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moonlights-inkwell · 4 years ago

Text

I Love You, Don’t Say Anything

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 6,047

Summary: Healing from your wounds is a trying experience. Even if it comes with new friends.

A/N: Ha. Remember me? Yeah, me neither. Mental Health is... a bitch.

Here’s part three tho!

Part One Part Two

You’re dead. At least, you think you are. The dull, throbbing pain in your neck means you must be, surely. If this is death, though, you expected worse. Hellfire and sulphur, or angelic chorus and white clouds, or the white void of purgatory, but no. There’s none of that at all. Nothing but the pain in your neck, nowhere near as painful as it had been earlier but its still there, aching and sending occasional rushes of pain down your arm.

It’s dark. Pitch black, permeating and seeping into anything and everything, with nothing at all to break the darkness. No moon, no stars, no flickering candlelight; nothing at all. It ought to be frightening, but really it isn’t- it’s familiar. You feel like you know it, know it well at that, but you don’t really know how you do.

You have your eyes closed. That’s what it is. It’s not dark like night, no it’s dark like when you've woken from a sleep that is so overwhelming that you cannot bring yourself to open your eyes. Sleep, oh heavenly beautiful sleep, you long for it but that pain in your neck will not allow for anything like that, so instead you just lay there, eyes closed and just living in this moment. It's nice. Warm even. Like being held.

There’s a warmth across your waist that only gets warmer on your stomach, your back feels like it’s facing a fire, but there’s none of that residual pain. It’s like being held; reminds you of your childhood. When your father passed, you had been no older than six, and spent every night for a year sleeping in your mother's bed, her vice-like grip keeping you in place, held to her bosom the way a new mother would her babe to their breast. It was a hard year. Your mother had become so engulfed by her sadness that she had become almost a stranger, never smiling or laughing, not able to cook or clean or even collect fire wood; you had grown up too quickly then, having to take care of yourself and your mother until she finally found herself once more. She was so wrapped in her grief that you had spent every moment by her side- to assure her she was not alone- but it had grown into something else entirely. The house you had known as warm and sweet smelling became cold and foreign to you, and it never quite recovered even after she had. The songs came back, but sadder, the bread never as good, the honey never as sweet. Innocence lost; you suppose the childish wonderment buried in a fisherman’s watery grave along with your father. The memory makes you stiffen a little, but it’s what it reminds you of that really makes your breath catch in your throat. Your father. You haven’t given him a thought since you were eleven, and now you can’t even remember his face, it’s little more than a hazy blur in your mind. His voice, a gruff but cheerful thing, only exists in shallow memories of him singing along with your mother, whispering bedtime tales of princesses and knights. Pain pricks behind your eyes, and so you try desperately to distract yourself, focusing on the heat behind you. Familiar warmth.

It reminds you of the autumn too, when the days grow shorter and the nights colder and more likely to be filled with rain. On those colder, wetter nights something changes; boundaries disappear and you can indulge in the sweetness of not sleeping alone as you normally do. Those special, sacred nights when Jaskier, Geralt and yourself have to squish close together in a cave for warmth, pressed between the bard and Witcher so you can stay warm and protected. Geralt is always somewhat cold like a corpse, silent as the dead, but Jaskier is a different story entirely. Even when you fall into sleep on your back, you wake with him pressed into your back, face in the tangles of your hair and murmuring nonsense that must mean something in his dreams. He’s warm, like a bed warmer that can cling to you and occasionally hums lullabies when you startle awake in the night.

The flat of your hand pushes down in front of you but sinks down into comfortable fabric. Not the ground. Not the ground at all. You swear you were on the ground when you fell onto Jaskier's lap, right in front of the fire but this isn’t where you fell asleep.

You wonder, still half asleep if Geralt had managed to talk some poor inn-keep into letting you rest in their home while you heal. Unlikely. But this definitely is not camp. No, this is somewhere else entirely, somewhere with a bed- somewhere blissfully warm.

Just blissful heat. After a second or two, you realise you are being held, but only when the hot burst of breath spreads across the back of your neck and though it takes more effort than it should, your eyes creak open. You’re in a room, dark save for the glowing of a fire in a small archway across from you, with dark velvet curtains covering the windows. It’s comfortable, far more expensive than any inn you could ever afford, and in your tired daze you can’t string together anything more coherent than that. It’s comfortable.

“You’re awake. That’s good.” A voice says from by the fireplace, smooth and feminine, and your blurry eyes catch sight of a woman who you're sure wasn’t there a second before. She’s gorgeous. Intimidatingly so: tall, with black curls that frame a flawless beautiful face, corners of deep pink lips turned up into a smile. Never, in your entire life, have you seen a woman so beautiful: and you recall a story from your mother about a woman with hair like coal and skin as white as fresh fallen snow and eyes the colour of honey, but hers are not. No, they’re purple. Like amethyst, amethyst that is watching you intently.

“Am I dead?” The question escapes you before you can realise how silly it is. The voice that comes out of you is almost unrecognizable as your own. It sounds like you’ve been gargling shattered glass and assorted rocks since birth, and this woman chuckles slightly at your words. For some strange reason, the sound puts you at ease; even though you don’t know this woman, she makes you feel safe enough to not want to deal out your sword and ask how you got here.

“Dead to the world for a few days, but no. You’re still alive. Lucky to be so, too. Especially with the wound you had. Nasty thing, it was.” She steps towards you, head tilting to the left as you try and push yourself onto your elbow only to fumble. “Oh, don’t. You'll hurt yourself. It doesn’t hurt any more does it?” qqq

It doesn’t. Well, not as badly as it did before, just a dull ache rather than excruciating pain, and you allow yourself a deep inhale. Bearable, and the smile that overtakes your face is undeniable.

“...Thank you, miss...”

“No miss. Just Yennefer.” She says as she moves towards you, pushing a flute of something red into your hands. “Drink. You'll feel better.” You eye it suspiciously, holding it in both trembling hands.

“What is it?”

“It'll make you feel better.” It isn’t much by means of explanation, but it’s enough, so you tip the glass back and gulp down the fed liquid within. It tastes like liquorice and vinegar, bitter and tangy in such a way that your nose crinkles in disgust and Yennefer laughs once more. A pretty sound from a pretty woman, like tinkling bells. You wonder if she’s some sort of siren, but sirens are hardly known for their willingness to heal people. You feel drunk but the pain is lessened even still, drawing a little sigh from you, and she takes the glass. “It tastes horrible, but you feel better, right?”

You do feel better, so you let her take the glass from you when you catch sight of your arm. It’s covered, but by blue velvet, not the blouse you were wearing earlier. It’s a familiar blue velvet at that, the colour of a stream and embroidered in gold. Jaskier. It’s one of his doublets, your favourite of his doublets at that, but you have no clue how you’ve found yourself wearing it, you've never worn any article of his clothing before-

“He put it on you.” She says airily, gesturing behind you with a vague wave, which has you assuming that the confusion must be written across your face. “You gave the poor idiot a real fright, Little Miss.” The pet name comes playfully from her, but you stiffen at it until a quiet groan comes from behind you and that warmth on your stomach turns into a fist that you realise is on exposed flesh. “Geralt too, I cannot remember a time he looked so worried. The Bard hasn’t left your side though. I think he may have been worried you...”

Would die. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence for you to know what she means. You don’t want to think about that, want to focus on something- anything- else.

“You know Geralt?”

“That... is one way of putting it, yes.”

“You could say she's a heartless witch who insists on toying with Geralt.” Jaskier grumbles tiredly behind you and Yennefer rolls her eyes. For the first time since opening your eyes a coldness settles over her features, no less pretty but harder. Firmer. Women don’t normally turn cold at Jaskier, but Jaskier doesn’t normally insult women either. This dynamic is new, uncomfortable to be between, and you can see her trying to bite back words, presumably for the sake of your weak self.

“I'll take my leave, then. Try to rest, Little Miss.” Yennefer says simply, brushing the back of her knuckles across the underside of your jaw as she heads towards the door, sauntering out and closing the door behind her.

“Cow.” Jaskier huffs against your neck, tickling the skin as he lets his hand relax and flatten against your stomach once more. Unclothed stomach. You realise, a little belatedly, that you don’t have your corset on; someone has removed your corset, and you’ve been laid here, chest exposed with Jaskier around you for days. You could have died, bled to death in a wood far from home with no one to mourn you but a Witcher and his Bard, but all you can understand is that Jaskier has been lying beside you in this state of undress, and that you feel... ashamed, somehow. There's not even a reason why, but almost bare, save for his jacket you feel shame gather in your throat like vomit. You almost died. You worried him so much he hasn’t left your side, cleaned you up and put you in his clothing, but all your mind can focus on is that he must have seen you bare and you didn’t even know, couldn’t even see how he had reacted.

Your body is a body to you. It’s not something you attribute any great importance to; you've never considered yourself some buxom beauty, some sultry siren or dainty darling. Your body is just that, or was before you started your travels. Now it's a weapon, of sorts, marred by swords and scratches and bites, thighs thickened by travel, fists scarred and bruised. Insecurity is not a concept you think of in conjunction to yourself but you think of yourself and your body as different beings entirely- it’s nigh on impossible to not be insecure about the criss-cross of scars that span the plains of your belly, the raised skin below the hollow of your throat, healed over incision just to the side of your breast beneath the collar bone. He’s seen it all now, and without you seeing his response. It should be enlightening that after seeing these marks he remains still, but it isn’t. No, no, your mind is not put at ease by the hand resting over your navel, touching your battle-worn skin like it gives him comfort; it instead is overwrought by the thought he's stayed because he thinks he ought to. Feels sorry for you, has remained by your side because he wasn’t there when you were attacked, and now he has seen all he can of you has decided to wait for you to wake to inform you that he has no interest in you. He beds queens and ladies of status and not scarred wretches who almost had their throats ripped from their necks.

He’s not said a word of the sort, but this invented rebuffing of your feelings has your eyes watering and body curling in on itself, away from him. He notices immediately and curls closer around you without a word, just smoothing your hair away from your neck to press a kiss to it.

“I know you’re awake.” In spite of yourself, you smile at the sing-song lilt of his voice.

“No, I’m not.” You mumble, childishly, and the bard chuckles warmly across the back of your neck. It’s enough to make you roll onto your side to face him.

Gods, he looks tired. You’ve seen him muddied and rained on and smeared with gore, but he’s so tired it almost breaks your heart. The bags beneath his eyes are so dark you think them bruises at first, deep purple and blue, stark against his skin and almost merging into the mussed-up mess of his hair that hangs like curtains curling into his eyes. He’s no longer in your dress, but instead a chemise crumpled beyond compare and trousers to match the doublet currently covering you. Dead to the world for a few days, Yennefer had said, and you believe from the state of his clothes that he's been mourning the same amount of time. Memories of the-thing-that-wasn't-Jaskier flash before your eyes, but he smiles, your fingers slide up to rest on his chin. Even sleep deprived and bleary eyed, he’s gorgeous, smiling at you like you're the gift that he's begged for on his birthday, some prized possession. He’s stayed beside you.

“There's my love.” He says gently, thumb rubbing circles into the skin of your stomach. It’s the simplest thing he could have said, but it’s reaffirming and sweet. “You frightened me, Little Miss.”

“Force of habit at this point, Dandy.” You say, fingers straying from the rough stubble of his chin to his lips, tracing his cupid's bow with your fingertips, feeling his smile before you see it.

“I'd prefer you leave it for a while. I don’t think my heart could take that again any time soon.”

“I doubt I could survive anything like that again.” You try to laugh but the pained look he shoots you makes you still again. Joking about almost dying is nothing new, and still he’s looking at you like your mortality is something he had never considered at all before all this.

“I could have lost you.”

“Takes more than some monster in your skin to kill me off, Bard.” You smirk and lean in to peck his lips but he leans back to stare at you like you've two heads.

“What do you mean, in my skin?”

“It. It made me see things, while it... did that. To my neck.”

“See things?” He asks timidly.

“See you.” It comes out like a confession and you can’t even meet his eyes as you say it. “Doing things.”

“What things, Darling?” He presses, thumb stilling and your own fingers fall from his mouth to the pillow. “Please, Lovely, what things?”

“Jask-"

“Missy, please. I need to know, you looked so afraid, I don’t want you to-"

“You had your fingers in me.” You cut him off, and he blinks at you in shock. “Pinned to a wall, with your fingers inside me.”

“It didn’t-" It's obvious as to the destination that his thoughts have arrived at.

“It was a dream.” You try desperately to reassure him and he heaves out a sigh of relief, tugging you to his chest while his face buries into your hair. His heart pounds against your ear and you can hear him breathe in deeply as he holds you tight. “It didn’t touch me. Not like that, anyway.”

“No, it just almost killed you.”

“Like I said, Dandelion, I'm fine.”

You aren’t fine though; not really. Memory of the thing that looked like him touching you, kissing you, haunts you- especially with Jaskier holding you tight. It shouldn’t affect you in such a way, but your heart is racing and your core throbs with each breath. You aren’t afraid. Not at all, and that’s all the more worrying. No, you feel desperate; desperate to know if his fingers would actually feel that good curling within you, filling and spreading your most private of areas.

“It made you see me. Touching you.” His tone is almost unreadable, not quite disappointed but instead like he doesn’t understand even though he wants to. That’s not the issue. The thing you disliked had nothing to do with the fingers inside you, instead that you knew it wasn’t him and there’s no way to explain that to him without sounding like some kind of wanton whore.

“It. Must have seen us together in the woods.” You offer and he flinches, grip on you weakening.

“It hurt you because I was thinking with my cock and not about what was going on.” He says coldly, but that bitter chill doesn’t quite reach you, no, the cold is aimed internally. You know this blame, know it well from nights when Jaskier has fallen asleep early and Geralt will allow you a few stories of his own. Hunts gone bad. People he couldn’t save, sparce words but the meaning is there all the same. You don’t understand it from the Witcher and understand it even less from the bard.

“Jaskier-" You start to argue but he shakes his head.

“I wanted to fuck you.” He says it so forcefully, a term you’ve never heard come from him in regards to you, but it makes you still. He wanted to Fuck you, not progress, not move forward. Fuck you. Spear you on his cock ‘til you weep for him. “And because I wanted to, it could hurt you. Knew how to hurt you."

“Stop with the self-loathing, if I wanted that I'd seek Geralt out." You try to joke, but the pain in his eyes is enough to silence you. Eyes like those shouldn’t look so pained.

“You undressed me.” You whisper into the newly created silence and he nods softly.

“You were covered in blood. I... I couldn’t bear to see you like that. Besides, the jacket rather suits you.”

“It’s yours.”

“I’m aware, Little Miss.” He chuckles weakly, smoothing your hair away from your eyes. “Makes us quite fair now, Darling, don’t you think? I’ve wore your dress and now you've worn my jacket.”

Fair. Nothing about this is fair, there is nothing fair about the hurt written plainly across the Bard's face, how tired he is, how he is blaming himself. Nothing fair or right about how his trembling bottom lip has you thinking about nothing but trapping it between your teeth and sucking on it until he whimpers. But you sigh softly and lean in close to gently kiss his forehead.

“I think you need to sleep.” You whisper, watching as he smiles and squeezes your hip gently.

“You sound like my mother.” He says, tone somewhere between humour and blankness.

“Oh?”

“She loved to tell me what to do too.” It’s a joke, but your throat constricts painfully at the word mother.

“Yes, well. You remind me of my mother sometimes too.”

“Was she devilishly handsome too?” He raises an eyebrow, a smile toying at the corners of his lips.

“No. She blamed herself for my father's death.” You say concisely before rolling away from him and shutting your eyes, ending the conversation.

She used to sing too. Once upon a time.

/////////

“There are men that that wound would have killed, kotku. I’m impressed you’re so well so soon.” The brush runs through your hair, a little rougher than you expect and you’re barely able to choke back the quiet whimper of pain. You've not had a proper chance to brush your hair since the attack, and when Yennefer had offered to help with it you took the opportunity with both hands, mostly so you didn’t have to concern yourself with the matted locks of hair and blood. She had taken the job in stride too, never complaining, just moving forwards with a quiet little hum. You sit there, hands resting on your knees and twisting the fabric of a borrowed nightgown, while her soft hands manoeuvre around your head and shifting your hair away from the healing wound on your throat.

Yennefer is a breath of fresh air. Not just because she’s another woman, though that fact doesn’t lessen your enjoyment of her presence: Yennefer is wonderful and so far from any other woman you've known, strange and dark in ways that would never have been tolerated in your home, gentle but with something just below the surface which has yet to rise for you. Any other person would be far more annoyed by the presence of an injured stranger in their home, but she’s taken you being here in good stride; Geralt and Jaskier though, less so. You’re a welcome guest, they are treated more as inconvenience. There is baggage here, that no one is willing to talk about, and you are unwilling to breach this unspoken conflict. It truly isn’t your place.

That, and you don’t want that sort of coldness to be fixed on you. The woman's haughty annoyance is easily ignored, and you really don’t want to be on the receiving end of it- there’s a deeply childish part of your soul that is desperate to have her be your friend. You’re rather lacking in the friend department at the moment, and completely without any female friends. Yen seems a good friend to have.

“I like to think I’m better than any man.” You reply playfully, trying as hard as you can to keep still. How her hair looks so shiny and fine if she brushes her own hair as aggressively as she’s brushing your own is a mystery. It’s like she’s trying to scalp you.

“Two weeks for a wound like that.” She hums appreciatively, leaving you all but preening under the praise. Yes. Yen is a good friend to have, you decide, especially when her words of affirmation have you desperate for more.

When you were young, you were the same. Following the older girls about the village, desperate to be involved, to be friends- to feel older than your age, they had humoured you at the time. Braiding your hair and singing you silly songs that you’re old enough now to realise were truly kind gestures, but gestures non-the-less. They weren’t your friends, no more than you were friends with the stray cat that used to yowl at the turnips that grew in your garden; you were a pet. A sweet little thing to keep about for fun, and send away once they had outstayed their welcome and the noise was no longer endearing but annoying instead. You can’t help but hope that it isn’t like that with Yennefer. You want to be her friend.

“I'll be fighting again in no time.” You laugh, Yen’s brushing stopping entirely and she pats your shoulder.

“Not today. Bath and some clothes, then we'll see how you are just using that arm.” She gestures towards the steaming tub in the other room. “I’ll leave you something. It might not fit right but it’s better than nothing.”

Everything that the raven-haired woman has worn has been expensive looking and beautiful, but she is most definitely not the same size as you. Yennefer is slight and slender, and her deep skin looks beautiful against the fabric, even during that one winter you ate nothing but cabbage stew you weren’t as slim as her. “Stop it. In the water.” Yen chides, and you feel like a child. She has a strange sort of way of knowing how you think which you’re trying not to question. Mostly, because it feels like it would be impertinent to ask. So, you do as she asks and pad into the adjacent room, shutting the door before stripping down to nothing and climbing into the tub.

The water is almost blisteringly hot. You’d wince, if it wasn’t exactly what you need. The heat feels like it’s stripping away all dirt and sweat that has ever been on your flesh; wiping away the touch of the phantasmal Jaskier. Your thoughts return to him again. In inns, when you can find them, Jaskier always orders you a bath, slipping a bottle of scented oils into your hand before you can argue about him wasting coin on you. It’s always sweet and floral and light, almost definitely more money than it’s worth, and beautiful. There’s a collection of oil vials in your bag that you would never admit to, a few containing flowers he’s picked for you during your travels. Sentimental as it is, you’re a realist. One day all of this will end, and they’ll be all you have to remember him by- oh Gods, you want to remember him always, stupid jokes and bad puns and all. You haven’t seen him in a week.

Yennefer has insisted Geralt and Jaskier give you space to heal, you think she meant for them to go about Witchering and she would send you to find them when healed, but they’ve stayed. Some days you can hear them, arguing about something or other, sometimes playing Gwent. It’s bittersweet to have them so close but not speak to them. For a while, they’ve been the only consistency in your life, so not having them is... strange. You’re trying to readjust to sleeping alone. It isn’t easy.

Your hands sink into the water and you scoop it about your body and begin scrubbing, trying desperately to distract yourself from Jaskier. It’s sort of silly just how much you miss him. He’s just A Bard. A silly, wonderful, handsome bard. It’s ridiculous how someone like him could so simply work his way into your heart.

The world feels a smaller place without him.

You stay in the water until it chills, and would have stayed longer were it not for the numbing of your rear and thighs. When you finally make your way back into your bedchambers, Yen is long gone, and in her place is a dress. It’s very much what you expect from her, black velvet with hints of red running through the fabric, a deep plunging neckline and a cinched waist. Even with a corset tied as tightly as possible, you doubt it will fit but try and stay upbeat about it. It was nice of Yen to even lend it to you in the first place without your being moody, so you retrieve your undergarments and pull them back in place, tying your corset tightly. It takes a second or so to convince yourself to even touch the dress, never mind try on. It’s soft to the touch, far too rich for your blood, making you feel like some sort of maid who ought be bringing this garment to a queen or countess, not putting it on. You do put it on though, afraid that it will be much too small, only to be pleasantly surprised once you lace it and turn to the mirror. It fits, comfortably too, hugging your frame in a way that makes you feel attractive. Beneath the mirror, which you try not to look at, you find a small number of cosmetics, you assume courtesy of Yen, and smile. You barely ever wear such things but putting it on surely couldn’t hurt. A little bit of powder, a smudge of kohl about the eyes and rouge to the lips, it takes very little time, but you barely recognise the woman staring back at you. She’s familiar, like a relative you seldom see, but you wouldn’t assume it to be you. Her hair is a little wild, but the face is one of a dark sort of elegance, simple but enough to make a difference to you especially when combined with the dress. You had miscalculated the neckline, assuming it to be a deep plunge but instead it is far less severe and hangs off of the shoulders to form puffy sleeves that taper in at the elbow to tight cuffs. It's gorgeous and you feel beautiful but its not right. You feel like a child playing dress up. You breathe in shallowly and turn towards the door.

“I’ll not let you keep her from me a minute longer!” You hear shouted through the door. Jaskier. His voice rings clear as a bell.

“She's bathing.” Yen says simply. Her voice is passive, even bored, and you can tell she's only doing it to upset him.

“Alone! After being injured! She could have drowned or-"

“Have you always been a mother hen? Or is this some sort of way of trying to get into her bed?”

“How dare you!”

“I know how you act, Dandelion. I’ve seen you around women. Bedding them, leaving. Your little miss deserves better than that.”

“You act like I don’t know that!” He snaps back at her and you step out of the bedroom, following their squabbling until you’re stood in the doorway watching them. Yennefer has a finger thrust into Jaskier's chest, pointed black nail leaving an indent in his clothing as he bares his teeth at her, like an animal raring to attack. It’s like watching day meet night, blue boy scowling at a woman shrouded in black.

Your blue boy.

It’s been a week, you’ve gone longer without seeing rain, but the sight of Jaskier lifts a weight off of you that you hadn’t even known was there. He looks better rested, if a little strange glaring, hair still dishevelled. The fact that you had heard the two of them all the way to the door is the only way you know that the two of them hadn’t been in a physical fight before you got there. You know the sound of skin on skin too well to have missed it. One might break out still if the tension in the air is anything to go by. You’ve broken up drunken scraps over less, but you can’t bring yourself to move. Some part of you wants to see how this plays out before you intervene. A sick part of you wants to know if they will fight, over you at that. Dandelion is hardly the kind of man to start a brawl with a woman, but Yen most definitely seems like the sort of woman who would start a fight with a man. Truly, she seems like the sort of woman who would win a fight against a man, or ten.

“She almost died-"

“And you’re leaving her alone in a bath where anything could happen! She could fall asleep and drown. Could trip and hurt herself more! I have put up with this for a week, Witch, and I won’t be putting up with it for a moment longer. I was willing to be quiet for Geralt’s sake, but he isn’t here now.” His voice is venomous, cold enough to make you shiver. Jaskier isn’t cold. He’s all sunlight and summer, like coming home to a lit hearth in the depth of winter; this is new. You’ve never been the subject of his ire, but every time you have seen it, its been. Different. Angry Jaskier is smug, self-aggrandising and sure, this is almost afraid. Like you being without him might cause you to be lost to him. Has that happened with others, you wonder, time ripping people from his grip?

“You’re being an arse! Making her sleep alone in a stranger’s home-"

“She’s a fucking grown woman, she can sleep without you lingering about her like a fart in a crowded room!”

“Do the two of you always argue like this?” You ask lightly, leaning against the door frame for stability. Both turn quickly, startled by your voice seemingly coming out of nowhere.

Normally, when you walk it’s with a purpose, in sturdy boots and belts that clink together, there is no way to be silent, so the gown has given you a silent presence that is impossible to achieve normally. Geralt is always silent, appearing and disappearing like a phantom. Must be fun, you think to yourself, to linger in the background just listening to how other people interact with each other. So much gossip to hear, arguments to silently choose a side in. You almost wish this would be a regular occurrence, even if you can’t help but miss that sound of chinking metal on metal from buckles and blades.

As much as you know that the difference in your appearance is drastic, you aren’t expecting the response that you get. Jaskier gawks at you, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, while Yennefer smiles at you, nodding with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Well. Look who didn’t die in the bath.” She says, voice all light and playful- a world away from the cruel tone she had used for Jaskier. It feels a little patronising, like she’s speaking to a child or a pet, but you smile all the same. She's been so kind to you, and you know better than to bite the hand that feeds. “You look pretty without all the mud and blood.”

“I feel pretty.” You admit, tripping a little over the words. “I'm surprised the dress even fits.”

“Of course it does.” She replies with such finality as she sidles to your side, brushing down the fabric at your hips. There are no wrinkles there, you’re quite sure, but the act makes you blush- barely anyone touches your hips, so the feeling of hands on them, even through the clothing, is enough to make your mouth go dry. Violet eyes focus on you like you’re the only person in the room and you almost feel like it. It’s like you’ve been bewitched, and you only return to reality when a choked-out noise across from you brings you out of your own head.

Jaskier is still gaping, staring at you like a stranger, and your blush only intensifies under his eyes. The stare is almost hungry, and you recognise it from that night when your neck had been ripped open- but not from that dream. No, from when he had laid you down in front of the fire and slotted himself between your legs, member thick against your thigh. You feel like a slab of meat in front of a hungry animal, like at a second’s notice he will pounce on you and sink his teeth into you. A vein in his throat bulges as he breathes in before Yennefer steps away from you.

“Jask?” You ask, and his only response is an exhale that verges on a pained moan. You move toward him worriedly. “Jaskier?”

“Gods, Little Miss. Look at you.” He whispers.

“What’s wrong with me?” You ask quickly, afraid all at once that you don’t look as pretty as you had initially thought. Too pale, eyes too dark, lips too much like blood.

“Absolutely nothing.” Yennefer intervenes sharply, hand resting on your shoulder in a manner that is both reassuring and restrictive.

“You. You.” He stammers out, looking you up and down, which you mirror. “You... You look like...” He stumbles over the words forming in his throat and just reaches for you instead, hands finding yours and tugging you into a possessive grasp, body melting around yours. “Gods, I don’t even know.”

You want to ask if that is a bad thing, but you know it isn’t. The knowledge makes you feel powerful.

#jaskier imagine #jaskier x reader #jaskier x you #the witcher

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oristromboli · 4 years ago

Text

If You Be Our Star, We’ll Be Your Sky | 3

Chapter 3: Straw Dogs

Childe cocks an eyebrow, smirk barely melting into a snarl. “And what would you know? You stay behind the scenes while the rest of us do real work.”

Scaramouche's slow smile is poisonous and laced with contempt as he hisses, “You should know there is a Liyue saying that goes ‘Heaven and Earth are impartial, treating all creatures like straw dogs.’ When the sacrifices have fulfilled their purpose, they are discarded because there is no more use and care for such worthless objects. Didn’t dear Morax tell you of this philosophy himself, Childe?”

(Smut this chapter: Zhongli/Childe)

In your dreams, you hear maniacal laughter ring around you. Somehow the emptiness begins to oscillate, reaching towards you with endless gnarled limbs and bloodshot eyes that won’t stop watching. You back into a wall that wasn’t there before, unforgiving edges all but flaying the skin on your back as you try to escape.

They’re coming.

You turn and run. There’s a golden light beckoning you, so you urge your legs to go faster, but the light never gets closer. If anything, it grows more distant. This path will end in madness.

They’re coming.

You decide a new route to traverse before those twisted hands seize you. When was there water? Is it water? It grows thicker, warmer, rises to your knees, your chest, your throat. You can’t breath. You’re drowning.

They’re coming. And you’re alone.

---

You feel a hand on your shoulder gently shaking you awake, fear seizing your throat in a silent gasp as you try to orient yourself. You’re okay, you’re okay, just breathe, you’re okay. When you look to your right, Aether’s golden eyes meet your own as he stands near your bed with the Seelie fastidiously hanging by his side. Sweat glistens on his forehead and his pupils are blown too.

Neither of you say anything as you open your blanket and he crawls in to join you, tucking against your side to hide his face. Each night spent chained to this world you witness a new side to Aether as he comes undone at the seams.

He and Lumine were inseparable. She shouldered all his secrets, as he did hers. When they rescued you that night so many centuries ago, you promised to safeguard the two of them while they covered each other. You did not need to know everything that happened between them and before your arrival, just as they did not ask for you to fill all the holes in their understanding of you.

This night – the night immediately after facing a fallen god’s wrath – you both hug each other tightly. Is this how it felt to be on the other end of the heavens’ sword? Though Zhongli left Liyue to fend for themselves as a test, you still cannot help but feel angry with the silence of your own people as you were both abandoned without care.

