#and there's a staircase that leads to a room down under the old inn and i step inside and there's a group of 10 or so people

[wekillitwithfire]

its a unique kind of pain when you get really into something with a small fanbase and not much recent fanart, and you find a really cool piece from a really good artist and you just love how they interpret and draw the characters and you're obsessed with it and you can't wait to see what else they have in store, but then you go to their blog and you realize that the drawing was just a one-off 'i watched this show (etc.) recently and thought it was kinda cool" and they're very unlikely to make anything else for it again

[stray-kaz]

Double The Bounty : a Roronoa Zoro x f!reader fic part one

Summary: There's only one room left at the inn and Zoro and a female bounty hunter grudgingly agree to share for the night.

A/N: Reader has a name, for the sake of ease and of the story. It makes sense, trust me.

Soft Zoro.

For 18+ only, thanks.

Tired but running on adrenaline, you dragged the heavy sack into the rundown inn, immediately clocking the only other person besides the keeper, standing on either side of the desk. He turned at the sound of the door closing, his eyes landing on the sack you were double handing inside. His gaze seemed to move in slow motion, but the mind behind it was quick.

"There's only one room left, kid" the innkeeper told you, glancing warily at your full sack and the almost identical one sitting at the feet of the dark eyed stranger.

You bristled, weariness sloughing off you like water.

"First, not a kid. Second, I have enough Berry to pay you and him" you retorted.

"Look. I already told you there's only the one room left" the man repeated, sounding about as tired as you were feeling. "Unless you wanna share, find someplace else."

Before the other hunter, because you knew that's what he was, could say a word, you did it for him. You were too tired to look elsewhere, and you wanted a decently soft bed to sleep in for the night. If that meant sleeping next to him, that would do.

"Fine" you said abruptly, striding forward to the desk and slapping down a fistful of notes. "I'll share with him. I just want to go to sleep."

The dark eyed man turned to you with a glower, his jaw set tight.

"I don't even know your name" he growled. "What makes you think I would be happy to share a bed with you?"

You stuck out your right hand and, grudgingly, he shook it.

"Monkey D. Isabel" you said coolly. "Now you know my name, Roronoa Zoro. And as for why you would be happy to share a bed with me? I'm much softer company than the floor."

His eyebrows rose barely, but you still saw.

"Your pretty face is famous" you told him, offering him a tight, shallow bow.

The innkeeper glanced between the two of you, not at all amused by the exchange. He slid the money off the desk into his palm and shoved a key at you.

"Get gone, pirate hunters" he muttered. "And don't make a mess."

He eyed Zoro narrowly as he said it; he just moved aside to allow you to lead the way to the lone room, the old stairs creaking under your boots and his. Your weighted sacks thumped hard on the staircase and along the hallway floor. Zoro glanced down at yours.

"You good with those?" he asked, eyes shifting to settle on your matching hip revolvers.

Your chin tipped up in defiance and pride.

"About as good as you are with those blades, Roronoa."

"Everybody calls me Zoro" he muttered.

You glanced up at him as you pushed the key into the lock and turned it, leaning on the sticky door to open it under your shoulder.

"I'm not everybody" you told him.

"Noted."

He dropped his sack against the door and you followed suit, before throwing yourself down on the edge of the bed and yanking your boots off. Zoro paid you no mind until you unslung your gun belt from around your hips and draped it over the door handle and started to shimmy out of your pants, the supple leather attempting to cling to your curves as you dragged them off.

He blinked his dark eyes at you, still saying nothing, his gaze dropping to drag over the flare of your hips and the lacy cotton cupping you between your thighs. But as your hands rose to the silver zip on your shirt, he found his tongue.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, his voice hot and eyes hotter still.

You eyed him closely, amusement and concern warring in your head. You settled for sarcasm.

"You can sleep with your swords if you prefer, Roronoa, but I dislike sleeping fully dressed."

Before he could respond, you swiftly unzipped your shirt and tossed it onto the end of the bed with your pants, leaving you in your underwear and black corset, the fabric clinging to you almost as firmly as Zoro's heavy gaze.

You wandered into the tiny bathroom and splashed lukewarm water on your face, rubbing your eyes clear of the water and blinking at your reflection in the rust spotted mirror.

Suddenly, you heard Zoro's voice muttering something in the main room, and you ducked your head out to see him.

"Sorry, did you say something?" you asked, curious in spite of yourself.

He nodded, one hand rubbing down the back of his neck.

"Yeah. I did. The swords only come off when the clothes come off, and I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I can sleep sitting up, Isabel."

Your body started a little at the sound of your name in his mouth, before your mind could react. You smiled at him.

"When the clothes come off, huh? I am not afraid. What, are you going commando or something?"

You had been teasing, but the way he went silent as he simply stared at you told you more than you had expected. His long fingers wrapped around the hilt of the most beautiful sword you had ever seen, clenching tightly as he ducked his head a little.

"Today, yes" he said quietly.

"Ah" you murmured, thinking on your feet.

Finally, you shrugged.

"Well, okay. I promise I don't bite."

His eyes widened slightly. Then he gestured loosely towards you.

"You could at least turn around" he mumbled.

You circled the bed and climbed in on the left, rolling over to show him your back, your knees pulled up a little. With the side of your head pressed into the pillow, you could still hear as Zoro slowly undressed, starting with his triplicate swords. He eased them down beside the bed, within his reach for when he lay down, and stripped off his shirt, letting it drop onto the floor.

You closed your eyes, nuzzled deeper into the pillow, and tried not to hear as he loosed the clasp on his pants and kicked off his boots before sliding them down and off over his feet. You wrapped your arms around yourself tightly as the covers lifted and the mattress dipped beneath his weight.

"How long have you been hunting for?"

The quiet voice surprised you and you turned partway to see him, the slope of the covers revealing smooth collarbones you tried not to stare at.

"About four years" you replied, just as quietly.

The room was still light enough to see in, but the slowly moving shadows inspired soft speech.

"You left your home?"

You snorted, and were surprised to feel the slow brush of fingertips down the back of your neck, your hair lifted away by stronger knuckles than yours.

"More like I was kicked out. My grandfather is not the sentimental type. I didn't want to leave my brother with him, but I didn't have much choice. He was just a kid. But dear old Grandpa decided I was old enough to fend for myself."

A pause, then...

"This isn't what you want?"

You shrugged.

"It doesn't matter anyway" you muttered. "Life is what it is."

"It does matter. What do you want? What's your dream?"

You sighed, unconsciously pushing your head back into his touch, his slender fingers wrapping carefully around your hair.

"I don't dream, Roronoa" you told him quietly. "I only sleep."

"Are you sure?"

Warm breath ghosted over the bare skin of your shoulders and you shivered, Zoro intently watching from behind you. If you were indifferent to him, goosebumps wouldn't be breaking out on your skin.

"Yes" you mumbled.

"Maybe you just don't remember them."

You arched your back and tucked your hands down between your clamped legs, turning your body into a living knot.

"My dream is boring" you admitted at last, the words a whisper in the air over you both.

"I'll be the judge of that, Izzy."

You squeezed your eyes shut tight at the sound of the nickname, a common enough one but unfamiliar to you.

"I want to settle. I want to stay in one place. I want to feel safe."

The last was spoken so quietly, he only just heard it. As the silence drew on, you shook your head to yourself and your hair fell past your shoulder, revealing a tiny golden flower inked onto the back of it. Without thinking, Zoro pushed forward and kissed it, his lips rubbing gently over the petals, the tip of his tongue touching the center.

You yelped quietly and shifted your position on impact, your chest pressing into the mattress, but your hips pushing back, finding nothing there. But then a strong hand curled over your hip and drew you slowly backwards.

"Hey" Zoro murmured. "You can look at me. I don't bite either."

You flipped onto your back, looking cautiously up at him. You didn't know Roronoa Zoro from any other pirate hunter, you could each kill the other with such ease it was almost laughable, but you didn't want to kill him. The thought made you feel sick, but the heat in his dark eyes made your heart pound for an entirely different reason.

"I can't help you settle. And I can't help you to stay in one place. But I can help you feel safe" he said low, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Your throat caught and he tilted his head to one side as he studied you carefully.

"Would you like me to help you feel safe?"

The seconds dragged on in the warm air between you, until you finally nodded.

"Yes" you said softly. "I'd like you to do that."

Zoro nodded and tugged gently at you until you settled one leg over his bare hip, the tension in your thigh pulling you in closer to him. You felt his breath shake over your hair as you moved to share his pillow, your foreheads almost touching. You hoped he couldn't hear your racing heart as he wrapped an arm around your waist, his forearm warm and solid against your bare skin.

You pressed even closer, pretending you didn't hear his sharp inhale and couldn't feel quiet pants brushing over your lips. You closed your eyes, hoping the intensity would abate, praying he would remain where he was, holding you, and not let go.

You fell asleep slowly to the warm sensation of his fingers stroking up and down your spine.

You woke with the sense of midnight all around you, eyes heavy and closed, but slowly aware of the building heat in your belly, the heat that had no doubt woken you up. Well, that and the gentle insistent nudging against the lace of your underwear.

You forced your eyes open all the way and blinked groggily, slowly bringing Zoro into shadowy focus. His eyes were closed, his lashes charcoal smudges across his cheekbones, his nose nearly brushing yours. A tiny furrow had formed between his eyebrows and his lips were slightly parted.

You tried to scoot away, but his arm still around your waist increased its grip and pulled you back, dragging your core up against him and forcing a soft whimper out between your lips. You set a firm hand on his chest and tried to push him back, but instead, you only felt his heart thrumming beneath your palm, too fast for a sleeping man.

You glanced back to his face to see his eyes were open, blacker than the shadows and fixed wholly on you. You could have drowned in the inky depths, your heart slamming just as hard as his behind your ribs.

"You're supposed to be asleep" he muttered, his voice thick and raspy with sleep.

You cleared your own throat, doing your best to ignore the traitorous throb between your legs at the sound of him.

"So are you" you replied, not endeavoring to move away again.

"So why aren't you?"

You sighed and shifted in his hold to lay on your back, staring at the ceiling. You debated lying and then decided to just tell him the truth. What harm, right?

"I can't sleep in this state, Roronoa Zoro."

He blinked, his hand slowly sliding round to rest over your hip, the pad of his thumb digging into your flesh.

"What state is that?" he mumbled, apparently oblivious to his own arousal.

"Turned on" you grumbled, not looking at him.

Air escaped him in a quiet rush.

"Sorry" he murmured.

You huffed, almost amused.

"Not your fault. Well...not really, anyway. It's okay. Go back to sleep, Roronoa."

To emphasise your point, you reached over and halfheartedly shoved at his shoulder. He gripped your hand and pressed his lips to the pulse in your wrist. You gasped in surprise as he sucked lightly on the fine skin, his dark adjusted eyes fixed on the matching pulse pounding in the hollow of your throat.

"If not my fault, then whose? Let me help you sleep, Izzy."

You bit your lip, stifling another soft sound as the covers moved, rising like a wave over his shoulders as he shifted on top of you, mattress dipping as he knelt between your knees, gently prying them apart with warm hands and lowering his mouth over your belly button, softness giving way slightly beneath his lips.

You held your breath as he slowly dragged cotton and lace down your legs, hips rising unconsciously to allow him to do so, but when you felt warm breath brush over you, you snapped back to yourself and slid a gentle palm against his jaw just as it loosed a little. Zoro glanced up at your face, his eyes burning in the darkness.

"I can help" he told you. "Let me help."

"Kiss me first."

The covers slid onto the floor in a messy heap as he surged over you, swallowing your gasp as his tip brushed your heat. His kiss was electric, the heat of a summer storm rushing in your veins. He was gentler than you expected, his lips dragging slowly against yours, stoking a fervor within you.

He was a complete stranger to you, other than his reputation, but Roronoa Zoro kissed like he knew you, like a fight to the death, one he knew he would win.

You grasped for his shoulders, something to hold onto, something to keep you grounded. He groaned when you dug your fingernails in and you snatched at that opportunity to find his tongue, drawing a wilder sound out of his throat and a frantic twist of his hips, rutting against you and brushing by your screaming bundle of nerves.

He wrenched his head back, breathing heavily, and looked down to where he pressed against you, leaking slightly onto your skin. When he looked at you again, his teeth were digging into his bottom lip and his eyes were wide. You had no doubt that you looked just as wrecked.

Before you could push at him, or pull at him, or ask why he'd stopped, he lowered his head and kissed down the center of your corset bra, the trail of his burning lips making you shiver as they reached your skin once more and he shifted back down the bed, littering the skin around your belly button with fluttery kisses.

He drew lower still, breathing gentle warm air over you, then caught sight of one of your hands fisting the sheet beneath your body. He turned his head to see the other doing the exact same. He reached for one of them and placed it with care on the back of his head, feeling your fingers immediately curl into the short hair.

When his lips brushed over you the first time, your fingers flexed and you whimpered. The second time, when his tongue peeked out, your other hand joined the first, desperate for an anchor as he set you adrift. He kissed you firmly, his hands pressing down on your wiggling hips. When that didn't work, he crossed his arms over your stomach like twin iron bands and held you down that way.

You were sure you looked quite a picture, were anyone to see: legs kicked over his broad shoulders, heated face as he licked into you and imprisoned by two ropy arms with the sole purpose of keeping you still so he didn't have to stop again.

Zoro's nose brushed your clit and your thighs closed against his ears, muffling your noises. He didn't like that much, but he couldn't do anything about it when his hands were busy elsewhere. He thought he could hear his name, each letter stretched and hollowed out of your throat, half sobbed half screamed at the ceiling.

He smiled, too close, and you jerked at the faint scrape of his teeth against you.

"Sorry" he mumbled, and dragged his tongue up in apology, kissing at your livewire.

You twitched, panting above him, as he slowly pulled his arms back, sliding his hands down your sides. He gently grasped your thighs and tugged, withdrawing his head, but left your trembling knees hooked over his shoulders. He stroked your stomach, soothing the skin as you gradually came back to yourself, your eyes opening and focusing on him again.

You felt your cheeks reheat all over again at the sight of his smile, damp and victorious.

"Hey, pretty girl" Zoro murmured. "Tired yet?"

With a sound that seemed halfway between a growl and a groan, you pulled him back up to you and wrapped your legs around his waist, canting your eager hips up to meet him. He hissed softly when his now oversensitive tip pushed against your heat, fighting the urge to let his eyes roll back.

Slick and waiting, there was no resistance as he sank inside.

Your back arched instantly, and he took that opportunity to pull a covered nipple into his mouth and suck hard through the material, sending a hot bolt of lightning right down to where you were joined with him. You sank back to the mattress and he followed you, dragging his lips up the front of your throat. He kissed your upturned chin and followed that line up to your lips. You kissed him back hungrily, locking your ankles at the small of his back, desperate for him to do something.

You broke from him for air and he dropped his head to kiss over your collarbone. He scraped his teeth down and you shifted under him, whining through your nose.

Zoro paused and looked up at you, questioning. What he saw kicked his heart into gear.

"Please" you said softly, your eyes pleading, your pupils twin eclipses.

He didn't need to be asked twice. He started slow, dragging in and out of you, tilting his head and listening to every sound he eked out of you with every pump of his hips. You grabbed at his shoulders, eliciting harsh breaths from him as your fingernails pressed in tightly. His scalp ached a little from your earlier double fisted grip on his hair, and he knew that now his shoulders were going to be sore, too. But he couldn't quite bring himself to care. You sounded too damn good.

And then you freed one hand to press onto the back of his head, tilting your chin at the same time so you could kiss him again, eager and moaning as your legs slowly climbed higher and higher up his sides.

Your mind spun with the reality of what was happening, an out of control tilt-a-whirl. Falling asleep, waking up, taking your leave; that was the plan. The plan was not to accept one climax from a pirate hunter you knew by name only, and then have him well on his way to offering you another.

You felt a light pinch at the juncture between your hip and thigh and opened your eyes to find Zoro staring at you, sweat beading on his forehead and eyes glazed and dark.

"Hey" he panted. "Outta your head, please. That's not where I am."

You felt him swell inside you and tossed your head back into the pillow, groaning, overwhelmed.

"You're everywhere!" you retorted, lifting a shaky hand to drag down over your face.

He thrust gently, teasing, and your hand dropped to rest over your heart; it thumped painfully against your palm, a bird desperate for freedom.

"Everywhere" Zoro repeated, quietly. "That's good, isn't it?"

You panted at the ceiling, but said nothing. Until you felt his hand gently grasp the side of your face so you would look at him. There was something unsure in his gaze you hadn't yet seen.

"Am I...making you feel good?" he asked, gone perfectly still.

Your own eyes widened and you nodded frantically, pushing up on your elbows to lick past his defensive bottom lip.

"Flip" you mumbled against his lips, withdrawing just barely.

"What?"

You pushed pointedly at his shoulder until he latched onto your meaning and rolled, pulling you with him to settle over his hips. They pressed bluntly against your soft inner thighs and you sighed quietly at the steady impact.

Zoro gazed up at you, his hands now resting on your knees.

"What you want that for?" he asked, confused. "You felt good, right? I was, ah. Fu - hmm."

You had just started to move, pressing your hands down firmly on his chest, your hips rolling, inner walls clamping against him at just how good he felt under you. At this angle, you knew your finish would be staved off, but watching his face swept the care for it out of your mind. His nostrils flared as he breathed hard through his nose, his eyes hooded onyx as he watched you riding him.

You rose up a little, strengthened your position on your knees and sank back down. You gasped when Zoro's blunt fingernails dug into your thighs, urging you to move faster. His lips were parted, but no sound issued from between them. The desire seized you to shake his control. You leaned down and kissed him fiercely, pressing your chest to his as you rocked against him. His hips jumped and you groaned in his ear as you felt him brush the spot nobody ever touched.

"Do that again" you whispered, and buried your face in the side of his neck.

You had wanted to shake his control, but instead he had shaken yours all over again. You felt him repeat the motion and your own hips surged to meet his, both your hands grabbing onto his shoulders for dear life. Zoro's hands pressed onto your back, slipping beneath the back of your bra, as he urged you down, again and again. He thrust up to meet you each time, determination and desire in every breath.

You pressed together, steadily becoming more and more frantic, breathing hard in the midnight room. Suddenly, Zoro grabbed your hips and hauled you down tightly, holding you snugly against him while he pulsed inside you, groaning quietly into your ear. You nudged against his cheek until he turned his head to drag his trembling lips over yours.

"Sorry" he mumbled.

You shook your head.

"What for?"

"You didn't get to finish."

You shrugged and nuzzled closer.

"But I did before. It's okay, Roronoa. I have no complaints about what just occurred."

He eased you onto your side and slowly withdrew from your body, immediately shuffling back to toss an arm over your waist.

"You're beautiful, you know" he said quietly.

You felt your face grow warm and pressed it against his shoulder. You tucked your body close in against his, your eyes slowly flickering closed. His breathing evened out and his grasp on your hip loosened. It didn't take long until you were asleep, too.

Zoro's nose and closed eyes twitched as the sun speared through the gap in the thin curtains, stretching glowing fingers across his face and bare upper body. He twisted away from it, unconsciously reaching for your body and the extra warmth it provided him. His hands touched nothing, grasped at empty, cool sheets.

His eyes opened wide and he sat up quickly, scanning the bed and the similarly empty room. Heedless of his nakedness, he checked the bathroom; it, too, was emptied of all signs of you. Suddenly, the back of his neck prickled and he turned slowly to survey the room again.

His dark gaze locked onto the empty space in front of the closed door. Your revolvers and belt were gone, as was your bounty sack, and his own. You had left his swords behind, however; no clear use for those, he guessed.

Zoro dressed slowly and made his way down the stairs to the front desk. The innkeeper glanced up at and his eyes narrowed when he realised who it was.

"I had no fewer than four noise complaints about you and the girl last night" he growled.

Zoro looked at him blankly.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

The older man scowled hard at him, to no avail. Zoro was not cowed.

"Just keep your midnight romps quieter...sir."

Zoro raised his eyebrows and snorted.

"I never plan on seeing that woman again. Too loud. Too deceitful."

He turned his back and walked away, but as he did, he looped your vocal responses through his mind on a one track. He really didn't want to forget the sound of his name all around the room as he tipped you over that cliff.

Even if he never saw you again or got to hear it again, he didn't want to lose it.

Eleven months later...

The bright sun burned down on Roronoa Zoro as he hung from a leaning cross in the Marine yard, alone. Or, alone until a wild haired boy appeared in front of him and he tipped his head back to see who. His heart lurched into his throat and his stomach somersaulted as he stared into a pair of familiar eyes.

But they were set in the wrong face.

"Who are you?" he groused, even though he had a pretty good guess.

"I'm Monkey D. Luffy and I'm going to be king of the pirates!"

Zoro shook his head, unable to wipe his narrow smile off completely.

"Oh, yeah? Monkey D., huh? I slept with your sister."

The boy's mouth tightened slightly and skewed to one side before he pursed his lips and expelled a slow puff of air.

"Well, Isabel must have good taste in men. You're a very good fighter."

Tagging: @writingmysanity @elizabeth-karenina

[missmoondalorian]

Chapter Two - Reopening

    You both spend the better part of the day cleaning up the mess the Slavers left behind. The entirety of the common room was turned upside down, but luckily, it seemed that they didn't do as much damage upstairs in the bedrooms. "They must have been interrupted by the fighting," you thought to yourself. 

"I'm hungry!" You hear Sis call out from the room across the hall. 

"Alright," you call back "I think we've earned a break!"

    You each emerge from your respective rooms, and head downstairs. Sis heads into the kitchen, but you stop at the bottom of the stairs and look around the room. 

    You remember a time when this inn was full of travelers. The lit fireplace illuminated the room, while new and old friends shared stories of their travels. You can remember your mother carrying her tray of mugs, passing them out from person to person, a smile on her face. Your father somewhere in the crowd, laughing and sharing his own fish tales with a group of, who were previously, strangers. You used to hide behind the staircase, listening in on adventures, because you knew you were supposed to be in bed, asleep. 

    Now, the long dining table sat empty and lonely. The fireplace hasn't been lit in years, as what use was it heating an entire room that was never used. 

    You walked towards the big red chairs arranged in front of the fireplace, taking a moment to feel the fabric under your hand, and adjust the pillows for the ghosts who still visit in your mind. 

"Aren't you coming?" Sis' voice snaps you back to reality.

"Yep, be right there." You respond, and head towards the kitchen yourself. 

    You start to search the pantry for something filling. You grab a single loaf of bread and hand it to her. "Ugh, I need to make it to the market tomorrow. We were supposed to go today but..."

"The Slavers..." Sis finished.

"But, it seems, we won't have to worry about them anymore!" You smiled at her. You dared to believe your own optimism for a minute. At the very least, they wouldn't dare return while the knights are patrolling the island. 

"Slavers or not, we won't be able to get much, I'm afraid." You close the pantry door. "We don't have much coin left from the last set of clothes I sold, and no one on the island needs much else... or can afford it either... "

"Hmm.. maybe the soldiers need some stuff fixed? After the fight?" Sis offers, with a mouth full of bread. 

"Huh." You think with a smile, "not a bad idea. I'll go out and see if I can find that nice Sir Tavros, and ask." 

    You grab your cloak and make for the door. "Finish eating and then start cleaning the next room ok? I won't be long." You instruct, as you reach for the latch. When suddenly, a knock from the other side scares you half to death. 

You catch your breath and cautiously open the door, when to your surprise, a familiar minotaur is standing on the step. 

"What a pleasant surprise!" He bowed, "so good to see you again so soon."

"I was just coming to find you!" You gave a relieved laugh, "what... what brings you here?"

"So sorry to intrude miss, but, we were told by some of the other villagers that this was the only inn on the island," he motioned to a few more soldiers standing behind him. "Without the Dawn Treader, and the castle in ruins, we find ourselves in need of lodging for the night."

"Oh! Uh.. of course.. sorry, it's just... " you're struggling to find a shortened way of explaining your life story to a total stranger. You try to compose yourself and clear your throat. 

"Yes, this is the only inn. Of course you and your crew are welcome to stay. Though I must apologize, we haven't had any guests for several years, some of the accommodations might be...lacking..."  

You step aside and motion for them to come in. Sis pokes her head out from behind the bar counter. 

Tavros leads five other crew members inside: three men, a faun, and a dwarf.

"We're still cleaning up from the raid this morning," you explain "but most of the rooms are clean and comfortable." 

"Sir Tavros!" Sis runs up to him. "Are you really going to stay with us!?" 

"It seems so little one," he smiles, then turns to his crew.

"Ladies, these are my crew, fine gentlemen each of them, and brave soldiers all. 

Lads, these lovely lasses are good friends of mine, as we are guests in their dwelling. I expect you all to behave as if King Caspian was still among us. Is that understood? "

A collective reply of "aye!" and "yes first mate!" responded. 

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Tavros asks. 

"Oh no, no." You reply. " Please, make yourselves at home. We'll get a fire going in the hearth, and Sis will show you each to your rooms."

    You suddenly felt a conflicting combination happiness and stress... Looking around the room you are extremely thankful you at least kept up with the dusting, but how in Aslans' name are you going to feed all these men? 

    There are only a few logs left in the pile next to the fireplace, but you put a couple in and start a fire. Immediately the mood of the room begins to change. The warm orange light seems to wash over the furniture, like a coat of fresh paint. 

    Sis took the men up a few at a time and shows them the clean rooms, letting them decide for themselves which they would like. While the rest begin to spread about the room, relaxing in chairs. The faun even brought out his flute and began to play a fun melody.

"Uhm, Sir Tavros? Could I please have a word?" You ask him silently.

"Just Tavros, please." He smiled. "Of course miss, how can I be of service?"

"I'm afraid we don't have enough food for everyone." You explain ashamedly. 

" We were meant to go to the market today but... " 

" Not to worry my lady," he rested a hand on your shoulder. " We brought provisions, not knowing what to expect." 

" But still..." you sigh "you are our guests and we should be providing food for you. If you give me a moment I can run down to the docks and see if the fishermen are still... "

" Hush now." He interrupted. "We are used to raw foods and meager meals. Anything warm will seem as a luxury to these men. Let's see what we can whip up with our provisions, and your kitchen, shall we? "

You give a soft smile. "Thank you."

    You're not sure what you expected from a bunch of Narian soldiers, but it was definitely not kind, warm, and understanding. The rest of the night you spend refilling drinks, keeping fish soup hot, and laughing along with stories of their adventures. 

    You and Sis both sat awestruck at the tales they told of the swords the King was collecting, and his encounter with Lord Bern here on the island. (No one knew he was imprisoned in the cellars of his own castle the whole time!) 

    You learned that since the Kings departure, Lord Bern sailed back to the main land to recover, get supplies, and was meant to return in a few months time. It was also exciting to hear that a king and queen of old accompanied King Caspian on his current journey! 

    Before long, the hour turned late, and some of the soldiers began to retire. You told Sis that it was her turn to do the same. But as you continued your conversations long into the night, you swore you saw a head peek out from behind the staircase...

[caranelguild]

The Celer Gontalus safely ensconced at a mid-city harbour tower by noon, our adventurers head to the nearest public house to gather some information. Krieg learns that foreign nobles have, within the last twenty or thirty odd years, been establishing themselves and seeking to exert influence on the direction of the city. The others learn, among other inconsequential things, that there is a street performer in the famous tiered garden district of the city who uses weasels in his act, and this takes precedence over anything else.

Krieg and Vola pay well over standard to hire rickshaw drivers willing to race them to the gardens and the others follow more sedately for pennies. The tiered gardens of Kaigan Katai stretch for thousands of acres down a slope that in ancient history was under the sea; Krieg (whose rickshaw driver won the race) and Vola are well ahead of their companions to the incredible vista at the top of the gardens, and they don’t waste time in observation but head down a wide, lengthy stair to a central plaza in the middle of the gardens where Vola learns to her disappointment that the weasel performer only comes out in the morning.

But there are plenty of other buskers, bards, and performers to occupy the gang’s interest. By the time Damaia and Quagoon arrive, Krieg has already been listening to stories for some time, hoping to pick up anything related to the marsh-god’s sense-poem, and Vola is in conversation with an old gnome and her ancient, balding parrot.

The goliath is hard-pressed to hold back from funding a weekend getaway to a resort spa for the centenarian bird, but does donate enough cash for him and his owner to happily provide some information about the “new nobles” taking over the city. Vola learns that they are appropriating local culture to win their way into power, and of the traditions they are misusing one of the most heinous has been that of an ancient, discarded practice involving the summoning of demons called Tengu and various blood rituals.

On his rotation through the plaza’s storytellers, Krieg hears tales of these beings as well.

Meanwhile Damaia brings the strange ring she found in the Tulean buttes to a mage advertising readings, identifications, and sundries. This local performer, a crow aarakocra, puts on a show of prestidigitation over the ring before seeming to genuinely access a sort of poetic identification of the item, reciting in broken common a short verse suggesting the ring was used for healing of some sort.

The weasels being a dead end and other information providing much to think on, our adventurers look at the enormous staircase which they must now ascend and consider finding a place to store their bags and have a think.

Quagoon and Krieg lead the way through the city nearer to the noble quarter, where they identify a bathhouse inn. They are given a tour of the establishment and splurge on the full package, including a large shared room, two days of dinner service, and a tea ceremony and entertainment as well as access to the baths and the specialists there.

The rest of the afternoon is spent in luxurious relaxation as our adventurers immerse themselves in the hot mineral pools, are given massages, and soak in mud baths. After the tea service, they nap until dinner.

After dinner, feeling much revived, they are heading off to further investigate their leads when the concierge notifies them that they have received three letters.

The first of the letters is in an envelope of pearlescent paper fragranced with perfume. It is from a “Lady Kobayashi”, who offers to delight them as long as they are guests in the city.

The second is on fine, creamy paper with a perfectly stamped seal, and is from Lady Shinozaki, who suggests they may be able to be of benefit to each other.

The third is on thick cardstock with a grey seal, from Lord Honga. He warns them of traps and offers his assistance, should they require it.

Our adventurers ask the concierge about these, and of the three nobles the aarakockran employee has only heard of Lady Kobayashi by reputation: she lives in the largest palace in the city and throws lavish parties.

Lord Honga is first on the group’s list to visit, thinking it best to hear of these apparent traps before they fall into one. On their way into the noble quarter, they also keep an eye out for these Tengu - red-faced (or -masked) harpy-like beings allegedly employed by the new nobility.

