#but I’ve been in so much content where there’s only a sage left after people die and they cannot keep people alive

[impossible-rat-babies]

man. i sure do feel a way about sage

[chasingpj]

𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞

"You’re really sweet, water boy.”

pairing: percy jackson x child of hecate!reader

words: 5,379

warnings: angsty, mentions of breaking down, one curse word

timeline: post sea of monsters

if you want to be tagged every time I update this story click here

a/n: hi hi! I hope you guys like this chapter. If you have any feedback let me know. i've read this chapter over like 1,000 times while editing so i can't even give my own opinion on this chapter lol. i hope someone likes it at least cause i'm a little iffy about this one.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six

“Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality!”

The singing voices of the Apollo cabin harmonize as Atticus stands in the middle of their cabin, eyes closed with his arms swaying side to side in the air. You sit against the window frame at the end of the room, your lips curl in a soft smile as Harvey prances around his feet, enjoying the spotlight as much as Atticus is. You were glad that Atticus was still up for karaoke night despite his mood. Although you didn’t plan on coming yourself, you had hoped that he would as he needed it as an outlet to let loose. A part of you wasn’t surprised when Atticus was begging you to come with him, insisting that your plan of staying in and sleeping early was too lame for a Friday night at camp. You didn't want to make him upset so you decided to suck it up and go with him. Besides, you did need to get out.

The past few days, you’ve had your nose in books, drowning out your thoughts with everything from studying demonology to enjoying fantasy novels. You’ve been keeping an eye on Lou Ellen as well, noticing that she too was avoiding her feelings by drowning herself with books back to back. And now, as a result of your similar coping mechanism, you two have an exclusive book club where you spend hours reading and mercilessly criticizing Twilight. Meanwhile, Atticus has been up and around, constantly surrounding himself with people to distract him. He seemingly was doing fine on the surface, but it was a facade. Sorrow was radiating off of him like never before. Even if you didn’t have the ability to sense his emotions, his song choice for tonight was a dead giveaway. Bohemian Rhapsody is his comfort song.

“I’m just a poor boy. I need no sympathy!” Atticus sings passionately into the microphone. Cheers break throughout the cabin, and you giggle, joining in, cupping your mouth as you whoop for him. You look over at Lou Ellen, talking and laughing with a few girls across the room. You smile, content that for right now, the two of them are occupied and happy. You, however, couldn’t get into the mood. Sure, the chaos of the Apollo Cabin easily entertained you, but you were having trouble shaking off the heavy feeling in your chest. You frown, your hand coming down to pet the top of Ambrose’s head, the other nuzzling his snout against your leg to comfort you. You look down at him, smiling softly as a silent thank you, and you sigh, hoping to lighten the feeling in your chest, but to no avail, it remained.

A nudge on your shoulder draws in your attention, and you turn to face the boys standing to your left. You meet Lee Fletcher’s bright blue orbs, a smile plastered on his flushed face.

“You’re next!” He shouts over the music, pointing his index finger at you in the same hand he held a red solo cup in. You scrunch your face, moving a little closer to him and the group so they’ll be able to hear you.

“I’m not really in the performance mood tonight,” you say, and the immediate protests from the boys around him made you smile. They insisted that you had to sing tonight and that they were going to make sure you went after your brother. On any other night, you would have agreed, gladly taking the mic. You weren’t a stranger to singing karaoke, and you had to admit you did enjoy it just as much as Atticus did. Last week, you sang an interesting rendition of Wannabe by the Spice Girls with Lou Ellen, Silena, Katie, and Sage. You were Scary Spice, of course; you wouldn’t have been anyone else. But tonight, you were unable to see yourself singing. Now that the boys returned to whatever they were talking about, you were planning your escape. You tune back into the song, realizing that Atticus was almost finished.

“Nothing really matters; anyone can see. Nothing really matters. Nothing really matters, to mee.”

You take a deep breath for a moment, accepting your fate. It’s only one song, you tell yourself; it’ll be quick. You cringe, expecting to be pushed up to the front by the others any second now. Suddenly, chanting fills the cabin,

“Encore, encore!"

Atticus smiles, bowing like a Broadway actor as the crowd cheers. You sigh, relieved, and you hoped whatever he picked would be able to conceal your exit. There was no way Atticus was going to pass up the microphone, and over the chanting, he announced his next song choice: Dancing Queen.

He’s so depressed.