Realization dawns through that cracked armor about how broken you both feel without your divine powers. How cold without that eternal light, Lumine. What did she feel in her last moments, what hatred for the skies?

Still, this is enough. Sorrow needs a place to sleep, needs hands to hold its delicate shape and say it is alright. It is not always loud, nor sharp, nor clean. Sometimes, it just needs a place to rest until morning.

“I miss her,” he mumbles, barely audible above your own heartbeat.

“Me too.”

This is enough.

---

Xiao turns his head, heeds the all too familiar calls of a nightmare. Just call his name Aether, just utter it once and he’ll be there. When silence is all that greets him, Xiao instead follows that smokey trail until he comes upon the inn’s room. The fight with Osial is fresh in his mind, so he imagines the same must be said of Aether and yourself. Both of you hold the other tightly, blissfully unaware of the vigilante keeping watch.

Xiao wants to lean forward, to brush Aether’s hair out of his face and say it’s alright, but he refrains from encroaching more than he already is. Instead, the adeptus leaves an offering of herbs that relax the mind on the windowsill for their discovery.

When the morning arrives, Aether is the first to wake and finds the gift left behind. Even if there’s no name attached, he knows precisely who left it. A boyish smile breaks on his face as he leans out the window to smell the fresh air and, admittedly, try to catch sight of the adeptus. “Thank you, Xiao,” Aether murmurs with the full force of his sincerity, pure and golden. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but come to me whenever you can’t sleep either. Maybe I can sing you a lullaby.”

Do adepti even sleep? Aether shakes his head at himself, but he doesn’t stop smiling. He hopes that one day, the yaksha will take him up on his offer.

On the inn’s rooftop overlooking Liyue Harbor, Xiao’s heart flickers with hope.

---

Childe flexes his arm, raising his fist back and forth to test the ligaments and muscles. They work fine, but he still feels that dark electricity pulsing; in some ways, he feels as though he’s the marionette being strung along. The Foul Legacy Transformation always collects its toll, and each day Tartaglia fights, he fights to gain the strength to beat back that beast that lingers in his peripheral.

He wonders if each time he transforms, a bit more of his soul returns to the abyss, how soon the day will come that the Harbinger is dragged back. Though, if the Tsaritsa ever catches wind, he’s sure the ever-curious and macabre Dottore would become his new best friend. How nice. If that’s not depressing, he’s not sure what is.

“Childe,” Zhongli calls. He snaps out of his reverie and an easy smile slides back into place, fitting perfectly with his wayward good looks. The ex-god is staring at him, gripping his bowl of noodles and wielding his chopsticks with a deft precision Childe knows he’ll never achieve.

He wonders how many people have been killed by those hands.

“You appear lost in thought once more,” Zhongli rumbles, stare becoming more intense.

“Ah! Forgive me, I am just reflecting on my trip with Teucer. Took a bit out of me, ya know,” he replies, shrugging genially. Best not to dwell on the negatives. Though it took many long hours of meditation – he still remembers his frustration at just trying to sit still because who the fuck does that willingly – at Zhongli’s suggestion, no less, Tartaglia finds it easier to manage his impulsive thoughts before they follow the most practical (cynical) route. After all, he’s trained warrior and follows one rule: ‘Don’t let the enemy see you bleed.’

“I see.”

Well shit. Broke rule number one.

The pair are sitting at one of the tables at Liuli Pavilion at the god’s behest; it’s been a handful of weeks since the… incident, and barely one since Teucer decided to surprise him. They’ve met more often than perhaps the last months leading up to the fateful encounter at the Golden House, especially with Childe’s time in Liyue coming to a close within the week. Each spare moment is split between the Travelers and Zhongli. At first, Childe admits, he dragged the former Archon along to properly size him up, try to understand where exactly he fucked up his estimations of his character. Though he’s been called back to Zapolyarny Palace, Childe notes that the order recalling him does not say to stop observing Zhongli.

So he does just that. It’s for the Tsaritsa, he tries justifying to himself, nothing more than selfish curiosity. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Not for the first time, Tartaglia ignores this… intensity in his chest, burning traitorously bright and intense and passionate when he sees the god. Childe thinks back to his journey of how this came about: orders turned to curiosity, turned to attempted manipulations, turned to genuine fondness and betrayal and – and –

As though reading his thoughts, Zhongli puts down the bowl, his full attention on Tartaglia now. Great. “It is more than Teucer and your injuries. Did you truly recover?”

“Yeah, of course. I’m always getting stronger, remember?” Right?

Amber eyes narrow. “Did you recover?”

Ah.

“Mm, yeah, still trying to figure out how you managed to guess so easily that I would resort to summoning Osial to get to you.” They both know he’s lying through his teeth, but Zhongli thankfully plays along this time.

“To be fair, your character is straight forward.”

Childe laughs, bright and genuine for the first time this conversation. “I, Tartaglia, am the Eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui! The Vanguard of the Harbingers. How dare you say that I am so easy to read, when I have always been the first sent to initiate bloodshed, as according to our many long and boring schemes.” The last parts of his sentence fizzles out as his nose curls in distaste. Show no weakness. “Well, in any case, you know I never enjoyed that stuff anyway. Take it head on or don’t at all.”

Zhongli nods, understanding his meaning. Childe maneuvers his head to find amber eyes and raises his eyebrows, suggestive and giddy; he saw in Zhongli an intelligent man before, but now? Oh, oh! A battleworthy opponent. Maybe the god picked up on his not-so-subtle hints for a fight?

“I am still not going to spar you.”

Worth a shot.

“Ah, well, I tried.” Childe reaches for a pair of chopsticks and tries again. When both men watch as the Fatui manages to pick up a piece of meat without trouble, there’s a sudden shift in the atmosphere, warm and nostalgic. It settles deep between them.

“You know…” Childe starts, looking at Zhongli, really looking at him, soft eyes reflecting something foreign in those ocean blues. “I appreciate your consideration for me. Really. You won, fair and square, checkmate and all. I hope to one day be able to manipulate the battlefield as excellently.”

Zhongli returns his smile, and Childe ignores the something that falls in his heart. “Understanding your opponents is half the battle, both literally and figuratively,” the god laughs, clearly amused at his own play on words. He joins in, if only to indulge the silly man.

Another silence. He looks around them and releases a deep sigh. Yeah, okay, he can admit privately that this is nice.

“Do you ever feel bad about it?” he asks suddenly, surprising them both. Now, where the fuck did that come from?

When he thinks of you, Childe feels something else, something cold settle beside his confusion, a sensation he hasn’t felt in a long time. Guilt. Of course, his companion understands the unspoken implications, eyes falling to the ring Childe wears. Both men still remember vividly how violently you three reacted, all teeth and pain and fury bared. He has long since made peace with you, but…

He looks to the boats on the ocean, swaying back and forth, back and forth. His heart moves with them. Something feels unsettled, unsaid… A loose thread. Childe’s heart squeezes at that thought. Fantastic.

“I have no regrets,” Zhongli replies, tone firm and final, clearly choosing his words carefully and mindful for any straining ears. “I did what was best. Moves and countermoves. All things can be bargained in the end, and Liyue won its right to be independent that day.”

Blue eyes narrow. “Bargained? You mean bought?” He rolls the word around his tongue, tasting it. Yeah, no. Tastes like shit. “You think people can be treated like that so easily?”

Neither of them needs to say it, but both know of the lingering bitterness towards the Tsaritsa. Childe adores her attitude of achieving harmony at any cost, including war, but the underhanded nature of being used himself makes him feel less like a general and more like a pawn. Even there, in Liyue’s hot climate, is her frozen heart felt. However, Zhongli narrows his own eyes. “Are you not the leader of the Northland Bank?”

Childe scoffs and is the first to break the impromptu staring contest. “That’s different, people knew what they were getting into. They didn’t. I… I made a mistake and apologized, but still. It feels… Wrong. I feel wrong.”

“Because you feel as though you sunk to the Tsaritsa’s level?” Zhongli’s soft voice tugs Childe back into looking at him, and he immediately regrets it. Oh. Oh man. He’s very… intensely feeling something for this man. What is it? Everything and nothing. Fondness, yes, warmth, yes, but nothing of that garbage in those cheap romance novels his sisters love to read. Nothing… fuzzy, because truly no, that’s not right either, doesn’t feel right. Childe swallows and nods.

“Yeah,” he croaks. Wow. Really pathetic, but whatever, all pretenses are gone now between them. Right? “We’re good now, yeah? We’re being honest with each other? Have been? Will be?” Childe winces lightly at how quickly he rattled those off like he’s trying to reassure himself more than Zhongli. In a way, he is.

“We are, have been, will be,” the consultant responds, voice lighter and taking Childe’s heart with him.

“Cool.”

A beat.

“But you still didn’t answer my question. Do you really think of us mort- people so low?”

Something else emerges, not unfamiliar when he thinks of the god. Frustration, irritation. Nothing new, but again, not right either.

Zhongli tilts his head, not unlike a cat with golden pupils in slits. Ah, he’s cute, cute in the same way the furry little creatures are before they leap at their prey. The god rolls his head briefly like he’s trying to shake his own thoughts out, untangle them.

From what?

“Do you wish for my response as a mortal, or as my… previous station?”

Ah. Choosing between which face to use. Tartaglia understands this intimately and finds another piece of common ground to stand with the old god.

“Both.”

“Mortals fascinate me, and for the first time in a very, very long time, I am afforded the luxury of… Walking as one. Experiencing life as they do.”

“Wait wait wait wait – “ Childe is shaking his head and holds up his hands. “You say that as if being… you is so different. Is it?”

“In a way, it is,” Zhongli nods. “As someone of my age, knowing of the limitless future, there is no need to attempt to comprehend anything beyond the next battle, the next project for my people. What time wounds will be mended by time once more. If we are being honest –“

“We are.”

“I never cared for understanding the inner workings to life. I could not during those days, I stood as the stone shield to protect my companions. Instead, I faced my problems head on, relentless and straightforward and precise. Actions and emotions were separated; one could not reflect upon the other during times of conflict.”

Childe huffs in a half-hearted laugh. He always pitied the unfortunate souls caught in Zhongli’s spear. “I think I’m starting to see your point Zhongli. Our once-gentle Tsaritsa understands this reality intimately, especially now that she declared the world her enemy to achieve peace.”

“In essence, for the Cryo Archon believes gentleness and humanity to be weaknesses these days.”

“I hear a ‘but’ somewhere in there, though.”

“My friend… Guizhong, she… She understood mortals, encouraged me to watch them and learn, sought for me to unlock what she claimed was true strength. Many weaker gods have passed, their spirits barely a whisper and their memories all but forgotten. Stronger deities, such as Osial, will never truly depart but just slumber for the opportunity to rise again. Even some Adepti linger if they do not choose reincarnation. So then, what did she mean by ‘true strength’? I did not understand.” Zhongli’s voice cracks briefly, so Childe’s hand reaches across the table to grasp the other’s. He offers a comforting smile, a rare sight on a Harbinger’s face, but he regards Zhongli as a truly rare companion worthy of his undying loyalty.

Zhongli returns it and Childe’s heart flutters. He knows that he’s just a mortal, what can he do to protect the God of War? Still, if he can at least stave off some of those bad memories, then it’s worth it. The man rubs slow circles on the god’s hand to ground him to the present.

“As the years passed, I observed. In the end, we are all the same. I have found that a singular purpose guides each individual and drives their spirit to fight, to linger, to be born anew and try again. Understanding that guiding desire is the key to establishing proper contracts.”

“Mm, so, basically, there’s an order to life?” he responds, poking fun at Zhongli’s motto to lighten the atmosphere. Childe’s shit-eating grin grows wide at Zhongli’s dry, unimpressed look that crosses his face. Still, there’s a hint of fondness and gratitude, if Childe squints hard enough. Hey now, he can’t be disappointed in the Fatui’s little jab considering the absolutely dad-styled joke he made earlier.

“Indeed. Gods, adepti, and people can therefore be bought. All things can, even an Archon’s gnosis. We are all equal in that respect.”

Childe nods and retracts his hand to stab a piece of meat with his chopsticks. Nothing threatening, he just needs a way to guide his thoughts. There must be some dubious psychology, though, in deciding his brain is the piece of meat he just committed casual violence against.

The Fatui can’t help but wonder if Zhongli is still missing the big picture in deciding that life can be simplified to a series of contractual choices, even if it eases the immortal’s pain of losing the things he values most over and over again. Then again, does Childe even know what that picture looks like himself? “I get debts, but this feels different, y’know? I understand the value of connections and people more intimately than most, but… People aren’t things. You can’t completely own them for the sake of having them.”

(Morax, the glaze lilies around him whisper, you cannot hoard people.)

“Then,” Zhongli says, ignoring the voices of times past, “What do you call your collection of these valuable people?”

Childe laughs, full and bright and roguish. “Give and take, my friend! Give and take. All things must be equal in the end as you said yourself, no?”

---

“Why him?”

The Tsaritsa’s icy gaze pierces his own, and Zhongli’s lips quirk up, the only indication of any betraying thoughts lurking behind that stony visage.

They both know he allowed her to the courtesy of witnessing it.

“Your other Harbingers all lurk within the shadows, but from what you describe, Tartaglia wields them like a weapon. He is a refined tool for chaos. No one else is mad enough to summon a long-dead deity.”

“Whatever I ask of my Harbingers, they will bring. Signora can summon Osial all the same. So, I ask again, why him?” Her eyes challenge him, demonstrating her confidence in front of the oldest of the Seven.

How arrogant of her.

“Two Archons already lay their claim on him, do they not? Vision and Delusion,” he replies.

“Moves and countermoves.”

“So why not him, Tsaritsa?”

Her biting laugh suddenly rings out, bouncing against the ice around them. “Morax, you are indeed cruel for nothing to escape you. Perhaps he is perfect for your plans, then, as malleable as that boy is. Very well. I will assign him to Liyue.”

Zhongli’s fists curl behind his back. So little regard for the mortals under her charge, so little care.

The Tsaritsa waves her hand dismissively. “It is merely coincidence that the boy is favored. He just embodies the valued qualities of our nations, I assure you. You will find him most agreeable.”

One eyebrow arches. “Whether I find him agreeable is irrelevant. As long as he fulfills his designated purpose, I am content.”

She looks at him, studies him. “Indeed.”

---

“Why him?”

Zhongli looks to Ganyu, curious and gentle eyes flickering between his. They stand on Mt. Tianheng, watching the harbor rebuild. It’s been a few hours since his lunch with Childe, and he agreed to meet with one of his most loyal – and oldest – friends afterwards. Ganyu is one of the few adepti who have, presently, seen him physically outside of gifted visions and dreams. He was always fond of her company, even if the young qilin has an unwavering habit of napping precisely when it was most inconvenient.

“You have taken many lovers over the years, participated in contractual commitment, as per customary of your gifts. Never with someone so impish, though. Why him?” Her questions are not frigid, imperial, challenging; no, she asks out of genuine concern and care for his wellbeing. Always the soothing soul.

He smiles at her. “It is because of his impish behaviors I find him so interesting.” Turning back towards the harbor, he pauses for a beat before continuing. “This is not the first time I have courted and taken lovers, and eventually, he too discovered my real identity. All of my lovers understood precisely who they were engaging themselves with.”

Her eyes follow his to the harbor, lost in thought. Idly, she reaches for some leaves in a silk flower shrub to her right, tempted to pluck its leaves to eat. A nervous habit. “Yes. But none were so disrespectful.”

Zhongli chuckles, rich and true, no longer burdened with maintaining appearances. “You are correct. His treatment of me did not change after learning of my identity, the first mortal to dare such behavior. No, he still treats me as his equal, not as a god. He cared for me at first as an enemy, but now, his heart pours generosity regardless of old wounds and without expectation of anything in return.”

Give and take. Childe is breaking his own rules once again.

Soft lips curl around your name, Ganyu’s questions endless now that it has been unleashed. “What of her? Why? She is the first immortal you have been enamored with since the glaze lilies wilted.”

Zhongli crosses his arms and closes his eyes, contemplating his answer. A distant and wistful expression breaks, though Ganyu cannot see it. “Because the Travelers are most curious beings. They have shared in burdens similar to my own, and I find it comforting to know that there are others who understand deeply what I feared to be alone in ever since she left.”

The waters of time have worn away his stone heart, and yet… He feels renewed, like spring has finally arrived after leaving him so many lifetimes ago.

“Celestia’s burdens are now put to rest, Ganyu. Where before I did not end my duties for fear of a lack of purpose beyond that point, I realize now that I am free to pursue what I could never have. Serendipity would have it that I have found attractive companions to walk it with. Perhaps this is her final trial for me.”

“But, Zhongli… She is not Guizhong.” The unspoken warning lingers in the air.

(Do not dishonor living company with the memories of those long dead.)

“I know.” Soft leather creaks as his fingers tighten.

(I won’t.)

She fears for her master’s softened soul, though she remains too loyal to speak.

Ganyu’s lips purse and she thinks once again of those reflective blue eyes, of Tartaglia’s fierce dedication to duty and love of battle, of how he cares only for the satisfaction of the next victory. She thinks of a younger Morax, tall and proud as he led their people to glory with jade shields and obsidian spears.

What, then, is Tartaglia trying to protect?

How interesting that this mortal mirrors so much of the deity before her; the birth of one, the death of another.

“The timing is interesting for your mortal paramour as well; do you not agree?” She hesitates, attempting to choose her next words with, perhaps, greater care than she does for the Qixing. “How she falls from the heavens, how he walks into your life now that you are free to explore it.”

Zhongli waves his hand dismissively before he catches himself. “Merely coincidence.”

Ganyu narrows her eyes this time. “You do not believe in coincidence.”

He doesn’t respond.

---

Ajax sits in his bed, flipping his dagger around and around, vulnerable and alone in his thoughts. The new moon gives way to a blanket of stars, distant but lingering nonetheless. When the man looks to his left, the chopsticks Zhongli gave him those many months ago rest undisturbed.

He grins then, uninhibited delight gleaming. “Well well well, anything can be mastered, right?” It’s not like he’s going to be able to sleep anytime soon with the way his mind races. Ajax groans as he reaches over to grasp the utensils and stands, stretching out the day’s stress.

He has time to prove Zhongli wrong, he can master these infernal sticks or he doesn’t deserve the title of Eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui. At the very least, he wants to eat a full meal with the man without resorting to just stabbing his food because that’s just downright pathetic. The Harbinger looks out his window again to the sky, a twinkle in his eye, before turning around, set on finding some leftovers to practice on.

The stars certainly appreciate the ensuing clumsy entertainment.

---

Another day, another meal. Come on, Childe tells himself, this is it, this will be the one-

The noodles slide out of his chopsticks’ grip, and he sighs, tossing his head back and running his left hand through his orange locks. “Pretty sure I’m just cursed at this point…”

He smiles when he hears Zhongli snickering with at least some decency to try to cover his mouth.

“You know, the Travelers have no issue applying themselves to those tools, so why do you?” Childe snorts, but only kicks the other under the table.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her, you know,” he starts casually. Zhongli looks at him, eyebrow quirked, but a smirk emerges nonetheless.

“Oh? Is this another one of your jokes, Childe?”

He laughs, shaking his head with a mischievous expression to match. “Nah. It’s okay, you know, I don’t mind. Our little… Stress relief is not exclusive.” At that, Zhongli’s eyes narrow. He slowly leans forward and steeples his gloved fingers, resting his chin on them, deep in thought. Was it… Did Zhongli not believe him? “ ‘m being honest,” he says as he raises his hands in a show of peace.

“I know you are. Which is why I’m curious.”

Childe gulps, suddenly very aware of the scrutiny he’s put under. He has nothing to hide, but Zhongli’s boring into him like the man grew a second head. “About what?”

The god leans back and picks up his chopsticks, apparently having decided on whatever it is that Childe just blurted. He doesn’t respond, but his shoulders shake with contained laughter like he’s in on some inside joke, and oh, the asshole. “Hey, don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. About what?”

Amber eyes flick up at him, amusement just rolling off of him in waves. “About why you did not pursue her yourself. You are not the only observant one here.”

Whatever happened to don’t let them see you bleed? He winces and starts a plastic laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. Why does the old man never pull any punches? “Ah, well, y’know…” A gloved hand waves around pathetically, trying to somehow grab the words out of thin air to explain for him. “She’s just so distant. And angry. And strong.”

“Like that ever stopped you. As a matter of fact,” Zhongli purrs, “I recall that exciting you.”

“Har har, just don’t go around telling everyone about my kinks, alright? Besides, we started this little thing of ours before that whole fiasco, but don’t get me wrong, this is just all pent-up tension. She isn’t afraid to fight me, like you. Gotta get my sick kicks somewhere else,” Childe grins, eyes daring the other to take the bait.

“Mm, I am not fighting you, comrade.”

“Damn it.”

“But you are simply proving my point, you never back down from a challenge. So why then?” Shit, he has a point. Why didn’t he? Childe only grunts and reaches for a dumpling, intent on trying again and thoroughly exasperated that Zhongli is just deflecting his own curiosity.

“You tell me,” Childe drawls, long and sarcastic. “I thought dear Morax always got what he wanted?” Zhongli sighs and closes his eyes, frustration bubbling forth. Yeah, okay, Childe was being immature, he’ll admit it. Zhongli can go screw himself though, the guy was being annoyingly spot-on.

“Funny how an equally possessive man accuses me as such. I suppose… it did not feel right to start something that is – as you describe it – ‘stress relief’ after the incident. Not with her,” Zhongli’s jaw tightens before he resumes eating, adamant at leaving it like that. Still, Childe nods sagely and without irony this time around. Yeah, that’s a good way to describe it. His feelings for you were no different than his own towards Zhongli, but it was also… Not the same. Your name tastes different in his mouth, left his heart twisting differently, tensing differently.

Otherworldly.

“Gonna have to wait for the bird to want to fly back into the nest this time around after we angered the Travelers, huh?” Yeah, ‘pretty bird’ is probably Childe’s greatest stroke of playful genius, the name seems to suit you in every way he can think of.

His companion grumbles something under his breath before gracing him with an indignant response. “Do you best understand these delicate matters only in terms of the bloody hunter and frightful hunted?”

“You got me there, Zhongli.” With a wolfish grin, he grabs the bottle of baijiu and pours a drink for himself. Oh, how he misses Fire-Water… Soon, Childe reminds himself, soon. “You were right that day, you know. I don’t like losing control over what’s mine. We always tried to win some battle with each other, and we knew what we were doing, even when it was playing the Tsaritsa’s game. The amazing sex was just another aspect to our business relationship in finding the enemy’s weakness.”

Zhongli snorts into his cup. “Do you sleep with all of your business associates?”

“Fuck off, you know you wanted it too. But her? Not all the bargaining chips are on the table. She keeps it pretty close to the chest, and I try not to walk into enemy territory blind. Not always successful though, obviously.”

Zhongli hums along. “You can guess what my next moves are now that you understand who and what I am.”

“Yeah, and at least Aether and the stir-fry have the decency of telling me what’s going on in their head by being obnoxiously loud about it,” Childe grunts. “Not her, though. Not really. I don’t trust her ‘openness,’ nobody shows their emotions that easily. Even blondie and his pet gremlin try to hide some things, but I recognize the way she looks at them when they do a poor job. It’s how she looked at me when I tried to lie to Teucer.” Childe’s nose crinkles fondly at the memory of the loyal knight’s desperate attempts to protect his brother. “I’d say it’s a fair bet whether she would kiss me or kill me first and I wouldn’t be able to stop her. But hey, adds to the thrill of it all.”

“Your masochism will be the death of you one day. Do you have a single care for your well-being? Truly?” Zhongli’s deadpan words are purely rhetorical because they both know the answer.

“Hey! I listen to the doctor when I need to.”

“Mm, and do you pull rank on this Fatui doctor as well?”

“Well, who’s keeping track anyway?”

The god only smiles, affection radiating from his being. “My friend, I treasure our conversations. I will surely miss them.” Childe smiles and laughs with him. He feels good. Yeah. Zhongli makes him feel good. What he feels is thrilled, excited, electrified, but most importantly, genuinely welcomed.

(Welcomed, accepted, cared for. His heart lurches. No right word can describe this, describe how the strange not-humans from Teyvat and beyond took him in without question.)

He’ll miss this too, he concedes without a shred of shame, even if it’s a bittersweet feeling.

“Now then,” Zhongli coughs, before looking back up with the gall to appear sheepish. “About paying for our meal…”

“Oh, fuck you.”

---

Childe’s knuckles rap against Zhongli’s door before pushing it open, pleased but not surprised as the door gives way without protest. He steps inside and removes his shoes by the doorway before padding down the hall, the smell of bamboo shoot soup permeating the hallways. When he enters the kitchen, he finds Zhongli sitting at the table with a bowl already in hand.

“Aw, you started without me?” Childe pouts but steps up to the table nonetheless. Zhongli huffs in amusement.

“I heard you walking up the steps and took the liberty of beginning.”

“Of course you did,” the other replies while rolling his eyes. They finish their meals in peace with little banter flowing between them. After all, both felt the weight of this last night together. As Childe gathers the dishes to place in the sink, he mulls over his own decision for coming over to the ex-Archon’s den. Lust pools in his gut and his selfish body wants to taste Zhongli’s skin one more time. That’s all it is. Pure lust.

As gloved hands slide around his waist, slow and easy, Zhongli perches his head on Childe’s shoulder and rumbles deeply, “Lost in thought, are we?”

He snorts and turns around, tugging the other closer so their hips are flush against each other. When he adjusts himself to a better position, innocent eyes blinking, Zhongli gasps as his own body bucks forward, looking for more friction. “Mm, just wondering what I’ll have to do to get you to show me your hoard, comrade.”

The other man grumbles, but it’s half-hearted and disguises the increases sounds of pleasure threatening to claw out of his throat. “O-Oh? And what makes you think this will aid your investigations?”

Childe flashes his teeth wickedly as he leans down to nip at the other’s ear, all gentle foreplay gone as he immediately bites hard enough to draw blood with his canines. Zhongli groans as he grabs the other’s shoulders, squeezing with force shy enough to break bone. “Don’t underestimate my tactics, comrade,” he purrs. Zhongli looks at him, eyes hooded and panting before he keens when Childe’s hand slides down to cup his half-hard bulge.

At the insistent whining, Childe leans forward and captures his lips, shoving the other forward and off of him. Zhongli grunts but follows his orders obediently as Childe maneuvers them to the bedroom before he sits down on the bed, yanking the former Archon by the tie to his knees. He falls and leans forward, begging for another kiss as his eyes keep staring at Childe’s plump lips. The man obliges and delights at the speed he’s given permission to explore. Fuck, who would’ve thought that Rex Lapis would be such a bitch when you kiss him right?

He pulls back and smirks at the shivering mess before him that shuffles forward to nudge Childe’s straining bulge and lick along the clothess concealing it. “Look at you,” Childe coos, “you’re so pathetic, you want my cock that badly, huh?”

“Y-yes,” Zhongli rasps and moans brokenly when Childe’s hands snake into his hair to pull him up off his knees slightly, his own hands grasping Childe’s thighs for purchase. When the Harbinger ups the ante by reaching his right hand down the other’s pants to grab his leaking cock, hard, Zhongli nearly shouts as his face twists in pleasure. “Please, Childe, more. I want more – “ His voice cuts off into another broken moan when Childe gives a few leisurely pumps, blue eyes watching the other wickedly.

“You want? Comrade, just what do you think an interrogation is? You don’t get to want anything,” he growls and retreats, suddenly letting go of the other. Zhongli’s eyes shoot open as he falls down again. Fuck, the way his chest heaves as his face is flushed with blatant desire threatens Childe’s composure. No, no, that won’t do, Zhongli doesn’t get to command him like this.

He curls his lips as his boot moves forward, gently rubbing at Zhongli’s erection. The sob that erupts is thrilling, and Childe’s lust-addled ego rears its ugly head when he notices the other gasping incoherent praises between breaths. “Please, please, please, do not tease me like this on your final night Childe, please. Forgive me, but I want your cock, I need it.”

Childe’s characteristic laugh bubbles forth as he clutches the other’s throat to silence him. “My, you’re agreeable like this. Did anybody ever tell you that you get to be so chatty when you want to be fucked? Pathetic,” he whispers, but a cruel pleasure unfurls as he watches Zhongli come undone with each degrading word. “You really like that, huh? Who else has talked down to the great Rex Lapis like this, hm? Answer me.”

“O-only you,” Zhongli gasps. “Only you.”

“Good.” Childe’s smile grows affectionate and he releases his grip before kissing the other again. It would be chaste if not for the insistent pawing at Zhongli’s clothes. “Strip for me.”

The god obeys, immediately tugging his own clothes off. Still, even in the throes of pleasure does he perform every action so meticulously, so carefully; he folds his clothes and places them on a nearby chair, and Childe’s heart flutters with fondness. Of course this stupid man would be so fussy during sex, of course. But that thought only sparks another – oh, by the Archons, he’s going to ruin this man and mark him for weeks after. Let’s see Zhongli deal with that problem.

Who even cares that the god can probably heal his wounds in minutes? If anything, that drives the warrior further in his madness to make the other bleed.

Zhongli stands before him, bare and glorious, his throbbing cock pink and leaking driblets of shimmering precum. He’ll never stop being hypnotizing with how the Geo energy refuses to be contained, permanently staining Zhongli’s arms with bronze and gold. All that power lurking beneath the surface…

Childe smirks and tugs off his gloves, tossing them to the side before he taps his thighs. “C’mere.” Zhongli submits – a little too eagerly, Childe thinks, where’s the fun in that – and straddles him again. When Childe’s right hand takes the other’s cock while he leans forward to begin teasing his nipples, Zhongli’s curls in on Childe and settles his head on the other’s shoulder, shivering with pleasure.

