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dont-tempt-me-frodo · 5 years ago

Note

Could I maybe suggest a prompt? It’s fine if not! Just I’ve seen a lot of fics (like 3 honestly) where Geralt and Jaskier are cursed to stay close to each other lest one or both are in unimaginable pain. That but they go visit Yennefer and find out the only way is to spend like an hour apart from on another, just major angst, like they’re both claimed to opposite sides of the room suffering and watching the other in pain :o Thanks!

oh my goodness I LOVE this.

So this got quite long but I hope it does the prompt justice! I've also posted it on ao3 so you can read it there too!

"Let me check," Jaskier chirped and before Geralt could stop him, the Bard stuck his head up from the over-turned table they were crouched behind.

The Witcher grabbed a fistful of his doublet and yanked him back down.

"Yeah, I have assessed the situation and it's eh, not good," Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck.

"What part of a rampaging Mage did you think would be good?" Geralt growled, brow set in a deep scowl.

Jaskier shrugged, the slight quiver in his jaw muscles betraying his fear at their current predicament.

This wasn't how his day was supposed to go. When they had arrived in the small town, the townsfolk had asked him to deal with a Mage who, quote, "is a little bit intense and kind of creepy." Geralt had rolled his eyes and almost ignored the request but Jaskier had insisted they check it out, even if it came to nothing.

Geralt knew that the Bard was hoping to spend the night in the town rather than sleeping rough under the stars again for the fifth night in a row. Investigating the Mage would waste the time until nightfall and then they would have to stay in the tavern. Geralt had decided to indulge Jaskier. He had to admit, a straw mattress and scratchy sheets did sound like a nice change from roots sticking into your back and the cold that crept in with the dark.

They had found the Mage's tower easily enough. It stood on the outskirts of the town. Five storeys high, slate roof, thin windows, moss covered brickwork. Nestled amongst tall growing brambles and gorse.

Geralt had intended to have a nice, calm conversation with the Mage, sort out whatever miss understanding had happened between them and the townsfolk then head back to the tavern for ale and a warm dinner.

That's how it was supposed to go.

Unfortunately for Geralt, the Mage seemed a little unhinged and was babbling on about the properties of a certain mushroom he had found by the river. The Witcher recognised it immediately as a Dracus Soria or, in the common tongue, Dragons Breath.

The mushroom was small, perfectly round and a violent red colour. The gills underneath the cap were orange and the stalk a mustardy yellow. If ingested it burned down the gullet and practically melted the person from the inside out. There was the odd rumour that if treated correctly, the mushroom could cure all manner of aliments, but everyone who had tried had died horribly.

Geralt tried explaining this to the Mage but his warnings fell on deaf ears. When the Mage had wanted to feed his latest batch of findings to Jaskier, Geralt had put himself between him and the Bard with a menacing expression on his face that even a Mage would think twice before challenging him.

Unfortunately for Geralt, the Mage had blasted him aside with a powerful spell and then when Jaskier ran from him, decided to eat the mushroom himself.

Now the Mage was dancing about his workshop in agonising pain, firing off spells and incantations in all directions, as he was driven mad by the mushroom’s effects.

Geralt risked a peek around the side of the table they were using as a shield but quickly drew back again as a white jet of sparks narrowly missed his face.

He had two options. The first, wait the Mage out and let the mushroom kill him but at risk of his and Jaskier's probable deaths. The second, go and kill the Mage himself.

He grunted, gritting his teeth together, amber glare on the Bard as he tried to form the best strategy.

"This isn't my fault," Jaskier huffed indignantly, guessing what the Witcher was thinking, "How was I supposed to know that this guy was batshit crazy."

Geralt ignored him, trying to tune his hearing onto the Mage to work out where he was. The sound of Jaskier's slightly sharp breathing, the pattering of his heart. The screaming of the Mage as he was burned from the inside. The crackle of magic whizzing through the air. The smashing of glass as vials and beakers were thrown about the room. The heavy shuffling of footsteps, directly on the other side of the table.

"Jaskier, when I say, push the table as hard as you can," he blinked at the Bard.

Jaskier nodded, placing his palms against the solid wood, a focus coming over him that was usually reserved for his composing.

Geralt got in position, listening as the Mage hoped from foot to foot.

"Now!" he growled and slammed his hands into the table as hard as he could.

The table shunted forward with enough force to crash into the Mage and send him sprawling to the floor. Geralt sprang up from his crouching position, blade in hand, ready to strike the convulsing Mage before he did any more damage.

"Geralt!" Jaskier's warning came too late and a hot stream of magic hit Geralt square in the chest and threw him back against the wall.

He brushed off the frantic hands that were trying to roll him over and pushed himself gingerly to all fours.

Jaskier's blue eyes were wide with shock, his hands trembling slightly as they hovered over Geralt, ready to catch him if he collapsed.

Geralt sucked in a long breath. No broken bones as far as he could tell, and there were no obvious effects from the spell that hit him, so he decided that he was probably okay.

As he hauled himself to his feet, the room suddenly went quiet. The Mage spluttered one last breath before his twitching limbs finally stilled.

"Well that was a laugh," Jaskier said shakily, "Do you think the people will still pay us, even though he kind of offed himself?"

"Hm," was the only response he got from the Witcher.

Geralt sheathed his sword again and cracked his knuckles. He glanced at the Bard with a warmth that had Jaskier smiling.

"Come on Bard," he stepped towards the door, "I need a drink."

As he went to pass through the doorway a sharp pain spiked through him, coming from deep in his core. It burned through his nerves and tensed up his limbs. At the same time, he heard Jaskier gasp. The Bard dropped to his knees, clutching his gut, face contorted in pain.

Geralt stumbled back, light pulsing behind his eyes, and as he grabbed the table for support, the pain ebbed. He snapped his attention to the Bard who seemed to be okay again, breathing hard, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

"What-what was that?" Jaskier panted.

Geralt glanced at the dead Mage then sucked in a breath. He moved towards the door again and the same pain punched though him. Jaskier cried out, bent double so that his forehead was pressed against the flagstone.

The Witcher quickly stepped back again, and again the pain faded. He looked to the Bard who was shaking, then back at the Mage. Panic set in as he realised what was going on.

He made for the door again, wanting to be sure but halted abruptly as Jaskier wailed, "Geralt no, please."

"Fuck," Geralt growled.

***

Travel was difficult. Very difficult.

They couldn't be apart more than a metre without being crippled by excruciating pain. Whatever curse the Mage had hit Geralt with was strong and he knew that they would need a Mage's help to undo it.

