, sewing black thread into green and gold fabric, in a pattern like winged insects.

“I wish to know how you are,” Luke says.

Helaena tilts her head. Her lips are fallen and her brow is focused. Luke had never thought there was much of a resemblance between her mother and her aunt, and now she sees it. “Last night I dreamt that my son was in my arms. I rocked him though he was already sleeping and when I placed my fingers against his cheek, his skin was cold.”

“Do you know where Maelor is?”

Helaena presses her lips together. Her eyes have dropped to the fabric in her hands and she shakes her head.

“Did someone take him from you?”

“I cannot say,” she picks up her embroidery with trembling hands, tracing her fingers over the black thread. “He wasn’t with me. I couldn’t bear to look at him, not after– all I’d see when I looked at him was blood.”

After the twins, after she watched them die.

“Rhaenyra has called for his return to the Red Keep. It is our hope he will be returned to you.”

Helaena snatches her hand around Luke’s wrist. Her grip is fierce and unrelenting. It hurts and all Luke can do is look at her reddened, glistening eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Helaena, If it is in my power, I will see your son kept safe.”

“But I saw…” she frowns to herself, dragging her hands over her eyes to dry them. “Perhaps I have been mistaken.”

“Your dreams,” Luke says. Blood and water, green and black, blue and green, dragons and ghosts. The trail of blood.

“I cannot make sense of them sometimes. I saw the rats, I knew they’d want the boy but they took both.”

“When you dreamt of Maelor, where were you?”

“I saw Aemond’s death, I saw him swallowed up in the God’s Eye, and yet you tell me he is alive. I saw you at the Weirwood, with that woman, the Rivers woman.”

“Heleana please,”

“Do you think I would direct you to him even if I knew where he was?” she says sadly, sharply.

It takes Luke by surprise. “I swear, I would never wish harm upon him.”

“His life is a threat to your mother’s rule. Perhaps you would not seek to hurt him, he is only a child, he is your kin, but Rhaenyra has claimed the lives of two of my children already.”

“She never meant for them to die.”

“Should I not grieve them then?”

Luke can hardly find breath to speak. “Yes, yes of course you should. They were children.”

“But you didn’t come here to mourn Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. And if you seek Maelor then you seek his father.”

Luke knows she shouldn’t press her. She loathes herself, her own cruelty to torment her aunt in the face of her grief.

Helaena frowns, but then all the rage and sadness fades from her face. She looks to Luke with such honesty and sincerity. Her voice is a harsh whisper. “Aegon will be King again. He is yet to see victory.” 

Luke had not thought Helaena capable of bluffing. She could be lying. Her dreams could have misled her. She could have said it in a moment of anger, of desperation. What does she have left? She doesn't even know where her last remaining child is, if he is safe, if he is dead or alive. 

She leaves Helaena to her embroidery. The winged insects were flies, she realises.

What Helaena said cannot be true. Rhaenyra has seven fighting dragons at her disposal. Their allies are marching. The Hightowers may be inching closer to King’s Landing but the rest of the Green forces are scattered. Their King is missing, their Regent is her prisoner…

Her skin tightens at the very thought of seeing him again, braving that confining little chamber once more. To feel his eye burning into her.

But who would be able to make sense of Helaena’s musings better than her brother?

No taglist, follow @ficsbygee and turn on post notifs for updates <3

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Dreaming and Drowning

This fic will fill my "Take a deep breath." square on my Hurt/Comfort, Sweet & Spicy Bingo card. The prompt will be bolded in the fic. @sweetspicybingo

Summary: Michael is fascinated by Y/N. She isn't the only thing keeping him inside his vessel, but she's a very interesting bonus. Now if only he can keep Dean quiet for long enough to conduct some experiments.

Warnings/Explicit 18+: Nothing too terrible. Show level violence. Some descriptions of torture. Threatened/implied sexual assault/non-con (nothing shown or described). Depictions of drowning.

Pairings: Michael!Dean x Y/N and Dean Winchester x Y/N

Word Count: 2,579

A/N: I'm trying to work my way through my requests but I'm still back in last December! 😫 I'm sorry to everyone who's put in requests, I'm working on 'em!

Anyway, this request was for a "fatal attraction" Bingo square for a different bingo. It was from the lovely @elle14-blog1 who asked:

Hello Dear Been addicted to your page lately Love the Dean fics So about the Fatal Attraction request Maybe could you write soft dark fatal attraction of Michael Dean towards Dean’s Gf..one of the more reason he doesn’t wanna leave the vessel… Ok bye bye Xoxo💖

That space for that bingo was claimed already. But I really enjoyed this idea, so I said I'd do it another time. Well, here it is. I'm not sure if it's what you were looking for, I hope so. Hope everyone enjoys. This is the first time I've written anything for Michael!Dean, so be nice. 😁

Dean Winchester Master List || Main Master List || Tag Lists

Every once in a while Dean swam to the surface; he broke through heavy, cloying water to suck oxygen into his starving, burning lungs.

But the water was choppy and rushing, the current swept him along at a feverish pace and he could never swim hard enough or fast enough to outrun it; inevitably the cold, gray water would submerge him again and leave him drowning.

But in those few moments of clarity, he’d see her. He’d see the way she was bound, he’d watch the way his hands pulled screams from her lungs. As the water rushed around his ears, it couldn’t drown out the way her voice begged him to stop.

Not me, he reminded himself.

It wasn’t him. This was Michael’s doing. Michael was hurting her.

And who let me in? His own voice would answer back, before shoving him back down under the water with a sneering laugh. 

We both know she’s here because of you, because she wanted to save you from me. So sweet. But who’s going to save HER from me.

Oops, I mean save her from you.

***

Michael watched Y/N struggle, a soft smile on his borrowed countenance; she really was rather extraordinary, this particular little ape. He’d tortured her slowly, nothing too drastic to start, he didn’t want to permanently alter her, not yet.

He was very interested in her, interested in the noises she made when she tried not to scream, in the way he could feel the air shift almost imperceptibly when she held her breath against the pain. He loved to watch the way involuntary goosebumps erupted across her skin when he ran a finger over it. 

How strange, he thought, to not be able to control something as basic as the texture of your skin.

The human body was rather fascinating, hers even more than most. She was so soft in places, her skin bruised so easily, sometimes nothing more than a hard pinch brought a pretty purple stain to her skin. Harder blows bloomed blue and green almost immediately. Her blood ran dark red and tasted coppery with a hint of something more tangy just below the surface.

Is that the difference of her psychic blood? He wondered.

It was why he’d taken her to begin with. He’d been experimenting with all kinds of monsters, and they were finally starting to pay off, but he’d never tried mixing his grace with a psychic, he thought the results might be very interesting. So when a memory had surfaced in Dean Winchester’s brain about his psychic girlfriend, he’d decided to let her find him.

She and Sam Winchester had been searching far and wide for him, for Dean. He could have easily outrun them forever. But he decided to stay put for a moment and let her catch up. All he’d had to do to lure her in was let the ghost of Dean shine through his eyes for a moment and she came running, desperate to help.

And just like that, she was trapped in his web. 

He’d spent the first few days just getting to know her, testing her body’s capabilities and limits; how much could she bleed before she became too weak to stand on her own? How long could she hold back screams when he started cutting? How much force did it take to snap her radius, her femur?

He was thoroughly enjoying his experiments with her, simply healing her up after each one so that he could try his next idea. He’d begun to see what Dean saw in her, there was something quite beautiful in the way the ape struggled against the inevitable, the way she fought against him, knowing her efforts were completely useless. He liked the defiance in her eyes, it made his human body react in interesting ways.

Her pain and her resistance made his pilfered blood run hot and thick in his veins, made his body hard, made him run his hands up and down her body with no other purpose than to feel its softness. 

On his fourth day with her he had her stripped her down to her underthings, intending to burn her with the tip of a poker, curious to see what color her skin turned as it flaked off. He knew he was wasting time really. He’d experimented with her enough, he should be feeding her his grace to see what kind of hybrid monster he could make of the psychic.

But when he saw her in her bra and panties, memories that weren’t his surfaced in his mind, Dean’s memories of how she looked when she was beneath him, the way her head jerked back as she gasped with pleasure, the way her knuckles went white, bunched in the sheets, her body bucking into Dean’s hand, and suddenly he knew how he wanted to finish off his experimentation.

He’d never experimented like this before, none of the human bodies he’d encountered in the past had affected him this way. He wasn’t sure if it was some kind of pull from her psychic blood, or the memories he had access to, or if it was simply the enjoyment he’d already gotten from this flesh, but for the first time he felt an earthly need for the body in front of him. 

As he approached her, he saw panic in her gaze and wondered if her psychic abilities had allowed her to see what was coming. But as he registered her panic, he suddenly felt Dean back above water and screaming, roaring inside their mind.

Get the fuck away from her! I will rip you apart from the inside! 

Michael chuckled. Come on now, Dean. I know exactly how much you enjoy this body, I’m doing this as much for you as for me.

Michael lifted his hand to run his finger down Y/N’s cheek. She recoiled and he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. He did his best impression of Dean, smiling and hoping it looked friendly and not feral. 

“Don’t look away, sweetheart. It’s me. I know you love me, I know you want me. Let me make you feel better.”

He watched her face in fascination; her expressions ran the gamut between horrified, heartbroken, and lustful. But he could practically smell her hope, her need; she was absolutely desperate to pretend the man she loved was there and her tormentor was gone.

Humans really are odd little things. Michael thought.

Dean was still screaming, and then garbling his words beneath the ocean Michael drowned him in. Enough out of you, he thought with a smirk.

Maybe it was the cold smirk that did it, breaking the illusion that he was Dean, or maybe it was Y/N’s abject terror at the idea of what was about to happen. But the very last of her defiance seemed to pulse through her and something in her shifted. He could feel it in the way the hairs on his arms stood up, the way a deep, thrumming buzz began to sound inside his ears.

Y/N’s body began to pulse as well, like waves of energy gearing up. He raised a hand, his eyes glowing blue as he shot his grace towards her. The first beam hit her and stopped her, but she was soon powering up again, and when his grace surged at her a second time, she knocked it away with one of the hands she got free, snapping the chains that held her to the wall.

He pushed grace towards her again, but she wrapped herself in a psychic shield and broke her remaining chains. As he continued to fight, continued to pour grace out of himself and wield it like a sword, he felt Dean surface again. In his mind’s eye he could see him gasping and fighting for the shoreline. Michael tried to force him back under water, but he was using too much of his strength to keep Y/N back. 

And Dean was fighting incredibly hard. 

It was a two-pronged attack, from the inside and outside, and it was not something he’d been expecting. Y/N moved slowly, wrapped in her bubble, towards the bag she’d been traveling with when he caught her. As she reached the backpack, he managed to penetrate the bubble and sent her flying backwards.

Before he could press his advantage, however, Y/N was on her feet again and sending a pulse wave of energy into him, making him stumble backwards. She grabbed the bag quickly and from inside she pulled out a gold, metal, egg-shaped object. He could feel Dean leaving the water as Y/N began to chant in Enochian.

Before she was more than two words in, however, the impossible happened and Michael could feel Dean scream at him.

“Get out!”

His words were powerful enough to defeat Michael in his slightly weakened condition, and the archangel could feel his essence begin to be expelled from the body he’d resided in for almost two months. As he was forced out, he felt another call, another pull, and he looked on in horror as he was inexorably yanked out of Dean’s body right into the tiny space of the egg. 

The egg was tiny, but Michael fell for days, down and down and down, until he landed on a dark, rocky, moldy floor.

He looked around him and sitting across the floor was a human, glowing with the angel inside him. The angel looked very familiar.

The celestial who shared his name chuckled at the strange turn of events. “Welcome to the cage, doppelganger.”

***

Dean felt weak as he fell to the ground, as though he’d been running for days, weeks. No, not running, swimming, fighting against the current.

His muscles were shaking and he felt as though he might puke. Then he saw Y/N curled in a ball on the dirty floor of the cold, abandoned warehouse they were in and he rushed to her. He pulled off the suit jacket he wore and helped her sit up so he could wrap it around her shoulders.

“Y/N? Sweetheart?” He said quietly as she shook beneath his hands. 

She looked up at him, tears in her eyes; but under the tears was fear, stark terror, and suspicion.

“Dean?” She asked in a whisper, and he knew she still couldn’t trust that it was him. It hurt his heart to see the fear there; would she always see the sadistic angel looking back at her from now on?

He let go of her and moved away a bit to try and ease her worry. “It’s me, baby, it’s me. I promise. You got Michael, trapped him in that.” He nodded towards the egg. “He’s in the cage.”

Y/N stared at him, but then she shook her head slightly. “No, I didn’t get the spell out, you were already forcing him out. The egg just grabbed him as he was fleeing.” A small smile touched the corners of her lips. “You did it.”

Dean risked coming a bit closer again, reaching out a palm to lay against her cheek, rejoicing when she leaned into his touch. 

He leaned towards her and rested his forehead against hers. “No, we did it. We make a good team.”

A broken cry fell from her mouth as she threw her arms around his neck. He wrapped her tightly in his embrace.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m so sorry. I tried to get out, I tried to get to you, but I couldn’t. I tried and tried, but-”

Y/N cut him off with a kiss. Dean wept into it and didn’t even try to hide it. She tasted his salty tears and pulled back cupping his cheeks in her hands and shaking her head.

“No Dean, please don’t. Don’t put this on you, don’t punish yourself.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Yeah, why not? I let him in.”

Y/N brushed away his tears. “Yeah, to save Sam and Jack.” Dean opened his mouth to interrupt her again, but she continued quickly. “And if you punish yourself, you’ll hurt me too.”

Dean looked at her intently and she shook her head slowly. “We’re both safe now. We beat him. Together.”  She inhaled deeply. “Look, take a deep breath. Go on.” She encouraged when he didn’t do it immediately. 

He began to breathe in sync with her, timing his breathing with hers, but visions kept popping into his mind, the things Michael did to her using his hands, and he knew he hadn’t even seen everything; he knew there were things he couldn’t remember from when he'd been deeply submerged.

His breathing faltered and Y/N sighed. “I don’t remember all of it either.” She said; her psychic abilities were incredibly powerful, but he knew she wasn’t reading his mind - she just knew him too well, knew the way his mind worked, even from outside of it.

She cupped his cheeks again so he was looking into her eyes. “Can I show you where I was hiding a lot of the time?”

Dean nodded and she rested her forehead on his; he closed his eyes and let her in. 

There was suddenly a picture in his mind, like a memory, but he knew it wasn’t his. In truth, it wasn’t really a memory but a vision. In the vision he could see the two of them in an old hunter’s cabin; he remembered staying there once, years ago. But they’d simply holed up there for a night after a hunt.

The visions going through his mind had never happened. They were simply Y/N’s imaginings, the place she went in her mind to escape Michael’s torment.

In the vision Y/N and Dean cuddled together in the old bed and he was kissing her tenderly; they were having a food fight in the kitchen which she let him win so that he could lick frosting from her skin; Dean was reading to her and making her laugh by doing silly voices; they were eating pizza and talking animatedly about a hunt.

Then the visions shifted to a Christmas setting and they were sitting beside a big Christmas tree and he had the sense of being surrounded by family and loved ones, all laughing, happy and joyful, just beyond his eyeline.

In the span of a breath, he was suddenly back on the warehouse floor as Y/N broke the connection and pulled back. “I was only here sometimes, I ran away from him, as much as possible, ran far into my mind. And every single safe place in my mind revolved around you.”

He shuddered as she ran her hand soothingly through his hair. His voice was raspy with unshed tears. “I love you - so much.”

She finally let her tears flow free as she kissed him again. “I love you too.”

They clung to each other for a long time, finding their way back to one another and back to the sense of belonging they found in the other’s arms.

Finally Dean pushed himself to his feet and pulled Y/N with him. “Let’s get out of here and find Sam.” Y/N nodded, but before she could turn to get her bag, he pulled her to him for another kiss. 

When he pulled back, his green eyes were shining. “And it’s Christmas in a week. Let’s find that cabin, let’s invite everyone we know, and let’s make that dream a reality. Let’s not wait anymore to be happy.”

Y/N smiled widely and nodded, tears shimmering. “That sounds like a dream.”

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters: @lyarr24 @lacilou @deans-spinster-witch @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @alwaystiredandconfused @evznackles @jackles010378 @impala67rollingthroughtown @krazykelly @candy-coated-misery0731 @envyaurora95 @spnwoman @deans-baby-momma @luvr4miya @arcannaa @viviwatchestv @winharry

Dean Fics Only: @roonthelittlespoon920 @slamminmine @zepskies @safiyas-world @aylacavebear

Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom: @kazsrm67 @slut-for-evans-stan @sexyvixen7 @nancymcl @hobby27 @waywardcheshire

Everything Incl. Fan Edits: @k-slla @leigh70 @eevvvaa @kickingitwithkirk @foxyjwls007 @notinthislife50 @roseblue373 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @avanatural @mrsjenniferwinchester @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @deangirl96 @stoneyggirl2

[leiascully]

with halloween coming up i’ve been dying for a spooky mermaid/siren au… scully being a beautiful scary ass mermaid and maybe mulder being a captain of a ship or something? maybe she just wants to lure him to his death or maybe it’s smutty or both? (i love your work you have no idea!! ty!!)

Scully snapped the telescope open and peered into the fog. There it was again - that flash or glint. It looked like metal, but there wasn’t any metal out there. Surpassing strange. She holstered the telescope at her hip and went to find her captain.

“Sir,” she said to Captain Skinner, “I think there’s something out there. I keep seeing a flash, like light reflecting off metal. But there’s no light, and no metal.”

“It’s the fog,” Captain Skinner said. “It’ll play tricks on your eyes, Scully. I’ve seen things over the years you wouldn’t believe. Keep your head level.” He patted her shoulder with a firm hand. Far firmer than he would have had he known she was a woman. Scully had run away to join the Navy, disguising herself as a man named Daniel. So far she’d managed to maintain the charade, padding out her uniform a bit and binding her breasts down. She shaved her face diligently every day while the crew teased her aspirations, and she had a sack full of sand that she tucked into her breeches to mock a member. She’d worked herself up to become Skinner’s first mate. They were on a little-regarded ship — the crew joked she ought to be called The Exile rather than The Exhilaration — but Scully was still proud of the accomplishment.

“I’ll return to my post, sir,” she said.

“Sometimes it feels like the fog is alive,” Skinner said. “Trust an old seadog. Keep your eyes to yourself.”

“Yessir,” she said.

The fog seemed thicker as she returned to the bridge. Scully couldn’t see any of the other crew members from her lookout spot under the figurehead. They sat at anchor; most of the crew were in their hammocks below decks. It was as if she was alone in the world. She leaned on the low railing and peered into the blankness. It was strange to see so much fog in the Caribbean; the waters had been clear when they’d left Bermuda, and the sky had been cloudless.

There it was again: a flicker of light, anomalous and uncanny. It flickered again and again, almost like a signal. Scully couldn’t see anything. She unholstered her telescope again, gazed out over the invisible water. There! A sinuous curve broke the surface, gone as quickly as she’d glimpsed it. And then, oh, a face! She saw it so clearly through her lenses: it had a square jaw and deepset eyes. A man, in the water. She skinned out of her jacket and rolled her telescope into it, tucking them against the hull of the ship. She kicked off her boots and stepped onto the rail. For a moment she balanced there, hesitating, but no, there was someone in the water and it was her duty to rescue them. She dove neatly into the sea.