Childe nearly laughs when he realizes the image is not unlike a dragon coiling around its prey. Oh, but this one bites; the Harbinger’s teeth sink into Zhongli, drawing blood again. The wanton moan in response just sounds so delicious, and Childe matches his noises as he begins pumping in earnest. Zhongli’s begins grinding his ass into Childe’s bulge, and hey, that’s cheating. Childe is the one who’s doing the torturing here, damn it.

“Oh fuck,” Childe heaves, “I can’t take this anymore, fuck, where’s your oil Zhongli?”

Or not.

Yeah, okay, the man would be hot with embarrassment at how quickly he broke, but the way Zhongli croons and obeys just for him leaves him as desperate. When he rises to look for the oil, Childe stands quickly and begins stripping with the speed of a virgin teen about to get laid for the first time. A string of Snezhnayan curses is grumbled when his pants get caught on his ankles, but he when glances up at Zhongli’s chuckling with a fist curled in front of his grin, Childe only flushes further.

“Shut up,” he mumbles but grins along. Now free from his clothes, he grabs Zhongli’s wrist and tugs him back into the bed, kissing him all the while. The action is… Kind. Sweet, if Childe was being honest with himself.

But he hasn’t been truthful before, why start now?

When he leans back against the headboard and spreads his legs, Zhongli takes the cue to once again perch in his lap holding the bottle of oil in his hand. “Look at you,” Childe murmurs, pitch lowered but still rough around the edges, betraying a deeper hunger. “You look so good for me, presenting yourself like this.”

“What happened to the fearsome Harbinger just now?” Zhongli questions, mischief dancing on his face.

“Mm, good cop bad cop. Obviously being rough with the God of War wasn’t doing much ‘cept making me realize how badly I want to be inside you,” he states matter-of-factly before tugging Zhongli down for another kiss. When he takes the bottle and gently pries it open, he pours some on his fingers before placing the rest on the nightstand. Amber eyes watch Childe biting his lips, boyish eagerness shining forth.

Ah. Still so young, Zhongli thinks, and so cute.

That thought is interrupted when Childe leans forward and begins kissing along his abdomen, but characteristic of the Harbinger’s bloodlust, also peppers his skin with bruises and bite marks sharp enough to pierce the pleasurable haze in Zhongli’s mind. Cool fingers begin to gently prod between his cheeks, a silent question for permission which is quickly granted when his hands reach back to pull them apart for easier access. He feels Childe’s pleased groan beneath him as a single finger massages the muscle open before sliding in, and oh fuck, he missed this.

“H-haah, h-how are you always so tight?” Childe asks, taking his unoccupied hand to once again stroke Zhongli. He’s not entirely cruel, he’ll ease the other’s tension where he can. Whether or not it’s also out of selfish desire to see Zhongli unfurl around him, shoving his ass further on his fingers and into his palm is glaringly obvious when Childe bucks his erection up to graze briefly and intermittently between his toned cheeks.

“Are you complaining?” Zhongli moans.

“You kidding me?” Childe laughs and eases a second finger in, then a third. Now then, where is it…?

Zhongli suddenly cries out, vulgar sounds tapering off into quiet whimpers. There it is.

He begins massaging the spot and watches how Zhongli rolls his hips, the slight trail of drool and messy hair downright pornographic and mesmerizing. When his ass brushes against Childe’s cock again, he moves forward to nip at the god’s hip. “Z-zhongli, be careful there or I’m not gonna last.”

“I would ra-aahh-ther you finish in me, Childe,” the other rumbles, “before you ruin my bedsheets again.”

“Gods damn it, that was one time, you will not let that shit go,” Childe complains, completely uncouth and disrespectful, before withdrawing his fingers. “You’re lucky you’re good at sex.”

When his grabs the bottle again to pour it on his own straining member, the cool sensation welcome against his throbbing heat, he hears Zhongli chuckle above him. “Is that all I am to you? A nighttime tryst?”

“Don’t say that like you don’t enjoy it,” he mumbles, grabbing himself to line it up with Zhongli’s entrance. When the other slowly lower his hips, they both groan as the head begins to breach. It’s not fair, it’s not fair at all that Childe can’t stay mad at Zhongli like this. Not when the other swallows his dick like an animal in heat.

He moans openly when Zhongli finally meets him at his base, and he gives an experimental hip-roll to the god’s delight. Zhongli’s breath shudders before he starts a steady pace, switching between rolling his hips and lifting them to slam back down. Childe chokes on his breath and digs his head into the pillows beneath him at the sensation of being used like a fuck-toy for the ancient god. When blue eyes watch the Archon, muscles flexing in a downright filthy display of power, he’s awestruck. Zhongli is almost, almost treating his cock as another thing to conquer with the way he’s being manhandled like all attempts at domination earlier were just jokes.

He’s not giving up that easily. Childe’s fingers dig into the other’s hips to urge him to stop, bruising grip going nearly unnoticed. “Z-zhongli,” his strangled voice calls, “Flip over.”

When he slides his hands higher on the god’s hips and begins lifting his own body, Zhongli follows his lead. Before long, he’s flipped on his back with Childe looming over him, immediately catching his lips in another kiss as the Harbinger slowly pulls back before putting all his honed power in the movement back in. Zhongli breaks the kiss to groan and bares his throat in a show of submission, allowing the mortal to mark the god with fervor. Childe laps up the salt pooling along his skin with due diligence, nipping haphazardly along the way.

His thrusts begin to angle, looking for that tender spot once again. It’s no surprise how the ruthless Harbinger finds it with lethal precision and begins slamming into him earnestly. Fuck, his hips stutter and grow frantic when he’s rewarded with Zhongli’s increasingly loud cries, how does someone so composed sound downright filthy like that? Zhongli has no right, no right at all. When he feels nails drag down his back to draw forth sticky warmth, he retaliates by leaning forward and fiercely biting. His moans mingle with Zhongli’s as blood pours into his mouth, lust tearing through him, urging him to lacerate and mutilate this god further. Is it possible for a god’s body to be such an aphrodisiac?

Electric pleasure begins creeping forward; he’s losing his mind, Zhongli is coaxing out atrocious amounts of gratification and raw, unapologetic gluttony. More, he wants more.

Childe’s nose is flooded with warm mountain air, the musk inhuman but comforting, nonetheless. It’s enough to ease the abyssal beast inside of him but leaves the man in him wanting as he looks for any skin left unmarked to ruin. Much to his satisfaction, there is little left.

He releases his jaws when he feels a slight tugging on his hair, so he pulls back and – oh no. Oh, no no, that something grows in his heart again when he sees amber eyes gazing at him lovingly. “Childe,” Zhongli murmurs softly, “Let me see you, let me see your eyes.”

His responding laugh sound fake, even to him, as the sudden anxiety pushes aside the passion. If Zhongli notices how his thrusts begin speeding up, chasing that elusive and traitorous pleasure to mask it, he doesn’t comment. Instead, callous hands cup Childe’s cheeks and urge him to look deeply. “Please, a-allow – haah - me to commit you to… to memory.”

“W-what the fuck are you talking about?” he stutters, swallowing thickly around a sudden lump. Stop it. Stop being so sensual, stop it, stop being so sentimental you naïve and old creature, stop it –

Zhongli only smiles, lips wrapping around the soft sounds and purrs coming from deep within his chest. Luminous eyes are watching him, studying him, and he grows hateful at how Zhongli seems to just know. “I y-yearn to remember, please, allow me this. You are beautiful like this.”

“Shut up,” Childe suddenly snarls, leaning forward to hide his face in Zhongli’s shoulder. The other’s noises intensify in response, seemingly in an attempt to soothe him, and he hates it. “S-shut the fuck up, don’t make this something it isn’t, d-don’t do this to me Zhongli. Stop be-iiihng, ah, so cruel, you liar, we agr-eed to stop fucking lying to each other.”

Zhongli turns his head to kiss along Childe’s jaw, each one leaving behind hidden messages of longing and affection. “We did.”

Damn him, Ajax thinks as he desperately turns his head to meet Zhongli’s to kiss again, and again, and again.

It’s no surprise that soon, his hips’ rhythm falters before he slams one more time into Zhongli, that familiar heat in his core spilling deep in the other. Zhongli moans and flutters his eyes shut, relishing in the feeling pooling in his gut.

Ajax is not cruel. He rolls his hips and reaches one hand down to grab Zhongli’s still-aching cock, drawing forth more pleasure from the former Archon with an unforgiving speed. Soon, his breath is drawn, and he shudders as his cum shoots across his belly and into the Harbinger’s hand. Ajax is not cruel.

Damn him, he thinks again as he kisses Zhongli, but there’s no more malice, no more pretenses or attempts to hide his endearment for the older man. When he pulls back, Zhongli’s eyes glow softly in time with the markings along his arms. It’s indescribable, Childe thinks, how the light dances across the obsidian bedsheets and shimmers back, reflecting the riches of Teyvat in his blood. Before he can stop it, a single word tumbles out: “Beautiful.”

Zhongli smiles and pulls him down for another kiss.

And another, again and again and again.

---

(Don’t let them see you bleed, don’t let them see you bleed, don’t let - )

---

The two men hold each other, and though neither say a word, the silence before them is comfortable. How many rounds did they go for? Childe is twirling Zhongli’s hair around his fingers while the latter’s eyes are closed, but his breathing is too shallow to be asleep. Exhaustion clearly is not an issue for immortals.

Hm. His dark hair is silky and fine, maybe he can…? Childe glances at the not-sleeping man in front of him and a mischievous smile twists his lips, all attempts to suppress it gone. Not like he’s going to get another shot at this anytime soon. Deftly, his fingers begin to braid Zhongli’s hair in patterns he remembers the women in Snezhnaya wearing.

Only, when he looks at Zhongli again, golden eyes stare back, torn between being unimpressed and blatantly amused. Childe laughs and grabs the other’s chin to give a quick peck. “Aw, don’t look at me like that comrade, I just think you would enjoy this more than bed head.” It’s an excuse because Zhongli always looks perfect, but let him just have this.

“Mm.” A deep exhale breezes across Childe’s chest, and lust sparks in his gut once again at the cool sensation tickling his open wounds from when Zhongli took his turn hammering into Childe, spearing him open unforgivingly. Some minutes pass, and – yeah, no, braiding isn’t his thing Childe decides. The braid is unorganized, hair falls out, and he’s pretty sure he accidentally tangled it somewhere. Zhongli chuckles and buries his head further against Childe’s neck. “You would make a fine weaver.”

“Asshole.”

They both smile, but when Zhongli looks to the other again, he knows there’s a question forming. He just knows it, but seeing those swollen and kissable lips bruised and knowing that he did that? Childe’s dick twitches traitorously, ready to go again.

“Childe, are you listening?” Zhongli frowns and Childe blinks, attempting to be coquettish. The other’s frown deepens.

“Sorry, sorry,” he grins. “What was that?”

“I asked if you believe in the red thread?”

Childe’s hands stop, and not for the first time, he wonders why the hell Liyue is so obsessed with the concept of destiny. He scoffs, mouth twisting and nose curling up. “Nah, I don’t. It’s a cute gesture ‘n all, but if you look closely, there’s a reason for everything, and it isn’t because Celestia or whatever decided it.”

“Do you say this because you did not have control over what happened to Liyue?”

At Zhongli’s inquisitive look, he holds up the mess of a braid he was trying to rectify. “You see this? This is the red thread. It’s messy. It’s artificial. There’s no such thing as destiny, Zhongli, everything happens deliberately, by us,” he huffs, irritated by the question. Childe was just trying to have a relaxing time, why did he have to bring that up now? The former Archon’s radiant eyes glow brighter, an impassive wall for the other to beat against. Somehow, though, that placid expression irks Tartaglia further and the words fall out before he can stop them.

“You think it’s destiny that I was maneuvered like that? That I began serving Her Imperial Majesty the Tsaritsa? That I fe-“ Tartaglia, thankfully, has enough wherewithal to pause that statement before too much is revealed and he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath to center himself. “No, Zhongli, I do everything for a reason. Everything. My path is my own, all the titles and reputations and connections I possess were bargained for fairly. I dragged myself out of that cold and dark land by my own will.”

Zhongli knows he isn’t speaking of Snezhnaya, but says nothing regardless.

“I thought you of all people would understand that,” he spits, sudden cynicism surging through him like a tidal wave. “How many people have you controlled over the years? Pawns moved, strategic opportunities seized? You should know that nothing happens by coincidence, someone as old as you.”

A roaring tempest, changing and harsh and untamable, crashes against the rocky mountain that stands tall and firm at the center of the chaos.

Zhongli’s lips curve as he admits, “I do. Perhaps you and I have a different understanding of the concept of coincidence, then, though I do not disagree with what you say.”

“Did you not say that actions and emotions must be separate?” he replies, wry smirk back in place. He doesn’t miss the flicker of sentiment, and if he didn’t know the stone-cold god any better, he would be tempted to label it as almost melancholic. What was Zhongli thinking?

Childe sighs, all fight in him about this topic abruptly gone. Truly unpredictable. “Two sides of the same coin, huh?” he murmurs. “Let’s just… Not talk about that. Not on my last night.” He instead descends to capture the other’s lips in a vicious kiss, clearly an attempt to redirect his frustrations elsewhere.

Zhongli returns it with equal fervor and two pairs of hands grapple each other in possessive movements. They’ve long ago decided to be truthful with each other, and this is the most open they can be, unspoken words and feelings conveyed through touch.

When they break apart, Tartaglia’s ocean eyes hide how far below the boy in him is confined to the murky depths. As he nips at Zhongli’s throat, the god can’t help but wonder of their varying approaches to this concept of control. Tartaglia moves with aggression, uses his body as a weapon to get what he needs, to distance his emotions and thoughts further from the surface; Zhongli attempts to convey his desires and willingness to plunge into those watery depths, to drag him back through his own.

Zhongli won’t deny that their arrangement started as him humoring Childe’s lust, of allowing the other to believe in the lie that he had the upper hand all along, but the god has since grown genuinely fond of the tempestuous being.

However, Tartaglia only sees their passions as another battle to be won and the old God of War indulges him. If Tartaglia chooses to classify their relationship and letters as platonic, then so be it.

But… Is the Harbinger truly so far gone that he does not understand Zhongli’s blatant desire for him? How quickly did the young man latch onto this desperate understanding that their passionate actions are separate from the relationship they have built? What war is he fighting?

What happened to him to make him believe he could only rely on himself?

Zhongli hums. No matter.

The dragon already decided long ago that Childe is a treasure worth coveting, and hopes that one day, he will understand that Zhongli’s desires are not superficial. He has all the time in the world to find a love language that Childe will understand.

In due time, he intends to help raise the man above the Archons who dared to use him, dared to take away control over his hard-won destiny, dared to treat his mortal kin as worthless compared to the boy they raised.

In due time.

---

Ajax did not want to think about his carefully guarded feelings nor talk about it that night, lest Morax see him for how selfish and hungry his heart is. It is no secret how he lusts after power, and that night in the Golden House sparked a ravenous flame. Even if he could only convince one of the immortals to join him, it would be enough to challenge the rest of the Harbingers and begin his own conquest.

However, during his stay in Liyue, he could only ease his treacherous heart with one who surely saw mortal hearts as tradeable as gold. His own aches in resignation.

Is it because he is afraid of his own weakness? Or because he knows that when destiny pushes him back into that abyss a second time, it will be final and alone?

Don’t let them see you bleed.

Ajax trusts Morax with his life (strangely enough), but not with his soul. Not now. He wonders if you would be gentler. Kinder.

But a bird cannot survive a hurricane.

---

(The stars whisper fearful warnings that night - incessant in their dulcet tunes – hoping to shepherd these souls once more.

Nobody hears them. They have been absent from their duty too long. Nobody remembers.)

---

On the boat back to Snezhnaya, the Harbinger is leaning over the railing, twisting the ring around his finger in thought. A small smile graces his lips as he thinks of the last conversation he shared with you, of the promises of a rematch.

Cute. That’s all he thinks – fluffy, unreasonably angry, cute, so insistent on chirping and proving yourself a fierce opponent. No, you are formidable as he remembers his ass being beaten to the ground without mercy. A thrill shoots up his spine at the memory and his tender smile turns wicked. Formidable and sexy he declares with Her Imperial Majesty as his witness.

Maybe Zhongli was right, there must be something fucked up in his head for him to still think you’re cute as he nurses his wounds from the Golden House and the Teucer fiasco.

Chlide beams, completely enamored with the open ocean and its bare surface; the bright and open sun shimmers across the waves as tempting as jewels for the taking. One day, he wants to take his siblings out to the coasts beyond Snezhnaya’s eternally frozen waters where icebergs leave few paths for the boats to navigate. Though he’ll never admit it to the other Fatui, he always preferred the freedom to go wherever and do whatever he pleased.

Well, let’s be more honest here, it’s more or less already an open secret. After all, that’s why he’s the Vanguard of the Harbingers. Tartaglia is sent to be the first storm that wreaks havoc and flood enemy defenses while the others clean it up and claim credit.

Childe sneers because fuck Signora, that glory was supposed to be his.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, but pauses midway before lowering it and clenching the railing harder. Memories flood his vision as he remembers watching how you would rub your head whenever you were nervous, would brush Paimon’s hair and coo at its ephemeral patterns, would help Aether re-braid his after a particularly messy fight. During his stay at Liyue, he somehow picked up the tick himself after spending so much time watching you to try and find your own quirks in character. Chlide never intended to punch a hole in his own carefully guarded defenses.

So… Why did you reveal yourself like that? Childe mulls his options over. Either you weren’t aware of your actions - which is not possible, not with the way you move during battle – or you let him see to throw him off your trail, letting him think he figured you out. Hm. But that’s something Zhongli would do. Did.

Asshole, he thinks fondly.

Maybe you just… Maybe you’re just that open? Let your guard down around him because of – because of –

He closes his eyes, stifling that inkling of something again from creeping its way into his traitorous heart. Childe snorts, sardonic nature taking over because yeah right, like you would really let him in so easily. But then he sees it, sees how the blue glimmers with the light like stars.

If you trusted him because of a starconch, then you really were as stupid as he was afraid of.

And, well, maybe he is too.

How many stories did you exchange over warms meals and long nights? In all those little tales he shared, he showed a bit more of himself. After all, the best lies have truth in them; Zhongli knew this and reciprocated the efforts. In a way, that’s why he trusts Zhongli more – the former Archon already manipulated him and proved his suspicions right. Now that the betrayal has been seared into his memoirs, he understands all the more the man’s motivations, making him an easy target for Childe to predict next they meet.

His heart remembers the unexpected connection he made with Aether – the sacrifices for one’s family rings universal. It’s only when Teucer found his way into Liyue – the little devil – that he realized that somehow, along the way, it was Ajax that was laughing, Ajax that was helping Aether find Lumine, Ajax paying for Paimon’s egregious eating habits.

Childe’s thoughts loop endlessly as he tries convincing himself his mind is only consumed by you three (or one) because he can’t figure you out. You’re an eternal mystery and challenge, how could he resist?

He’s stirred when he hears the Fatui recruits call for him below deck and Childe’s easy nature slides back in. He promised them a proper Sneznhayan drinking game; it’s time to show these fresh-faced bumpkins what being a Harbinger is all about.

---

(Ajax did not see how Morax gazes at him, ferocious and protective. Only one mortal’s heart will remain immeasurable and incomparable to Teyvat’s riches, the scales will never be balanced.

Nor did Ajax witness the stars streak across the sky for him, incandescent and besotted, a promise of other immortals who would faithfully carry him to the heavens if he but asked.

A mountain of bodies filles his vision as he seeks to build a paradise above the carnage for his family’s dreams to be safe, so that they may never know what nightmare lies beneath the world.

He made a promise, after all.)

---

My dear Childe,

I suppose I am able to write the first of our agreed upon letters, as I am the one left behind with the luxury of free time while you journey to your own homeland.

Please note that, attached to the letter, are packages of various Liyue sweets that I am sure youth enjoy. Hu Tao has at least assured me of its quality. If your kin are anything like you, these will serve in sufficiently whetting their voracious appetites.

Also included are some artifacts that, I pray, will find a new home in Snezhnaya. Hopefully your siblings are as curious as you. Certainly, you can tickle Teucer’s desires for grand anecdotes with the enclosed miniature terracotta warrior. They once stood as guardians to tombs of emperors long past. Perhaps he can become a paragon of honor once more as sentinel to Mr. Cyclops.

Just be sure to not allow the statue to break. I must warn you that it contains a very real spirit. Children enjoy this sort of thing, yes?

I am glad we can remain in contact. I cannot begin to repay your kindness and generosity in this lifetime for treating me as a mortal; I never sought the continuation of Rex Lapis’ legacy in my assessments of Liyue. Instead, I find that having good company to walk with is enough.

I pray that your duty does not come into conflict with the Travelers. They have asked me to inform you that they will not attempt to establish contact, for they fear their own journeys will eventually threaten Her Majesty the Tsaritsa. They do not wish to endanger you or your family.

No one is at fault for attempting to complete their mission, but let it not distract you from why – and for who - you fight. As you described to me, baseless glory for the sake of it is no way to conduct oneself as a true warrior.

Do not be afraid to be the first to step on the path into unknown territory. Believe me, time waits for no one.

Your dutiful friend,

Zhongli

---

My dearest and most lively funeral consultant,

Don’t worry about my wellbeing; as I have said on our last night together, my destiny is my own. Her Majesty the Tsaritsa will have her seven stars, as I’ve promised, but they are not my stars nor my true goals. I believe you are right – I will have to venture into that dark night if I am to find what I truly seek.

I am pleased to report that Teucer is now sleeping with your protective clay warrior after naming him, aptly, ‘Mr. Dirty’ for the incessant mess that the dusty old thing seems to leave. My mother has certainly thrown a fit more than once for the dirt it leaves in his bed. Whether you have blessed this little thing with one of your tricks to always produce earth is a cheeky mystery I am sure you will never answer.

Zhongli, my friend, we must really educate you on what is and is not appropriate to gift a young child. I did not explain to him – nor my family, for that matter – why I insisted on wrapping Mr. Dirty in a very cushioned blanket.

Furthermore, Hu Tao was right, the candies were a roaring success. Quite literally, I might add, as my siblings tore at them with the ferocity of Snezhnayan wolves and howling battle cries.

I wonder who would win in a fight for the last sticky honey roast: my siblings or Paimon.

I understand fully their reasons and don’t fault them for it. If anything, they conduct themselves with greater care than I ever did in Liyue. Regardless, I will miss them dearly and hope that when we meet again in Snezhnaya, it is not for Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, but for myself. I did promise my honor as Harbinger to be the prize won.

With the letter is a package of a hand-crafted Matryoshka doll. I had asked for the crafter to paint each layer as different armor from Liyue’s history. However, at the center, you will find a doll with intimately familiar amber eyes.

This is, I hope, a suitable gift. To me, you will always be Zhongli first and foremost at your core.

You still owe me a fight for the right to reassert your divine status to me and rectify the slight against my character. Otherwise, you will find my insolence to become tenfold. I just hope you defend your honor before your short guard dog, Xiao, does it for you.

Your loyal companion,

Childe

---

Ajax walks along the beaches outside of his village. He’s been home for a few weeks on leave, much to the delight of his family; he welcomes their affection and returns in kind, even if when he embraces his father, he feels emptier after he pulls away. It’s funny. Growing up, Ajax adored his father’s stories of adventures. They seemed so thrilling and freeing, especially to travel the world outside of Morepesok.

Only, whenever he comes home, a bit more of his father’s image is broken away like ice. That’s all they were: stories. The Harbinger has massacred battlefields, left just enough in his wake that would churn most men’s stomachs as a brutal reminder for defying the Fatui. No, those stories are nothing to him now.

He keeps walking, stopping only to kick away some snow from his path. Ajax missed this; he’ll admit it. Too many times has he spent an extended period on Dragonspine to let the cold freeze him just to the brink of death, reminding him of Snezhnaya. Such a ruthless landscape to birth a ruthless warrior. As much as he adores travelling, home is where he’ll always return to, where he misses most when he reads each letter gracing his desk.

Ajax spots a shining object and immediately bends to reach it, but pulls away with only a blue stone and faint silver markings.

Not a starconch. Huh. His instincts must be slow for him to make such a rookie mistake.

As he tosses the rock over his shoulder, Ajax’s lips pull into a frown. Home is where the heart is.

So why does he feel empty?

---

Ajax looks out the window of his home as Tonia, Anthon and Teucer snore peacefully in his lap. They’re in front of the roaring fireplace and a thick blanket is wrapped around them all.

He very pointedly ignores the sharp Mr. Dirty digging into his side, and just… Why, Zhongli, why are you so stupid sometimes. Ah well, it made Teucer happy, so Ajax relents in his complaints for the time being.

Outside his window, he watches a family of snowy owls as they emerge from their nest. Some time passes before the youngest brave the howling winds, opening their wings to test the currents.

In a heart-stopping moment, all the children leap and exit his field of vision before quickly rising again, thriving in the winds of change. He watches as they flap their wings experimentally, fluttering around the tree before the family gathers itself. They eventually leave, heading to horizons unknown to explore as they flee the coming darkness of winter for their own safety. Despite this, the owls will return home when the chaos settles, they always do.

A stray thought springs into Ajax’s head as he looks down at his siblings.

---

When Tartaglia saunters up the alabaster steps to Zaplorny Palace, he remembers how awe-struck he was as a child listening to his father’s speak about the Tsaritsa residing within. Frost paints ethereal patterns into the decorations, constantly changing as it’s melted and regrown. The shimmering patterns no doubt rival the beauty of the skies, but also mirror them in the way that the stars are so far and cold themselves. No matter how many flames are lit, Zapolyarny Palace will always remain cold.

He wonders if the Tsasritsa’s frozen heart still has a flicker of warmth.

Before he turns down the next hallway, he is met with the sight of three other Harbingers. Oh boy, what a fucking party. “Ah! Forgive me comrade!” Childe chuckles as he shoves past Scaramouche’s shoulders to join them. “I didn’t see you down there,” he sneers, relishing in the murderous glance tossed his way.

“Childe. For how long you spent in Liyue, one would expect you to have learned some respect by now. I suppose it’s too much to ask for from someone of your limited faculties,” Scaramouche responds, tone light and casual but eyes burning regardless.

“Was your leave rejuvenating?” Pulcinella interjects, hoping to steer the conversation away from a brawl starting in the palace. Not that they have any doubts over Scaramouche’s self-discipline, but Childe’s was another matter entirely. “Signora here has informed me of your recent success in heralding the Gnosis from Morax. Congratulations.”

Childe raises one eyebrow, eyes dull and heavily guarded. He’s familiar with these political tactics and with how the Harbingers lace their words with patronizing intent. It’s all some bid to try to put others down, remind them of their place. What a bunch of idiots, don’t they know he only cares about what the Tsaritsa thinks?

As if reading his mind, Signora’s lips quirk upwards as she slithers in to join Pulcinella’s compliments. “Indeed. I have informed Her Majesty the Tsaritsa of your valiant efforts. This couldn’t have been done without you.”

Without your brash and impulsive tendencies.

“You know…” Scaramouche starts, crossing his arms and tilting his head back in a show of friendly submission. What the fuck is he up to now? “Some time ago, when I was in Mondstadt investigating the Jester’s little mission for me, I saw the Travelers again. They certainly grew more adept in commanding the elements, wouldn’t you say, Childe?”

The ginger-haired man’s airy laugh rings off the walls around them, the easy-going nature of Childe stepping forth before Tartaglia has a chance to strangle him. “Oh yes, I would certainly agree. Makes it all the more exciting to see what they’ll be up to next. Let me guess, you had a hard time dealing with them? I too heard the reports, dear Balladeer, of how they kept dancing just outside of your short reach.”

Pulcinella bites the inside of their cheek to keep the amusement from showing. Somehow, their favored recruit always finds a way to piss off the other Harbingers like it’s all some game. Really gives a good show too.

Scaramouche scoffs, allowing the jab to slide this time. “I let the fools go. My research was complete, I didn’t linger. But I did notice something… Interesting.” He raises his left hand casually, motioning his fingers in a light pinching motion as if he held something small and precious. “A single starconch hung from one of the Traveler’s journals. A rather curious sight.”

Childe’s smile grows wider, more placid. The lack of an aggressive reaction is, in itself, a threat. “Curious indeed.”

“Scaramouche, wouldn’t you say that was a stroke of genius on Childe’s part? He’s keeping them close and relaxed. I’m rather proud of you for employing our more covert tactics for once. That is, after all, your intent, is it not?” Signora smirks when she sees how Childe’s eyes flick to hers. Still no change in his expression, but he laughs and holds up both hands in a placating gesture. As much as she plays at knowing his tactics, it’s not very hard to guess where his chaotic actions will lead him. However, the motivations behind his more subtle behaviors remain elusive wherein only two can guess it correctly at any given moment: Pulcinella and Her Majesty the Tsaritsa herself.

“You got me. They’re just so eager to help others, how could I resist that temptation of fucking with them?” Childe’s whimsical tone never wavers, not once. Pulcinella frowns. This is a dangerous game; they always caution against becoming attached to the unhinged Harbinger, but if the Travelers became strung along too much, then…

“Careful, Tartaglia,” Pulcinella murmurs, drawing all eyes on them. “Since your little betrayal of their trust, the Liyue agents report that our Fatui strongholds in the wild have steadily lost their footing. For every inch we gain, we lose two more.”

Childe pretends to look shocked, but he has his own ears inside the palace, he’s been aware of it the whole time. Little birds, he thinks affectionately, I’m nearly proud.