The night before when they had made camp and fallen into their usual routines, they kept forgetting that they were restricted by distance and had struggled to remain calm with each other as they tried to avoid hurting each other. They had set up their bedrolls and fallen asleep in each other's arms but when Jaskier had rolled away in his sleep they were both woken by a jolt of agony that forced the breath from their lungs. Geralt had bundled Jaskier to him, wrapping him in his strong arms again to keep him close. After pressing a gentle kiss to Jaskier's temple and tucking the Bard tight to his chest, they had both finally drifted off again.

Geralt was a Witcher. He had a much higher pain threshold than most and even though each stab of pain was unbearable, he was definitely holding up better than Jaskier. He couldn't even imagine what this was like for the Bard. It must be like being ripped apart again and again and again. And Geralt didn't know what was worse. Watching Jaskier suffer or being helpless to stop it.

Jaskier was pale, the stench of fear tainting his usual flowery scent. Each time they accidentally moved too far away from each other, the pain brought the Bard to his knees, and he seemed to get weaker with each bout.

Their usual dynamic of Geralt astride his mare with Jaskier keeping pace beside was absolutely out of the question.

Jaskier was very quiet as he sat behind Geralt on Roach. His uncharacteristic silence unnerved Geralt. Worry fluttered in his gut.

"We are going to see Yennefer," the Witcher rumbled, "if anyone knows how to lift this curse, it's her."

"How long?" Jaskier's voice sounded raw.

"Hm?"

"How long until we reach her?" Jaskier shuffled slightly.

"About four days, as the crow flies," Geralt chewed his lower lip.

Jaskier didn't respond. He just let his head rest on Geralt's back, swaying with the motions of the horse underneath him.

"We're going to be okay," Geralt said after a stretch of quiet, "you hear me?"

Jaskier nodded weakly, keeping his face pressed against Geralt.

The days passed excruciatingly slowly.

They tried to be very careful with how much distance was between them, sticking as close together as they possibly could. After a day went by without any pain, Jaskier perked up a bit, even humming softly as Roach took them through winding farmland and dense forests.

But then they were attacked by bandits.

Geralt heard them a second before they attacked and barely had time to rip his sword from its sheath as they descended. There were only four of them. Easy game for a Witcher, except-

Except he couldn't leave Jaskier's side and that put them both in very real danger.

Still astride Roach, Geralt swung at them as best he could but it was awkward, sluggish, and he was pulled from Roach and slammed heavily to the ground.

Jaskier's scream ripped through the air as pain clamped Geralt to the spot. The Bard fell from the horse and was writhing about on the ground, screaming in agony.

This was the furthest apart they had been since being cursed and it felt like someone was pushing hot pokers into every part of Geralt's body. His vision flashed white, his ears rang. He couldn't breath.

The bandits froze in shock, not quite sure what was happening but quickly realising that the Witcher and the Bard weren't able to defend themselves. They approached with confidence; blades held up ready to take an easy prize.

By some miracle, Geralt was able to lift his hand and cast Aard at the bandits. The telekinetic wave sent them flying. One bounced off a tree, the sound of his spine cracking drowned out by Jaskier. Another tumbled headfirst into a patch of thorns, yelping and clawing to get free. The third and fourth were lucky and were just thrown a ways down the road. They grabbed the one stuck with thorns and beat a hasty retreat.

Geralt crawled towards Jaskier. The pain slowly fading to a dull ache the closer he got until it finally stopped altogether. His skin prickling uncomfortably, he reached out to the Bard.

Jaskier's breath sobbed in his chest, tears streamed down his cheeks, and he was shuddering violently. Curled up on his side with his hands digging into the earth.

"Jaskier," Geralt rasped, placing a gentle hand on the Bard's shoulder.

Jaskier tensed under his touch but eventually slumped into the ground as Geralt stroked his arm soothingly.

The echoes of pain still rippling through his body, Geralt managed to get Jaskier to sit up and he pulled the Bard into his lap. He buried his nose in Jaskier's hair, arms cocooning him in warmth, and listened as Jaskier's breathing slowly evened out and the rabbit-quick thundering of his heart started to return to normal.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, "Jask, I'm so sorry."

"What are you sorry for? It's not your fault," Jaskier sounded tired. No, more like exhausted.

Geralt felt the same weariness in his bones and he didn't know if had the strength to stand yet, so he stayed sat on the ground, cradling Jaskier, hating how there was nothing he could do to make this better.

On the evening of the fourth day they came to a bustling city. The streets were still full of vendors trying to sell their wares and the noise of a chattering crowd reached them before they even got to the city gates set into defensive walls.

The guards let them through with a nod and Geralt guided Roach carefully through the mob of people going about their daily lives.

The smell of baking bread and brewing ale, churned up mud, and horse, incense and salted fish hit them in a heavy wave as they navigated the busy streets. They passed through the wooden houses of the suburbs and then the cobbled stone of the city centre.

Geralt hopped off Roach and helped Jaskier down. He brought her to a sheltered lean-to where several other horses were tethered and paid the horse master to look after her until they came back for her.

"Why is Yennefer here?" Jaskier asked, looking around him at the surroundings, "this isn't the kind of place she is usually attracted to."

Geralt laced his fingers with Jaskier's and brushed his lips against his knuckles.

"She had an opportunity to get information from a councilman or something. She's using his townhouse for her work," he grunted.

Hands still twined together, Geralt spoke quickly to a merchant then pulled Jaskier with him as he searched out the townhouse.

They were buffeted on all sides as they manoeuvred through the packed streets, clinging desperately to each other to avoid being separated.

Geralt halted by a grand looking house with a pillared entrance and slatted shutters over the windows. A plume of leafy plants grew in ceramic pots either side of the front door, a spray of green against the grey marble. Geralt knocked.

The oak door creaked as it swung open and Geralt led Jaskier inside. The door shut deftly behind them and the overpowering smell of sage and lavender chased away the scents of the street.

They were standing in a small entrance hall with a staircase ahead of them and a door on the left and right.

Geralt wrinkled his nose as a new scent hit him. Lilac and gooseberries.

"Well, well, well," a female drawl sounded from the top of the stairs, "and I was beginning to think that this evening would be boring."

"Yennefer," Geralt dipped his head to her.

The Mage descended the staircase with such elegance it looked as if she were floating. She was dressed in a black and white dress and her raven black hair tumbled about her shoulders in soft waves. Her violet eyes sparkled in the light from the torches bracketed to the walls.