They are directed to Honga Palace by a knife-sharpener, who also points out the roof of Kobayashi palace, visible above the tops of the nearest mansions. Lord Honga, they are told, lives in the Twelve Lakes district.

On the way there, a noble’s procession passes them by and our adventurers get their first look at these Tengu. The stoic looking individuals, with swords at their belts, walking before and behind the noble’s palanquin, are identified as wearing masks - just-visible straps holding the grimacing red visages upon the bodyguard’s heads, but the capering Tengu at the head of the procession, rattling a feathered instrument and leaping from side to side, does not give our adventurers a chance to identify its nature as person or demon. Either the mask is of better fit and quality, or its grotesque expression is the genuine grin of a summoned demon.

The procession passes, and soon the party arrives in the Twelve Lakes district, where canals and bodies of water sit within manicured embankments and retaining walls. The lakes themselves feature manors and palaces built upon the water itself, cobblestone foundations lapped by clear water now coloured by a sunset.

Honga Palace is pointed out to our crew and they head to its courtyard gate. After tugging the bellpull, they are greeted by a tall heron-aarakocra draped in a greyblue robe. They are invited in and placed in a comfortable waiting chamber while they are assured by the valet, who introduces himself as Tenten, that the lord will greet them personally within the hour.

As the time passes, our adventurers begin to wonder if they should be insulted, but when Lord Honga arrives - a stern looking elf with a manicured beard that suggests some non-elf blood - he smooths over their rough edges with a full apology and the explanation of pressing business.

Lord Honga is an amicable host, and answers all of our adventurers’ questions. They ask about the other nobles who sent them letters -

Lady Kobayashi, they learn, is unlikely to be involved in anything truly untoward. She has great influence in the city, but more or less what you see is what you get: she is a socialite to the point of excess. While she employs a few “Tengu” (Lord Honga strongly doubts there being any real demons in the city, though certainly some nobles are conducting very real blood ceremonies), it is simply for the image: if others are doing it, Lady Kobayashi will do it, too, and even more elaborately. Lord Honga does not suspect her of being one of the nobles to truly conduct bloody rituals for power.

Lady Shinozaki is a newer of the new nobles: she is living in the palace of a noble who left for less rife politics a decade or so ago. She is a bit of an enigma, but she has supported Lord Honga’s efforts to ban the Tengu revival and its bastardized ceremonies from the city. She has not, to Honga’s disappointment, accepted his invitation to tea and conversation. While she does not employ Tengu or engage in blood ritual, Lord Honga feels he must point out that she is a tielfing and is consequently impossible not to associate at least at some level with demonkind. Honga mentions that her palace is in the same district.

The party also asks after the noble whose procession they observed, and learns that Lord Shiraishi is a petty noble, a follower. For a time, he had been under Lord Honga’s tutelage, until he refused to reject the Tengu trend, at which point Lord Honga rejected his protege’s company.

- and Lord Honga is also asked about who might be the noble most likely to employ real Tengu and engage in elicit rituals. He tells them about Lord Shinonome, a noble who has in recent years gained an exorbitant amount of power and influence despite being neither as showy as Lady Kobayashi nor as outspoken in council as Lord Honga himself. Lord Honga warns our adventurers away from looking into this suspicious noble.

Our motley crew thanks Lord Honga for his advice and information and head back to their inn for the night.

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part IV

First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

They spent a few days in Oxenfurt, mostly for Jaskier’s benefit. The bard hadn’t been lying when he’d said he wasn’t prepared to head out. There was packing to be done, his rooms to see to, appointments to cancel with the university. Geralt was happy enough to wait. It wasn’t strictly a hardship to spend some time lounging in Jaskier’s rooms and wandering the university gardens during the day before following Jaskier to whatever tavern or hall he was to play at for the evening. Jaskier was away for the better part of most days, but Geralt moved his things to Jaskier’s rooms after the first night at the inn. Waking well before Jaskier in the same bed, he was greeted each morning to Jaskier’s arm slung across his chest, warm and comfortable in the predawn silence. His cheeks would be ruddy with sleep and their shared heat under the blankets, his hair flattened awkwardly to his skull where it had been pressed to the pillow.

He’d missed this. After months without Jaskier’s presence, it felt like he was drowning in it, shocked by the strength of his own reaction. With the golden light of the morning sun shining through Jaskier’s one window to fall softly across his brow and pick out the silver strands in his hair, Geralt wondered at how he could have ever misplaced this feeling in his chest. He loved him. He wanted to preserve each moment in fine amber, never to fade.

But finally Jaskier was finished making his arrangements, and they were able to set out from Oxenfurt towards their first destination. It would take them several weeks to collect the components that Ida had mentioned—weeks that Geralt would have to spend dancing around the subject of the ritual and its origins, as well as his traitorous heart. As he caught Jaskier’s bright smile from up ahead as they crossed the Oxenfurt bridge, he hoped that he wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

*

“So where, exactly, are these mysterious elven ruins?”

Geralt grunted, both in answer and in exertion as he swung his sword through another clump of heavy brush, clearing the path. Roach waited patiently behind him, and Jaskier less so. He turned to look back at them both, finding Jaskier giving him an unimpressed look. Geralt forced down the urge to grumble again. “They’re close,” he said, taking Roach’s reins to lead her through the cleared bushes. The path that they were following was barely a deer trail in places, clearly unused for decades. There had been no sign thus far that the area had once been populated aside from the occasional flash of white brickwork that told Geralt they were on the right track.

“Oh, really,” said Jaskier, who had likely not noticed the brickwork, based on Geralt’s past experience with his observation skills. “You know what I think, Geralt? I think we’re lost in the woods in the middle of nowhere, a day away from the nearest hamlet, and we’re just as likely to find a wyvern den as an elven temple out here.”

“Wyverns don’t populate the lowlands,” Geralt said automatically, kicking a large branch out of Roach’s path.

Jaskier made a strangled sound behind him that Geralt might call a growl if it had come from anyone else. “I know that, I was being hyperbolic, you ass. You’re avoiding the issue.”

“We’re on the right path.” Another glint of white stone caught his eye, this time the edge of an arch wrapped nearly over in vines and moss. Only fragments remained, large chunks blending in with the forest floor.

“As if you would admit it if you were lost,” Jaskier griped, shoving a branch out of his own way. “Remember that time near Spikeroog? We were lost in a boat for three days because you wouldn’t just admit that we went west for six hours—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and pushed aside the last of the foliage.

Jaskier fell silent, and they both looked beyond the treeline into the clearing Geralt had revealed. Before them rose a silent, crumbling stone structure, pale as a ghost against the dark lines of the trees in the afternoon light. Much of its surface had been reclaimed already by the forest, but enough of it poked through to give a general sense of scale. It towered at least two stories above them, though the edges were uneven in a way that suggested it once may have been higher. The front facade rose in a flat wall before them, pierced by a line of arches, their edges decorated in fading but intricate reliefs. Here and there along the line of what had once been the path leading to the central arch, the occasional protrusion of a column could be seen. The path beyond the central arch was shadowed, too dark for even Geralt to see past after so long in the daylight.

Jaskier stepped forward into the narrow clearing, and Geralt followed. Wordlessly, Jaskier raised a hand to trail along the remnants of a low, circular stone wall, perhaps the remnants of an ancient well. When he looked up at Geralt, his eyes shone, two pieces of midday sky in the murky shade of the forest. “I stand corrected,” he said, offering Geralt a giddy grin.

Geralt shook his head with a small smile, drawing Roach further into the clearing. “Let’s set up camp here. You can explore when we have someplace to sleep.”

Jaskier agreed eagerly and they both launched into the process of setting up camp. They fell easily back into old patterns, Jaskier slotting seamlessly into Geralt’s routine. It was always easier to set up and break down camp when the bard was around, though Geralt thought it had very little to do with splitting the work halfway.

Within half an hour they had created a comfortable camp in the clearing and Geralt had Roach tended to, and they both stood before the dark archway into the ruins.

Jaskier hesitated over the threshold, his excitement over the history of the place apparently conceding to nerves. “Well, ah. After you, witcher,” he said, holding out an arm as if holding an imaginary door for Geralt to walk through.

Geralt rolled his eyes and stepped into the small hall beyond the archway, blinking a few times to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. “Come on, bard,” he called over his shoulder, amusement and affection swelling in his chest as he heard Jaskier mutter and quick footsteps follow after him.

The hall ended in a flight of stairs leading down, and they had to pause to light a torch when Jaskier ran directly into Geralt’s back and nearly knocked them both down it. A quick burst of igni had firelight dancing across the smooth white stones as they descended into the ruins.

Elves, Geralt had found, rarely built up. Though their cities had towered in ages past, their true magnificence had always lain below ground. The complex that they made their way down into was labyrinthian, huge open hallways with dozens of rooms and offshoots, archways that looked in on underground courtyards with pierced ceilings that let in the daylight, huge caverns expertly carved into cathedrals. Jaskier quickly brought out a bit of charcoal he often used for taking notes or sketching and began to mark their way with arrows pointing back the way they’d come, so they might not be hopelessly lost in the ruins. Geralt led them mostly by smell, at first; Triss had mentioned that any ritual chambers would likely be on the lower levels, as they were considered private and upper floors were generally public. He followed the cool, chalky scent of wet stone deeper into the ruins, down ramps and stairways until they were all but buried in the earth.

“I never knew the true breadth of them,” Jaskier breathed at one point, as they made their way down a winding spiral staircase that curved along what seemed like a natural cave shaft. “I’ve read, of course, about the scale of the old elven kingdoms, but it’s different to see it all. We’ve been walking for hours already and I feel as if there’s still miles to be seen.”

“Maybe not miles,” Geralt said, keeping one ear out for potential movement and one on Jaskier’s footsteps on the slick stone steps. “One’s I’ve been to before are usually somewhere around five and fifteen levels. We’re getting close to the bottom.”

Jaskier hummed in acknowledgment. “You could take an entire lifetime to study this place. Why hasn’t anyone surveyed it? How do you know the thing you're after for this ritual hasn’t already been taken?”

At that moment Geralt heard a gentle click, and he reached up just in time to pluck the arrow from the air as it hissed past his ear and towards Jaskier’s head. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder, finding Jaskier wide eyed behind him. Looking meaningfully down at Jaskier’s foot, he jerked his chin up.

Jaskier lifted up his foot, and the click of a pressure plate resetting filled the narrow space.

“That’s how,” Geralt said, tossing the arrow to the side.

“Of course,” Jaskier said weakly. “Of course the place is booby trapped.”

“And haunted probably,” Geralt agreed, continuing down the stairs. “Stay close. Wouldn’t want you to die before I can make you immortal.” The words were said as much in jest as he could make them, but he felt a brief strum of anxiety all the same.

Jaskier huffed in annoyance, but Geralt could feel him press even closer. He ignored the way that the air between them seemed to heat, the soothing warmth of Jaskier’s presence pressing back the dark more efficiently than any torch.

*

“Look,” Jaskier’s voice came from behind him. Geralt turned around to see Jaskier rubbing at a patch of the wall in the hall they were currently trekking through, the ancient slabs of stone crumbling a bit at his touch. “There’s writing here.”

Geralt stepped up next to him, feeling Jaskier’s warmth radiating along his side. Forcing himself to ignore the proximity, he leaned in to peer at the wall. “Elder, looks like. Can’t make it out.”

“It looks like one of the early northern dialects, closer to Laith aen Undod.” Jaskier scrambled in his small pack and pulled out his bit of charcoal and his notebook, handing the torch off to Geralt. Accepting the light, Geralt frowned at Jaskier as he made a few quick lines on the paper, referring back to the wall a few times. His tongue poked just barely out between his lips, as it always did when he was concentrating. After a moment he stood up straight, leaning towards the light to examine his own markings.

“Can you read that?” Geralt asked, genuinely surprised. He was fairly well versed in Elder, but his knowledge was more practical, learned from his interactions with the Scoia’tael and learning the Signs. The One Speech was well beyond his understanding, not to mention the various ancient dialects of Elder.

“Mm, I’m better at reading Elder than I am at speaking it, I’m afraid. Academic knowledge. Have to be able to translate the old poems and stories, after all.” He flashed Geralt a grin, the laugh lines deepening around his eyes. They sparkled in the light of the torch, turning the blue silver-gold. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat.

When Geralt didn’t respond quickly enough, Jaskier turned back to the notes he’d made on the paper. He muttered a few things to himself in Elder, the words sounding oddly musical—as if he’d learned to pronounce the language through song, which he probably had. Finally he scribbled a few notes in Common. “I think it’s a road sign, of sorts,” Jaskier said slowly. His tone took on the particular quality that Geralt had come to recognize as his “professor voice” over the years. He’d always found it rather amusing. “This complex must have been big enough to necessitate passage markers. See the sideways arrowhead under the top line? It says—well, I’m not sure, but I know the root has to do with the evening meal, so I’d guess it’s pointing to some kind of tavern or dining hall. And this one just says ‘sanctuary,’ I think. That’s a weird one, that symbol in more modern Elder just means ‘place’ but there’s a prefix here that adds a sort of defensive quality to it. Maybe ‘protected place’?” Jaskier frowned down at his own work. Already he had somehow managed to smudge charcoal across his cheek.

“Might be right,” Geralt grunted, impressed. “Triss said it would be in a safe place. ‘Ionad chosanta.’”

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “Could be as good a translation as any.”

“Better than wandering around,” Geralt shrugged, and turned towards the hall the arrow pointed towards. Before stepping into the darkness, he paused, looking back at Jaskier. Without letting himself think too hard about it, he reached up and rubbed away the charcoal on Jaskier’s cheekbone. The sweep of his thumb pushed back the soot and revealed the pale skin underneath, still so soft even after so many years spent traveling out in the elements. That skin care regiment Jaskier was always going on about must be worth something, he thought faintly.

Jaskier was silent, staring at him with an expression that reminded Geralt of a hare staring down the point of an arrow. Clearing his throat briefly, Geralt let his hand fall and said, “Thanks. For the… You did good.”

Even in the dim light, Geralt could see the flush that lit up Jaskier’s face at that, spilling prettily over his cheekbones. He gaped at Geralt for a moment before his mouth snapped closed with a near audible clack. Geralt expected a witty rejoinder of some kind, perhaps a jab at his historical inability to offer praise. He knew he deserved it, even if Jaskier meant it in anger rather than jest. Raising Ciri had taught him the value of voicing his appreciation and affection for others, even if he still struggled for the right words to do so. Yennefer had painstakingly beat it into his head. Ciri hadn’t known that he cared unless he said so, and so he had no other alternatives. Looking at Jaskier gaping at him, he wondered how many times Jaskier had assumed that Geralt cared little for him for lack of a kind word. His chest hurt at the thought.

After long enough that the silence had grown heavy and awkward, Jaskier coughed lightly, ducking to hide his expression. The ribbing Geralt had prepared himself for did not come. “Not a problem,” was all Jaskier said, brushing past him. “Let’s get a move on, yes? Don’t want the torch to run low.”

Geralt stared after him for a moment before shaking his head and following.

*

The shrine, when they found it, was hidden behind a thick patch of rubble that Geralt had to blast out of the way with a few precise applications of aard. He slipped inside first, sliding through the small opening in the stone and landing lightly on the other side. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom, to his surprise, and he realized that there were several glowing crystals embedded in the walls around him at even intervals. There came the sound of cascading stones and a low curse from behind him, and he turned in time to catch Jaskier’s elbow before the bard fell flat on his face.

“Ah, thank you, dear witcher,” Jaskier huffed, reaching up to fruitlessly brush the dust from his jacket. Looking up, he halted in his motions, taking in the room around them in its soft, ethereal light. “Oh,” he breathed.

It was indeed beautiful, even in its decaying state. Like everything in the tunnels, the structures were unmistakably elven, but even so they appeared alien to Geralt’s eyes. The walls were covered in delicate mosaic work, in patterns that danced in the flickering light of their torch and that of the crystals. The center of the room was dominated by a blank circle of unmarked stone, with Elder runes engraved along the edge that Geralt could not even begin to decipher. The circle was framed by a delicate canopy of carved white stone, supported on four pillars of the same material. The carvings were so minute that for a moment Geralt thought the entire structure might be built not of stone, but of some sort of webbing or silk. It was delicate enough to be blown glass, but when he set his hand against one of the pillars it was as unforgiving as a mountainside.

Jaskier ran his fingers along one of the walls, tracing a twist in the tiny shards of colored glass. “It’s beautiful,” he said, voice pitched low.

“Triss said these places were sacred to the Aes Sidhe. They mark where the elves first arrived,” Geralt said. He found his own gaze drawn back to the center of the unmarked circle beneath the canopy. “Here.”

Set into the very center of the stone circle was a small depression, no larger than Geralt’s palm. He stepped into the circle and knelt down, peering at it. Within the shallow bowl formed by the carved out floor sat an oval stone, maybe three inches long at its widest point. Drawing out his trophy knife, Geralt set the edge of it against the lip of the facet and twisted it. It popped out surprisingly easily, as if it was meant to be removed by design.

Jaskier hovered behind him as Geralt picked up the gaes carraigh. It was cool against his fingers, made of a translucent white stone that became more opaque at the edges. The center was nearly see-through, and when Geralt held it up the light played oddly in its depths. His medallion hummed faintly against his chest, warning him of the presence of magic. “Is that it?” Jaskier asked, resting one of his hands on Geralt’s shoulder to lean in closer.

“Think so,” Geralt replied, trying to ignore the weight of Jaskier pressed against him.

“What exactly does it do?” Jaskier reached out his free hand to press a finger against the center of the stone, curious as always. Geralt allowed it, and forced himself not to flinch when their fingers brushed incidentally. He could feel his ears warm regardless.

“It… binds the words of the ritual, or something. I didn’t ask.”

“Gaes carraigh… promise rock?” Jaskier tried, dropping to lean his full elbow on Geralt’s shoulder, casually slotting their forms together. His fingers barely brushed against Geralt’s collarbone, and he took a slow breath to maintain control over his heartbeat. Suddenly the proximity was overwhelming. Here they were, in a sacred space where possibly dozens of couples had made their vows to each other, fingers both lingering over the stone that would bind their oaths. In another life, perhaps they could have had something like this—Jaskier resplendent in the light of the blue crystals, eyes shining, looking at Geralt with adoration as they made their promises to each other. He would want to dress up, like he always did for a big event, but this time it would be only for himself and Geralt. Would he dress in blue? Or perhaps black, a witcher’s color, his pale skin like moonlight against the night sky. Would he wear a crown of periwinkle and sage, as was the northern custom? He would lean in close, like he was now, and murmur his vows to Geralt in words that flowed as smooth as a song.

He hadn’t known it was possible to want something so badly it was like a physical ache. Geralt was a witcher; he did not allow himself to think on things he couldn’t have. But here in this place, with Jaskier so close and yet so far away, the force of his desire felt oppressive. Jaskier didn’t know what any of this meant, and Geralt had no right to it, no right to want it. It was just a ritual. The context didn’t mean anything, because Jaskier would never feel that way about him.

After all, Geralt thought, looking down at the oathstone in his palm, who would want to marry a witcher?

Jaskier was still talking, and Geralt wrenched himself out of his thoughts when the arm on his shoulder pulled back and Jaskier patted the empty space once, as if in parting. “—probably get going, don’t you think? I do not relish the idea of being stuck here overnight. Not that I am not entirely confident in your abilities, darling, but I feel it’s best not to tempt fate when it comes to ghosts of ancient elven sages. Do you think they would count this as stealing? Probably. Anyways, I don’t want to find out what angry centuries old spirits do to trespassers.”

Geralt grunted, still gathering himself. He felt sluggish under the weight of his own emotions, pushing himself to his feet laboriously. The oathstone was heavy in his hand, and he slipped it into his potions pouch in the hope that it would feel less burdensome there. Without a word, he stood and exited the chamber the way they’d come, Jaskier fumbling after him.

[helenazbmrskai]

I Owl You

Pairing: (owl hybrid) Jimin x oc

Summary: You find shelter under the roof of an old building when a sudden downpour catches you umbrellaless on your way home, you’re unaware that a tenant is hiding in the shadows.

Genre: fluff, hybrid au, drabble

Warnings: tiny angst (mention of eviction, sad jimin for five seconds), haunted house(ish), oc is scared at first, insecure jimin and oc with a happy ending, old fic so it might be lame

Word count: 3.4k

Author note. I wanted to write something cute for Jimin’s birthday. Is it only me that thinks he would make such a cute owl? Sorry, not sorry? I hope you like my banner because I certainly do!

Menu: Masterlist l Be part of my permanent taglist to recieve a notification when I upload a new fic or send an ask!

⤷ Part of Animal Lovers Hybrid Collection

Clothes soaked and glasses fogged by the rain, the downpour never stopped its ministrations even for a second to be able to catch my breath, the heavens must hate me I have no other explanation why they would choose a day like this to shower the Earth as they forgot to give out the memo to get Noah's ark taxi service.

The solemn building that’s in the middle of the route I’m always taking to drive home does little to ease my nerves, the door creaks open as if I’m the main protagonist of a horror film, the sound echos through the old walls.

”Is anybody here?” I half-yell, half-whisper the words, probably the dumbest shit I could ever come up with but hey, I guess if I have to die I won’t die involved in an ’ordinary’ death and instead I could even make it into the local news headlines. With my murder case.

I try my phone again, but the storm cut the signals and my battery hangs on the last strings of power as I forgot to charge it before I went to sleep last night. Things just don’t seem to happen in my favours since the first time I got to drive my car freshly out of school, of course, a downpour had to kick my inexperienced ass that lacks driver skills to make it through the heavy rain and I’m sure my body won’t look good curled up on a tree, even though I was told before I look stunning in red. With no cafe place or a nice inn with an old lady near just this creepy old house, that’s just my luck I have to wait out this whimsical weather here.

”So fricking cold, ugh.” Holding my jacket tighter around my body I take the initiative to look around as I’ll be here for a while I may as entertain myself with something. The living room looks like it’s connected with the dining room seeing that no wall separates the big area, this house looks huge even if I only can see the ground floor from here. The long dark wooden table appears to be suspiciously clean for an abandoned building like this, immediately a shiver runs down my spine as the thought forms that perhaps I’m not as alone here as I think. Turning around in a reflex I take a look at the direction where the stairs are situated leading upstairs and two eyes with a reflective surface stare back from the top of the staircase, startling me that I let out a loud yelp stepping back in fright.

”Jesus christ, please don’t hurt me .. I .. I only came in because it’s raining heavily but I swear I’ll leave as soon as it stops.” Shutting my eyes that red dots start to fill my vision, waiting for the impact of an axe or something before yelling bloody murder but when long minutes pass and nothing happens I give myself a pep talk to creak one eye open.

The figure I saw in the form of two sparkly eyes reminiscent of a predator took shape as he stepped out in front of the window’s dim light no longer taking up an intimidating figure whilst big eyes staring at me in confusion, his brows are furrowed in a line the stranger’s features looked soft and nice to look at despite the petite body the wooden floor still creaked under the pressure of his feet as he stepped down a storey.

”I can leave now too if that’s what you want me to do, I didn’t know someone lives here sorry to intrude.” I can’t stop the blabbering even if I wanted to this annoying personality trait always surfacing when I feel especially awkward or scared, it’s not that he looks threatening now that I got a glimpse of him but I was taught to be cautious around strangers even though he’s hella beautiful of a stranger if I’m being honest those big eyes are truly mesmerising. His head tilts that indicates confusion, or maybe it’s not confusion but curiosity?

”You can stay.” The boy simply said, turning around to go back to where he came from. Well, it was weird.

Spacing around the living room I looked out the window several times to see if the storm has weakened a bit, fingers itching to grab the doorknob so I can leave this place, but the rain only seemed to have come down harder than it did before. I sighed, I guess I have to stay for another hour.

After that encounter with the boy, he didn’t show signs of himself, not even a sound came from the first floor no wonder I thought this place was empty when I first came inside. My inquiring mind never stopped making up assumptions about the boy, he looked human but he had something odd shimmering in his eyes, they looked inhuman in a way.

Stepping on the stairs I made my way up to the first floor knowing myself the curiosity I felt towards him would never leave me alone if I let this be it. I wanted to talk to him hearing more of his voice and mayhap see what he’s up to he’s so quiet I can’t possibly picture what he could do upstairs.

”Hello?” I call out to him when I stop at the top. The entire floor is mainly dark, a few light spots here and there creating shadows on the walls from the creaks on the roof that not only letting the light in but the raindrops as well. ”Are you there?” I try it again. Standing on a wet spot I feel drops of rain hitting the centre of my head soaking my hair I look up seeing a little fissure above that lets in the cold waterdrops I step further into the darkness searching for a dry spot where I won’t have to stand under the infiltration of the harsh weather.

”Do you need something?” The familiar voice answered, tone calm and melodious as the syllables left his lips, he sounded close it made me anxious that I’m not able to see him while he clearly can navigate through the darkness so much better than I am. I didn’t hear him come closer, how can he be so quiet?

”No. I. just. What’s your name?” Some time passes after my question when I think he won’t answer, it came.

”Jimin.”

”I’m Y/N, nice to meet you.” Having no other phrase to shell out I stand there awkwardly enveloped in darkness and silence, both things that I feel most uncomfortable with, Jimin doesn’t make any sounds so I have no idea if he already left or not thus I decided to clear my throat to say the first thing that comes into my mind when something cold brushed against the skin of my wrist but as I jumped in surprise the feeling disappeared.

”Sorry.” Jimin murmured, his warm breath fanned my neck as the word formulated getting the idea in my head, that his body is standing directly behind me.

”It’s ok. I was just surprised, next time tell me before you touch me.” Feeling embarrassed I laughed masking the nervousness from my voice with a fake laugh. His fingers are so cold. Is he living here all alone?

”You look cold, you can use my nest to warm up.” The end of the statement slightly became higher pitched as he told me the longest sentence so far, I can only imagine him as he proudly puffed out his chest talking about his dearest possession.

”But won’t you be cold then?” I remember how cold his fingers felt on my skin, he’s probably freezing too.

”Can I touch you? I will guide you through the dark.” Ignoring my question he instead asked excitedly his own. I nodded before I could realise he probably can’t see it in the dark, but his fingers found the skin of my palm instead of my wrist when I was about to confirm him verbally. Right. He’s not human, he probably can see in the dark. I wonder what kind of hybrid is he supposed to be?

He was talking about a nest. A bird perhaps? Grasping onto his hand as we were venturing further into the darkness, he guided us smoothly we didn’t collide with anything on our way to his ’nest’ I let the tension in my shoulders let up, not realising I was holding my breath before I released it.

”I have a candle if you want some light.” He offered, Jimin suddenly placed both palms against my shoulder blades trying to push me down to the ground it caught me off guard so my body let him lower my body without much resistance. Something soft brushed my skin it felt like a blanket fort under me.

”Yes, please.”

The room soon lit up casting shadows onto the walls, Jimin hovered over the candlelight before turning to my direction showing me a big smile. Sitting in the middle of his makeshift bed Jimin crouched down to caress the edge of the soft fabric lovingly, our eyes met taking my time to study his features as he did the same with mine we stared at each other in silence for short passing minutes.

”Do you like it?” As soon as he sat down onto the dirty floor, I felt instantly guilty that I was sitting on these comfortable blankets while he’s forced to sit on the cold and hard floor because of me.

”It’s very comfortable. Thank you, Jimin.” My smile immediately got returned by him. Despite the fright, he caused me with his sudden appearance now it feels distant that I thought of this man as someone intimidating in the slightest.

The rumbling of his stomach guided my stray eyes back to his form a sheepish smile stretched his plump lips as he protectively put both hands on his abdomen. Fishing out an energy bar from my jacket's pocket I held it up for him to take, it’s the least I can do for him since he so kindly showed me his nest and let me stay here.

”I know it’s not much, but it’s more than nothing, right?” I began to become insecure when he still didn’t show signs of reaching out for the chocolate bar, holding it up seemed more and more awkward so I started to lower it down with a frown.

”T-thank you.” Jimin shyly bowed before taking it sniffing the wrapper before fidgeting with the proper way to open it.

”Want some help?” I motion for the treat I just gave him he nodded again the chocolate bar returned to my hands I showed him how to open the wrapper and gave it back, he wasted no time in taking the first bite Jimin’s eyes turned rounder as he licked the chocolate stain clean from the corner of his mouth.

”It’s delicious!” It was comical how a snack bar could trigger such a reaction like he just ate a three-course meal from the finest restaurant. Now I just want to give him the best foods in the world, if he liked simple sweets like that he would love my cooking even more.

Letting my eyes linger on his thin frame and dishevelled black hair a sense of protectiveness washed over me it sits on the tip of my tongue to ask if he would like to come home with me to eat a home-cooked meal and take a relaxing shower, but I stopped myself from doing so, let’s be real I am a stranger to him I have no authority asking for that. Doesn’t matter if I want to make this offer to help him we don’t know each other like that.

The light bulb appeared over my head as a new idea come into view. ”I want to thank you for letting me stay. Would you mind if I visit you again and cook you something even more delicious than that chocolate bar?” The proposal seemed to sit well with Jimin as he nodded eagerly, not sure if he got excited over the food or because of the possibility that we’ll meet again after today.

Either way, I was looking forward to seeing him again.

***

The pristine mansion doesn’t look so frightening when I observe it in the daylight as the creaks filtering the light instead of the stray raindrops, the uneasiness I felt when I first entered this place no longer lingering in my heart since I am no longer clueless - about its tenant hiding on the first floor of the building - lets my body enter with a relaxed smile.

It’s a huge change considering how I always made sure before to avoid this enigmatic place that’s in between my workplace and home, driving away with greater speed and looking the other way in most cases and because of my ignorance I have never had the chance to discover Jimin’s lovely company until this very brief weeks.

Thinking that the universe hates me to force me into the house I made sure to steer clear of but in reality, it was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me, I was just unaware of it. Observing the well-kept crops that are a little behind the mansion to keep it a secret garden hidden from the passerby's curious eyes, it makes sense how he survived if he never left the land.

Suddenly feeling eyes on my back I turned around to catch the culprit behind the act and found him as I looked up seeing Jimin’s reflective eyes watching me from above, looking through the dirty window’s glass on the first floor.

I hold the paper bag I filled with food for him up to my chest smiling up to meet his gaze I abandon my previous exploration of the outside and reach for the doorknob to finally meet him again.

Placing a few napkins onto the table’s smooth surface before placing the different dishes onto it removing the protective covers that kept the food warm and prevented spilling accidents during the car ride.