You didn’t want to miss your opportunity, slowly scooting yourself away from Lee Fletcher and the others. As the instrumental of Dancing Queen fills the cabin, a chunk of people get up from the bunk beds and the floor to dance and sing along. You take your chance now that everyone is distracted, and you walk into the crowd, carefully weaving through bodies.

The cool summer night air was refreshing on your skin compared to the stuffiness of the crowded cabin. The collective singing of Dancing Queen becomes faint as you make it across the camp. You didn't realize how loud the song was while you were in there, and you could just imagine what the other cabins were doing. You couldn’t help but smile at the idea of an annoyed Ares' cabin, all of them with pillows covering their ears in an attempt to drown out the music and screaming.

By the time you reached the beginning of the woods, the disco instrumental was long gone, and you took in the stillness of the night. There was barely a breeze tonight; the only sounds were the faint chattering of campers hanging around the hearth and taking walks. You stare into the forest, uncertain if you should venture by yourself. You hear a soft whine come from Ambrose, signaling you that it was a bad idea. It was a couple of hours away from curfew, and you can already hear the faint roars of monsters. That wasn’t enough to turn you away, though. Your desire to be somewhere silent was more prominent than your fear of the monsters.

You walk in without another thought, your pace slow and slack, and Ambrose unwillingly follows close behind you, checking around to make sure you are safe. As you walk farther in the forest, the thoughts you had sent to the back of your mind were returning with a vengeance.

The departure of your siblings felt surreal. When you had woken up to their empty beds the next day, you had chosen to believe they had left for breakfast earlier than usual and that everything that happened was a dream. Yet, as the days went by, the absence of your siblings became more apparent. A part of you refused to grieve. You had wanted to declare your brothers as monsters and convince yourself that you didn’t care. You had hoped that deciding to hate them would allow you to move on, but even that came with a desolate aftertaste.

You had blacked out in your thoughts, allowing your feet to take you where they wished, and you find yourself at a familiar boulder. You look to your left at the picnic table, staring longingly at it. It was quiet for a moment before the sight of your brother and sisters sitting on the top of the picnic table, their feet resting on the bench, appeared. They sat quietly, Atticus frowning as he looked out in the forest.

“Focus on your breathing. You won’t shift if you’re impatient.” Your gaze snaps in the direction of the voice. You saw yourself slouched in defeat as Alabaster’s hands gripped your shoulders. His green eyes peered into yours.

You were the only one that hadn’t become ethereal after trying for the past 30 minutes. Atticus had transformed on his second try, Lou Ellen on her third, and the others followed close after. But you had lost count, growing more tired and discouraged after every failed attempt. Alabaster noticed you were on the verge of tears, your lip trembling, and he easily saw that you were crawling into a bad headspace.

“I can’t do it,” you sniffled, feeling embarrassed as your siblings waited for you. You were aware they weren’t judging you and had instead been encouraging you the entire time, but you still felt ashamed. The voices in your mind taunted you, making you forget any positive feedback you received that day. You were the weakest link of the group. You were never going to be powerful as your brothers, and so you’ll never be recognized by your mother, it said.

“You can, Y/n. You’re getting too in your head,” Al reassured you, his hands falling to his side, taking a step back. You were confident that he had given up on you, and you didn’t blame him. You looked down at the ground and fiddled with your fingers. It was silent for a moment before you heard him sigh.

“Try again,” he said softly.

You groaned and rolled your eyes at yourself. You were drained from trying so long, and you were ready to accept your defeat and stomp away. You looked at Alabaster again as he patiently waited for you.

You swallowed hard, and you closed your eyes as you heard the encouraging words of your siblings. Their words failed to cancel out the negative thoughts in your own head, though. You were already bothered by the little voice that said you would never transform. You dwelled on being the last one and what made you feel worse was that it was nighttime - when your magic is at its strongest - yet you still hadn’t transformed. Maybe you weren’t as powerful as your brothers gave you credit for. Disappointment swirled in your stomach, clouding your brain, and your fist clenched as you tried to shake off the thoughts in your head. You were well aware that your mindset was holding you back. You inhaled deeply, somehow finding the will to set aside your negative thoughts.

You decided you won’t allow yourself to be the only person who couldn’t transform. You weren’t going to let your insecurity of being the “weakest link” get to you, at least not on that night. You huffed out and felt a tug in your core before your fingertips and toes began to vibrate. You gasped, and your eyebrows furrowed tightly, the vibrating sensation gradually becoming more intense to the point where it almost hurt.