"I would say that it's good to see you but you usually only come to me when you are in trouble," she smirked, gliding past and inviting them to follow her through the door on the left, "So, what's happened this time?"

The drawing room she brought them into was vast and airy, embellished with sculptures and art dotted along the panelled walls.

"A curse," Geralt let his amber eyes flit about the room before resting on the Mage as she poured herself a glass of dark amber liquid from a decanter.

"Must be serious," she quirked an eyebrow at him, "the Bard hasn't said a word since coming through the door."

If Jaskier wasn't dead on his feet, he would have flushed. Instead, he looked at his boots miserably.

"It's bad Yen," Geralt's voice was tight. He knew what she was going to ask before the words fell from her mouth.

"Let me see," she tilted her head slightly.

Jaskier's head shot up, blue eyes wide.

"Geralt no, please," his voice broke on the last word and Geralt felt his heart shatter.

"To know what I'm working with, I have to see it," Yennefer swirled the contents of her glass absently.

"Just quick Jask, we'll do it quick," Geralt tried as Jaskier shook his head frantically.

Geralt caught the look in the Mage's eyes and gritted his teeth. Guilt flashed through him.

"I'm sorry," he took a few long strides from Jaskier then buckled with pain. the noise that escaped Jaskier was heart-wrenching but before he could crumple to the ground, Geralt was back by his side and pulling him into a hug.

Yennefer was quiet for a long time and the Witcher felt his unease grow with each silent second.

"Is... is there a way to-" he started after he couldn't bare it any longer.

"To break it? Yes. But you're not going to like it," she sighed and put her glass down on a side table.

Jaskier balked at her words, clinging to Geralt desperately, trying to draw comfort from him.

"To break this curse, you have to force yourselves to stay separated in the same room as each other for an hour," Yennefer bit her lower lip.

"What?" Jaskier sounded so broken and scared. Geralt's gut twisted painfully.

"It is the only way. One hour of excruciating pain and then free, of the rest of your lives never being able to leave each other's sides," she blinked slowly.

"There must be something else. Some other way," Geralt growled.

"You could always kill yourself," Yennefer curled her lip.

"Fuck," Geralt grunted.

The Witcher looked at the Bard. Jaskier's eyes were swimming with unshed tears and Geralt's heart panged in his chest. He brushed the pad of his thumb down Jaskier's cheek and the Bard leaned into his touch.

He hated this. He hated this with everything that he had. But he knew what they had to do. He couldn't spend the rest of his life tethered to Jaskier. Not like this. The idea of spending the rest of his life with the Bard was something the thought about a lot and it filled him with warmth and excitement but, what bound them together right now was dangerous and, if he was being selfish, impractical. He wouldn't be able to hunt monsters and Jaskier wouldn't be able to perform for the masses. They would just keep getting in each other's way and besides, separation in a relationship is healthy. But the thought of spending an hour in that amount of pain made him sick to the stomach. Not just that. Having to see Jaskier spending an hour in that amount of pain would probably break him. But he knew what they had to do.

"Jaskier," he said softly.

"I know Geralt. I know," the Bard choked.

Geralt pressed his lips to Jaskier's and Jaskier melted into his mouth. Geralt rested his forehead against the Bards, keeping him close, breathing the same hot air.

"I love you," he mumbled.

"I love you too," Jaskier's voice was barely a whisper.

Geralt set his face in a determined expression then looked at the Mage.

"So how do we do this?" he growled.

Yennefer looked about her, "in here is fine. You just have to go as far away from each other as possible then stay there. It's uh, up to you if you distance slowly or just... go for it."

Jaskier paled, fear crossing his young face.

Geralt swallowed thickly.

"Maybe slowly is better?" he glanced at Jaskier, "get used to the pain then push it further, get used to it then further?"

That made sense but Jaskier was still hesitant to agree to anything.

"The hour doesn't start until you are fully separated. So going slower increases the amount of time you're in pain," Yennefer swelled with sympathy.

Seeing the Bard and the Witcher so scared and vulnerable brought a very strange feeling to her chest and she tried to push it away.

"Quick then," Geralt rubbed his face with his hands, "fuck! I don't know."

Jaskier placed a trembling hand on his arm.

"Quick. Get it over with," he sounded sure.

Geralt nodded. His usually slow heart was thumping frantically in his chest.

They spent the next few minutes discussing how they were going to do it. It was agreed that Jaskier wouldn't make it to his side of the room by himself and Geralt was faster anyway. They decided that they were both going to stand at the far wall, then Geralt was going to sprint to the opposite wall. He was fairly sure he could keep it together long enough to reach it.

They stood side by side, breathing heavily, holding hands, building their courage.

Yennefer had assured them she would be on hand if anything went wrong and she perched herself on the side table, taking long drinks of the amber liquid in the glass.

"Okay, after three," Geralt glanced at Jaskier who nodded. He reluctantly let go of Jaskier's hand, a torrent of emotions swirling inside him.

Jaskier pressed himself hard against the wall.

"One," said Geralt, voice tight, settling in a stance to start running, "Two..."

On three he launched himself away from the wall. Jaskier's scream harmonised with his own and pain lanced through him, growing in intensity as he forced his legs to carry him. He threw himself at his destination, crumpling awkwardly on the landing and gritted his teeth together as wave after wave tore through him.

It was unlike anything he had every felt before. The edges of his vision kept going dark. The dryness of his mouth quickly choking him as he growled. His muscles spasmed and ached. Sharp pain kept spiking through his organs. He willed himself to pass out, but the black wouldn't come.

He forced himself to look at Jaskier.

The Bard was in a heap on the floor, his whole body contorting and convulsing, the scream pulled from him only stopping when he had to take a breath.

Yennefer wasn't looking at either of them. She was very close to covering her ears with her hands to block out the noise. But she didn't. They needed to see her strong. If she wilted, what hope did either of them have?

As the minutes crawled past, Geralt kept waiting for his body to go numb, to get used to the pain and filter it out like background noise. But it just kept coming, finding new ways to hurt him in places he didn't know even existed.

Jaskier had stopped screaming but only because he physically couldn't anymore.

The half-hour mark was signalled by Yennefer and Jaskier let out a long, distressed noise that broke Geralt's heart.

"I can't," he sobbed, "I can't do this. Please. Please don't make me do this. Please."

"Just hang on Jaskier," Yennefer was crouched over him, brushing his sweat soaked hair out of his eyes.

"Please," he wailed, "make it stop. Please. G-Geralt."

Geralt had to look away from him. He knew that if he caught those blue eyes he would break and abandon his wall to crawl to Jaskier's side. They were so close now. So close.