”Jimin! Come down and eat.” I call out for him, oblivious to the fact that he already took the last steps in my direction as soon as he saw my face looking around he made his way to me excitedly, these little trips to him became a daily occurrence fast. Seeing his smiling face and stuffed cheeks every day makes contentedness bloom inside my chest, it’s a nice feeling to have, knowing that someone anticipates my appearance and Jimin can truly appreciate my added company.

Usually, after he shovelled food inside his mouth he entertains me with the things he crafted. He likes to collect wood pieces and make animals or other shapes out of it, he even gifted an owl carved from wood that’s carefully placed on my bedside table to look at before I get ready for bed.

Sometimes he gives me berries or apples that he grew in his garden and I make a pie from it to share later.

”Y/N.”

Jerking my head into his direction he moves restlessly placing his fork down even though he’s not finished eating.

”What’s wrong?” His eyes follow the creases forming on my forehead as I look at him with concern, placing a finger on it to smooth the lines he massages my temple to get me to relax a small smile appears on his face as I lean into his touch.

His hand withdraws too soon, I watch him as he intertwines his fingers on top of his lap he picks at his nails nervously opening and closing his mouth without saying anything as he seems to fight an inner battle on how to voice out his thoughts.

”A man in a suit came today. He was talking on the phone with someone about renovating this house.”

The out for sale board stood at the entrance for so long that the ink was barely visible anymore, it never crossed my mind that someone might be interested in buying this mansion considering how many years it stood abandoned, I bit my lip knowing that the businessman’s arrival entails that the house is indeed sold and it means Jimin has nowhere to go if the workers arrive and find him here they will call a shelter or worse, kick him out.

”I-I don’t know what to do.” Jimin’s voice sounded vulnerable and weak as he ducked his head low to conceal his expression. The usually bright and goofy boy despite his harsh living conditions never stopped showing his gentle smiles, seeing him looking so sad and clueless about what to do makes my heart clench inside my chest for him. I place a gentle hand on his hair smoothing out the knots and combing through the messy locks not worrying about the dirt sticking to my fingers.

”I won’t let them kick you out.” I say the words full of determination, he deserves to eat good meals every day, a place to call home. ”You have me now, so you’re not alone anymore. You know that right Jimin?” Slowly lifting his head I see as the unshed tears are clinging to his bottom lashes my hand stills in his hair but doesn’t remove my touch as he closes his eyes for a moment to calm himself.

”I’m just a stray nobody wants. People don’t like owls, they think I’m weird.” Touching his cheek with my right hand I wipe off the wetness gathered under his chin with my thumb, untangling the hand that’s in his hair to caress his other cheek with the back of my hand avoiding touching him with my palm to not smear the dirt over his pretty face.

”You’re not weird at all. I like how big your eyes are they’re always full of affection, it doesn’t even matter to me if you are a hybrid or not because you make my days better with just your presence in it. I don’t want you to move away to a place where I can’t see you again.” I gracefully lift his chin to meet my eyes full of sincere thoughts, I want him to know that everything I say is true and I mean it to eradicate every toxic thought about himself. He out of all the people deserves to be treated right.

”I want to see you too.” His shy reply made my cheeks puff out because of the big smile that stretched across my face. Jimin closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against my skin as redness started to spread making his cheeks and ears to heat up.

”Perhaps..” I start but stop myself from continuing. He’s a mess and can’t think straight, I don’t want to take advantage of his vulnerable state and force him to live with me. I should think of another alternative to keep him safe but in the meantime, I don’t cross any lines. ”No. Never mind.” I shake my head dismissively.

”C-can’t I stay with you?” His bright eyes glossy with the leftover tears held hope in the depts and underneath that hopeful look, there’s a fear of rejection. ”I promise I’ll be good. Please let me stay with you.”

I try to pull my hand back to replace it onto his shoulders for a reassuring squeeze but he takes my actions in the wrong way and tightens his hold keeping my palm on his face thinking that it’s a rejection when in reality it’s far from that.

It’s a relief that he feels that way without me planting the idea into his head.

”Are you sure? I always wanted you to live with me, but I thought you wouldn’t want that because we don’t know each other for that long.”

Uncertainty shows in the way I speak, but Jimin doesn’t let me doubt his intentions as he abruptly stands up to squeeze our bodies together in a tight hug. Dust flies around us because of the impact as his hands find their ways to curl around my waist, Jimin smells like burnt wood and rain.

[theasstour]

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐄 | 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 𝟏𝟎.𝟒𝐊 𝐍𝐁: 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞

A/N: IT’S FINALLY HERE 🐚🌊✨ Lightkeeper!Harry is here and I’m BEYOND excited to show you lot this concept I’ve been thinking about quite literally everyday for MONTHS now! I love this story with my entire heart, and I really hope it resonates with some of you and that you fall completely in love with lightkeeper!harry and ST like I have 🥺 Love you! Enjoy! x

Thursday, 11 June

The universe would always balance itself out, Y/N McKay was aware of this. She was aware that if she had faith and believed everything happens for a reason, it would make the tough times of her life easier to mentally handle. If she did good, the universe would work to give it back to her in some other form. However, that didn’t mean that when something dreadful did happen it wouldn’t affect her, and she wouldn’t feel hopeless. Because she did. Very much so.

Most of her life she had lived in a constant state of harmony. She was neither displeased nor satisfied with the life she was leading because it kept her out of trouble; it kept her safe. Her entire life she had lived in peace in Winchester, a fairly prissy town in the middle of Hampshire county in England. Her father owned a business of sorts, Y/N had never gotten the details of it or how he’d gotten where he was, but all she knew was he inherited it from his father and it was expected to be handed down generation after generation in the McKay family. However, Y/N was an only child and neither her mum nor her dad thought she’d be fit to run the business when the time came.

“Nothing personal, darling,” her mother had said when it was brought up during a dinner when Y/N was still in sixth form. “You just don’t have the brains for it.”

“What your mother means to say,” Y/N’s father went on. “You’re so intelligent in your own way, running the business won’t make you happy.”

They always called it that. The business. They never told her what it was about or explained when she asked questions about it. Not that she expected her dad to be a drug lord, but it would’ve been nice to be let in on something. It would’ve been nice to be given the opportunity to feel of enough importance to someone to know special things.

Y/N looked out the window of the train, the Cornish coast stretching out as far as the eye could see, the sun not yet hanging high enough on the sky to make it dreadful to walk outside in her black oversized smock dress. The book in her lap was still open, though she’d read the same page over and over and over again, not being able to concentrate for long enough to remember what happened at the top of the piece of paper. Everything was fuzzy and she had too much to think about; too much to consider.

The last 24 hours had been the worst of her life. Yesterday had turned everything upside down and she hated it. However, thinking the universe would balance itself out and work in her favour, she was also aware that the reason her life needed help to be smoothed out by higher powers in the first place, was because it was in imbalance. Something was off. Something had thrown it off. But she forced herself to stay hopeful, knowing that if she lost that little flicker of hope in what seemed like an endless night, it’d be next to impossible to find her way back to peacefulness.

She glanced down at the book in her lap and was about to start reading again, not liking it when she had to put the book away in the middle of a chapter. She wasn’t given the opportunity as the overhead speakers sounded their soft alarm, and next second, a woman was speaking.

“Next stop is St Ives. Doors will open on the right-hand side.”

The nerves Y/N had felt in the pit of her stomach came back again, this time with more intensity than the last few. Though she realised what she was doing that morning when she boarded her train for Reading, and then again when she stepped on the train for St Erth, and yet again when she sat down on the train towards St Ives, this time it felt worse than all those times before. This was it. She was here.

She had no idea why she chose St Ives out of all places in Cornwall – in the world even –, why here of all places? Even years later, she could never seem to remember the exact moment when she chose that coastal town, or why it had appealed to her at all. Maybe it was the fact that it had a beach, or that it wasn’t particularly populated, or that there was no way anyone she had ever known would be there. The most important part however, and maybe the only reason why she chose St Ives, was because it was far away from Winchester. It was far away from her family, from her ex, and everything she associated with that town and everyone living in it.

She put The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall away in her purse, slinging her purse over her head to rest across her chest before she reached up and took her old leather bag down from the overhead compartment.  This was the only one she would risk bringing as it used to be her father’s back in the day, but he never used it anymore and wouldn’t suspect it being gone. Placing the strap on her shoulder, she walked off to the closest door, apologising when she jabbed someone with her bag on the way out.

Stepping off, Y/N instantly regretted wearing a long-sleeved dress. Though she was under the protection of the roof above the platform, the heat was still almost insufferable. It got her wondering if this was just a normal day in the very South of England or if it was an exceptionally hot one. She prayed for the latter.

She walked out of the station, staying in the cool shade for a few minutes longer as she typed in the address of the inn she was staying at. Not really knowing how public transit worked here yet, she didn’t want to risk taking the wrong bus or asking a tourist for directions to a place they’d never heard of. Instead, she put her EarPods in and went on her merry way. The second she stepped out into the sun, she was once again reminded of why she’d never wear that black dress again that summer.

The Roaming Crab Inn was on The Terrace, the road along the coast of St Ives, holding dozens of hotels and other places to stay during a visit. Y/N didn’t know why she’d chosen this exact inn, or how she’d even happened upon it. It might’ve had something to do with the picture of the old lady grinning from ear to ear on the inn’s website. A picture that was so lovely and so warm that, in the midst of everything Y/N was going through right then, it made her tear up.

She stepped into the inn, placing her sunglasses on the top of her head, and made sure her hair looked alright before walking a bit further inside. Cherry wooden panels lined the floors, walls, and ceiling, a reception desk in the same style attached to the wall to the right. Pictures of all kinds of people hung on the walls. Y/N suspected it might be locals as well as dear guests who had come and gone over the years. No lights were on as the sharp afternoon sun was sufficient in keeping the lobby just bright enough o that electricity wasn’t needed. Fake green vines hung along the ceiling and walls, as well as from different pots on the fireplace to the right that didn’t seem to be in use. Still, two old recliners stood beside it, tempting to sit down and drown in, to escape a turbulent life.

To the left was a staircase leading up to the other landings, and though Y/N hadn’t stepped foot on it yet, she already knew it creaked. This entire house seemed more like a cottage you’d find in the middle of the country, not on the coast of South England. She slowly started making her way over to the reception, and that was when she noticed the back door. Behind the desk was an old, white windowed door, a little smaller in height but a little wider in breadth than normal doors – like the entrance. It was open, leading the way out into a back garden that seemed to be both small and surrounded by the neighbouring houses on all sides. The wooden fence was covered in vines, flowers of all kinds poking out amongst them and on the ground around. The stone paved patio seemed to be old and uneven, there was a set of bistro metal chairs in all the colours of the rainbow along with a white table to match them.

A gang of old ladies sat around the table, chattering amongst themselves and occasionally laughing, all holding a different knitting project each. Y/N hated the thought of disturbing them, but she also just wanted to check in and go up to her room; maybe even go for a walk to take a look around the place she’d be in for the next few weeks.

She reached for the bell, hitting it lightly as to not make it sound urgent and intrusive. A small yelp was heard from the back garden and then the sound of the metal chair scraping against the stone patio. As she heard the footsteps get closer, Y/N glanced around, taking in the interior of the inn undisturbed one more. As someone appeared in the doorway and their eyes met, the old lady who stood there gave Y/N that warm smile of hers she’d seen online the night before.

“Hello, dear!” she chirped, placing her glasses on the bridge of her nose and walking over to the computer on her side of the desk. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thank you. And yourself?”

The old lady smiled, her eyes almost disappearing behind her high cheekbones. Her long white hair was fastened in a bun at the back of her head, the rest of her dressed in a pair of white trousers and a tunic with some bird print on it.

“I’m wonderful. What’s your name then, lovely?”

“Y/N McKay.”

“Ahh,” she said. “You’re the one who booked your stay last night.”

“That’s me, yeah,” Y/N chuckled, brushing some hair behind her ear.

“Till August 10th.”

“Yes.”

“Right then, Y/N,” the lady said, taking a key hanging from the wall beside her and taking her glasses off, smiling the entire time. “Let me show you to your room.”

The two walked up to the second floor, taking a right as they arrived and the inn-keeper unlocked the door. The innkeeper kept the door open for Y/N, letting her walk in first. Though the floor and ceiling were similar to the wooden panels of the lobby, the walls were white. Against the same wall that the door came to rest against stood an old blue dresser, and a fake flower in an elegant vase that seemed to be just one of the many flowers in the room. The double bed stood to the far left wall, white sheets covering it and looking so lush that it took everything in Y/N not to sprint over and throw herself onto it. There was a desk as well as a recliner, and a window on the opposite wall overlooking the ocean that was just about a minute’s walk from here.

“The bathroom is over there,” the innkeeper said, pointing at a door beside the staircase. “You share it with the other guests on the same floor as you, alright?”

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” Y/N admitted, genuinely meaning it as well. She didn’t see the problem with that in the least.

“I’m mostly downstairs or in the next house over, which is mine,” she continued. “So if there’s ever anything you think I could help you with, do pop by.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, my goodness,” she suddenly exclaimed, walking over to Y/N. “I’ve completely forgotten to introduce myself. I’m Bessie.” Bessie smiled at Y/N again, making the latter almost want to cry for the umpteenth time that day. “And I really hope you enjoy your stay here in St Ives.”

With that, the innkeeper left Y/N to herself. Y/N let her bag and purse fall to the floor before she dragged the chair by the desk over to the window. She opened it and just stared out across the beach and sea outside. Seagulls were howling overhead, waves were crashing against shore, and the familiar salty scent of the presence of the ocean lingered in the air constantly. It was like one of those trips she’d taken with her parents every summer, a new place every year, always by the coast. Her favourite might’ve been their vacation in Bali. It was gorgeous beyond comprehension, in a way no other place she’d ever been could come close to. But she was aware she’d never go on another trip with her parents again. Not after everything that happened the night before.

Now she couldn’t rely on them any longer. She was on her own. She had no idea what she was going to do, no idea what lay ahead of her. As she at on the chair looking out over St Ives, the town she’d spend her summer in, she realised she’d never felt more forlorn.

St Ives is a coastal town located in the very south-west of the southernmost county in England, Cornwall. It is known for its surf beaches – most well-known being Porthmeor – and its many art galleries and restaurants. Tate St Ives is a gallery at the seafront and has rotating modern art exhibitions, focusing primarily on British artists. The Barbara Hepworth Museum and Sculpture Garden is located in the modernist artist’s former studio, displaying her bronzes and other works.Y/N, having grown up in a fairly posh family with exquisite and particular taste, knew a thing or two about art. 

She always had her purse on her, and in it she’d keep all the essentials for going out and about. Hand sanitiser, Kleenex, band-aids, pads, keys, a portable charger, and the book she was currently reading. The Well of Loneliness lay in her purse as she strolled around, a St Ives guide book in her hand that she’d bought at one of the local stores on what must’ve been their high street.

First and foremost, she wanted to do some sightseeing. She’d be here for a long time, so she might as well get acquainted with the town she’d stay in and learn its ins and outs. There is this part of St Ives called The Island, that isn’t at all an island, but it is just called that. The Island is the imposing headland that juts out into the seat from the spit of land that separates the harbour and Porthmeor beach – the most popular and most central beach in the town. In ancient times it was a promontory fort, but these days it’s probably better known as a location of the tiny chapel of St Nicholas. Walking to The Island, Y/N took in the incredible views of the ocean surrounding her, and the beach – The Townas - beside her that was cramped between The Island and Godrevy Point on the other side.

To her left was what looked to be Hellesveor Cliff, and at the very point of it, on the top of what must’ve been the most haunting cliff Y/N had ever seen, stood a lighthouse. Looking in her guide book, it didn’t say much about the lighthouse except the care of it had been passed down generation after generation by the family currently living there. It was at the very edge of St Ives, farther out than Godrevy Point. It made it so Porthmeor, St Ives, and The Townas were all guarded by these two points, the St Ives Lighthouse watching over its town and the far coast around.

Continuing on her walk, she strolled down the Down-a-long, which is the old, lower part of St Ives built on the narrow ridge of land that separated The Island to the rest of the town. This part of town is the archetypal image of St Ives with its jumble of cobble streets lined with whitewashed, old cottages, some seeming to fall apart and others in better condition. Y/N thought the street names were equally evocative and unique, some of her favourites being Salubrious Place, Teetotal Street, and The Digney. Though it said in her catalogue that fishermen used to live in the Down-a-long before, next to none lived there now as most of it was occupied by galleries, cafes, and little shows that one can shake a stick at. As she strolled through Fore Street, the main shopping street in St Ives, she walked by a vintage shop – Vintage Divine – and jotted it down on her phone.

All her life, Y/N had always loved everything vintage. She liked the thought of owning something that had once been part of someone else’s life, that had made them happy enough they wanted to hand it on and give someone else that same happiness they’d experienced. Though neither her mum, her dad, or her ex-boyfriend liked her obsession with vintage and stuff owned by others before her, their disinterest had never stopped her from going to markets or stores. However, she never bought anything unless she knew she could hide it. Now, she thought, that didn’t have to be a problem.

A few years back when she started to realise her obsession with old stuff, furniture, clothing, and books owned by others before her, she read an article online. The article had suggested that people are attracted to vintage pieces because they offer an escape. Wearing these garments, holding these ornaments, touching furniture from another time is a way to experience a different life. A life that isn’t your own and that was lived before hers or parallel to hers. Shopping vintage then created an exciting search for something special and creative, something a normal shopping trip could never give her. It was weird how much she was looking forward to going through that shop, Y/N realised, but she couldn’t wait to explore and take items home with her. Not that she expected she’d be welcomed home to Winchester anytime soon, but she chose not to think about that too much.

Fore Street was a narrow and cobblestone-clad street with people milling about trying to find a decent place for lunch. Stone cottages lined both sides of the street, either a neutral colour like white, a dull yellow, beige, light blue, or just plain, grey stone. Y/N enjoyed walking among these houses. It was a quiet town, peace seemed to be permanently settled between the cramped streets and tiny houses. Though Winchester wasn’t London with its tall buildings and never-ending bustle, St Ives was even smaller than her hometown, which made it that much more appealing to her. There was a sense of relaxation in the mere atmosphere around her that massaged the tension out of her shoulders and straightened her hunched back.

The door to the Seafood Café she was about to walk by burst open. A couple of people standing around jumped at the commotion, as did Y/N. Dressed in high-waisted loose fitted denim jeans, a white tee shirt tucked into them, a pair of orange worn down Vans, and brown curls in a dishevelled mess, the man who caused the ruckus didn’t seem to notice everyone’s attention being on him. He halted a bit as he came outside before he walked left. Y/N stopped moving, the sudden interruption in her peaceful stroll taking her off guard. The man suddenly started straight for Y/N, his head bent, eyes on the cobblestone before him. He didn’t seem to notice where he was going, not looking up in the direction he was heading. So, when he saw Y/N’s shadow, that’s when he glanced up. Their eyes met just a second before he managed to stop, preventing them from crashing into one another.

“Oh!” he erupted, voice crescendoing. He blinked twice, eyes settling on her for a few seconds before he said a quick, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I should’ve moved out of the way,” Y/N assured him, about to step to the side when she noticed his lips moving again. No words came out, though. She stood there for a few seconds, just watching his jaw and lips work, not seeming to find his words.

“Have a good day,” she went on, trying to step out of the way when the man blurted out, “Please, miss.”

She looked at him again, about to narrow her eyes when she saw a troubled expression on his face. His eyes were a little wide and he glanced over his shoulder before meeting her eyes again. The door to Seafood Café opened again, a woman and a younger girl stepping out.

“Please,” he repeated, voice low. “Go along.”

Y/N frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll owe you my entire life if you just play along for a minute or two, yeah?”

She cocked her head some to the side. “I don’t know what you mean, sir. I should-“

“-I don’t usually do this- I mean, I never do, I’ve never done this before – ever -, but-but they think I have a girlfriend and I don’t. Please-“

“-Harry!”

The man – who Y/N could only assume to be Harry - turned around to face a tiny Filipina woman and an even smaller girl beside her, who looked to be no older than ten. The two looked Y/N over, eyes scanning her from head to toe. Y/N felt like she was under a magnifying glass.

But while they took her in, Y/N’s thoughts wandered to the words the man beside her had said only a few seconds earlier. “They think I have a girlfriend and I don’t.” Was he… was he saying what Y/N thought he was saying? She glanced at him, seeing him draw a shaky breath and meet her eyes, waiting for her to make the next move it seemed. Everything that had happened in the last minute confused her. She didn’t know this man, didn’t know what he’d told these two women or why. She was also well aware that by just walking away she wouldn’t need to worry about him any longer; his problems weren’t hers. This seemed messy, confusing, and a little risky.

Usually, she wouldn’t want any part of it. The Y/N she was yesterday wouldn’t have considered this. She would’ve looked at the man apologetically before excusing herself and walking off, leaving him to figure out whatever lie he’d told these two on his own. But Y/N had changed. Or… at least that’s what she wanted to believe… Fine, she wanted to change, and maybe this was a place to start.

Harry sighed, turning around to face the two he had tried to get away from, shoulders sinking as he met their eyes. The defeat was evident in his body language; he was about to give up and just tell them that he didn’t have a girlfriend. That’s what finally did it, seeing how it took absolutely everything out of him to tell them the following. “Jasmine, I’m sorry, I need to tell you-“

“-It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Y/N interrupted him, smiling as she stepped out from behind Harry. Though she had seriously considered helping him, it still surprised her when she actually heard the words coming out of her mouth. Her heart was beating about as fast as it had that morning when she’d left Hampshire.

Harry looked at her, mouth falling open, obviously shocked by her willingness to help him. It took him a few seconds to gather himself, but once he did, he looked back at the two they were trying to convince with a bright smile on his face.

“What did you have to tell me, Harry?” the older woman asked.

“That, uhh…” He looked at Y/N again before glancing at who she could only assume to be Jasmine. “Jessa, this is my girlfriend.”

Jasmine raised her eyebrows, eyes lighting up suddenly. The girl beside her stood there fidgeting with the hem of her top, looking Y/N up and down still.

“Hi,” Y/N said, stepping forward and reaching her hand out for Jasmine. “I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N,” Jasmine said, a smile coming to rest on her round face as they let go of the others’ hand. “Harry, you said her name was unusual.”

“That… I-“ Harry stopped himself.

Y/N’s lips parted, unsure how to react to that.

“That’s why you didn’t want to tell us her name, since it was so unusual. Y/N isn’t unusual.”

Y/N chuckled a little, looking at Harry whose whole face was a shade of red she’d never seen before. He glanced around him, meeting her gaze before quickly looking to the ground, scratching at his neck.

“You thought my name was weird?” She was well aware Harry hadn’t known her name until that point, let alone had any time to form an opinion on it. But regardless, she found it funny how he’d refused to give them his pretend girlfriend’s name by telling them it was an unusual one, as if they’d laugh at it.

“I didn’t-“ Harry sighed. “It wasn’t like I was embarrassed I just…” He trailed off, motioning with his hands, but Y/N had no idea what that meant. She didn’t take it to heart, though, knowing it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with his cover-up story.

“He has such a way with words,” Jasmine said, clicking her tongue at him. “Anyway, I’m Jasmine, but just call me Jessa. Harry’s stepmother.”

“And I’m Grace.” The little one stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear. The small one had the same roundness to her face as the woman beside her, as well as the same flat nose and almond shaped eyes like Jessa’s. “Harry’s kept you a secret.”

“Gracie, I haven’t kept her a secret as much as I’ve kept her away,” Harry said. “You’re gonna scare her.”

“We won’t scare her!” Jessa exclaimed. “It’s your girlfriend, Harry! We will be nice.”

“Somehow doubt that.” Harry turned to Y/N, turning his back to his step mum and what must be his half-sister. “They like to interrogate, especially Jasmine.”

“You villainise us,” Jessa said, walking closer to them and taking Y/N’s hand between hers. It took her off guard and she almost pulled her hand away, the feel of someone’s skin voluntarily touching hers felt weird.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Harry continued, ignoring Jessa. There was an apology in his eyes that he didn’t voice. Or at least that’s what Y/N thought she saw anyway. “They’ll make it hard to enjoy yourself.”

Jessa reached over and pinched Harry’s exposed forearm. He flinched away from her, glaring as he stepped back a few paces.

“Now you’re being rude.”

“I don’t want you lot to make her uncomfortable with all your questions,” Harry said, a frown etched in his forehead. He hadn’t met Y/N’s eyes directly ever since they almost walked into one another. “Besides, she’s…” Harry’s eyes fell to the guide in Y/N’s hand. “She’s sightseeing.”

Y/N smiled at Jessa and Grace, showing them the small book she was carrying with her. “I’ve just been to the Island. The view from there is fantastic.”

“Harry, the view from the Island is nothing. Have you shown her yet?”

“Jessa, it’s… she’s just…”

Finally, he looked at her, not knowing what to say that would make his stepmother give it a rest. Y/N could understand why she asked so many questions, she was just eager to get to know someone who she thought was Harry’s new partner.

“I arrived this morning,” Y/N answered, smiling at Jasmine. “We haven’t had the time to meet up properly, so in the meantime I’ve just been walking around.”

“Where’s your luggage?”

“At the Inn. The Roaming Crab.”

Jessa’s eyes went wide, looking at Harry disapprovingly again. “She’s not even staying with you? What kind of boyfriend are you?”

“She could stay at our house,” Grace said, eyes on the space that separated Y/N and Harry before she met Y/N’s eyes.

“It’s not that… It’s not like that, I-“ Harry stopped himself, dragging his hand over his face that had been bright red ever since this whole spectacle started. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“Am I?” Jessa crossed her arms.

“Yes… I-“ Harry stuttered and though Y/N hadn’t known this man for very long, she could tell he found it hard to find his words in stressful situations.

“We didn’t want to overwhelm each other. We haven’t stayed together for a long period of time before, this would be the first, so I’m staying at the Inn so we won’t get tired of each other too quickly.” Y/N hoped she sounded confident and truthful; she wouldn’t want to blow this for Harry already. After all, she had no idea how long he’d need this pretend girlfriend lie for.

A frown appeared between Jasmine’s brows and it dawned on Y/N that she must’ve said something wrong just now. Panic rose to her chest, but Harry cleared his throat.

“Except for that trip to Exeter last month, but that was only a single weekend. Now she’s here for…” He narrowed his eyes, as if the answer was at the tip of his tongue but Y/N knew she was the only one with an answer to that.

“August 12th,” she said, Jessa letting go of a small squeal at the sound of it. “Dunno how many weeks that’ll be, but I’m-“

“-That’s fantastic! You need to come to Gracie’s birthday next weekend.”

Harry stuttered a little, Jessa’s enthusiasm making him nervous, Y/N thought. “Nanay-“

“-She’s going to love that, won’t you, Gracie?”

Grace nodded her head, grinning up at Y/N. “You can put pretty stuff on my eyelids.”

Y/N raised her eyebrows some and Jessa laughed. “Eyeshadow.”

“Oh! Well, I don’t have loads of that since I’m no good with make-up, but I do have nice jewellery.” Y/N picked at the one she was wearing just then, a gold necklace she’d gotten for her birthday the year before.

Grace’s smile didn’t fade one bit at that. In fact, it only seemed to get a little bigger at the sight of Y/N’s pretty necklace. The girl didn’t say anything, but she swayed from side to side, looking excitedly up at her brother’s supposed new girlfriend.

“You’re coming then?” Jessa asked, looking so happy she might burst, and it hurt Y/N that she probably wouldn’t.

“Jessa, we have barely had time to catch up, let her breathe,” Harry pleaded and Jessa waved her hands at them.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, Y/N. It’s just…” Jasmine’s eyes fell on Harry standing beside Y/N, her eyes glistening. “It’s just so nice to know Harry’s not alone anymore.”

“I’ve never been alone, nanay.”

Jessa shook her head, sighing heavily. “Alright, we’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. You’ll probably want some time to yourselves to just walk around. Has she been to the lighthouse, Harry? Take her there.”

Harry sighed, scratching at the back of his neck. “Nay-“

“-Fine, we’ll leave. It was so nice to finally meet you, Y/N.”

“You too, Jessa. And you, Grace.”

Grace gave a wave before Jessa took her hand and the two walked away, probably on their way home or whatever other plans they had. Y/N watched them for a few before turning to Harry. His blush had calmed down a little, but a bead of sweat had appeared at his cupid’s bow. If it was because of nerves or the weather, she did not know, but she was not about to ask him that.

Upon closer inspection and now that they didn’t have Harry’s stepmum and sister watching over them, Y/N could finally study the man she rescued for a total of five minutes. Green eyes that reminded her of the moors she’d spend time running through each summer, a slight stubble along his soft jawline, nose a little too big for his face, and a slight dimple in each cheek even though he wasn’t smiling fully yet. She wondered what they’d look like if he actually grinned.

“Hi,” she said, reaching her hand out. “Y/N.”

Harry chuckled softly, taking her hand, eyes staying on the place they were touching each other. “Harry.”

“I’m glad I could be of some help, Harry.”

A crooked smile reached his lips as his eyes fell to the ground and he stepped away, letting his hand fall to hit his thigh. He glanced up at her. “Thank you for that. They say they’re worried, but they’re really just nosey.”

Y/N grimaced a little, making a breathy laugh escape Harry’s lips. “Is your life more interesting than theirs?”

“Not in the least. I lead the most boring existence in the most boring town in the United Kingdom.”

She chuckled, reaching for her necklace. “Not sure you can claim that title, my life’s pretty up there as well.”

Harry tried to shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans, but the arms of his denim jacket wrapped around his waist were in the way. “Oh?”

“Blimey, I won’t keep you if you’ve got things to do. You look like a busy man.”

Harry stared at the watch on his wrist and bit his bottom lip, looking up at her through his thick set of dark eyelashes. “Yeah, I gotta be on my way actually.”

She gave him a smile, getting one in return.

“Listen, thank you so much for that. I just needed to get them off my back. You don’t actually have to come to Gracie’s birthday party, Jessa just loves when she gets to interrogate people. Her favourite sport is discussing gossip.”

Y/N laughed. “You burn a lot of calories doing that.”

Harry chuckled, scratching at his neck as his eyes fell to her neck and then shoulder. “Anyway, I don’t know how to repay you. If you’re here till August, I guess I’ll see you around.”

For some reason, Harry not really knowing what to say was funny to Y/N. It wasn’t like he owed her anything or the other way around. She’d just helped him out and now they could part ways. Easy as that.