“Hmph, of course the idiots keep losing ground, they have no Harbinger guiding them,” Scaramouche says, frown deepening. “Even with Signora in Mondstadt, the diplomats were frankly imbeciles.” She tsks in irritation, but nothing more.

“Aw, if I didn’t know you any better, I’d say you were complimenting me, comrade!” Childe says cheerfully. The Inazuma native’s face flashes with fury before quickly recovering.

“All I’m saying is that maybe we need someone to keep an eye on them,” he replies. “Since Mondstadt… They’re not what you think, Childe. The stars are a lie; none of it is real. I’ll bet you the Travelers know more about it than they’re letting on. Don’t make the same mistake twice.”

Childe cocks an eyebrow, smirk barely melting into a snarl. “And what would you know? You stay behind the scenes while the rest of us do real work.”

Scaramouche’s slow smile is poisonous and laced with contempt as he hisses, “You should know there is a Liyue saying that goes ‘Heaven and Earth are impartial, treating all creatures like straw dogs.’ When the sacrifices have fulfilled their purpose, they are discarded because there is no more use and care for such worthless objects. Didn’t dear Morax tell you of this philosophy himself, Childe?”

Tartaglia tastes blood as he bites his tongue to keep from summoning a blade then and there.

Pulcinella not-so-subtly coughs. “I believe our meeting is starting soon. Let us take this discussion there, for Her Majesty the Tsaritsa is currently informed of all developments. We will receive our next assignments there.”

As all four Harbingers walk in silence down the halls, Childe lingers in the back so that the other three don’t catch sight of his eyes darkening. He was right, damn it, the Travelers are hiding something.

However, a sadistic smile curls on his face. Though he’s sure that the others allowed Scaramouche to hint at what is surely classified information that currently only he, the Jester, and the Tsaritsa know the full scope of just to allow the shorter Harbinger to insult Childe, he enjoys the fact that the others once again underestimate him. They were likely not informed of Scaramouche’s findings either and this provided an apt opportunity for them to update their intel if their unashamedly curious expressions were anything to go by. Scaramouche’s lightning temper strikes again and illuminates the path forward, even if Childe had to bleed first to see it.

Oh what fun, fun, fun!

---

The Tsaritsa’s cold gaze peers down at Tartaglia as he kneels before her, not even daring to gaze at her feet. With the other Harbingers long-departed after the meeting, the only two remaining souls in her throne room are himself and the Cryo Archon; for anyone else, this would strike fear in their heart, but Tartaglia only croons at the thought. Finally, finally, she trusts him with a classified mission, one that she fears the other Harbingers might impede on should they discover the true intention.

He buries Scaramouche’s words deep below the surface, unwilling to allow his goddess to witness his burning desire to prove himself. For now, Childe will serve dutifully until the opportunity for him to topple the Archons’ thrones presents itself.

Littered around them are the eternally frozen bodies of all who made the mistake of striking too soon, their faces warped in perpetual agony as sick trophies. Are they still alive beneath that ice, like the creatures trapped atop Dragonspine?

“Tartaglia,” she starts, regal voice cutting clear through the air, “the Travelers defy the laws of this world and harness its ancient secrets with ease, something the other Harbingers have failed to provide me concrete information on. However, I understand that you have observed these phenomena yourself. Am I correct?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” comes the smooth reply, steady and betraying no weakness.

“Good,” he hears the pleased smile in her voice. “I have a new task for you.”

---

Dreams do not normally come, smothered by the abyss. But something is different this time. Ajax hears it.

A voice calls to him in a language that sounds of silvery bells. Another speaks in a tongue long forgotten by mortals.

notes:

childe’s pov has a lot of swearing (and will in future chapter) bc lets be honest, he probably would if mihoyo would let him

1) Childe flips masks depending on who he's with according to mihoyo's official forum thread on him. Pulcinella is quoted as stating that Childe is completely trustworthy for any job, but cautions against getting too attached/close (for unknown reasons)

2) One of Childe's voice lines expresses admiration for the Tsaritsa's warrior methods, but in another line, has massive disdain for the underhanded tactics of others. He also blatantly admits to being willing to take on the other Harbingers and overthrow the world with the Traveler if the opportunity presents itself, and doesn't care at all for their opinions on him

3) The terracotta soldier is referencing the Terracotta Army guarding the tomb of Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of China and Matryoshka dolls have multiple dolls inside one.

4) The Liyue philosophy quoted is a sentiment expressed in Chapter 5 of the Tao Te Ching that basically translates as Heaven treating all the people equally, neither with love nor hate aka nobody is special. It is what it is ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

5) Childe 100% spent so much time on Dragonspine with the video from yesterday (April 4th) from mihoyo featuring him walking around missing Snezhnaya

6) The multiple frozen statues are a ref to the White Witch from the Narnia series where she froze all her enemies and kept them in a room to look at. Yeesh.

7) and FINALLY (TL;DR at the bottom of this bullet point) (I wrote this chapter before “We Will Be Reunited” quest)

Scaramouche's line of "the stars are a lie" are a direct quote from the Unreconciled Stars event. A lot of veterans of mihoyo games think this references the theory that Teyvat is actually a bubble world either as a part of the Seeds of Sumeru (name also one of the regions in Teyvat) universe from Honkai Impact 3, a sci-fi game, or is just another world in the Imaginary Tree of mihoyo's overarching lore (aka multiverse). The symbol for the abyss and celestia being a tree support this too, plus the mythos of Gnosticism says that a rival divine made a false world to mirror the "true" divine (abyss/celestia?) with Archons ruling over 7 planets.

This is further confirmed in a dev video where one of the characters from HI3 is seen watching Dvalin on a computer screen, stating that Genshin exists parallel to HI3 and has the same rules where if mankind progresses too fast or too far, these beings called Honkai come and wipe them out to restart. Since I PERSONALLY would feel extremely discouraged if Genshin turns into something too sci-fi (takes away from the fantasy appeal imo), I'm taking this to mean that the MC travels multiple worlds exploring while the unknown god is stopping mankind from being too arrogant. The Archons know things about Celestia most don't (maybe why the Tsaritsa wants to rebel), and the MC's twin joined the abyss separately after seeing the cataclysm 500 years ago to probably help the abyss.

The abyss order are all but explicitly confirmed to be the fallen Khaenri'ah turned monsters and the advanced technology we see everywhere with the power to end civilization also belonged to them, if Kaeya's voice lines and item descriptions anything to go by. They used the abyss as a power source "away from the eyes of the gods" that is parallel to Celestia's power. Celestia is preventing any more disruptions to the great cycle by controlling mortals (one piece of lore on the wiki's timeline page directly describes how they used to walk among the earliest human ancestors in Tevyat long before even the gods we know today were born, but mortals are not meant to know that Teyvat's history is cyclical, starting and ending multiple times). I don't think the MC is aware of the fake stars because they're canonically just as confused as Paimon when Scaramouche says that the sky is a hoax. I'm taking my own twist on this for the fanfic with stars being "sentient" or artificially placed (maybe by Celestia?) since the meteorites that fell were someone's old constellation. There are separate stars that follow and affect the Travelers/worlds.

TL;DR: The stars in Teyvat are artificial but the MC canonically didn't know this, the unknown god is trying to prevent uprisings, mortals want to control the heavens instead, the abyss and celestia mirror Gnostic mythos about two divines and 7 Archons, and for the purposes of this fanfic the stars are both separate from and connected to the Travelers.

#zhongli #zhongli x reader #zhongli fanfic #childe #childe x reader #childe fanfic #aether #genshin fanfic #genshin impact #genshin zhongli #genshin childe #genshin aether

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limerental · 5 years ago

Text

geraskier fic recs

aka everything i remembered to bookmark on ao3 just vomited into a tumblr post because i want to yell about them (and there are more than this that I enjoyed dearly i am just very silly and forget to save them)

under a cut to spare your dashboard

b-sides and rarities by fathomfive, 6.4k

note: i am weak for pining, long meandering but inevitable feeling journeys toward one another, deeply felt landscape description and melancholy ballads and this fic is all of those

excerpt:

He plays a few idle notes, and then slides smoothly into a tune that’s at once familiar and new. It’s a walking song, a good steady-paced melody without flourishes. He plucks a note, holds it in his throat and hums, and sings. Morning came over the mountains, there I was, there we were.

Noon burned above the broken path, you left but I return.

A season’s span to where I find you, call and I return.

O the light fades in the valley, I’ll return, return.

here, where the world is quiet by @drawlight, 5.4k, explicit

note: the jaskier pov in this is very, very lovely and it was hard to pick an excerpt because all the prose is lovely and jaskier’s descriptions of geralt are particularly lovely

excerpt:

“But if you ever wanted,” Jaskier spreads his hands, his long fingers, spreading out the wrinkles of the bedsheets. The weight of Geralt next to him is constant. A promise. They constantly circle, dance to unsung songs. Geralt never dances, except here, around Jaskier. (You can run so far away, Witcher, but space is not that forgiving. There is so much nothingness, nothing to block, nothing to get in the way. On a good night, from a clear plain with little light pollution, one can see twenty-quadrillion miles into the sky. Jaskier thinks this number sounds absurd but he trusts the arithmancers and knows in his heart, in his blood, his bones that it is the truth. Jaskier knows there is nowhere to hide; he has tried.)

The Ballad of Pots and Pans by 6th_magnitude, 8.1k

note: this one’s got oblivious geralt realizing all of jaskier’s songs, even the less obvious ones, are actually about him and excellent banter and some poignant and painful bits about jaskier’s mortality and also just a bunch of really great ballads.

excerpt:

Jaskier startles, and looks at Geralt a little dazedly. “Nothing. It’s – oh, I just wanted to write something good and true to capture everything I feel in this moment, and I cannot for the life of me write it at all! What good is being a poet if you cannot translate the most important feelings of your life to pen and paper? What good is it if I cannot write you a song, so that one day you might remember this morning?”

“I’ll remember it,” Geralt replies quietly. “I don’t need a song to remember it.”

Jaskier smiles at him, his eyes shining a little with unshed tears of frustration. “Even so, I would like to memorialise this feeling, record every detail, so I might recall it later. The human memory is so fallible, you know. It’s why we make songs and stories – to remember feelings, even when facts have faded from all memory.”

“I’ll remember it,” Geralt says again, sleepily. “I’ll remember this feeling. No matter what.”

swallow my breath and take what is mine by @anacaoris, 6.5k, explicit

note: this has got jaskier giving all sorts of nice things to geralt that he doesn’t feel he deserves and misunderstandings and geralt not knowing how to use his words or brain cell and oh also there’s smut

excerpt:

Fingers flex in his hair, running a shudder down his spine at the spark of it. Part of him wishes he knew better what to say, that this could be simpler. That he was born with the same poetry spilling from him enough to say all that he tucks in his lungs but he’s not, he’s better with action, better with showing just what he needs to mean so Geralt brings a hand up, curls it around Jaskier’s and keeps it in messy locks, still damp from the bath as he sinks to his knees. “Sweet merciful blessings, I will, ah, I’ll take this as a ye-ehs.”

Companionship by ArliaDevi, 4.1k

note: really fun take on their relationship in ciri pov and i love found family domesticity so much and geralt teaching ciri things and glimpses of tender moments

excerpt:

When Geralt gets back, covered in what Ciri is quite sure is intestines, they eat quietly in the corner of the inn. Jaskier plays his music, his hat out for coins. He sings well, Ciri has to admit, and there’s an entrancing quality about the way he performs, luring all eyes to him. Even Geralt’s eyes seem to wander back to Jaskier, lingering on him just long enough that Ciri manages to steal a few mouthfuls of ale.

‘Don’t think I didn’t notice that,’ Geralt mutters as Ciri slides the large stein back in place.

‘Girls in Cintra drink at ten,’ Ciri replies matter-of-factly.

‘No, they don’t.’ Geralt takes another mouthful of ale before sliding it towards Ciri. ‘Don’t let Jaskier see.’

‘Stealth training?’

Geralt rolls his eyes. ‘Sure.’

look what you made me do by @cicaklah, 6.5k, explicit

note: is just another in the “jaskier’s songs are all about geralt and geralt is a dumbass” genre and also there’s deeply immersive scenery details and also also there’s a truly filthy sequel that is not on this list only because i still have some level of shame but it’s here in spirit

excerpt(s):

They ride half a day, Geralt chatting to Roach about all the injustices in the world, most of which are food related, with Roach hrumphing every now and then in response. Around them the fallow fields are untouched, resembling plush, perfect eiderdowns, with gnarled trees like the posts of a fine bed, fit for a giant. The sky is clear after the storm, bluer than at the height of summer and vast, their clouds stolen for the ground.

and

Geralt understands how long sex can last, always feels sorry and guilty for the women he beds who don’t understand that stamina was one of the most successful mutations he gained. He hates how easy it is to push that little bit too far into pain unless he’s careful (and he’s always careful, he loves women, loves their pleasure, never lets himself get carried away) but now there’s a man behind him and he realises that he can take it, that they made him perfectly for this by accident, so he can take all that male stamina and strength into himself and enjoy it like a glutton, enjoy it in the way he only has been able to a handful of times in his life, match every stroke with his own power.

Dawn by Sylvalum, 3.5k

note: this one is a bit different to the others on this list but it’s got delightful yen & jaskier developing friendship and a touch o the ole melancholy that i so very much crave

excerpt:

Yennefer doesn’t say anything, so eventually Jasker turns back to the grave and lowers the body, then starts to shovel the earth back in, rich soil and sandy dirt and tufts of dead grass. He tries to cover the dead sorceress carefully, to send her off into the eternal night gently, but he fumbles too much and works too fast. Impatience and fear have burnt away his flesh so now there’s only nerve endings left to hide his ragged bones. It’s… it’s been a long day. He’s been digging for most of it.

Yennefer simply watches, standing behind Jaskier like a disapproving mother. Until suddenly she says in an oddly quiet voice, “Her name was Sabrina.”

And Jaskier stills. Haltingly, Yennefer steps forward to stand and look at the grave for a moment.

And after that, she starts to help Jaskier dig the graves.

To Sleep Perchance To by sospes, 16.9k, canon-typical violence & gore

note: it isn’t a fic rec list by me unless it’s got angst on the list so warning for torture and unreliable reality and general gnarly descriptions of violence and psychological damage. this broke my heart a wee bit and it may just break yours.

excerpt:

In those quiet, maybe-false moments, Jaskier knows that if this goes on much longer, he’s going to lose his mind. It’s not a panicked thought, not a terrified thought, it’s a cool, calm, logical realisation that he doesn’t think he can get away from. He’s losing the ability to know what’s real and what isn’t. He’s spending every waking second in a nightmare of blood and betrayal. And there’s nothing he can do to escape.

Geralt comes and presses him up against the cold stone wall of the cold stone cell, pinning his wrists above his head with one impossibly strong hand. He kisses him, slow and languid, and then he sucks a bruise into the side of his neck, using too much teeth and too much tongue. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s throat, and Jaskier takes the opportunity to knee him in the balls.

let us shake the abacus by @et-in-arkadia, 3k, explicit

note: this is simple, shameless smut and i am only allowing myself to slap it at the bottom of this list because i’m fond of the author’s work in general and also the dynamic, man, this dynamic is what it’s all about

Resigned to his poor decision-making for the evening, Geralt breaks away from where he's sucked a bruise into the soft skin of Jaskier's neck. Jaskier is moving against him like a ship on an unruly sea, increasingly impatient and unmoored.

"Tell me," Jaskier insists. He scratches lines down Geralt's back, then grabs Geralt's ass to haul him closer. "Geralt. Tell me."

This is also different: Jaskier likes to hear him talk, prefers to hear, above all else, Geralt's intent. Jaskier's need for words is limitless, unquenchable—Geralt has made him come all but untouched by whispering into Jaskier's ear the things that he'd do, given the time. It's really quite extraordinary. Which is perhaps why Geralt entertains the request, despite not being exactly given over to loquaciousness himself.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fic recs #geraskier fic recs #long post

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707sbuttercake · 4 years ago

Text

kisses of the rain (707 x fem!reader)

warnings: TW eating dis*rder, an*rexia, b*dy image, s*lf-harm, angst ||

rating: 17+ audience for swearing and ED

- this is a oneshot based on my own personal struggles with an*rexia. i am currently recovering. writing this story gave me comfort and a way to cope. please do not read if such topic makes you uncomfortable!

3:17 a.m.

your boyfriend’s arms lazily snake around your waist, his chin nestling into the crook of your neck, his warm breath tickling your bare shoulder. you stir ever so slightly as to not wake him, but the awkward noise that you determine to be his giggle causes your eyes to widen. he’s half-awake but stammering nonsense.

“mmm, babe,” a deep voice rumbles into your skin, arms pulling you against his body. “where’re you goin’? i’m gonna slay the demon king...with Smug the powerful...dragon...i’ll protect you...”

you roll your eyes, gently prying his arms from your abdomen. you run a hand through the soft, disarrayed tufts of his strawberry hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“i’ll be back, saeyoung.”

it is a rare night, a night in which saeyoung isn’t working, so you do not wish to interrupt his precious sleep. he looks so peaceful in the soft wash of moonlight, and you smile sadly as you watch him. he deserves a break.

you, however, have another matter on your mind.

your hands grope the walls in the darkness to find the light switch to the bathroom. with a flick of your finger tip, light fills the room, and you seal the door in silence.

the girl in the mirror stares back blankly. her hair is a mess, and her face is long and tired. your hands slowly graze down your sides to grasp your hips. you lift the edge of your tank top to clench the chunks of fat skin at your waist. your eyes narrow at the girl in the mirror, and an imprisoned sob escapes your lips. you squeeze the skin at your belly. you drag your nails along your thighs.

you hate the way you look. you always have. this pain has resided in your heart for years. you pushed it back for the RFA; you bear your burdens in silence. you smile, solving others’ problems, while your own silently devour you. you are the savior of the RFA! the girl who stepped up and rekindled the flame of goodness within the broken hearts of the members of the association!

you collapse to your knees, fatigued from your fasting. saeyoung hasn’t noticed because he has been occupied with his work for the past 3 weeks, but you have barely eaten. 20 pounds, you pressure yourself. I can do it. I can lose it. I can do it.

you step onto the scale, your body shaking as your feet press against the cold metal. holographic numbers flash onto the screen, and you choke back a sob. only six pounds? you gasp, your rib cage crumbling, your heart caving in. I lost only six? I have to try harder. I have to try harder. harder. more. you clench your fist.

you shove the scale back beneath the sink and settle onto the toilet for a moment. today, you decide, you’ll drink more water. you’ll run longer. you know saeyoung dislikes you running because the woodlands around his house are dangerous, but you insist you enjoy the scenery. 7 miles for today, you decide. you did the math and calculated that running 7 miles every day would lose the weight. you had been running 5 miles daily. perhaps you would garner better results by increasing the intensity of your runs. you sniffle, standing to turn on the faucet and splash your face with cool water.

after reevaluating your workouts on the running log app on your phone, you feel a bit more encouraged. surely now, you assure yourself, if you just push yourself a little harder, you will lose the cursed weight. you turn off the bathroom light and peer back into saeyoung’s room. you tiptoe, attempting to make as little noise as possible. as you turn your head, you’re met with something firm instead.

your eyes widen, breath hitching as your hands press against...saeyoung’s chest. you look up into the honey-golden eyes you know so well, swallowing the knot in your throat.

did he hear me? shit. shit. please, God, say he didn’t.

you force a soft smile, eyes falling to his lips, which are pursed in concern.

“y/n...?” he whispers, his hand gingerly cupping your face. “you were in there for a while. is everything okay?” his thumb traces your jaw, lingering beneath your chin. his gestures send shivers down your spine. saeyoung isn’t stupid. you know more than anyone that he knows every little part about you—your laugh, your smile, the embarrassing way you snore in your sleep...

but this is something he cannot know. you will not let him.

instead, you stand on your tiptoes and press a gentle kiss to his lips. your gesture takes him by surprise, but he slowly returns the kiss.

“y/n...” he murmurs into your lips. “hey...”

you break away, wrapping your arms around his torso. “I...I had a nightmare,” you say, pressing your ear to his chest, hearing the rapid thumping of his heart. “but don’t worry about it, okay? you need to get some rest, saeyoung. your work starts again tomorrow.”

with a relieved sigh, your boyfriend casts you a helpless glance. “oh, dear princess, how can I sleep knowing that your dreams are haunted? forget the work—Madam Vanderwood can handle that. I, defender of justice 707, must rescue my dear love from her nefarious dreams!” he suddenly scoops you into his arms to your protest, sending both of you into giggles.

“come out of my lady’s dreams, you foul demon! HI-YA!”

he runs around the room with you clinging to him, laughter filling your hearts. your shadows dance against the floor, and for a brief moment, you forget the pain plaguing your heart. saeyoung has this effect on you. after frolicking around the room, he eventually nestles you into his bed. he is always this way; cheerful and bright, yet deep and caring. you love this about him.

“th-thank you, saeyoung,” you chuckle, rubbing your face from the traces of salty tears. maybe he didn’t notice. “my dreams will certainly be sweet because of you.” the room falls still.

once again, you silently pray he didn’t notice the streaks of tears on your face or the faint puffiness of your eyes. you recall your awful attempt to feign innocence, hiding behind a mask of a nightmare. saeyoung seems curl into the bed beside you, his back pressed to your side. you sigh in relief. perhaps he accepted this lie. you imagine he is exhausted from working consecutive day after day. he deserves to rest.

he doesn’t reply after a few minutes, so you assume he is asleep. you close your eyes, exhaling slowly. your mind becomes dull.

7 miles...you think. 7 miles for today...

suddenly, the bed’s weight shifts, and a shadow falls over you. you part your eyes in bewilderment. saeyoung is above you, the silver of his cross necklace hanging just above your chest, his knees bracketing your frame. his hands hold your wrists, his eyes firm and serious, a gaze of auburn blaze piercing into you like daggers.

“y/n...you...you do tell me everything, right? are you sure it was just a nightmare? please, tell me if there is anything more bothering you.” his breath is hot and minty against your skin, and his tone, harsh and almost afraid, threatens you to tell the truth. “tell me. why were you really crying?”

your heart beats wildly in your ears, your chest carefully heaving up and down. he has you trapped now, forcing you to look at him. he is keener than you thought. you swallow.

“I-I don’t understand why you’re taking this so seriously!” you laugh. “come on. you know I get those dreams sometimes. I’m fine. off me, silly. I’m not Elizabeth the 3rd,” you poke his nose. “I promise. I’d tell you if something was bothering me. you know that.”

he watches you carefully, his stern gaze not faltering. you watch his chest above you, his neck and toned arms around you, the creamy glow of his face just faintly covered in sweat. after gazing into your eyes for a moment, he melts into your arms. you sigh in relief, combing your hands through his hair.

“get some sleep, now, saeyoung,” you whisper. he hums into your shoulder in response.

your heart shrinks in pain at the thought of lying to him. however, the truth would be a knife to his heart, and you would rather lie than cause the latter. you recall the dangers of his occupation. you know he bears the weight of harsh deadlines, lethal information, and family secrets that shatter his heart. saeyoung doesn’t deserve this. saeyoung doesn’t deserve a mess like you.

so you smile and continue to bear this pain, like you always have.

***

standing before the mirror, you tighten your ponytail. “7 miles...” your murmur. your vision is a bit hazy because of your fasting, but you try to drink water to ease your fatigue. come on. come on. you have to run. you imagine your fat pouch-like belly; you envision the width of your hips. you think of the way your thighs faintly brush against each other when you walk. you’re wretched. you’re disgusting. you have to run.

you force yourself to walk. come on, go. go. when you see saeyoung hunched before his computers, you trot to the kitchen to fetch him a can of ph.d pepper and a bag of honey buddha chips. you can’t eat, but he needs to. you gently tap his work desk as you place the snack by his side.

“make sure you don’t skip your meals, saeyoung!” you press a kiss to his forehead. he turns to look at you, a lopsided grin on his lips. he drops his headphones from his ears.

“of course, little lady.”

“i’m going to make stew for you for dinner tonight. is that okay?” you say, heading towards the door.

“the defender of justice 707 will prevail against evil through the power of honey buddha or anything his dear love conjures!”

you roll your eyes, laughing lightly. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you love me.”

you wave him off as you step outside.

“wait!” he calls, realizing you plan to run again. “are you wearing the watchband? you know how I feel about you running. it’s dangerous, y/n...with bears and snakes and all kinds of—“

“wouldn’t leave without it, babe,” you sigh, twisting your wrist, the silver band tracker gleaming in the sunlight. he made the gadget weeks ago when you resisted his protests of you running on the trails in the woodlands surrounding his bunker. again, he’s caring for you at every single turn. you hate to burden him, giving him another reason to worry, but he insists he does these things because he wants to do so.

“good. be safe!” he shouts from inside.

as soon as you seal the door, you almost collapse against the frame. your vision darkens, and your blood feels thin. you sharply inhale, pressing your knuckle to the wall.

stand up. stand up. you’re pathetic. you can’t even start running? if you don’t run, you’re going to be this way forever.

“right,” you whisper. you inhale and exhale slowly, “right. I have to do this.”

you force your legs forward, pumping your arms as your headphones blare music into your ears. your entire body feels like a shell, and lactic acid pulses through your legs. your lungs burn and your heart lashes wildly in your chest.

go. go. go.

you circle through the trees, pacing along the familiarly worn path. trees softly sway in the breeze, and dark clumps of clouds signal an omen. you breathe heavily, placing one leg before the other.

the rain falls. you squint your eyes, faintly discerning the blurs of tree trunks and greenery, fading in the wind. step, step, step. you have no energy. your entire body feels cold, and your legs are stiff and numb. your feet slap against the dirt, mud clinging to your skin, and your brain feels like smoke suffocates your thoughts, suffusing your drifting mind...go...go...

suddenly, almost slowly, your ankle bends against something firm, a root? you wonder. pain shoots up your leg. your world spins. the world becomes dim. a sharp noise rings in your ears. the scent of earth fills your nose, something hot with the scent of iron spills down your face, and cold rain slaps your entire body. you close your eyes.

rain...rain...

it plummets to the ground and slides off your cheeks along with the tears and that warm scent of iron...

get up. stand up and run. you’re pathetic.

you cough, your arms shaking as you rise to your knees.

“get...up!” you cry hoarsely, yet your eyesight is filled with sparsely colored dots of black and purple, swirling with wind and rain...

“run. run...run!” you’re standing, yet your legs won’t move. thunder rumbles in the distance, and the rain is fierce, howling and moaning. your lungs feel as if they will cave in. your limbs are shaking. you place another step forward, beginning your jog, but your muscles do not listen. you collapse, the ocean of colors filling your vision again, your head light and dizzy.

you cannot stand. your body will not obey.

you’re weak. pathetic. pathetic! so fucking pathetic!

“y/n! what the hell are you doing?! hey! hey!”

someone runs towards you, racing with the wind, but you cannot decipher who. his voice is stern and his arms are firm as they grasp your trembling frame.

“shit. shit! are you okay? can you stand?” his red hair sticks to his face, and his glasses are filled with fog. oh. you recognize this face...

the one you love so much...

“hey. hey! y/n, speak to me! hey!! damn it!”

you cannot speak. your mind is filled with fog. you open your lips, but no sound escapes.

“.....ven...seven,” you croak.

no. you think. no, don’t be like this. you’re being a burden. you’re bothering him. because of you, he’s left his desk. he abandoned his work. this is your fault! your fault!!

“you’re soaked. what the hell happened? y/n, you’re soaked and...wait. wait! fuck! you’re bleeding! damn it. damn it! I didn’t get here fast enough! I knew something was wrong. here, take my jacket. come on. can you stand?”

leave me alone. I don’t want to burden you.

your eyes narrowing, you press your hands to his chest and attempt to push him away. “i’m fine! i’m fine. seven, leave me be. you need to work. I just...I j-just...I tripped in the middle of my run. go back! go. don’t worry about me,” you hiss. your attempts to push him are futile. he does not budge.

“no, y/n, damn it! you clearly can’t even move! you’re numb! don’t tell me..don’t tell me—“

“seven, I am fine! you can go back. i’m fine, see?” you smile, standing—

your knees cave in, and as if on cue, he catches you in his arms.

“y/n,” he growls, hooking his arms under your knees. there resides pain in his voice, a certain pain you haven’t heard before.

you know the truth. realization has dawned upon him. he knows.

those ember eyes, so full of melancholy, watch you with a certain sadness.

something clicks within his mind.

he knows.

he lifts you off the ground. “damn it. damn it! all this time, and I didn’t notice. you’ve been starving yourself, haven’t you? haven’t you?!”

you cannot respond. your head falls limp against his chest.

wrapping his jacket around you, he begins to sprint back to his bunker, the rain slapping against both of you.

“all this time,” he pants. “all this fucking time and I couldn’t even tell because I was working.”

“s-seven...i’m fine. I haven’t. I...I just tripped—“

“I hacked your phone. I saw the running logs. I didn’t think you were starving, but seeing you now, you’re so thin. you’ve...you’ve lost weight, haven’t you? you’ve been training harder. thank god i installed that tracker on that watch and found you before it was too late...damn it! damn it, this is...this is all my fault!”