The Witcher sucked in sharp, shallow breaths as he clenched his jaw so hard, he was pretty sure he heard a tooth crack.

And then finally, finally after what seemed like an eternity, the pain was gone.

Geralt howled with relief. His body felt strangely light. Slowly testing each limb, he pushed himself up off the floor and leaned against the wall.

Then he saw Jaskier and he wanted to scream even though he knew he couldn't.

The Bard was on his side, eyes glazed over, tears streaming down his face, his whole body shuddering with each shallow breath. Yennefer was by his head, muttering soothing words and light incantations to bring him back round.

Not trusting his legs to support him, Geralt used a chair to pull himself up then cautiously made his way over to Jaskier and Yennefer. He collapsed by her side and reached for his Bard.

"Jaskier," Geralt shook him gently.

"I'm not sure he can hear you," the Mage's voice sounded tight.

"What do you mean?" fear and panic tainted his tone.

"He's retreated so far back into himself I'm struggling to...to find him," she frowned.

Geralt took Jaskier's hands and realised that the Bard's fingertips were bloody from where he had clawed at the floor. Geralt choked back a sob.

"I'm here Jaskier. Come back to me, please," the Witcher rasped, "it’s over. It's all over."

Jaskier blinked. Then his breathing stuttered. Then he groaned.

"Jaskier?" Geralt's voice was thick with emotion.

"Remind me to never get mixed up with Mages again," Jaskier's voice was reedy and barely audible. His gaze landed on Yennefer, "ah shit. Spoke too soon."

Geralt laughed. It was raspy and almost painful in his raw throat, but it resonated with giddy relief.

Over the next few days they mostly just slept, tangled in each other's arms, in one of the lush bedrooms of the townhouse. Yennefer checked in on them every now and then but tried not to disturb them too much. They were both exhausted and needed time to recover which she had full faith that they would. She was a little worried about their mental states but that was something she could evaluate once they were stronger.

On the morning of the fifth day Geralt was woken by the harsh sunlight spilling through the drapes hanging over the windows. He had been having a rather bad dream about a curse and unimaginable pain but then he remembered that it wasn't a dream, it had actually happened, and he was struck with exhaustion anew just thinking about it. It was strange. He usually didn't need to sleep. Quite often, meditation was enough to revive him but all he had done for however long it had been, was sleep.

He became aware of the warmth in the bed next to him and he let himself smile as he looked at Jaskier sleeping peacefully. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The glow of the morning sun on his skin. He was utterly beautiful. It was hard to believe that not so long ago he had been drowning in terror and pain.

Geralt swallowed hard. The memories would haunt him forever and Gods only knew what lasting effects the trauma would have on Jaskier.

He tried to force the thought away as he traced the side of Jaskier's face with a gentle finger. He ghosted over the Bard's soft lips and graced the curve of his jaw.

Jaskier stirred slightly but didn't wake and Geralt hummed softly.

Let him sleep, he thought to himself, and when he wakes, he won't have time to think about what happened because he'll be too busy being loved by me. Gods Geralt, when did you become such a sap?

He smiled when Jaskier mumbled in his sleep.

Oh. When I fell in love. That's when.

And Geralt let himself sink back into pleasant black.

#the witcher fic #the witcher #netflix the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #geraskier #my writing #joey batey #henry cavill #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer

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just-ornstein · 1 year ago

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"Whenever she looked at that painting a feeling of discomfort shuddered throughout her body, it was hard to shake off. So many years passing by without his presence. Days of glory she would never know, her mother’s wishes being the closest she’d feel to those memories. Cold and distant, perhaps breaking the laws of the universe would gain her approval?"

Painting on the wall was a commission done by @microscotch .

#yoooo what is this?#sims 2 edit?#yeah don't expect it to be a regular thing haha #felt kinda inspired once i figured out how to put custom photos in my game #if you've been around long enough you might remember astrid #the sims 2 #the sims #strangetown #circe beaker #the beaker family #sims #sims 2 screenshots #astrid beaker #loki beaker #atom beaker #ceres beaker

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lasudio · 1 year ago

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StrangeSpot, Round Twenty Six: Beaker

Viggo and June waste zero time getting married, opting to exchange rings and avoid the rigmarole of a wedding party. Ceres is delighted for her little brother but is not impressed by June’s casual enquiry regarding family finances! (June is now popularity/knowledge, so she’s likely just curious/attempting to make friends with her new sister-in-law).

Meanwhile, Frida wants to become official with Astrid but just needs to work up the nerve to ask the question, and Sylvan wishes their mother Erin was able to join them in the sunlight.

#sims 2 #strangespot #viggo beaker #june beaker #ceres beaker #ni'ele beaker #frida beaker #astrid curious #sylvan beaker #beaker

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kelyon · 4 years ago

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Game: A Golden Cuffs Story, Chapter One: Curse

A month after their wedding, Belle asks Rumpelstiltskin if he'd like to indulge in one of their old favorite ways of passing the time.

Read on AO3

Belle kept most of her riding clothes on before going up to the tower to see Rumpelstiltskin.

When she was a girl in her father’s house, Belle had only been able to go out riding when there were no other obligations--and even then she’d had to be accompanied by her ladies and at least a few servants. Her horse then had been a docile gray mare who had been trained not to jump or even gallop, no matter how Belle had tried to spur the creature on. She’d had to ride sidesaddle in a dress, the only way that was proper for a young lady.

But she wasn’t a young lady anymore. Now she was a woman, the wife of the Dark One, protected by his magic and free to do as she pleased. She had bought a horse with gold coins her husband had created from nothing.

Philippe was only a farm horse, not fast, but strong and unflappable. Every morning, after waking up in her bed with her husband beside her, Belle went out for some exercise. She rode in a regular saddle with both legs astride the horse--not like a lady, but like a person in control of their own destiny.

To aid in her mobility, Rumpelstiltskin had fashioned riding clothes for her. The two of them had experimented with giving her divided skirts and different sorts of habits, but eventually it was decided that tight-fitting trousers worked best. He had made her a dozen pairs in different colors and various blends of wool and linen.

When it got colder, Belle planned to ask her husband for a pair of leather breeches. Even if they proved impractical for riding, she wanted to see if such an ensemble would flatter her body as much as it did his.

For now, in these lovely summer months, it was good to get outside every day. Atop Philippe, Belle explored the forests and mountains that surrounded Rumpelstiltskin’s castle. The woods were rich with life. Walking slowly through the trees, Belle looked for birds and deer and bears. Sometimes she even caught the morning sun glinting off a dew-covered spiderweb. She had no fear of anything in the forest. Rumple’s magic kept away supernatural creatures, and animals rarely attacked something that was no threat to them.