“You don’t have to repay me, I’m glad I could help,” she smiled. “I’ll try and stay out of your way if I see you out and about. You know, to avoid the awkward conversation of telling them we’re not actually together.”

Harry’s lips tipped upward. “Right, thanks.”

“Now, since I’m talking to you,” she said, opening the catalogue again. “Where’s the Tate Gallery?”

Harry turned around, pointing up Fore Street from where they stood. “When you reach Bunkers Hill, you follow that all the way up to Back Road, then you just walk along The Digney and it’ll be on your right-hand side.”

“Thank you so much.”

“No, thank you. I… It was too much-“

“-I’m serious when I say I’m glad I could help, don’t worry about it.” She shot him one last smile before giving him a wave. “Bye, Harry.”

“Bye,” he said, giving her a short nod before she focused her attention back on her surroundings. She needed to catch the street names and get her walk to the Tate on the first try because she could really not be asked to walk back and whip her phone out. After all, Harry just helped her so it was going to be easy to just follow his navigation and get there.

As she strolled along the gallery and the rest of St Ives that day, she couldn’t help but think about that little encounter earlier. She wondered what happened after that, if Jessa and Grace demanded more information from Harry or if he told them how it was all a lie. Putting it all aside, she focused on her trip instead. She’d never meet that family again, but she really hoped everything worked out for them regardless. The last thing she needed was for this summer to be about anything but her and what she really wanted in life. She didn’t need distractions. Her whole life up until now had been a distraction.

Friday, 12 June

Being in south England and not taking advantage of the amazing beaches this part of the country offered, was maybe on the same wrongdoing scale as committing a serious crime. Y/N had gotten dressed that morning and headed straight downstairs to eat breakfast in the tiny dining hall of the Inn. It was positioned in what must’ve originally been the living room in the house, four tables placed in there with two chairs placed by each of them. The dining room had the same layout as the entrance to the Inn; wooden panels all over, flowers and plants everywhere along with pictures and candles to top it off.

When she walked downstairs, Bessie was quick to jump up from where she was sitting in her small back garden, meeting Y/N with a warm beam on her face. When Bessie asked Y/N if she’d like a meat, vegetarian, or vegan full English, Y/N startled herself by replying vegetarian. She hadn’t grown up vegetarian, but in all her life, she’d never had a purely vegetarian meal. So, instead of correcting herself, she let Bessie make her that vegetarian breakfast. The thought of eating something she hadn’t before didn’t make her anxious as she thought it would’ve, but she was rather excited about the whole thing.

Bessie came out with the tray, setting it down before Y/N and asked her if she would mind Bessie’s company. With a quick reply encouraging the old lady to sit down, Bessie ran – or walked as fast as her short legs could take her – outside and returned with her knitting. Y/N had been alone pretty much all day the day before nd she had anticipated being alone all day today as well, so she rather enjoyed Bessie’s company. She had never really envisioned this to be part of her trip to Cornwall – an old lady with her grey hair put neatly in a bun with two knitting needles holding it up, wearing a long bohemian dress and glasses perched on the end of her nose, talking her ear off and Y/N having an immense amount of fun in the process.

The sea and seagulls sounded from inside the Inn, but as Y/N put her bathing suit and summer dress on, on her way down towards the beach, the costal sounds only intensified. The salt in the air clung to her skin and the smell of seaweed got more prominent the closer she got to the ocean. She put her stuff down and brought The Well of Loneliness out again, wanting to finish the book that day because she really wanted to know how it all ended. She wasn’t sure how much time went by as she laid there, completely captivated by the world Radclyffe Hall had created within the book.

It wasn’t that Y/N particularly enjoyed the book. No, it wasn’t that. It was endlessly long and detailed, for absolutely no purpose. The writing wasn’t particularly memorable; one wouldn’t remember it for its evocative and imaginative characteristics, nor for Hall’s ability to tell instead of show. Over the years she’d studied English in college, Y/N knew that a writer should be able to balance those two out; show some, tell some. But that concept was lost on Hall. No, Y/N didn’t like The Well of Loneliness for its writing, not even the plot.

She liked the book because of the plea embedded in it. The plea for LGBT people to be treated as human; that they were normal and not a disease. Why did they have to be other? They didn’t choose this life so why were they to be punished for it by being treated differently? By being illegal? The Well of Loneliness was published around the same time Orlando by Virginia Woolf, who was one of Y/N’s favourite authors ever. Though these two books touched on similar themes of identity, where Orlando shrouded the issue of mysticism, The Well dared to discuss sexual identity openly. Y/N commended Radclyffe Hall for that.

However much Y/N sympathised with Hall and the main character, Stephen, she couldn’t help but laugh at the hypocrisy in the book. While it attempted to strive for acceptance of one minority, it also emanated an underlying attitude of snobbishness and chauvinism towards other minorities at the same time, which made no sense to Y/N. Then again, it was the 1920s, so she guessed she couldn’t really ask for anything else from a rich white person at the time.

Having finally finished the book, Y/N asked someone nearby if they could watch her things while she took a dip. There was a blonde bloke around her age and another bloke with blue hair, sitting not too far off, and when she asked if they could keep an eye on her stuff, they promised they would.

Y/N took her time swimming, trying to remember the last time she’d been on a beach where the public were allowed. It was odd seeing so many around her, but she liked it. She liked the sound of others around her. Silence was good, but in the disturbance of human noise was the reassurance of rescue. The promise that you might be lonely, but you are never alone.

Walking back up to her picnic blanket, Y/N thanked the two men before lying back down, soaking up the sun. She hadn’t been aware she’d already been at the beach for a few hours until she realised her stomach was rumbling. So, packing her stuff together and making sure her hair was somewhat dry, she walked around to see if there were any places she could sit down. The only place on Porthminster Beach was the café with the same name, and by the looks of it, it was completely full. Since Bessie had served Y/N some breakfast, she must have something for lunch as well.

Walking back the 5 minute to the hotel, Bessie jumped up from her place in the back garden, sitting back there with two other ladies and knitting like they’d done the day before.

“Hello, dear, you had a good trip to the beach?”

Y/N couldn’t help but feel completely at ease in this old woman’s company. “Yes, I did. A bit hungry, though, do you have something I could eat, possibly?”

“Of course! What do you fancy?”

“Oh, a toastie’s fine.”

“Vegetarian?”

For some reason, the fact Bessie remembered Y/N’s preference from this morning made her smile. “Yes,” she said without thinking.

“Right, just sit down and I’ll come by with your lunch, my lovely.”

“Thank you so much, Bessie.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Y/N sat down, bringing her phone out as she hadn’t checked it properly in a few hours. She wasn’t sure what she expected, to be fair. There was no one from home who would want to contact her, and if they were to, they would rather look around Winchester than call. In their minds, she couldn’t have run far. Regardless, the mere fact they hadn’t even called her made something inside her sink a little. It felt awful knowing how little she meant to them all along. So little that they wouldn’t even pick up the phone and save her a call or a text.

“Here, my dear,” Bessie said, putting down a tray before Y/N. “I’m gonna pop outside to my little knitting club, if that’s fine by you. Just come on out if you don’t have anything else to do after this, yeah?”

“Thank you so much,” Y/N said and Bessie smiled at her before she disappeared outside again.

Turning her attention to her food, Y/N started thinking about what she could do the rest of the day. She could walk some more around town, she’d seen bigger parts of it yesterday, but there were always corners of a town that needed discovering. Once she was about halfway through her toastie, hasty footsteps sounded from the lobby and a somewhat familiar figure appeared. He stopped a bit on his way towards the reception desk, as if he didn’t want to be a bother to Bessie of some kind by asking for assistance. Bessie appeared a few seconds later, grinning from ear to ear as usual.

“Hello, Harry love.”

“Hi, Bess. I…” he stopped himself, running his hands up and down the sides of his white and grey striped cotton-blend trousers, a navy blue tee shirt tucked into it and a pair of white Vans on his feet. “I just wanted to come check again.”

“For the third time.”

“Yeah, well…” He did a quick shrug. “I just wanted to check.”

“She’s here.” Bessie gestured to Harry’s right and when he looked that way, his eyes immediately found Y/N’s. She didn’t think she’d ever see him again. However, a summer in a small coastal town would make that very hard. She’d try her hardest to stay out of Harry’s way, as well as his family’s, so she wouldn’t make things awkward. She would have escaped to a town a little further south or on the other side of Cornwall, but she was settled in now and she’d already paid for her whole stay.

Though she’d promised to keep away from him to prevent any unpleasant situations, Harry hadn’t made her the same promise. And here he was. For some reason. He seemed both taken off guard to see her sitting there as well as relieved he’d finally caught her. A sigh left him, slumping his tense shoulders a little before he thanked Bessie quickly and walked to Y/N.

“Is it,” he started as he made his way over. “Is it okay if I sit down?”

Y/N nodded her head while swallowing, gesturing with her hand at the chair opposite hers. “Yes, go ahead,” she said when her mouth was free to.

“Cheers.” Harry sat down, slid a little closer to the table and rested his hands between his legs as he leaned back against the back of the chair.

The two fell into silence for a little while, Y/N watching as Harry’s eyes fixed on the small bouquet of flowers in the tiny vase placed in the middle of the round table. Yes, she loved company, but Harry’s had taken her a little by surprise and she was eager to know why he’d come looking for her. She didn’t want to try and draw a conclusion herself without hearing his reasoning first, knowing that whatever she came up with wouldn’t be correct anyway. Instead, she put her toastie back on her plate and focused her attention on Harry, who had yet to say anything. From the way he was biting the inside of his lip, she assumed he was mulling over the right thing to say. It didn’t seem to ever come when finally, he opened his mouth.

“First, I just want to say sorry for yesterday,” he said, meeting her eyes, but quickly looking to her shoulder. “It was proper daft. I was desperate and I panicked, and you were right there.” He let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry for putting you in that position.”

Y/N just gave him a smile. “You don’t have to apologise, I’m glad I could help.”

“And I appreciate you helping me out, I really do, but… here’s the thing…” He cleared his throat. “Jessa and Gracie are right about losing their minds of this.”

Y/N chuckled. “Oh?”

“Yeah, they called and texted all last night and this morning, saying how nice it was to meet you, that I need to bring you to Grace’s birthday next Saturday,” Harry said. “And it makes me wonder if it was even worth it yesterday. I still appreciate what you did, and this is all my fault, but I think…” He trailed off again, scratching at the back of his neck. “Look, I’m doing a naff job of explaining this.”

Sipping her juice, Y/N just smiled at him till she put her glass down. “Take your time.”

He took a deep breath. “Think I might tell them it’s all fake. I don’t have a partner and that’s fine.”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah, being single is fine.”

“Only thing that’s stopping me is the fact that Jasmine will be crushed. Ever since my dad died, she’s been so worried about me living alone in the lighthouse.”

There was so much to unpack in that sentence that Y/N felt herself retract a little, scanning his face for what the appropriate reaction to that would be. Harry must’ve noticed her silence so he glanced at her face, eyes going wide.

“Oh! Don’t feel like you-“

“-I’m sorry about your dad.”

“No, that’s okay, he hasn’t been with us for two years now,” Harry went on. “That was a real mood killer. Bringing up my dead father with someone I barely know.”

Y/N smiled. “Think you fake breaking up with me was a great mood killer before that was even brought up.”

Harry smiled a little at that, those deep dimples just barely gracing his cheeks. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry.” She wiped at her mouth with the napkin, brows slowly coming into a frown. “You said something about a lighthouse… do you live there?”

“In the lighthouse?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I’m the lighthouse keeper.”

Her frown deepened a little.

“What?”

“I didn’t think those existed anymore.”

“What, lighthouses?” Harry’s smile widened, amusement tracing his pink lips.

“No, lighthouse keepers.”

He shrugged. “Here’s a living, breathing example of one.”

She couldn’t help her laughter. “Fine, I take it back. I don’t really think about lighthouses enough to give their keepers much of a thought either.”

“Too bad.”

Y/N just shook her head some, noticing a slight redness to Harry’s cheeks that hadn’t been there a few seconds earlier. “You were saying about Jessa.”

“She’s worried about me living alone in the lighthouse. Says I’ll be lonely and that she thinks about me sitting up there crying my eyes out or summat.”

“Do you? Cry your eyes out?”

“No, I like having my own space. I like living there alone. She’s just being a protective stepmum, looking out for me and all that. Like, yes, I’m still sad Dad is dead, but it wasn’t like he lived with me in the lighthouse anyway. He lived with Jasmine and Grace.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “She doesn’t want you to be alone ‘cause she thinks you don’t want to be.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, pausing a bit before mumbling something that sounded like, “That’s why I’ve told them for a few months now that I have a girlfriend.”

She narrowed her eyes some.

“To get them off my back, innit? I don’t want them to think I’m miserable, ‘cause I’m not. But when I told them I had a girlfriend, they got so happy, yeah? I just tried to be as vague as possible, didn’t give them a name and they didn’t ask, assuming I wanted to keep her secret. Jessa hasn’t bugged me about this in weeks… Until yesterday.”

Y/N started piecing everything together. “That’s why you stormed out of the restaurant.”

He nodded. “And ran into you.”

Y/N couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “The idea of just telling them I was your fake girlfriend just fell into your head once you saw me?”

Harry chuckled and shifted his gaze away from her, clearly embarrassed. “Yeah. I never do stuff like that. I hate uncertainty, so trusting you yesterday when I didn’t know if you’d play along… well, it took five years of my life.”

 She laughed. “If I hadn’t then the whole lie would’ve been obvious to Jessa and Grace.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I’m glad I could help then,” Y/N said, really meaning it as well.

“Yeah, and thank you so much for doing so. It really helped me out… if you look away from Jasmine texting me five times today alone to organise a dinner with you and all of us.”

They both laughed a little at that and when Y/N glanced at Harry again, he was looking down at his hands in his lap. After a brief pause, he met her eyes again.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this, and thank you for helping me. I’ll tell them everything now, I don’t want you to have to hide while you’re here for two months.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

For the next few seconds, they looked at one another in silence. Y/N thought back to the moment she’d seen Harry, how it might’ve taken her a few seconds to catch on, but her main instinct had been to help him. She thought of the gratitude on Harry’s face when she played along, how she hoped he one day would find an actual girlfriend that would have just as big of an impact on Jessa and Grace as it seemed she herself had. She was about to tell Harry this when the sound of footsteps sounded from the lobby again.

A woman Bessie’s age walked in, a bag slung over her shoulder and sunglasses in her short black hair. As she stepped inside, she spotted Harry and Y/N sitting together and her mouth fell open, a grin coming to rest on her wrinkling face.

“Bessie, you didn’t tell me these two were going to be here,” the old woman said, walking into the dining area. Bessie stepped out from behind the wall that hid the reception desk from the dining hall. At that, Y/N’s stomach dropped. Bessie must’ve heard their entire conversation. By the look on Harry’s face, he was going through a similar near-death experience to the one Y/N was currently enduring.

“Hi, Mrs Rose,” Harry said, no one seemed to notice the slight tremor to his voice.

“Harry and his new girlfriend,” Mrs Rose said, looking between them. “You know, you lot are the talk of the town.”

“We are?” Harry asked, the surprise in his voice so evident it made the older women laugh.

“Yes, of course! Jasmine told everyone!” Mrs Rose continued, looking to Bessie who was already nodding her head.

“Not everyone, but she told her friends, and you know how people like to gossip around here, don’t you, Harry?” Bessie gave him a smile and Harry smiled back, though it did not reach his eyes. “Anyway, Florence, this is Y/N. Y/N, Florence.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Y/N said, grinning at Florence who stuck her hand out. The two shook hands as Florence beamed back at Y/N. “So, the whole town knows?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case,” Florence said, turning to Bessie who made a noise of agreement. “Jessa can talk about everything and anything for hours, but if her stepson gets a girlfriend? That’s the news of the century and she will not shut up.”

“How lovely,” Y/N said, not really knowing what else was appropriate in this setting as Harry hadn’t opened his mouth once to say anything.

“It’s a little less lonesome up in that lighthouse now, hm?”

“Oh, uhm…” Harry looked at Y/N and then back at Florence, his words having completely escaped him. Y/N was about to come to Harry’s rescue when Bessie took them both by surprise.

“They stayed here tonight,” Bessie explained and Florence looked at her with a furrow between her brows.

“Why on earth would they do that? Harry’s got a perfectly nice place by the lighthouse.”

“Who are we to question the decisions of our youth?” Bessie linked arms with Florence. “Let’s go outside, Flo dear. Leave the lovebirds to be by themselves.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs Rose,” Y/N called after them.

“And you, Y/N!”

The second the two ladies were out of sight, Harry and Y/N shared a wide-eyed look, both of their panic equal it seemed. Y/N took a sip of her juice, somehow thinking it would calm her down. It did not.

“Jasmine told everyone,” Harry said, voice a whisper so no one walking by or sitting in the back garden would hear them. “She told everyone.”

“She can’t have… right?”

“You underestimate Jessa. If she was kidnapped and put in a gag, she’d be able to talk through it and move her jaw and teeth in a way that would obliterate said gag.” Harry ran a hand over his face. “She’s very chatty.”

“You’ve painted a vivid picture.”

Harry sighed, leg bouncing and eyes distant as he seemed to be racking his brain for a solution to the situation they were finding themselves in. “I was gonna tell Jessa it was a lie. I was gonna tell-“

“-You still can.”

“But everyone knows now. It’ll be well embarrassing for us when we have to tell people on the street that ‘oh yeah, that ol’ thing, we only pretended to be a couple so people wouldn’t be all up in Harry’s business,’ I somehow don’t see that going down well.”

“Then there’s only one thing we can do?”

“What’s that?”

“We pretend to be a couple.”

He stared at her, his facial expression very neutral, and though Y/N didn’t know him well enough yet, she did think she could decipher when he was displeased and when he was not. He seemed to be mulling it over, wanting for her to elaborate before he made a final decision.

“Everyone knows, I’m leaving in August, we can just say we broke up when August comes around.”

Harry nodded, thinking for a moment before he asked, “What will people say when they see us separated on the street then? Like, we’re not seen together.”

“People need to spend some time apart; it’s exhausting to be around another person 24/7.”

Harry nodded again, contemplating their predicament. “There’s always a lot of parties around here during summer. You don’t have to tag along, but you might have to if Jessa’s gonna be there.”

“I don’t mind,” Y/N admitted, shrugging her shoulders some. “I don’t have anything to do all summer, anyway. Might as well be in a fake relationship with a bloke I barely know and help him all I can.”

This made a breathy chuckle leave Harry’s lips and he held her gaze some before having it fall to his folded hands. “Well…” he said, suddenly reaching his hand across the table. “I’m Harry Edward Styles.”

Y/N laughed but took Harry’s hand, shaking it lightly. “Pleased to meet you, Harry. I’m Y/N Bernadette Angelica McKay.”

Harry whistled under his breath. “Mouthful.”

“What happens when you’re brought up in a posh family.”

Harry smiled at that and sat back in his chair. “I guess… I-I guess we should talk about how we got together and all that.”

“Yeah, make a story so it sounds more believable.”

“It’ll help if we have the same story, yes.”

She couldn’t help her laughter again, but it was cut short as Harry’s phone in his pocket started ringing. He sighed, taking it out and looking at it before putting it back down.

“Look, I gotta go.”

“Oh.” Y/N, having thought they were going to plan their fake dating history, blinked in confusion when Harry stood from his chair and looked at her apologetically. “We’ll see each other at some point.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, walking off toward the back garden, calling Bessie’s name as he did. They exchanged some words Y/N couldn’t hear and Harry disappeared into the kitchen for a minute before resurfacing again. Standing in the lobby, he looked at Y/N through the doorway leading into the dining area, mouth opening and closing as he tried to come up with something to say.

She just gave him a smile, hoping he understood that she just wanted him to take his time. It took one more sigh and a little staring contest before Harry finally found his words.

“You know where to find me, my house is the very tall, pointy one on the outskirts of town.”

She chuckled, watching as he walked out of the front door and down the street. Y/N found her bag, putting it on her shoulder as she got her lunch tray and sat it in the kitchen as she’d done after her breakfast that morning. On her way upstairs, Y/N turned as she reached the front door that was left open to welcome guests. Stepping into the doorway, she looked out over St Ives.

Seagulls were still screaming overhead, the sound of people down by the beach hung in the air all throughout the day, it smelled of seafood and summer, and just beyond the small town, on a tiny hilltop and on the very tip of a cliff, stood a lighthouse. A white lighthouse that rose high above the whole coast around it, protecting everyone. Locals, foreigners, and sailors. And it was operated and taken care of by the bloke Y/N was going to spend her entire summer in a fake relationship with. It didn’t seem real, and yet, that was exactly what it was. She didn’t have Harry’s number and knew next to nothing about him, but – as he put it – he lived in the very tall, pointy house on the outskirts of town. It was impossible to miss it. She could find her way to him, even in the dark.

The lighthouse keeper, Y/N thought to herself as she took in the lighthouse again through the window of her room once she walked upstairs. I have to pretend to be in love with a lighthouse keeper. And somehow, Y/N realised when looking back on that particular summer, that wasn’t the weirdest thing that would happen to her in St Ives.

NEXT UPDATE: Sunday, 2 August, 9PM GMT!

Huge thanks to my AMAZING beta readers! 🌊 @aileenacoustic​ 🌊 @bopbopstyles​ 🌊 @fromyourstrulyh​ 🌊 @harrys-creature 🌊 @honeydearly 🌊 @juliassgem​ 🌊 @summerfeelng​ 🌊 @sunflower--styles 🌊 @withallthelove-a​ 🌊

[liibrii]

Kita Shinsuke x gn!Reader

Synopsis: Hitchhiking through the countryside you catch a ride from a handsome stranger, which just might turn out to be the greatest decision of your life – or your greatest mistake.

wc: 2k || thriller-ish, mystery-ish

a/n: heavily inspired by one of my all time favourite songs; The Count of Tuscany. tbh this fic was just an excuse for me to listen to it on repeat for several hours :P as always feedback is greatly appreciated!

In the bathroom of the roadside gas station you change into your best clothes and brush through the tangles in your hair, wash your face, scrub your hands to make sure there's no dirt beneath your nails. No one in their right mind would pick up a scruffy looking hitchhiker.

You decide to stand outside where everyone who drives in to fill their gas tanks will notice you. On a small chalkboard you bought for a few hundred yen in a convenience store you write the name of your destination with the prettiest writing you manage and even add a smiley face. That should do the trick of gaining attention.

You've almost reached your destination already. The western sea of Japan. Being born on the eastern coast you have watched the sun rise above the ocean your entire life. At least once in your life you want to see it sink in the vastness of the sea hugging your homeland.

Would a train or a bus bring you to your destination faster? They would, sadly your wallet disagreed with that option. Hitchhiking really was the best option even if you often waited for hours with no luck. Still it wasn't all bad; one time an elderly lady stoped to give you a lift. You sat in the back as the front sit was occupied by her dog who excitedly turned to sniffle and lick your face, begging for scratches. She made you stay for dinner and even prepared a futon for you to sleep. “All my children and grandchildren moved to the big cities.“ She scratched behind the ears of her dozing four legged companion as you drank tea while sun slowly set behind the hilltops. “Slowly but surely we are bein' left behind. Seein' someone so young come 'round makes these old bones incredibly happy.“

Following morning she wished you good luck on your journey. Her name and address are written in your dairy. When new year comes in a few months you mustn't forget to send her a gift. You watched her stroll away, one slow step after another, dog trailing behind, her back bent under the weight of years. Is that what the future holds for you?

You try to keep a positive outlook, at least you get to see the beauty of the countryside. The green hills and vast fields of rice swaying in the wind are a sight that takes your breath away. Summer's coming to an end. It will soon be harvest season.

Your legs are starting to hurt. Hours have passed and nobody pays you even a second glance. Under the hat your hair sticks to your skin, droplets of sweat trickle down your back. You're all but ready to give up and start looking for a place to stay the night when a man about your age approaches.

He has caught your eye before. Something about his overalls and silvery hair glimmering in the sun made him stand out from the others. He kept glancing over at you while filling his tank.

“I'm not goin' as far as ya want,“ his eyes glance over the chalkboard you're holding. “But if ya want I can give ya a ride to the next town over.“

You eagerly nod. “That would be great!“ You offer him a hand. “You can call me y/n!“

His hand is calloused. Hand of someone working outside. “Kita.“

Ride is comfortable. Kita is more on the quiet side but once you mention how pretty the landscape looks with all the swaying fields he laughs . It's a bright sound that makes your heart skip a beat. He tells you he works the fields, not all you see, but many of them. Talking to him quickly becomes easy. To your surprise you find you have a lot in common. When you arrive to the town and he stops by a small inn offering rooms you're almost reluctant to leave his company. He hesitates when taking your backpack from the back seats. “I know we just met,“ he softly says, “but could I take you out for dinner? Maybe tonight?“

How could you possibly say no? You've been travelling on your own for the past two weeks and the loneliness is starting to get to you. And he's cute.

When he picks you up a few hours later he's wearing a nice button down. He combed his hair though you preferred it when it was all messy. “I'm not late am I?“

“No, I'm just a bit early.“

“Here,“ he shyly averts his eyes when he hands you a small bouquet of spider lilies that have yet to open in full bloom.

Your cheeks flush. It has been a long time since anyone gifted you flowers. “Thank you,“ you say, sincerely.

Kita takes you to a small family owned restaurant down the street. He opens the door for you and pours you tea while you skim through the menu. Talking to him is so easy. He mentions he used to play volleyball back in high school, that many of his old teammates went on to play professionally. Embarrassed you have to tell him you know very little about volleyball. As you speak his eyes linger on your face. Sports have never been your strong suit, you admit.

“Don't feel bad over it,“ he reassuringly smiles. “So how come yer travellin' these parts?“

Your dream of seeing the sunset over the sea seems so simple when you tell him but Kita nods. There's wisdom in his eyes you don't usually see in your peers. Why are you so relieved he doesn't find your dream childish? “I just want to see the country, get to know the land and the history,“ you eagerly continue.

“There's an old castle ruin not far from the town. Tourists often visit it. If ya want I can show ya 'round,“ he offers.

A trip to ruins does sound nice. Even a little bit romantic. One more day staying around couldn't hurt, right?

Kita's smile widens when you agree. “I'll pick ya up tomorrow. Would around midday be alright?“

For the rest of the night you're all giddy on the inside. You can't wait for tomorrow to arrive. Kita walks you back to the inn and waits till you're inside before heading his own way. What a gentleman, you think to yourself. Meeting someone like him was the last thing you expected.

Whatever road lead to the castle in its days of glory has long since been claimed by the nature. Kita walks with steps of someone who has walked this path a thousand times before. You trail behind him, your clothes getting caught in branches all the time. When he sees you struggling he slows down and even offers to carry your small backpack for you.

“This castle used to be really important back in the days,“ he explains while you catch your breath. “It's strategic position is really important. There's a legend my grannie used to tell me. Durin' the Sengoku period the youngest son of a shogun fortified himself in this castle and defended it for months. Then his enemies dug tunnels beneath.“ He offers you a hand to help you climb over a pile of rubble marking what once were the castle walls. “Filled them with wood soaked in fat and set it aflame. Castle crumbled and buried hundreds of soldiers beneath it. Some say the son of the shogun still haunts this place.“

“An interesting story,“ you say, ignoring how every hair on your body stands up.

By the time you reach the ruins you're drenched in sweat and yet once the view of the valley beneath opens up you forget all about the fatigue. You step closer to the ledge and peek over it. The side of the hill plunges straight down. Deep below you see tree tops. If you slipped -

A hand grabs your shoulder. “Careful. The stones 'round here often crumble.“

You murmur an apology. Kita's hand lingers on yours, his eyes following when you walk away to have a closer look at the ruins. They're covered with grass and small trees sprouting from the crack between stones. Funny, you can't see any tables with information about this place. Having a map would surely help with orientation. You can't be the only tourist with a knack of getting lost.

Kita approaches you with a smile. “Wanna see somethin' really cool?“

You follow him inside the ruins. “Watch yer step,“ he holds the branches of a lonely tree so they don't smack you as you walk by, “it's easy to trip 'round here.“

Walls here are better preserved, higher. The shadows they cast seem longer. You follow Kita inside the labyrinth of crumbled stone. An uneasy feeling of being watched grows inside you as your approach scares off a flock of birds.

Kita pushes away a curtain of poison ivy to reveal a gaping hole where the walls lean on the cliff towering above. Cold gust of wind makes you shudder. “Here,“ Kita offers you a torchlight. Your hands are cold. Fingers barely capable of wrapping around the black plastic.

He turns to you, his eyes carefully examining your face before he enters. “Ya comin'? Be careful where ya step, the stairs are slippery.“ He offers you his hand. It's warm.

“There's a natural cave beneath the castle.“ His calm voice echoes through the winding staircase. “Apparently it used to have a small pool for the nobles to cool in durin' summer. It's filled with rubble now.“

Light of the torches casts eerie shadows on the walls. Stone surface under your fingers is cold and damp. You follow Kita through a narrow hallway and soon enough you reach a small cave. It probably used to be bigger but a part of the ceiling caved in.

Rubble crunches under the soles of your shoes. In the eerie silence all you hear is your breathing and unsteady thumping in your chest. Somewhere in the distance perhaps a ghost of a long deceased soldier- you curse yourself in your head. Why are you trying to scare yourself?

You look up to see stalactites growing from the ceiling. How many thousands of years old must they be?

“They only grow about a millimetre per year. Must be tens of thousands of years old.“ Kita's voice makes you jump. How did he know exactly what you were thinking?

Only now you notice he's standing between you and the exit to the hallway. His eyes are fixed on you. He's closing off the only exit. Pounding in your chest quickens. This place is starting to suffocate you. 

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

You really did follow a complete stranger into a cave beneath an abandoned castle. What an idiot. Naive, trusting idiot.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

Slowly, like water dripping from the ceiling it sinks in you may not make it out of here.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

Ah, don't be stupid! You still have years to live! A boring office job to take on! When was the last time you spoke to your friends?

Kita's eyes never leave yours as he steps closer. In the dim light it all seems so- Kita wouldn't- But you don't know him, do you? Torch rolls from your shaking fingers.

Is this really how it ends? Hidden from the sunlight, caught like a mouse in a trap of stone and cold cutting to your bones? You can't breathe. Will they ever find you? Tears well up in your eyes. Why? What have you done to deserve this?

You're shaking. Will you ever see the sunset over the vastness of the sea? Will you lay beside the unfortunate soldiers from centuries ago till you become only clean, nameless bones?