Almost as soon as she’d delved under the surface of the water, she was swept up in a strange current. She opened her eyes, trying to get her bearings. The salt burned, but she could see something circling her. The coils of something tightened around her until she could feel scales sliding over the thin material of her shirt and breeches. She was embraced from shoulders to knees. She couldn’t move. She ought to be panicking, but she felt strangely calm. And there was the face again, those deep eyes peering at her.

(read the rest on AO3 - 4300 words, M for sexual situations, Navy sailor Scully has the time of her life with a merMulder)

[aurora-starwars]

Dating Members of the Sully Family Hcs

Pairings: Lo’ak, Neteyam, Kiri, Neytiri, and Jake, x reader (individual)

Warnings: none :) fluff and not proof read

Word Count: 2.1k

A/n: Just felt like getting something cute out about avatar <33 Please enjoy! <3

Masterlist

Lo’ak

you would have met Lo’ak when he and his family first arrived in the Metkayina clan

you two would have made eye contact and immediate attraction grew between the two of you

it wasn’t til you were told to teach the new kids with your best friend, though, that you actually got the chance to get close with Lo’ak

he was a surprisingly kind guy under his surface level teasing. it surprised you to him tease Tuk about not being able to swim then immediately begin to help her understand how to kick her legs right

after a few months of messing around with the sully family and teaching Lo’ak, he finally got the nerve to ask you out and was more than happy when you agreed

let’s just stay he was a great boyfriend, always near if you needed help

you two often would spend your free time in the water splashing around, and Lo’ak found those were some of his favourite moments

when you had to babysit Tuk, Lo’ak really did put care into make sure Tuk got to bed in time and that she was happy. Lo’ak was practically beaming when you interacted with his sister. Although sometimes it doesn’t seem it, Lo’ak really loves his family, and would do anything for them. That fact always made you smile

if you were feeling sick, he would act causal about it, but inside would be freaking out, asking his mother for help in healing you. This boy would do anything for you

when you two have a moment to cuddle, he has his arms around you instantly. He usually won’t let go if he can avoid it.

If his brother catches you cuddling, he will definitely pout but he will still have a firm grasp on you.

Swimming with you is one of his favourite things. Experiencing the beauty of the ocean only make sense to him if you are in the water. He tells you that you are the only reason the ocean is so beautiful and that the plants only glow for you. That makes you blush

when you get him blushing though, he is a mess. You could give him one complement, even as a joke and this boy will fall apart at the seams. Face red, tail flicking, ears pinned back, flushed by your statement. Some times out of pure instinct, he will give you a quick kiss, only making him more red

it’s safe to say he is enamoured with you

Neteyam

this boy you have known since you were young, you were practically raised together

your parents were good friends of the Sully family, and thus you were close to the Sully kids

In particular, Neteyam, the boy you have liked since you were young

the two of you had a strange bond, ever since you met you were practically inseparable

hand holding, playing games, hanging out, training, exploring, you name it. The two of you did everything together.

Even when you were older and you both started to pass the rites of passages as young warriors, you were close. More often than not completing them together

It was practically fated from your birth that you to would be together

So when, one day, Neteyam brought you deep in the forest to the glowing moss carpet, confessing his deep love for you, it was no surprise that you responded with the same devotion

if people thought you were inseparable before, they were badly mistaken

your relationship only gave the two of you reason to be together, not even his sibling could divide you too. Not that they wanted too.

You two were completely and utterly in love, and anyone could see it. That helped keep people away from the two of you, which was handy.

Neteyam was the best boyfriend. Not just a great one, the best.

He was protective but never over-whelming.

Clingy but never suffocating

Gentle, but never as to not get anything done

He would go on hunts and bring you back flowers, and when you went with him, he always had your back

if you ever got hurt he would be the first to help, knowing exactly what to do, never leaving your side.

If you were sick, he would go to his mother and ask for her help, making sure you were comfortable while she tended to you. He would lie next to you while you slept, to make sure you were safe

Making him flustered was hard, but only because he never seemed to get flustered when you would think. The rush of blood to his face only ever came when you weren’t meaning to. Your flirting? No, that boy has something smart or teasing to remark with. But when you are raving to his mother about how amazing he is while he stands next to you, that gets him completely flustered. He also will be flustered when you braid his hair, or even if you simply tuck his hair behind his ears. But a complement on his skill just leads to humble disagreeing remarks.

the boy will do anything for you and wants you to be in his life for the rest of his life

Kiri

you meet Kiri in the waters of the Metkayina clan a day after her and her family arrived

you were often training with your mother to be the next tsahik if something went wrong with Ao’nung, so you didn’t know that they arrived until you were told of in the night after they arrived

you were instantly fascinated with her due to her fascination with the reef and the world in the water

while your siblings taught the other kids, you taught Kiri. Teaching her everything you knew, mostly about the plant and wild life. She was a quick learned, always wanting to learn more about the world around her

it was late one night with the two of you talking on the beach when you two started talking about the future. Kiri told you how she didn’t know what was going to happen in the future but she hoped that you would be a part of it. You couldn’t agree more

from that day on, you two were truly inseparable, a deep understand between you glueing you together

Kiri was a sweet girlfriend, always ready for anything

she liked to tease, keeping things light hearted as is usual in her family and you enjoyed every moment of it

she was sweet to you, always making sure that you were having fun, was a part of the group, and had a place where you felt relaxed and comforted

if you were ever hurt, she would be the first to hold you in her arms and inspect you, searching through her knowledge of healing in order to help you. When it was sure that you were safe, she was right next to you to tell you how you were an idiot for being in that situation in the first place

you to would run off for swims together, exploring the beautiful reefs, riding your Ilus until eclipse

if you were ever sick, she would stick with you the entire time, making jokes and laughing with you in order to keep your spirits up

she wasn’t as protective as others, but she was with you most of the time anyways, so she was almost always able to ensure your safety. If not, she had two brothers that were always eager for a fight

physical contact was a must with Kiri. She loved holding your hand at all times or wrapping you in a tight hug, or having her arm around your shoulder, as long as you two were connected, she was happy

Kiri is loving girlfriend with an incredible bond with Eywa

Neytiri

Neytiri was beyond skeptical when she met you, although she thought you were beautiful

it was only when she was tasked with teaching you about the Omaticaya clan and how to become one of the people, that she actually began to like you

It was slow at first, she didn’t really care for you all that much at first, but she was beyond interested in you. She was especially captivated by your fascination with the forest and the life in it.

As the months went by, she watched as you quickly became skilled in practices that took years to learn. You were entirely determined to become one of the people and she was entranced by your interest.

Only when you complete the final part of becoming one of the people did she finally realize her feelings. They had been brewing since the beginning, like an expensive tea.

She took you to see the tree of souls, where she asked you who you were going to choose to mate with. And of course you told her of your undying love for her, and she could only confess the same.

Neytiri is a wonderful girlfriend and mate, always supportive and kind

You and Neytiri like to run off into the forest and get lost in the beauty of Eywa. The forest had become your home and you were incredibly happy to spend time with your mate in the biggest home you will ever have.

She would tease you gently, always looking for a laugh from you. Eywa, she loved your laugh

She was always there for you, making sure you were alright, that you knew everything you needed to know, was protected and safe from harm

she is incredibly protective, always ready to come between you and anything that threatens your safety, you were always her number one priority

if you were hurt, she would always know what to do, and in the off chance she didn’t, she would run you back to her mother to heal you. Don’t think for a moment that she would leave you alone though, you better believe that she is not leaving your side till you make a full recovery. She will sit or lie by your side and whisper sweet nothings into your ear until you fall asleep

If you got sick, again, she is right there for you. She will baby you the entire time, no matter how capable you are. She is always there to make sure you stay healthy and happy.

Neytiri loves to cuddle up to you at the end of the day, whether your big spoon or she is doesn’t matter to her, as long as you are wrapped together, she is happy.

Neytiri has so much love in her heart and she intends to show you all of her love.

Jake

ever since he came tumbling into your clan, Jake has been the target of your attention

he was an outsider, of course, but he was determined to become a part of the people, and you were instructed to teach him

for weeks he struggled, only making you frustrated, but after a few months, he started to pick things up rapidly

his skill were progressing faster than most and he was almost ready for the rite of passage

when he came back from bonding with his Ikrans, he had the brightest smile on his face. You were equally as excited for him as you two came together in a tight hug. When you separated, he looked at you with a dazed look before closing the space between you. His lips meeting yours.

After that day, you were Jake’s and he was yours

He was a protective boyfriend, always looking out for you

Jake is always pulling you close, he wants constant contact. Hand holding, kisses, hugs, arms around shoulders, you name it. He is a gentlemen, always helping up and down from places if he can. And when cuddling, you better believe this man is the big spoon, but sometimes he wants to look into your eyes as he holds you close. Those moments are always the softest.

if you are sick, Jake is there with you the entire time, smiling and holding your hand while he watches your face, still beautiful to him even when sick

Jake would do anything to make you smile, most often would be messing around on your Ikrans as you fly high in the sky. He loved to fly close to you before moving away, challenging you to races, and exploring the floating mountains

when you were hurt, Jake would make quick work but would always internally blame himself. He knew what it was like to be severely injured and never wished that upon you. He would check the wound, clean it and stay with you until you were completely safe and managing on your own

The two of you often would run off in the trees, jumping from branch to branch like it was a game. The two of you would giggle and laugh until your stomachs hurt as you chased each other

Jake is a determined boyfriend with so much love for you

A/n: Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think! <3333

Master-list

Tag list: @nyotamalfoy @lwesodra

[spectrechosts]

Mermay

Short mermaid story I uploaded to Cohost back in May. I think it was prompted by one of my friends positing that mermaids would have leg fetishes.

Mara lurks, in the shade of the pier.

She likes to listen to the humans, to peer at them from behind the posts, between the slats.

"Hello!" One of them says, hanging upside-down off the edge to intrude upon her hideaway, and she dives beneath the surface and swims away.

~

"I feel we got off on the wrong foot-" She says, another day, before Mara darts away again.

~

The third time, she's treading water beneath the pier. She has been since sunrise- Mara knows, she's been watching from the depths the whole time. Watching her- her weird legs, move back and forth.

"Listen, I don't mean any harm-" The human says, when Mara finally swims under the pier and lets her head breach the surface. "There's a certain type of kelp, I need it for a potion but I can't get it myself, see?"

She gestures to an illustration of the plant, carefully held above the waves by her human magic. Mara is familiar with the species.

"And then in return I could get you, uh, surface stuff." She says. "Whatever you'd like."

"Fish." Mara hisses, her lips barely above the water.

"Oh! Well, I can get you other things, things you might not have-?" The witch starts, but Mara is already swimming away.

Anything to get her out of her hideaway. She glances back, watches how the witch's legs move as she swims out from under the pier and climbs up.

When she returns the witch has a basket of fish, which she gladly hands over for a bouquet of kelp.

"Thank you!" Says the witch. "Seriously, I never could have gotten these without your help."

Mara just nods, lurking with all but her eyes submerged.

Leave already, she thinks. She comes here to watch humans, not interact with them.

"I'm Lexi, by the way." The witch offers unprompted, and Mara just watches her silently until she retreats back onto dry land.

~

She returns to intrude upon Mara's spot once again about a week later, thankfully just dangling off the pier again. Mara doesn't need even more looks at her weird, shapely legs- they already occupy her mind strangely often.

"Heyyyyy!" Lexi says. "Need more kelp."

Mara grumbles, again half-submerged, her discontentment rising to the surface in a stream of bubbles.

"I can bring you more fish?" Lexi offers, and Mara grimaces.

The fish were… bad. Already dead, out of the water for too long, she doesn't know how humans can stand them like that.

"No fish." She says. "Bring me… something of yours."

"Ooh!" Lexi coos. "You'd make a good witch, asking for payments like that. Here!"

She drops down a long, thin, silk scarf.

"You wrap it around yourself. Or whatever you want, I suppose. Yours now after all."

Mara swims down into the depths, nuzzling her face into the scarf until she returns with Lexi's reagents and briskly hands them off and leaves again.

~

Weeks pass, and Mara itches for the next appearance of the witch.

She sees her, sometimes, perusing the seaside market stalls. Watches her walk around on her, her feet. Wearing one of those human skirts, her legs just out there.

"Heya!" Lexi says, dangling from the pier again. "I need more kelp, what do you want for it?"

She wants to drown the witch, watch the air bubble from her lungs, have her sink down into her domain and keep her forever.

She wants to touch her, feel if her skin is as soft as the scarf, if it smells as nice, if it comforts her as much.

She wants to drag her under the pier and pepper her with salty kisses, dip below the water and feel her human legs wrap around her in ecstasy as her tongue-

"Fish." She blurts out, hoping the shadow of the pier hides her blush. "Fresher ones this time."

And then she darts away again.

[justapoet]

hearts don't break around here

There were flowers on her desk. It was a random Wednesday morning, she had just greeted Bleta and some other workers ‘good morning’, and there were flowers on her desk. A whole, entire, huge bouquet of red— Somethings. She had no idea what flowers those were. Worse: she had no idea how they were there to begin with. Or, Percy is a florist that seems to see the world through the colors that he sees everyday — bright, different and slightly utopic. Annabeth, an overly serious architect that works just across a lovely flowershop, and doesn't really look for the beauty around her world and outside her office's walls. When she starts receiving flowers out of nowhere, with notes signed only with an initial, her biggest plan is to figure out who could possibly be sending them. What she doesn't know is that all she has to do is look out the window.

read it on Ao3

The hostile atmosphere of the city of New York was almost palpable for anyone used to being or living there, hardly masked by the illusion of tourists fascinated by every old building lost among mirrored skyscrapers. The cloudy skies that stretched over people's heads and the cold, albeit gentle, breeze shattered the fantasy that the most famous city in the country could be as welcoming as in the films.

It was fun when one stopped to analyze everything that people have been told and what actually happens when you're there to see it. The hostile climate of New York, or the strange cold that surrounds London; perhaps how pleasant it would be to arrive in any city in Latin America, or the tranquil and strangely cultured air in Amsterdam — and how different it can all be when one switches perspectives.

It was fascinating, in fact, how things are put together in such different ways when placed in the same place. How the old buildings gave off a nostalgic air, more because of the strange feeling that they would soon disappear than because of the amount of time they had stood, or how the newer constructions seemed to carry with them an air of boredom and stress more than any possibility of a well-designed future. Fascinating, and rather hopeless.

Or perhaps the boredom belonged not to the city, but to those who lived in it at a rapid pace, with no time to admire anything other than their own misery or unhappiness. People who walk with their heads down, dragging their feet or marching towards what brings them the tragedy in which they sink daily, ignoring the landscape and cursing anyone who stops to do so.

Whatever was the case, the hostile climate was present at every sunrise as the icy gloom was replaced by warm rays wandering through the blinds that enveloped the wide glass windows of a silent office. Although the sun was up early, breaking the dawn, the grey fog that would sometimes take over the entire urban territory still masked its discreet presence for a few hours, cutting through the atmosphere as the city began to come alive again.

On the dark surface of the rough wooden desk, the faint rays of sun flickered in the reflection of the jug of water, and highlighted the white of organized stacks of sheets of paper. A laptop, two pens and a triangular gold plaque also shone against the light, and the silence was absolute against the noise of the cars, buses and a whole society outside the wide, mirrored building.

Absolute, except for the light, brief snores that cut through the air on the other side of the spacious office.

Covering almost the entire room, a fluffy grey carpet stretched under the desk, only to be interrupted a little further on, next to the immense glass wall from where the city of New York didn't appear so dense. The city itself, however, was hidden behind long white curtains of light, diaphanous fabric, the daylight timidly penetrating the mostly dark environment.

Just before them, a set of armchairs and a sofa in the same shade of grey were elegantly positioned around a round coffee table with a translucent glass top that supported a neatly folded jacket and an equally neat engraving on top of it. Next to the table, on the floor, a pair of black dress shoes rested perfectly aligned, and the only thing seemingly out of place was the woman stretched out on the couch.

One of her arms was over her face, covering her eyes to protect them from the daylight. Her hand hung beside her head, turned uncomfortably away from the windows, her nose almost wedged between the backrest and the seat, and her other arm was folded, hand flat over her stomach, partially trapped between two buttons of her white button shirt.

Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, and her lips parted to mumble something that tried to sound like sentences. The shirt was wrinkled, as were the black trousers, and only one of her feet was covered by a white sock — that also seemed to be about to come off at any movement of her feet. The brown braids of her hair were disorganized and seemingly tangled, making an exquisite contrast with the surroundings.

A few more soft snores sounded in the air until they were interrupted by the double wooden door being opened from the outside, followed by the low click of the lock clicking back into place and soft footsteps, which stopped after no more than two soft ‘knocks’ and were accompanied by a sigh. The next moment, the footsteps sounded again against the floor across the room, only to cease again when near the couch.

“You're the most depressing situation I've ever seen,” a male voice sounded, and the figure stretched out on the sofa jerked upwards in fright. Her brown eyes looked around hurriedly, shoulders tense, and the weight of her torso being lifted by her arms, until her pupils caught sight of the person speaking. She relaxed one more time.

The woman grunted, and the man rolled his eyes.

“What time is it?” she asked, bringing her hands to her eyes and rubbing them over the eyelids.

“Too early to come to work and too late to go home,’ the man replied, sighing and turning round to face the arm of the furniture. “You do remember that you have a house and a bed, don't you? Because I didn't spend hours hopping from shopping center to shopping center so that you'd simply forget that you have at least six pillows, Annabeth.”

The woman laughed softly, yawning and throwing her legs over so that they rested against the tiled floor.

“For starters,” Annabeth retorted, stretching one of her arms above her head. “We spent hours in shopping centers because you wanted to find God-knows-what to put in the living room, Grover. Besides,” she groaned, facing her friend. “Yes, I know.”

Annabeth stood up, putting her hands on her lower back and stretching her muscles, grunting before exhaling in relief. Grover rolled his eyes again.

“And what goes on in your head that you decide to sleep on the couch in your office?” he asked, arching one of his eyebrows. Annabeth shrugged briefly and sat down once more.

“Work,” she replied. “And a surprising laziness to drive anywhere,” she frowned, and Grover shook his head in denial. “Besides, Oliott called.”

Grover raised both eyebrows this time.

“Again?” he asked, his voice surprised and disbelieving. Annabeth nodded. “God, that man is unbelievable,” he continued, crossing his arms in front of his chest and shaking his head.

Annabeth sighed, nodding.

“Tell me about it,” she said. “Can’t really blame him, though. I, too, would be desperate if I bought illegal land in protected territory and needed someone to build in it so I won’t go to jail.”

Grover snorted, suppressing a smile, and shook his head.

“Hope he’ll rot, fucking asshole,” he grumbled. “What did you say?”

Annabeth threw her body backwards, leaning back on the couch and leaning her head on the cushioned backrest.

She sighed again.

“The same thing as the other eight times,” she replied. “That we, first, don’t make business with criminals as a firm; second, I don’t design for assholes as a person. And that we don’t have space in schedule whatsoever to take any more projects.”

“We don’t?” Grover asked. Annabeth smiled mischievously, turning her head and resting her ear against the cushion of the furniture.