Humans were less understanding.

When she had first started going out, Belle had tried to visit the little town at the base of the mountain. She had thought that she might make friends with the townsfolk, at least with the innkeeper and his wife. But she soon realized how uneasy her presence made people.

Anyone who saw her coming down from the Dark One’s castle tended to avoid speaking to her unless she spoke to them first. Even then, they kept their eyes downcast and their voices were strained with fear. All of them gave her and Philippe a wide berth, moving to the opposite side of the street as they approached. Children gawked at her from windows until adult hands pulled them back out of sight. Belle couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that the villagers started talking about her as soon as her back was turned.

She hadn’t even told anyone that she had married Rumpelstiltskin. Simply being associated with him was enough to ostracize her from polite company.

So she kept to the forest, and kept to the castle. She stayed close to her husband and her home. There were people in the various worlds who loved her and understood her, and those were the relationships she cherished. No one else’s opinion mattered.

Still, she enjoyed her rides. It was pleasant to have an activity of her own, something that took her away from Rumple for a few hours every day. And every time, the brief separation made their reunion that much sweeter.

“I’m home!” Belle announced as she entered the castle after putting Philippe away in the stables. Rumple knew she was back, of course. He knew everything that happened in his home, and he’d told her that he kept watch over her while she was out and about.

But declaring her presence meant more than merely stating a fact. When she said those words to Rumple, she was telling him that the castle was her home and she was happy to be there with him. She told him that she was well, that she wanted to talk to him, that she wanted him to want her around.

She told him that she loved him.

She made her way to the landing that held the door to their bedroom and to the tower where Rumple worked most of his magic. Belle stopped by the bedroom just long enough to take off her light riding coat. The lilac-colored garment was damp with sweat and the castle air felt deliciously cool against her loose linen undershirt.

Belle hung her coat in her wardrobe, knowing that it would be clean and pressed the next time she wanted to wear it. She kept on her brown riding boots and trousers. Rumple had never said anything out loud, but she had seen the way his eyes lingered over the shape of her legs, even when they were covered in cloth.

When she removed the linen kerchief at her throat it exposed the openness of her shirt and just a hint of her bosom. The white fabric was thin and her perspiration had made it almost translucent. She thought about removing her stays before she went up to see Rumple, but decided against it.

She never needed a riding crop for Philippe, but sometimes she wished she had one, for special occasions.

To cover up any unpleasant odors of sweat and horse, Belle pulled out a jar of perfume and sat down at her vanity to put it on. The jar itself was a work of art--a cube of cut crystal in a red so dark it might have been carved from a ruby. She set the top of the jar next to a sapphire-blue pyramid that contained a different liquid fragrance. Belle dipped her fingers into the red jar and swiped up a few drops of perfume.

If anyone asked her what the perfume smelled like, she would have told them roses. But in truth, this scent was almost nothing like the flowers that had bloomed around the castle gates on her wedding day. This perfume was the soul of roses, or roses in love, sultry and deep. Only magic could create this smell of heat, of desire, of a living, primal need.

She felt that heat in her cheeks and her chest before she even began to apply the perfume. With a light touch, she swept the scent over her wrists and her neck. One drop rolled down her throat into the valley between her breasts. The sensation made Belle shiver.

As a final touch, Belle untied the ribbon that bound her hair and shook it loose over her shoulders. Running her fingers through the curls, she coated them with the last of the perfume--Rumple had never given her a hairbrush of her own. Then, she tied the lilac ribbon back around her hair, but loosely, so the bow could be undone at a moment’s notice.

Even by her vanity, there were no mirrors in the castle. She usually didn’t miss them. If the Evil Queen could use mirrors as her spies, it was better to keep them covered. But every now and again, Belle would have liked to inspect her own appearance. Particularly on those occasions when she wanted to look especially alluring.

When she got to the foot of the stairs, Belle called to her husband. “Is it safe to come up?”

This was another sentence that meant so much more than the mere words would imply. When Belle asked if something was safe, she was telling her husband that she trusted him. She was telling him she knew he might have more knowledge than her, and that she relied on him to protect her from harm, that she would follow his guidance if he told her to stay away. She was telling him that she loved him.

And when Rumple’s voice came down the steps as “Yes, sweetheart,” Belle knew that he was really telling her that she was welcome in his place, in his work. He was telling her that he wanted her around him, that her presence was better than solitude. He was telling her that he loved her.

Did all couples speak to each other in a code like this, or was it only that she had married a man who lived by riddles and hidden meanings?

Either way, Belle went up the stairs to be with him.

Rumpelstiltskin was standing in front of his work table. As Belle approached, she saw him taking off a pair of dragonhide gloves and a leather apron. He pulled a beaked mask away from his face. She knew he didn’t need those protections, but he wore them so he wouldn’t have to take the time to decontaminate himself of any dangerous magic before he touched her.

The room smelled faintly of char, but there was no sign of a fire or an explosion. Several books lay open on the table, and there were beakers and vials full of brightly-colored substances. Some of the liquids floated in their bottles, while others glowed with pulsing light. In the center of the table there was a glass dome on top of an iron plate. The plate and the dome were bound together by iron chains and inside the dome something moved.

Rumple greeted Belle with a soft kiss and wrapped his arms around her waist. He sniffed at her perfume, but didn’t mention it. “How was your ride?”

She snuggled into his embrace, rubbing the scent onto his clothes. They didn’t kiss again, but they knew they could. “It got hot once the sun burned off the morning mist. I’m almost surprised that you allow the summer sun to enter your domain.”

“A bit of sunshine is good for the complexion.” He grinned at her, his green skin sparkling.

Belle giggled, less because his quip was that funny and more because she was so happy. “And how is my husband?”

He pressed his lips to her forehead and breathed in slowly. “Better, now that my wife is in my arms.”

“Better?” Belle rested her hands on his shoulders. “Were things not good enough before? Is your work troubling you?”

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged. “It’s nothing urgent,” he said. “Nothing that must be done or else there will be catastrophic consequences. But I thought I might try something and the results were not as I had hoped.”

Turning to the table, Belle broke their embrace. She stayed close enough to keep her body against his. Rumple kept one hand on her hip, slowly caressing the light brown fabric of her riding trousers. His mind was no longer on his magic. However, Belle had suddenly become curious.

“What is it that you’ve got trapped under the glass?”