You heard an excited cheer come from one of your sister's lips as the feeling crept up your arms and legs. It finally met your core, and it was as if a ball of warm, electric energy sat right in the pit of your stomach. You opened your eyes, immediately seeing the bright smile on Alabaster’s face. A relieved laugh came from your lips as a few tears ran down your face from your previously pent-up anger.

“I told you.”

You snap back to reality, looking around you to see that you were still alone. No one was at the picnic table other than Ambrose, who was laid down at the foot of it, watching you cautiously. You swore you heard the sound of Al’s voice as if he was right in front of you, but that wasn’t possible. As much as you wished for it to be, you knew your siblings were long gone.

Though you were incredibly grateful for Atticus and Lou Ellen deciding to stay, the dynamic that your siblings had as a whole was something that you wouldn’t be able to get back. Now it was the three of you, left to figure things out on your own. It’s not as if you three were incapable of figuring things out, but you’ll miss your brother's guidance.

You think perhaps if your mother didn’t give them the okay to leave, they would have never left. You couldn’t help but be mad at her, and lately, you’ve been a little petty towards your mom. Tonight, you had decided to go to dinner and dedicate your burned offering to Hestia instead. You’ve been praying to her every night as well, hoping that maybe she’d be able to bring your siblings back to you.

You hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary to inform you if your mother was aware of your silence or if she cared. You also found yourself wondering what she thought of you for not leaving. How could she not visit you? Were you really not worth, maybe, five minutes of her time? Did you have to prove yourself worthy? If so, how? You were yearning to know, but even for that, you were unable to find the answer.

Your jaw clenches, feeling your sorrow shifting to rage in your core. Take a deep breath, Ernest would say, and you do, filling your lungs to their capacity, and you hold it. Think of your surroundings. Meditate on the question: If I erupt, will I hurt someone? If the answer is yes, take a step back, breath in for 10 seconds, out for another 10 until you’re calm. If the answer is no… well, fuck it. Everyone needs to be angry sometimes.

Your head tilts slightly, taking in the clear night sky for a moment. From your peripheral vision, you can see your green aura wildly swirling and flickering around you. You close your eyes, and your chest expands, ready to release the air you’ve been holding. There was no rustling of the trees or grass, no monster screams, no sounds of the surrounding camper. The forest was still until it wasn’t as you let out a deafening scream.

After hearing the news of your siblings running away from camp at the counselor's meeting a few days ago, Percy had made a mental note to check up on you. In the time between his activities, he had checked the strawberry fields, the arts and craft center, even the arena in an attempt to find you. For a moment, he had thought you had left with them, but when he saw that Atticus was still at camp, he knew you had to be somewhere. It wasn’t until he passed by the Hermes dinner table the other day did he decide to ask your brother where you were. By then, you had not shown up for your meals for two days straight. Atticus told him that you weren’t doing too good, deciding to isolate yourself in the company of Lou Ellen. He had offered to let Percy come with him to drop off your dinner, but he had decided not to go.

He figured that you needed time for yourself, and he didn’t want to intrude. He was also worried if it would have been weird to check up on you. Surely, you were friends? You considered him as a friend, right? He hoped so since he had considered you one. He thought maybe he was overthinking it but then he began to worry that you would blame him. He had to do some mental gymnastics to come up with a reason why you would be mad at him, but he was able to come up with something. He would understand if you were mad at him since he is, well, suspected to be the child of the prophecy. So obviously, none of this would have happened if he wasn’t born? Right? He had told Annabeth about it, and from the way she blankly stared at him, he knew that the reason wasn’t solid, but still, he was nervous.

He was surprised to see you walk out of the Apollo Cabin. After hearing that you were hiding away, he didn’t expect you to attend one of the most lively events tonight. From afar, you seemed upset, but you also glinted with determination as you walked with purpose. He was seated with Annabeth, Grover, and Thalia by the campfire, listening to Annabeth ramble about the architecture of the Palace of Versailles to Thalia and Grover. It was her newest hyper fixation, and Percy had been listening though he got a little lost at some point. He didn’t want to lose his chance to approach you, not sure when the next opportunity would be so he quickly finished up the s’more he was eating before getting up from the bench.

“Um, I’ll be back,” he says. The only person who had heard him was Grover, who nodded to acknowledge him while Annabeth didn’t miss a beat in her ranting.

He checked in the usual places you would hang out in, but you were nowhere to be found. He found himself walking along the gravel road in front of the forest. He slows down, turning toward the trees and he hums,

“Did she go in there by herself?” He mutters softly, becoming concerned. It was kind of an unspoken rule that campers shouldn’t venture out on their own.