“We do,” she mumbled, voice filled with childish playfulness, and Grover laughed at how juvenile his friend sounded. “But he doesn't know that. Or he does, but it doesn't matter anyway,” she shrugged. “Can’t wait to turn on the news and see him being arrested.”

Annabeth yawned, then, long and trying to somehow muffle it. Grover, who had been sitting over the arm of the couch, stood up and straightened himself before turning towards the architect, arms crossed over his chest and one of his eyebrows arched in judgement.

“Get up,” he said, and Annabeth — who hadn’t noticed closing her eyes for a second or more after yawning —, stared at him with clear confusion on her face. When she spoke again, another yawn threatened to leave along her words.

“What for?” she asked.

Grover simply rolled his eyes.

“If you don't sleep in your own bed, do you really think I expect you to look after yourself?” Grover argued, and Annabeth waggled her eyebrows and nodded briefly, agreeing. “Come on, get moving. I’m buying you breakfast.”

Annabeth snorted, and Grover walked round to the back of the sofa once more, standing in line with his friend’s head, only to land a light slap near his ear. Annabeth exclaimed in surprise and cursed quietly, laughing softly before getting up and picking up the jacket from the coffee table.

Grover, who was already near the door, waited for Annabeth to approach and grabbed the handle, opening the door and holding it for her to pass through. She, trying to knot the small bow in her shirt while still tripping over her shoes, took long enough so the man would huff and snatch her hands from the failed attempts and claim she needed to breathe, anyway, so she could deal with it later.

Annabeth laughed, following him to the elevators.

[…]

         Large urban centers rarely had places that hide from the eyes of passers-byes. Everything was too clear, too crowded, too big — things were always extremely visible, and there were always too many things to be seen, to be heard, to be noticed and talked about.

New York was no different, and perhaps was quite too much that stereotype that Hollywood had established globally. Huge shops with bright signs, crowded shop windows and people who were surprisingly not bewildered by so much information; the city was just a huge anthill of people who were desperate, consumerist, bored or all three, in some cases.

There was a narrow side street, however, between two corners — one with a huge Starbucks shop and the other with a bank — which apparently hadn't been overwhelmed by chaos or huge lights. There, simpler shops with vintage content such as vinyl, comics or clothes that didn’t completely care about following the current strange branding, as well as two restaurants and a cozy coffee shop adorned the weathered pavements. In the center, from one of the pavements, one could access a park that was usually empty.

The café faced the park. Its white façade with sash windows and double wooden doors already indicated the comfort that the bright surroundings gave off, the extensive shelves with books only adding to the cozy impression that spread throughout the place. At the back, where a bay window with light cushions made the café even more inviting, was Annabeth’s favorite place to be whenever she found her way there.

Grover and she had discovered the café a few years before, trying to find somewhere they could study without the chaos outside and the noise of the city driving them crazy or completely out of concentration. She would take her drafts and sketches while Grover took his books and notes — and they wouldn’t speak, simply basking in each other’s company and, more often than not, ordering more coffee than anyone should ever consume in a span of eight hours.

         They’d given up the last café they had thought would be a good idea after the fights in the kitchen got too loud and would catch their attention more than whatever they needed to focus on. Sure, Annabeth and Grover loved to know about the chaos — a cheating husband and a best friend and something involving purple dresses, when they last went there —, but, at the time, their finals were nearing and they needed a saving grace.

After a wrong turn, they spotted the façade, which at the time was an aqua green color, and placed one last bet on the place. It was late afternoon, and the orange of the setting sun — and urban pollution — reflected in the windows and accentuated the warm lamps inside the uncrowded and seemingly perfect establishment.

After that day, when they met River, Nicholas and Naomi, who worked there, the two of them decided that it was the right place for them to meet and, since then, that little café — which, honestly, none of them can remember ever asking what it was called — has become one of the best places in the world for unwinding and spending time with a good book.

With time shorter and shorter for them to be there as more than a passage to get coffee, the pair tried to make most of the occasions in which their schedule wouldn’t get in the way of enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes Juniper, Grover’s fiancée, would join them, as would Thalia, one of their best friends. River, Nick and Naomi — who were teenagers fresh into sophomore year when they first met — would also join the conversations whenever they could.

When Grover dragged Annabeth out of the firm, she already knew where they were going, and dropped her jacket on her friend’s car instead of putting it on as she usually did. The man had removed his jacket on the way, while humming any song on the radio and commenting on any news — gossip, if Annabeth was being honest — that was going round the building's departments.

Nicholas greeted them as they entered the cafeteria, always with his animated face that looked like it belonged to someone who hadn't slept in days and said that he would take care of their usual orders — with a little treat on the house, since they were the first customers of the day, as it was usually the case. The pair thanked him, walked to the back of the establishment and took their seats around one of the round tables, the one in front of the bay window.

It was a pleasant view, as the property extended a little further into a small yard surrounded by live fences and various flowers, always well looked after. There were a few tables dotted around, as well as ottomans surrounding lower tables, and the atmosphere was something straight out of a publisher’s portfolio. The hedge divided the café from a costume shop — old, she knew — and a vinyl record shop that Annabeth could not deny having fallen in love with at first sight.

Just a couple of minutes later, Nicholas returned with their favorite coffees on a tray and a smile on his face — for no reason, as the pair knew after so many years. Grover fidgeted in his chair, eager for his first caffeine fix of the day, and Annabeth simply shook her head with a soft giggle.

“A double espresso for you, sir, and a flat white for the beautiful lady,” Nicholas announced, changing his voice to a falsely dismissive tone as he spoke to Grover, and gently tapping his saucer against the table, only to turn to Annabeth, speak with false pomposity and then bend down to place the order in front of the woman.

Annabeth chuckled, and Grover simply rolled his eyes.

“One of these days, I'm going to rat you out to your manager, kid,” Grover grumbled, bringing his cup to his lips and holding back a groan of satisfaction when the strong drink came into contact with his tongue. Nicholas' smile widened, and Annabeth gestured with her hand as if to say that it was just an empty threat.

“Oh, yes; of course,’ Nicholas said, mockingly. “You love me, Grover. You should stop denying it to yourself,” he said, followed by a wink, and Annabeth pressed her lips together not to laugh.

“There's nothing to deny if what you say are lies,” Grover shrugged, and Nicholas made a false expression of offence. “Besides, I've never denied that River has always been my favorite,” he mocked, and Nicholas frowned in fake indignation.

Annabeth took another sip of her drink. And before the waiter could reply, she spoke:

“Where is River, by the way, Nico?” she asked. “You always arrive together,” she pointed out, and Nicholas made a move to tuck the tray under his arm, smiling with satisfaction at whatever he was going to say next.

“Belgium,” he replied, and Annabeth stopped the cup in mid-air, halfway to her lips. Grover straightened his back and narrowed his eyes, while Nicholas just shrugged. “Or on a train on the way to Belgium; I don't know the exact situation.”

“Belgium,” Grover said. “As in the country? In Europe?”

Nicholas nodded happily. Annabeth cleared her throat.

“And since when is River in Belgium?” the architect asked. “Why is he in Belgium on a Thursday morning when we saw him yesterday afternoon?” she frowned.

“Has he finally realized that the world isn't so big when you have money?” Grover asked, also with arched eyebrows.

Nicholas simply shrugged.

“About your question,” Nicholas pointed at Annabeth with his head. “Since last night, apparently. About yours,” he pointed at Grover in the same way. “I think the answer goes together with her other question. The world is definitely not as big when you have money and that, in a way, makes it easier when you want to run away,” he shrugged again, his animated tone faltering a little.

They knew River well enough to know what it was all about. And Annabeth personally understood all too well why the boy had taken a ticket to Belgium in the middle of the night.

“It took him longer than I thought it would, for him to do something like that,” Annabeth said, her eyes downcast, staring at the drawing in the foam of her cup. The two men agreed in silence. “And let's be clear that I'm referring to running away from those two as much as filling that pocket with money and going anywhere in the world. Although, frankly, I always thought he was going to take a boat,” she joked, lightening the mood in the room.

“I think we can all agree on that,” Grover said. “I've never seen anyone so insistent that packing up and travelling around the continent wasn't the best thing to do on a gap year. I'm glad he gave it a chance.”

Nicholas squeaked in amusement.

“Tell me about it,” he agreed. “I nearly put him on a plane myself. Imagine having the world in the palm of your hand and spending your days in a lost coffee shop in the middle of New York! I mean, he can do the most incredible things on this trip! See the Colosseum, the Louvre, the Parthenon, that hooped thing in Warsaw-

“Segovia Aqueduct,” Annabeth interrupted, and Nicholas chose to ignore her.

“... Pantheon, Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower...” Nicholas listed. “And along the way, he could meet the love of his life. Imagine that!”

Grover laughed.

“Why do I think you and Naomi bet on that?” he asked, and Nicholas smiled mischievously once again. “For God's sake, Nico! What are the chances of River simply bumping into the love of his life on a train to Belgium?!”

“There are!” Nicholas argued, and Grover laughed even harder. Annabeth followed, taking another sip of her coffee. “Hey, don't you even start. What were the chances of River travelling anyway? Even more so in the middle of a Wednesday?!”

Annabeth tilted her head slightly to either side, agreeing.

“Well, yeah. You might have a point,” she said, and Nicholas smiled. “And you also have access to food,” she smiled, amused. “And food is always a good idea, don't you think?” she suggested, and Nicholas rolled his eyes before turning in his feet and walking towards the counter and the kitchen.

Annabeth lifted her wrist to look at her watch, then picked up her cup again to take a little more of the drink. After a few minutes, the architect felt a pair of eyes burn into the side of her face. She turned her head around to find Grover, leaning back on his seat, his elbows resting on the window ledge, legs crossed and a look on his face that Annabeth honestly didn't know if she wanted to decipher.

“What's wrong?” she asked anyway. Grover arched one eyebrow again.

“When are you going to give yourself a chance?” he asked, his serious tone and frank countenance staring into the confused expression of his friend, whose frown deepened at the environmentalist’s words. “Just like the one you’re glad River gave himself.”

Annabeth squinted, a little because of confusion over the last sentence Grover had said and a little because of the context of the sentence itself. She also threw his body back, leaning against the comfortable cushion, but leaving her head raised so that she could face the man in front of her.

“I like New York,” she said, as if that were some kind of explanation. “And I've lived alone for years, which frees me from any River-like motives.”

Grover rolled his eyes and grunted.

“You know very well what I mean,” he said, and Annabeth cocked her head to one side. Her friend sighed again. “You live for work, Annabeth, for God's sake. When was the last time you agreed to go out with anyone? Or by yourself?”

“Now?” she asked, pointing her finger at the table, and Grover bit his tongue. “Grover, I'm the director of the firm. I sort of have to work a bit harder than the others, and you know that.”

Grover nodded, but his pose remained the same.

“Oh. ‘A little’, you say. I'd like to emphasize it, then. You've been abusing any hyperbole or augmentation for years,” he retorted. “And it's not just going out with me, Annabeth. When was the last time you had a decent night's sleep in your own bed? Or the last night you even went to bed?”

The architect opened her mouth to say something, but Grover didn't let her speak before taking the floor again.

“When was the last time you left the house without a suit? Or the last time you, I don't know, met someone who wasn't a client?” he asked, and Annabeth chose to close her mouth. “Annie, when was the last time you ever flirted with someone?”

At the last question, Annabeth frowned again. Grover arched his eyebrows again, tilting his head slightly to one side and waving his foot in the air under the table where his legs were crossed.

“And what does that have to do with anything?” she asked, and Grover just sighed loudly, shaking his head. “What does it have to do with anything? I’m serious!”

The man sighed.

“I know! That's even worse,” he pointed out, raising his hands in exasperation. “Do you plan to spend your whole life being miserable and lonely and solving other people's problems?”

Annabeth opened her mouth in indignation, and Grover just lifted his chin, his lips twisting in defiance.

“Ouch,” Annabeth said, placing one hand over her chest. “I'm not miserable, G-Man.”

And if she pouted, Annabeth would deny it completely.

“Hm,” Grover muttered before reaching into his bag and slipping his hand inside, taking out his mobile phone and unlocking it. Annabeth frowned again, alternating her gaze between the man’s face and the mobile phone he was skillfully typing on until he smiled briefly and cleared his throat. “Hm. ‘Miserable’. Adjective and noun of two genders: ‘who or that which, by its misfortune, arouses compassion’,” he recited, and Annabeth sighed briefly before crossing her arms over her chest, too. “There's even a picture!” Grover exclaimed.

Grover turned the mobile phone towards Annabeth, and it took her a few seconds to notice that her friend had switched it off and there was only the black screen reflecting her twisted, confused face. The man had a proud, smug smile on his face, and Annabeth just snorted before pushing Grover’s arm to get the mobile phone out of her face.

“You think you're hilarious, don't you?” Annabeth asked, and Grover nodded in agreement. “And despite your blatant offence towards me, I appreciate your concern, but I don't need any advice. I’m fine, Grover,” she said, his tone serious and extremely formal.

“I know you are, I can see that,” he said. “But being fine doesn't cancel out being miserable, Annie. Come on, haven't you ever wanted to fall in love with someone? I know you have. We grew up together,” Grover said, and Annabeth settled a little further into her seat. “To be given flowers, to smile for no reason, to have someone to hug or to tell unfunny jokes to?”

Annabeth mumbled something, but spoke again before Grover asked.

“Doesn't that sound too cliché? Sugary?” she asked, and Grover just shrugged.

“Love has been love since the world was a world, Annabeth. It may sound repetitive in theory, because it is the theory,” he argued. “What really changes is that you're the one feeling it.”

She arched an eyebrow. And chose not to comment on the poetics, given the smile so sincere on Grover’s lips — thinking of Juniper, she knew, because the glimmer in his eyes was quite obvious.

         “And what's so special about that?” she retorted, and her friend merely repeated her previous gesture, but leaned forward to reach for his cup again.

“Love is a universal concept, but this one anyone could call their own,” he said. “Which, you must admit, is quite something,” he sipped his drink. Annabeth just shrugged, imitating her friend and picking up her cup as Nicholas returned from the kitchen with another tray, spouting words that the two of them were still too slow to decipher.

As she ate the slice of cake Nicholas had brought — and I'm sorry it took so long, but I forgot to make it part of the sweet display and I really don't need to be sacked now, so close to my first semester of Med School — Annabeth pondered some of Grover’s words.

Smiling for no reason? It sounded merely silly. Having someone to hug? Sometimes... It would be nice, but it also sounded too trivial to have at the cost of a possible heart. Telling unfunny jokes? Isn't that what she's in that friendship for starters?

And to receive flowers?

Annabeth laughed to herself.

It was too sweet — and the hope was too foolish — for it to ever happen to her.

“I don’t even know why you brought ‘falling in love’ up, Grover,” she said, then, suddenly. Her friend took his time to savor the piece he was taking to his mouth and ignored her for a minute before swallowing.

“Because I saw your face when Nico joked about River finding love in a train, dipshit. I know you better than you know yourself.”

And she didn’t know how say anything back to him, because there was no way she could deny it, either. Tragically, Annabeth hated to admit, she was a romantic — and she would often daydream of meeting someone and being enchanted and going through every single cliché on the book.

She shook her head, ridding it of the stupid thoughts, and focused on her cake again.

As they left the café to return to the firm, Annabeth left the conversation, her thoughts and unfounded hopes hanging on the glass of the bay window, hoping that the wind or the passing of people would blow them away.

[…]

         Sometimes, he believed New York was quiet for the big city it undoubtedly was.

         Of course, there were lights and noise, and people walked around in their own misery all the time — but it was calmer, from where he stood, because the anguish didn't seem to be constantly in the spotlight. There were more trees here and there, and one could hear the birds every morning, as well as dogs barking and whatever it was that seemed to be screaming when the sun comes up.

         The streets, at least the newer ones, were wide and full of lights, and were crowded as the daylight shone down on them, penetrating through the clouds and shining on the buildings — but quietened down as the moonlight began to replace the golden glow with a pale, soft glow. Things seemed to get a little quieter, and the pace would slow down significantly, making it seem as if the great city had had the courage to fall asleep.

         The New York he lived was quiet for a big city; it was.

         It was the first thing that crossed his mind whenever he woke up in the morning or in the middle of the night, and one could hear the crickets sharpening the silence around the streets. If he tried hard enough, he would be able to hear the sleeping city itself, a few cars and motorcycles from time to time, some owls hiding from the remaining lights of the streetlamps.

         It was a feeling he had forgotten he could ever feel — if he ever had, because growing up in central New York takes away most of the sense of silence. It was soothing, most of the time, and it helped whenever he couldn't fall asleep after a busy, hellish or chaotic day.

         Because, even if New York was quiet for a big city, he could count on his fingers the number of slow days he'd managed since work had started again.

         And wasn’t it surprising when one worked at a flower shop?

         Switching on his cell phone, then, Percy kept a quick pace out of his house, the headphones now loud in his ears and his eyes straying to the hour on the screen once more. He sighed, and his fingers tightened the strap of his bag over his shoulder, his feet moving a little faster.

         And, because his New York was quiet for a big city, it was easy to dodge the crowds as he walked through the people occupying the streets. The sidewalks were long and, although crowded, there were far fewer people than Times Square when it was summer or the very end of the year.

         The drier weather, however, was something Percy still longed to get along with ever since he had mover further from the coast — Montauk, where he spent so much of his childhood and had yet to see for a few years, now. While the streets of New York were crowded and always in motion, the coast always had a gentle breeze every now and then, passing over people's heads and through their clothes as they walked in the shadows of the buildings made. The heat seeped in, the sun being reflected by gigantic buildings, which left the air humid, almost sandy.

         The very core of New York, on the other hand, was not hot, but dry — and Percy should have gotten used to it by now, but his muscles always felt uncomfortable, his nose often ran, and his brain would most likely stop working when the clouds declared a truce.

         Juniper would always make fun of him, as would his mother — but sometimes she also faced the same problems with the cold and drier weather. And then Paul would make fun of her, because someone who did grow up in central New York shouldn’t be so unused to its weather, regardless of how many years she’d spent on the coast.

         Those were funny interactions — except for the time Percy nearly had an asthma crisis, and his father nearly snatched him to Greece just for good measure (with his mother’s permission, that was) — that made him laugh every time he remembered them, especially on the way to the flower shop, not far from his apartment but not exactly near it either. Percy held his breath whenever a funny comment came to mind, so as not to look completely crazy while laughing in the middle of the street, especially when he was half-running to where he needed to be.

         In less than fifteen minutes — running and bumping into a few people — Percy was already able to see the mirrored building opposite the flower shop. The building, an architecture office, was a huge construction with large windows and busy people, although he never paid it any attention. The flowers and the people were better to look at than a skyscraper with ties and walking headaches.

         Apart from that, the architects and engineers who worked there rarely stopped their busy day to talk to anyone — and Percy could swear he'd never heard any of their voices in his entire life. Overall, he could understand; the firm was always bustling with clients and he supposed that being stressed was just a direct consequence of it.

         But he doubted it to be completely true even more after meeting Grover, who was more of an angel than a real person.