The moving thing was a strip of darkness, smaller than the length of her hand. The smell of burning seemed to emanate from it. The edges of the thing wavered and sparked, like some sort of black flame. It darted in every direction around the dome, searching endlessly, relentlessly. There was an aura of malice around it that was more than just the wriggling tendrils of death-colored magic.

Slowly, Belle approached the table, and Rumple kept his hands on her. She knew better than to reach out to the thing in the dome, but she bent at the waist to examine it. The thing wasn’t entirely black, but held the faintest tints of a deep, angry red. It reminded her of blood, of meat.

“It’s not some kind of creature, is it, Rumple?”

Gently, he pulled her back, away from the thing. “It is a curse, my dear. But a small one, and fairly harmless.”

Her gaze shifted from the dome to her husband. She wasn’t afraid of this magic, not while he was there to protect her. “What kind of curse is it? What does it do?”

“Like I said, it’s a simple hex. It wouldn’t do much trouble even if it got out. The curse is, ‘May your bacon always burn.’”

At the sound of its purpose, the curse reared up and started banging itself against the glass. Belle jerked back against Rumple’s body, but her reaction was more out of surprise than fear. The chains kept the dome weighted down against the plate and the effect that cold iron had against certain spells held true. In no time at all, the curse seemed to have exhausted itself. Though it didn’t stop, its movements became listless and sluggish. Tendrils drooping, it floated instead of flying around the dome.

Full of nothing by curiosity, Belle looked at her husband. “What did you think you would find out from studying a curse?”

Rumpelstiltskin swallowed before he spoke. “I, uh, I was trying to study the nature of curses and the effect of malicious intent on a spell. My perspective on such matters has… shifted, in the past month or so.” He twisted his wedding ring around his finger.

It had been a little more than a month since she had put that ring on him, since she had claimed him as her own forever. Belle put her hand over his, to still his nervous fidgeting. “What did you find out?”

He squeezed her hand before he let it go and went to one of his books. “Tell me, my love: What is the difference between a curse and a blessing? Don’t think, just tell me the first thing that comes to your mind.”

She furrowed her eyebrows. He had gone from magic to philosophy, and his question surely would have a philosophical answer. “I suppose… curses are evil.”

“And what is the difference between evil and good?”

Belle thought only a moment before answering. “Well, evil things hurt people.”

“Aha!” Rumple snapped his fingers and pointed. She had gotten to the heart of his explanation. “But is it always evil to hurt people? Would you say a soldier at war is evil? How about a knight at a tournament, even if he just knocks his opponent to the ground? Is an executioner taking a murderer’s life less evil than the criminal himself?”

“But those are all people, Rumple. And what harm is acceptable under what circumstances is a matter for law-makers and clerics. You were examining a curse.”

“Yes.” Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes darkened as he gazed at the strip of black fire he kept under glass. “Unlike a person, a curse has no choice, not even an ability to mitigate the pain it causes. And a curse is pain, my sweet. For a magic-user to create a curse requires a wealth of intense, concentrated, damage on the heart. A hurt so unspeakable that the only way to be rid of it is to inflict it on another victim. And even then, the wound remains. It festers, like a stinking mold on the soul. No matter how you try, you’re never really clean again.”

He had turned away from her as he spoke, bracing his hands on the table. He stared intently at the curse and Belle could feel dark magic gathering around him. How many curses had her husband created? How much pain had he suffered and made other people suffer? How much damage, how much ‘stinking mold’ was on his soul?

The thought frightened her and she wanted to pull away. Instead, she stepped closer.

She put her hand on his arm. “Rumple?”

He didn’t react to her touch. His eyes had become black and unfocused. He was seeing things that did not exist in the world where she stood. Ghosts and regrets were never far from his mind, Belle knew, and this talk had opened up a door for them.

But she had the power to shut that door.

“Rumpelstiltskin,” Belle ordered, “look at me.”

With a shudder, her husband came out of his trance to obey her. He blinked several times, and each time his inhuman eyes became less black and more gold.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I--what were we saying?”

“You were telling me how terrible curses are.”

“Yes.” He took a heavy breath. “Yes, Belle. And you were listening to me.”

“I was.” Belle kept her hand on his arm, but gave him enough space to breathe. “But we don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, his eyes closed. He rubbed his face with one hand, the hand with his wedding ring on it. The golden band shone, reflecting the late morning light. His other hand gripped at the back of Belle’s loose shirt. He held her tightly, afraid to let go.

“I did have a point,” he said with a rough exhalation. The sound might have been a chuckle. “My experiment today was to see if a curse could be… redirected. Not broken, not reversed. I wanted to see if I could keep it whole, but shift its purpose, the same force for the opposite ends. I thought I might, somehow, compel harm to become helpful. I thought I could create goodness out of something that is built of nothing but rage and destruction.” He shook his head, sour and weary. “But it’s hopeless.”

“Well of course it is.” Belle put her arms around her husband’s waist and rested her head on his chest. His breathing had slowed, but it was still labored. “You said it yourself, Rumple: a curse has no choice.”

He shuddered again and clutched his arms around her body, buried his face in her hair. “Then what hope is there for evil people?”

Like a key turning in a lock, the mystery of his thoughts suddenly opened to her with a click.

“Oh,” Belle said out loud. “Oh, Rumple. Is that what this is all about? About you?”

He pushed himself away from her embrace and took a few long strides around his workroom until he was alone in the center of the floor. “Dark magic is all that I have done--all that I have been--for so long, Belle.” He took a deep and heavy breath. “I cannot dream of giving up evil entirely, not yet. But I thought that I could… transform it, a little. I thought I could make myself better, for you.” His hands balled into fists. He stared again at the trapped curse. “But the principle doesn’t hold, not even on the simplest of spells. A curse cannot be made good.”

As much as she understood her husband, Belle knew she had to disabuse him of at least one notion before they went any further. “But you are not a curse, Rumple.”

“Am I not?” He held up his hands for her examination. “This is a curse that I need, that I use every day to provide for myself and for you. Being the Dark One means living off of dark magic and all magic comes at a price.” He sighed, casting his gaze around the room. Belle saw him look at his spinning wheel, his spellbooks and potions, at the curse he had contained but could not control. Then he looked down at the floor, dejected. “I never minded paying until now,” he said softly. “I never minded being evil, until a good woman pledged to love me.”

Belle stepped up to her husband and gently took his hands. He gave himself to her, unresisting, but he did not meet her eyes.

“For as long as I’ve known you,” she said softly, “you have never made a secret of your evil.” She rubbed her thumb against his knuckles. “You’re usually more prone to hiding your goodness and your vulnerabilities.”