A shaky plea for your life is all you manage to stammer. Through the tears his face is just muddled colours. Is this really how you die?

Warm touch of his hands cupping your face, thumbs wiping away tears, his soft, gentle voice, paralyse you. “Hey, why are ya cryin'?“

[starsfic]

The Ghosts of Fiery Cloud Manor- Chapter 1: Escape

Summary: An incident with his birth family leads to Xiaotian cleaning an abandoned manor for his summer. (Or, things went down after Wukong defeated DBK.)

AO3

Notes: This was the fic idea I mentioned when I was doing that ‘Dad Pigsy inspired by the influx of dad done by @ninja-knox-ur-sox-off and @its-kall-the-clown’ fic snippet.

-_-

Earlier this week, going out into the country to clean up an abandoned manor wasn’t in the plans for Xiaotian’s summer.

   Mostly, his plans had consisted of avoiding his parents, hanging with Xiaojiao at the porty club and arcade, and working at Pigsy’s Noodles. But then the week had ended and he found himself on a bus, driving out to the mountains. He found himself questioning every choice on that drive. Why had he left the city again?

   Oh, right.

   His father, in a fit of rage, had attacked him.

   Surrounded by the aftermath of all that, Pigsy had sat him down and explained that he was worried about him. He wasn’t going to fire him. “ But I do think you need to get out of the city until this all dies down,” Pigsy said the morning after he had beaten Xiaotian’s father off his delivery boy. He had explained that he had received a call from an ex-boyfriend of his named Tang. “His family owns a large manor out in the mountains. He’s decided that he’s going to clean it up over the summer and then decide what to do with it. He needs some help that he’s willing to pay…”

   With that, Xiaotian had realized what his boss had been offering.

   Escape. Far from the city. Possibly with no wifi. And work he could lose himself in and not think about his horrible parents. This place could’ve been in Serbia and it didn’t matter. His thrilled “Yes!” would’ve been the same.

   At least his birth family gave him a scapegoat to blame every petty inconvenience on. The cold snap in summer that the village was experiencing. The flat tire that the bus had that delayed his trip by an hour. The bus jolt that had spilled his coffee over his shirt. All of that was their fault. “Sorry,” the innkeeper said. “No lift.”

   Definitely their fault.

   Xiaotian heaved his suitcase up the three flights of stairs, absently cursing his family in his mind. Finally, he came to his room, pulling out the old-fashioned key. At least that was cool. The door opened with a creak, allowing him to look around.

   A slanted ceiling, a comfortable-looking single bed, and a little oak chest of drawers under the window were all that greeted him. At the moment, he decided to concentrate on the positives. He wouldn’t be able to hole himself up in this room without expiring from boredom. Xiaotian pushed his suitcase into the room and set it on his bed. A chirp came from the bed.

   Well, that was weird.

   He poked his head under the bed, coming face to face with a small white monkey. The monkey blinked at him. Then it yawned, showing some very sharp teeth. “Uh, hello.” he finally said. The monkey gave another chirp before hopping out. Xiaotian leaned back and watched as it wrapped its arms around his neck. “Uh...okay.” He carefully lifted up the monkey.

   He left the room, shutting the door behind him, before heading back down the stairs. The innkeeper gave him a smile when he showed up at the front desk. “Nice to see you making friends,” he greeted him, waving at the monkey. “This little fellow likes to come from the temple and come visit.”

   “The temple?”

   The innkeeper nodded. “Yes, another one of the properties that the scholar here owns.”

   “He’s the reason I’m here,” Xiaotian said, hoping to get some info about the manor. “He hired me to clean, uh…” He pulled his phone out of the monkey’s paw, setting it on the counter, and pulled up the info. “Fiery Cloud Manor?”

   “Oh.” The innkeeper looked upset before pulling out a paper. “Here, in case you want to look.” He pointed to a section. “This is the hiking trail most people use to get up to that manor. It’s been abandoned for...a while, so I believe you’ll have a lot of work.”

   “I see. Sorry.”

   “Whatever for?” The innkeeper looked confused by the apology and he instantly felt ridiculous.

   Xiaotian thanked him, waved bye to the monkey (and felt ridiculous as he did so), and rushed out. By the time he was at the trail, he was too far to go back to get the keys to the manor without looking a touch unhinged. Which he wasn’t. He hoped.

   Stupid birth family.

   As he walked, the view started to come to life around him. Evergreen trees were mixed with bamboo and lovely pink flowers bloomed around him. Xiaotian couldn’t help but stop every so often, taking in the scenery. Walking along in a beautiful mist-filled forest to an ancient manor felt like something out of a fairytale.

   His reality faded when the path stopped at a pair of gates.

   The gate gleamed a gold color, a pattern of flames decorating the top. They were wet with condensation when Xiaotian leaned against them, getting his fill of the manor. It looked proud, a mixture of ancient Tang palaces and a classic English manor, a red roof gleaming among the mist. For a moment, he couldn’t help but stare.

   It was beautiful.

   For a moment, he wished he had been a little less freaked out at the inn. Then he could have the key and get into that place and- He leaned a little more against the gate. A creak was his only warning before the gate swung open.

   Well, that wasn’t safe!

   Who knew who had been around and found the gate unlocked?! Firing a quick text to Mr. Tang, Xiaotian shot through, thoughts of this beautiful house being ransacked filling him with fury. It grew worse when he reached the red doors with bull-patterned knockers and found them unlocked. How dare whoever did this?! The value in a place like this didn’t lay in money but in the fact that it was a snapshot of the past and the idea that it had been harmed through carelessness…

   Light followed him through the open door into the entrance hall of Fiery Cloud Cavern. The windows were too clouded to allow any light that way. A grand staircase led up into a corridor, all smelling of dust and neglect. Xiaotian pulled out his phone and flicked on the flashlight. His anger dimmed when he saw that the dust on the stone floor appeared to have only been disturbed by him.

   He moved deeper in, not quite satisfied yet. The must smell increased as he moved away from the door, but he was getting that creepy ‘being watched’ sensation. He looked up and yelped when he made eye contact with a portrait. “Oh, thank gods,” he breathed out, examining the dusty red-haired man. If there was still art on the walls, that probably meant everything was still intact, if he was willing to guess.

   The next painting was of a grassy hill, a scraggly tree on top. Looking off into the distance, a woman sat under the tree. Before Xiaotian could study the next portrait, a cold wins blew. He glanced back, seeing the light starting to fade. He made a face at the thought of going back.

But Mr. Tang had been kind enough to rent a room in the inn for him. Plus, any bed in here was probably gross and bug-infested. So, he would go back down and get a good night's sleep. And then come for a full day of exploration.

The thought put a skip in his step and he chased that high out the door, firmly closing it behind him, and to the gate. There, he stopped. He couldn't just leave it open. Even with the lack of breaking-in evidence he saw, he wouldn't be able to sleep.

Xiaotian pulled off his headband and used it to tie a tight knot around the lock. It held firm when he gave the gate an experimental shake. Satisfied, he smiled.

"See you tomorrow."

He headed down the trail, happy at the adventure he had been presented with.

He was unaware of a figure appearing in smoke and flame when he was halfway down the mountain.

A claw reached out and tugged his headband off.

[longing-and-heartache-and-lust]

Prompt: Spending the day in bed Title (optional): Relationships (romantic/platonic/etc): Geralt/Jaskier Rating: Mature Content Warnings: None Summary: Geralt comes back from a hunt hurt, Jaskier makes sure all his wounds are mended and that he’s got a good enough reason not to get out of bed the next day.

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Crossposted on ao3 here

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

On some days, Geralt returns from a hunt completely safe.

He returns with not a single scratch on him, only his tousled hair and glowing eyes giving him away.

Those are the days Jaskier loves the most. To his relief, most of the hunts end like that.

But other days, the witcher comes back covered in blood, at least a part of which is his own, his steps heavy and uneven as he stumbles through the door, breathing shallow and ragged.

Every single time that happens, Jaskier can feel his heart break but he knows it's unavoidable. He never tries to talk the witcher out of hunting, never tells him that it's not worth the risk, because he knows that that is just who Geralt is, what his life is. Becoming a witcher had always been his destiny and they both knew that if he became someone else instead, he would not have been the person he is now.

Jaskier knew that there was a price for giving his heart to a witcher, and that price he paid with no hesitation every single time.

So when he hears heavy footsteps on the staircase, he's ready for it even though his heart shatters in his chest once again.  

It's a little past midnight, the inn still full of music and overlapping chatter so when the door behind Geralt shuts loudly, Jaskier doubts that anyone's even heard it.

"Geralt?" he calls, getting out of bed and coming closer in hurried steps. "Gods, Geralt, are you alright?"

The witcher raises his head slowly to look at him, a long cut on his left cheekbone painting his pale skin with uneven streaks of red. His eyes are still darker than usual from the elixirs but Jaskier can already see the gold shining in the low light of the fireplace.

Geralt smiles at him softly, trying to reassure but that smile is so weak that it just tears Jaskier's heart apart even more.

"Foglets," he mutters, pressing a gloved hand over three bleeding gashes on his side. "Seven of them."

Jaskier can feel his hands shake as he reaches out to gently pull Geralt's hand away and he has to take in a few deep breaths to calm himself down.

"Come on," he urges softly, brushing Geralt's hair away from his eyes and leaving a gentle kiss on his pale lips. "Let's get you out of there clothes."

Geralt visually limps as the bard leads him to an armchair set by the fireplace and it's only now that Jaskier notices he's got a cut on the inner side of his right thigh, as well.

"It's nothing," Geralt says, sitting down with a pained groan. "We can be back on the Path tomorrow."

"Like hell we are," Jaskier retorts, reaching for a towel to soak it in warm water. "If you as much as try to get out of bed tomorrow, may the gods forgive me, Geralt, but I will kill you myself."

Geralt laughs quietly, running his hand through Jaskier's hair as the younger man kneels next to him, undoing the buckles of his armour with deft fingers.

"Jask, I'm not sure I'm in my best shape right now," the witcher teases, his dry sense of humour apparently coming back to him. "Give me a few hours."

Jaskier just grunts, finally getting the tight leather trousers off him to examine the wound on his thigh better. It's not as deep as it could've been and, thankfully, it misses the artery, though only just.

"You won't be able to ride for a couple of days if you don't want this to keep re-opening."

Staying in town for a few more days is not something that Jaskier really objects to. They've been on the Path for almost a month and the weather had only been getting colder with every passing week, so a day or two in bed sound like a much-needed break.

Geralt winces slightly when Jaskier presses the wet towel to the wound on his thigh, the light fabric turning red almost immediately. It hurt every time but over the years the bard's gotten used to it. Witchers feel pain different to humans, he knows that.

And yet, he can't help but touch his lips to Geralt's skin, closing his eyes powerlessly.

"Let's stay for a day or two, alright?" he asks softly, wiping the blood off without even thinking, allowing for his hands to move automatically, out of habit. "You need to rest."

Geralt falls silent for a couple of seconds, getting his armour and shirt off so that there's nothing but his smallclothes left on him. Then, with a soft little moan of pain, he reaches down to catch Jaskier's lips with his own, the kiss warm and tender.

"You're right," he says, pulling away just enough to press their foreheads together, breathing the same air. "Of course, we'll stay."

***

Patching him up is not nearly as hard is it used to be. By now, Jaskier knows just about every kind of stitch there is.

Geralt sits through it as stoically as ever, clenching his fists but not flinching even as the needle goes through the delicate skin under his ribs over and over again, until all three cuts are stitched closed.

When it comes to the wound of his cheekbone, he says that it will heal on its own and Jaskier doesn't object, just touches his lips to it gently, brushing a strand of Geralt's silver hair away from his face.

"How are you feeling?" he enquires when the last stains of blood are wiped off and all the wounds are bandaged. "Do you want anything?"

Geralt gets up from the armchair on his own, holding a hand over his wounded side but otherwise looking better than some nights. Even in bandages, he looks incredible, Jaskier thinks.

"Let's just go to bed."

Jaskier, who had been hoping for the witcher to say that, gladly follows him to the opposite side of the room, mentally thanking the innkeeper for providing the rooms with actual decent sized beds.

He climbs under the heavy blankets, carefully moving closer to Geralt when he lies down next to him.

"Will you tell me about the hunt later?"

It's been decades since they met but writing sogs about his witcher is something that Jaskier still hasn't gotten tired of. He doubts he ever will.

"You really need a song about foglets that bad?" Geralt laughs, throwing an arm around Jaskier to pull him even closer, hiding his face in his hair.

"Fuck the foglets," Jaskier chuckles, carefully running his fingers down the witcher's thigh, over the old scars. "I can turn them into a dragon in the song."

Geralt hums, relaxing into his touch.

"No-one is going to believe you. There are barely any dragons left, if any at all."

He's already falling asleep, Jaskier can feel that by the way his breathing evens out. So he chooses to make the best of it, propping himself up on one elbow to reach down and brush a gentle kiss over Geralt's lips, cheek and jaw, slowly making his way lower, all the way to his chest, every touch so tender that it's barely there.

"An archgriffin, then," he agrees easily, trailing his kisses down the centre of Geralt's abdomen until he reaches the last pair of his ribs and starts moving back up. "People don't really care how believable the song is, as long as it gives them a nice story."

"'Respect doesn't make history?'" Geralt murmurs, drifting off.

It's always been this way: he could keep himself going for hours on end, even if he's barely conscious but as soon as they would get to bed, he'd pass out almost immediately.

Jaskier smiles at him, adjusting the blankets and reaching up to wipe away the sweat on the witcher's brow before giving him one last kiss and settling down next to him.

"Respect doesn't make history."

***

When Geralt wakes up the next morning, the sun is already high above the town roofs, its rays breaking through the thin curtains and splaying along the bedsheets in a variety of different shapes.

Jaskier is no longer asleep but he's still in bed, by Geralt's side, flipping through pages of a poetry book with one hand and lazily playing with the witcher's hair with the other one.

Once he hears that Geralt is awake, however, he forgets about his book altogether.

"Morning," he smiles, turning to face the older man and moving closer to him to hook one leg over his thigh. "How'd you sleep?"

Geralt looks much better than yesterday, the cut on his cheekbone now closed and the colour - though not much - back in his face. He smiles and wraps both his arms around the bard, huffing with displeasure when all the feels is the soft fabric of his shirt instead of skin.

"Off," he orders, pulling on the edge of the hem.

Jaskier laughs, batting his hands away but doesn't argue, pulling the shirt off over his head and tossing it somewhere to the side, unperturbed by where it ends up.

"Better, Witcher?"

Paying no mind to the protests, Geralt gets his arms around the bard again and hauls him on top of him, their bodies fitting together perfectly, and sighs, content.

Jaskier, on the other hand, cannot relax, trying to escape the tight grip and settle back onto the pillows.

"Geralt, by the gods-" he grunts, knowing that there is no way he's twisting himself free if Geralt doesn't want it but not planning on giving up. "You're hurt, I don't want to disturb your wounds."

The witcher just shrugs in response, nosing at Jaskier's hair and breathing in the familiar scent.

"Then stop twisting."

With a defeated sigh, Jaskier does as he's told, relaxing into the touch and closing his eyes to concentrate on the warmth of the older man's body, not on his wounds that he could graze any time. Soon enough, he does.

For a long time, they stay like that, just breathing together, Geralt's hands moving slowly up and down the bard's back and Jakier nearly falls asleep again, wrapped up in the quiet comfort of that tenderness. With him, Geralt was different. And there was nothing that Jaskier cherished more.

"What are you thinking about?" the witcher asks, voice still husky from sleep. "Your scent's different."

"My scent is different?" Jaskier laughs quietly, lifting his head from Geralt's shoulder to get a better look at him. "Different how?"

Geralt shrugs with one shoulder, his hands slipping down to Jaskier's thighs, each touch just as soft as before, no lust between them.

"Sweeter. Like... bird cherry."

His fingers catch on the edge of Jaskier's smallclothes and, before he really knows it, they're both completely naked, legs tangled together under the sheets. It's comforting, to feel each other so close.

"Like bird cherry," Jaskier echoes, dipping his head to touch a kiss to the sharp of the witcher's jaw. "Never would've thought."

Geralt's stubble is rough against his lips but it's more pleasant than not, so he doesn't object in the slightest, just leans down a little more to nip at the delicate skin of his neck, barely tangible.

"You didn't answer," Geralt points out, no real displeasure in his voice. "What were you thinking about?"

Jaskier had never been the one to keep himself from expressing his feelings. He would wrap his affection in thousands of beautiful words and gestures, ranging from telling Geralt he loves him before they go to bed and writing special songs just for him to picking flowers in a field to make a flower crown or braid them into his hair.

But sometimes he loved a little game.

"Not telling," he answers with the biggest smile, propping himself up on both elbows so that there's just a little more space between them.

Geralt cocks a brow in amusement.

"Not telling?"

Breaking through the curtains, the sunlight makes Geralt's eyes even brighter than they are, the amber shining like the most precious of jewels. It takes Jaskier's breath away, just like it did years upon years ago, when they'd just met.

He's dying to dip his head down and place a new kiss on the witcher's parted lips - a longer, sweeter one, but instead, he just smiles and shakes his head, testing Geralt's limits.

"Not telling."

That seems to be just about enough for Geralt and he decides to take this conversation his own way, flipping them both around with no warning and making Jaskier yelp in surprise, breaking into laughter as the witcher presses him into the bed, settling between his spread knees.

"We'll see how well you'll talk," Geralt grins, catching Jaskier's lips with his own before moving on to his chest, steadily making his way down.

Jaskier wants to say that Geralt shouldn't move, that he's hurt, but his breath heavies uncontrollably with each touch and before he even realises it, his hands are already in Geralt's silver hair, playing with long strands and guiding him gently. They've been together for what seems like an eternity now but Jaskier still trembles, just like he did the first time, all those years ago.

"Geralt-" he breathes, brushing his calf over the older man's thigh before resting it on the small of his back, careful not to brush over any of the bandages. "Come here."

He tugs on the strands of his hair, just hard enough to beckon his closer, and as the wotcher's lips slot against his own, they both moan softly, quietly, only for them to hear.

"Are you sure we won't disturb your wounds?" Jaskier whispers, rolling his hips slowly against Geralt's despite his own words, both of them already half-hard.

"I'm sure," Geralt whispers back and really, that's all the encouragement Jaskier needs.

He cares for Geralt, more than for anything else in the world and if he wasn't sure, if there had been as much as an edge of hesitation to his voice, he would've told him to wait, would've said that they'll have all the time in the world once Geralt's wounds heal a little more but the way Geralt looks at him tells him everything he needs to know.

"Alright," he breathes, cupping the sharp of Geralt's jaw and guiding him to his lips. "Just promise me you'll be careful."

From his lips, Geralt slips lower, running a line of soft dry kisses up the bard's neck and running the tips of his fingers over his ribs.

"I promise."

***

Geralt does keep his promise.

When they move, holding each other close and breathing soft moans into each other's lips, he keeps his every move gentle, rocking his hips at a pace they can both keep up with and whispering gentle words into Jaskier's ear that make him crumble to pieces right in the witcher's arms.

It took Geralt a very long time to learn to let go like that, to let his walls down and allow for the tenderness that he now knew could feel just as good as lust, if not better. And even though it's never been the easiest journey, Jaskier would've done it all over again if needed.

He would've gone through all those years of taking a step forward only to take two steps back if that meant hearing all those words from Geralt and feeling his gentle hands and lips on him; he would've done it all over again if that meant seeing all those emotions in the witcher's golden eyes when he looks at him so softly that it's sometimes overwhelming.

"I love you," Jaskier murmurs, reaching down to press a kiss to the top of Geralt's head, resting on his chest. “That’s what I was thinking about.”

They're both a little breathless still, the last waves of pleasure echoing through their bodies, and it's only when Jaskier turn his face to look out the window onto the silently falling snow, amber in the rays of the setting sun, that he realises how much time had passed.

Geralt stretches, making a pleased little sound somewhere deep in his chest, almost like a rumble, and turns to lie on his stomach, still settled comfortably between the bard's knees.

They both really need to get out of bed and order themselves a bath but neither are planning on it for another couple of hours, so instead, he just dips his head and places a kiss on Jaskier's chest before resting his chin on the same spot to look up at the bard and lock eyes with him.

"Love you more."

[inkribbon796]

What a Beautiful Wedding Ch. 6: The Wings of the Antarctic Empire

Summary: Tommy is desperate to convince Phil and Techno they’re in some kind of trap and he’d like to be taken seriously just once.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

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Channel 6

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Tommy found himself at the foot of the long, tall black stone staircase. Philza was looking down at him.

When he set his foot on the first step, Techno drew his sword and stepped in front of Phil. “I don’t think so.”

“Phil!” Tommy yelled up. “Yer[1] both in some kinda[2] illusion. Wake up.”

About five guards appeared from almost nowhere and aimed their arrows at him, Tommy recognized the pink of Niki’s hair among them. Techno took two steps down from the altar.

“Take ‘em ta the holdin’ room,”[3] Phil ordered, spreading his wings and he held the baby close to him as he flew off.

“Let’s go,” Techno ordered as he walked down the steps, Tommy found himself at the dangerous end of Techno’s sword. “Come on.”

Tommy held his hands up and turned, which resulted in Techno pushing Tommy forward.

“Don’t fuckin’[4] shove me!” Tommy shouted, but Techno and Niki lead them to the palace.

Tommy sat down in some uncomfortable chair as Techno and Niki stared at him. Ghostbur looked at Niki nervously.

“H-Hey,” Ghostbur smiled at Niki.

“Stay back,” Niki told him, bow and arrow pointed down, but not notched or ready to fire yet.

“The two of you are waiting until the old man gets back,” Techno told him.

“Techno, come on, man, you have ta[5] know this is Dream’s doin’[6],” Tommy groaned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you’re not careful you will get yourself shot,” Techno warned.

The heavy doors of the room were pushed open and Phil walked in. The lack of snow or distance gave Tommy a good look at the man. Little things about Philza were different. His eye color for one. The Phil that Tommy had always known had blue eyes but now he had more of blue-green color. He was maybe an inch or two taller. Not any taller than the other people in the room but it was noticeable enough to Tommy. His blond hair had a slightly dustier tint to it.

Phil paused when he looked at Tommy. “Stand down.”

Niki took her arrow away from her bow, “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had a visitor like this,” Phil told them. “You two are from the future aren’tcha[7]?”

“Uh, yeah?” Tommy said. “We’re in an illusion. It’s Dream, he’s done somethin’[8].”

Philza just started staring at Ghostbur as a look of realization dawned on him. “I . . . Wilbur?”

“My name is Ghostbur,” Ghostbur corrected nervously, ducking behind Tommy a bit.

Niki seemed to recoil and Techno began slowly coming back to himself, clutching his head as he began grunting in pain and his knees crashed to the ground.

“Techno!” Phil rushed over.

“They’re too loud,” Techno grunted.

Tommy began stomping over, “What’s that green bastard doin’ ta yeh?”[9]

Phil used a wing to knock Tommy away before Techno was able to stab Tommy with a sword, his eyes a blood red and a frenzied look in his eyes.

“Tech, Tech, follow my voice, yeh[10] don’t need ta[5] fight here,” Phil told Techno as the warrior thrashed his head back and forth.

Niki inched closer and passed Phil a vial, he placed it under Techno’s nose and he began calming down.

“Thanks,” Phil said and inched closer. “Techno, yeh[10] need me ta[5] clear the room?”

“No, I,” Techno paused, swallowing. “I’ve got it.”

“What did that fucker do ta[5] you?” Tommy demanded. “It’s bad enough he’s got us trapped in here.”

“Dream’s not powerful enough for that,” Techno had a slight chuckle to his voice as he stood up.

“We still need ta[5] get out,” Tommy reminded him. “Tubbo an’[11] Ranboo are still trapped.”

Philza sighed, rather dramatically before he held his hand up and magic covered his hand before there was what felt like an earthquake and then a crash of some kind. Tommy, Shroud, and Ghostbur’s outfits changed into something that matched Phil and Techno’s. Tommy realized he was wearing a circlet, perched on his head and when he went to take it off to look at it he saw that it was studded with green and blue stones, and etched with perfect craftsmanship.

Tommy immediately rushed to the nearest window and saw at the foot of the palace, right outside the ground, an inn. And Tubbo stumbled out of it, looking around wildly. He was in an outfit that almost matched Tommy’s, but without the circlet and he was wearing thick gloves.

Ranboo followed after him, he was wearing a long purple cloak. But behind him, Michael was peeking his head out from behind Ranboo’s cloak.

Tommy immediately raced out of the palace, shoulding past guards and palace servants as he tried to get to Tubbo.

“Tubbo!” Tommy raced over but Tubbo glared at him, his false eye’s iris glowed with its radioactive symbol right before he punched Tommy in the gut.

“The fuck!” Tommy shouted angrily.

“I was safe!” Tubbo shouted in a fury. “Me an’[11] Ranboo an’[11] Michael were safe. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t do anythin’[12],” Tommy shouted back in anger.

“T-Tubbo,” Ranboo warned, and tried to hide Michael in his cloak.

Tubbo stopped and looked past Tommy to see, to his horror, that Techno was watching them as Michael peeked his head around Ranboo’s cape, holding his larger hand in his much smaller one.

Techno’s eyes narrowed and Tubbo moved, scooping Michael up and glaring at Techno.

“Stay back!” Tubbo ordered Techno with an angry snarl. “Get away!”

Techno looked between the three of them, Michael just staring at Techno with huge, wide dark eyes, the gears clearly starting to turn in his head.

The warrior took a step forward and Ranboo took a step forward. “Techno! Techno! Wait please, don’t hurt them.”

“Are you with them?” Techno demanded.

“I, uh,” Ranboo clearly had a look of panic on his face. “Yeah, but look I just want you to know—”

“I don’t care what you spend your time with but did it have to be with the government?” Techno spat at Ranboo.

“He’s my husband, of course I spend time with him,” Ranboo told him.

“Ehhh!” Techno sputtered. “When did you get married?!”

“Almost a year ago?” Ranboo asked.

“A year? Why am I just learning now?” Techno told him. “I’m like your mentor, I should have been the first person you told.”

“You don’t like Tubbo,” Ranboo reminded.

“Because he and Quackity tried to kill me with axes, why would I like the guy?” Techno snapped.

“Well, yeah, that makes sense,” Ranboo admitted.

“Take the kid, we’ll go inside to Phil,” Techno jabbed his thumb at the palace. “And don’t worry, not killin’[13] the kid. He’s Ranboo’s too after all, right?”

“Yeah,” Ranboo answered.

“Good,” Techno told him but Tubbo still glared at Techno suspiciously. He followed at the back of the group, always braced to dump Michael into Tommy’s arms and pull out the first weapon he could get his hands on.

He only marginally calmed down when he saw Phil and Techno started complaining to Phil about Ranboo, and then balked when he found out Philza was already aware of the boy.

The little meet-up was interrupted when Jack Manifold raced in, in uniform after getting pulled in from the bubble Tubbo and Ranboo had been trapped in.

“Emperor! Enemy soldiers were spotted at the gate!” Jack yelled, the trio of teens and Niki stared at Phil in surprise.

“Where from?” Phil called out.

“From the Errin Empire,” Jack reported. “They were dressed like they were in the royal guard. We were able to apprehend them.”

“Shit,” Phil spat. “I want three guards in front ‘a[14] the nursery. Ranboo, take Michael an’[11] go with them. Niki, make sure no one gets in.”

“O-Okay,” Ranboo stammered nervously, grabbing Michael, and standing in front of Tommy expectantly. It took Tommy a bit to realize he was quietly asking Tommy to take Shroud. Tommy nodded and passed him over, Shroud became very upset to leave Tommy’s arms.

“On it!” Niki pushed Ranboo after the soldiers the instant he had both young boys in his arms.

“Tommy, Tubbo, behind me,” Philza ordered.

“Hold up, why are you the Emperor, yer[1] an anarchist?” Tubbo asked.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Techno interrupted as Puffy, Jack, and a couple soldiers dragged Chase and Jackie in.

“That’s new,” Techno hummed.

“We spotted an enemy force, we think it’s Lord Phantom,” Puffy announced.

Jackie turned to look out the window, seeing a wall of darkness in the sky, coming for them. “Storm’s comin’[15] in,” Jackie commented.

“That’s the Entity,” Phil corrected.

“What? Dark?” Chase perked up, starting to try and twist himself out of the rope tying his wrists behind his back.

Puffy kicked him down, so that he was face-down on the ground and placed a foot on his wrists. “Not so fast, buddy.”

“Puffy, let him up,” Phil ordered, “cut ‘em[16] both from their bonds.”

“You sure?” Puffy asked, taking her foot off.

“Yes,” Phil ruffled out his wings. “Battle stations! Average, can you talk Ent down?”

“I think so?” Chase said, rubbing at his wrists as he wisely kept his distance from Phil. “I just need ta[5] reach him, I didn’t forget so I imagine he’s still good too.”

The storm reached them and Phil started to hear the screams.

“How’d they sneak up that quickly?!” Jack yelled.

“Because none ‘a[14] this is real,” Phil told him.

The door was thrown open and Phantom was standing there in royal purple. “Phil, Techno, long time no see. It’s just like old times.”

“So yer[1] awake, then,” Phil sighed.

“Where’s Dark?” Chase demanded.

Phantom motioned with his head back, “Dealing with the town.”

“Then move outta[17] the fookin’[4] way,” Chase snarled.

“Aww, he’s having fun out there,” Phantom smiled.

“Here I’d hoped he wouldn’t work with yeh[10] again, yeh[10] always have been a shite[18] friend,” Phil glared at him.

“Ehh, we were both standing on the cliff, and he wanted to blow off some steam,” Phantom shrugged. “You know empaths, they get a little needy when they’re emotional so I just let him go off.”

“Fook[19] off,” Chase spat at him. “Jackie!”

Jackie grabbed Chase and they blitzed past Phantom, who rolled his eyes.

“Don’t blame me when he starts getting snippy,” Phantom scoffed, bracing as he smiled at Phil and Techno. “Let’s tango, boys.”

As Phantom braced for a fight, Chase raced out into the storm.

“Dark!” Chase screamed over the whirlwind of snow. Chase was racing towards the darkest part of the storm. “Dark!”

The darkness seemed to evaporate and Dark had some soldier by the throat, when he looked at Chase he paused. “Chase?”