         The point was that he had met him before, through Juniper’s stories, the sighs of love and the moon eyes at the mere mention of her fiancé. In later conversations, the shop’s team discovered that he was an environmentalist and worked at New York’s newest influential architecture firm — which wasn't exactly a surprise, as Juniper talked about him as if he were Superman.

         And Percy, although he worked at the shop his entire life, never paid enough attention to see either Grover or Juniper entering or leaving the mirrored building. Neither of them did pay attention to the flower shop, either, and it was a funny Tuesday morning when Grover entered the store only to bump into Percy’s presence behind the counter.

         The environmentalist was leaving the mirrored building early and walked to the flower shop as soon as Juniper let him know she was there. It was flattering how he smiled, and even more so how his comment about how much he had heard about Percy gave away how much Juniper cared about him and the whole team — but the florist couldn't help seeing the woman nearly explode in embarrassment when he offered Grover an entire bouquet.

         The man’s ears turned red, and Percy believes that was the moment they decided to be best friends.

         Ever since they met, then, on Tuesdays, Grover would show up with or without Juniper — the days she didn’t work —, just to chat or keep Percy some company when he wasn't buried up to her neck in piles of paper and work and stress. Sometimes he would talk about how crazy things were, or how much his best friend, who worked with him, could annoy the life out of him — and Percy would doubt it, of course, because Grover had the patience of an angel and a mocking tone in his voice while he pretended to hate whoever she was.

         It was one of Percy’s favorite friendships, if he was honest. Of course, it wasn't rare or difficult for Grover to be someone's favorite person — Juniper herself was the most obvious example — but it was a delightful experience to know and feel that he was also one of his dearest friends.

         But about the mirrored building, that was all Harry knew — Grover. And some of the gossip that went around, of course. Like how Hawks cheated on Bernardez with his superior, Minelli, and still refused to admit that he wasn't one hundred percent heterosexual. Or even how Mendes got angry and broke a few things when Levesque was promoted in his place.

Percy didn't know any of them, but it was particularly amusing to hear Grover tell him with such a conspiratorial tone in his voice. It brightened up his days and got him out of his own head sometimes.

Which was always useful, of course.

Taking the last few steps to the store and slowing down, Percy smiled as he approached the horizontal white wooden fence with vertical black metal bars, stepping onto the wooden walkway that crossed the well-tended garden. Percy tightened the grip on the strap of his backpack, looking around and waving to a couple sitting at one of the tables before stepping through the doors into the cooler atmosphere.

The large windows around the wooden walls gave the flower shop a comforting clarity, and the sophisticated building seemed cozy with all the flowers around it. The arrangement of the tables, the frames, the bouquets, the lights and how warm the whole place seemed — even with the air conditioning on — made it Percy’s favorite place in the whole world.

It was a friendly and danger-free environment, as if nothing outside it could reach anyone inside. The flowers seemed to be a reminder of how much beauty the world could hold, and sometimes being there was all he needed for the tightness in his chest to ease.

“Ma?” he called out, walking up to the counter. Harry put his bag on a coat rack while he still didn't go to his own locker, also picking up the apron he had hung up the day before.

As soon as the apron was around his neck and waist, an older woman came out from behind one of the wooden walls in the middle of the flower shop, with a small flower in a small vase in her hands and a fond smile on her face. Percy arched an eyebrow, a small smile on his face too, and waited for her to notice him.

Sally Jackson was a lovely woman, someone who seemed much younger than she actually was. The only wrinkles on her face were scars of smiles through time, and the kindness of her expression would fool anyone to how much pain the world could hold — and that was something Percy grew up admiring and looking up to. His mother would always have a smile to offer and advice to share with her flowers and whoever needed to hear it, and her arms were the most welcoming place for anyone to ever step into.

The flower shop was practically her home, although Percy obviously knew that Sally didn't live there — anyone could be fooled, considering that she never seemed to leave. She always seemed to be at peace as she strolled through the bouquets and flowers, and everything there seemed to revolve around the woman; the place felt like a safe haven, and the feeling of “home” hung in the air for anyone who wanted to breathe it in.

Percy always took a deep breath, then, and exhaled slowly each time his demons and the noise seemed to try to reach him. The mixed scent of all the flowers could be a little nauseating at first, but the contrast with some other citrus plants would make his lungs feel as fresh as if there was the purest oxygen passing through each of his pores. It was safe, welcoming and almost addictive.

And his mother didn’t ask questions when Percy seemed to breathe more deeply than necessary, and simply invited him to take a walk, taking him away from the throng of people coming in and the noise they carried. It had always been that way; she wouldn’t press on the hurtful matters, trusting him to come to her whenever he felt ready to — and how he loved that woman and everything about her nature.

Most of the time, the days at the flower shop passed the same way — a warm mist covering the dim, welcoming sunlit room, and one of them, lost in their own head, wandering around the flowers as if there were no evil within those walls. A smile would remain on both their faces, suddenly, for no reason, with no time to leave, and it would simply be easy to be there.

Sally kept walking to one of the display tables, but she didn't hear Percy’s greeting as she looked at the flower in her hands. The man arched an eyebrow, placing one of his elbows on the counter and pressing his hip against it, crossing his legs in front of each other as he stared at her.

Percy waited, and it took about three minutes for Sally to look around, searching for something. The man shook his head, stepping away from the counter and then stretching out his arm to reach one of the tools underneath it, on one of the shelves. When his hand reached the pliers, Percy walked closer to his mother, not bothering to call out to her, but just to place the tool closer.

“That’s it, that’s it,” she muttered to herself, accepting the pliers and not sparing a glance at her son, who swallowed a laugh and put his hands behind his back, watching curiously as she cut some branches and leaves from the plant's stalk.

“Which ones are those?” Percy asked, observing the yellow-brown flower that looked a lot like a sunflower in a strange way. Sally, who was concentrating on her task, only answered after a few minutes in silence.

“Gaillardias grandifloras,” she replied. “Also known as Spanish lace,” she said again, and Percy smiled a little at the new piece of information he had been offered.

“And what do they mean?” asked the man, and she let out a happy sigh at that question. It was almost a rule by now that any new flower would result in those two questions coming from Percy, and the flower shop owner couldn't say that it bothered her at all. If anything, it flattered her more than life — that her child grew up to remain as curious as he had been as a little kid.

“Modesty, charm, happiness,” his mother replied, and Percy smiled. “Joy of being together, too. It's a subtle option to give to friends or to that person you have a crush on and never dare say a word about,” she added, and a brief laugh escaped Percy’s lips.

“Not a problem I have, luckily,” Percy joked, shrugging softly.

“Yet,” Sally laughed, the sound soft and charming as Percy always remembered it to be. “I'm counting the days until you climb the walls and want to leave early because there's a pair of eyes you can't get out of your head,” she said, and Percy could only roll his eyes affectionately.

“Where did that come from, uh?” the curly-haired man asked, turning his body when the little bell on the door sounded and looking again at the woman next to him when the guest dismissed his help with a smile and a wave of one of his hands.

His mother, eyes so kind and smile so sweet — welcoming and proud and teasing when looking at him, as if, even if Percy was able to do wrong, there was nothing but goodness in his soul —, shrugged.

“I just have a good feeling, dear,” she decided to say “That love is in the air,” she nearly sung.

Percy arched his eyebrows again.

“Oh, really?” he asked. “And what makes you feel that way?” he wiggled his eyebrows, and Sally smiled, lifting the flower in her hands and smiling at it, ignoring Percy’s condescending look.

“The flowers, Percy,” she said, inhaling the sweet scent close to her nose. “All the flowers,” she added, and Percy couldn't help but smile along with her.

“Let's hope they listen, then,” the man said at last, turning once more as the bell rang again and a trio entered the store. The girl saw him, and Percy smiled, waiting for them to approach so that he could greet everyone. “And you should stop behaving this mystical. Soon enough you and Juniper will be hosting a summer camp to clean souls and vibes.”

“The flowers will listen,” she said. “And you act as if you wouldn’t be right in the middle of the summer camp trying to pretend that you’re the Lord of the Waters and can communicate with fish,” she added in a sharp, teasing voice, narrowing her eyes and causing Percy to stick out his tongue. “Insolent.”

Before he could vocalize his apologies, however — because he was a good son, excuse him —, his mother smiled, and the man just rolled his eyes, knowing then that it had been a joke; mostly.

Sally slapped his arm softly, and Percy took a few more steps, catching up with the group that had entered and stopping after a while. He smiled sweetly, but also frowned when he noticed one of the boys and the girl teasing their other friend, pointing at flowers, and then making a low joke that would give anyone the impression that the boy wanted to disappear.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” said Percy cordially, interrupting the group dynamic a little. “Can I help you today?” he offered, and the boy who was being teased swallowed dryly, clearly nervous about the florist’s presence there.

read the rest on Ao3

[valstarsandgalaxies]

Red water

Tw: Suicide

John doesn't think he deserves anything good. And Buck is more than good. Buck is everything. Buck's his true north, the home he always returns to, the hope he hopes he'll never loose. Something so precious, he doesn't think he deserves it. Gale deserves so much better than John. John is nothing compared to him. He won't stand that Gale settles for so little as is John. But there he stands before him, confessing his love to John and he thinks his world might have just exploded and turned upside down.

“John, I've been meaning to tell you for such a long time. I can't believe I'm doing it only just now. After everything. But the thing is-“

Gale was still talking, but Bucky couldn't concentrate. No, this cannot be happening.

Sure, John always dreamed that Gale would reciprocate his feelings towards him, but he never actually thought it'd happen. In his dreams his love for him was safe. It wasn't clingy, it wasn't annoying or destructive, because he didn't let it see the surface. But if Gale were to confess to him, say things that would change everything for them and especially John, he doesn't think he'd have that much self control.

It seemed like Buck noticed that John isn't quite there with him. He leaned closer from where he was standing in front of him.

They were in John's house in Manitowoc, the one he got from his family. John lived here alone ever since the war ended. His family was generous enough to leave him the whole house, but not generous enough to actually be there with him. Now or even then.

John never got any letters. He doesn't really talk to his mom, he keeps in contact with his sister a little and she comes to visit sometimes, but he can only imagine the loneliness John must felt. Especially after being with someone all the time in the war time. No matter what, there was usually always someone in the room with you. Being a pilot was a team work, so coming 'home' and suddenly after all those years being alone... It must have been horrible.

Gale cupped his cheek and pulled his face up for John to look him in the eye. But when their eyes met, John's eyes were totally dazed. Gale felt like John was looking through him, like he doesn't even see him there. It was so strange. John had always had his eyes set out on Gale, he found him in any room, recognised by footsteps even. And now, he was invisible to him.

“Hey, John? John, are you here with me?“

Why would Gale want me? Why would... Just why?

He had Marge. He still has Marge, right? Surely, he didn't break up with her and threw away the happy life they could've had together. Marge was a perfect match for Gale. There was a bond, they've known each other since childhood, that was probably even how their relationship started. Old friends.

He couldn't throw that away for John. Gale is many things, but stupid is not one of them. At least he hoped.

“Bucky? Bucky, where are you? Come on, come back to me. Come back to me, darling.”

And then John heard that, something in him switched. Suddenly he was too self-aware. He saw Gale in front of him, so close, too close. Gale's hands cupping his face.

John flinched back and started breathing heavily.

“John, what is it? How can i help you?“

Gale sounded desperate. He was trying to get through John, but he didn't let him. He was also confused, he had no idea what was happening. For the first time he couldn't read John's mind.

John always made sure, that whatever that felt too intimate was played into a joke or a 'friendly thing' later. He tried so hard to keep his feelings under a lock. But it wasn't enough, it hasn't been. Not when Gale is doing this. Why is he doing this?

“No, Gale. No. You- you can't.“

John choked out. Catching his breath. It was hard to breathe.

“What do you mean, Bucky?”

“Why are you here? Where's Marge?”

Gale flinched in the smallest way at the sound of her name. He thought he managed to hide it, but John noticed.

“John, don't mention Marge, it's-“

“Buck, don't tell me you two broke up.“

“Would it be so bad, if we did?”

“No, no, Buck why would you do that? You two were a perfect couple. You'd have a perfect happy marriage and maybe like three kids, i don't know. She'd give you everything you needed.“

Bucky breathed out. He couldn't wrap his head around it. Marge was security, safety and she loved Gale. Why would Gale want to go to him. He doesn't offer these things.

“Why are you saying this, Bucky?“

Gale's voice broke at the end. And his eyes started to water. They never really cried in front of each other. This is something else.

“Because you just ruined your life. And i need to know it's not because of me. Buck, i need you to tell me, all this wasn't because of me.“

“I can't say that, John.”

Those words were like a sword to his heart. He just ruined Gale's life. This was never supposed to happen. Gale was supposed to marry Marge, John was supposed to be his best man and then become the funny uncle for their kids. Having Gale in his life, but not fully ruining it. Not letting his love see the surface.

“I don't get it. Why would you do this to yourself, Gale? Why?“

Gale's eyes widened and then saddened at the sound of his real name. John rarely calls him that. And in this sentence, in this moment, it pretty much feels like he just pulled himself away from Gale forever. Took all his stuff and left Buck alone. Their souls no longer intertwined.

“What do you mean, John? Why are you talking like this? I thought you-“

Gale was coming closer to John again, reaching for him. Trying to feel him, his presence, his soul. John denied him.

“No, you don't know shit, Gale.“

And he pushed his hand away. Things started to get more heated. Both of them are starting to get angry. Both of them for very different reasons.

“Well, maybe I don't know shit, but i know one thing. The only thing that I'm sure of now, the thing that i was only ever sure of. And that's that i love you. I've always loved you and right now I've ruined everything, because... I thought you felt the same way, John. I really did thought that. After everything, i just assumed... Well, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for assuming.“

And suddenly the atmosphere in the room changes completely. It's sad again.

John isn't sure if he's imagining it or not, but he sees a tear stream down Gale's face.

“Stop, stop this. I can't do this.“

“I'm sorry. I'm truly, so incredibly sorry, Bucky.“

John sighed heavily. He wants to be mad at Gale, but he wouldn't be able to live with himself if Gale left thinking John didn't felt the same way. He couldn't let that happen. When he ruined his life, he can't let him hate himself or question everything he ever believed in.

Did he really believed in us like this?

“No, Buck. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, this shouldn't be happening. You- you were supposed to be at home with Marge and i was supposed to be your best friend. And i just...“

John trailed off. After suppressing his feelings for such a long time, he wasn't even able to speak them out loud now. He just couldn't find the words.

'I love you too. I love you more than anything.'

He couldn't being himself to say that. It was the truth, yet he couldn't say it.

“Bucky, do you feel the same or not? Because I'll go and never come back if you say no, but you need to say it. You need to say, you don't love me.“

What should he do now? Wouldn't it be better if he just said he doesn't love him? Maybe, he could still save his relationship with Marge. Or maybe he'll find some other girl. Someone better than him. But then he'd left Buck thinking that all these years, all their touches, their soft words for each other didn't mean anything. That it was all fake.

Is all that worth the sacrifice? Gale will hate him. Gale will loathe him after this. Is he ready for that? Whatever he'll say now will decide of their future. It's all in John's hands. And he thinks it's too much power for such ugly and calloused hands like his.

“I don't love you, Gale.“

'I've never loved anyone as much as you.'

They lock eyes and both of them know it's the last time they'll see each other. They stare and stare a bit longer. None of them moves or dares to speak. It's like Gale is trying to process what just happened.

Trying to fool his head that John didn't actually say that. Or maybe cursing himself for saying that promise about leaving earlier.

After a while, he straightens his posture and chokes out:

“Okay, goodbye then, Bucky. I'm glad we could have each other, at least for a minute.“

Gale didn't wait for John to reply. As he was walking to the front door and opening them to leave, he turns around for the very last time. He turns around and he looks at Bucky and he thinks that he's gonna rot in this place.

When John doesn't say anything, he walks through the doorframe outside and closes the door. Soon enough John hears an engine starting and then car taking off his driveway.

Gale was gone. Gale was gone forever and John did that. John made Gale go away. Isn't that funny? Bucky made Buck leave him. It was ridiculous to even think about. Buckies were joined at the hip, always together. Whenever they had a fight, they made up eventually. Not now. Not this time.

But what if rot right here, in this hellhole he called 'home' was exactly what Bucky wanted. After the war, Bucky didn't think he deserves to live, didn't think he deserves anything really.

For the first time Gale wasn't the solution to his problem. He thought he might be, but he wasn't. There's only one solution.

So John goes to his shitty bathroom. Starts running the water for his bath. Goes back to the kitchen and takes his favourite and most sharpest knife. He puts it on the sink and goes up to his bedroom. He takes the letter Gale has send to him not long after they returned home.

He was so sweet in it, so optimistic. It was hope. Hope that didn't last long. He takes it with him and returns to the bathroom. He contemplates locking the door, but then he realizes he's totally alone in this world and so he decides to let the door open.

If someone would be looking hard enough, they could probably spot him from his backyard window. That doesn't matter though, there's no one out there who would look for him now.

He sinks into the bath. The water spills over, but he doesn't care. He takes the letter and the knife both to each hand.

The letter gets wet immediately, the ink slowly smudging and the words weren't real anymore. Whatever Gale said didn't matter now, because the letter was wet and that meant it was time.

He took the knife and slit one of his wrists. It hurt so much, but it feels right. He takes the letter and washes it in his blood, marking it in his messed up way. When the letter was just red and the water was starting to get red too, he painfully took the knife and slit his other wrist. Now there was only pain and the color red.

He breathes heavily, tries to not think about the pain and it actually works (for a minute). He thinks about Gale, about his lovely Buck, his best friend, his soulmate. He tries not to feel like a coward, but it's hard. He thinks about his smile and the way his hair would fall on his forehead, when he forgot to style it. And the way the words 'i love you' rolled out so easily from his mouth and how they were meant for John.

The color red overtakes every one of John's senses and all he can see is red. Not for long though. Soon after that a black darkness hugs him and he welcomes it. He hugs it back the same way he did, when Gale first arrived to England. His last thoughts and hopes were that Buck will eventually be happy. That he'll find happiness. It's the only wish, John had. The only wish, he hopes will come true.

And so John kills himself, because he feels unworthy of living. Buck's light wasn't enough for him to get back on the path. He was long way lost. No coming back. Not even the love of your love confessing their love to you.

John joined the sky as a star. He's shining brightly, just for Gale. Just for his Buck. Maybe it'll be enough after lying about the only thing that has ever felt right to him. Maybe Gale will forgive him.

It was never enough. Gale had never forgiven him.

A star shines forever though.

I've been trying to post this for so long, somehow it just wasn't working for me. This is out on ao3 already, if that's what you prefer, but I'll post it here too. Hope you enjoyed it!!

(shyly tagging @alienoresimagines again, cause they're the kindest and them reading my fic just warms my heart)

[ashintheairlikesnow]

If you ever feel like writing a Drabble where Misha is on a date and gets broken up with please tag me, cause I’d love it 😈

CW: Whumper POV, sadistic whumper, Misha thinks a lot of violent things about basically everyone

-

A muscle in Misha's jaw twitches as his teeth meet, grinding together with the effort it takes to just... listen. He's wildly aware of the steak knife lying next to his right hand, convenient as can be, but probably nearly as dull as a bread knife.

"It's just... I kind of feel like you don't actually care," Michelle says, and looks at him with big, imploring eyes. He thinks about gouging them out and putting coins there, something Tyoma read to him once about paying for the ride to Hell. "Not, like, about me, but... well, yes, it feels like you don't care about anything, me included."