His eyes were still downcast, but his lips twitched into a half-smile. “And you found them out anyway, you remarkable woman.”

“And they were worth the search,” Belle assured him. “Rumple, I love your goodness, but I know that you are more than just one thing. I know that darkness is a part of you. It was the first part of you I ever knew.”

He grabbed her hands and shook his head. “I wish it wasn’t,” he said. “You are so good, Belle. You deserve a good man for a husband.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re trying to become a good man instead of trying to force me to be with someone I ‘deserve’ instead of with you, the man I love.”

He squeezed her again and pulled her into his arms. He embraced her so fiercely Belle thought it would leave bruises. She didn’t mind the idea.

“I can’t live without you, Belle,” her husband whispered. “I tried, but I hated it. I’m sorry I’m so weak.”

“I hated it too,” she reminded him. “I didn’t want to be away from you, that’s why I came back. And I know who you are, Rumpelstiltskin. I know what you’re capable of and how your mind works--and I still agreed to marry you. I appreciate that you want to be a better person, but please don’t think that I want you to become something entirely different than what you are.”

Rumple said nothing, but he rested his head against hers and nodded.

“I meant what I said before,” Belle went on. “You are not a curse. You are a person who does actions. And yes, some of those actions are curses, I won’t deny that. Some of your actions are cruel and thoughtless, and most of your magic is dark. But you!” She held his face in her hands. “You, my love, my husband, my Rumple--you are more than your worst actions. A curse doesn’t have a choice, but you do. Every time, you have a choice.”

“But so often my choices are wrong. If evil is what hurts people, I have done plenty of that.”

“I know,” Belle conceded. She rubbed his temples with her thumbs. “But that doesn’t mean that you are beyond hope, that you are unworthy of love. I have never believed that.”

“I know.” He held her close again. His hands stroked her back, twisted into the ends of her hair in its ribbon. They breathed together for a moment. “Even in the beginning, you never hated me as much as you should have.”

“Stop,” she ordered gently. “If I could order you to stop hating yourself, I would.”

Rumple chuckled and kissed her forehead. “Even that magic has its limits.”

She rested on his chest. “But I love you,” she said. “And I wish you could love yourself.”

“It’s easier to contemplate, when you’re around.” He held her by the shoulders to look her in the eye. “I do want to be a better man for you, a man who is actually worthy of your love.”

Belle smiled. “I’m just happy you’re thinking of yourself as a man at all,” she said. “It wasn’t that long ago you didn’t.”

“It wasn’t that long ago I wasn’t,” he countered. “You did transform me, my Belle. Your love… kept me from ever being a complete monster.”

Belle tried to keep her smile, but she couldn’t hide the slight slump of her shoulders.

“What is it?” Rumple asked.

“Nothing,” Belle said too quickly. She looked down at her hands, at her ring. “I just… I’ve had some selfish thoughts lately.”

“Oh?” he said lightly. “What is selfish for you, my sweet?”

It was Belle’s turn to fidget, to not look her lover in the eye. She stepped away from him, wandering uselessly in the small room. “It’s just… something I wanted to ask of you. But I worry that it isn’t something that you want to do anymore.”

Rumpelstiltskin cocked his head. “Now what on earth could there be that I wouldn’t give to my wife?”

Suddenly very hot, Belle swallowed. “I…” she began. “I worry that you will blanch at the idea, that it will be too evil for you now, for the man you want to be.”

Now his eyebrows furrowed and his voice became serious. He crossed the space that separated them. “What evil would you ask of me, Belle? Did someone hurt you? Do you want a head on a platter? I will destroy your enemies in an instant, if you just say the word.”

“No,” Belle almost laughed. But what she really wanted seemed too absurd for laughter. It had been weighing on her mind even before the wedding, before she came back to the castle, ever since the night she had been brought back from Regina.

Had it really been that long?

She took a breath. “Rumple,” she began. “Do you remember the chipped cup?”

He looked at her, quizzical. “Of course I remember your chipped cup. It’s still downstairs. We look at it every day.”

“Do you remember how we used to use it? W-what it meant?”

When Belle looked again at Rumpelstiltskin, she realized that she was probably seeing what her own face had looked like at the beginning of this conversation, that sudden moment of clarity.

“Oh,” he said simply. “You… would like us to do… that sort of thing… again. Is that what you mean?”

Belle hung her head, but nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I told you, it was a selfish impulse. And if it’s not something you want to do, I understand. But Rumple, you have to know--I never hated your darkness, and I never hated it when you let that darkness play with my body.”

A tremor went through Rumpelstiltskin. The muscles in his face twitched and his lips moved without sound. When he did speak, his voice was slow and breathy. “You… want me… to hurt you?”

Swallowing her embarrassment, Belle nodded. “A game, like we used to play. You were never really angry with me, it was never a real punishment for a real transgression. We were just… pretending.”

“But the pain was real,” he whispered. “The blood was real, the scars, the bruises. I really did hurt you, Belle.”

This time, her nod was more vigorous. “And I’d like you to hurt me again.” She looked down at the floor. It was harder to say these things as his wife than it ever had been when she was his whore. “I used to enjoy wearing your bruises, Rumple.”

His breath caught and Belle looked up. Rumpelstiltskin’s face was unmoving, but his eyes had gone dark and his lips were parted.

Walking up to him, Belle stood in front of her husband for a moment. Slowly, deliberately, she reached into her hair and pulled at the lilac ribbon. Released from their bondage, her curls tumbled over her shoulders in wild waves. She shook her head to help her curls settle into place and to unleash the hidden reserves of her perfume. The smell of roses--of heat, of desire--wafted from Belle to Rumple.

His mouth opened wider as he breathed her in, as he took in the sight of her and all the signs of her yearning. He gaped at her now. He stood up straighter, as if his leather trousers had suddenly grown too tight.

Then, Belle slowly sank to her knees. She hadn’t done this in months. The position was more awkward in her riding clothes and boots than it had been when she had worn nothing but a blue robe. She sat back on her heels, with her hands resting on her husband’s calves. She licked her lips and looked up at him.

“Would you like that, Rumpelstiltskin? Would you like to play a game with me?”

“Fuck.” He shivered and looked down at her. “Are you sure?”

“I fell in love with the Dark One,” Belle answered. “I fell in love with the man who owned me, who brought me over the brink of pain again and again. My husband is gentle and kind, but he can also be fearsome and terrible. And I love all of him.”