“There yeh[10] are,” Chase felt relief, walking over, a rumbling passing through the bubble as it began weakening from outside attacks. “We’re goin’ home. Yer okay. I’m takin’ yeh home an’ yeh can relax.”[20]

Dark blinked in disorientation, he felt drained. Phantom must have snagged some of his aura when he wasn’t looking, or the anomaly was taking more from him than he realized. “Yeah, I think that’s for the best.”

Chase was almost within arms reach and Dark realized his body needed a nap because it was getting harder to focus on things.

“Hey, yeh[10] look tired,” Chase smiled as Jackie noticed something shooting towards them, but because of the coloration of the smoke he thought it a part of Dark’s aura.

At least until it hit Chase.

Something stabbed Chase right through the heart and the marksman knew he should be dead. But he felt something in his very soul snap. Dark flinched, his eyes widening in horror.

Chase knew should be dead, the human heart was a fragile organ, but as he was tossed to the side, he felt weak and was losing blood but his heart was too stubborn to stop beating and blood was still coming from somewhere. As his soul cracked in two before snapping back together, good as new.

“Hey, Dames,” Marc spat as he grabbed Dark and pulled him closer. “Let’s try this again.”

“How dare you? What did you do?” Dark spat at Marc as he looked at Chase in horror. He was only slightly calmed when he saw Chase starting to try and pick himself up, glaring murderously at Marc. But the Actor burst into smoke and ripped a portal open, dragging Dark with him.

When the portal snapped closed, it destroyed the bubble with it. Barely a second’s warning as it shattered and violently dropped all its inhabitants onto the floor.

The bubble the Actor disappeared into snagged the Sanders bubble and seemed to violently tear it in half as it pulled it inside.

Phil screamed in agony as his bad wing returned and reminded the avian demon that he’d been grounded for years now.

“Phil!” Techno rushed over to him in concern.

Chase looked around, becoming furious when he couldn’t see Dark. “Fooker! That fooker! I’m gonna kill him.”[21]

“Average stop movin’[22]!” Jackie yelled and raced over. “Henrik! Chase needs attention, now!”

“Let me go!” Chase snapped at Jackie who was looking at him like Chase had flesh hanging off his bones. “I’m fine.”

“Yeh[10] were stabbed in the fookin’[4] heart! Stop movin’[22]!” Jackie yelled and that made people stare at Chase and Henrik who was at a brisk walk was now suddenly racing over as fast as he could. Marvin followed suit.

“Average! Lay down now!” Henrik yelled, forcing the marksman to a halt.

While the chaos of trying to get medical care and everyone just tried to figure out what was going on, Techno took a look around as Phil seemed to regain his strength and stood up.

“You okay?” Techno looked around as Ranboo was starting to get frantic.

“Where’s Tubbo?” Ranboo asked, an acute sense of panic growing within him. He scooped Michael and Shroud into his arms.

“He was right next ta[5] me, did that fucker grab him?” Tommy yelled as he looked around, his eyes locking onto Quackity who was just staring at Ranboo. Or more importantly, at Michael and Shroud, who were both crying. The screams only made Tommy even more agitated.

“What do you mean he’s just gone!” Ranboo yeled.

“Okay, give ‘em[16] here,” Philza swept in and just scooped the two toddlers into his arms, his aura soothing them and they stopped crying.

Techno took out his axe and walked closer to the remaining bubble that hadn’t been consumed by the Actor’s. His other hand summoned something that looked like a fishing pole with a small hand-sized grappling hook on the end of it and reeled it back before aiming it at the bubble and dragging it closer to him.

“Hey, let’s think about this,” Quackity urged.

But Techno slammed his axe into the bubble the instant he could and it cracked before shattering. Antfrost, George, Skeppy, and Bad all dropped to the ground but Dream rolled into a kneeling position and looked around. He almost stabbed Techno but the warrior easily used his weapons to deflect the blow.

“Hey man, chill out for five seconds, okay?” Techno chuckled.

Dream got up and looked around. He helped pull George up to his feet.

“Thanks, Techno,” Dream told him.

“That clear the books?” Techno smiled.

“Fuck no,” Dream chuckled. “You did that on your own, I didn’t ask you to do anything.”

“Ehh, it was worth a shot,” Techno shrugged, a smile still on his face.

Skeppy looked up from where he’d been laying on the ground next to Bad and when he looked up at Ponk he surged up.

“Give it,” Skeppy took the tome from Ponk, and checked it over. His eyes began to glow blue as parts of his skin began to crystallize. Magic fluttered around him. “Thank you, Ponk.”

“I was doing my best,” Ponk told him, emphatically throwing their arms up. “Took you long enough.”

“I was a bit busy,” Skeppy shot back.

Chase, once Henrik deemed him impossibly still alive and despite the blood he wasn’t dying, he looked up at the final bubble. Illinois gave Eric a kiss before he walked over to Chase.

“Actor’s up there?” Illinois glared at it.

“Yeah,” Chase said. “Fooker’s[23] a demon so snappin’[24] his neck’s so isn’t a crime.”

“Not a punishable one, and he’d only come back to life in a week,” Illinois agreed.

“Hey, the two of you are not going alone,” Silver said, in the middle of orchestrating ways to get people home. Dream ordering most of the Server group back home. Silver and Jackie quickly agreed to go with Chase and Illinois.

Philza was staring at Shroud before smiling at him. “I’ll take these two back home.”

“Deal,” Ranboo said without thinking, racing over to Chase. “Is Bomble okay in there?”

“We don’t know, but we’ll get him back home, the Sides seem to be in there as well,” Silver told him.

“No, I’m coming with,” Ranboo insisted. “I can open up a portal right into the bubble.”

“Count me in too,” Tommy rushed over.

“Absolutely not,” Silver told him.

“Let me rephrase that,” Tommy told Silver in his usual loud volume. “I am goin’[25] in there. With or without yer[26] fuckin’[4] permission.”

Silver sighed in frustration. “You two don’t take chances, and if you see Bomble, you two need to bail immediately.”

“Deal,” Ranboo spoke over Tommy and his eyes turned purple as he opened up a portal right over the group and took them right into the bubble.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Accessibility Translations:

1. You’re

2. kind of

3. Take them to the holding room

4. fucking

5. to

6. doing

7. aren’t you

8. something

9. What’s that green bastard doing to you?

10. you

11. and

12. anything

13. killing

14. of

15. coming

16. them

17. out of

18. shit

19. Fuck

20. We’re going home. You’re okay. I’m taking you home and you can relax.

21. Fucker! That fucker! I’m going to kill him.

22. moving

23. Fucker’s

24. snapping

25. going

26. your

[natromanxoff]

I am sure many of you have already read this one but here are some parts from Ash Alexander’s Queen journey for those who haven’t!

“...At some point in early At some point in early 1983 on a visit to Jacky at the QFC, John Deacon wondered into the office. He came into the basement office and said hello as Jacky introduced me, sat down and spent a little time reading through press clippings. He could easily have slipped away back upstairs, but the fact that he stayed was a nice touch.

Another fan club letter arrived with good news. In Another fan club letter arrived with good news. In November 1983, fan club members were invited to help in a video for the new single 'Radio Ga Ga' at Shepperton Studios. Again, my Mum stepped up and drove me down for the day. I took the day off school and had just turned 14. We arrived at the studio and were ushered into a huge hanger where we were kitted out with white body suits and then sprayed with a light grey stripe on each arm - even now I’m not sure what the spray paint was for as you can’t see it in the video. When we had all been prepared, we were taken into an adjoining hanger and were greeted by the band and an initial play through of the song. The rest of the day was spent clapping as you’ll see in the video. I wound up in the front row, opposite Brian. If you look closely and you know what you’re looking for, you can see me!

In between takes, I approached John Deacon who was surprisingly on his own. I remember trying to remain calm as I approached him. I didn’t mention our brief meeting, I asked him how to get a job in recording studios and that I was interested in pursuing a career as a sound engineer. He was really helpful and took time to explain the usual route.

On 22, March 1984 at Limehouse Studios in London’s docklands, the video for ‘I Want To Break Free’ was filmed, again with the help of fan club members. I went along with my brother Andrew. The set was a big dark staircase that we all stood on. We were given black bodysuits this time that were sprouted with hello paint on the arms. We also wore a hard hat with a head lamp attached to it. The band were set in the middle of us all. After all the filming, we returned to the main building where we said hello to Roger. He’d come out to say thanks. Later, waiting for a cab down in reception, Freddie glided down the staircase and past us with his entourage. I remember wanting to get up and say thanks, but the opportunity was missed.

...20th April 1992. My friend Chesney Hawkes was managed by Trinifold. They also managed The Who. He invited me along to the Freddie Mercury Tribute gig at Wembley. Roger Daltry was appearing and Ches had a spare ticket. He only had one backstage pass though. This was overcome by him befriending the chap on the security door. Ches came out to meet me with his pass. He returned on his own and got in. I confidently flashed my pass and entered the Hard Rock tented area. Ches beckoned me over from the other side of the room. He was signing autographs for a lady, her two children and an older lady was with them. He introduce me to them saying I was a huge Queen fan. ‘This is Freddie’s mother' he whispered to me. I remember saying to her that I wish we’d met under different circumstances and how deeply sorry I was about her loss and how incredibly proud she should be. I often wonder about her.

...In Spring 1993, I was in front office. It was well after midnight and I’d left a s session for a little break. As usual, I took a look in the studio diary to see what was coming up. I flicked through the weeks and came upon an booking entry “Studio 3 - QUEEN” for 2 weeks that was pencilled in. There was no further info than that. I put my initials next to the booking thinking there would be a rational explanation as to what the booking really was. I soon found myself on a 2 week session with Queen.My diary from 1993 is lost, so I have only a mental note as to when & what songs were touched upon at this initial stage of 'Made In Heaven'. We started taking delivery of various multitrack tapes on varied formats. These were then transferred to digital 48 track tapes for future work. Roger & John were alone on these sessions as Brian was touring in Japan. I remember Roger being rather dismissive of Brian being unavailable, much like a brother sledging his sibling would do, with a slightly jealous edge but genuine at the same time.

...Over the 2 week session, Roger would suggest we went out for dinner. We had 3 or 4 meals out at a local Italian restaurant. Even now I laugh at jumping into the back of Roger’s Merc and the four of us driving down Abbey Road to the restaurant. It was owned by an Italian lady that would force you to smell her ‘wonderful mushrooms’ from a jar, which she made Roger do. On our initial meal she told Roger he looked familiar. ‘I know you’, she said. ‘Where have I seen you before?’ ‘Well, I’m in a band and we’ve been on TV before.’ Roger replied. John seemed calm with his lack of recognition. ‘What group do you play for?’ she asked. ‘I’m the drummer in a rock n roll band called Queen’ he replied. ‘No - I don’t hear of this band’ …We finished our food and the bill was called for. It showed up. John took it and asked Roger if he should use the Queen card to pay for it or his own card.

Roger’s drum kit arriving half way through the first week of sessions was a surprise for Noel Harris (the engineer) & me. We expected the sessions to be playing back tapes and working through the various formats to find possible material to be worked on at a later date. Noel was unfamiliar with the room in studio 3 and asked my opinion where to set the kit up and what microphones I would use. Eventually he left me to it. The kit was positioned and I mic’d it up that evening. John had his red Fender bass DI’d (no amp was used) and sat with us in the control room. I doubt these recordings made it through to the final mixes, it’s nice to think that they did.

...Tuesday 5th September

During the afternoon Brian’s guitar and a Vox AC30 appeared in the studio, brought in by Pete Malandrone. We were to do guitar overdubs on ‘You Don't Fool Me’. David asked me to put two Shure 421 microphones pointing into the back of the speaker cabinet. We did have two SM57’s on the front but these weren’t used in the recording.

I had to do a recall of the mix, which meant noting all of the studio outboard settings so we could get back to the mix and finish it off.

We had a technical problem with the Sony 3348 tape machine and eventually had it swapped for a new one. Brian clearly wasn’t aware we weren’t ready for him. I was half way through telling him and Jim Beach jumped in and finished off my explanation. Brian got really cross with him and slammed an empty coffee mug down on the studio table. Later Brian was so apologetic for his outburst. He must have told Jim he was sorry 4 times. As I type this I note it was Freddie’s birthday.

Brian slipped on his guitar that was linked to his amp with one lead. No pedals. His sound was instant and we were soon ready to record. He stood in front of the console in the control facing David & me.

Brian had an idea of what he wanted to play. The guitar riff had already been recorded. The solo guitar is what was added. Brian used a scrap of paper that he drew a map of dots on. Not like musical notation but his own short hand. It reminded me of being at the 'Radio Ga Ga' video shoot 13 years earlier. I was the same distance from Brian as I was then, but the scenario was beyond my imagination.

...Friday 8th September

Day Off - I may have met Pete Malandron at the Sun Inn in Barnes this afternoon. The QIFC was based round the corner at the time & Brian had a house there too, although I'm not sure he lived there at the time. I was with a friend and Pete joined us in the pub. He sat near the window and kept looking out of it. I asked what he was looking at and he replied "I always get worried when I'm out with Brian's guitar. It's in the boot of the car you see." He stayed for one drink and decided it was time to leave.

...One of the evenings of this second week, George Michael came to visit. There was a strong possibility that he would sing on one of the songs. Roger, John, Brian, David, George & I sat chatting in the control room. One of the conversations moved onto the Beatles and their current 'best of' release. I think Brian suggested that it was a bad idea releasing all their old material and I piped up that the fans would buy it regardless, much like the scenario Queen were about to face with the imminent release of the album. There was a deathly hush as I realised what I was saying. I wasn’t being at all derogatory. I was helped out of the hole I was digging by George who agreed with me and we moved on. No one actually spoke about doing a vocal. After George left the studio that evening, Roger was clear that he wasn’t keen on the idea.After looking through the Vintage Car garage across the road from the studio one afternoon, Roger saw a black Cadillack convertible that he quite liked. The following morning he came into the studio and said ‘Don’t tell Jim, but I bought the car.’ It was £80, 000.

Brian asked me if had been involved in the Abbey Road Sessions. Perhaps he’d seen my name on the tape boxes. I said that I was. Immediately he made a phone call. I didn’t hear all that he said, but I knew it was about a special thanks on the album credits. The following morning, after the artwork had been finalised, Roger came in and said ‘morning Aardvark’. Because the special thanks were alphabetic, I was on top of the list. It wasn’t until I bought a copy of the album and saw my name on it that I finally took on board that I had actually achieved one of my dreams.”

[gintokisimp]

Whatsername Chapter 2: Extraordinary Girl

More Angst and more Pain. This chapters theme is the song “Extraordinary Girl” by Green Day

Genre: Angst, Romance, Pining

Rating: M

Word Count: 3,568

She's an Extraordinary Girl In an ordinary world

The sun had already gone past the point where it was possible for it to shine it's rays into the city. The faint golden beams reflected on the metallic structures of the ceiling. It would have been a beautiful day, if it wasn't for the strange atmosphere and the deep, heavy clouds forming over Yoshiwara.

A womans delicate arms rested on the railing of a simple balcony in the middle of the shady town, right above a small shop and a busy street.

Beautiful, silky blonde hair was brushed behind her ears on one side and falling loosely over a noticeable big scar on the other half of her face. Her amethyst, dull eyes were fixated on something in the sky only she could see.

Suddenly, a rift that was the color of crimson formed in the dark clouds, shining the last light of the day down on her. The first raindrops hit her illuminated face, steadily growing into a heavy downpour drenching her white kimono decorated with an expensive flower patterns.

Despite the depressing weather, as if nothing mattered in a town of endless desire, an equally big flood of people roamed the busy streets of Yoshiwara.

The courtesan of the suns eyes flickered from the sky to the ground below over the horde of bodies, roaming over the busy streets beneath her. The colors of the vastly different individuals mixed together in her blurred sight, creating an almost homogenous mass of flesh and fabric.

Minutes went by without much change. The woman almost appeared lifeless to anyone daring to take a look up to the balcony.

By late noon, the sky had darkened up and turned the buildings of the town into lifeless gray tones. Only the buzzing electric lights faked a world full of wonders and salvation.

The skies split, a loud rumbling opened the gates of hell.

On days like these, she had weak moments. They invited her mind to spiral down the paths of sorrow.

Humans can have weak moments full of despair. It was ok. But still, it felt like she gave up everything that she had worked so hard on. She didn't want to feel like a woman desperately clinging to a man whom she couldn't reach.

The damsel in distress. The weak princess waiting for the prince to safe her.

That wasn't her.

And she can't seem to get away

The chains of Yoshiwara ceased to exist. They ceased with the death of Hosen, yet no one was really free.

She wasn't free.

She had other responsibilities that she couldn't escape from. Responsibilities she didn't want to escape from. But still, sometimes she felt like running away. Disappearing like he did.

Hinowa forced her to take a day off. Since he left, she had worked day after day. Tsukuyo had dressed well for the day. She wanted to go out, but she couldn't bring herself to leave the room. Her fear of someone catching her weakness kept her inside the house.

But everyone already knew how fragile she was.

She thought she had accepted that he would never love her back. She thought it was enough for her to know he was well.

And right now, she just wants him to be back home, wants him to be happy.

Without her.

She could live with that.

But knowing he was gone, she could not live with that.

A faint image of permed white hair in the crowd caught her attention. Without a second thought, the muscular women leapt over the railing, dashed through the mass, and made her way to the image she saw. Her heart was beating in her throat, tightening it to an uncomfortable degree.

But there was no one there..

The person she thought she had spotted was never there.

A hallucination.

He wouldn't come here.

Tsukuyo remained standing in the pouring rain. Lightning brightened the sky, but she didn't move an inch.

It has been two years. Get over him already.

Her eyes turned up to the silver clouds grazing the skies, mirroring the mess that was corrupting her heart. The heavens cried and so did she.

Heavy rain mixed with her tears, dripping down her porcelain skin.

No one could tell she was crying.

To the surrounding mankind, she was just a courtesan standing in the rain, probably waiting for a customer to take her away, take her to the promised paradise.

Would he still remember her if he ever came back?

He won't come back.

Her fingers touched her pinkie.

He lacks the courage in his mind

He dreamed of her every night.

Holding her Hand.

Holding her in his arms.

Sometimes she fed him Dangos with the warmest smile on her face.

The samurais body was completely drained of energy, yet it desired her deeply.

He dreamed of her hand touching his bare chest.

Her underneath him.

He wanted to hold her, hold her until he died.

Waking up was pure horror.

Dreaming was pure torture.

Sometimes he didn't sleep just to escape the feeling, staring at the dark sky, restraining himself from thinking at all.

Like a child left behind Like a pet left in the rain

Another sunset painted the sky in the most beautiful colors, drenching the giant rock beneath the fully shed tree in red shades. The crickets had stopped their singing, no wind was rustling through the trees, no sounds we carried over the dream like scenery.

It was silent.

Silent, like something went missing along the unstoppable movement of time.

The rock was empty.

No wood scratching over stone was heard, no silver hair was seen in the peaceful landscape.

Instead, slow steps carried a samurai through the streets of a small, lively town. Not paying attention to his surroundings, with no clear goal in mind, he stumbled through the clusters of people taking up the street. Nothing really caught his attention, but driven by hunger he subconsciously aimed in the direction of a small inn.

Unexpectedly, olive blonde hair in a familiar hairstyle passed him and he tensed up.

Tsukuyo.. Tsukuyo

The head he was focused on turned and revealed an old woman. Of course, it wasn't her. What was he thinking.

His limbs gave up and he landed on his back. Sulking in pain, he closed his eyes. The loud noises around him echoed in his head, but one voice was particularly obnoxious.

"Young man"

Gintoki opened his eyes and they met with and old wrinkled face. His throat was too hoarse to speak, he hadn't used it in months.

"What's wrong, are you okay?" His eyes only stared back at the man, uninterested in what he was saying.

"Everything okay?" The man asked again with a more worried tone.

Gintoki didn't reply.

"Get up young man, come with me, you look like you need some care." The man lightly shook his shoulder and Gintoki sighed before hesitantly getting up on his shaking feet. He was friendly and something made Gintoki believe, he was not allowed to say no to this old geezer. They entered the small Inn. It was packed with the towns residents, but the man led him through the masses, up a staircase into a hallway of private rooms.

"Go and take a shower and come downstairs when you're ready." The man said warmly, opening one of the doors.

"I don't have money" Gintoki replied.

"You don't need money. I can't let you meet your family like that"

"What family"

The man inspected him and replied after a long pause.

"I know they are waiting for you. You can't run away from them forever. You shouldn't meet them in this state."

"Why"

"In this town, we help each other and I'm sure you can do the same."

"..I hurt her" Gintoki whispered, ignoring what the man had said.

"You can drink and eat today if you promise me to meet her." And with that, he closed the door. Gintoki was left alone in the room. Still unsure about what was happening, he undressed and let the water stream run down his battered body. The water washed away his thoughts and he felt his body welcoming the change of sensations.

I don't deserve this.

There wasn't a lot of time spent in comforting silence. It came back faster than he wished.

Minutes later, he sat down at a table. No one dared to sit close to him. The old man brought him a full meal and Gintoki ate it voraciously.

After some time, a young woman sat down next to him, sheepishly looking at him, eyeing him with great interest. She would have been beautiful, if he had the eyes for that.

"Do you have a home?" The girl asked Gintoki. "Where do you live, I can take you home" She added suggestively.

Nowhere.

"You can sleep at my place" She whispered in his ear. "You're a handsome man, I can make you feel better" The woman placed down her hand on his, touching his ring finger.

Make you feel better.

Only one woman could do that, and she wasn't here.

Only one women was allowed to touch him like that.

Only this one women taking over his whole mind could make him feel better. Touching him in places that were eternally reserved for her. But she would never touch him.

She wasn't here.

She wasn't here by his side.

She will never be by his side.

The Samurai ripped his hand from under the woman's tight grip. His eyes glancing over to her, glowing with menace. She looked at him in fear, stumbling backwards before rushing out of his sight.

The Shinigami Tayuu is eternally mine. There was no place for any other woman.

Why did she reject him back then.

Why

If she just had said yes.

Or just... anything.

She's all alone again Wiping the tears from her eyes Some days she feels like dying She gets so sick of crying

All tears had already been shed. There really was nothing left that she could cry about.

Yet, she caught herself crying again.

Her cries had been noticed.

Yet, no one really heard her anymore.

She sees the mirror of herself An image she wants to sell To anyone willing to buy

No one needs a man to rely on. Care and live for yourself.

The champions of women, they couldn't be weak to men. She couldn't be weak for anyone, especially not for him. It was only leading a bad example, displaying a weakness they wanted to abolish. Be strong.

But was loving someone really a weakness?

He steals the image in her kiss From her heart's apocalypse From the one called Whatsername

What's worse than realizing you want something, besides knowing you can never have it?

I don't mind being only yours.

Lies. You belong to no one. You could never belong to anyone.

Loud creaking of wooden floor tiles caught the courtesans' attention. The sound crept in her ears, finally braking her endless stream of thoughts.

Careful, limping steps made their way in the direction of her door.

Or were they hesitant?

She's all alone again Wiping the tears from her eyes

Somedays he feels like dying

The sweet, burning liquid wetted his parched throat. Every inch of his body, every single cell revolted against the intruding poison, making him feel alive and close to death at the same damn time. It was his first cup of sake, but it intoxicated him like a whole bottle.

"More" he demanded. The old man who's name he had never asked for looked at him with worry in his eyes. Gintoki ignored that.

"Who's gonna pay for that, country samurai?" A mischievous voice bickered from behind him.

"Who're you calling a country samurai, ehhh you wanna fight?" Gintoki blurted back. Without waiting for an answer, he leaped from his chair and dashed in the direction of the voice. His fist made contact with a stubbly face and he smiled satisfied. A whole group of intimidating looking men stood up and gathered around Gintoki.

It was over in mere seconds.

The men were scattered over the floor, Gintokis hands covered in their blood.

It wasn't the alcohol that made him act like this.

He had disappointed the people that tried to help him. Again.

Suddenly, the room shifted. Everything reeled around him and his whole body tingled.

I need fresh air.

He stormed outside and stopped, leaning on a broken lantern.

Gintoki gasped sharply for air and his sight darkened.

Breathtaking sunrise loomed over a huddled silhouette, outlining the man holding a dead body in his arms. The morning sun reflected in the lifeless amethyst eyes.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

Blood on the soft fabric of her Kimono.

Blood tinting her blonde hair red.

Blood on the tanto he held. The tanto that stuck out of her throat.

Its your fault.

Gintoki blinked and the vision was replaced by a different one.

The swirling mess in his brain turned into a hospital hallway filled with fog. Clean. Too clean.

Aggressive smells desperately tried to over stench the smell of death.

"She's going soon. Do you want to... ?" Asked a bodyless voice. It led him through a plain looking door. Big bouquets of red roses were placed around a hospital bed, obstructing the view on the patient. Floating closer, his eyes caught short white hair framing a thin face. The scar on her face was unmistakably. Her face had sunken in, but she wasn't old. It was something different.

"Gintoki,..'s that you? You're back.." Her white clouded eyes couldn't focus on his face.

"Tsukuyo, there's one thing I never told you." His hoarse voice echoes through the foggy room.

His hand reached out for her face. Black markings covered them, contrasting heavily with the pale skin. Gintoki touched her cold face and her lips formed words he couldn't hear. He leaned closer to understand them.

But he never needed to hear them. He knew them and he himself couldn't say them.

He cried.

Their lips met

and Tsukuyo cried her last tear.

Before he grasped what had happened, the scenery changed quickly.

A sunny day, a cup of sake in his hand, wooden railing under his finger, the smell of tobacco in his nose, a balcony in a familiar underground district.

He turned his head and saw her smile. Her beautiful smile.

Whether it's spring or winter, if I can be next to you like this once in a while and blowing poison gas in your face, that's enough to make me happy.

The way she looked at you. She loved you and it was killing her. And you were never able to reciprocate it.

Drenched in sweat, struggling for air, his left hand clawing a pole, stars dancing over his vision, his eyes focused on his strained limb.

The long gone strand of silky, olive blonde hair on his ring finger blazed his flesh.

It burned his skin crisp like an insect lost on a summer heated street.

It easily set his arm on fire like the small, unimportant dry twigs in a fire pit, spreading to his heart, causing an unbearable pain with every muscle contraction.

She had tied it on his ring finger herself. She deliberately chose to tie it there. Carefully placing the loops, lovingly knotting it.

A quick glance and he knew it.

She meant it.

He thought about all those things time and time again and still denied it.

Nothing else belonged there. No one was allowed to touch him there. Only her hair.

The promise they made to each other.

Don't die

The promise he made to her.

Yubikiri Genman

Gintoki tied his own strand of cursed white hair on her pinkie, knowingly, making the lovers promise. To her. Only her. Only her.

うそついたら uso tsuitara (if you say a lie)

I'll never leave you.

針千本飲ます hari senbon nomasu (I'll let you swallow a thousand needles)

I'm eternally yours.

指切った。 yubi kitta. (and) cut (my) finger.

She tied it on his ring finger... his ring finger. His ring finger.

And I broke the promise.

His soul died when he left Edo.

I broke the promise.

I left her.

You don't love her. You're alone. You just don't want to be alone. Stay away from her. She just makes you feel better about your miserable life, you don't love her.

Because you don't destroy people you love.

Gintokis body revolted. Leaned onto the lantern, he threw up. It felt to him like throwing up his long-lost dreams, throwing up his hope and throwing up his reasons to keep going. He had left all of those things in Edo anyways.

His shaking hands reached out, grasping for support. But there was no one to help.

No one to hold onto.

No one to aid him.

Even if she was there to carry him, his blood covered hand were in no right to reach out for her tender fingers. Reaching out for someone's hand is coming close to reaching out for their soul. Tsukuyos soul was so clean and pure, touching her would only corrupt it and doom her endlessly.

What happens if you constantly hurt someone?

They love you less. After a while they start to forget that they loved you at all.

I hope she's happy.

Happy without me.

I hope she didn't suffer.

You know she suffered and it's your fault.

It's all your fault.

Your fault.

His legs gave in and his back collided with the hard soil.

Somedays it's not worth trying

Crashing to the ground, his only line of sight that was left, was the deep night sky.

And there she was again.

The moon.

Above him, shining on him, taunting him, scaring him, mourning with him.

His ears caught the sounds of a small squad of men, probably the same ones he picked a fight with earlier that gruesome evening.

"He's totally wasted, easy target for us" He heard them mumble. The first face obstructed his fixation on the moon. A primal wrath began to rush through his veins, he hadn't sensed this instinct for a long time, wondering how his body still remembered this sensation.

Don't obstruct my sight.

Flooded with pure fury, the Shiroyasha watched them take their next move.

And they scrambled in fear.

Once again, the heavenly body brushed his silver hair, bathing him in silver light again, illuminating the tears rolling down his face.

Crimson eyes stared directly at the moon, battling for dominance with an inanimate object.

It was soothing. It was reassuring. It was like a silent pact.

He wasn't afraid of the moon anymore and what was to come.

It's worth trying.

The broken samurai dragged himself to his feet, in his new-found purpose of collecting the parts of his soul and body he had believed as lost. They were never lost, he just left them with someone. Someone who was so important to him, he couldn't form it into words.

Gintoki slowly stumbled his way back to this rotten town.

She had his heart.

Reality could only keep him away from her for so long.

Somedays it is worth trying.

Now that they both are finding

Tsukuyo.. I'm coming..wait for me

She gets so sick of crying

He's coming back, I believe in him. I want to tell him the things he missed, when he comes back.

The footsteps in front of her door stopped.

Hinowa.. please..

.. I don't want to talk.

She's an Extraordinary Girl

[fletchphoenix]

Hold You Through The Night

:)) literally all of these were started during my break and edited now - I really kinda like this one. Its decent i guess so i hope you enjoy :)

Also, its good to be back to writing.

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

After such a long day, Hugo was..unbelievably excited to finally settle down. They’d been travelling and sleeping rough for what felt like days, his legs beginning to take the toll and aching constantly as though he’d aged twenty years in a week. Is this what Donella felt like? Was that why she was always in a mood? It made a lot of sense - after years of chasing after Hugo as a child, it had finally come to bite him in the ass in the form of the unbelievably energetic Yong. The kid seriously had no off switch and it drove him insane.

At last they approached the inn, a wooden sign above it swinging slowly in the wind and bringing back painful memories. Briefly, he glanced at his prosthetic arm, flexing the fingers and allowing himself to, once again, think about his mother and how much she’d helped him get back on his feet. Looking back on it, even though she had her tough love kind of methods, she could still be compassionate (like when she paid to get him his goggles - it being a big big deal if Donella went out of her way to pay for something) even if she didn’t show it through the most conventional methods.