He nods, breathing carefully. "I don't think that's true," He says, and his voice stays mild, but the rage burns him up from the inside. It's the only thing he ever feels with any level of strength - every other emotion feels sort of faded by comparison, but anger... anger is bright and sharp and hot and good.

She raises her eyebrows, disbelieving, and then lets out a little laugh, picking up her fork to pick at her salad. "Okay, fine. Name one thing you even remotely care about more than yourself."

That's easy. Misha doesn't even hesitate. "My brother."

Her hand stills, a bit of lettuce dripping ranch dressing pierced right through, as if the vegetable bleeds white with green flecks. Misha's eyes flicker down to it, wondering if he could get a pitchfork all the way through a torso and try to recreate the image. When he looks back up at her face, the expression on her face is a strange one.

"... Yeah, okay," She says, speaking slowly. "But... like. You and your brother aren't... normal about each other."

"What does that mean?"

If she insults his Tyoma, he will slice her face to ribbons, even if the trail leads right to him. It'd be worth it, to show her ruined body to Tyoma and say, look, she said bad things about you, look how much I love you that I have ensured she can't say them again.

"I... I don't know, Mikhail." She says it almost like Michael in her stupid American accent, and he swallows down a correction. It isn't worth it. "I just mean... look, my brother's a couple years older than me. I know tons of people with brothers, and none of them spend as much time together as you guys do. And, like, he looks at me like I'm intruding on you two."

"Tyoma only wants to protect me," Misha lies, smooth like oil.

Tyoma wants to protect you from me.

"Right. But. Still, like, it's weird, right?"

Misha exhales, slowly. Tyoma always tells him to breathe away the anger before it takes over when he's in a place where people will see it. He tries, he really does try.

"I do not think so," He says, placing each word into the air, picturing them as stones he drops to weigh her down, drag her under the surface of the water. "We come from Russia when we are little, we have only each other for long time." His accent is thickening, he's dropping the unnecessary English words that used to drive him up the wall.

The other kids laughed because he forgot the 'a' or the 'the' in so many sentences, and sometimes he scratched them up or bit them, and then Tyoma taught him how to stop himself, how to breathe first.

"No, I get that-"

"Do you?"

She swallows, and she sees something in his face. He knows she does, because she sits up suddenly, her spine straightening. She's tense, now. He thinks about when she explained to him that she keeps her keys between her knuckles when she walks late at night out of her job at the mall, how she never wears her hair in a ponytail because that would make it easier to grab. All the little rules she lives by to keep herself safe. He hadn't been paying much attention, it had seemed like so many pointless little games.

"Yeah," She says, and her voice is a little husky, now. "Yeah, I do. You were all by yourselves when you moved here, I understand that. But, like... that was more than ten years ago. And dating you still feels like I'm dating you both, except that I kind of get the feeling that your brother isn't into the idea."

Misha hasn't ever considered it that way. He looks to the side, out into the eternal rain. Why his parents moved to this part of the country, where a drizzle is good weather and sun is a rarity, will never make sense to him. "I can see why you think this," He says, finally, and his voice is softer now. He can see Michelle relax.

It's her own fault, not realizing that predators are often quietest just before they strike.

"I like seeing you," He continues, and looks down at his own steak, half-eaten, so raw it might as well be bleeding on the plate. "I am sorry you do not want to see me any longer, but we can stay friends?"

"Yeah," She says, and he wonders if she's lying. Misha lies all the time, about everything, constantly. But he can never tell if other people are lying - mostly, he doesn't care. "Yeah, friends. Listen, I'm gonna-... if you're okay, I'm gonna go. Do you mind grabbing the check?"

She's leaving, he thinks, and making sure she's gone before he can follow her out.

It doesn't matter.

He knows where she lives, works, who her friends are...

Tyoma would tell him this would be too close, people would look at him. Likely suspect, unlike the strangers in bars he's never seen before. Unlike the women walking the streets with no one to report them missing. Tyoma is right, he's right, and so Misha pushes it down. Instead, he looks over Michelle's face, memorizing it as best he can.

"No problem," He replies, and pushes his chair out, standing up to offer her a hug. She looks unsettled, but unwilling to make a scene - she steps into the hug, and he reminds himself not to hold her tight enough to hurt. He breathes in her perfume.

"I will see you around," He says, voice kind and soft, unworried. Unbothered.

"Yeah," She mumbles as she breaks away from him. She grabs her purse and he watches her go. She has her phone in her hand and then to her ear before she disappears from the window, and he thinks about how she's probably calling someone so she'll be on the phone all the way to her car, in case he runs after her.

In case he gives chase.

Misha, though, just sits quietly back down and cuts another bite of his steak.

He will forget her in a week, or two or three, and find some other girl. He has no doubts he'll find someone new, there's always someone new. It's not like he cares about them, he just hates when they leave him.

But Tyoma will still be there.

He finishes every single bite of his own dinner and about a third of Michelle's remaining salad before he pays and leaves, walking out into the nighttime rain without even batting his eyes against the droplets that land on his lashes.

Even the anger is fading, now. No feeling stays in him for long, he flits from one to the next. Only the itch is permanent. Michelle can go - he doesn't need her, or even care about her very much. He just hates being refused.

He sits in the driver's seat and dials the only number he knows by heart.

"Allo," Tyoma says, sounding like he's been woken up out of a dead sleep. Misha grins, knowing he'll be all mussed up, hair in his eyes. "Mishka? Vse khorosho?"

"Yeah, is fine," He answers in English. "Michelle breaks up with me tonight."

"Oh." Tyoma hesitates, then asks, gently, "Are you okay?"

Misha's smile widens. If he can't feel enough for things to matter, Tyoma at least feels enough for both of them. It's cute, that he thinks Misha might be heartbroken. "Da. Is fine. I want to go out tonight, though, find someone."

Tyoma's silence is so long that Misha breaks it with laughter, shaking his head where he sits in his car.

"Not like that! Uspokoit'sya, Artyoshka. Just to meet girls. Do you have work?"

"Mmmf, no. My night off. I can go. I can... what time s'it?"

"Eight-thirty."

"Mishka..." Tyoma groans. Misha can see him collapsing back into bed, head against the pillow. "I sleep for only four hours!"

"I know. Mne zhal', Artyoshka," He isn't, he isn't sorry at all, "But I want to go out. You will come with? Yes? If I come home, you will go with me out tonight?"

If Tyoma says yes, he won't kill anyone tonight. If he says no, Misha will find someone who looks like Tyoma and kill them instead, take pictures, and show Tyoma what he's done by caring about a little sleep more than his own brother.

He's picturing, with delight, what it would be like to see Tyoma's eyes go so wide and scared of him, like the others do before they die. How handsome Tyoma would be bleeding. But all his big brother does is sigh heavily. "Da. I need to shower and dress. Come home?"

"I will." Misha sighs, feeling so much better already. Even just thinking about fixing the itch helps, a little. Even if he would never ever hurt his brother, sometimes thinking about it is just... fun. "Tyoma?"

"Da?"

"Thank you. You are a very good brother."

He hangs up before he hears if Tyoma says anything back. Tonight will be just for drinking, dancing, and maybe seeing if any girls will go into the filthy bar bathrooms with him, and he won't hurt anyone. He won't hurt anyone at all.

He can save that for later.

Especially if any of those girls like Tyoma more.

[asirensrage]

East of the Sun, West of the Moon

Title: East of the Sun, West of the Moon Fandom: Tokyo Revengers Rating: Uhh...Teen? Pairing: Kokonoi Hajime x Inui Seishu, mentioned!Koko x Akane Word count: 1629 Warnings: Merpeople? Off-screen canon character death. Dubious Consent for a kiss? Non-human/Human relationship. Implied forced magic/species change? unbeta'd Summary: He had paid the price for the magic he desired. Coming to the surface to meet his prize does not go as expected.

Notes: This is my first thing done for Mermay! I wrote it all this morning after a friend of mine suggested this couple. This is my first time writing for them (and technically my first m/m oneshot lol). I hope you enjoy it.

It’s been too long since he’s had a chance to come back to the surface. He’s been busy, working to find the right witch with the right magic for his desires. There is a cost for everything and he had paid heavily, more with parts of his soul than his body. He was shrewd enough to keep the damage to others, not himself. Finally though, he had what he wanted. He was ready to make his courtship fully known and offer something intangible. A freedom from the life that bound her only to the surface. 

He hears the click of those shoes she wears on the wood, vibrating into the dark water and signalling him in the night. A siren’s call already and she’s still wearing legs.

Her hair glows in the moonlight when he finally breaks the surface with barely a ripple. He can’t resist playing, sneaking up on her as he flicks his tail and moves closer. Her silhouette is…different. Is she smaller? Can humans shrink? He didn’t think so but Merfolk can change at will so why can’t humans do the same in some way? They change as they age, he remembers, and he tries to think of how long he’s been gone in human years. The time is strange. 

He floats a little closer, just enough that he can almost make out the different hairstyle that accompanies the shift in her, and he calls out in the grating human speech. “Miss me?” 

She turns quickly, eyes skimming the horizon behind before finally looking down for the voice. He reels back, tail flicking in agitation and fear that he tries to hide. “You’re not Akane.” 

They look like her, similar in features but sharper. Less happy. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like this male version of her. Akane the human was bright like the sun or the coral in the reef that the fish liked to hide in. This person felt more like the moon. A pale reflection of the warmth he sought. 

“So you’re the reason she kept coming here,” they say. Their voice is lower than hers, smoother. “I knew she had a secret but I didn’t think… you’re not human, are you?”

He sneers at the stranger, sharp teeth displayed in warning. “Where is she?”

“Dead.”

He sinks for a moment in shock. Dead? She can’t be dead. He has his magic. He was going to bring her with him finally. She can’t- “Lies!” he hisses. 

They sit down on the wooden platform, heels removed and tucked into the side as they dip their feet into his water. He moves to see them clearer and one side of their face glistenes with the fresh skin of a scar. “There was a fire. She didn’t…” they cut themselves off. “She wanted to bring me here before and I always said no. I…I should have-”

“Fire?” The concept is strange to him. There is no such thing in the water, not outside of the volcanoes and eruptions that sometimes quake under, sprouting heat and pain if one gets too close. 

“Yeah,” the familiar stranger nods. He does not elaborate.

“How do I know it’s not a trick? I will pay for her return.” Humans like gold and shiny things, don’t they? Kokonoi can travel and dig up a treasure for her. 

“I would pay anything for her return,” the stranger says looking towards the moon. Kokonoi pauses. They are pretty, like Akane but different. As the moon is different from the sun. He decides he likes the sharpness of their jaw and the apathy in their eyes. He is stunned by the desire to see if he feels as soft as he looks or if Kokonoi will cut himself on the jagged edges he sees. Akane was bright and soft and kind. Kokonoi was prepared to fight for her in the deep, to keep her safe. He senses that this one would fight himself.

“Who are you?” he finally asks, pushing himself up to rest his arms on the dock and staring at him. He reaches out a long finger, careful with his claw as he touches the leg in the water. 

“Seishu.” The name is as familiar as an old current. “I’m her brother.” 

Brother. Another name for a hatchling. He remembers she said she had one in an old conversation when they first met. He had been intrigued by the figure sitting on the dock, much like Seishu sits tonight. “Koko,” he offers, pointing to himself. It’s the easier version of a name a human can pronounce. One Akane gifted him. 

“Koko…” 

The way he says his name makes him shiver, his spines flickering out. He reaches, trailing his claw over their skin. He’s tempted to make him bleed but Koko does not want competition in this moment, no matter how much he wants to taste. He drags his claw under Seishu’s foot, eyes flashing with pleasure at the way they flinch. 

“What are you?” Koko asks, looking up at her brother. “Akane said she was female. Are you?”

“What? No. I’m her brother. That means I’m male.”

He thinks about it and shrugs. Gender has no meaning, not really, not to a Mer who can change theirs on a whim. If he needs, he can adjust to suit them and the future he’s suddenly thinking of. He grieves for Akane, for his sun, but the moon controls the tides and Kokonoi is finding himself swept up in the current that Seishu pulls him to. 

Kokonoi hums softly, letting the sound verberate through the air. He could drag him down easily, but Kokonoi likes to take his time. He wants Seishu’s curiosity. He wants to be desired back. He is not lacking in courtships but there have been none that caught his interest until Akane. Until Seishu. “I’ll return. You wait.”

“You want me to wait for you?” 

Kokonoi nods. “I won’t be long this time. Next night.” 

Seishu looks at him before he nods. “Okay, I’ll come back. For Akane.”

“For you,” Kokonoi demands. 

He looks out at the horizon, at the moon that shines and is reflected by the water. “Akane loved coming here, thought is was an escape. Used to joke about not coming back.”

A promise Kokonoi made to her that she left unfulfilled. Promises were binding to beings like the Mer and the witches in the deep. He gives into the urge and licks the skin of the leg in the water. It makes Seishu yelp which causes Kokonoi to laugh. 

“You’re not going to eat me, are you?” he asks, leaning away now carefully. He looks ready to run. 

Koko shoves himself up higher, using his tail and his arms to heave himself for moment onto the wooden platform he sits on. It isn’t easy, but he’s strong. Seishu stares in awe at the dark colours of his tail and the white spines on his fins. Kokonoi flicks it, splashing him. 

The brother glares at him before flicking the water back. He grins at it, and the way Seishu’s eyes take in the differences between them. His gaze continues to linger on his tail and his hair and Kokonoi wants to preen in response.  

Koko leans closer. He needs to go back into the water but he wants to taste more. He wonders if Seishu will let him. He lets out a series of clicks, trilling slightly to lure him closer. It works because the human moves in without thinking and Koko is granted the chance to press his lips against his and nip, tasting blood. It’s sweet, but he thinks he prefers the taste of the man himself when he manages to lick inside his mouth. It stuns Seishu enough that Kokonoi can taste a little more, tongue moving against his gently, before he’s forced to jump into the water to breathe.

Seishu is in shock, staring down at the Mer who lowers himself further into the water. He can’t resist grinning at the moon above him, waiting for the response.

“You…kissed me.”

Kokonoi nods. “A human thing but enjoyable. You’re fragile though. Don’t want to break you.” There’s no revulsion that he can see in the human’s expression and it confirms his desire. It’s not only him. Not completely. 

Seishu touches his own mouth. “Are you allowed to do that?”

Kokonoi shrugs. “Why not?” he sticks out his tongue at the human and watches with pleasure as the human looks at it. “Do you have a clutch waiting for you? Your home?” he elaborates when he sees the confusion on his face.

“What? Oh…no. My parents died with Akane. It’s just me now.”

He grins, teeth flashing in the light. “The next night,” Kokonoi says. “Meet here. I had something for Akane but you…you will take it.”     

“I will?”

“Yes. Then her promise will be held.” 

“She made you a promise?” 

Kokonoi grins. “One made in blood. It will be worth the wait,” he says, more to himself than Seishu. “It’s a…gift,” he says, thinking of the closest proper human word. 

“Okay,” he nods. “Tomorrow night. Not like I have anything else waiting for me.” 

Kokonoi is not supposed to hear the last part but he does. “Next night, my moon.” He leaves before Seishu can question the term, swimming into the deep water. He has adjustments to make. Seishu’s taste is etched into his memory and he needs to add it to the magic that he’s paid for. He needs to adjust the home he’s created for a larger Mer than planned and more fortifications. Seishu, he knows, is going to be beautiful in the water. The moon belongs to the ocean and this one belongs to Kokonoi. He’ll make sure of it. 

everything taglist: @raith-way @zeleniafic @veetlegeuse  @chickensarentcheap @residentdormouse

@themaradwrites @kingsmakers @themagickjuju @sxrvivc

tr tag: @mitsuwuyaa @blackfire2013 @bleach-your-panties

network: @enchantedforest-network

[cityandking]

8, 17, 24, 47, 61 for minah + two kiddos of your choice!!

ty tabby!!! // get to know my d&d characters

8. what are three songs that suit them?

MINAH — 1. citizen/soldier - 3 doors down (my favorite warden song) 2. hollow - cloudeater (and I'm ill with all that I know / 'cause it shows what little I know / I want sacred, I want final / and I'm seeking it wherever I go) 3. did it to myself - orla gartland (and now you're living in my memory / living in my mouth / living in the four fucking walls of my house) DAI — 1. royal empress - greg laswell (and we all thought everyone was gonna make it out alive) 2. call it dreaming - iron & wine (where we see enough to follow / we can hear when we are hollow / where we keep the light we're given / we can lose and call it living) 3. you're gonna go far - noah kahan (so pack up your car, put a hand on your heart / say whatever you feel, be wherever you are) ENIKO — 1. severed - the decemberists (I alight like a whisper / I alight with the lights out / and it won't take me long just to find you / and it won't take me long just to find you) 2. everybody knows - sigrid (everybody knows the fight was fixed / the poor stay poor, the rich get rich / that's how it goes / everybody knows) 3. the wolf - manchester orchestra (there is nothing you've got when you die that you keep / you were all that you were, were you all you could be?)

17. what do they dream about, when their dreams are their own?

MINAH — blood or eyes in the dark. sometimes both. sometimes home, which is always the worst DAI — these days, the abyss. it's hard to remember what's memory and what's nightmare (at a certain point the distinct ceases to matter) ENIKO — nothing all that interesting. that strange, sharp, slightly-anxious reprocessing of everything going on around him. nightmares too, but even those are banal by now. he's almost figured out how to talk himself out of the fear when he wakes up

24. which of the four elements speaks to them the most?

MINAH — water. it's about everything going on under the surface and the stubbornness and fitting into whatever shape or channel she has to in order to keep moving forward DAI — earth. partially because of the whole earth genasi thing, but mostly because he's born from the mountains and his roots go deep. as much as he's a cleric of the sky, the whole point of flight is that eventually you have to find somewhere safe to land. ENIKO — water. deep, dark, inscrutable, swiftly moving, dangerous. adaptable and always fit to the container he's in.

47. when they meet someone, what is the first thing they notice?

MINAH — their money. not just where their purse is (that too) but what they're wearing, how they carry themself, what they flaunt and what they hide. DAI — daichi, daichi, what do your +15 insight eyes see? ALL. in all seriousness, he tends to observe how people carry themselves and how they react to other people around them. he might be shit at expressing himself but he's good at reading a room. ENIKO — their hands, their weapons, and their hands in relation to their weapons.

61. what kind of flower would they choose to pick from a meadow?

MINAH — all of them. she'd make a lovely little bouquet, tied with string DAI — something pretty but also with useful medicinal properties ENIKO — none. but if he had to, he'd pick sunflowers

[thelightningthatjumpsbetween]

Chapter Seven

RE8 | Wintersberg | Romance, Slow Burn | Action, Sci-Fi

Sequel of Winters and the Beast, a Resident Evil: Village Story

Table Of Contents

Ethan's Journal

August 20

So, I finally met her.  Ada Wong.  It wasn’t as awkward as I thought it would be.  Actually I have her to thank…I saw a different side of things when she spoke with Karl about the Mold research.  I was kept in the dark so much, listening to the BSAA.  I still blame that organization for what happened with Miranda, because they moved us here under pretense of “protection.”  It only made things worse.  Some of the things Ada said made me sick to my stomach.  I don’t know how Chris does it.  It's still so hard for me to forgive him.  Maybe one day.   