“Fuck,” Rumple said again. Then he bent at the waist. Then his hands were in her hair and his mouth was over hers and Belle was on her knees and utterly at the mercy of the most powerful dark magician in the world.

They broke apart, both of them breathless and overwhelmed. They didn’t change positions after the kiss. Belle remained on her knees and Rumple loomed over her.

“Do you have a preference?” he asked. “Where we do this?”

“Our room,” she said at once. “We make love every other way there. We shouldn’t treat this as separate.”

Bent over, he cradled her face in his hands. “Do you really think that, Belle? That what we’re about to do is just another way to make love?”

Belle nodded. “It is an action, not a curse.”

Rumple looked stricken at that--shocked that she had known what he was thinking, and touched that she would care. “I love you,” he whispered.

“And I love you.”

“I love you,” he repeated as his hand clasped around her throat. Belle gasped and felt her whole body clench in desire as he forced her to the ground. “And that’s why I’m going to make you scream.”

#game #a golden cuffs story #Golden cuffs #rumbelle #rumbelle fic

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rufusrant · 4 years ago

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tagged by the heavenly @honeyheffron ! thank you <3 <3 <3

rules: name your top ten favorite female characters from different fandoms, then tag ten(ish) people!

also in no particular order:

tahani al-jamil from the good place

lucy lam from lucy and linh

homura akemi from puella magi madoka magica

fleabag from fleabag

astrid leong from crazy rich asians

kiki from kiki’s delivery service

aomame from 1Q84

amy flower from flowers

nymphadora tonks from harry potter

tracy beaker from tracy beaker

and i tag: @blobfishmiffy , @casafrass and @celeste-fitzgerald !

#tag game #queue up

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thelionshoarde · 7 years ago

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This was just meant to be make-outs in the rain for a certain person and instead I wound up with a whole bunch of overly dramatic...stuff. I axed like 1k and here’s what’s left. There are zero make-outs, must try again. :|

By the time Shirayuki reaches the top of the tower she is wheezing. It’s not that she is out of shape, exactly, but she isn’t accustomed to running up eight flights of winding, too-wide stone steps as fast as she can. But this is not a normal situation. This is -- this is --

Her heart is so heavy it’s a miracle she can move at all. Every pounding step it feels like she will spill over; as if the cavity of her chest is a beaker and her emotions are a roiling reaction set on shattering its confines.

Outside the narrow, arrow-slit windows rain is lashing, the afternoon turned dark, a riot of purple and gray and thunder so close that the roar of it gets into her bones, rattling them. Damp already, and the worst yet to come. Shirayuki shoves at her hair angrily, the sodden strands already clinging to her face. Her breath rasps like smoke, thick and suffocating, in her throat.

Two more flights.

Grim, she continues to climb.

How dare he.

That is all she can think in the split second after he runs.

At his desk Ryuu looks at her, mouth a tight line of discomfort, his shoulders a rounded hill as he tries to disappear. It does not work. He has grown too large to find hiding effortless anymore. It hurts Shirayuki that he is trying to hide, now.

How dare he.

The window Obi usually uses is shut tight -- even in this moment he has taken their comfort into consideration. Beyond the glass rain has just begun to fall, torrential and bitter-cold, and the windy gusts would have drenched everything in seconds. Instead, it is their office door which swings slowly shut after him, closing with a gentle snick.

“Will you...”

Ryuu trails off, and Shirayuki’s jaw tightens. Her hands, she realizes, are trembling. For a moment she cannot hear the storm for the pounding rush of her pulse in her ears. Her body is a single throb of reaction, too confused to be easily parsed.

“I’m sorry,” Ryuu whispers, and -- no, absolutely not.

Shirayuki grabs her coat. “None of that, Ryuu, and I mean it.” Her tone is too harsh by a mile; but Shirayuki does not know how to reign herself in, not here, not now. Thoughts swing through her head so quickly they never quite form, but she knows this: “It is not your fault.”

Ryuu’s head dips lower, and Shirayuki tugs at her coat, gestures sharp, wild. She has gotten the buttons done up all wrong, but it will take ages to fix it, and --

How dare he.

She has no patience for this.

“I was only trying to help,” Ryuu mumbles.

“I know,” Shirayuki agrees, hand on the handle of the door, trembling to take flight.

There is not a single piece of the whole of her that would not be willing to run after Obi, to chase him to the ends of the earth. She would scour every crevasse, every precipice; fall into shadows and dark spaces with the shape of his name in her heart, a luminous brand unseen, to light her steps.

Forever, and always, she thinks; I’ll drag him back hissing and kicking if I must, every time, until he understands.

The promise falls from her lips, easy: “It’ll be all right, Ryuu. Stay here.”

At the top of the tower is a tiny wood door, reluctant to open, and Shirayuki huffs and curses and shoves, furious that something so inconsequential might try to bar her way. It comes open with a pop, lost in the noise of the rain.

Shirayuki crawls outside, wincing at the sting of the wind and the droplets of water, icy and relentless. Immediately her hair becomes a snarled tangle wrapped about her throat, her coat drenched, skin chilled. This high, the storm is relentless, a force that wishes to make her bow. Shirayuki forces her way through it, toward the dark figure across from her.

Obi stands astride the balustrade, toes off the edge. His cape flaps in the wind, a twisting, wrenching tug that finds him somehow immovable. As though he has turned to stone himself.

“You idiot,” she heaves into the wind, helpless.

She does not know how he hears her, but he does: his body comes suddenly back to life, flesh and bone all at once in a startled, violent jolt. He turns, too wide --

And Shirayuki knows, now, how it feels for the world stop, as Obi’s foot slips, arms coming up, and she would scream if she had the breath to scream, but she doesn’t, fear and horror welling in her and holding her immobile as he teeters backward, off the edge --

The sky is so dark, and cold. It does not care that they love each other. In this moment, here, Shirayuki sees how it all falls away; lost before either of them had ever gathered the courage to begin, and it’s not fair.

Why, why have we taken so long to get this right? she wonders, despairing.

Obi comes down hard and abrupt on the stone, crouched before her. There is barely three feet between them, but it may as well be an ocean, wide and empty and nothing but salt and monsters as far as the eye can see. Terrifying and unknown.

But --

Shirayuki takes that first step, stumbling, wading in no matter how deep the water may be. She meets Obi on her knees in the rain, the storm howling, and says: “I’m in love with you, too.”

#ans #obiyuki #my fic #i don't know #IT WAS JUST SUPPOSED TO BE MAKE OUTS #HOW DID IT COME TO THIS??#i had to cut most of this #because it was just #too much #omg

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