“no,” you cough. “no. you’re wrong. I haven’t been starving—“

“quit lying to me, y/n! stop it! I already know. that’s why you were crying last night. that’s why you’ve gone to the bathroom every night...to weigh yourself, right? damn it! damn it!”

he reaches the bunker, immediately placing you on his couch. he curses silently, his voice dark, and he fetches first aid.

tears fill your eyes.

damn it. damn it. i’m burdening him. i’m bothering him. i’ve taken time from his day. i’ve worried him! damn it. I ruined it all...I ruined...

you clench your wrist, the wrist you hate so much, the one you constantly measure to see if you’ve lost any weight. “damn you,” you cry, cursing yourself. “damn you!”

saeyoung returns, panic washing his face. he sprints to your side, prying your fingers off their tight grasp around your wrist. blood trickles from your fingernails, uncontrollable sobs escaping your lips.

“y-y/n! please! please, God, stop it!”

you fall into his arms, and of course, he catches you.

“hey...hey. y/n...” he whispers, pressing the cloth to your bleeding forehead. you close your eyes, the hot tears gushing down your cheeks.

like a deluge bursting from a dam, the pain once imprisoned in your aching heart spills its contents onto the floor.

saeyoung says nothing but cleans your wound, applying a bandage to your forehead. you’re dripping wet all over his floor, but his messy home is the last of his concern. his eyes monitor you, only you, and he watches your hands to prevent your self-harm. he watches your eyes avert to your wrist, so he instinctively wraps a bandage over the wound.

“let’s get you cleaned up,” he murmurs. you say nothing but allow him to carry you to the bathroom.

he twists the faucet handle, filling the tub with warm water and a fragrant bubble bath. he turns to you, a hand resting upon your muddy shirt.

“may I?” he asks quietly.

like a robot, you nod. he gingerly tugs your muddy clothing of of your body, leaving only your under garments. you subconsciously cover your frame with your arms. you hate him seeing you like this. you hate him even looking at your body, the thing you hate so much. you hate burdening him. there are so many things that you hate, that fill your heart with pain, like a knife stabbing over and over again.

he cautiously lifts you and places you into the tub, being mindful of not causing you any discomfort by touching you anywhere without permission. his fingers, long and nimble, lather your hair with soap. still, you say nothing. your arms remain wrapped around your torso.

don’t look at me, you want to whisper. go away, please. i’m sorry.

guilt eats away your insides.

the time...he’s wasting on me...

it’s all my fault.

“will you move your arms for me, y/n?” he asks softly. “please...I need to wash the mud off.”

“don’t look at me,” you plead, refusing to meet his gaze. “seven, you’ve done more than enough for me. you can go back to work now. i’m sorry for all of this.”

saeyoung narrows his eyes. “you think I give a damn about work when my girlfriend is crumbling before my own eyes? y/n, you’re more important than any work I have to do. please, let me take care of you. we need to talk about this. you need help.”

you back away from him, pressing your back to the opposite side of the tub.

“it was a one-time thing, i swear. i’m fine. I promise! I promise, seven. please...i’ll take better care of myself from now on.”

his eyes meet yours again with that painful sadness. he knows you’re lying. he reaches a hand towards yours.

“...I know you better than anyone else.”

you know his words are true. he has seen you in the most intimate forms, and you know his darkest secrets. the two of you are one, and you have promised to love each other for eternity. still, you know the boy has suffered so greatly in his life. he doesn’t need the burden of caring for me, you think. he deserves so much more.

“and ‘seven.’ you never call me that name anymore. y/n, look at me...please.”

you force your gaze to meet his, and his hands rest on your arms.

“you’re perfect and healthy just the way you are.”

you bury yourself in the bubbles, sinking deeply into the water with a sigh.

that’s what people say when they find out you have it. they tell you that you’re beautiful and there is nothing wrong with you. but they will never understand. they don’t see yourself through your eyes.

with your body hidden from his view, you scrub the mud off yourself. saeyoung recoils in silence. “i’ll go fetch you a fresh pair of clothes, alright?” you say nothing in response.

when he leaves, you close your eyes, allowing yourself to descend into the water. your mind is a tsunami of thoughts, but your heart feels like an abyss. you never intended saeyoung to discover any of these secrets. yet somehow, like always, he learns your patterns, your habits, as if he has hacked your mind.

he steps back into the room with his folded traditional red long-sleeve t-shirt and a pair of his sweatpants.

“I know this isn’t much, but the rest of the clothes are in the wash. these are fresh out of the dryer. i’ll leave them here for you.” he steps out of the room.

you drain the tub, forcing yourself to stand, your hands shakily grasping the sides. you slowly peel off your tattered undergarments, enveloping yourself in the towel adjacent to the tub.

your eyes subconsciously drift towards the mirror. the damned mirror. you drop the towel to stare at the pathetic figure who glares back, her eyes gaunt circles, her ribs protruding, all with that pouch resting between her hips.

“damn you,” you whisper to the reflection. “you are the one...who ruins everything...”

“y/n?” saeyoung calls. “are you okay?”

you snap your gaze from the mirror. shit. he’s outside?

you clumsily stammer towards the pile of clothes he left for you, and you pull the red shirt over your head, quickly slipping your arms through the sleeves. then you tug on the sweatpants, which are way too large for you—to your surprise.

“I-I’m fine,” you reply. “everything’s fine now. I...I can take care of myself from here. thank you for everything, sev—saeyoung.”

he opens the door, immediately rushing to your side to steady you. he leads you to his bed, lifting you again into his arms to gently tuck you beneath the covers. you hate this feeling of helplessness, but you lack the strength to resist his movements.

“I started a bowl of ramen for you, y/n. i’m not leaving your side until you eat it all.”

your breath hitches. if you eat the ramen, those 6 pounds you have already lost with be replaced in an instant with the fattening noodles. the warm scent of chicken broth fills your nose, and an alarm signals in your mind.

no. no. I can’t eat. no. no!

“s-saeyoung,” you begin, attempting to conceal the panic in your voice, “just let me rest. you can get back to your work. I promise i’ll eat.”

his eyes narrow, face falling, his lips twisting in anger. ever so briefly, you see his eyes twinkle. he reaches a hand towards yours, causing you to flinch.

he’s crying.

no. no, please. please don’t cry.

throughout the four years you’ve spent with saeyoung, you can seldom recall the times he has cried. perhaps his heart is almost immune to the unfairness of the world. but as he sits before you, tears slowly dripping down his cheeks, your eyes widen.

please. please don’t cry.

“y/n...all this time...i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry. you’ve been hiding this for so long, haven’t you?”

you do not respond.

“four years,” he breathes. “you’ve been in the RFA for four years now, and you’ve been so focused on solving our problems that we never took a moment to glimpse at yours. god, i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry.”

I don’t deserve your sympathy, you think. you’ve suffered enough. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. don’t waste your tears on me. this is my fault.

“look at me,” saeyoung whispers. “please.”

your body trembles, arms clutched to your chest, eyes slowly parting to meet his. the atmosphere is thick and heavy, and the sound of rain echoes throughout the halls.

“I’ll be with you every step of the way. y/n, you know I love you more than anything in this world. I want you to be happy,” he raises a hand to cup your cheek. “I want you to be healthy. we can do this together—the right way.”

the...right way...

he pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around your torso. his body feels so warm against your own. you slowly return his embrace as you nuzzle your head beneath his chin.

“you know you’re never alone, right? i’m always here. always,” he murmurs into your hair, fingers gently strumming down your back. “I know this pain you carry cannot dissipate overnight. I’m sorry you’ve bore this burden alone. I...I can’t stand knowing you’ve been suffering right before my own eyes,” he curses himself.

“but i want you to get better. for your sake, my love. you deserve the entire world—the universe. if I could take away this pain, I would. but I know...I know these things take time. I want you to eat. we...we can work out together! but your body will only collapse if you push it to its limit without any nutrition. you...I-I don’t want to think of what could happen if...” his voice fades. he pulls you closer.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad. I love you. I love you so much, y/n,” he leans his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling. “I promise you...I’ll always be by your side. I know...I know the scars you bear have stained your heart, and pain cannot be undone so easily. but if...if you let me...I’ll walk alongside you...as you try to heal.”

you cannot think, but you know his words are true.

you hate yourself. you always have hated this cursed body. day after day, as time fades and rain falls, as the sun turns across the horizon, your habits repeat, as never ending as the sky. sometimes you relapse, and you forget these feelings. but as waves return to the shore, mercilessly stealing the shore’s contents, you crumble into the pits of your old habits. you recall the countless nights lying awake as your body tingles in agony, your stomach rumbling and begging. you recall the cold feelings of your toes against the scale. you envision your reflection. you hate the girl in the mirror. the feeling of starving, that hollow ache, the ringing in your ears as the world blurs...

it’s almost addicting.

but...

“I...I cannot change my ways so easily,” you whisper. “I’m sorry. I-I’m sorry...but.”

you look into his eyes. the soft colors of amber, of gold and honey melting and dancing beneath the sunlight.

“for you,” you say, “and...for me, too. I want to stay. I want...to forget this pain. I don’t want to burden you. saeyoung, I love you too.”

I want more memories of dancing with you in this room. I want more nights beneath the stars, our hands interlocked with a soft warmth. I want more of your kisses. I want laughter with Zen, Jaehee, Jumin, and Yoosung. I want to help others through the parties. I want to marry you...in the space station. I want to hear your stupid jokes. I want to read your messages. I want to be here. I want to be alive.

this hatred follows me like a shadow. it chokes me. it’s watching, always watching, and its hands grasp my precarious figure. I hate my waist. I hate my hips. I hate this skin that hangs from my torso. I hate my protruding ribs. I cannot so easily combat this ugly feeling that festers within me day after day.

but if I fall apart...

will I lose these things I cherish, too?

I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t...I don’t like this pain. but it’s a part of me.

can I let it go?

can I?

for you...and me too...maybe I can try.

with hands upon your waist, he pulls you against him, your lips meeting his own. your hands card through his hair, thighs enveloping his hips.

with time and healing, you think. I...I hate this body. but with time and healing...

I think...

one day, I’ll be happy.

#mystic messenger #saeyoung choi #707 x reader

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diddlesanddoodles · 4 years ago

Text

DUMPLING ch 50

“Wait! You’re Bumbling Bertol?” Jae exclaimed dubiously, in far too loud a voice. A moment of clarity seemed to overtake him, and he cleared his throat. “I mean… uh. Sorry. Bertol. So, uh… you’re Bertol then, huh?”

The giant did not appear to take any real offense at the mocking moniker and merely regarded Jae with an easy stare.

“I used to be. That name… well, I cannot say I did not earn it,” he explained with a resigned sigh. An air of wistful regret came over him as he stared passed them. “I was a pathetic creature in my younger days. I went from hamlet to hamlet, village to village, selling my talents for whatever coin or bauble they saw fit to give me. I sold predictions, but nothing too grand. Not in those days, at least. Ordinary folks only wish to know ordinary things.”

He plucked up three apples and tossed them into his mouth. “The housewife wants to know if she’ll bear a son, the poor farmer wishes to know if the year’s crop will be bountiful, and the young maid aches to know the name of the man whom she will wed.” He sighed in frustration and his expression became bitter.

“Simple questions that should have simple answers. But life is far more complicated and twice as cruel. The housewife will have her son, but he will die of pneumonia at too young an age. The farmer’s harvest will be plentiful, but it will be his last before a heart attack strikes him down. The young maid learns the name of her beloved only to find he is fifteen years her senior and a foul drunkard.” Bertol took up another apple and rolled it idly between his fingers. “Such dire predictions. They grind against your soul after so long. I grew weary of seeing the doom ahead of so many people. So I took solace in herbal concoctions and alcohol spirits. I became the man they called Bumbling Bertol. Truthfully, I don’t recall much of those days. I don’t remember a good many of the predictions now credited to my name. Most of them are silly anyway.”

“How did you meet Ellis?” Haiyer asked, his eyes alight with intrigue. The little boy had taken up a spot near Bertol’s knee and was listening with rapt attention, despite the morose subject matter.

“It shames me to say that I don’t quite remember how or where I met her,” he admitted, shifting in his seat and running a hand down his beard. “I was drunk. I know that much. And that she watched over me while I was passed out in a gutter somewhere. She claims that in my wretched inebriated state I called her beautiful and that was why she took pity on me. But I know that is a lie. Fairies are notoriously voyeuristic and mischievous. And I suppose in that state I was quite a humorous thing to behold. In all truthfulness, she was probably bored and looking for some fun. But after I had sobered up, she still stayed with me. She would watch me as I made my predictions, drank myself stupid afterwards, and spent the following hours or days wandering around like fool.”

As he spoke of his fairy companion, Bertol’s dour expression softened and a smile came to his lips. He turned to look down at Haiyer. “She watched over me. Much in the way she looks after you, little one.”

He gestured to the little boy. “She did that for me. Then she began to teach me things about magic, things I never knew. About how my gift of foresight could be harnessed to see beyond merely the terrible. My predictions began to change the more I learned from her. I began to see the good and less and less of the bad. The promise of new horizons stretched on before me and I needed the bottle less and less. For a small amount of time, I was quite content.”

“So then,” Jae pressed, biting into his apple, “where does the Gold Prophecy come into play?”

Nenani ran her fingers across one of her apples as her heart raced. She was all too familiar with the Gold Prophecy, and while many of the people who spoke of it did so with a mockingly or dismissively, it always left her feeling ill. Those were the words that echoed in her dreams, that were spoken by centuries-dead mages deep within the Vhasshalan catacombs, and most worrying of all they were the very words Aidus spoke the day she first met him face to face.

Those words were a curse.

At Jae’s question, all warmth left Bertol’s face. His expression soured and the giant snorted derisively. “That damn prophecy. It has caused me nothing but misfortune from the day those accursed words left my lips.”

“Do you…” Nenani began, feeling an uneasiness in her belly. Her mind drifted to the catacombs within the Vhasshalan keep and to the skeleton mage. She rested a hand against the fire opal on her belt. “What is it really about? The prophecy?”

“Who knows,” he grunted. “I speak the words as they come to me. I am not omnipotent.”

“Ah, come on!” Jae whined, clearly dissatisfied with his answer. “That’s bullshit! It’s gotta be about someone.”

Bertol glared at the young man and leaned towards him.

“And you think it is about the King do you?” he asked with a sneer.

“Well, a lot of people do,” Jae replied defensively. Meeting Bertol’s eye, he steeled himself and nodded firmly. “So yes. I do think it’s about Warren.”

Bertol glare darkened. “You are hardly the first to ask me the meaning of those words or to believe them to be about one person or another. Many came to me to ask if those words foretold their rise to power. And like you, they did not care for my answer. Some tried to force me to declare that it was always about them and, when I would not, I would be beaten or imprisoned.” A sly grin crossed his face. “So Ellis taught me a useful trick for escaping such circumstances and I am not ashamed to say I have become quite good at it. I became a wanted man.”

He sat back up and gave a half shrug. “And so we went into hiding. I became something of a hermit and avoided people at all cost. I found life in the mountains away from people quite suited me. That was until the war spoiled everything.”

“The war?” Haiyer asked.

“We were able to distance ourselves from the worst of it,” Bertol continued. “Until one day we came upon the aftermath of a battle along the Deahil Nenani river.” His eyes drifted to Nenani and seemed to size her up. “The very river you’re named for.”

“Riftside,” Jae supplied. “That was the battle of Riftside. Warren’s brother died there. Prince Mourin.”

Bertol grunted as he waved the anecdote away. “A corpse with a crown on its head is still a corpse, boy. And believe me, there were many of them. Human and Vhasshalan alike. Further down river from the battle’s center is where Ellis found him, a Silvaaran mage. He was gravely injured, but alive.” Bertol paused and for several long moments did not say a word. He appeared to Nenani as though he were replaying the events in his mind and he did not look pleased at all. “Ellis convinced me that we should save him. So I pulled the man from the water and tried to dress his wounds as best I was able. Ellis was dissatisfied with my quality of care and decided to use her stone.”

“Stone?” Nenani asked. “What kind of stone?”

“A stone of power, a ruby. It was a dear treasure to her and not a gift she so easily bestowed upon others. She used it to heal him.”

“Stones of power can do that?” Nenani asked, looking down at her opal.

“Not the stone itself,” Bertol replied, reaching into his bag and pulling out a red river rock. He turned it idly through his fingers. “The magic infused within is the healing catalyst as the stone is merely a vessel. Fae magic is wild and can be amazingly powerful when wielded in the proper way. Horrendously destructive if misused.” He tossed the stone into the air and caught it with his other hand. “The mage was healed and saved and he was very grateful of course. But as I was a giant, I made him nervous. I attempted to calm his fears and, not much to my surprise, he had heard of me. And he had heard my prophecies., including the one that would become known as the Gold Prophecy. Like so many before, he was very interested in that one. A little too interested for my liking, so I left Ellis to it. She likes to make pets of mortals every now and again. I thought she would do the same with this one.” He shook his head as he glared out into open space. “He attacked her while I was away. Stole her ruby and tried to absorb all that magic it had soaked in over hundreds of years. The fool.”

Nenani ran her fingers over the opal set inside her belt, trying to imagine what hundreds of years of built up magic would feel like. Extremely unpleasant, she was sure.

“It should have killed him, trying to take in all that magic,” Bertol continued. “His aura turned black and his body began to flake apart like ash. But he somehow held himself together, though he was nothing but smoke and cinders and… I don’t think you could rightly call him human after that. Both Ellis and I tried to get the ruby back, but we were not a match for him as he was. I was lucky to have survived and without her stone she could not heal me. The smoke mage disappeared with the ruby and Ellis and I retreated into the hills to lick our wounds.”

“Aidus,” Nenani declared. Her hands rested in her lap, clutching hard enough to turn her knuckles white. “The mage you’re talking about. That was Aidus, wasn’t it?”

“I learned his name much later,” Bertol explained.,“when Ellis found him again after a long search. You must understand, without her stone she was no longer permitted to return to her home realm as it was considered a Fae relic. To return home, she would have to get her ruby back. But in the end it did not matter as her other crimes came to light. Her fellows discovered that she had taught me Fae secrets and that was the reason she was banished.”

He tossed a few more apples into his mouth and was silent as he chewed. “There is nothing like the vengeance of a Fae being. She wanted that mage’s blood. It did not matter that it was I that got her banished. She blamed the mage all the same. I’m not sure what she was planning to do once she had found him. He could and would kill her. Fae can live on forever, but that doesn’t mean they cannot be killed. They are not gods, no matter how much they may act as though they are. But when she did find him, she also found something else. Or rather… someone.”

He regarded Haiyer with a pointed look. “A baby.”

Haiyer pointed at himself, grinning wide. “Me?”

“Yes,” he said with a small smile. “You. It seemed as though the moment she found you, all thought of revenge dissipated. She said you had faint traces of green in you and that you needed protection, so she would watch over you.”

“Green?” Jae asked. “What does that mean?”

Bertol rolled his eyes. “Green. As in the forest. Nature. A green mage.”

Jae glanced at Haiyer and then back at Bertol with a heavily dubious expression. “…green mages? You think… Haiyer’s a green mage?”

“Not so much me,” Bertol replied. “Ellis. It’s what drew her to him. She claimed he was an unbloomed green mage. A rare thing these days and, to the Fae, a precious one.”

“Why would him supposedly being a green mage make her drawn to him?”

“Green mages are supposedly descended from the Fae.”

Jae blinked and then laughed loudly. Through his chortling, he asked “…are you saying Haiyer’s part fairy?”

“No,” Bertol growled. “Green mages are said to have once been descendants of Fae, but they are absolutely human. It’s their connection to the earth that attracts Fae to them. Same way dragons are drawn to fire mages or sea serpents to water mages. They share a common element, their primal sources are the same, and so one will attract the other.”

“And like fairies,” Jae shot back, “green mages are supposed to be nothing but children’s stories.”

“And like the Fae, green mages like to keep hidden and to themselves,” the giant retorted. He glanced up at Nenani and smirked. “The exact opposite of fire mages. Flashy blowhards.”

“Hey!” Nenani barked with a mouth full of apple.

“When she found this one as a babe,” Bertol continued, tapping Haiyer on the head, “she tried to take him back with her, away from Aidus’s clutches. But there was some sort of barrier that would not let her pass through with him. It seemed that Aidus had sensed her peeking about and had made precautions against her meddling. So she settled for watching. But when his mother finally escaped, Ellis was able to better help them, steering them towards clean water, away from poisonous plants. Once they were safe in Vhasshal, I thought her watch over the boy would end. But then the last time she went to visit him… she never returned.”

Nenani recalled back to her first magic lesson and how Maevis had suddenly pulled something invisible from the air and sealed it into a jar. For weeks now she had been harboring a slight suspicion of what was really inside that jar, but now there was no doubt.

“That was Maevis,” Nenani said, casting an apologetic sidelong glance at Jae. “He… he thought it was Aidus snooping around.”

“And so she has sat in that same jar ever since,” Bertol said with a sneer as he balled his hands into tight fists. “That damn magician…”

“Hey!” Jae snapped, pointing a warning finger at the giant. “Maevis is my good friend, and if I hear you say one nasty thing about him I’ll—”

Bertol laughed, cutting off whatever Jae may have said, and leaned into the boy’s space. Jae fumbled back with a start.

“You’ll what?” Bertol demanded. “Just because the King has made you a prince does mean that you possess any real power. You are still my prisoner and a human. And not even a mage at that. So don’t throw around commands as though anyone would listen.”

“Hey,” Jae said, squaring his shoulders. “Just because—”

“Your value is only that which the King has placed upon you,” Bertol said, cutting Jae off again.

The boy glared as his face colored in frustration and embarrassment. “Well… technically speaking I’m not a prince yet.”

Bertol waved a dismissive hand at him as he pulled away. “Close enough for my purposes. You could be as common as a mushroom so long you’re valued by the one in power.”

Jae frowned at the giant and looked up at Nenani.

“I think he just called me a mushroom,” he said. But when she did not respond or even acknowledge him, he grew concerned. It was then that he noticed that her hands were glowing. “Nenani?”

“I’m just wondering,” she said at last, staring off into space. “How different everything would be if… if you and Ellis hadn’t saved him. If you just let him die there.” A pause. “Papa would still be alive…”

Jae didn’t have an answer for her and he looked over to Bertol, a question in his eyes. In turn, the giant stared at the bubbled girl, but his face revealed nothing.

“It is useless to dream of what could have been or to mourn what never was,” he said at last. “The truth is both Ellis and I made a mistake that day. One I imagined cost many lives and much sorrow.”

“Do you feel guilty though? Even a little?” she asked, looking him in the eye. Her magic surged with every beat of her heart, and she could not keep from thinking of all the years she would have had with her father if it hadn’t been for the actions of the giant before her. And his fairy. Right then, she did not care that Ellis had protected her brother all those years. If Aidus had just died at Riftside, her father would be alive and her mother would have never been taken. Haiyer would have been born in the Southlands and uncle Halden would have not been killed. The fire would have never burned the fishing fleet. She would have her family. They would be safe and alive and whole and together.

Bertol just stared at her. “What use would my guilt be?”

His words were incendiary and the ever present fire deep within her began to rage and burn with an unbridled fury.

“But it’s your fault,” she told him. The anger within her surged like a pot boiling over and the glow of her hands began to spread up her arms and chest. It traveled up her neck and across her face and her eyes began to glow.

“N-Nenani?”

“Calm down,” Bertol snorted, reaching out and cupping the bubble between his hands. “There isn’t anything—”

“It’s your fault!” she yelled over him. The bubble filled with fire as she cried out and then abruptly it was gone. The shock of sudden weightlessness extinguished the worst of her flames and she dropped, only to fall into Bertol’s hands. Before she could recover enough to recall her anger, his fingers wrapped around her and held her firmly. His fingers began to glow a bright yellow that contrasted starkly against the angry orange and red of her fire.

“Now that is enough!” he said in a booming voice. His large face loomed above her and his eyes narrowed. “It’s generally ill-advised to be lighting fires within a small and enclosed space. Much like fire, people need to breathe air to live and without it they have the annoying habit of suffocating.”

She glared at him, trying to summon her fire again, but found it oddly difficult. Her arms were trembling, and no matter how deep she tried to reach inside to pull it out, she found her magic weakened and drained away. Looking at the glowing hands around her, she panted with sudden exhaustion. “W-what… what are you… doing… to me?”

“Keeping your flames down,” he growled. “Until you’ve calmed yourself.”

“You can’t do that!” Jae barked. He ran to the giant’s side and grabbed onto his vest, pulling with all his might. “Put her down! NOW!”

“Stop that,” Bertol snapped at him. “I can do as I please. Or have you forgotten you are my prisoners?”

A half-eaten apple struck the giant’s temple and he jerked his furious gaze down at Haiyer as the boy picked up another apple. “Leave my sister alone!”

“If you all don’t stop this right now,” Bertol growled, shifting his gaze between Haiyer and Jae, “I will bubble all of you!”

“Ellis said you were nice!” Haiyer cried as he threw another apple that struck the giant’s shoulder. “But you’re not at all! You’re mean. You’re an arse!”

Nenani renewed her struggles and tried to kick at the giant’s wrists. “And you smell really bad!”

“ENOUGH!” the giant cried, the sound echoing loudly in Nenani’s ears. His hands disappeared from around her, but instead of falling to the ground, she fell back against the now familiar walls of a bubble. Below her, she saw Haiyer and Jae both in bubbles of their own. Bertol got to his feet and stared at the three of them with fury as he tried to catch his breath.

“You will be quiet and meek as mice for the remainder of our time together,” he told them in a low and firm voice. “And then once Ellis is returned to me you will be someone else’s problem.”

Nenani was still too drained to attempt another escape and only wished she’d been re-bubbled with her blankets. Without their cushioning buffer, the bubble was quite uncomfortable.

“Um,” Haiyer spoke up hesitantly and shifted oddly within his confinement, “…I have to pee.”

Bertol glared daggers at the small boy. “Too bad.”

“But—”

“I said,” Bertol began, his face hard, “too ba—”

“BERTOL!” bellowed a voice from outside the tent, drowning out the giant’s words and startling all four of them. Nenani perked up with a grin.

“Farris?” She said with a hopeful voice and looked towards the open tent flap in hopes of catching a glimpse of him. Bertol’s gaze followed and his frown deepened.

“YE BETTER BE GETTING’ YER MOLDY OL’ ARSE OUT HERE NOW YE FUCKER!”

“Oh yeah,” Jae agreed with a grin of his own. “That’s Farris.”

With his eyes still fixed upon the tent’s opening, Bertol raised his hand and, in unison, all three of the bubbled humans rose as well. They followed after him as he left the tent, floating along as though pulled by invisible leads.

Once outside, Nenani was finally able to see exactly where they had been brought. Far off in the distance she could see snow-peaked mountains and below that a wide grassy valley of low sloping hills and sparse copses of trees. A heavy,frigid mist blanketed the ground, and as Bertol stepped out his bare feet made low crunching sounds against the frozen grass. Despite all the evidence pointing to the morning being especially chilly, Nenani did not feel cold at all. Thinking back, she realized with some confusion that she had been perfectly warm the entire time and yet there had been no fire to guard them against the morning frost.

Several yards outside the copse of trees where Bertol had pitched his tent stood Farris and Keral. Farris had exchanged his white apron for a long brown overcoat while Keral was dressed in his ranger’s uniform. In his hands he held a lantern that appeared very similar to the ones Maevis had created for the detection of Aidus’s magic. It was glowing and the sight gave Nenani pause, but she realized with relief that the light was the wrong color. The lantern glowed with a warm golden light rather than the pale violet of the warning beacons. As she studied it, Nenani could make out the shape of a person within and she blinked. Ellis, she realized. That was Ellis.

“If yer wantin’ yer damn fairy back,” Keral called out to Bertol. His voice was nowhere near as loud as Farris, but still managed to sound equally as cross. “Ye better hand over the lil’uns. Now.”

Bertol stopped at the edge of his camp to face the brothers with a hard glare. “You’re more than welcome to take them back. I’ll be glad of it,” he said. “As soon as ye release Ellis to me, that is.”

BONUS ART

#DUMPLING #G/t story #g/t #Giant/tiny #fantasy giant #Nenani #Jae #Haiyer #Bertol #Aidus

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granddaughterogg · 5 years ago

Note

How do you think the Horsemen would react to learning that their s/o broke it off only to later learn they were threatened by the Council to do so?

Ah, fam, you’re breaking my heart here, but I’ll try.I suppose that by “learned that they broke it off” you probably meant that the S/O dumped them via a letter or text (shudder…) rather than gathering up the courage to tell them in person? That’s abysmal in and of itself and I can tell you that as different as they are - all the Four would take this really, really, REALLY bad.

Fury: Mad

She would feel as if she’s been slapped in the face. With a loo rag. Her pride cannot comprehend such humiliation. She used to think lowly of your race but learned to leave prejudice behind, open her heart and become more trusting. She really took a liking to you. And this is what she gets for her trouble.

After receiving the message she probably went and massacred something in the most unsightly way just to let off steam. She desperately wanted to hunt you down and demand further explanations, but again, that pride was like a chain that kept her pinned in place. You didn’t want to see her ever again? Fine. You weren’t going to. Even if she had to remain a flaming, festering ball of hurt and rage until the end of her days.

The revelation that it was all the Council’s doing falls on her like a comforting blanket. So it wasn’t you who have been proven untrustworthy - it’s been them and their scheming all this time. Fury feels immensely relieved that she hasn’t been dumped. She’ll go to you right away and act as if this whole faux-breakup was not a big deal at all, assuming a no-nonsense “why didn’t you tell me that they were threatening you, silly?” attitude instead. She wants to put this whole ordeal behind the two of you as fast as possible. And focus on making the responsible party pay.

War: Sad

When War got your message, he needed to sit down, because it felt as if he got clobbered over the head. With a church bell. He’s not that great with introspection, so he wasn’t able to name the feeling that crept on him. All he knew that it was as if all the colours, sounds and flavours have seeped out of his world.