Things have been hard since Rose’s birthday.  Even though it was an adorable party and she was so happy to see our friends from the Roma village, and Zoe (so was I), I can’t help but think about how simple life was like just a year ago.  Things were so different.  I had no idea how much truth there was to discover. 

Seeing Rosemary blow out her candle and smash her cake made me so unbelievably happy.  I feel so lucky to be here with her.  I just want her to be a happy kid and know that she is loved more than anything in the world.  I have to defeat Miranda to ensure a future for both of us, and get justice for everything and everyone she destroyed.  

Eva agreed with the Duke about trying to find some sort of talisman for this King and communicate with him, and she gave me some advice on how to try after the Duke pointed out the possible location of the item.  I told her I would do it.  This week Karl is going to clear more of the land with the clan, and invited us.  The water from that river is turning the area by Moreau’s old village into a huge swamp and he wants to dig out a path to reroute the water.  I think he just wants to play in the excavator.  

—-----

Ethan was moderately pleased with the truck Karl had bestowed on him (the same one he’d gotten pounded while being chained to, several days earlier) even though it was by no means the Challenger he intended to buy; he drove the trio of himself, Eva, and Rose down to the work area: the old once-fishing village.  It was strange to be in the hollows of the village where nothing tangible remained, and debris lurked just under the surface.  Still, Ethan thought, it was less unsettling than seeing Donna’s house looming over his head as he had before the ceremony for Eva. 

He stared out at the expanse of the valley and the castle silhouetted silently against a darkened mountain, before muttering to Eva, “You sure you’re okay to watch Rose?”

She sighed, and turned to face him while he focused on the road.  “Always.  But Ethan…you make Heisenberg so sad.” 

“He’s in a gigantic piece of equipment!” Ethan said defensively, gesturing toward the field where the men worked.  “He’s busy! And he's....being Heisenberg! How can he be sad?"

She pursed her lips; he read the silence, and cut his eyes toward her in exasperation.  “Not you too.”

Maricara had already lectured him on this twice, he and Karl had fought over it once, and Zoe had defended Karl during her birthday visit to see Rose.

“Do you not trust him?”

“Eva, I don’t trust anybody or anything farther than I can throw them these days.  I can’t throw Heisenberg at all.  I do trust him, as much as I can."  Ethan inhaled, then sighed.  "Sometimes I still...remember what it was like.  Before.  I can't help that.” 

“But he senses that.  He is so good to all of us, Rosemary especially.” 

Ethan sighed.  “He is.  And I’m not singling him out.  He just does things like…work in excavators.  That’s all.  And.”  Ethan paused, wondering if he should say the other part of what was on his mind.  He chewed on his lip for a moment as the truck rolled down the gentle sloping road; made by Karl and the men, of course.  

“I feel like I can’t ask you to go into the Mold.  It should be my job.” 

“Why do you feel that way?”

“You were trapped in there for a hundred years,” he said with a halfhearted laugh.  “I figured you were tired of it.” 

She actually smiled, and gazed out the passenger window.  “You are…not wrong about that.  It is a beautiful world, but this one is so much more tangible.  Ephemeral.  It is a breath of fresh air.  I cannot wait until this is over.  To actually think I could see the world, see the things that I could only read, or look at through glass.” 

“We’ll plan a tour,” he agreed, his smile widening.  Ethan’s hair ruffled in the breeze from the rolled-down window.  “But, until then, I’d like to…give you a chance to just be here.  I need to learn everything I can to be a weapon myself,” he scoffed.  “Miranda was supposedly intimidated by Rose.  I’m going to find out the reason why, and use it against her.  Me.  Not you, not Heisenberg, definitely not Rosemary.”

“You don’t have to do things alone, Ethan.” 

“I know.”  They were close to the area where the castle gate had once stood; it was now rubble, but the drawbridge beyond it was intact.  The once-pond was now swampy mud, but it looked cheery with the wildflowers in bloom.  It had been so cold, so foreboding in the winter.  Ethan felt a shiver run up his spine despite the midday heat, as he surveyed the area.  He glanced over the drawbridge and the doorway beyond, surprised that Karl hadn’t just driven the excavator through the path and started clawing at the stone foundation.  Then again, there was still plenty of daylight left.  

“I’ve got this, Eva.  Go have some fun.  Catch yourself a big one.”  He pointed his thumb toward the antique fishing poles in the back of the truck, and she actually rolled her eyes at him.  This caused Ethan to beam at his own Dad humor.  He kissed his daughter and turned once more toward the looming, intimidating Castle Dimitrescu.  If he tilted his head very far back, he could see most of the structure, but it made him dizzy.  

Ethan paused at the approaching rumble of a large engine; sure enough, Heisenberg drove his ancient Frankenstein of industrial mining equipment toward the truck.  Rosemary squealed with joy at the monstrosity of metal.  Ethan heard the rush of air from pneumatic brakes, and the machine halted.  Now it idled as a graying tousled head of hair poked out of the window in the cab, gesturing toward Eva and Rosemary.  

Ethan felt his heart flutter at the sight of the manly man in his big machine, but he called out a jeer.  “Heisenberg.”  

The head turned; though hidden in shadow, he could see the glint of the glasses.  Ethan poked his thumb toward the drawbridge.  “I’m going in through the carriage gate.  D’you wanna stab me in the guts and kidnap me like a fucking psycho?”

The silhouette of Karl raised its left hand and flipped Ethan off.  He saw the red glow of a cigar ember.  Ethan waved in response as the machine started up, and then Eva, who was halfway between both men, called over to Ethan, “He said he will turn your truck into a metal frisbee when you leave.  What is a frisbee?”

—------------------

Ethan remembered his words as he’d crossed this threshold the first time.  Nothing but blood and death, huh.

“Elena,” he sighed, remembering her terror.  What he wouldn’t give to see her again.  But she, like many others, had only existed ephemerally in the Mold’s consciousness.  Wiped away by Karl’s recalibration, forgotten as if she were nothing but a dream in someone else’s mind.  There was nothing to be done about it, he reminded himself.  

Ethan’s sorrow was cast aside; his heart flew into his throat when he walked through the entryway where he’d first met Heisenberg.  He was anticipating something; his body seemed to remember the encounter.  It responded with adrenaline. 

Recalling the bizarre interaction actually made him smile as he crossed through the open doorway.  He was still afraid, still expecting a fight, but somehow Ethan could see the interaction in a different light, knowing the man now.  Heisenberg was still a fucking bastard, though.  The blond’s thoughts drifted back to that church meeting…well, what memory he had of it.  He’d been so confused, whacked in the head by some of Karl’s flying scrap metal.  

As Ethan strode through the silent gardens, which were now overgrown and covered in wild roses, he remembered Alcina’s booming voice.  The screeches of Angie, so close to his face.  Miranda farther away, mysterious, hidden in shadow.  How Karl had moved so quickly in front of him, the hammer ringing.  

God, Karl was one thing, Ethan mused.  Living with him was like owning a perpetually agitated, buzzing telekinetic bear.  Cute and cuddly every so often, but dangerous and confusing every other moment.  He knew that Karl would do anything to protect them, but still, the man had a wild, unpredictable streak.  It was never more obvious than when they’d met.  Heisenberg had seemingly discarded him several times, and then taunted him, watched him, while not so secretly expressing his admiration for the blond.  How could Ethan possibly be considering bringing back any of the other Lords? 

The thought made him frown deeply as he approached the final entrance door.  Ethan’s eyes drifted over to the spot where the Duke’s wagon had originally parked and the frown faded momentarily.  

The Duke–someone he trusted, someone who had always looked out for Ethan, openly…who had picked him up and carried him, while he fell apart, to his final destination, and who had shown only warmth and compassion-wanted the Lords back, too.  

With a rather disgusted sigh, Ethan exhaled and put his foot on the step.  He could do this.  Had to do this.  For Rose, he reminded himself.  Rose, who was happily frolicking in the sunkissed field below, not hugging the cold edge of a mountain castle.  

—--------

It would be in the Great Hall, the Duke wagered.  A treasure worth bragging about, particularly if the rivalry between Dimitrescu and Heisenberg’s ancestors was half as intense as the pair’s.  A patera was the item in question.  He’d been frustrated, running a hand down his face.  “What the fuck is a patera, Eva.” 

Some kind of shallow bowl used by Romans, originally.  It was depicted in some of the manuscripts with other treasure (the Duke had annotated heavily here, beseeching anyone reading to locate these artifacts.)  Apparently this King was a real show-off in battle, and had drank wine from the bowl at every public opportunity.  So... a showy flask, Ethan noted. 

The descriptions of the man and several illustrations of him drinking from his bowl matched the other writings that mentioned the ruler; he was several generations after the founding Kings of the village-the men whose terrifying statues guarded the ceremony site for their descendants.  According to official tapestries, his given name was Godric.  

Eva knew some of the history from her time in the Mold–at least some of the collective minds had belonged to scholars and historians of the area.  The King was beloved amongst his knights, and even peasants enjoyed the man’s rowdy and boisterous presence.  At least one medieval bard song existed about him, though it was lost to time.  

He had been very protective of his homeland, and led many battles that kept the area independent as Islam, then Christianity swept through the area.  He also gave the order for a quarantine wall to be built during the plague years that ravaged most of the countryside.  The man was by all accounts a good, just ruler who lived an unnaturally long life, perhaps thanks to the mutamycete.  

And then something terrible happened and he disappeared from all memory and history.  This was a bit of a mystery and Eva had no answers for it.  Ethan was cursing about the lack of clarity while digging through the ornate decor in the Great Hall when he paused, brushing past a plate.  

It was gaudy.  Bright gold.  Had a sculpture of a man in the middle of it…it was more like a bowl than a plate, he mused, and now he turned the ugly thing over, staring at the even more gaudy carvings on the bottom.  Runes, he noted curiously.  Ethan’s fingers moved along the Germanic alphabet and he studied the orgy depicted on the bottom of the patera.  This was likely not Christian.  Didn't need an anthropology degree for that. 

Now he straightened, his long legs stiff from kneeling while rifling through the cabinet.  The blond looked uneasily around; he was in the main hall, and the display area had been in shadow under the grand staircase.  Now Ethan strode out onto the marble floor, hearing his own footsteps echo in the cold room.  

He was nervous, but less nervous than he’d been before.  The castle at this point felt like an extension of the home he had here; it was burned into his mind as a location where he’d spent lots of time.  Not in any particularly enjoyable way, but it was memorable, at least.  

With one more furtive glance around, Ethan closed his eyes.  Eva had coached him on moving through strata; to just be still, and let the pages of the book flip around him.  He supposed it was something like Karl’s magnetic fields.  To send energy out around him, and then use that energy to focus on a person, or a question, or a thought.  Casting a line. 

He only hoped he wouldn’t fucking catch Miranda.  Here in the castle, it seemed unlikely.  But so did channeling a mad King who had existed hundreds of years ago and had no discernible presence within the collective consciousness, other than from the few memories from ceremonies that Ethan had seen before.  In those memories he was faceless, a shadow with an imposing presence.  

Ethan gripped the plate, closed his eyes.  The quiet echo of the castle turned into a rushing sound around him, and he tried to focus only on the entity that he knew so little about.  Godric.  He thought of the silhouetted, faceless figure on the throne.  

A heaviness broke the flickering sound as something tugged on the bowl in his hand.  Ethan’s eyes popped open, then widened.  There was another hand on the bowl.  The blond couldn’t even focus on the fact that he stood in the liminal space, where the castle blended into glitchy, overlapping colors behind them.  He was entirely encompassed by the man in front of him.  

Big. Wide.  He towered at least six inches over Ethan’s head and smirked at the blond’s dumbfounded expression.  

If Ethan squinted, he could almost see Karl in his features.  The shape of the face, the shaggy hair and beard.  The sparkle, the hidden smile, in his eyes.  This man had striking, light hazel irises, and a single scar over his eyebrow instead of an array across his face.  Ethan tilted his head.  The nose was right, too.  Dark skin.  

“Mi a fene,” spoke the stranger finally.  It was a question, aimed at Ethan, who continued to stare dumbly.  

[semimedieval]

the beach part 3: you eat raw oysters?

with the scene that put rimquartz on the map behind us, we're rolling onward, back to silliness. i remember writing jasper with full sincerity here but then being very relieved that i was able to pass off my lack of oyster knowledge as a character trait for obsidian. oh my god i just remembered how yummy oysters were btw. i wanna eat oysters again!!!!

Rim surfaced as well. "Now we can eat oysters!" He yelled hildin up an armful of oysters. Spark grabbed one, slurping it into her mouth. "Yum!" "Spark? You eat raw oysters? Or can you eat them raw, I'm confused." said Obsidian. "You can." She said, surprised. "It's muscles and clams you have to cook." "Oh. I'm an idiot. I've never been to the ocean before. Sorry." "Neither have I, but my mother used to bring them home from the market sometimes." she added. "Ohh, I see. Goatville was far away from the ocean, so we never tasted them."

Onion ring dialogue for DAYS here. Also spark and obsidian did not live very far from each other, most places where oysters were available to eat for much of real life history were COASTAL you silly gay people!! Obsidian's dialogue here betrays such a real and in-character shame about Not Knowing Things, both his and mine. He is so precious to me.

More oyster experiences, first and otherwise.

Rim ate one aswell and grimaced as a bit of grit went down with it. "I think it's trying to kill me" He joked. Obsidian tasted one cautiously. "Interesting..." he said softly. "Don't worry, they don't have legs!" Rim joked. Obsidian laughed. "Are they supposed to?" "No." said Lupus, taking an oyster.

One could make variable jokes about Obsidian, Lupus, and Spark's respective levels of oyster-eating experiences experience,

Meanwhile, Ky finds an underwater cave, and her mind link with Lupus indicates to him that she's up to some plot relevant adventure and it's time for them to get an RP's worth of spotlight again. Ky, of course, is on an Excellent Adventure (doing scary cave diving, which is super scary!!!). And also knows what classrooms are.

There! Almost there. She swam faster, faster until she reached the inside. She burst out of the water, sputtering for air. Ky climbed up into the cave. Cool! She had to tell the others! But how would she reach the surface of the water? Ky cursed under her breath. Ky looked around the cave. She might as well make use of it. She stood up and put on s brave face. She walked around, it was about the size of a small classroom.

In another case of Lupus being the only character I allow to feel real detailed emotions in moments of crisis, he starts to panic (justifiably, I think) about the dangers of diving. Cave diving, even. "Especially in a world where unicorns existed" is so silly, though. Is the implication that a unicorn got her underwater?

Lupus looked around. Where was Ky? "Nope!" Rim agreed (about oysters and legs.) "Where's Ky anyway?" "I've no idea," he replied, glancing around. Rim thought for a second then shot into the water, creating miniature currents in the shape of a circle that expanded. It acted like a radar. He swam around for a little while, about to give, when he noticed something strange. "Did you find her?" Lupus questioned. He looked down into the water as a panic rose within his chest. Ky was a strong swimmer, he told himself. She couldn't drown, nothing could have happened! But accidents could happen, especially in a world where unicorns existed. Spark smile faded as she saw Lupus "Anything wrong?" "Well, besides the fact that my love interest and my best friend is stuck somewhere and the ocean probably..." he started, his voice unusually aggressive, then faltered. "Sorry. Just worrying." Quartz put a hand on his shoulder. "We all do it."

MEIN GOTT, affection between quartz and lupus, that is to say CLEAR AND PRESENT EVIDENCE that the 2014 take that "quartz doesn't like lupus because she's always team obsidian" was a stupid and revisionist one. This is a fairly competently written sequence aside from fucking "love interest." TVTropes-inspired writing behavior is not cute.

Katia, you are not slick, I am dead certain that Moopy is well aware that all of you are IRL friends.

NVM I gtg already...I'm planning to show my Obsidian writing to my friends at school tomorrow (I'm so random XD)

Meanwhile, Ky finds some matches (inexplicably), while Rim finds the cave.

What was this? Some matches? She picked them up. It WAS cold. Rim swam near the cave entrance and so a flash of movement. He glanced at it but didn't see anything he surfaced in the cave. She lit the match and saw a figure in the water. "Who's there?" she asked, her hands trembling. "Oh, it's just you." She extended a hand to lift him out of the water.

The matches are inexplicable, but the atmosphere here is cool. I think the core structural problem underlying this section of the roleplay is that Jack appears to keep deciding that the reveal of the soul pearl – given that it BRINGS BACK THE DEAD – should be something dramatic and adventure-worthy, whereas Augustine already has a clear idea of what it is. So they keep doing this back-and-forth where Jack throws the ball and Augustine doesn't want to play ball if it's not the ball game he was planning for, which results in some cool ideas but an ultimately bloated adventure. It makes me think that I should altogether kick either the pendants or the sea dragon – or combine them. And of course I can't really kick the pendant because all of them, conveniently, loop around into eing relevant to the plot.

Meanwhile, on the surface, Quartz and Lupus worry for their Best Friends And Love Interests/Second-Best Friends And Backup Love Interests.

Quartz peered down into the murky water. "What's down there, do you think?" Quartz asked, voice trembling slightly. "I don't know, but I'm going down." said Lupus decidedly.

Aw, they learned the word 'decidedly.' Also Virginia briefly surfaces and has Clove follow Lupus. To my credit, instead of throwing her off, I have Lupus make the two of them diving helmets out of ice, but then Virginia is never seen again so it's not really a problem either way.

Anyway, the silly Indiana Jones Cave Diving Trap Adventure begins in earnest next post, but THAT warrants a complete post of its own so i'm going to wrap this one up. Overall, pretty strong plotline development here, I hope it leads into something cool and not slightly stupid.