He looks over when he hears chattering, the wood nymphs slowly making their way out of the forest. They seemed to be gossiping about something as they huddle in a circle right outside of the trees. Percy found it strange that they were away from their homes, especially at this time, and he noticed they all looked a little stunned.

“Hey,” he smiles as he walks over to them. He halts hesitantly, the girls becoming quiet as they turn to him. “Have you guys seen, y/n?”

They exchange looks with each other, Juniper shifting on her feet as she stands in front of him. “Yeah…” she trails off, facing the dark trees. “Just keep walking. You’ll hear her.”

Percy furrows his eyebrows, unsure what they meant by that, but he takes their advice anyway. It didn’t take him long to find out what they meant, hearing your yelling before he saw you illuminating in the dark. He had imagined that you would be upset, but he definitely did not expect you to be yelling at the sky, rapidly throwing blasts of energy at a boulder.

Seeing you like this was odd. It was so different from the calm and collected demeanor that you gave off. He had considered you as the quieter twin. Compared to your brother, you weren’t as out there. He hadn’t seen you have many interactions with Atticus, but he could tell that you took on the big sister role. You just seemed more mature.

“How could you- how could you offer something like that?! I’ve never seen you once an- the first message I get from you is to join his stupid army! You took them from us!” You ignore the burning in your throat and the trembling of your arms. You felt lightheaded, and you didn’t know if it was due to how hard you were yelling or the amount of energy you were burning out. “I HOPE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING!” You shout weakly, looking up at the sky, hoping that your mother was listening to you. You wanted her to know how you felt betrayed, angry, and heartbroken.

Despite your anger, you still held back on what you said. You were wary not to push too far, preferring to not meet your mother's wrath the first time she visited you. You wanted an explanation; you wanted to hear the orders and the promises she made from herself. But you doubted she would appear.

Hot tears roll down your cheeks, your breath ragged, and you wail, blasting the last long beam you were able to muster at the boulder. You stumble from your own force, a sob leaving your lips, and your forearm wipes your tears.

“I really hope you know what you’re doing,” you strain in a whisper.

You gasp as you hear a twig snap behind you. You freeze in your spot, your heart beating hard in your chest. You were confident that you had summoned your mother. You took a deep breath, ready to face her, but to your surprise, you were met with Percy.

Percy's body tenses the moment you snap your gaze to him, swallowing hard as your glowing eyes bore right into his. He was hoping that his speculations of you being mad at him were wrong. The burning smell from your beams filled the air, and he definitely did not want to be charred up like that boulder. To his relief, he watches your clouded expression soften. He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Are you okay?” He asks, immediately cringing at himself afterward. Of course, she isn’t okay, why would you ask her that?

You sniffle, and you nod, “Yeah, I’m just doing my nightly prayers.” Though you tried to lighten up the mood, your voice was sad and hoarse.

Percy frowns, and he steps over a log in his way. He walks over to you as you plop down to sit on the grass with your legs crossed. Ambrose comes to your side, resting his head on your thigh, and you pet him softly.

“I heard what happened,” Percy’s tone is soft as he hesitantly invites himself to sit beside you. He wasn’t sure you wanted to be comforted right now, but you didn’t tell him to go away, so he took that as a good sign. He hums, looking down at his hands, “Travis reported it during the counselor meeting the day after,” he mentions. “Atticus told me you weren’t doing too well. I can’t do much, but if you want to talk about it, I’m listening.”

You didn’t want to dump everything on Percy, but the genuine concern in his tone made you feel comfortable enough to consider laying all your thoughts out on the table.

You haven't had the chance to discuss your feelings yet. There was a silent understanding between you, Atticus, and Lou Ellen that none of you were ready to bring it up and would rather go along your days pretending it didn’t happen. But as you continued to avoid it, it began to fester like an infected wound.

You were so lost in your thoughts, you didn’t realize for how long you were quiet. In your silence, Percy waited patiently, not wanting you to feel pressured. Every once in a while, he would look over, noticing the flickering of your aura slowing down until it’s absorbed into your body, leaving you both with the soft white light coming from Ambrose’s body. If you decided not to talk about it, he told himself he wouldn’t pry, but he would be worried about you for keeping everything in.

You didn’t know how much Travis had said at the counselors meeting. Your mind was rushing with thoughts, asking yourself where you should start while also deciding if you should be completely honest with him. It wasn’t until now that you were faced with all the conflicting feelings you’ve had in the past few days. They came at you all at once, and a sniffle cuts through your silence. You sigh shakily, resting your head on Percy’s shoulder.