The thought of finding you and asking you questions did cross his mind, but he rejected it. If you didn’t want him around anymore, it would be unhonourable to disrespect your wishes.He spent the next few days (or months) as in a daze, going through the motions of his Horseman work, but not really feeling alive. Even the primal thrill of bloodshed wasn’t there anymore. He ached all over, but couldn’t locate or name that wound. Whoever had the misfortune to cross paths with the Red Rider during this harrowing time, probably noticed how chillingly not-quite-there he seems to be, speaking even less than usual and killing mechanically, without mirth or mercy.

The news about this newest of Council’s betrayals had to be relayed onto him twice because he was too torpid to get what that means. And after the Big Guy finally understood that you didn’t, in fact, abandon him - gods, how he ran.How he made Ruin eat up distance as if he was a comet.How he lounged at you - and closed you in his enormous arms, pressing your tiny body to his chest so hard that you could hardly breathe.

Strife: Hurt

The gunslinger never was one to care much about pride or honour or somesuch. He thinks them to be superficial, fussy constructs. So when he got the message - he went straight to your place and banged on the door until you finally came out.“Babe”, he said, his yellow stare not playfully lewd anymore; now those gleaming eyes of his were big and hurting. “What is this? Is it, like, a joke? Because I ain’t laughing.”You gulped, remembering what the Council’s hellish emissary said to you. The memory of this creature made your skin crawl. So many bug-like eyes and not a mouth in sight. Tell him that you don’t want him around. Only this, and nothing else. If you try something clever, we will have him killed.“I’m sorry, Strife…” you said, your voice thick from tears. “I… am so, so sorry. It is what it is.”“What do you mean?”“I…need you to leave.”“Is that something I said? Something I did? Just tell me, for fuck’s sake! Don’t abandon me like this!”“I…really don’t want you anymore. Please, just go!”You’d remember forever how this seven feet tall hulk of a man clad in spiky armour let you close the door on him without as much as moving a finger. How you crumpled down said door until you were lying on the hardwood, sobbing. How you could tell he did the same from the other side. And he cried, too. Big, ugly tears, his handsome face contorted into an unrecognizable grimace.You can’t tell how long he remained there.

It’s better not to recall how he spent the next few weeks. Let’s just say that he cannot remember either, as he was seldom sober.

And then he crossed paths with that Watcher and squeezed the truth out of them. He snapped the creature’s neck in his fingers as if it was a chicken bone and rushed back to your doorstep.

“Babe!” he shouted. “Princess! Pumpkin! It’s okay now! I got this all fixed! You can come out now, I won’t do anything to you, I swear!..”

You opened the door just a little. Strife barged through, scooped you into his arms and pressed his lips to your forehead, your nose, your half-open mouth, all while heaving for air and crying once again.

“Don’t you ever do this to me again, kid”, he gasped, nosing your collarbone. You could feel the wetness running down your skin. “I might be old and rugged and shit, but my heart seriously won’t take another blow.” “Please forgive me”, you whispered while running your fingers through his hair. “He said they would kill you if - if I said anything…”Small, joyless laughter escaped your Horseman.“Well, I feel as if I’ve been killed once already.”

Death: …

He knew that this was going to happen. Sooner or later.Although he counted on later. He allowed himself to care, he indulged that stupid little flame that crept at the bottom of his age-old, dried up soul. Stupid little hope.

And now he hated himself for it.Of course, you’d come to your senses. You’ve finally seen him for what he was: a greasy, wiry abomination caked in mud and dried entrails of his victims. You were so beautiful, so innocent and full of life. He was a monster.

He didn’t go to confront you upon receiving the breakup message. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. After ages of avoiding Feelings altogether, Death didn’t know how to deal with them. He wasn’t willing to name all those pesky emotions, but of one thing he was sure. There were so many that if he had to look into your young, bright face once more… he’d probably break, collapse and couldn’t be repaired.

So he didn’t. He sent Dust instead. To watch over you. It didn’t matter if you hated him or not; should anything bad happen to you in his absence, the oldest Horseman would never forgive himself for it.

He isolated himself from his siblings (as in, more than before.) He’d spend a lot of time in some forgotten realms, sitting on the grass and looking at the alien sky, not thinking about anything in particular. Except maybe how tempting the call of the void is. What a relief it would be to cease existing. A small blessing, mercifully granted to any living creature between Heaven and Hell. But not to him.

The pain was always there, dull and throbbing and as faithful as a shadow. This was how it’s probably supposed to be from now on. Oh well, he was used to carrying vicious scars.

Finally, his siblings have found him and brought the news. About this latest fuckery designed by the Council. Death listened to them in silence. War, Strife and Fury were a little put off by him seemingly not caring. Although he did look like shit; his hair was practically dirt dreadlocks and the moldy remains of what used to be a perfectly nice set of clothing blew in the breeze on his giant, hulking, emaciated body.“So, yeah…” Strife finished nervously, feeling out of place while his brother’s stare went right through him as if watching something far away.Finally, Death spoke.

“They made her do this?” His voice was croaky from long lack of use. It was also completely level.“Ayup.”“They threatened her with my death should she say anything? I guess she doesn’t know I cannot be killed?”War shifted from one big leg to another.“Yes, that is unfortunate…”“Nevermind.” Death stood up. “Let’s go.”“But where to, brother? You probably wanna see her first…”“Later. Let’s go kill the Council.”

#darksiders #darksiders death #darksiders war #darksiders strife #darksiders fury #darksiders angst #so much angst #ask answered #ask me anything!

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cherryblossomwatts · 5 years ago

Text

talk soon

He wakes up and squints blearily at his phone, charging on the bedside table.

3:22 AM, it reads. That means he and Garrett have been sleeping for... almost sixteen hours now.

He moves, turning onto his side to look at Garrett, soft in the moonlight. He feels weak just at the sight of him.

Not even forty-eight hours ago, he had stepped into the bathroom at Shane's while the TV blared in the next room - called Garrett in a panic, his chest tight. Garrett had picked up on the first ring and said immediately, "I just bought tickets to Spokane - 7:00am tomorrow."

"Garrett -"

"Come with me, Andrew," he'd prompted. This was the most serious Andrew had ever heard him. "I need to make sure you're safe. My mom says we can have the guest bedroom for as long as we need."

Andrew took a shaky breath and said, "I'm driving back to my place and packing, then coming to yours."

You can read more on AO3, or below the cut!

"Okay. I, uh - love you, Andrew."

"I love you, too, bud. I'll see you soon."

They'd spent the rest of that night wrapped around each other, sleeping side by side on Garrett's beat-up couch until Andrew's alarm went off at four in the morning. They hurried to the airport and got on the quietest flight Andrew'd ever been on, and crashed on the guest bed at Garrett's mom's place four hours later, almost immediately after they arrived.

Now Garrett stirs in his arms; murmurs, "Andrew," and presses closer, snug against his chest.

"Go back to sleep, Garr," he whispers.

He does; they do.

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Shane 🐷🐷 5:37pm: Hey Andrew, hope everything is going ok for u and Garrett. Stay safe, don't know what I'd do without u!!!

Reply 8:16pm: sorry about the delay, was taking a nap. me and garrett are doing good:) Reply 8:18pm: hope you and ry are staying safe too 💞

Shane 🐷🐷 8:21pm: We are :) Shane 🐷🐷 8:21pm: Btw, any chance youve asked Garrett about what u and I talked abt a few weeks ago? Shane 🐷🐷 8:25pm: Feel like now's the perfect time. Nowhere for him to run

[ Read at 8:26pm ]

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Garrett's mom comes each day and wakes them if they aren't up by noon, knocking softly on their door every time. Today, she comes bearing a tray heaped with food, the delicious aroma of waffles and bacon and eggs wafting into the bedroom. She is golden and merry and just as lovely as her son as she sets the meal down on the dresser next to the bed.

Andrew rubs his eyes, pushes himself up on his elbows, and smiles at Linda. Garrett remains asleep next to him. He looks small like this, burrowed into the covers as he is.

Andrew wants to kiss him.

"Good morning," Linda says sweetly, arranging and fussing at the silverware on the plates before her. "Sleep well, honey?"

Andrew loves how affectionate she is; how she rewards him every other sentence with endearments so incredibly reminiscent of Garrett. "Yeah, I did," he replies. "Still waiting to hear back from this one, though." He motions to Garrett, and Linda smiles at her son as if he's the only good left in the world.

Andrew likes to think he is, at times like these.

"Don't let him sleep in too late, sugar," she says. She pats Andrew's cheek, and he recalls a distant memory of Garrett saying she grew up in the south, although any trace of the accent she may have once had has since vanished.

"I won't." He grins up at her. "Thank you so much for breakfast -"

She tsks and cuts him off. "Anything for my boys," she starts, and Andrew loves that, absolutely adores it. He loves Linda as if she were his own mother, and revels in the way she treats him like a son. "Eat up, now, 'Drew. We can't have you two getting sick during this whole fiasco."

Then she's closing the door behind her, and Andrew is turning to Garrett, slipping an arm over his waist under the covers and poking softly at his side to wake him up. Garrett shifts and giggles, trying to escape Andrew's grasp, but he doesn't relent.

"'R'you tickling me, Andrew Siwicki?" he hears Garrett say, muffled because his head is beneath the blanket.

"And what if I am?" Andrew says, continuing to do so until he hears Garrett's rich, pealing laughter, clear as a bell. Garrett writhes and kicks the blanket off, and Andrew sees that as his chance to pin Garrett down on the sheets, pushing his hands up above his head and leaning over him and -

Garrett stills, and Andrew immediately stops, taking in the way Garrett gazes up at him. As if he's waiting for Andrew.

To do what? he thinks, blinking slowly, spellbound.

Then Garrett clears his throat and says, softly, "Breakfast is getting cold," and Andrew bites his lip, draws back, moves to let Garrett sit up. The taller of the two reaches over and settles the tray upon the bed between them.

"What do you wanna do today?" Garrett asks between sweet mouthfuls of syrupy sweetness. Andrew cannot help but think of Garrett's café lights, washing over them in a warm glow on summer evenings. Feeding ants out on the patio while they listen to some antiquated songs on Garrett's July playlist, because Garrett has the best taste in music and that's just a fact.

"Let's stay in bed all day," he says. He takes Garrett's hand and, without thinking, kisses his knuckles as gently as he can. "Harry Potter marathon," he continues, blushing bright red, and revels in the delight playing across Garrett's features.

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G 🌸🐊⭐💕 3:54pm: Hey Andrew!!!!!!!

Reply 4:00pm: why are you texting me while we're in the same room together???

G 🌸🐊⭐💕 4:01pm: I want to feel like I'm busy and important and have people to text during quarantine✨✨

Reply 4:03pm: you are very busy! and important! Reply 4:03pm: but you could just talk to me out loud

G 🌸🐊⭐💕 4:04pm: Not during the movie!!!

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"Go ask your mom if we can go for a drive," Andrew murmurs against Garrett's neck, and relishes the way Garrett shivers beneath him.

They are curled up on the couch in the living room, and Andrew is... well, just a little bit drunk - but Garrett's only had one, and all Andrew wants is to get out of the fucking house - Linda's house, Linda's beautiful, stunningly wonderful home, but a fucking prison nonetheless - and watch Garrett with his hands on the steering wheel, and maybe imagine Garrett gripping his hips like that in bed, and -

"It's two a.m., Andrew, she's asleep," Garrett is giggling, opening his arms as Andrew nuzzles even closer to him. His hand moves up and down Andrew's shoulder, grounding Andrew, keeping him tethered so he doesn't float away, as happy as he is right now, heart swelling in his chest. "I don't think it's the best idea. We're supposed to be staying inside, anyway."

"We can just... take her keys," Andrew says. His eyes are slowly closing all by themselves, as he lets Garrett's warmth overtake him, wash over him. "She won't notice. Or mind. You know how much she, um... she likes me." He hiccups a little, which gives way to a stream of giggles, and Garrett is laughing with him, pulling him in even closer and tucking Andrew up against him.

"Please, Garrett. I just wanna get out of the house."

"Okay, fine," he relents, and Andrew hums happily, sliding the rest of the way into Garrett's lap. "Am I gonna have to carry you out to the car?"

That sets him off again, until finally, he manages, "I can still walk, you silly," and gets up just to show Garrett how good he is at doing so. If he was sober, maybe he'd notice the look of seeming disappointment on Garrett's face as he stood up.

But he's more than a little tipsy, so he doesn't.

Garrett grunts with surprise when they enter the garage and, instead of going to the car, Andrew pulls on Garrett's sleeve and leads him through the open door. "Where are we going, Andrew?" Garrett laughs, and Andrew just shushes him, until finally, they're standing in the dark grass on the front lawn.

"Andrew, what - ?"

"Look up," Andrew breathes, and Garrett does, inhaling sharply at the vast, starry expanse glimmering over them.

Silence stretches between them for what feels like an eternity, as Andrew watches Garrett and Garrett watches the cosmos, undulating above their heads.

"I forgot what it was like," Garrett says after a while, head still turned upwards. "I haven't bothered to look for them in such a long time."

"You do live in L.A.," Andrew says sympathetically.

"Yeah..." Garrett turns to face Andrew, who still isn't looking at the stars. "Do you ever -" he says, then clears his throat. "Do you ever wish you didn't live in the city, Andrew?"

"All the time," Andrew replies - maybe a little too quickly. He can feel the effects of the alcohol beginning to lift as he takes a step closer to Garrett, sobering under the intensity of his gaze.

He wants this. He wants a life with Garrett.

Maybe after all this is over, they can readjust, reassess; find a place of their own where they can sit on their porch and look out at the stars every night. Andrew could take Garrett back home, to Illinois, and they wouldn't have to live in the city or the 'burbs - they can find a nice place out in the middle of nowhere, another tiny house for them to love each other in. They can drive to Chicago whenever Garrett wants to shoot a video, and Andrew can finally say everything he wants to say to Garrett on camera, without having to think about hiding his feelings or stifling his laughter or trying not to kiss him -

"We should think about it," he says suddenly. "Once this is over. Once things go back to normal."

Garrett just looks at him, smiling in the way he reserves only for Andrew.

He thinks that Garrett wants to kiss him. He swallows.

Then Garrett seems to remember where they are, and grins, flashing the car keys at Andrew. "We should probably go," he says, and Andrew is just the tiniest bit disappointed, but still smiles at him anyway.

"Make sure you don't put those in the fridge when we get back," he teases, laughing as Garrett shoves him gently with his shoulder, before wrapping an arm securely about Andrew's waist.

They drive for about an hour, and Garrett does most of the talking, coasting down the highway and telling Andrew about a new video idea he's had and steering with one hand. Andrew lets him, basking in the brilliance of Garrett's voice, drinking his fill of the sight of Garrett's strong biceps, his shoulders, feeling an overwhelming sense of calm until he is slowly drifting off to sleep...

The next thing he knows, he is in Garrett's arms, and it feels like how his father used to carry him inside at the ends of long road trips, and he knows nothing but peace as he lets Garrett cradle him, lets his head fall against Garrett's shoulder and feels so very small, so safe.

...and if the next day, Linda comes into their room to whack her son over the head with an empty paper towel roll and give a chuckled, half-threatening, not-really-much-heart-in-it "Garrett Sageun Watts, if you ever take my car without asking again, I'll do more than just smack you" - well, then he doesn't think Garrett will mind.

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[ VOICEMAIL from "Ryland Adams" at 12:01pm ]

"Hey, Andrew! Hope you're doing okay! Me and Shane are all holed up in our house with the animals, and we miss you a lot! Shane was just telling me yesterday about how weird it is not having you around... Anyway, I hope you're not too bored in Washington. Call me back when you have time! We'd love to hear your voice again. Maybe we can do a FaceTime mukbang or something, that'd be fun. Oh, and Shane mentioned - what? No, I'm leaving a voicemail... Well, don't let him do that! Ugh. Sorry, Andrew, Cheeto's trying to scratch up the couch or something, so I've gotta go, but - Shane mentioned there was something he wanted to talk to you about? Maybe something about his latest edit...? Anyway - talk soon! We miss you so much."

[ ... ]

[ DELETE MESSAGE? ]

[ ... ]

[ Message deleted. ]

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"Are you okay, Andrew?"

He glances at Garrett and smiles, then returns his eyes to the road. "Yeah, sweetheart, why wouldn't I be?"

"Um," Garrett says. Andrew takes pleasure in just how flustered he can make him with one word. "Um, I dunno, I just... uh, you seem kind of, um, distracted lately?"

Shit. So Garrett has picked up on the fact that Andrew can't stop anxiously obsessing over how he's going to breach the subject of Shane to him.

He reaches over, rests his hand on Garrett's thigh. "Distracted by how cute you are?"

He doesn't know what it is about the state of the world that's instilled such boldness, such courage in him - but he doesn't care to wonder, as enthralled as he is with Garrett's nervous laughter, Garrett's rosy cheeks. He turns his palm face up without looking over, smiles to himself when Garrett takes the invitation to lace their fingers together.

"Th-that's not exactly what I was talking about, Andrew, but I think -"

"That's what I was talking about, Garr. It's all I've been thinking about, recently."

Garrett flushes bright red and tries to stammer something out, but eventually settles for a contented silence and the most adorable little smile Andrew's ever seen.

Andrew eventually turns into the grocery store parking lot and pulls the car to a stop, slowly, reluctantly drawing his hand back from Garrett's grasp. "Still got that list?" he asks, and Garrett holds it up to show Andrew Linda's slanted, immaculate handwriting, refusing to meet Andrew's gaze.

"Hey," he says, reaching over to gently turn Garrett's face towards him. "Look at me?"

Garrett hesitates, but finally meets Andrew's eyes, still blushing furiously.

"You ready, Garr?"

He nods, and Andrew grins; presses a kiss to Garrett's cheek so he won't see the worry in his eyes; gets out and locks the car.

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Reply 9:05am: hey. any chance shane and ryland have been acting weird w you lately?

morgchella💎🦄 1:12pm: Oops sorry justwoke up morgchella💎🦄 1:12pm: im Very hungoevr lmaooo

Reply 1:20pm: nice 🤩

morgchella💎🦄 1:22pm: But no??? has smth happened with u guys?

Reply 1:23pm: shane keeps getting on me to talk to garrett

morgchella💎🦄 1:27pm: About what?????

Reply 1:28pm: them

morgchella💎🦄 1:28pm: ??????????????? morgchella💎🦄 1:29pm: Wtf does that mean

Reply 1:30pm: oh Reply 1:30pm: has garrett not told u...?

morgchella💎🦄 1:34pm: Im so lost andrew lmfao

Reply 1:38pm: things have been really weird between them lately. ryland wont even talk to garrett anymore and shane hasn't been inviting him over at all. garrett's definitely noticed Reply 1:39pm: i mean his song hit #3 in hiphop and shane didnt say anything to any of us. that doesn't seem odd to u??

morgchella💎🦄 1:41pm: ***yOUr song morgchella💎🦄 1:41pm: (you both worked on it ad i still havent stopped listenign to it) morgchella💎🦄 1:43pm: So whys shane trying to talk to him all of a sudden?

Reply 1:44pm: i think he wants to either cut garrett off completely or make amends. i can't tell

morgchella💎🦄 1:51pm: Do u want me to talkvto them??

Reply 1:51pm: no its fine. i'll sit garrett down and tell him shane wants to talk. i've been keeping this from him for a while

morgchella💎🦄 1:52pm: The groupchat has been pretty dead recently..... morgchella💎🦄 1:53pm: I'll talk to garr soon. I didnt even realize this was happening. morgchella💎🦄 1:55pm: I justfilmed a video last night and like printed out a bunch of pics of Squad thats gonna be pretty awkward

Reply 2:00pm: hahahahahahhahsfkljglfgkl Reply 2:00pm: u good morg?

morgchella💎🦄 2:02pm: 🤪

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He hadn't meant to disappear down an editing hole, but when he finally emerges from Linda's little home office at a quarter to midnight, he cusses himself out in his head. How could he have spent the entire day away from Garrett - and why hadn't Garrett come to visit him?

"Hey," he says, knocking on the door frame of their bedroom. Garrett is sitting up in bed, scrolling on his phone, and he looks so tired, but god, if he isn't the most beautiful thing Andrew's ever seen in his life -

"Hi, Andrew!" he says cheerfully, moving over so there's space for Andrew to sit next to him.

"I missed you," Andrew says softly, staying fixed to the doorway. "A lot."

"I missed you, too."

"What've you been up to today?" he asks. He keeps looking at Garrett, whose head has dropped down to his phone again, and tries to gather up the courage for what he's about to do.

"Mm, well, I edited for most of the day, and now I'm just" - he lifts up the phone to show Andrew - "looking at Twitter. Apparently, people are wondering why we've been so silent recently, isn't that funny, Andrew?"

"I think we needed a break," he replies, finally moving forward to sit on the bed, one leg hanging off. "It's been a long time since we've just enjoyed each other's company and not thought about anything else."

Garrett sets his phone down; looks at Andrew like he hung the moon and stars; says, "I think so, too."

It can't be helped. Andrew will just write it off as the way Garrett gazed at him like he was everything, as he leans forward, touches Garrett's cheek with the palm of his hand, and kisses him.

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Caleb 👶🎶🎶 1:17pm: Yo Andrew hope u and Garrett are enjoying ur quarantine together ;)) Caleb 👶🎶🎶 1:18pm: U better tell me when yall finally hook up Caleb 👶🎶🎶 1:20pm: Or have u already?

Reply 1:47pm: a lady doesn't kiss and tell, caleb 😘😘😘

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There's flour on Garrett's shirt - and on his nose, and in his hair, and oh, Jesus, Garrett's absolutely covered in it, coated from head to toe. Andrew feels the giggles rise in his chest, exploding from his mouth as he cackles Garrett's name, realizes just how ridiculous the situation before his eyes is - and now Garrett's laughing, too, which just makes Andrew cackle even harder until he's practically crying, and the camera's shaking in his hands, but neither of them care - and he knows they're filming, but he just can't help himself, when he finally gulps down enough air to breathe, from saying, "I'm so in love with you."

He isn't scared. He thinks it's the most perfect sentence he's ever said.

Garrett is still snickering as he sets the bag of flour down, next to the bowl that was supposed to contain cookie dough by now. "Really?" he says, and Andrew almost thinks he doesn't believe him until - "You really chose this moment to tell me that you love me, Andrew? When there's so much flour on me that I look like a ghost?"

That just sends Andrew into another fit of laughter, and he can barely even complain when Garrett takes the camera from his hands, switches it off and puts it on the counter behind him. As soon as he's turned around again, Andrew is kissing him, pulling Garrett forward by the front of his shirt and tasting the light dusting of powder on his lips and grinning like a fool.

"Well, I'll have you know, Andrew Siwicki," Garrett starts when they finally pull away, out of breath -

"Yeah?" Andrew interrupts, stealing another kiss.

"- that I'm in love with you, too."

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morgchella💎🦄 9:22pm: So shane and ry are starting to get on me about getting garrett to talk?? morgchella💎🦄 9:23pm: also i heARD U AND GARRETT ARE FINALLY TOGETHER IS IT TRUE

Reply 9:23pm: fuck Reply 9:24pm: has caleb been telling everyone?????

morgchella💎🦄 9:25pm: OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG morgchella💎🦄 9:25pm: OH MY GOD ANDREW AAAAAAAHSDFJLKGSK morgchella💎🦄 9:25pm: CONGATSULATIONS I DUCKING KNEW U GUYS WOULDNT BE ABLE TOVHOLD OUT ANY LONGER

Reply 9:27pm: hahahahahahahahahahaahha omg morgan

morgchella💎🦄 9:27pm: this quarantine was actually a blessing in disguise 😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌 morgchella💎🦄 9:27pm: A global conspiracy just to get the two of u together

Reply 9:27pm: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHSDKJD Reply 9:28pm: morgan omg

morgchella💎🦄 9:28pm: No but fr I am so happy for u guys 🥺🥺🥺

Reply 9:29pm: thank u morgan. ily and that means a lot to me Reply 9:30pm: just please don't go spreading it around hahahahaha we wanna keep it on the dl

morgchella💎🦄 9:33pm: Ok I promise i won't but only if I am invited to your wedding

Reply 9:34pm: oh jesus Reply 9:35pm: ok i still gotta buy the ring tho

morgchella💎🦄 9:40pm: SJAKLSDJGFLKJBDFLKNCVCJLKSJDLFKSGOIXCLKJFHGLFKFHOIJADSKL

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It doesn't take long for them to fuck, and for Andrew to wonder why they ever wasted so much time not having sex when it's so mind-blowingly good - when Andrew's legs are slung over Garrett's shoulders, and he's a moaning, spluttering mess underneath Garrett, and they're both still getting used to touching each other like this and still laughing from time to time, and both of them are so warm and giggly and in love.

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G 🌸🐊⭐💕 2:33am: You're asleep but I just wanted to tell you that I love you G 🌸🐊⭐💕 2:34am: And that you look really pretty sleeping in my arms G 🌸🐊⭐💕 2:34am: And that I can't wait to talk to you soon when we're both awake G 🌸🐊⭐💕 2:34am: That's all :.)

Reply 10:47am: hi. you're still asleep. i love you so ridiculously much. Reply 10:49am: i hope your day is as special as you are, garrett watts 💗💗😊😊🌻🌻

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Andrew is still glowing in the late afternoon after their morning sex. It's hard to believe the state of the world right now when he's with Garrett.

He's wearing one of Garrett's flannels - the greenish-blue one, that he stole and wore on Garrett's last birthday, and is always so discreetly happy to wear out in public - and running his hands through his boyfriend's hair, and he feels so at peace.

That is - until he glances down at Garrett's phone and realizes he's tapping through one of Shane's endless Instagram videos, staring unhappily at the screen with the volume muted.

"Garrett, baby," he says, letting the still-new word roll off his tongue, taking pride in the little smile it brings to Garrett's face. "Have you talked to him recently?"

Garrett shakes his head, and panic pools in Andrew's stomach.

"He's been bugging me a lot lately," Andrew says cautiously, tentatively. "I think he wants closure. Things have been sort of up in the air with you two. For a long time. And -"

"I'm not interested in talking to him."

"Well, it's clearly making you upset to -"

"He's made it clear who he prioritizes in his life."

Andrew exhales sharply, turns away. Stops petting Garrett's hair. The taller of the two notices.

"Is he upsetting you, Andrew?" he asks quietly.

"Not really. I mean," he concedes, "a little bit, yeah, but I'm not... I'll be okay."

"Is he making you anxious?"

Andrew stares at his lap and says nothing.

"Fine, I'll talk to him," Garrett says. "For you. Not for him. To make him stop bothering you."

"Garrett, you don't have to."

"For you, Andrew." He takes Andrew's hand and squeezes it tight.

Andrew shivers, pulls his phone out of his pocket.

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Reply 8:18pm: garrett says he'll talk. u should call him sometime today before he forgets Reply 8:19pm: and please promise me you'll leave us alone after u talk to him

Shane 🐷🐷 8:27pm: I promise. Shane 🐷🐷 8:27pm: I'll call him soon.

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All he remembers is Garrett leaving at four a.m. to take a call from Shane, and him desperately trying to stay awake and wait for him to come back to bed, but -

The next thing he knows, he's squinting as the sun peeks through the blinds and Garrett is crawling under the covers, fully clothed, burying his face in Andrew's chest.

"Jesus," Andrew slurs, still caught in the throes of sleep. His arms reach out automatically to encircle Garrett as he mumbles, "What time is it, Garr?"

"Seven thirty."

"Oh, christ -" He is about to berate Garrett for staying up so late, but then he - he -

Garrett is crying.

And Andrew has never seen him cry before.

"Garrett, honey, I'm so sorry -"

"Please," Garrett says, so quietly that Andrew just barely hears - and Garrett doesn't beg, but - "Please, Andrew, let's not talk about it. Please."

"Okay. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Can you just..." Garrett trails off, pushes himself further into Andrew's embrace. "Can you just hold me?"

He does. He swears to himself he'll never let go; never forgive himself for letting this happen to Garrett.

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Shane 🐷🐷 7:31am: Hey, can you do me a favor and ask Garrett about J? Shane 🐷🐷 7:36am: please. It's really important.

Shane 🐷🐷 1:45pm: Earth to andrew??

Reply 3:12pm: hey. i'm sorry. garrett had a really rough night.

Shane 🐷🐷 3:13pm: I did too. can you please ask him?

Reply 3:15pm: ask him what about jeffree? Reply 3:15pm: i hope you understand that you and i are not on the best terms rn, shane. Reply 3:16pm: whatever you said made garrett really really upset

Shane 🐷🐷 3:20pm: I need you to ask him if they fucked.

[ Read 3:20pm ]

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"What the fuck, Shane? You can't just fucking text me that and expect -"

"Andrew, please. I can't even explain to you how important this is - you need to ask him -"

"No, you need to tell me what the fuck is going on." He hates that he's yelling at Shane. He hates that he called Shane in the first place. He hates that they're even speaking to each other at all. "Can you explain to me why the hell you've been so adamant about cutting Garrett out of your life for the past six months? Why you haven't so much as breathed in his direction since Ryland's fucking hotel video - why me and Morgan have been the only ones out of all of us to ever text him, or call, or ask him to hang out, and why you and Ryland won't even let him into your house anymore - your fucking best friend - you won't even let me -"

"Andrew?"

He whips around, sees Garrett standing in the doorway of their bedroom, a strange expression on his face.

"Who are you talking to?"

Andrew struggles to breathe. "It's no one, baby, don't worry," he says, the phone still held up to his ear.