“Hugo? You coming?” Varian’s voice brought him back to reality, a stupidly pretty smile on his face that had Hugo nodding frantically and walking inside before his suave persona slipped. Truth be told, he had a huge crush on the smaller man. He really didn’t know how it came about to be honest, the feelings less like a slow build and more like someone had thrown a brick straight at Hugo’s face and proceeded to beat him with it. It just came as fast as feelings could, and it scared him more than anything else in the world. 

The room they were in was quite small, small enough that he could probably make his way across the room in five steps if it weren’t for the counter pressed against the wall. To either side of him there was a door, one of them leading to a dining area and, presumably, a bar and the other directly to a staircase where the rooms were. The ambience was kind of nice, the interior decorated as though it were a log cabin in a desolate area, which fit nicely with the frozen exterior of the town. Behind the counter was a woman with short, blue hair and a soft smile playing on her lips as she talked with Nuru, though Hugo looked away in favour of looking at a certain black haired, blue streak, staff wielding alchemist.

Hugo stood awkwardly, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms as he waited for Nuru to stop negotiating about rooms with the woman, all the while his eyes staying fixed on Varian as he fixed his hands on Yong’s shoulders. He really didn’t get what he saw in the other - I mean, only a few weeks ago he’d reveled in being the most annoying man in the other’s life, but now he wanted to be the best man in his life and give him the world. It was draining as well, his brain in overdrive whenever he so much as looked in Varian’s direction. It was driving him insane in the best way possible.

“Okay good news is they have rooms. Bad news is there’s only three so Varian, Hugo, you’ve gotta share.” Nuru declared, extending her hand to Hugo who stared at it for a second before taking the key from the princess. He didn’t even bother with complaining like Varian did, already walking through the doorway on the left and making his way up the stairs, the wood moaning under his weight which...was not comforting at all. Quietly, he headed down the hallway, opting to ignore the various paintings on the wall and unlock the door, having to shove it open before walking into the room.

Oh no.

The room was rather nice, a desk against the wall which Hugo promptly placed his bag on, and a window on the right wall. It still fit with the general ‘log-cabin-in-the-winter’ vibe that the inn had going on, though there was one really really REALLY big problem that would certainly make his predicament with Varian way more difficult. 

There was only one bed.

“Hey Hugo, I tried to meet a compromise with Nuru about having different rooms, but no can do.” Varian commented as he opened the door, his eyes meeting the blond who was frozen in place in the middle of the room. “What are you looking at-oh.” His voice died out as he noticed the problem. “Well uh, if you want, I can sleep on the floor.”

“No need. We can make a pillow wall.” Hugo replied quickly, moving to his side of the room and changing into his pyjamas, Varian following suit. So this was really happening, huh? He had to share a bed with Varian and it was going to be the most awkward thing in the world. Hugo strolled across the room to lay down on the bed, leaving room for Varian to slip in before setting up the pillow wall. “Okay, here we go. That’s your side, this is my side. Stay there.”

“You have more room than me.” Varian whined as he shuffled upwards and glanced over the top to look down on Hugo. He had that little pout that made Hugo want to give him what he wanted, but this time the blond relented and narrowed his eyes. 

“I’m bigger than you and need more room. It’s not my fault you’re the size of a toddler. Quit complaining and go to bed, child.” He replied snarkily, turning his back to the raven haired boy and suppressing the chuckle that threatened to sound out as Varian grumbled like a two-year-old. He wasn’t sure when, but he fell asleep.

A harsh kick to the leg woke him up, grumbling and turning over to see Ruddiger chittering nervously. “The fuck do you want-” he began to say to the raccoon, before turning his head and taking in the sight before him. The raccoon’s owner looked to be in the middle of a nightmare, tossing, turning and thrashing before sitting up and waking up with a loud gasp, gasping for breath with tears rolling down his cheeks. “V, are you alright?” Hugo asked nervously, Varian jolting before his teary eyes looked at him.

“Hey uh-go back to sleep. I’m sorry.” He whispered in hushed apologies, before Hugo took the other man’s hand and pulled him into an (admittedly awkward and stiff) embrace, his fingers threading through raven locks as carefully as he could, his prosthetic sitting aside on the desk while the stump lay limply beside him. Varian welcomed this new embrace, his head resting on Hugo’s chest as he mumbled.

Hugo thought for a moment, racking his brain to try and think of something to calm Varian down. Slowly, Hugo began to sing a little tune, his lips ghosting against the other man’s forehead as he kept his voice gentle, all the while his fingers continued to dance through his hair. After a while, he heard a hushed snoring against his chest before he decided to stop singing and began to slowly fall asleep, Varian’s fat bastard of a raccoon coming to sit on the pillow beside his head as his eyes closed.

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

Sun rays blazed in through the window, the fabric of the curtains doing nothing to block it out. A slither made its way directly onto Hugo’s face, the glare making it almost impossible for him to ignore as he grumbled and groaned. His eyes opened slowly as he attempted to raise himself, though a heavy weight on his chest stopped him. Glancing down, the head of his favourite alchemist kept him in place and the sound of Varian’s snores echoed through their tiny room. 

Almost uncharacteristically, he pressed his lips against the top of the other’s head and shuffled his way out of bed to attach his prosthetic and change into his day clothes, and walked out of the room to head to the inn’s dining room for breakfast. 

Neither boy bothered to mention the cuddling session from last night, graciously sparing each other from teasing off Nuru and Yong, though Varian would be lying if he said he didn’t want it to happen again. And so, even if he did lie when paying for rooms,  Hugo never seemed to mind. Varian would even dare to say that Hugo liked it as much as he did. He could tell he was growing on the blond.

On the other hand, Hugo never mentioned the gentle kiss he pressed to the forehead of the other man or the way his touches began to linger, craving more contact with the alchemist before the inevitable betrayal. A gentle sigh left his lips at the thought. He wasn’t even sure he could betray them anymore. Over their time together, Hugo was starting to get more and more attached to the gang, and even though he loved Donella, he really wasn’t sure if he could risk hurting the other teens. 

Only time would tell, he guessed.

[virtueangel]

limitless.

chapter four.

wc: 3,109. original publish date: october 7, 2020. 

JFK starts the car forty-five minutes later. He turns the key in the ignition cautiously, silently begging the car not to make too much noise. Van Gogh is asleep in the passenger's seat. The car whirrs to life and Kennedy doesn't rev the engine this time. He turns to Van Gogh and smiles slightly. He realises for the first time that the boy is wearing his old junior varsity cross-country jacket.

***

Van Gogh wakes up some time later. He stretches before opening his eyes. He rubs the sleep out of them as they adjust to the darkness. The cool outside air seeps in through the windows and suddenly he wishes he'd brought gloves. Gogh plunges his balled fists into the pockets of Kennedy's -- his -- letterman jacket. The boy inhales deeply through his nose as he takes in the scenery, seeing nothing but pine trees lining the outstretch of the quiet highway in front of them. There are no cars in sight. No buildings or houses or rest stops. There are a few white markers shoved into the ground next to the road, but most of them are bent or broken -- probably from swerving cars crushing them out of shape.

"Where are we?" He asks in his small voice, foggy sleep still tugging at his throat.

JFK turns his head ever so slightly, as if to make sure his best friend is really awake and he's not just hearing things. Satisfied with the reality of the boy, he nods toward the built-in GPS screen. "One hundred three miles outside of Exclamation!," he replies.

Van Gogh furrows his brow at the machine. "Yeah, but I mean where."

"I just told you."

Gogh gives up and sits back in his seat. He opens his mouth to nag Kennedy about turning on the seat heater, but the button is already illuminated. He smiles to himself.

"How long have you been driving?" He asks a couple minutes later, his eyelids weighing down again.

Kennedy scrunches up his nose. "Over an hour."

"I was asleep the whole time?"

JFK nods in affirmation. Van Gogh stares at his side profile, his eyes tracing his pointy nose and thin lips. His gel is wearing off, causing his brown hair to flop around his ears and the top of his head a little bit. Kennedy blinks slowly, and Gogh does the same, almost in solidarity.

"Are you tired?"

JFK shakes his head, but he's squinting.

"You're tired," Gogh decides. He's only met with a shrug.

"Let me drive," he tries daringly.

Suddenly, Kennedy is miraculously alert. He straightens his back and he opens his eyes up fully. "You can't drive, Van Gogh. You don't know how."

Van Gogh shrugs, a playful smile dancing on his lips. "You could teach me."

The car fills up with silence again, but it's a different kind than when Van Gogh was asleep and JFK was lost in his own head.

Van Gogh tilts the face of his digital wristwatch upwards to read the time. "It's 11:30, Kennedy."

"Is it?" He asks absently.

"We should stop somewhere. We could both sleep."

"I don't even know where we are," JFK protests.

Van Gogh rolls his eyes. "You're the one who said we didn't need a plan."

Kennedy nods, his motions sticking with the rebuff of tiredness. "I haven't seen any signs for miles. Think we should just get off somewhere?"

Van Gogh shrugs agreeably. "I don't see why not."

JFK pulls down his turn signal and the car hums with melodic clicks as he changes lanes. He slows down the vehicle each time he passes over the dotted white lines even though they have the highway all to themselves. He follows the rules when he's alone -- Van Gogh can't help but think that's something he was never supposed to know.

Kennedy exits the highway seamlessly, and stops the car at the intersection. The traffic light is glowing red even though all the other lanes are empty. Van Gogh always thought there was some sort of censor in the road that knew when cars were pulled up to the lines, waiting to be dictated through the intersection. He wonders when he'd started thinking that, who'd told him, if it was true. He pulls the cuffs of Kennedy's -- his -- letterman jacket over his hands and brings his knees to his chest, balling himself up in the warmth of the seat heater. Even with no snow on the ground, the town of God-Knows-Where is having as harsh of an April as Exclamation! is.

The town looks just like every common roadside stop -- clean sidewalks, towering lampposts with chipping paint, empty convenience store parking lots sprinkled with litter, barren gas stations lit by buzzing yellow lights. In the dead of night, the whole world freezes and the town looks like a photograph on a gift shop postcard. Van Gogh wishes he'd packed his camera so he could capture it in all its drowsily nostalgic glory.

Finally the traffic light glows green and Kennedy turns left, driving the car into the centre of town. There's a park with chemically green grass, visible even under the moonlight alone. In the middle of the lawn is a white statue that seems to be made of marble.

"That's just cement," Van Gogh says.

"Hm?"

He points out the window. "That statue. It's supposed to look like marble but it's not actually."

JFK nods, and then smiles. "That's kinda dumb."

Van Gogh smiles in return and sneaks a glance at the boy. "Yeah, it is."  

With a controlled turn of the steering wheel, the car glides blissfully around the park. Kennedy continues to drive, but slower than the speed limit. Van Gogh, balled up and shaking from the cold, still manages to stare out the window at the sleepy neighbourhood, wrapped in a blanket of the night. Some of the houses have their porch lights on. Some have cars parked in the driveway, others on the street. All of the houses look the same, and it reminds Van Gogh of his own neighbourhood, only posher. The houses are two stories and their porches are made out of poured concrete rather than splintering wood. The doors have brass knockers and the windows are French, full of panes and feminine glass. Van Gogh wouldn't mind living in a photocopied world if it was at least a picturesque one.

"Do you think there'll be a motel in this town?" JFK asks, penetrating Gogh's quiet bewilderment.

He turns his attention away from the window and onto the driver. "Probably not a motel, but maybe some small family-owned inn."

"I don't see one."

"That's because you're in the residential part of the town," Van Gogh scoffs, the magic of the anemoia wearing off. "It'll probably be back where the gas station and stuff was."

When Kennedy turns toward Van Gogh, he looks almost disappointed.

"You wanna look at the houses some more, Gogh?"

Gogh shakes his head, but the movement is mechanical. His eyelids drop and he has to blink fast to keep himself alert.

Kennedy sighs in serenity rather than exasperation and pulls into the driveway of one of the cookie-cutter houses to make a three-point turn. He reverses the direction of the car with ease and continues through the town, driving slowly enough to quiet the noise of the engine but quickly enough to get Van Gogh into a bed before he can fall asleep in the car.

The inn is small and the parking lot is empty of all cars. Unlike the convenience store parking lot, this one is clean, and the bushes along the sidewalk and the edge of the lot are perfectly manicured. JFK pulls into the spot closest to the long, wooden stairs leading up to the porch. The building looks almost like a house from the outside, only longer,  like a mansion made of common shingles and dusty edges.

The sign doesn't have a full or vacant indicator on it, but Kennedy guesses it's the latter due to the nature of the parking lot. He reaches over and rests a hand on Van Gogh's shoulder gently. Van Gogh blinks and looks up at him, his eyes wide with innocence. Kennedy smiles softly. "I found an inn."

Van Gogh unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the car door. JFK does the same on his side of the vehicle and they walk up the stairs together. The wooden porch groans under their weight and Van Gogh steps the rest of the way across it quickly, a nagging thought in the back of his mind telling him it'll break if they don't get off of it soon.

JFK pushes through the door of the inn first and holds it for Van Gogh. He huddles close to the taller boy as he walks, his stomach somersaulting with each step he takes. The inside of the inn is dimly lit and furnished with consonant floral wallpaper, every wall a different pattern and colour. The lobby itself isn't very large: room just enough for a fireplace decorated with pictures of past tenants on one wall, a congregation of chairs and a game table set in front of it; a wide, dark hallway across from it, where Van Gogh can just barely make out the white railing of a grand staircase; a tall bookshelf exploding with leather bound novels, complete with shiny gold lettering snaking down the spines on the third wall; and on the fourth, a bored woman collapsed against a desk, a clunky old computer in front of her and a stack of travel guides by her elbow. She's tall, lean, and pale, with short magenta hair and a face full of piercings. In this light, she looks like Joan of Arc -- but Van Gogh knows she's back at home in Exclamation!, probably spending her Friday night sulking.

The girl doesn't react even as JFK steps up to the desk. He leans against it, batting his lashes at her in his overly flirtatious nature. Van Gogh rolls his eyes and walks up next to his friend to ring the bell, stomping his heel down on it.

"Hi there. What can I do for you?" The girl drones in a monotonous voice.

"We'd like a room," Gogh says before JFK can make a snarky comment.

"Great. How many beds?" She asks, still in her flat tone.

Van Gogh can see Kennedy turn toward him to consult out of the corner of his eye, but impulsively answers the girl before he can talk to JFK. "Two."

The girl sucks on one of her snake bites as she punches the keys on the slow computer. Van Gogh watches her intently now, wondering if this is one of her anxious habits. She seems to fidget with her piercing the way JFK chews gum.

"You look like my friend," Van Gogh blurts suddenly, not sure why he felt the need to tell her, or why he referred to Joan of Arc as his "friend". He's talked to her once or twice on the teen crisis hotline (which Kennedy could never know about), and she's JFK's friend, but Van Gogh doesn't have time to think about making friends. John F. Kennedy is enough for him.

"Oh, yeah?" The girl replies absently.

Van Gogh doesn't say anything more. JFK's smile fades.

"Okay, here you are," she says, pulling a key off one of the nails stuck into the wall behind her and handing it to Kennedy. "Room one-oh-four."

"You have one hundred four rooms in this place?" Gogh asks.

The girl shrugs. "Probably not. I think the rooms start in the triple digits."

"That's dumb," Kennedy replies, and Van Gogh wonders if he'd said it himself since he'd opened his mouth.

Thankfully, the girl -- secretary? -- doesn't take offence. "Yeah, I think so too. But I guess there's more ring to the three-digit numbers than anything else."

"How much?" Kennedy asks, pulling his wallet out of the pocket of his letterman jacket.

"How many nights?"

"One," Van Gogh says before he or Kennedy can think.

"Like twenty-six dollars? I don't know. No one ever stays here."

"What town are we in, anyway?" JFK asks, swiping his card through the machine.

"Blackbox."

"Well, I'd say that's why no one ever stays here," Van Gogh retorts.

The girl's eyes narrow. "Why? Where are you two from?" She scrutinises the boys.

"Exclamation!," Kennedy replies.

"With an exclamation point on the end," Gogh admits.

The girl laughs. "Oh man, and you're criticising this town?"

Both boys stare at her blankly. She rolls her eyes and pulls a travel guide out from the stack next to her. She fishes a pen out of one of the drawers on her side of the desk and bites the cap off with her teeth. She holds the plastic piece in her mouth as she scribbles something down. When she's finished, she sets the pen on the desk and takes the cap out from her teeth before covering the pen with it and throwing it back into the drawer. She flips around the guide so it faces Kennedy and Gogh.

"This is Marshtown," she says, pointing at a circled spot on the map with her finger.

"Is there a marsh there?" Van Gogh asks. "It's a lazy name either way."

The girl takes a moment to think, sucking on her snake bite again. "I think so. But it might've gotten its name because it's foggy there all the time -- like, all the time. There's no ocean to blow a breeze over or anything. I think it's just like that. But anyway, you should check it out. Think this place is creepy?"

Both Kennedy and Van Gogh nod without looking at each other.

The girl smirks, and continues. "If you want a real kick, go there. I've been there with my boyfriend a few times."

"Oh, we're not-" the boys start to explain at the same time, their cheeks glowing pink and their temperatures rising.

The secretary girl smirks again. "Whatever. It'd still be fun to go."

Kennedy pulls his card out of the reader as it beeps. To the girl, he says, "thanks." He turns to Van Gogh, handing him the door key. "Go find our room. I'll go get our bags from the car."

Van Gogh opens his mouth to protest, but Kennedy is looking at him with his intense stare again. He decides to let it go. He nods, mumbles a quick "thank you" to the secretary, and heads toward the grand staircase. He shudders as he walks through the darkness, the cold suddenly burrowing deeper than it did when he was outside. He pulls Kennedy's -- his -- letterman jacket more tightly around him.

He climbs the staircase, the wood hard beneath his Keds. Van Gogh trails his hand along the railing as he walks, steadying himself as he observes all the gold-framed paintings hung along the wall. They're all oil-painted people he's never seen before -- very much different from Exclamation!, where he's met the clone of all the people in the paintings. These faces look respectable, but common, like they're only made to seem like they're important. Van Gogh exhales. Maybe it would be nicer here, where he isn't constantly reminded of how he'll never be the man whose DNA he shares.

Eventually, Gogh makes it to the top of the stairs and pries his interest away from the paintings. There's a sign tacked to the wall directly in front of him: rooms one hundred through one hundred fifty to his left, rooms one hundred fifty-one through two hundred on his right. He turns left and walks almost all the way to the end of the hall, turning to open the door marked one hundred four. The key slides into the lock easily, but the door takes an extra push to open.

Inside is the same hideously mismatched wallpaper as the lobby and atrociously unclean carpet as the hallways. There are two queen beds side by side with their headboards against the wall to the left of the door. Where the wallpaper peels, Van Gogh can tell that the room itself is painted a mossy green, which clashes with the already clashing patterned duvet covers on the beds. There's one window shielded by sheer white curtains and an old white space heater beneath the windowsill. There's no desk, but there's a stone fireplace on the wall across from the beds. Thankfully, there are no framed pictures of past tenants. Van Gogh couldn't sleep with them watching him.

The boy steps all the way into the room and closes the door behind him. In the space behind the door is another door. He pushes it open. It leads into a large bathroom, complete with a heavy mirror and speckled yellow tile on the floor and lining the shower wall. Van Gogh closes that door and looks around the room, feeling that there's something missing.

There's no closet or dresser. Great. Good thing they're only staying one night, because he'll have to live out of his suitcase. He can't stand to think that he'll have to refold all the clothes he rifles through after getting dressed each morning.

Gogh claims the bed closest to the window and sits in the middle of it. He's just begun to untie his shoes when the door pushes open. Van Gogh sinks in on himself, terrified of what could be trying to break in.

"Relax, relax! It's only me," Kennedy laughs, throwing his hands up in defeat.

Van Gogh scrunches his nose. "Took you long enough."

Kennedy pushes Van Gogh's brown suitcase and it rolls across the carpet to him. "Here. I thought you might want this."

"Thanks," Gogh mutters, pulling off his shoes and sliding off the bed.

***

By the time JFK and Van Gogh have showered and changed into bed-appropriate clothing, it's nearly 1:15 in the morning.

"We should go to sleep," Kennedy suggests, sitting up in bed and readying himself to go turn off the light.

Van Gogh shakes his head. "No. I'm wide awake now."

Kennedy gives him sleepy eyes, still holding himself up on his elbows. "How long do you need?"

In the low lighting, JFK is made of soft edges and rounded corners. His mound of brown hair is fully flopping over his face now without the gel, and every thirty seconds or so the boy has to push it out of his eyes. The collar of his grey Harvard shirt hangs off of his neck to reveal his collarbones, and his eyes are heavy with sleep. Van Gogh's pencil scratches against his sketchbook.

"Fifteen minutes," Kennedy mandates.

Van Gogh takes another look at the boy and smiles. "Fine by me."

He starts to draw.

[vulturhythm]

let us waltz for the dead - three

part one - part two

- - - - -

They say never to trust the devil's silver tongue.

To do so is to sign away your soul.

They say not to wander alone.

To do so is to never be seen again.

- - -

The scream echoes out in the corridor, piercing loud and harsh and cruel until, abruptly it dies.

It dies, and Geralt is rigid, his eyes fixed on the bloody glass.

He blinks.

It's still there.

Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet. There's an ache, low. A memory.

A memory that's not entirely unwelcome.

The hallway is silent now, and so, he doesn't feel quite as much guilt when he takes the time to pull on his trousers and undershirt before he heads for the door. After all, the notion of facing his death unclothed is not one he finds appealing.

He isn't entirely certain what he expects when he opens the door - a grisly scene, perhaps, or even a rat on the floor, startling some maid.

He was not expecting to see merely Renfri, standing rigid a few feet away from his door, her eyes wide and haunted.

"Renfri?" he says, his voice rough with sleep. She seems not to hear at first. Geralt frowns, turning his head to follow her gaze down the hall...

... down to the mirror mounted on the wall at the far end.

Geralt's frown deepens.

Of all the people he would imagine to be afraid of their reflection, Renfri would never rank among them. Really, he wouldn't have imagined Renfri as afraid of anything, and yet, here she is, staring down the length of the hall as though it's done her harm.

"Are you okay?" Geralt asks, almost hesitant. He feels as though he's missing something here.

This time, Renfri starts, turning to look at him with eyes that quickly go bright with a forced smile. "Yeah," she says, almost breathless in her haste to reassure him. "Just got startled by my reflection, that's all. Happens a lot." She waves away his dubious glance. "I came to see if you were up yet. Breakfast is ready downstairs."

Geralt is quiet at first, his gaze still skeptical, but Renfri doesn't seem to care, her eyes already drawn back to the mirror at the end of the hall, as if she doesn't quite trust that it's merely her reflection in the glass, nothing more. "Thank you," he says. "I'll be down soon."

Renfri nods; it can't be just his imagination that says she looks almost relieved to be dismissed. She turns on her heel to head back down the hall for the stairwell, and Geralt stands in the doorway, looking after her until she starts the descent.

He turns to look toward the mirror then.

His face gazes back at him.

He hadn't seen his reflection's head turn.

- - -

Maybe ten minutes pass before Geralt heads downstairs, having retreated into his room to dress. He'd spared no attention to the mirror on the vanity.

The first floor is dimly lit, only a few candles lit on shelves and counters; even the fire flickering in the hearth seems dull. It's odd, disconcerting, but Geralt gives it scarcely any thought. He's growing accustomed to the strange ways of the Black Dog.

Renfri stands behind the bar, polishing a glass decanter. She lifts her head when Geralt approaches, and the smile she gives is pasted on. "Breakfast on the house," she says by way of greeting, nodding toward the platter on the bartop. It's a pleasant little spread, breakfast meats and breads and eggs. "No need to thank me. Don't see much point in charging you for food when you've no other options."

"Thank you," Geralt says as he takes his usual seat, drawing the platter closer to himself. He watches Renfri through the corner of his eye as he takes his first bite, watches her hands move with near-mechanical precision.

She moves like one who's seeking diversion.

Silence passes between them for one, three, five minutes at the least, silence apart from the storm still raging against the tavern walls. The winds sound less violent today, and it seems to Geralt that the rains are calmer, too. He says at much when the quiet grows too oppressive, immediately startled when Renfri jumps as though shot.

The decanter falls from her hands.

It shatters on the floor behind the bar, glass spraying like blood from a wound.

Geralt winces as the shards clink to the ground.

"Are you - "

"Fine," Renfri says, her voice panicked. She backs away from the corpse of the decanter, and Geralt knows he's not imagining the haunted look in her eyes. "Sorry. Just got... startled. That's all."

Geralt watches her, worried. Something is not right.

Renfri is motionless, gaze on the floor - no doubt on the shrapnel, though Geralt cannot see.

"Let me help clean it up," he says, breaking the silence far more gently this time.

His words seem to jar Renfri from her shaky reverie, but she shakes her head, glancing up with eyes that plead for help and a face that demands isolation. "No," she says, though Geralt can sense the pain the denial causes her. "No, you're a guest. I'll take care of it."

Geralt is quiet.

Renfri's gaze falls once more.

He watches as she lifts a hand, brushing it across her temple as though to wipe away an impending ache.

"I'll take care of it," she repeats, softer now - soft and faint.

She turns away.

"Just... enjoy your meal."

Geralt watches as the woman slips around the counter, as she walks through the doorway he can only guess leads to the kitchen.

Though he sits, still and waiting, Renfri doesn't return.

He finishes his breakfast in silence.

- - -

The rain has lapsed into temporary quiet by the time he retreats upstairs.

His eyes are on the floor as he climbs the stairs, but the sound of movement in the hallway draws his gaze up once more.

Geralt stops.

There's a young woman standing at the end of the hall, dust rag in hand. Her back is turned, but Geralt can make out brown hair beneath the frilled headband typical of a maid. Her servant's dress is plain, but even at this distance, it looks tattered at the hems; the white trim is faded.

He stands at the top of the stairs for a beat, taken aback by the presence of yet another in this strange tavern, watching the maid clean the surface of the mirror hanging on the wall.

A good thirty seconds passes before the maid seems to glimpse his reflection, and she jumps, whirling to face him.

The rag falls to the floor.

She appears shocked.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Geralt says quickly, his voice unwilling to work at first. "I'm sorry."

The girl simply stares, though her shoulders slump back into relaxation.

"I didn't realize there was anyone else here," he goes on, though it sounds idiotic even to his own ears. Of course a functioning tavern and inn would have a maid, even if the Black Dog is far from normal.

The maid tips her head to one side, and the smile she gives is forced.

It's almost worrying.

Geralt's words are softer when he speaks next. "I was just coming to get my coat from my room," he says, uncertain how to interpret the maid's silence. "Am I in your way?"

The maid shakes her head, stooping quickly to pick up the rag that had fallen at her feet. She wraps her fingers tightly into the old fabric; the fidgeting doesn't escape Geralt's notice, but he knows better than to breathe a word.

Geralt clears his throat.

Something is off.

"I apologize," he repeats, taking the few steps toward his door, though his sidelong gaze remains on the maid at the end of the hall.

He knows he doesn't imagine the way she tenses.

Geralt hesitates with his hand on the doorknob.

The maid turns away, back to the mirror.

Geralt has no idea what to make of it.

He slips into his room, heading straight for where his coat's hung up on the corner of the washroom door.

He spares only a brief glance to the mirror.

It is just the same as before.

The maid is gone when he leaves his room.

It's only as he shrugs his coat on and descends the staircase that he realizes he hadn't heard footsteps down the hall.

- - -

The rain is still at a pause by the time Geralt steps out from beneath the tavern's awning. The air smells heavy, almost cloyingly sweet with the aftermath of the rain, but beneath it all is the stink of mud and hay from the stable. Geralt wrinkles his nose with mild disdain, though he breathes in deep regardless.

Somehow, even the moist air is more pleasant than that of the Black Dog.

The stable interior is quiet when he pushes open one of the heavy wooden doors, leaving it open for the overcast glow to spread inside. Roach lifts her head from where she'd been nibbling at the hay, turning bright eyes and pricked ears his way. "Hello, Roach," he greets, his tone soft.

His mare nickers, returning her attention to her meal immediately.

"No gratitude," Geralt muses, crossing the stable floor to approach her stall. Beneath his feet, the old floorboards creak and groan, louder than he remembers from before. He pauses when one splinters under his weight, looking down.

The floor is solid enough, built on firm earth.

The rain must be damaging the wood, he reasons.

Before he can give the splintering wood any further thought, a loud, echoing snort demands his attention.

Geralt lifts his head.

The huge black stallion is all but glowering at him from the stall across the corridor.

... The stall across the corridor.

"Why, oh, why, do they keep moving you?" Geralt asks aloud, turning to lean his back against Roach's stall door. He folds his arms across his chest as he holds the bastard's cruel gaze, surprised to realize he's, well, smug. "Wait a minute... I think I know."

As if he knows what Geralt plans to say, the stallion stamps a hoof, heavy enough that Geralt hears wood cracking yet again. The stallion's head is bobbing now, nostrils flared wide as he stares Geralt down.

"I think it's because you're a biter," Geralt says, distantly aware that he should feel foolish for talking like this to a horse. "I think it's because you're an evil fucker - crazy, to boot."

The horse screams.

Geralt flinches in spite of himself when the stallion rears partway, when those feathered hooves slam down hard enough for the crack of wood to echo loud.

He knows he's imagining the way the floor beneath him feels as though it shifts, nearly gives.

"Never were taught manners, were you?" he asks aloud, watching with growing disbelief as the stallion's thrashing only increases - head tossing, hooves pounding, haunches bucking. Foam sprays from bared teeth, and the whites of the devil's eyes flash bright as he screams.

At his back, he hears Roach snort, and he looks over his shoulder to his mare, who has turned to face the goings-on. Pushing aside his newfound trepidation with some unease, he tears his attention from the manic stallion. "Is he this mean when you're alone?" he asks her, turning fully to run a hand down her brow.

Roach nickers once more, shoving her head into his palm.

Geralt croons to her, low, reaching into his coat pocket for one of the carrots he always carries. She eats it from his hand with the ferocity of a starving hound, even though Geralt knows damn well she's been eating nearly nonstop. "Greedy," he murmurs, continuing to stroke her brow.

Roach snorts in reply.