[erineverly]

“Right? I feel the same way. The other day, we were watching cartoons in the living room and he fell asleep so I carried him to his bed, and he just molded into me like a koala bear, and it hit me out of nowhere… How lucky I am to have him, how lucky we are,” she corrects herself, glancing up at the white ceiling as she does her best to refrain from getting emotional. “I still replay it in my head from time to time, and it’s crazy just how many things went wrong and we still got a tiny, but overall healthy baby. It really was a miracle.” She has to speak a little louder now that the water’s running, but if she looks to the side, she can still see Axl and offers him a warm smile. A silent thank you for giving her this sweet miracle boy. “You’re welcome. I know that this isn’t how we envisioned the future of our family, and I know that you often make a lot of sacrifices for both of them, and it can’t be easy, but yeah… You’re doing a great job. My dad was nothing like this. He never made an effort to be present in our lives. What I’m trying to say is that I see how hard you’re trying to be there for Sebastian whenever he needs you, and I appreciate it.” Her heart feels heavy for a reason that she can’t even begin to explain and her eyes well up with fresh tears, so she quickly averts her gaze and focuses on the task at hand. “Thank you, Axl.” For the invitation, even if she’s not sure whether she can accept it. Her heart is anything but prepared for what might await her there. “I was thinking maybe I could run him a bath while you’re in Malibu? You know, not to waste time? Bath-time is always a whole ordeal with this child,” she admits with a small smile, keeping on this cheerful, playful facade, but on the inside she does feel silly for hiding behind her son instead of speaking openly about her fears. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to disturb Dylan’s routine or something. This woman that he barely knows suddenly shows up at his house? Sounds like a recipe for disaster.” She shrugs, avoiding looking at the singer as she picks up his T-shirt and puts it in the sink. She dips the fabric in cold water, goosebumps dotting her forearms as her fingers sink under the surface with it. “Yeah, I know, I’m just… Making sure you’re prepared for any possible outcome. I don’t want you to be upset if our child says that he wants to go there with just the two of us.” She knows that Axl has changed, both of them have, but part of her is still wary and will rather discuss all possible outcomes with him now than deal with an outburst later when something unpleasant and unexpected happens. “Yeah, he definitely does, but it’s so strange because… I mean, if we wanted to take Baz’ kids to SeaWorld, we wouldn’t even have to ask. If we wanted to donate all his toys to children in Africa, he would help us pack them. Well, not Melmo, but he definitely would give up everything else to make other babies happy.” He dislikes Dylan because he feels threatened in a way, replaced. “How did you react to your siblings? Were you jealous of them?” She inquires, pouring a brightly-colored laundry detergent into a cup and tipping the carefully measured amount into the sink. “I remember being jealous of my sister at times, but never to this extent. I know that this is a different situation, but maybe we could use some examples from our own childhood to show him that although siblings sometimes fight and don’t get along, we love them?” She suggests, turning the faucet off so that the sink doesn’t overflow. She’s smiling under her breath, scrubbing the crimson stain out of Axl’s T-shirt, while listening to him talk about his other son. She has no trouble calling Dylan Axl’s son and Sebastian’s brother because that’s who he is. Family isn’t always blood. “Do you maybe have a more recent picture of Dylan on you? Show me. I’m sure he’s grown a lot since the last time I saw him.” Which must have been a few months ago, and she’s only glimpsed him, hiding behind Axl’s legs while she was dropping Sebastian off for the weekend. 

“Alright, I’ll just wait for him to come back and let him find out himself that his Parliaments magically turned to Marlboros overnight.” Rolling her eyes because it sounds ridiculous, she doesn’t tell Axl this but as soon as he’s out the door, his cigarettes will be leaving, too. She doesn’t feel like explaining any of this to Anthony, especially not the words that her ex-husband greeted her with earlier today — I promised to stay away from you … but I can’t. She’s been hiding quite a few things from her boyfriend, from the letters and gifts that she and Axl have been exchanging to these visits that just keep getting stranger and stranger. “You sound like my grandma, you know? The devil’s tango,” she playfully mocks, lowering her voice to try and imitate his. Fingers absently rubbing the soft fabric, the dark stain fading gradually as she continues to work on it. “Would you mind not breaking my bed? I don’t know how we’d explain this to anyone.” Once the dark spot is barely visible and she’s satisfied with the result, she rinses it in cold water again, wrings it and puts it in the washing machine. She’s reaching for his pants, absently slipping her fingers into each pocket and pulling out loose change and whatever else she finds there, before dipping them in the sink, and that’s when she hears the wildest sound. Mortified and embarrassed, she shoots her ex-husband a pointed look and shakes her head. “Are you well?” Is all she asks, still gaping at him, her eyes wide open. Was that a moan? “Can we, please, just drop this conversation? What’s gotten into you today?” If they were cartoon characters, her jaw would literally be on the floor after hearing this suggestion. She could snap and tell him that it’s really none of his business whether or not she’s using protection. He has some nerve, coming here and telling her that starting a new family isn’t such a good idea when he’s already started a new family himself. He has Dylan. She refrains from doing so only because she knows that if he refuses to drop a certain subject, it’s usually because it seriously bothers him and she decides to milk it. “You haven’t even talked to him, have you? Oh, wait… I think you have. I don’t know if you remember this, but it was May 1990, I think? Maybe early June? He walked up to us at a parking lot and he tried to flirt with me, so… Yeah, you two have spoken before. It was actually the story that Anthony and I kind of bonded over when we met a few months ago.” She decides to open up just to show the other how uncomfortable this subject can be not just for her, but for both of them. “He’s a good guy, Axl. And he doesn’t have any diseases. He’s perfectly alright and okay and healthy in every way.” Is it jealousy that she’s seeing? Laced with anger? She figures there’s only one way to find out and adds, “I think you’ve got it wrong. We’re kind of serious about this so I don’t think he’d just get up and leave if I did get pregnant so…” She watches the redhead with curiosity, wondering if he’ll finally drop the subject. Most people probably would, but then again, he’s never been like most people so she doesn’t really know what he’ll do. 

“Well, I don’t like it either, but he obviously doesn’t sit our son down and ask him to repeat all the bad words. He doesn’t teach him those phrases on purpose. I think that he’s simply not used to being around children, that he’s still learning how to be a parent, and so he forgets that he’s not supposed to say certain things in front of Sebastian. But you can just leave it and let me deal with it.” A heavy sighs escapes her lips, dark brows creasing because she doesn’t like the idea of Axl confronting Anthony. She knows how it might end and would rather avoid it. They might be the same age, but they’re not on the same level of maturity. Anthony reminds her of the version of Axl that she met back in 1986, he’sgotthat go ahead, test me, and see what happens attitude. And she knows that her ex-husband might be more mature, but that doesn’t mean he can’t throw a punch. “Because they’re so comfy and they look great on me,” she confidently says, trying to refrain from giggling at the nickname that she always scolds Sebastian for using. Ant. At least now she knows where her precious baby got it from. “And who says that he knows they’re yours? They’re mine.” Her boyfriend doesn’t know that some of those loose T-shirts that she sometimes wears don’t belong to her either, that they’re not oversized on purpose. He doesn’t know this box of memories exists. He’s not as observant as Axl, and so it’s not that difficult to hide certain things from him, which does make her feel bad when she thinks about it. “Gosh, this child owes you a new pair of jeans,” she sighs because the stain on his jeans is more difficult to remove, and it takes her some time to get most of the spaghetti sauce out. “Can you help me wring these?” Denim is heavier than cotton when soaked and she doesn’t have enough strength to do it properly on her own. However, when her gaze flickers to the other, she forgets about the jeans, leaves them in the sink to soak some more and even walks out of the bathroom to get a better look at what the singer’s doing. “And Stephanie wouldn’t be? If she knew her boyfriend’s rolling around in another woman’s bed while she’s away?” She counters, folding her arms over her chest as she leans against the doorframe. She doesn’t want to admit it to anyone, not even to herself, but she misses moments like this. These spontaneous outbursts, this laugh that bounces off walls and finds its way straight into her heart. He’s ridiculous and childish, but it’s something that she’s always loved liked about him. She finds herself relaxing, erupting into giggles. “You’re insane, Axl.” But she throws herself onto the mattress, landing face-first, her stomach colliding with his arm. “Remind me to grab my perfume before you take me back to Malibu. I’ll spray it in our bedroom since we’re marking territory or something,” she playfully teases, touching his face with her wrinkled, suds covered hands just to annoy him. “Well, you can’t take this one. It’s got plenty of sentimental value.” Realizing what shirt he’s wearing, she finds herself completely speechless. Her eyes growing glossy, glistening in the warm light. It’s like she’s back in the 80s, looking at the boy that she fell for. “I’m sorry,” she muses, trying to laugh her reaction off. “I just — I guess it’s the memories. I was so giddy when you told me that I could be a part of this video.” 

“Yeah he is, I can’t believe he’s real. He’ll be 50 and I still won’t be able to believe he’s real.” Axl lovingly says, chuckling because it’s true. “Mhm, I’ll never forget that moment.” He thinks back on it over and over and wants to tear up like it’s fresh. “Thanks, I’m tryin’ to be. I love them both and they both need a dad so I’m trying my best. Whether I have to stay up all night to make it work or not.” he answers, shrugging his shoulders. Feeling some sort of loss when she moves away from his face, like the touch burns. “Alright. I mean, it would be nice if you guys would come along so I don’t waste two hours without you guys. I mean, him. I don’t think he would have an issue with this. I don’t see why.” That’s Sebastian’s house too and won’t be any different him going there on the weekends and they’ll both be together. “About tomorrow though… yeah, I know. That’s what I said. I’d give him the choice, I’d ask him first if he wants to let Dylan go just in case. But it’ll be okay if he doesn’t, I’ll make it up to Dylan the next day.” It won’t be a big deal. Axl would like to include them both, but he’ll understand if Sebastian says no and just wants it to be him and Erin. “Yeah, I think he gently needs a sharing reminder. I get where he’s coming from but at the same time, a sharing lecture is definitely needed. Even him and Dylan could pass for brothers, they both got the cutest cheeks and green eyes. Their hair colors are just a little different, but barely that. They still got similar hair styles and both of them are mostly quiet and sweet. Minus those rambunctious moments that happens every now and then.” he chuckles, loving talking about the both of them as a smile idly happens on his face when he does. “No, he can just find out.” When the idiot comes in confused wondering how his cigarettes got replaced with a different brand. “Yeah, the devils tango,” Plopping down on the bed, he hops up and down on it to make it aggressively shake and squeak. “Ohhh Anthony.” Making his voice high and moaning. “I hope he uses condoms or you’ll catch a disease, since I know he’s not no proper guy with any real intentions with you or any other woman he’s been with. And then imagine getting pregnant with that guys kid, he’s the type to fuck, knock up and leave.” She just snatched up the first one she could find to prove some point to him, he’s not stupid. And it’s going to get her in trouble. “Then not only that, but he’s teaching Sebastian things he doesn’t need to be taught. I know he learned those curse words from somewhere. So yeah, I got a bone to pick with that guy.” Axl grumbles, it took her forever to have sex with him but she’s just spreading them open for this loser? Makes the spaghetti in his stomach want to immediately come back up. “Why are you tryin’ to steal my pants, huh? Won’t Ant man get mad about it?” Taking the rose leggings, he pulls them on to each of his ankles then stands up and pulls them up on his waist. Then falls back again and rubs himself into Anthony’s side of the bed, like a dog marking his territory. Wonders what he would think about that, him hanging out in his bed. “Then again, Ant man would be pretty mad about this.” he laughs, sitting up and putting the black muscle tee on then looking down as he puts the cross necklace over his chest. “Ohh, cool. This is my shirt from the Sweet Child music video. I haven’t seen this in awhile.”

[creativebkt]

Magetree

The tree had never been alone. Not really. Sure, there had been a time in the seed where there had been no others around, but those memories faded each year with the stars. No, the strongest memories were of a warm haven and a strange rain.

She had been night, and the limbs that had created the sheltered hollow had been lean and lightly muscled. When it came time to spread the first leaves, the sapling had noticed that the hair surrounding her had almost glowed, seeming to draw in all the light around them to this one spot.

She had kept the tree from being blown away by wind rushing over the hills, and she had brought the light that might not have shone on it, but she also made it rain. It was not a rain the tree could see anywhere else, but it was rain. The woman was the source, the one and only in the small, rolling hills she sat in, for the drought had been long, and only seeds remained dormant in the ground.

The tree grew both taller and deeper until it tasted water beneath the surface, and still, she made it rain. Her eyes never opened to see the tree, and the tree, ever patient, let her rain, for the rain she made tasted more of promise than the water the tree had found. Eventually, there came a time when the tree had to choose. Its bark--a sad, grey thing that matched the landscape--came in contact with the wasting figure, and it chose.

To push the woman away would be similar to rejecting the rain that awakened it, so the tree instead chose to welcome her. It grew over, under, and around the once strong limbs that still retained their deep, intense hue. At first, the tree was cautious, should she suddenly realize what was happening and abandon it to the grey landscape. The tree need not have worried, though. She only continued to rain, and even seemed to lean in, as if to embrace the bark that carefully and tenderly surrounded her.

When the embrace was complete, the tree stood tall and once more focused upwards, on the growing and spreading of leaves. For many months, the tree felt the growth as the woman continued to rain within its wood. The hair that had pooled around her as she sat now crowned the tree, bringing in light from the dusty meadow. Her skin became bark, spreading until the newest branch was as dark as she had been.

As the years passed and she continued to rain, the sky gave water, too. Soon, the fields around the tree were covered in blades of brightest green. The tree waited expectantly for more stolid plants to sprout as well, but none did. The drought had been too long, and those seeds could not be woken with the sky’s rain. Once again, the tree looked within itself at the one it had welcomed, but she no longer rained.

Instead, there was an emptiness. The tree could feel it. Where she had been, there was now only nothing. There were no limbs of strong brown, and the golden crown no longer pooled at the bottom. The tree remembered how she had looked and all she had done, and it rained.

In the wind, branches creaked, and in the wood, the sap ran quickly and suddenly in an attempt to fill the hole. The grass grew as bright as ever, but clouds moved in and refused to leave. Animals who had contemplated returning to the fields retreated quickly. They sensed the tree's inheritance and were wary.

The tree rained. Though its leaves remained the brightest of colors, and the sun sought them out on its own, it rained. The bark was wet, and the growing slowed. Villages attempted to spring up within sight of the tree, but all died and moved on when nothing more than grass grew in the strange twilight. Still, the tree rained for the hollow within it, and though there were others who came to visit, it was only for a time. They came from outside and laid their own strong limbs against the soaked bark. These guests prayed. They talked. Sometimes they also rained, but they all left. This one would, too.

Only, they didn’t. This visitor stayed. He was old, his hair as grey as the fields had been. He spoke of a family. He spoke of the woman in a way the tree remembered, told in tales it didn't recognize. He rained, but it was a quiet, gentle raining. The tree’s own rain slowed, then slowly stopped. This one knew what it was like. The tree leaned down and shaded the old man from the seeking sun and the whipping wind until he gave the bark a small pat.

“I have to go, but I will return. Maybe I will bring a friend?” the old man creaked. The tree creaked back, and then it was alone, but not really.

For a time, the tree rained, but there was always the memory of the old man. The feeling of his hand resting on the bark kept the spot dry for a few seasons. Sometimes the emptiness within ached, but things were better. The tree was just wondering if the old man had forgotten his promise when two figures walked over a hill.

“That one?”

“That's what Grandpa said.”

The two approached the tree and gently placed their hands on the dark brown of the tree. It was wet from the rain, but they didn’t seem to mind.

“The mage tree.”

“Yes. Now, hurry. This place gives me the creeps. Too quiet.”

“Grandpa said to talk to it. You can go back if you want.”

The tree watched as one of the figures hesitantly walked away. By the time they reached the hill, they weren’t looking back anymore, and the tree refocused on the figure left behind.

She was smaller than the emptiness, more thin everywhere but in her belly. The girl’s hair was pale, but it didn’t pull the sunlight to it. Her limbs were not as sturdy, not as night, but they cradled her center as if holding the most precious thing in the world. She was small and seemed almost to dance with the wind as she stood by the bark of the tree.

“Hello, tree,” she said, “Grandpa always wished he could come back, but after he fell, the doctors wouldn’t let him walk again.” The tree heard the words, though it didn’t want to believe. “He said you look like her, all tall grace and sorrow.” The dry patch of bark glistened for the first time in seasons. “Grandpa seemed to think you could understand him.” He wasn’t coming. “I’d say I don’t believe him, but trees don’t normally wear their sap on the outside.” The emptiness ached. “You aren’t normal, but I don’t think you can understand me, either.” Branches groaned in the wind as clouds refused to move from the sky. “He wanted me to ask if his ashes could spread here.” The tree rained.

Gone. Gone. Gone! All of them gone! This girl would leave! The old man was gone! The emptiness filled with the rain the tree made, and it overflowed. The bark was still darkest brown, and the leaves still golden, but it was wrong. The sun still searched for the tree, but it was wrong. The wind screamed through the tree, but it was wrong.

The leaves turned pure gold. The bark shimmered in rivers of rain. The clouds roiled overhead. For once, there was no wind.

The girl standing by the tree noticed the sudden changes. She stepped back in fear, then slowly reached out again. “You can understand me?” she asked, enchanted by the sudden change. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” The girl reached out and placed a hand on the bark again.

The tree rained, and it barely noticed the small cupped hand, gathering the rain. The girl brought it to her mouth as the tree continued to rain, and her eyes widened.

“Salty,” she said quietly. The girl finished the rain she had collected and put the hand back on the tree. “I’ll come back,” she said, raining herself, “and I’ll bring my family. And my family will come back, and we’ll keep coming back. You don’t have to cry on your own.”

The girl was right. The tree was never alone. Not really. Every year, visitors came. They would talk, and though the tree found the conversations easier with each visitor, the rain never really stopped. Some days it was harder to respond to the conversations because of the rain, but the visitors always shared in it, and it made the pain easier. Slowly, the tree began to grow again.

This was an attempt to tell the story of an inanimate object. I've got a few others I might share, but this one is my favorite. I hope whenever you grieve, you've got someone to share in the rain.

[yeraskier]

the one where yennefer and geralt keep fighting over jaskier, aka the tale of three idiots in love (aka jaskier being oblivious for 4.5k words, teen audiences and up)

read on ao3 <3

Things have been… weird, to say the least.

Jaskier didn’t realize at first but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to simply ignore how strange Yennefer and Geralt have been acting.

The first time he noticed something was up was two months ago when Geralt and Yennefer essentially began a game of tug-of-war with him in the middle.

Geralt had needed him for something, then Yennefer showed up, apparently also needing him for something. Geralt had a hand wrapped around his left wrist and Yennefer’s hand was on his right one as they pulled at him, arguing over whose situation was more urgent. Jaskier didn’t exactly feel like his presence was a huge necessity in either situation but it wasn’t like he was in much of a position to protest.

It was Ciri who saved him in the end, scolding both her parents as she pulled him away.

Both of Jaskier’s shoulders were sore the next morning, and Yennefer, surprisingly enough, had decided to give him a massage. Then Geralt walked into the room and saw what was happening, glared at Yennefer, and left in a hurry. When he came back only a few moments later, he held a salve that he swore would be a lot more helpful than dainty little hands kneading at his shoulders. That sent them straight into another argument which left Jaskier feeling a lot less relaxed. He stormed out with a huff, their squabbling mercifully dying out the further he got.

Since then, things just kept happening.

Things like Geralt snarling whenever Yennefer and Jaskier joke about being married, and her grinning at him triumphantly when she thinks Jaskier isn’t looking.

Things like Yennefer muttering insults like slag under her breath whenever Geralt gets extra touchy during training and it affects Jaskier.

Things like Yennefer running a hand down his chest, only to hiss seconds later as she yanks her hand away like it’s been burned before turning to glare at Geralt’s retreating figure as he whistles into the air.

Things just won’t stop happening, and Jaskier… Jaskier has never been so confused in his life.

—

Jaskier releases a relieved sigh as he sinks into the hot springs underneath Kaer Morhen.

His body hurts, which isn’t exactly unexpected after a day of training with Lambert. One would think that he’d be used to it by now but it’s like the bastard purposefully makes each session more challenging than the last. Jaskier knows it’s meant to be helpful— well mostly, because he’s aware that sometimes Lambert is actively trying to be a dick— but fuck, he’s only human.

The one thing that gets him through training with Lambert is the knowledge that at the end of the day, he’ll find sanctuary in a lovely and peaceful bath.

Jaskier ducks his head under the water to wet his hair, and when he pushes his head back up to the surface, he’s nearly frightened right back under when he sees Geralt standing a few feet away.

“Fuck, don’t startle me like that.”