"Ask him," Shane urges from the other line, and Andrew grits his teeth.

"Not until you start fucking explaining what's going on," he barks.

"Andrew," Garrett starts again.

"It's nothing, Garrett, I promise. I promise you, I'm taking care of it."

"You're talking to Shane, aren't you?"

"I - no, I'm -"

"Don't lie to me, Andrew," Garrett pleads. "What does he want?"

"I can't, Garr -"

"Ask," Shane says again.

Andrew hangs up on him, lets his phone fall onto the bed.

"What does he want, Andrew?"

Andrew's heart is going to beat out of his chest. Garrett is looking at him with the saddest expression Andrew's ever seen in his life.

"I..." he stutters. Tears are welling in his eyes. He hadn't expected this to hurt so much.

Garrett still just looks at him. Andrew wishes he would cross the room, come and hold him, but he doesn't.

"Garrett," he chokes out, finally; "Garr, did you sleep with Jeffree?"

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Mama 🧡 2:29pm: Hi Baby Boy. Dad and I are missing you so so so so SOOO much!!! Quarantine is lonely without you :( But we hope you and Garr Bear are having fun!! Please tell Linda I send her ALL my love, and that I hope she's feeding you two boys well. Make sure you are WASHING YOUR HANDS and not going ANYWHERE unless absolutely necessary!!!! I am serious!!!!!! This corona virus is no joke and my heart would just shatter if you or Garr Bear got sick from it. Mama 🧡 2:34pm: And make sure you don't get sick from boredom too!!!!! Dad is already losing his mind with online work, LOL! But I'm sure Garrett can keep you entertained while you are stuck together. You two are such silly, wonderful boys and I know how much you love to make each other laugh. You are both so good for each other, in ways that I don't think you even see yet. I know you could not stand to be separated so you must make sure you both are staying safe and healthy. Mama 🧡 2:36pm: Please give Garr Bear all my endless love, and keep him safe!!!!! Love you so much my darling boy. Hope we can visit and see you again once this has all blown over! Love, Mom Siwicki 😊 😊 😊

Reply 4:58pm: hi mama. you have no idea how much i needed to hear that today. garrett and i are doing really well. i hope you and dad and 🐶 are staying very safe and enjoying your time together, too. Reply 4:59pm: i love you so much and i need to call you soon. important news regarding me and garrett that i think you'll be excited to hear. talk soon 🧡🧡

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You could cut the tension in the air between them with a knife.

Garrett stares.

Andrew trembles.

"Who - ?" Garrett starts after a long, terrible silence, and Andrew wants to scream. "Who do you think I am, Andrew?"

"Garrett, please just tell me."

"No, Andrew -"

"Please," Andrew whispers, "please, Garrett, Shane won't leave us alone until you -"

"I said no, Andrew."

"Garrett -"

"No, I mean - no, I didn't sleep with him."

Andrew blinks.

Then he collapses into tears, sitting down on the bed and burying his face in his hands, weeping like he had as a high schooler, after his first ever (albeit meaningless) relationship had ended. He hears rather than sees Garrett rush forward immediately; feels his big, strong arms around him as he sobs into Garrett's chest, letting his hands fall into his lap.

"I'm sorry," he chokes after a few minutes of devastating silence, punctuated only by the miserable sound of his own crying.

"Why are you sorry, Andrew?"

"Because this is happening to you," he mumbles against Garrett's shirt. "Because I don't - I shouldn't be crying right now, I don't have the right to be crying right now."

Garrett gently tilts Andrew's head up so he's looking at him, wiping Andrew's cheeks with the broad pad of his thumb. "It's okay to cry, Andrew," he says softly, and god, does Andrew love him.

"I shouldn't be so upset by this," he tries to interject. "I shouldn't be so jealous of Jeffree -" He breaks off, tasting the salt of his teardrops as they roll down his face, brush against his lips, and he gasps as his old insecurities come to light - and Garrett - sweet, wonderful Garrett - just holds him, because of course he's known, of course he noticed how Andrew failed to laugh when everyone else had at Jeffree's awful flirting - of course Garrett had seen the look on Andrew's face behind the camera, as he struggled to keep his hands steady and tried to block out the stomach-churning sound of Jeffree's simpering voice.

Of course he knows. Because he's Garrett, and he can read Andrew like a book, that's just a given - and they know each other better than they know their own selves.

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andrew💕.m4a

[ PLAY VOICE MEMO? ]

[ ... ]

"Hey.

"I love you.

"You're out on a walk right now. Um... and, well, I thought I'd just, um, try to get my thoughts. On everything. Out. And just kind of talk for a while, because, uh - because I miss you right now, and because you deserve to know what... why Shane needed to know about Jeffree. And. Shane just called me again. And cried a lot. Which was weird. So. I know you don't like to talk to anyone when you go on your walks, which is cute - so I'm recording this instead. Um... sorry, I'm just - moving around on the bed. Uh. There.

"Um - first of all, I just - I just really love you, Andrew. I've been in love with you for a really long time, and I'm just - god, you just make me so damn happy. I can't imagine spending my time with anyone else. I'm so - this whole... thing with us, our relationship, I guess you'd call it - it's so new and fresh, and I have to admit, I'm really scared, but I'm also just so happy and content, and I didn't... I didn't ever think, in, in a million years, that you would love me back. But I'm so grateful that you do. I really am.

"Um. I love you. And. I would never sleep with Jeffree. I hope you know that. Even if I hadn't been in love with you for almost... what is it, three years now? I would've said no to him anyway. He's not... I don't want that kind of life. I don't want to, to have a sugar daddy or whatever he was offering me. I don't want to just be a quick lay. I want... I want you, Andrew. Always been you. Always just... sorry, I - sorry for getting emotional. Um... ugh, god. You're turning me into a mess, Andrew. Uh. I just really love you. And I love what our relationship's been. And I love that - that there isn't that much change, now that we're dating, from what things were like before, and I can still talk to you, and you're still my best friend, and we can still joke around and laugh at nothing and just keep loving each other. I don't want a fuck buddy. I want a - a committed relationship, and someone I know I can spend the rest of my life with - and I know I'm rambling, and I know that this might... might scare you away, because this is so, so new to you, but - I wouldn't say it if I didn't think you felt the same way. Feel the same way.

"What you and I have is... I've been trying to recreate it for years, Andrew, and I've never, ever been able to. No matter how hard I tried - no matter how much I tried to forget - I can't replace you. You're... you're everything to me, Andrew, and I think you always will be. I hope you feel the same. Even if - even if things, yaknow, don't work out, down the line, and we de- we, um, decide we're better off as friends. I can't. I, uh - I can't imagine... oh, god, sorry, Andrew - I- I can't imagine living a life without you in it.

"God. Um. Where was I? God... So, uh - I said no to Jeffree. Is what I think I'm trying to say. He made it really clear what he wanted two years ago, and I said I wasn't interested - and when he approached me again, when he and Shane were filming the second series - that's when things started getting nasty. I - he didn't say anything to my face, he wasn't rude up-front. He's too... manipulative for that. I guess is the word. Um. Because he knew Shane would realize who he really is, if he was mean to me in front of him. So - from what Shane's told me, he sort of just started dropping subtle hints. And Shane just kind of... well, you know. You know how he is. He kind of just let himself get caught up in it. And I stopped getting invited to things. Which is fine. But... I mean, you know.

"I'm not really sure how to feel. Anymore. I miss Shane a lot, but... I don't know. He told me he wants to talk in person after all of this is over and we're back in L.A. I told him I want to, too, but I'm not sure how that talk's gonna go, really. He says he's sorry, and he's realized how badly he fucked up. And I want to forgive him. I really do. But if he keeps hanging around Jeffree, then I'm not sure I'd even want to be spending time with him anymore. He's kind of... changed. A lot.

"So... that's... off my chest. Um. I know that was a lot. I just thought you deserved to know everything. Because. I love you, and. I know how upset you were that Shane wanted to know what happened between me and Jeffree. I know it can't've been easy for you to... relive those memories. On top of everything else that's been going on lately. And I'm really sorry.

"Anyway. Enough of that negative stuff. I love you so much. I'm really excited to see you when you get back, because I'm gonna make you some hot chocolate. With cinnamon. And then we can go cuddle on the couch. Because I love you. And maybe watch movies with my mom. Because she loves us, too.

"Okay. Uhh. I love you so much. I'll talk to you soon. Bye."

[ ... ]

[ Voice memo saved to "Andrew Siwicki's iPhone". ]

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They recover.

They have a lot of sex, and Garrett stops being afraid of holding Andrew's hand in front of his mom, and Andrew breaks his radio silence to post something nonsensical on Instagram that he immediately forgets about.

They go exploring in the woods out behind Linda's house - "looking for cool bugs," Garrett grins - and it's nice enough for Garrett to wear shorts, because he's big and tall and always, always warm - Andrew doesn't understand how he can possibly be so constantly, gloriously warm - and they fuck around between the pine trees and look down the hill and feel just a little bit smaller.

Andrew makes sure he reminds Garrett at least every five minutes of how much he loves him.

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Reply 10:24pm: hey you!

G 🌸🐊⭐💕 10:29pm: Who, me??

Reply 10:29pm: yeah, you. come out of your editing hole. i made pasta Reply 10:30pm: 🐊🍝

G 🌸🐊⭐💕 10:31pm: OMG G 🌸🐊⭐💕 10:32pm: Have I ever told you how in love with you I am?????????

Reply 10:34pm: hahahahahahahaha Reply 10:34pm: ❤︎❤︎❤︎

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"What're you thinking about?"

Andrew pours the milk over his coffee and watches it swirl, spiral, fade and eddy out.

"I'm wondering what's gonna happen after all this," he says. Garrett hands him the silicone tray he's been holding for some time now, and Andrew takes three ice cubes - no, four - and plops them into his drink. "What's gonna happen to us once everything's back to normal."

"Oh," Garrett says. "I think we'll probably just go back to what we usually do."

"Yeah?"

"Mmhmm, I'll text you to hang out every other day or so, and we'll go to Coffee Bean and completely lose track of time, and then we'll end up getting lunch and spending the entire day together. Maybe film some videos, too."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I do." Garrett stirs his own glass with a straw - the metal one he always steals from Andrew - whipping the grains of sugar around in a little whirlpool at the bottom. "Or you could just... move in with me. If you wanted to."

Andrew nearly spills iced coffee all over the kitchen floor.

"I..." he stutters, his face a dark red. "Garrett. You'd... you'd let me do that? You want to live together?"

"Well, yeah, don't you? I mean, you practically live in my house already, Andrew; it'd just be a matter of getting all your stuff over."

Andrew sets his drink down; smiles up at Garrett; tries to pretend the glossy sheen to his eyes is just a trick of the light. "I'd really like that, Garr," he says, and then Garrett is wrapping his arms around his waist, letting his chin rest atop Andrew's head, and Andrew isn't quite sure exactly what he's done to ever deserve to feel as at peace, as content, as loved as this.

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

[ VOICEMAIL from "Mama 🧡" at 5:03pm ]

"Hi, baby, it's Mom. Thank you so much for calling yesterday. I love you so much and I'm so glad to hear you and Garrett are staying safe. I'm so, so proud of you for finally working up the courage to tell him how you feel; that can't've been easy. I've known for a long time that you've been struggling with how you feel about him. I know you so well, Andrew, and God bless you, but you're so easy to read. Can't believe that boy of yours didn't pick up on it sooner - but I told you so, didn't I? Your father and I have always known about you two, ever since you first told us about him... Anyway, stay safe, my love. Don't go outside unless you absolutely have to. And you put a ring on that boy soon, you hear me? I'm so endlessly proud of you. Love you to bits. Talk soon."

[ ... ]

[ DELETE MESSAGE? ]

[ ... ]

[ Message saved. ]

#gandrew #garrett watts #andrew siwicki #my writing #liv rants

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crystaljins · 5 years ago

Text

He’s pretending.

Characters: Jimin x Reader

Word count: 3.5k

Synopsis: Jimin hates you. He loathes you with everything he is. That’s why he thinks about you so much- not because you’re sweet and pretty and kind or anything ridiculous like that. Not at all. Enemies-to-lovers(ish) drabble. Daemon!Jimin x Faerie!Reader.

Notes: I’m not actually sure what this is. I guess it’s kinda a drabble? I don’t really have plans to continue it, or anything like that. I just wanted to write it, so I did. Maybe you can think of it like a draft? Anyway, regardless of what it is, I hope you enjoy it!

“Jimin, I know you would literally rather die than see her but I really think you need to see the on-duty healer.” Taehyung says, his brows knitted together in distress.

“It’s just a scratch.” Jimin grits out, even though his flesh is literally sizzling where the blacksilver knife had sliced through it like butter. It was foul play, for his opponent to use the one material in the world that could pierce his daemon flesh in what was supposed to be a sparring session for educational purposes only. A bruise or two was meant to be the most severe injury. It is why the trainee in question is currently facing retribution for their dangerous and malicious actions.

But that still leaves Jimin to deal with the repercussions of said actions. Which means gritting his teeth and hobbling towards the room where you are currently the on-site nurse for any injuries. It’s laughable that he, commander of the king’s army and right-hand man to the king himself, has been so severely injured by a mere trainee. And one who had employed cowardly methods to save their nonexistent pride, at that. And the fact that you are the healer on duty to witness him in such a state is rubbing salt in Jimin’s wounds.

“I think the fact that your veins are literally turning black from poison suggests it’s more than a scratch.” Taehyung offers timidly. “You… you don’t have to talk to her or anything. Just… just get healed and go.”

Jimin holds back a scoff partly because he wants to convince himself that you aren’t worth a scoff and partly because the motion of an exhale will cause him an excruciating amount of pain. But getting healed by you is never as simple as “just getting healed and going”. No, as a Faerie, your healing doesn’t involve just spells or salves or ointment like a witch or Druid would use. It involves sharing your essence with him- it involves your magic washing through his veins. He remembers the one and only time he has been healed by you (and for a wound much smaller than this and one that required far less of your magic to heal). He does not like to recall the way he could feel your presence from the centre of his being to his fingertips. Every time he had used his magic that week he could feel the faint pulse of yours behind it like the way sugar clings the corners of his mouth when he’s had a sweet. The experience had left him tense and on edge all week and it is not something he wishes to repeat. You are on his mind enough without your magic pulsing through his veins.

“I’m fine.” He all but snaps, desperate to avoid going to you even though he knows he’ll regret snapping at Taehyung later. But he can’t and won’t see you. Oh, how he loathes you with the very fibre of his being. His blood boils beneath his skin when he sees you, or senses the airy, light feeling of your Faerie magic coming around the corner. It’s not because you are special, though. No, it runs in his blood to hate you- Daemon and Faeries have been sworn enemies since the dawn of their species.

Admittedly, and this is the part that confuses a simple Druid like Taehyung, you do not confine yourself to the societal norms that Jimin clings desperately to. It would be so much simpler if you did, though. If only you acted like the Faerie he expects you to be. Then he could forget your existence and loathe you from a distance. Instead, for some reason, something other than condescension and a sense of superiority fuels your every move. It can be seen in your unusual decision to become a healer rather than a combatant. Had you joined the army you would no doubt be one of the king’s most trusted and capable commanders and one of Jimin’s biggest rivals. But you had not, and instead you spend your time in the far corner of the palace, humming softly to yourself as you blended plants to make healing draughts and making up little rhymes to sing to the children who come to your infirmary from a scraped knee or elbow. And your unusual behaviour extends to him. You are nothing but sugar and sunshine towards him.

It is frustrating because it is some sort of plot, it must be! He does not know how you masked your magic so that rather than icy and intimidating, it is soft and gentle like milk as it pulses through the veins of whoever you are sharing your essence with to heal. But you must be secretly plotting for his demise. The fact that he can never get his mind off you is simply proof of the evil ploy. Why else does he find himself remembering the shape of your smile or the colour of your eyes at inopportune moments? You are clearly a master of manipulation. You have to be. For you are a Faerie and he is a Daemon. There is no way you could truly be as kind as sweet as you pretend to be. It simply cannot be.

And he does not have the capacity to hate you right now, weakened as he is. He would much rather retire to his quarters and allow his enhanced strength and healing abilities to purge the poison from his veins.

“I’ll just rest a little,” he groans, struggling to rise to his feet. He succeeds, somewhat, swaying from side to side on uneven legs and gritting his teeth against the wave of dizziness that floods his senses. “In… my… own… room.” He gasps and then his effort is wasted for he crumbles to the ground once more. The only thing that stops him from smashing his face against hard tile is Taehyung catching him just in time.

“You’re going.” Taehyung says, sterner than Jimin has ever seen him. “I don’t care if I have to knock you out and drag you there. You’re getting healed before you die from blacksilver poisoning.”

And the next thing Jimin knows is that he’s being hauled through the corridors of the palace, closer and closer to the dreaded infirmary. The whole while, Taehyung grumbles beneath his breath.

“I can’t believe you’re so stubborn,” he complains, supporting almost all of Jimin’s weight with a surprising amount of strength. “You’d really rather go down in history as having died from a completely curable, minor toxin than be healed by (Y/N), the sweetest, kindest nurse this kingdom has ever seen.” The door approaches and Taehyung is still resentfully muttering to himself, oblivious to the doom that approaches. “I don’t even know why you hate her so much. If I didn’t know you I’d say you were Fated for each other because you could fit together so well.”

Jimin is too distracted to take note of Taehyung’s rambling. He’s trying to prepare himself for your presence. His body likes to warn him of the oncoming danger whenever an encounter with you approaches by flooding his stomach with butterflies and leaving his hands slick with cold sweat. The door creeps closer and with his enhanced hearing he can just make out the sounds of you tottering around inside, probably doing something wholesome like watering the little flower pots you keep on the windowsill of the infirmary. He can just feel the faint brush of your magic at this proximity, like a feather tickling his skin. It causes goosebumps to raise across his forearms and he suppressed a shiver. As he is dragged nearer and hope of escape diminishes, your presence grows stronger. Your magic seeps through the cracks beneath the door and soaks into his skin like warm water. It would almost be an enjoyable sensation if it wasn’t you causing it.

“(Y/N)!” Taehyung calls for you suddenly and Jimin flinches in surprise. Such a little movement is excruciating though and he doubles over- it is only the supportive arm Taehyung has around him that keeps Jimin from crumpling to the ground.

The door swings open and your eyes go wide as you take in the sight before you.

“Jimin!” You cry. You dart forward and crouch before him, taking stock of his injury. It is a neat, clean slice from a sword but the edges are blackened and necrotic and dark black veins creep out from it, up his ribs and across his stomach. Without thinking, you yank his shirt upwards to examine the extent of his wound.

Jimin nearly snarls in protest, and this brings you pause. He ignores the flood of guilt as you hesitantly lower his shirt and help Taehyung drag him to an infirmary bed. As soon as Jimin is sprawled awkwardly across the bed, you busy yourself with gathering supplies. He tries to write the way his heart races in anticipation off as mere nerves or discomfort at the thought of you healing him. He doesn’t like your magic. That’s what he tells himself even as he unthinkingly reaches out with his own, brushing against yours. Oddly, the act is soothing, like the wound in his side is responding to your warm aura- the sharp, stinging pain eases just slightly. He does not like to think about what that means- only those who are Fated for one another should have such compatible magic. But he hates you and so you could not possibly be his Soulmate.

Perhaps you sense him seeking out your magic signature for in the next moment you pause your rummaging and turn to him.

“So,” you call softly, and he hates that the sweet lull of your voice makes something in his gut twist. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Jimin is silent for a moment as he realises how silly the whole ordeal makes him feel. And for some reason it bothers him that you might think of him as weak or stupid if you know the whole story. But when the silence begins to draw out, your expression softens and just for a moment Jimin hates himself rather than you. For of course you would never think lowly of him- he does not think you are capable of thinking badly about anyone. There isn’t a bad bone in your body. He’s the nasty one, the terrible, fearsome Daemon, whose only power is to destroy.

“I don’t need the whole story.” You point out when Jimin continues to remain silent. “Just enough to know how best to heal you. You can leave the embarassing parts out.” There is a playful twinkle to your eyes as you say the last bit that, oddly enough, is what has Jimin caving and admitting the full story to you.

“A trainee wasn’t coping well with training… he took it out on his younger peers and when I found out and punished him for bullying, he sought revenge.” Jimin admits bitterly. Bitter, because he should have seen it coming. Should have been able to avoid this whole situation. A skilled commander, one-upped by a nasty, pigheaded trainee who only knew how to bully to get his way? Ridiculous. He is a fool because he allowed himself to be in a dangerous situation without thinking. What if he applied that same lack of forethought when protecting a civilian, or the king himself? He does not deserve to be the commander that he is. “He snuck a blacksilver knife into a training session and by the time I realised, he had gotten me.”

You shake your head, concern marring your features. It is irritating that even with your eyebrows knitted together and your nose scrunched up like you are constipated that you are still frustratingly gorgeous.

“I hope he pays for it.” You say sadly and it is perhaps the meanest thing you have ever said aloud. Jimin, despite himself, cannot stop a slight smile from curling his lips. How unusual, for you to speak sternly of someone else when he’s pretty sure you would have a hard time even saying mean things about vermin. You must be quite distressed at his injury.

“Why are you smiling?” You ask, thoroughly confused. You tilt your head and the movement is reminiscent of a young, curious pup and just as endearing. Jimin catches himself in time and clears his throat and looks away.

“It’s nothing. I’m just surprised that you feel so strongly about this, is all.” He observes and this time he can’t bite back the smile. Your expression twists in bewilderment.

“The wound must be serious.” You comment gravely. There isn’t a hint of irony in your voice as you say the next words completely sincerely- “You would never smile unless you were very sick or dying.”

Jimin abruptly breaks into a coughing fit, surprised by your comment. He’s… he’s not that bad, is he? Admittedly you are not the first to make a comment like this. Usually such comments are more to the point and crude. Resentful mutters about something involving a stick and his ass. He doubles over in pain in the process of coughing though and your eyes go wide and panicked. Spurred into action by the way Jimin has returned once more to a state of agony, you do not hesitate to tear through the cotton of Jimin’s shirt.

It is only after this that you realise what you have done. For a moment, Jimin just stares at you, bewildered. He has not seen you flush that particular shade of red and the effect of seeing you flustered like this is rather… enjoyable.

But then your eyes harden with determination and it is Jimin’s turn to be flustered. You overcome your embarrassment and lean in far too close. He barely has time to flinch before he feels the warmth of your breath skating across his chest as you examine to path of darkened veins weaving across his ribs. He abruptly loses the ability to breathe normally at the sensation. His lungs are caught as he watched your determined expression. Your lashes flutter over your cheeks and your lips purse into a charming pout. It is entirely unfair that you should look so adorable while focusing and Jimin wishes that you were an ugly troll so that his job of hating you was slightly more possible. Though he doubts even if you looked like an ogre that he would be able to hate you as he wants because you are just too sweet. It isn’t fair- you drive him crazy. Particularly when you lift a hand up and slide it across the exposed skin of his abdomen. This time he must release the breathe he has been holding in a shaky exhale lest he accidentally release some sort of embarrassing noise from the burning contact of your skin against his.

“This doesn’t look like something I’ll be able to heal without using my magic.” You admit nervously.

“I see.” He admits, a bit more gruffly than he planned to. Internally he is panicking, though. You blink a few times and bite your lip and that’s an incredibly distracting movement that at least allows him to forget his panic for the moment.

You, on the other hand, are similarly panicking. You aren’t a fool. Only an idiot would miss the way Jimin’s jaw clenches when you enter a room. The way he avoids the infirmary at all costs when you are on-duty. The way his friends shoot you furtive, curious glances as he strides passed you in the hallways. They’re trying to figure you out- what could you have done, that Jimin hates you so much? And you wish you could give an answer, that you could explain what caused this deep-seated loathing for you, but you don’t know. The closest you can think of as a reason is the from the last time you had healed him. Your magic is unique for healing in the sense that rather than spells or enchantments to encourage healing like a Druid or a with would use, you utilise the inherent self-healing nature of your magic. By flooding someone with your magic, it acts on their body like it is your own and heals their ailments. Of course, your healing is not invincible or instantaneous- it still takes a while for your magic to heal most people, perhaps a day or two on average as opposed to a week. In some cases people have to come on several occasions before they are fully healed because they exhaust your magic while healing. The strength of your technique is that people heal faster and you can dispel nasty things like infection or toxins during the healing process where a nurse or druid would need an antidote or specially brew potion to do so.

But healing Jimin is not the one-way street you are used to. Normally, healing someone is like pouring water into a glass- filling them with your own essence. But with Jimin, his magic had reacted, and violently too. Never before had someone’s magic reached for yours and tangled with it like Jimin’s had. It was, perhaps, the first time you realised that perhaps your unorthodox methods of healing were dangerous. But more than that, you had felt something, when his magic collided with yours. Like galaxies colliding. Like sparks flying when two rocks slide against each other. Like fireworks exploding in your very soul. And while you had quickly yanked your magic back and abruptly decided that Jimin had enough to heal adequately, you couldn’t rid yourself of the lingering sense of him, fizzing inside you like expensive champagne. And what if he had felt you as intensely as you had felt him? What if he was disgusted by what he found there? You had felt like he had seen your soul. You can’t shake the feeling that that experience is why he hates you.

Still, the wound is serious and needs healing. So you squeeze your eyes shut and lean in close, closer than perhaps Jimin can bear. Close enough to count each individual lash and to smell the scent of your shampoo as it sinks into the base of his lungs and sits there. His breathing becomes shallow and shaky as you place your hands shut and smooth your expression. How easy would it be, to kiss you? Almost too easy- the distance between the two of you is almost negligible.

And then, as if he weren’t already overwhelmed by you occupying his every sense, he feels your magic begin to trickle into him. It starts from your fingertips where they press against his shoulders and then spreads like melting butter, soothing the burning pain left by the blacksilver in his veins. It’s so pleasant he could almost fall asleep if he weren’t so preoccupied by your proximity.

He doesn’t realise he’s reaching for you until your eyes snap open and then he feels it. Your magic mixing with his like it was made for him- and like his was made for you. He’s leaning in to press his lips eagerly to yours before he can even understand what he’s doing. Before he can comprehend that the tension he felt in his muscles every time you were near was not the hatred he kept trying to pretend it was. No, this whole time, since the moment he laid eyes on you it has been anything but hatred. He’s being trying so hard to hate you because you scare him. Because you’re so much more than he could ever have or deserve but you’re also everything he’s ever wanted. But he doesn’t hate you- not at all. And he doesn’t let himself realise it or admit it even as he tugs you closer. Even as you tentatively respond to his eager kiss and his heart soars in its chest.

It is only the sharp pain in his side from his injury when he leans too far towards you that stops him. He pulls himself from you with a cry of pain and the two of you just stare at each other. That is all the two of you can do, for it is hard to process the gravity of the moment after what just transpired.

And then it becomes impossible because something even more urgent is happening. Jimin’s blood runs hot and he feels a burning sensation just over his heart, like someone has just pressed a brand against his rib cage. You press your fingers into the same spot on your own ribs and glance down, shocked. Jimin’s shirt is torn open, so you can see the way his skin reddens and darkens with what is undoubtedly a Mark of Fate. Were you to unbutton your shirt, no doubt an identical mark would be forming in the same place. But that can only mean one thing. Jimin goes white as he slowly realises it, too.

That mark appears when two people are Fated for each other. And if it is forming on both you and Jimin, then Jimin is your soulmate.

Only, he hates you.

At least, he thought he did. And you still think he does.

…

This can only mean trouble.

#jimin x reader #jimin fluff #jimin scenario #jimin fic #park jimin x reader #bts fic #writing

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izzy-b-hands · 4 years ago

Text

Cold As The Grave

Written for my DL Server bingo card prompt: Cool Cat.

I cannot recall the interview this was in for the life of me, but I do recall at least one mentioning John not finding horror movies scary at all.

Going off of that, we have here scary movie night, aka scary movie night for Roger, Freddie, and Brian, and comedy movie night for John (while the other three look on both in horror at the movies and at John laughing his ass off at the creepiest and most gory scenes, utterly cool and unbothered by all of it.) Set in a modern AU because then I can reference as many of the movies I’ve seen myself as possible lol.

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“This is great,” John chuckled, and tossed more popcorn into his mouth. “You know, I learned how they make the fake blood look that thick. I should show you guys sometime.”

He continued eating and watching, apparently not feeling the three pairs of eyes no longer glued to the screen, but staring in horror at him instead.

Roger and Brian jabbed him at once, and Freddie jumped. “Ah. Right. You could show us that, sometime. Or not, I mean, we’re often busy-”

“Very busy,” Roger added.

“Horribly,” Brian nodded.

“Look!” John cheered. “Look at what the rats are doing! The effects are fantastic in this!”

“This is disgusting,” Roger hissed, gesturing to the scene from Sinister 2 playing out on the TV. “How is he still eating?!”

“I could really go for pizza,” John continued. “Meat lovers and a vegetarian for Bri?”

Brian swallowed hard as he watched the scene continue. “Sure. Yeah. Because I can eat while we watch things like this.”

“Of course, yeah,” Freddie agreed, letting out a heavy held breath as John got up to go order the pizza. “How long has he been like this? How did we not notice?”

“Should we call his mum,” Roger proposed. “To find out if she knows about this, and if so, how has she dealt with it?”

“We don’t have enough time for that,” Brian replied. “I can’t eat while we watch this. My stomach isn’t the weakest, but this is...god, and he wants to start the Saw movies after this. Guys, I can’t.”

“No, he actually has the Human Caterpillar movies on the list next, the Saw films are after that,” Freddie said with a wince. “Maybe he won’t notice if we aren’t eating?”