"I know," he sighs, tipping his head to rest against the mare's own. She draws back to nose into his hair; he endures it with a weary smile. "The rain's stopped for now, but knowing our luck, it would storm all the harder the moment we decided to leave. Besides, the roads are no doubt washed out in the lowlands.... no point in leaving yet."

Something changes.

It takes him a second to place.

The stallion has gone silent.

Geralt looks back over his shoulder.

The stallion is simply... standing.

Standing, head held high, eyes black and brutal and cold, ribs heaving with every roaring breath.

Anxious distrust coils tight and wicked in Geralt's chest.

He knows, more truly than he thinks he's ever known a thing, that he needs to leave.

"Not normal," he says, low. "You're not normal."

The stallion doesn't react.

- - -

Geralt spends another few minutes in the stable.

He doesn't last any longer than the time it takes to brush the straw from Roach's coat. He can't stand the stallion's presence any longer.

He pauses as he walks from the stable's heavy double doors, taking the time to give the area a more proper onceover now that the rain has ceased for the time being. In the half-light of the overcast day, the area seems less immediately ominous.

The forest encroaches quite near to the property, thick trees growing from the wet earth as near as three feet from the stable's outer walls. The clearing directly in front of the tavern is large enough to support two or three carriages at once, if angled correctly, but even still, it manages to feel almost claustrophobic, sheltered from the narrow trail going through the woods... the trail that, even from here, Geralt can see is virtually nothing but murky water and mud.

He can't begin to fathom what the trail is like in the lower points.

Geralt sighs, turning for the tavern's main door once again. He pauses beneath the awning, his hand on the knob, however - for his attention is caught by a small wooden sign, staked into the landscaping at the opposite corner of the building.

"Gardens," it reads, quite simply, beneath a carved rose. An arrow points around the building, following a narrow path he notices now that he's not seeking shelter from the dark of night or unbearable rain.

A bit of exploration never hurt.

So, deciding there's no true harm in taking advantage of the temporary lull in the storm, Geralt turns from the door, following the path.

It's paved in cobblestone just like the area beneath the awning, wide enough for a single person to move comfortably alongside the tavern's edge. Small shrubs are planted along the path's edge, and though the leaves are water-bowed, Geralt can imagine them to be quite beautiful when not half-drowned.

Behind the tavern, the path opens up into a large area - a cobblestone courtyard of sorts, nearly half the size of the tavern's bulk, stretching out toward the forest. Geralt pauses at the path's end, gazing about.

From the path's end, the shrubs are replaced by a low stone wall that wraps around the courtyard's perimeter, waist-high. At the far end, the wall is broken by a wrought-iron gate with an arch that peaks merely a foot higher than the wall, one that - judging from the ivy reaching from the wall to coil among the bars - hasn't been opened in quite some time. Geralt can see the cobblestone paving continues through the gate, leading out into the forest.

Two stone benches sit on opposite sides of the courtyard, facing eachother. Geralt's gaze lingers on the one closest to himself. It feels... almost lonely.

In the center of the courtyard are two identical plots of earth, split down the center by the paving that leads toward the gate. Rose bushes grow tall and nearly wild in each plot, blood red blooms and earth-green leaves beaded with raindrops. Growing closer to the rich soil are smaller plants - pansies, ivies, exotic grasses of which Geralt doesn't know the name.

Geralt tips his head to the side, his gaze following the path a particularly adventurous ivy frond takes - creeping from its bed, stretching out across the cobblestone to climb up the wall. It is this frond that weaves itself among the wrought-iron bars.

He doesn't quite know why this plant in particular catches his interest, nor why it holds it so firmly.

It is movement that finally snaps him from his botanical reverie.

Wolf-gold eyes snapping up sharply, he goes still when he sees what had caught his attention.

Standing on the low stone wall is a black dog.

It's a massive brute, for all that it looks like a hunting hound - closer to a wolf in stature - with thick fur that grows longest in a ruff about its neck.

Bear hunter, Geralt realizes distantly.

The dog is motionless where it stands, gaze locked on Geralt's own.

Its eyes are dark, nearly the black of its fur.

As Geralt watches, its lips curl.

He feels, more than he hears, the growl - feels it vibrate deep beneath his ribs, between his lungs.

Feels it in the air all around him.

Feels the way the plants between he and the hound seem to draw away.

Just as Geralt recognizes the feeling growing in his chest as <i>fear,</i> the growl stops short.

The hound goes silent.

Its gaze has shifted now, moved to something behind Geralt, up higher on the tavern's wall.

Geralt turns his head, starts in surprise when he sees the maid from earlier standing at a window on the second floor. Her eyes... though they're not turned to him, they look - feel - cold.

When he looks back, the hound is gone.

He stands there, quiet.

He doesn't know why he's surprised to find the maid gone, too, when he looks back up at the window.

- - -

Geralt isn't entirely certain what possesses him to approach the wrought-iron gate, apart from curiosity.

He treads carefully over the sprawling ivy fronds, stopping in front of the gate to peer toward the forest beyond. He sees no sign of the black dog, though that's not necessarily a surprise; hounds can run at quite the clip when they're in the mind, he knows. Wonder where the brute came from, he muses idly, turning his gaze to the stone wall itself. The dog would have had to hop up from the ground on the other side, which... Geralt leans forward enough to give the mud a closer look.

Odd.

No pawprints.

Before he can dwell on this too long, the distant sound of wind chimes draws his attention away. Geralt looks toward the trees once more.

The forest's edge sits back a short ways from the garden's edge, the earth rising in a slow, gradual arch to peak in a knoll atop which the trees sit. Even though the tree cover is dense, the trunks all close together, Geralt can tell that the ground beyond is uneven, too, all rolling hills that make it even more difficult to see beyond the dark of the treeline.

The cobblestone path beneath the gate leads off into the trees, disappearing from sight over the crest of the nearest knoll. Curiosity nags at the back of his mind, and he hesitates at first, looking down to the ivy growing thick and winding among the bars of the gate. It feels wrong to disturb the plant that clearly invested so much time in its growth...

"No one here to see," Geralt muses aloud, heaving a sigh as he swings first one leg, then the other, up and over the wall. It's just low enough that he has little difficulty.

Well. No one apart from the maid, if she's still there.

He pushes the thought aside, straightening up and heading along the path... privately shocked at how much darker his world becomes once he's beneath the cover of the trees, tall and imposing around him. They're just trees. Nothing more. Regardless, he cannot shake the feeling of being watched.

The wind chimes seem to be off to the left a ways once he passes the crest of the knoll, but the path continues straight. Geralt pauses, frowning off into the shadows. The brush is flattened and cleared aside, almost like an animal's hunting trail, leading toward the source of the noise. A look ahead along the paved path shows that it only leads farther into the woods; curiosity nags at him, but he doesn't fancy getting caught out here when the storm resumes.

Decision made, he turns off the cobblestone, following the downtrodden brush where it leads off into the woods. Much to his relief, he only has to go a short ways before the source of the sound comes into view. At the crest of another knoll is a massive oak tree, its roots rising high from the ground to create a tangled knot above the muddy earth. There's a hollow of sorts beneath the trunk where it grows at an angle, the roots splayed enough to bare the vulnerable underside.

Even without the rest, the tree on its own would be an imposing sight, but Geralt's attention is drawn by something else.

The limbs of the tree are adorned with wind chimes of every variety - simple metal rods, small silver-plated shapes, even some jewels hanging among the more ornate arrangements. There are simple shapes crafted of sticks and twine; there are small animal skulls hanging from lengths of beaded string; there are larger bones dangling closer to the trunk.

Geralt's stomach twists when he sees scraps of decaying flesh and matted fur still clinging to some of the larger bones - ribs and femurs and the like, no doubt. Animals, at least. Poor things.

His gaze moves down, down to the hollow at the base of the tree - the hollow beneath the gnarled roots. His confusion only grows when he sees that the oddities do not stop in the branches of the oak.

What looks to be a dog's skull rests in the damp earth, the brow painted over with streaks of mud in the shape of a cross. Its maw is propped open by a short stick through the mouth, keeping sharp teeth bared. Geralt frowns when he notices the two front canines are missing, frowns harder when he sees the arrangement of stick-and-twine figures around the skull, laid there in the earth. Some are merely geometric, squares and triangles and diamonds, but others are crudely fashioned in the shape of nondescript animals - spine, legs, neck, head, tail. Others, still, are human.

Geralt steps closer, crouching low in front of the strange shrine - for, he realizes now, that is what he has found. A shrine, an altar... a memorial. "Who are you for?" he asks the hollow eyesockets of the hound.

Only the wind chimes answer him.

- - -

He loses track of time, kneeling there before the oak tree shrine. The air feels still, dead.

Alone.

It's only when Geralt feels raindrops patter onto his head and shoulders that he finally straightens, peering up through the thick canopy. The sky has gone dark, nearly black. The storm is returning, and judging from how black the woods around him have become, it will be worse this time around.

"Great," he sighs aloud, turning to head back to the tavern with his head ducked low. Not for the first time, he wishes his coat had a hood. It would make this whole ordeal a sight easier.

Though he keeps an eye out for any sign of the black hound, the walk back is uneventful.

By the time he makes it back beneath the shelter of the awning at the front of the tavern, the rain is heavier, beating down on his shoulders and bowed head. Grimacing as he pushes open the door, he stops on the mat just inside, letting the worst of the rain drip back off of him before he ruins the wood.

Geralt doesn't realize there had been talking until, without notice, the tavern falls quiet. He lifts his gaze from the floor, pausing when he sees Renfri and Nivellen standing behind the bar. Renfri is reclining against the counter itself as Nivellen wipes a tankard clean, but they've both gone still, looking at him.

For a wild, brief moment, Geralt feels as though he's intruding.

"See the rain caught you," Renfri says, breaking the strange little silence. "Out visiting your horse?"

He shakes his head, clearing his throat as he approaches the bar. Nivellen gives him a pointed look, his gaze going from Geralt's face to one of the stools - one that, Geralt sees, is a couple of feet down from Nivellen himself. Alright, then.

As Geralt sits down - directly in front of the both of them - he turns his gaze on Renfri, ignoring Nivellen's irritated frown. "For a minute. Went for a little walk after, until the rain started up again. The gardens at the back - they're beautiful."

Something flickers in Renfri's eyes, and she looks toward the stairwell door. Before Geralt can follow her gaze, she's turning back to him. "Yeah, they're impressive. Can't take any credit for them, though. Have to talk to Holly for that."

Geralt feels, more than sees, Nivellen go tense, just at the edges of his vision. "Renfri - "

"Not that she does much talking nowadays," Renfri goes on, speaking louder over Nivellen, her glare harsh.

The feeling of intruding is back, more intense than before. Geralt looks between the two, between the stubborn edge in Renfri's eyes and the exasperated frustration in Nivellen's own.

He isn't surprised in the slightest when it's Nivellen who gives in, shaking his head and going back to wiping off the tankard that had been neglected in his hands.

Renfri gives a satisfied sigh, turning to face Geralt properly, her arms folded on the counter as she leans closer to say in an undertone, "Don't mind him. I don't know if he's ever woken up on the right side of the bed."

Geralt huffs out a single, quiet laugh. "That path," he says, jerking his chin to indicate the back of the tavern, "the one that goes out through the woods? Where does it lead?"

"The one from the gardens leads to the hunting grounds," she replies. "Bit of a long walk, though, and it's a winding trail. Don't think anybody ever actually used it, to be entirely honest. Guess you haven't seen it, but there's a wider path going from the rear of the stable. Heads the same way, and it's just dirt, but it's a quicker journey."

"Maybe because it's meant for horseback," Nivellen mutters.

Geralt sees Renfri's body jerk, and he hears Nivellen curse, sidestepping from the foot the woman no doubt sent flying to his knee.

"Like I said," Renfri says with a sigh, "wrong side of the bed."

Geralt likes her.

He thinks, as his gaze drops a little lower, taking in the low neckline of her blouse, maybe he would like her a little more, if Jaskier wasn't lurking somewhere in the tavern.

When he looks back up, Renfri is giving him a slow, sly grin, but she shakes her head. Geralt merely shrugs, another quiet laugh escaping. She's an odd one, but... in a good way. "There's an oak tree," he says aloud, changing the subject with customary ease, "off the path out in the woods - "

Nivellen goes still, and Renfri's face shutters off immediately.

Geralt is nothing but bewildered. "... You know the one, I take it?"

"The one covered in all sorts of chimes and pendants and pagan things?" Nivellen grouses. Geralt blinks.

"I hadn't placed them as pagan, but - "

"All that stuff is set there by troublemakers," Renfri interjects, and she pushes herself back upright, the moment of easy companionship between her and Geralt gone in a flash. "People just going through the forest. They see things left by others, decide, 'what the hell?' Just kids, no doubt. No point in paying it any mind."

"People come through these woods often?" Geralt asks dryly, no longer trying to conceal his disbelief. He can't imagine their reactions would truly be this strong if it was merely an issue of trespassers. "I didn't see another house or village or farm on the way through - this tavern is the first thing I came across for miles."

"People travel quite the long way to make trouble sometimes," Nivellen says, and there's a harsh edge to his tone, one that brooks no further argument.

Geralt frowns.

Something - many things - are not right.

There's quiet between them for a moment, Renfri's eyes averted, Geralt's on the cloth in Nivellen's hand.

It's Renfri who breaks the silence, turning away and clapping her hand down on the bar loud enough to make both men jump. "Why don't you head back up and pass the time to dinner?" she says, her voice too loud for the topic. "Not much point in sitting around and talking all day, I don't imagine."

Geralt knows a dismissal when he hears one.

"I'll see you again soon enough, I'm sure," he says as he stands. Renfri simply nods, her gaze already sliding away; Nivellen ignores him entirely.

Unable to shake his unease, Geralt retreats back upstairs.

- - -

He no longer has the energy to be surprised when he finds his mirror intact, untouched.

He is, however, surprised to find a small, leatherbound black book sitting on his bed, atop a heavy black cloak. There's a pencil, quill pen and inkwell laid beside them.

Geralt stands beside his bed for a few seconds in silence, taking in the odd little gift. Jaskier, perhaps. He can't imagine Renfri would have done this, and he knows better than to think Nivellen ever would.

Finally, he picks up the book, running idle fingers over the uneven surface. When he opens it, he's met with a small note scrawled in clumsy ink on the first page.

Stay in your room at night, no matter what you hear.

Geralt's frown deepens, and he turns the page. It, and all the ones beyond, are blank, made of heavy, good quality paper; meant for an artist, no doubt. He's never considered himself much of one, and he wonders what about him made Jaskier believe this to be a fitting gift, but he isn't about to turn it down.

He sets the book aside, lifting the cloak that was laying beneath it. It's thick and heavy, clearly meant to withstand cold temperatures and inclement weather, and - he notices with no small amount of pleasure - it has a hood.

He'll have to thank Jaskier later.

No sooner does this thought cross his mind than he realizes he's counting on seeing the strange little thing downstairs tonight.

It's only been two nights, and he's already got you enamored. Pathetic.

Geralt sighs, crossing the room to hang the cloak up on the rack beside the dresser. He spares himself the briefest of glances in the healed mirror, frowning when he sees how haggard he looks. His hair is still damp and matted from the rain, and there are circles beneath his eyes, all the more pronounced on his pale skin. For all that he enjoys Jaskier's company, it's clear it's been taking its toll on him. Perhaps a little more rest might be in order... or, he muses, running his fingers through his hair and grimacing when he feels a knot in the strands, a damn bath.

He opens the washroom door, looking toward the claw-footed tub tucked away against the wall. Although the washbasin in the counter has a working faucet, he sees nothing of the sort near the tub. He'll have to find somebody to draw him the water, no doubt, and he hasn't the faintest clue where to find the maid from earlier. Nivellen would just as soon kick him out, and Renfri, well...

Geralt can't help but feel as though he's irritated her somehow.

Resigning himself to remaining unwashed for at least another day, he turns away. If Jaskier gave him the sketchbook and media, he likely expects Geralt to make use of them. A glance at the ornate clock sitting on the windowsill shows he still has an hour or so to waste away before dinnertime.

With a sigh, Geralt settles down against his headboard, reaches for the book and quill, and sets to idle work.

- - -

By the time Geralt sets it all aside to head downstairs, he's finished what he thinks is a respectable sketch of the black hound he'd seen out in the gardens. It's no great work of art, that much is certain, but he takes some private pleasure in the finished product.

There's a minute part of him that hopes Jaskier will be... what? Proud? He scoffs at himself as he heads downstairs, pushing the thought aside. Jaskier may not even be in the tavern's lobby, he reminds himself, and he lifts his head, looking for Renfri in her usual post behind the bar, ready to serve him a meal of one sort or another.

Instead, he sees Jaskier.

Geralt stops short, momentarily taken aback.

The young man is sitting at the bar, his back turned; Geralt can see a glass of what he thinks is brandy in his hand, if Jaskier's constant remarks are any indication. He's dressed the same as each night before, and barefoot like always, too.

Pushing aside his bewilderment, Geralt slips easily back into the strange, half-dazed headspace even Jaskier's presence seems to put him in. "Wasn't expecting to see you here," he says aloud, breaking the peaceful quiet of the room. Jaskier turns to look over his shoulder, and his face brightens with a smile that makes Geralt's heart warm. "Here for dinner?"

"Mostly here to drink," Jaskier replies with a laugh, nodding for Geralt to join him. Geralt does without hesitation, though he comes to stand behind Jaskier, the brush of his hands on the young man's waist tentative at first. Only when Jaskier leans back to rest his weight on Geralt's chest does Geralt hold him properly, gripping his waist firmly, but no less gentle. "Yourself?"

"Well," Geralt starts, resting his face in the unruly brown locks at the back of Jaskier's head and breathing in deep, "I had planned on food."

Jaskier makes a gesture, and Geralt reluctantly lifts his head, though he sets his chin atop the little thing's head, finding himself entirely unwilling to move away at all. Only now does he notice the platter of roast meats and cheese; it looks as though it's already been picked through. "Help yourself," he says, but even as he speaks, he's picking up a little piece of chicken, holding it back for Geralt to take.

Geralt only just manages to resist the - frankly absurd - urge to eat it straight from his fingers, instead freeing a hand to take it the normal way. The chicken is impossibly tender, its juices bursting onto his tongue with flavor that makes Geralt nearly melt as he realizes just how hungry he truly is. "I know better than to guess Nivellen is the one cooking all of this," he remarks, soft and wry.

Jaskier laughs, leaning his head back to rest it against Geralt's shoulder as he picks up another piece, pork this time. "That bastard wouldn't know good food if it bit him in the ass," he replies, watching with rapt blue eyes as Geralt takes the morsel. "He knows his way around a bar, but that's about as far as his talents go."

"What about you?" Geralt asks, deciding to leave one hand free for the sake of eating and wrapping his other arm more firmly around Jaskier's waist. He feels the younger man shiver when his hand slides across his chest; something stirring low in his groin, he holds him more firmly to his chest, taking courage from the way they're alone. "What are your talents, apart from those I've experienced myself?"

The strange little thing merely shrugs, taking another sip of his drink. His head is still thrown back onto Geralt's shoulder, and those eyes haven't left Geralt's own once. "If you're asking whether or not I work here," he says as he lowers the glass, turning his head enough to nose against the side of Geralt's neck, "the answer is no. Not anymore. I prefer to keep my talents to myself these days. Surely you understand."

Geralt gives a hum of acknowledgement, far too distracted by the feeling of Jaskier's lips moving against his skin to pay much attention to his words. While the other man is distracted, he reaches for the glass of brandy sitting neglected on the bartop, taking a drink of his own and wincing immediately - mixed in with the liquor's taste is something else, something coppery, something almost like -

"Geralt," Jaskier says, drawing him back from - from... what was he worried about? "Geralt, look at me."

Blinking the strange haze from his eyes and feeling nothing but confusion when it doesn't clear he obeys.

The glass is empty, in Jaskier's hand. Jaskier's eyes are on his own, and Jaskier's mouth -

Blood, dripping from the lips that are shaping themselves around his name.

Geralt flinches, almost recoils.

He blinks again.

The blood is gone.

The blood is gone, and so is the - the...

There was something on the counter, just before... he remembers...

"Geralt," comes the blue-eyed man's voice again.

It takes more effort than it should to drag his gaze from the empty bartop back to Jaskier's face.

He doesn't look... worried, no, not really. More... pleased.

He blinks.

Jaskier looks concerned.

There's a shadow at the edges of his vision, off to the side.

He knows better than to look.

"Geralt, focus, can't you?" Jaskier is saying, and now he's laughing, nudging Geralt's ribs with his elbow.

Geralt pauses, huffs out a breath with the impact.

He must have zoned out for a second there.

"I'm plenty focused," he says aloud, closing his hand around the other man's arm when Jaskier goes to elbow him again. It's easy enough to trap that arm against Jaskier's side, to run his other hand up along the little thing's stomach, his chest, his neck... to fit his fingers around the base of Jaskier's throat. The pressure is light, teasing, barely even there, but his intent is clear. "I didn't realize assault was acceptable now."

Jaskier gives a sound that's almost like a purr, leaning his head back farther. It's as good an invitation as anything. Geralt leans down, noses into the side of Jaskier's neck as he squeezes his throat properly, thumb and forefinger pressing firm into the flesh on either side. "Didn't realize ignoring me was, either," Jaskier murmurs, but his voice is ragged, breathless already.

The moan he lets out when Geralt pulls his arms back to pin them against his lower back sends a rush of lust through Geralt's veins. Jaskier's fingers curl into fists between them, brushing against the bulge of Geralt's shaft through his trousers; with the same energy as if he's made an incredible discovery, Jaskier shifts to palm him, awkward angle be damned. The pressure of the heel of his hand makes Geralt's breath catch, and he sets his teeth to the side of the pretty little thing's neck, murmuring, "Didn't realize this counts as ignoring you."

- - -

Geralt is certain he's never seen a creature more beautiful than Jaskier is right now, pinned with his back to the wall, Geralt's hand firm around his throat as he works one thigh between the younger man's own. Jaskier is panting, both hands clenched tight in the fabric of Geralt's undershirt; his eyes are glassy, dazed, so fucking needy it makes Geralt ache.

"Gorgeous," he breathes out, surprised by how deep and rough his voice has gone; he leans in to fit his teeth against Jaskier's collarbone, bared by the way his chemise is undone and pulled aside. Jaskier's hips buck onto the muscle of his thigh, and he whines aloud when Geralt bites down, tastes blood beneath his tongue. He licks over the beading little wounds, drinks in Jaskier's moan like a dying man. "God, the sounds you make - "

" - would be a lot - a lot louder if you'd get on with things," Jaskier spits out, and there's just enough malice in his tone to make Geralt falter, but the little thing's hips are rolling steadily, grinding his cock along the length of Geralt's thigh, so he chalks it up to impatience and nothing more. Customary, honestly, he doesn't know why he's surprised.

Geralt draws back just enough to make Jaskier whimper with the loss, squeezing his throat one last time before he lets go. "Bed," he tells him lowly, fumbling with the fastenings of his own shirt as he backs off. Jaskier all but falls away from the wall, sucking in a gasp of air now that he's truly able, but he doesn't listen at all, instead pressing right up against Geralt and craning to capture his lips in a kiss that tastes of brandy and blood and -

- don't you dare leave -

- leave, run, get the fuck out -

- don't you fucking dare -

- of brandy and desperation.

The groan Geralt gives almost aches as it starts in his chest, and he gives up on his undershirt, finding a grip on Jaskier's waist as he backs them both toward the bed. He feels hazy, his world almost spinning, though he's got no clue why. When the edge of the bed bumps into the backs of his knees, he drops back, pulling Jaskier after him into his lap, unwilling to break from the kiss for more than the second it takes to make sure their teeth don't clash as he settles back. Jaskier is just as eager as always, nearly clawing at his chest in his attempts to get the undershirt out of the way, and Geralt hisses when nails bite into his bare skin.

"Easy, darling - "

And then, just as quick as he'd pounced, Jaskier withdraws, and there's such hate in his tone when he says, "Don't fucking call me that," that Geralt gets whiplash.

Right. He'd forgotten.

He gentles his hands on the little thing's waist, smoothing them up under the fabric of his chemise to trace along the bare skin beneath, watching as Jaskier shivers despite his tension, his eyes going glossy. "I forgot," Geralt murmurs, leaning in to breathe the words against Jaskier's lips. "Forgive me, sweet thing, I truly didn't mean to."

Jaskier draws in a breath, and Geralt feels him tremble again. The younger man is leaning closer, seeming entirely unconscious of it, too; when he gives in, when he seals his lips to Geralt's own with a low and reedy moan, Geralt knows he has been forgiven. He lets his grip go firm again, guiding Jaskier to lay back flat on his back with as much grace as he can manage when he refuses to break away.

The other man arches into him when Geralt settles above him, moans aloud into their kiss when Geralt runs his hands back up beneath his chemise to swipe a thumb across one nipple, to rake his nails lightly down planes of quivering muscle and heated flesh. When Geralt's fingers reach lower, palming Jaskier through his undone trousers, Jaskier bucks, keens aloud, nearly sobs his name.

Geralt breaks from the kiss to trail his parted lips down along the length of Jaskier's throat, sucking his fresh mark atop the ghosts of bruises from the nights before. Jaskier whimpers and whines so prettily with each kiss, splays his legs wide when Geralt pulls his trousers down enough to work two fingers inside him, and something in Geralt snarls with desire when he feels how wet he is even now, how much of his seed still lingers in Jaskier's slender frame.

"So fucking beautiful," he breathes out against his skin, crooking his fingers up as even as he splays them wide. It takes a second try before his fingertips brush over the nerves inside Jaskier, but he knows damn well when he succeeds, because the younger man arches from the sheets with a moan far too loud for the tavern, both hands flying up to tangle tightly into Geralt's hair. "God, look at you, you're so fucking beautiful..."

Jaskier's voice is cracked and broken, but there's still enough of his spirit, his fiery, impatient spirit, to make Geralt laugh, low. "Be more beautiful with your cock inside me, Geralt, please, I don't need anything more, I can take you now - "

It's the desperation in his tone that makes Geralt cave, though he so truly wants to lay Jaskier out one night, worship his body as he deserves. Geralt murmurs something in reassurance, withdraws his fingers even though it makes Jaskier whine. "Easy," he tells him softly, drawing back just enough to get his trousers undone and off. He isn't surprised in the slightest when Jaskier just about ignores him, already hooking his thighs up around Geralt's waist even before Geralt begins to press inside. "Easy, love, relax..."

But Jaskier is moaning aloud, his fingers weaving tightly into Geralt's hair once again to pull him down for another wet and messy kiss, and he's already rocking back even though Geralt's barely got the head of his shaft inside him, and, fuck, he feels amazing, wet and hot and tight, and -

Geralt gives up on thinking.

He knows there's not much point.

- - -

Afterwards, they lay together, Jaskier held close with his back flush to Geralt's chest, Geralt's arm tight about his waist. They're both nude, only the blankets drawn up around their waists keeping them covered. Geralt's face is pressed lightly to the back of Jaskier's neck, and he alternates between simply resting and leaving gentle kisses there, reveling in the quiet, breathy laughs he earns each time.

It's as Geralt traces idle patterns onto Jaskier's bare stomach that he remembers. "Oh," he mumbles, his voice hoarse with exertion. "Thank you, by the way."

Jaskier gives an inquiring hum.

"The gifts you left me," Geralt clarifies, heaving a sigh as he settles more comfortably into place and closes his eyes.

"What gifts?"

He pauses then, frowning.

"You weren't the one who left them?"

Jaskier shakes his head, the motion made clumsy by their position. "What were they?"

Geralt could simply be imagining it, weary as he is, but he thinks he hears a hint of tension in his tone. "The cloak hanging over there," he replies, gesturing vaguely with his hand, "and a little art book."

Though his eyes are still closed, he can feel Jaskier lift his head, no doubt to look over at the cloak.

He can definitely feel Jaskier go rigid.

"Burn it," he says abruptly, and there's no trace of kindness in his voice. "Immediately."

Geralt frowns, leaning back enough to open his eyes. Jaskier is pulling away from him, sitting upright. He's gone incredibly tense, and Geralt thinks he's never seen him look so distraught. "Jaskier," he says, reaching for his waist again. "What's wrong?"

When Jaskier strikes his hand away, Geralt freezes, torn between confusion and hurt. "Burn it," he repeats firmly. Jaskier pulls away entirely then, standing up and starting to redress. Geralt sits up to watch, clueless as to how he's meant to react. "I mean it. I won't speak to you until it's gone."

"Jaskier," he tries, moving to the edge of the bed, though he doesn't make another attempt to reach after the younger man. "Jaskier, it's merely a cloak, what's - "

Jaskier laughs, sharp and bitter, as he tugs his chemise back over his head and turns to leave. "Don't concern yourself with why. Just do as I say."

As he yanks open the door and slips out into the hallway, Geralt sees blood matting the back of his hair, bone bared white and clear in the dim flash of lightning.

He blinks.

As he yanks open the door and slips out into the hallway, Geralt sees his hand come up to his face as if swiping away tears, though the motion is soon aborted.

The door shuts with a heavy click.

Geralt sits alone.

The floor is cold beneath his bare feet.

- - -

Geralt can't remember falling asleep when he rouses, at first unsure what awakened him at all.

He lays there, still and alone, painfully aware of the empty space beside him, of the empty space in his arms.

With a sigh, he rolls onto his back, gazing up at the canopy overhead. There is no moonlight tonight, but lightning flashes often, thunder rolling deep and cruel just overhead.

It's because of the thunder that he doesn't hear the snarling until it grows louder still.

Geralt pushes himself upright in a hurry, staring toward the door. There's a light on in the hallway, just as always; he can see it through the crack beneath the door... but it's not all he can see. There's shadows, too, shadows that can't quite make up their mind what they want to be, drifting and curling as if they're alive.

Lightning illuminates the room, and, for an instant, the shadows disappear.

For an instant, the shadows are at the corners of his eye, twisting within the mirror, gone when he looks.

The snarling continues.

The shadows beneath the door have taken shape when his attention returns - four identical narrow columns, blocking out the light in a row.

Slowly, Geralt stands.

He picks his trousers and undershirt up off the floor, pulling them on almost in a dream.

He crosses the room to the coatrack, and now it feels as though the snarling is within his bones themselves, as if it's rattling against his ribs, screaming to be freed.

Even the warmth of the heavy cloak about his frame does nothing to abate the dread.

He moves slowly to the door.

When his fingers brush the doorknob, all goes still.

He glances down.

The shadows are gone.

Geralt breathes in once, opens the door.