The witcher grins, looking amused, “would have thought after all the time you’ve spent traveling with me, you wouldn’t scare so easily.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes at the statement; they both know how unlikely that is, though he has become a tad more badass over the past decade.

“Mind if I join you?” Jaskier shrugs, gesturing with his hands in a way that says be my guest.

Jaskier doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to seeing the man naked. It’s always equal parts a blessing and a curse. The blessing of it all is very obvious, it’s Geralt. The curse comes from the fact that it pains him to be able to look but not touch, at least not the way he wants to. And lately, it’s been feeling like Geralt makes a game out of it. He undresses slower than he has in the past whenever Jaskier was around. It’s like he’s deliberately teasing.

Tonight, Geralt looks the bard right in the eyes as he peels off the layers. Jaskier looks away, flustered, and decides he’ll blame his reddened features on the heat of the water if it’s brought up.

He busies himself with scrubbing at his skin and sees Geralt swimming towards him out of the corner of his eyes.

“Are you feeling alright,” the older man asks once he’s mere feet away, “I watched you train with Lambert today.” That’s all the explanation he gives for his question, though Jaskier supposes that explanation is enough.

“Ah yes, well you know Lambert.”

Geralt hums in agreement, “I do.”

“It’s fine,” he reassures, “it’s about time I learn to protect myself anyway. I can’t always have you running in to save the day, can I?”

He laughs when he says it because it’s meant to be a joke, but Geralt’s features turn very serious as he moves in closer.

“What if I like protecting you?” Geralt’s giving him those eyes, that look that makes Jaskier want to kiss him and run away at the same time. It’s too much, too intense, and keeps Jaskier yearning for something he can never truly have.

“You always did enjoy a damsel in distress,” Jaskier tells him.

Geralt rolls his eyes.

Silence falls over them as they bathe. Jaskier tries not to look too much but it’s proving to be difficult with Geralt being right there. Geralt isn’t doing much of a good job at not staring himself, so Jaskier supposes it’s alright.

When he moves away to grab one of the soaps for his hair, Geralt follows and takes it from his hand.

“Let me,” he insists before moving around to Jaskier’s back.

The heat of the water doesn’t stop chills from breaking out over his skin at first touch. The only point of contact between them is Geralt’s hands in his hair, but Jaskier feels it all over, and Gods, it feels so good.

He says as much, tilting his head back further to give Geralt more access. The witcher massages the pads of his fingers against the sides of Jaskier’s head and his eyes roll back, a low moan escaping his lips.

Jaskier can’t be blamed, he’s always had a thing when it comes to his hair. It’s almost embarrassing how easy it is to get him to come by just pulling on it once he’s nearly there. He feels like he might be right now.

“You boys having fun?”

His eyes fly open. Yennefer’s standing where Geralt had been minutes ago, a tight smile plastered on her face.

“We were,” Geralt grunts from behind him.

“Well, why don’t I join you.” She chides, and it isn't a request. She’s already beginning to remove her dress.

Jaskier has seen Yennefer bare a handful of times, and much like Geralt, he’ll never get used to this sight either.

She swims towards them slowly, eyes on Jaskier the entire time. It makes him squirm.

“Jaskier, be a doll and wash my hair for me, would you?” Yennefer leaves no room for argument as she picks up another soap and puts it in his hand. It’s not like he’d try arguing against it anyway.

Jaskier feels Geralt’s hands move down to his shoulders as he runs his hands through the mage’s soft locks of hair. Once she’s satisfied, she submerges herself into the water. Yennefer’s facing them when she comes back up, and unsurprisingly, does not thank Jaskier for the deed.

She does however blatantly ogle his chest, eyes scanning over the area appreciatively. Yennefer hums, tilting her head to the side, “all that training has paid off, it seems.”

He registers Geralt’s growling as his brows shoot up. “Thank you,” he responds. It comes off as more of a question than an answer, Yennefer seems pleased by this.

She reaches for another soap, “may I?”

“Yes,” the bard says immediately despite not being sure what he’s agreed to.

Yennefer begins washing him. Her hands glide from the sides of his neck to the center, then down his chest and across his nipples. He takes note of Geralt’s hands also beginning to move further down, as well, first working along his shoulder blades before traveling down his spine.

Jaskier notices himself growing hard and starts thinking about that one rather hideous professor back at Oxenfurt who would spit every time he talks. It doesn’t do much to will his erection away.

Yennefer bounces between maintaining eye contact as she cleans him, and letting her eyes follow her hands as they trail over the skin. He can feel that Geralt’s closer now than he was before and it’s taking everything in him to not pull them in and let them ravish him.

This is starting to feel like the beginning of a very vivid wet dream.

Jaskier watches as Yennefer’s eyes narrow into slits, her gaze landing over his shoulder instead of on him. It becomes clear that she’s looking at Geralt when Jaskier hears the man snarl.

Suddenly, Jaskier is being pulled back and forth between the two of them, and being manhandled does absolutely nothing to rid him of his erection.

“Okay, okay!” Jaskier shouts, “off! Both of you, take your hands off now!”

They do so immediately and he tries not to whimper at the lack of contact he requested.

“What was supposed to be a tranquil bath has been soiled by your neverending passive-aggressive behavior towards one another,” the bard exclaims, making sure to level them both with his glare. Yennefer glares back, and Geralt crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go to my room and lock the door so you can’t disturb my peace in there, too.”

He swims away, leaving the two to their own devices. He doesn’t even grab his clothes out of fear that it would give them the chance to catch sight of his erection.

The moment he’s safely locked away in the privacy of his room, Jaskier wraps a hand around himself.

He groans, flashes of fucking into Yennefer while Geralt pounds into him swaying him into a quick release.

—

There’s a hat on his bed.

It’s a deep purple with a wide and extravagant brim that’s slightly wavy. There’s a slim gold lining around the base that has a small gold obsidian star attached at the center. It’s stunning.

“Do you like your gift?”

Jaskier turns to face Yennefer who’s standing at the doorway.

This is usually the point where he’d make a joke. She’s giving him an honest Gods gift, their friendship has never had space for such… intimacies.

The joke is at the tip of his tongue, his lips stretching into a smile until he takes in her form.

She seems nervous. Her face looks stern, but she’s biting her lip. She has her hands clasped in front of her, but her fingers twitch. The thought is almost laughable because Yennefer of Vengerberg doesn’t get nervous, but Jaskier recognizes the signs.

His smile melts into something fonder, something more serious and less playful. “I love it.”

Jaskier can see her relax, shoulder’s lowering and chest widening on an exhale.

“Good.” She stands there for a moment longer, then smiles the way she had when they first saw one another again after the mountain. It’s as unexpected now as it was back then.

She walks away without another word.

Jaskier turns back to the hat and lifts it, heart thrumming as his fingers dance over the velvet.

—

It’s only a day later when Geralt approaches him in the hall.

Jaskier slows in his tracks when it becomes clear that the witcher is intentionally moving towards him.

Geralt has this determined look on his face that visibly melts the closer he gets. By the time he gets to Jaskier, he looks more anxious than anything. It worries the bard.

“Geralt,” he greets, sure to keep his voice mellow.

Geralt opens his mouth, closes it, then frowns. Jaskier frowns too.

He opens his mouth again, gets as far as, “I–” before he stops again. The witcher glares at the ground, fists clenched at his sides.

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeats as he steps closer, “are you alright?”

The older man looks up at him, eyes much warmer now than they were when he was looking at the ground. He lifts one of his hands and opens it.

He holds a necklace in his palm. It’s a silver chain with a wolf attached, one that matches Geralt’s medallion exactly, except smaller.

Jaskier stares at the necklace longingly then looks up at Geralt to see the man already watching him, searching for his reaction.

“Is this for me?” His voice croaks when he asks, throat suddenly too dry.

Geralt nods once.

He takes the necklace from the witcher’s palm and holds it in both of his own, “it’s beautiful.”

When he looks at Geralt again, he notices that they’re close enough that he wouldn’t have to lean too far forward for their lips to meet.

Jaskier doesn’t get the chance to entertain the thought because Geralt’s gone a moment later, leaving the bard alone in the hall.

It’s fine, he probably wouldn’t have had the courage to do it anyway.

—

Jaskier wears the hat the next time he performs for Ciri, Yennefer, Geralt, and the other witchers. The only time he gets dressy at Kaer Morhen is when he plays as their entertainment for the night, so the hat fits perfectly for the occasion.

Yennefer beams when she sees it.

Jaskier wears the necklace every day, much like Geralt does with his pendant, except Jaskier’s is usually hidden beneath his clothes.

Still, Geralt’s eyes soften whenever he catches sight of the chain peeking beneath the collar of Jaskier’s tunic.

—

A bowl of stew with a big chunk of bread is set in front of him, followed by Yennefer sliding in beside him on the bench.

He blinks at the food, then at her, “did you poison this?”

She glared at him. “Just for that question, I might.”

Jaskier grins. “I’m only teasing,” he tells her as he picks up the spoon, “but I must say, you’ve been rather pleasant these last few weeks. First the massage, then bathing me, gifting me a lovely hat, and now feeding me. If things keep going like this, I might start getting the wrong idea.”

Yennefer’s silent for a moment. Jaskier doesn’t take note of the silence until he stops eating long enough to catch her stare.

The mage doesn’t avert her gaze, even knowing she’s been caught. “Maybe I want you to,” she says softly.

For a moment, it feels as though his heart has stopped beating completely. He’s frozen in place, able to do nothing other than look at the woman before him. Her eyes bore into his like she’s expecting a response. She probably is, but Jaskier has not a single clue of what he should say to that.

He’s saved from having to figure it out when Geralt takes a seat at his other side.

“Why hello,” he drawls pleasantly.

The witcher hm’s in acknowledgment before placing an apple in front of Jaskier’s bowl of stew.

Jaskier gasps. He picks up the fruit, knowing the way he’s gawking at it probably makes him look ridiculous. “How on earth did you find an apple?”

Geralt shrugs, and of course, does not offer an answer to the question.

Jaskier finds that he doesn’t care as he bites into the fruit, taking much satisfaction in the crunch it makes as his teeth sink into it.

“Thank you, Geralt,” he says as he nudges the man lightly.

“Hm.”

“As talkative as always, Geralt,” Yennefer chimes in.

Geralt rolls his eyes at the remark. “I think you talk quite enough for the both of us.”

Jaskier pretends he doesn’t notice the two scowling at each other as he silently eats his food.

—

Weird seems to become a part of Jaskier’s life that he has to accept. He doesn’t attempt to fight it when Geralt and Yennefer act bizarrely.

Like, the time he mentioned being thirsty and suddenly had two different cups of water being shoved in his face. He didn’t ask any questions, just thanked them both and drank both goblets of water.

There was also that time Geralt walked in on Yennefer giving Jaskier a scalp massage and the witcher took that as a sign that he should be massaging Jaskier’s hands. The bard completely ignored the very obvious tension in the room between Geralt and Yennefer and kept his eyes closed as he hummed a tune, basking in the random, but very much welcomed, attention.

Jaskier didn’t even bother questioning it when he walked in on both Yennefer and Geralt making his bed, fluffing three new pillows that weren’t there when he left, and patting down animal furs that also weren’t there when he left.

Even now, with both Geralt and Yennefer in his space as he tries to cook for everyone in the keep, he mentions nothing. He doesn’t usually like people being in the kitchen with him, it messes with his process, but neither of them seems willing to leave so he lets them help. Yennefer cuts ingredients and Geralt passes him spices.

Jaskier even lets the mage taste the rice he’s cooking. Instead of taking the spoon from him as he expected her to, she leans forward and wraps her mouth around the utensil that’s still in his hand, licking her lips rather lewdly after she swallows. It leaves Jaskier gaping like a fish.

Upon hearing a low growl from beside him, Jaskier fills the spoon with rice again and turns to hand it to Geralt. Geralt does nothing until Jaskier thinks he gets the message and brings the spoon closer. Like Yennefer, the witcher leans forward to taste the food. Unlike Yennefer, Geralt releases a throaty groan when he swallows. Jaskier feels his cock twitch in his trousers.

Then comes the glaring contest that they always seem to have nowadays whenever Jaskier’s around. It only distracts him further so he shoos them both out of the kitchen.

Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever seen two people who have sex regularly hate each other this much.

—

It takes Jaskier getting sick for Yennefer and Geralt to get along in his presence.

They might have made a challenge out of taking care of him, he thinks. Perhaps if he weren’t so frail in his current state.

They don’t, and Jaskier is grateful for it. They feed him soup and bring him tea. Geralt reads to him while Yennefer strokes his hair, and Yennefer hums his ballads while Geralt runs a soothing hand over his back.

When Jaskier starts feeling better, they bathe him. It’s not like the last time. This time, their touch remains gentle from start to finish.

After, they both hold him close like they’ve been doing every night for the last week. The three of them snuggle on the massive bed of his room as if they’re all meant to be there together.

Perhaps they are.

—

Jaskier rounds up all the ingredients he can find to bake them a simple cake in thanks.

Yennefer offers him a bright smile and he swears he sees Geralt’s eyes go glassy.

—

Things go back to normal after a few days. Well, their new version of normal any way, with all the touching and the glancing and the rather suggestive remarks.

Jaskier is beginning to think he might actually die from the combination of blue balls and a confused heart.

—

It all comes to a head on an unassuming Wednesday night.

“Oh for the love of Gods,” Lambert exclaims as he slams into Jaskier’s suite, “what is wrong with you?!”

Jaskier lowers his notebook to stare at the very angry-looking redhead and cocks a brow. “I don’t think I’m the one who just stormed into another person’s room in an unnecessary fit of rage, but please, continue.”

Lambert looks like he wants to strangle him.

“Geralt and Yennefer are in love with you, you insufferable little shite,” the pitcher barks, “and I know you feel the same way about them, and I speak for everyone in this keep when I say we are tired of this game of cat and mouse between you three. It’s the most extensive foreplay any of us have ever witnessed. Now, if you don’t do something about it soon, I will make it my personal mission to make sure you don’t make it out of our next training session with all your limbs intact!”

Lambert turns away sharply and leaves as quickly as he came in, retreating footsteps stomping down the hall as Jaskier stares at the space he stood only seconds ago.

What the fuck?

—

It takes Jaskier about thirty minutes of pacing around his room before he makes a decision.

—

He finds them in Yennefer’s room.

“Lambert says you two are in love with me!” He cries out as he barges into the room, much like Lambert had done earlier.

Geralt looks up at him from where he’s laid out shirtless on her bed, and Yennefer looks at Jaskier’s reflection in the mirror she’s facing.

“Well, hello to you too, Jaskier,” Yennefer greets at the same time Geralt says, “does he, now?”

“No,” he bellows, “no, none of that! No deflecting! I need to know if it’s true.”

Things were easier when he had not a single clue why they were acting the way they were, but now that does have a clue, Jaskier feels like he might burst into tears at any moment if he doesn’t get some level of confirmation.

Yennefer turns in her stool and simply stares at him for a moment. “After all the hints we’ve thrown at you it took Lambert telling you for you to come to that conclusion?” She almost looks offended by this.

“Well you,” Jaskier begins, pointing an accusatory finger at her, “are usually much more forthcoming about your feelings, and you,” he points the same finger at Geralt who raises his brows, “tend to run away from the very idea of feelings. So excuse me if it took me a while to realize that either of you wanted me!”

Now, Yennefer does look offended. So does Geralt.

“Don’t look at me like that. You two have been acting like lunatics these last few months and I had not a single clue what was going on and then I find out from Lambert, of all people, that you’re in love with me? What’s up with that?” Jaskier thinks he might look a little crazy. He certainly feels crazy.

“We didn’t want to scare you off.” It’s Geralt who says it and it makes Jaskier want to laugh. Decades of running after Geralt as he chased monsters and the witcher thinks that this, of all things, would be what finally did him in.

“I’m… not easy to be with,” Geralt continues, “and Yennefer is definitely not easy to be with.” The mage glares daggers at Geralt for the comment, so Jaskier keeps his agreement to himself.

“We’re… a lot. But we both wanted you and didn’t know if you wanted us in the same way,” he explains, “so, we decided to see whether or not you’d want either of us individually. If you wanted to be with one of us and only that one person, the other would just have to be okay with that.”

“Admittedly, we got a bit carried away,” Yennefer adds, not looking even slightly remorseful about it.

“A bit,” he mutters under his breath. The look they give tells him that they heard it anyway. “Why didn’t you guys just say something?”

“Because you prefer people using actions rather than words to express how they feel about you.”

Yennefer’s right, because of course she is. He hates that, it makes him frown.

“Could’ve still said something,” he accuses half-heartedly.

They both give him a flat look that screams really? and Jaskier deflates immediately.

He steps closer to the bed, skin heating up at the realization that their eyes have yet to leave him. “For the record, I am madly in love with you both. I have been for… well, an embarrassing number of years. I thought the endless number of ballads made that very clear.”

“No, Jaskier, they didn’t. Perhaps you should also take a lesson on being more forward about your feelings.” Yennefer suggests, judgment clear in her tone of voice despite it dripping honey.

He opens his mouth to speak, but whatever words were about to come out died immediately at the challenging tilt of her head.

“Yen…” Geralt says, “no intimidating him into submission.”

Yennefer gasps, bringing a hand to the center of her chest, “I’ve done no such thing.” She looks at Jaskier and smirks as she gives him a seemingly thoughtful once over, “not yet, anyway.”

Jaskier nearly falls to his knees right then and there. “So… where do we go from here?”

Yennefer and Geralt look at each other, then back at him.

“Well,” Yennefer says, “you can start by shutting the door.”

He does.

—

They fuck him like they’re still fighting over him.

There isn’t a single patch of skin on his body that’s left unappreciated under their touch. He’s kissed and licked and fucked within an inch of his life and it leaves him breathless and sobbing.

Then, when he feels like he can’t take it anymore, they work together to slowly take him apart before making him whole again.

Jaskier loses track of the number of times he cries out I love you that night.

—

Surprisingly enough, the first thing he notices when he wakes up the next morning aren’t the two witchers standing over the bed.

No, the first thing he notices is how fucking sore he is. It’s a good kind of sore though, so he doesn’t mind. Then, Jaskier notices how good Geralt’s hair smells as he nuzzles his face deeper into the man’s neck. Then, he takes notice of Yennefer’s arm still wrapped around his waist.

Then, he notices Lambert and Coën standing by the bed looking pleased by the scene before them.

Jaskier screams, and it wakes both Geralt and Yennefer.

“Well, well, well, it took you three long enough to get it together and get together,” Lambert says smugly to which Coën cackles.

“I’m going to kill you both,” Geralt hisses, and if they didn’t have an audience, Jaskier might have just gotten an erection from the sound of his morning voice. Truthfully, he might get one anyway.

And as if things couldn’t get any worse, Ciri comes waltzing into the room.

“I heard screaming, what happ… ened…” She trails off as she takes in the sight in front of her, and then she’s the one screaming, hurrying out of the room as she cries out Ew! Ew! Ew! over and over again.

Lambert and Coën do look like they feel slightly guilty after that, but it doesn’t stop Geralt from pouncing on them.

“Don’t you just love it when our boyfriend defends our honor?” Yennefer asks, snuggling in closer to him.

Jaskier does love it, but he loves the way our rolls off her tongue even more.

It’s a lovely reminder that he is theirs and they are his.