“It’s on the way!” John announced happily as he bounced back in and onto the couch. “You lot okay? Awfully pale, all of you. Don’t tell me you’re scared!”

“It is a horror movie,” Roger said defensively. “Most people do get scared of those. Most people. Lots of people, even. Sort of the idea behind them.”

“You’re all silly,” John laughed. “This isn’t that bad.”

“I’m sorry, what movies do you consider ‘bad’ then?” Brian asked. “I’m curious and terrified to know.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” John teased, and started back in on the popcorn.

Freddie laughed nervously. “Actually, darling, we would! Care to share with us, or...”

But John was back into the movie, laughing at the next horrific act on the screen. “You ever think about what you’d do, if you were in that situation? I like to think I’d handle it better.”

“Do I ever think,” Brian said slowly. “About what I would do if a version of the Boogeyman was real. And had a curse. And was going to try and convince any children I might have to kill me, and film the results. No. No I have not.”

“Okay,” John said, and gestured to the DVD case holding the first Human Caterpillar movie. “What about that? If we got kidnapped, all of us, on tour-”

Roger covered his eyes, and groaned.

Freddie’s eyes were wide. “Have...have you thought about that?”

“It’s all in good fun,” John giggled, then jumped at the sound of the doorbell. “Oh! Scared me, they got here fast!”

Freddie leaned forward, head in his hands as John got up to go retrieve the pizza. “I’m. This was supposed to be a fun movie night. I’m learning too much about him. About all of us. And I love you all, you’re brothers to me, but there’s a limit in what I can learn in one night, and I think I just found it.”

“I need a hug,” Roger said miserably, hanging onto Freddie’s arm as he gave him an awkward half-hug. “Thank you.”

“Maybe he’ll just watch them now,” Brian said. “He’ll be busy eating, then full, then comfy and warm. Might even fall asleep.”

“And if he keeps laughing at this shit like some demon from foulest hell?!” Roger hissed.

“Then we accept he’s lightly possessed and move on with our lives, Roger!” Brian said sharply. “I don’t know what else we do if he keeps that up; I’m busy trying to figure out how he finds any of it funny!”

“There’s got to be one of these that scares him,” Freddie said, shuffling through the DVD cases and pondering the list of streamed movies they’d made up. “We’ll spend all night watching if we must. We’re going to find one that scares him, one that doesn’t make him act like-”

“Pizza for the scaredy cats!” John smiled as he set the pizza boxes down on the coffee table. “If you lot can manage to eat any.”

“We can,” Roger scoffed, but he actively looked away from the TV as he picked up a slice. “See? Perfectly fine, and not feeling sick at all.”

“Okay,” John giggled. “If you say so.”

“Let me know when I can look back,” Roger whispered to Freddie as he ate as quickly as possible.

“You mean when the movie is over?” Freddie whispered back.

“Essentially, yeah,” Roger replied.

---

Four hours later, they had yet to succeed in their task.

He’d giggled his way through the Human Caterpillar movies.

Cackled through the Saw pictures, and started in on how he’d make his own horrible pain maze, if he was forced to create one.

Hereditary and Midsommar? He was enraptured.

“Okay,” Freddie sighed. “This one says it’s also a comedy. Can we try that?”

John slipped the disc for The Cabin in the Woods into the player. “Don’t think I ever actually got around to watching this one. Why not?”

It was silly. Schlocky, at bits even. But it was a dream for the three of them; a break from overwhelming scares and gore in exchange for a more acceptable level of those things, in addition to a chance to laugh.

John, however, was tense.

“You alright?” Freddie asked about midway through the movie.

John nodded, but didn’t speak. He’d stopped nibbling at the leftover pizza, his remaining popcorn left in the bowl and set on the floor.

“The effects are good in this,” Roger tried a bit later. “Right? I mean, it’s gory, but even we can handle it. Pretty silly of us, huh, Deaky?”

John didn’t look away from the screen.

“Um. So, who do you think we’d all be, if it was us, in that?” Brian asked with a gentle smile. “And who would be the fifth person to join us?”

“Well, none of us can be the virgin,” Freddie giggled. “Right, Deaky?”

“Rather not think about it,” John replied tersely.

They looked at each other and frowned.

“Okay,” Freddie said. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” John said. “Just don’t like thinking about something like this happening to us, I guess.”

“But you were okay with the plot of the Human Caterpillar happening to us?!” Roger squawked.

“Not okay with it, just thought it was an interesting thing to consider,” John said. “We’d escape and be fine, obviously.”

“And we wouldn’t escape this, you don’t think?” Freddie asked gently.

“Look at it!” John scoffed as the final scene rolled. “They didn’t! And they potentially could have had at least one of them escape, maybe! I couldn’t...”

He hesitated. “I couldn’t hurt any of you to save my own hide.”

“We wouldn’t be able to hurt you either,” Brian said. “You know that!”

“Yeah!” Roger added. “We’d all go down together instead, in a blaze of fire!”

“Really?” John asked softly.

“Or in a blaze of us terrified, shitting ourselves,” Roger shrugged. “One of those two for sure though.”

“No other spots on the spectrum we could occupy, just violence or absolute terror?” Freddie asked.

“Maybe, but I’m tired, this is the best analysis I can do for now,” Roger yawned.

“We should sleep,” Brian agreed. “I’m exhausted, somehow. Thought I’d be too scared to sleep, all things considered.”

Freddie nodded and tilted his head towards John. “You coming in with us?”

“I...I’m good. Might stay up yet. Just because,” John shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

“Are...you’re scared,” Roger said gently. “Aww, Deaky.”

“Shut up!”

“I knew there had to be one that would get you,” Freddie said. “Didn’t expect it to be this one, if I’m honest. We’ll stay out here with you, how about that?”

“You don’t need to do that,” John muttered. “I’m not a child.”

“Who said you were?” Brian asked. “I’m staying out here because frankly, that stupid Boogeyman thing pops up in my vision every time I close my eyes, and I hate that.”

Roger nodded. “I’m now horrified of Germany, thanks to that Caterpillar movie. Going to have nightmares of...well. You know. Better to stay out here, with you lot.”

“And that fucking demon thing from Insidious?” Freddie added. “I hate it. And now I do have the odd feeling it’s somehow going to watch me while I sleep. So it would be nice to not be alone tonight, if possible.”

“I don’t believe you,” John said, but he smiled as he spoke. “Fine. We’ll push the couch back and set up on the floor?”

“Exactly,” Freddie said. “That way when we do have nightmares, we can promptly kick each other awake during them.”

John seemed happier as he helped clean the living room up, and walked off to retrieve extra blankets and pillows.

Freddie waited a beat before whispering. “Were you lot really going to go into your own rooms? There was no way I could have; I don’t know how I’ll sleep as it is!”

“I was trying to look tough in front of him,” Brian muttered. “That was stupid. I didn’t need to do that. I really do hate that fucking Bagul or whatever the fuck it is-”

“Jump scare at the end of that one was the best, wasn’t it?” Roger grinned.

“How dare you make me remember that,” Brian sighed. “But better that then...well. Your nightmares are going to be a lot worse than mine, I think.”

“Let’s not make it a competition,” Freddie murmured. “It’s nearly five in the morning, and...fuck.”

“You just remembered we rented the studio space out starting at eight, didn’t you?” John said as he walked back in and dropped the blankets onto the floor. “I thought it was weird you guys agreed to this on the night before a day in the studio! But you just all forgot, didn’t you?”

Three shameful nods were all they could manage in response as they finished settling in, all of the lights off, snuggled together.

John, for his part, seemed far less scared than he had been before, now that they were all piled in the same makeshift bed. He snored gently; it might be a decent three or so hours of sleep for him.

If the rest of them had their eyes glued to checking the time on their phones as said three hours passed, jumping at each noise in the shared flat...

John didn’t need to know about that. No one, frankly, needed to know about that. Not him, nor the studio techs that would likely be raising brows at the bags under their eyes.

That was their secret, and a reminder to better plan the next horror movie night, well in advance of any studio time.

#text post #LeeH writes #queen band fic

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frogocado · 5 years ago

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A Golden Labyrinth of Noise Part 5 (Damien Haas au)

These past two weeks since the last chapter have felt like two dang months, you guys. With all this negative stuff happening, I’m v grateful to have a place for me to channel things into writing and making people smile. A shorter word count this time, but I think you’ll be pleased with it. Remember that reblogs help out creators a lot!

Begin the series here. Warnings: none Tag list (please message me if you’d like to be added): @latenlghtdevil, @star-mum, @thegigglehutsbonkyjilliams, @wierdlywonderful, @damiien-haas Word count: 1.6k.

5. Calypso

Two voices carried up the hill to the mausoleum. It was a windless night in the kingdom and both young men were still adjusting to the silence in the graveyard as their boots carried them up and up. After the first escape, Damien made sure to carry conversation on while they were surrounded by graves and mementos, as if talking cemented him in the current reality.

As Knight Topp pulled his chain plate back on, Damien was leaning against the stone chamber of the mausoleum. “Who is that bar maiden? Not the blonde one,” He questioned, glancing over at the Knight.

“Which one?” Knight Topp responded. “At the Lion?”

“No, at the apothecary,” Damien rolled his eyes, a hand ruffling through his hair. “Of course at the Lion, Shayne.”

Knight Topp was still not used to the prince calling him his first name. It had been about a month since they had begun their escapades out of the castle walls and each time, Damien seemed to be just as—if not more so—enthralled by the village beneath the castle. He always insisted that Knight Topp stand or sit right next to him, as if their statuses were dashed in the wind the moment the King had assigned the Knight to his side. The Knight considered that this was all because of suspicion until the Prince had started to insist that Knight Topp walk side by side with him even within the castle grounds.

“I don’t know that much.”

As Knight Topp adjusted his plates, he watched Damien’s eyes narrow in his peripheral vision. “You must know something,” the Prince continued. “I know you don’t frequent other taverns as much as Moss’s place, you said it yourself.”

“I don’t know that much about her, honestly.” Knight Topp rose, his armor and bones both creaking as he stood. With Damien’s help, they pulled the loose board over their escape route free. “She came about half a year ago. She sings every month.”

The Prince nodded thoughtfully as Knight Topp began his descent into the tunnel. He didn’t speak again until he had climbed in after his Knight and their boots fell in step back toward the castle. “You know nothing more?” The Prince prodded, glancing over at the other man. “Not even her name?”

Knight Topp thought for a moment, realizing he never actually heard David call her anything but “caged bird” or “siren.” He pulled at the threads of his memory, tracing them back to a time just before he had met the prince. He had gone to the Lion with Apprentice Grossman after a particularly hard day for the young lad. Courtney had been joking with the two of them when the other bar maiden had finally come around the other side of the bar, bumping shoulders with the blonde. The Knight had noted the way that Courtney’s smile grew wider when the maiden had appeared, a laugh immediately lacing her breath before the other even spoke.

Damien’s left boot dragging dirt in the tunnel under the village pulled the Knight back into reality. “Y/N,” he answered definitively, turning to watch the Prince.

Damien was watching his feet but Knight Topp still saw his eyes glint, the corners of his mouth creeping up into a smile. “Y/N,” he repeated, humming with curiosity. The Prince’s hand was skimming the stone walls, fingertips moving along like he was tracing familiar symbols.

The Prince hummed soft melodies that filled the space with warm notes. The Knight hadn’t realized why the tune had sounded so familiar until they reached the heavy door that led back into the castle. “My friend, I have a favor to ask you,” Damien said softly. He had stopped walking and turned, facing Knight Topp straight in the face. The young man never got used to meeting his Prince’s eyes, no matter how often Damien tried. His gaze always wavered away, even when there was no one else but the two of them.

Once, in the library, Damien stared at his friend for a full two minutes and timed how long his friend met his in return. The Knight had grown so frustrated with the game, he had left the section.

“What is it?” Knight Topp asked, eyes flickering away from the other man.

Damien, the twisted prince, smiled at how quickly he could get his friend to flinch. What a fun game, much better than when he would play hide and seek in Sir Overshire’s maze. Damien was still learning Knight Topp’s limitations like dead end hedges.

“Don’t include any mention of Y/N in your reports to my father.” Knight Topp’s eyebrows began to knit and Damien interrupted him before a single syllable could slip out of his now opened mouth. “Please, Shayne.”

Knight Topp could not recount a single time he had heard the king or queen say “please” to each other or others in the past two and a half months of serving under the crown. And yet, Damien would say the word and his thanks with a pure sincerity nearly every day. Even with Miss Takahashi, who was seldom ever speaking anything but mumbled curses and a series of grunts, was met with (petty jests but also) gratitude and appreciation from the prince.

“M-may I ask why, my prince?” Knight Topp’s voice entered the fray, a soft whisper as the prince’s hands landed on his shoulders. He could feel the weight of the request even through his chainmail.

“Because I am asking you, my friend. Shall I get on my knees and beg?”

“That’s hardly necessary,” the knight brushed off the prince’s hand, rolling his eyes. “It’s also not very princely. Would you like me to leave that out of my reports as well?” He was wondering now when Damien was going to wrap on the charade of the evening so he could retreat to his quarters and write about the past few hours. Miss Takahashi had brought Knight Topp a bundle of papers bound to leather covers a week prior, gruffly telling him it was a “gift from His Royal King Haas.”

The prince gave him a laugh shirk and stood in front of the door to the kitchens, folding his arms in front of his chest. “I may order you, if you’d prefer, but I thought you and I were past that line of thinking with one another.”

Knight Topp sighed, defeat escaping from his chest. “Fine, yes, fine. I’ve already committed enough treason to last my entire career and study as a knight—what’s something more?” He met the prince’s eyes, expecting him to be proud of his victory. Instead, Damien’s eyes were cast down on the ground, arms unfolding. The knight had never seen the prince so solemn and suddenly, he was struck with the realization that he had never once seen Damien’s face turn grave. “My friend?” Knight Topp gave a small offering, watching as Damien turned away from him, his hand on the oak door.

“I understand how this whole thing may seem jovial and silly to you.” The prince’s voice was soft, nearly swallowed into the wood. “I have never once felt free in my life. I am tied to my family, my privilege, my status. I know how that sounds, especially coming from me. There are so many expectations, so many rules. Everywhere I go, I am watched, but I cannot recall a time beyond the past few months that I have felt so seen.

I ask that you don’t include her in your reports because having her there binds another to my title. I have never heard someone sing with such freedom. I have never felt so…” Damien’s voice died in the air and he turned back to Knight Topp again, his expression fixed into an even serenity. Knight Topp was struck by this portrait of a true prince. Damien chewed on his lip and the Knight shifted, watching as he searched for the correct word. The prince had begun bringing Knight Topp his favorite books from the library, which they would discuss over breakfast. Knight Topp never knew there could be so many words.

“Infatuated,” the prince settled on.

The knight had heard this word many times, often in stories his mother would read to him before bed as a child. It was always in fairy tales, which the knight could not find more insufferable, but the wispiness in his mother’s voice calmed him into slumber that made the stories somewhat redeemed.

He found himself nodding as Damien’s eyes settled on his own. “I understand,” he said gently. “I shall keep her out of my reports, then.”

“Do you promise?”

Knight Topp scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, I promise.”

Damien’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, my friend.” Or a moment, he thought about hugging the knight, but turned away to push the door to the kitchen open. “Shall we meet at the same time tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Why so soon?” Knight Topp questioned, moving sacks and barrels back in front of the door once they were inside. Smells of seeded bread and remnants of dinner’s beef stew made his chest feel warm and calm, despite the break in routine that the prince had just suggested. They had only been leaving the castle at most twice a week.

“I must find a way to know more about her.” Damien shrugged out of his cloak, discarding it over the sacks. “I’m off to retire to my chambers. Have a pleasant sleep, my friend.”

Knight Topp’s boots felt as if someone had pasted them to the floor of the kitchen, watching the prince wave as his frame disappeared into the hallway. Even though most inside the castle were asleep, Knight Topp could hear Damien humming as he wandered to his room, the prince’s voice carrying like waves.

#smosh #damien haas #shayne topp #prince!damien au #smosh fic #smosh imagine #smosh au #damien haas fic #damien haas imagine #damien haas x reader #damien haas au #shayne topp au #shayne topp fic #glon #fic #mine

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pineaberry · 5 years ago

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Fictober 2019: #16

Star Wars: The Old Republic.

Inspired by all the Quinn love on my dash, here it is:

The Transponder Station Pt. 3 aka You Dun Goofed

Pt. 1 Found Here: [X]

Pt. 2 Found Here: [X]

For @doomhamster who was very distressed after part 2.

And also, the Quinn fam:

@sunsetofdoom, @fluffynexu, @riajade01, @aliyamirat, @kunoichi-ume, @cinlat, @semper-draca, @gerdavonrinnlingen @velvetsunset

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Malavai awoke with a start. He immediately sat up and looked around in confusion. The last thing he remembered was the Transponder Station…

His hand immediately flew to his throat but he felt nothing, no soreness, no dull ache to remind him of his foolishness. He was in Tremas’ quarters, in her bed. He could hear the water running in the refresher. How many times had he woken up to that sound? Had she brought him back? After everything, had she let him back into her life?

He glanced at the chrono nearby and froze. The date was wrong. It was off by at least a week. He frowned as he reached for his datapad and verified that it too displayed the date of one week ago. Suddenly the datapad sparked in his hands and flickered to reveal the schematics of assassin droids. Instinctively, Malavai dropped the datapad and it smashed onto the floor.

It was wrong. This was was all wrong.

The refresher opened with a hiss and steam spilled into the room.

The scent of vanilla sugar filled his nostrils.

__________

Dead or alive…

Tremas watched Malavai’s sprawled, unconscious form for a moment before nudging him onto his back with the tip of her boot. He was unresponsive but he was breathing.

Alive then.

She supposed once the rage filtered away, she would be glad of it. Right now all she could do was focus on the pain of her injuries so she could harness the force through them. The inferno of her wrath had burned away and now all she had left were the cold ashes: remnants of what they’d shared.

Baras had sought to crush her with Draag, but it was Quinn –efficient, brilliant, resourceful Quinn- who managed to utterly destroy her. It was a sound decision. Between the two of them, Quinn was the most dangerous, Sith or not. Her cooling anger allowed her to gain some perspective. She analyzed every moment, every phrase uttered between them.

She’d known from the beginning Baras had sent him. Mercy and genuine affection had allowed him to join her group. After all, who knew what Baras would have done to him if she had refused to take him? It would have been a waste to lose someone as dependable and skilled as Quinn. She often mused that she fell in love with him the moment he cut off that smug Jedi’s escape on Balmorra. The way he lorded his superiority over the Republic spy as not only attractive, it was accurate. Quinn was a resource, a weapon of deadly accuracy in the right hands. Then again, Baras excelled at needlessly destroying loyal agents under his command.

No, bringing Quinn along with her had been the right call. Personal feelings aside, it had been beneficial to the empire. She’d believed, perhaps naively, that her actions could sway him to switch sides when the inevitable happened. She cultivated a meticulous image of respect and devotion to her master. Although she often encouraged Vette’s snarky retorts behind his back, she always exuded an aura of submission in his presence.

It was fortunate that Baras thought her so completely loyal to his cause, as it blinded him to the danger she posed. Her flattery and deference was mistaken for weakness. It was little wonder that he didn’t put much effort into plotting her destruction. Had he viewed her as the threat she truly was, he would have chosen to do away with her in a far more vicious manner. Instead, he sent a weak excuse of an apprentice who ultimately butchered the job so badly he ended on the wrong end of an incinerator. Her deceit had paid off. Her master realized her true power only once she had slipped from his fat, greedy fingers. The fact that Baras didn’t consider Quinn as his first choice simply emphasized just how skewed his judgement had become. Even now she was having to scrounge every bit of force energy to keep from succumbing. If it had been Quinn who had acted against her in Quesh, well… She wouldn’t be around now to mull about it.

Quinn…

Her thoughts turned nebulous as the emotions around him were still raw and bleeding. She’d never put much stock on love. She never saw a need for it. On Korriban, acolytes toyed and vied for each other’s affections but it had been a power play to build up and exploit. She too had played that game. A quick smile here, a gentle word there. She had always excelled at finding what people wanted before giving them a taste of it. The promise of more often was enough to lure them to her side. Alas, Sith were volatile and fickle, but soldiers -she recalled- soldiers were easy. When she was assigned on missions with them, she made sure they all returned and with minimal damages. She provided them with protection and respect. Some she gifted with her approval and recommendations of promotion to their superiors. In return they were loyal and provided her with intel on what the other acolytes may be plotting against her.

Perhaps that had been her mistake, believing Malavai’s loyalty would be so easily given like the soldiers’ on Korriban... believing his loyalty was so easily bought like Pierce’s. His situation was far more complex. Disgraced once before, he owed Baras his career, perhaps his very life. No doubt Moff Broysc would have executed him given the chance. He had come to her with his loyalty already pre-determined. Honorable to a fault, he had served his master, his true master to the only logical end. How could she kill him for that? How could she destroy such an iron will simply because she could not make it bow to her?

I’d be no better than Baras.

It was genius really, her own game turned against her. At some point she had wanted that loyalty for herself. Not just his loyalty. His skill, his power, his deadliness, his brilliance, his passion, his heart… she’d wanted all of him and no doubt he had sensed it. Never had she met a more intelligent man. Never had there been anyone she wanted to make Hers -with a capital H- with such intensity. Her Clever Captain had known her desires all along, she made no secret of them, and he allowed her a taste. Just a taste so she would be lulled into a sense of complacency. A taste so she could believe she held claim to him like a trophy she had wrested away from Baras’ grubby hands. A taste to make her feel victorious and invincible. She’d forgotten -or forgiven- the fact that he was Baras’ man. She’d forgotten when he whispered those sweet words, and held her close, that there was a threat and a danger just beneath the surface.

She’d been a silly child, seduced and duped by a man nearly a decade her senior. How could she not have seen it before? While Tremas toyed and bantered with Quinn, he humored her all the while biding his time. Her own overpowering obsession with possessing him as her property coupled with basic Sith arrogance had blinded her to the truth: Quinn would say and do anything to ensure that, when the time came, she would believe his word as fact.

She grappled with the emotions attached to those memories before her mind finally accepting the truth. Quinn didn’t love her... and it was devastating.

She analyzed that last emotion finally coming to terms with the feeling seizing her chest. Far beyond the mere denial of a cherished prize, she felt the cataclysm of having her still beating heart torn out of her. There would be more time for deeper introspection later, but at least now she knew that what she was feeling had a cause, and a name. Her weakness made itself manifest. A one-sided love was a poisonous way to live.

Adapt or die.

How many times had Overseer Tremel echoed those words? Usually before throwing her off a cliff. Things rarely went according to plan. The messy emotions and relationships surrounding said plans often shifted them when they did not outright derail them without warning. She was Sith, the Emperor’s Wrath, not some tender hearted Alderaanian maiden who would waste away in despair. Emotions were but an arsenal at her disposal, even pain was useful in its own way. The choice, if it could be called that, was clear.

“A Sith’s strength doesn’t lie in never failing, but by never letting failure defeat them. If you cannot pick yourself up after a fall, then you are no Sith at all.”

Circumstances had changed. A new center would have to be found. A new center other than Malavai. As though on cue, Quinn’s eyes snapped open and he yelped as though in pain. As he became aware of his surroundings and he seemed almost puzzled at first. The droids lay in pieces scattered about the room and the implications of his actions struck him. There, leaning heavily against a broken droid, was Tremas. She seemed almost calm amidst the destruction. The droids awkward limbs curled around her in a cruel mockery of an embrace.

He braved to look into her gaze and noted the gold had left her eyes but in its place bone-white pupils remained. An expressed Sith gene, no doubt brought about by the strain of the battle and a testament to the purity of her lineage. The skin around her left eye was a glistening twisted mess of charred skin. His inner medic wanted to reach out and place soothing kolto bandages over the wound to prevent infection and scarring.

“You disappoint me Quinn, I had such high hopes for you,” she said and damn him if he didn’t believe it, “but you fell into the same trap as everyone else. I could respect the fact that you were bound by honor. I can understand how you felt you owed Baras your loyalty after he had saved you. I could even understand your reasoning that you believed him to be better for the Empire. But that wasn't why you did this was it?"

Her voice darkened towards the end of that sentence.

"It is the same reason why you failed so completely. How little you must think of me. How weak am I in your eyes." Her voice was cold and unyielding, like a metal blade grazing his throat. "After all you've seen, after so much observation, you underestimated me. You judged me lacking just as your Master did, and countless others before him. I really thought you were smarter than this, Quinn. Did you learn nothing? For all your calculations, you truly believed I would be so easily destroyed? Did you think I had destroyed my enemies out of sheer luck? Or did you expect I would simply lay my weapons down and allow you to execute me? Regale me, Captain. Exactly how stupid did you think I was?”

He was taken aback by her berating although not for the first time, he was at a loss. She had, of course, come to her own conclusions. For all the ways this conversation could have gone, he hadn't expected this. He stood staring at the floor unable to voice a response that wouldn't shame him further. He could feel that pallid stare burning a hole through him as the tense silence wore on. Mercifully, she continued.

“Stupid enough not to know Baras had placed you in my crew as a spy? Too stupid to intercept your monthly reports to Kaas City? Or perhaps so stupid as to not to realize there was an entire communications channel encrypted on my ship that only you used?”

Malavai’s heart sank as he stared at the floor with widened eyes. She’d known from the beginning. But then why…?

She visibly strained to keep her anger in check otherwise he was sure he would have found himself in another choke hold.

“What you have done has broken the trust between us. However, I understand that this… all of this… is a result of the same toxic Sith infighting poisoning the Empire. You do not… you will not die by my hand today. Caught between us both, I fail to see how you could have done anything that didn’t result in either of us destroying you. I suppose you were wise to try your luck with me. I will keep you alive, and we will see if you earn my trust again.”

He stared at her stunned at her decision. She had refused to kill him. At best she would have left him stranded on the station, at worst, sent him to Baras for punishment. To keep him in her care, under her protection, it was more than he could have hoped.

“My Lord, I’m… this is unexpected. Darth Baras would never forgive such a failure,” he uttered unable to formulate a more apt response.

“I am not Darth Baras… nor do I aspire to be, but my forgiveness is not some cheap trinket feely given,” she scowled before jabbing a finger in his direction, “You will pledge your absolute, unwavering loyalty to me and me alone.”

“I pledge myself-”

“Do not speak those words in haste, Captain! Listen. No, really listen. I will not tolerate you taking my decision to spare you lightly. I've had my fill of you and you Master finding reasons to call me inept,” she cut him off and he flinched at the as her words hit home, “if you have no intention of following through with your pledge just say so and we go our separate ways. The choice is yours.”

All the love in the world had not changed the fact that he had betrayed her. His failure had been predetermined but it remained. And still she gave him a choice. He could walk away, tail between his legs and simper back to Baras or worse… defect. The very thought of having to live without her became stifling and he knelt before her out of sheer instinct.

“If you will permit me to stay in your charge, my dedication to you will never come into question again,” he vowed.

"Trust is difficult to rebuild, Quinn. But I'm willing to try," she replied looking tired.

"I understand if things are different for a while," he said casting his eyes down, "this interruption has delayed you enough. I'm eager to return to the ship and put this behind us."

He needed to leave this place and the stain of his betrayal lest it cling to him forever. She turned to leave without a word and he quickly followed her.

“The ship is through there. Prepare for departure, I'll join you shortly,” she ordered as they passed the station’s medical droid.

“Of course, my lord. One thing, my lord -- do you plan on telling the others what happened?” he asked and immediately hated how much he sounded like a nervous child pleading with his teacher not to tell his parents. She stopped in the middle of the corridor and turned to face him. He couldn’t help but flinch at the sight of her face. Her gaze was tinted an eerie silver by the light refracted off the metallic walls and her left eye was encircled in charred skin. Self-loathing rose in his throat as he realized the selfishness of his question. To her credit she took it in stride.

“I fail to see how this involves anyone else. I don’t plan to tattle, Quinn,” she replied with the ghost of a smile on her face. Her expression sent a chill up his spine as it seemed far too cold and broken to be the Tremas he knew.

“I appreciate it, my Lord. I will see you back at the ship,” he nodded thankful at having an order to execute. She watched him depart with her mind still clouded and weary. Slowly she made her way to the nearest console and began running one of Vette’s slicer programs. Soon she had access to the ship’s surveillance. With a deft keystroke, she erased the data, and proof of Quinn’s actions. Baras would be denied even the shadow of his prize, just as he had denied her.

Her armor felt too tight and constricting. With the danger past, she saw no harm in loosening the belt around her waist. Something hot ran down her side and soaked through her greaves. Perhaps a kolto packet had burst, regardless, she paid it no attention. Tremas managed to reach her airlock doors before she noticed the visible trail of blood she was leaving. Vette, of course, was the first one to spot her.

“TREMAS!” her cry brought the rest of the crew to the doorway. "What happened? Your face, you're hurt!"

“Baras fed us false information. It was a trap,” she stated as she wobbled. Quinn came down from the bridge looking pale and distraught as he saw the effects of the battle had finally caught up with her, “…didn't see it coming. Captain, are we on course... for... Corellia...”

Quinn’s throat went dry as he saw the once powerful Sith staggering. Her face was far too white and crimson blood was falling from her side in thick heavy drops to pool on the floor. Pierce was the one who caught her as she collapsed like a house of cards.

“Medical, now!" Quinn barked out the order as he ran to prepare the kolto tank. His mind raced trying to remember all the damage she had sustained. Blaster wounds cauterized on impact… He froze as he recalled the vibroknife he had driven into her side.

It was his fault. This was all his fault.

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