Percy looks down at you, able to make out some of your features in the dark. Your eyelids were a little puffy from crying, and you look exhausted. He frowns as a small sob leaves your lips, shifting to wrap his arm around your shoulders. He debated if he should say anything to you. He didn't find that this was a situation where an “it’s okay” was appropriate. Kronos was rising, war was on its way, and Luke was recruiting campers, 5 of those campers being your siblings. None of that was okay. He felt a pang in his chest, grasping on to the fact that you’d be fighting against them when it was time for battle.

“I’m sorry,” your voice quivers. You hated feeling as if you were losing control of your emotions. You didn’t want Percy seeing you like this, and you began to feel embarrassed.

“Don’t be sorry,” he shakes his head, and he opens his mouth to say something else but is too stunned when you pull away abruptly. Your gaze is fixed in the opposite direction as you try to catch your breath, hiccuping and gasping softly for a bit. “Y/n?”

“I almost left, and I feel guilty because a part of me regrets not leaving,” you blurted out the confession that was eating you up the most. It was what you were afraid to admit out loud, especially to Atticus and Lou Ellen. You didn’t want to admit that you, the one who found the courage to voice your opinion to your brothers, the one that declared she was staying at the camp, had begun to regret her decision. As much as you wished to not regret it, the what-if questions that filled your mind were hard to avoid. Were you actually missing out on the opportunity to be taught by your mother? Was it true what James said? Was deciding to stay a death wish?

You refused to look at Percy. You were wondering if he thought he was talking to a potential traitor to the camp. You were wondering if he would think of you differently now that you have confessed to having the slightest thought of joining Kronos.

Percy was lost for words, his face flashed with surprise, and he was glad you weren’t looking at him. He didn’t want you to think that he was judging you because he wasn’t; he was just taken aback. The tension between you started to thicken the longer he stayed quiet. His eyes scan the ground, frantically searching for something to say.

“Why did you stay?” He asks hesitantly.

Your teeth chew on the inside of your lip, and you now regret saying anything. You didn’t know if the shift in the air around the two of you was in your head, but either way, it bothered you.

“Because…” you trail off. The list of reasons why you stayed was long, and you didn’t want to go through all of them. You were determined to keep this conversation short, afraid that if you keep dwelling on this situation for too long, you will find more reasons to be angry.

“Because I’m not going to die for a cause I don’t believe in,” you declare. “I understand their side. I understand why they decided to leave. Alabaster was always saying that he wished things were different for us here at camp. I mean, so do I. They also had the approval of our mother, and they were promised to be taken care of if Kr- the Titan Lord wins. I can’t blame them for not giving that up because even I was hesitant to give it up,” you confess.

You sniffle softly, peeling the skin around your fingers before continuing, “But… for the change they're looking for, I don’t think this is the way to do it. Like really? Allying with him? Yeah, the gods are big jerks, but I don’t understand how he would be any different of a leader.” You sigh, “I considered leaving just to be with them, but I couldn’t go through with it. I wouldn’t feel right. I tried to convince them to stay, but they were set on leaving.”

Percy was quiet for a moment, and you found the courage to look up at him. His vision is fixed on the forest ahead before he meets your gaze. “I don’t think you should blame yourself for regretting not going. I think if I were in your position, I would have thought about the same things. They mean a lot to you. They’re your family.”

You nod, relieved that he understood where you were coming from. “Atticus was my last straw. If he had decided to leave, I would have left despite everything.”

“Understandable. He’s your twin,” Percy shrugs. You sigh shakily, your chest feeling a little lighter after being able to voice your thoughts. You felt more satisfied with yourself now. Your challenged morals felt solidified, and you decided with confidence that your choice was right for you.

“I give you a lot of props, Y/n. You were in a tough situation, and it must have been hard to stand your ground, especially since most of them decided to leave.”

“Yeah…” you say softly, and you realize that maybe you should have been kinder to yourself for having that feeling of regret.

“I think it’s really awesome what you did. Doing something like that takes a lot of guts,” Percy says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Thanks…” you say shyly.

A soft smile plays on his lips, and he can tell you were starting to feel better. He was glad that he could help because he understood what you were feeling. He didn’t exactly go through the same thing, but he knew how it felt to second guess your choices and how it was easy to spiral when you dwelled on it for too long.

“You’re really sweet, waterboy. Thanks a lot," you say playfully as you return the smile. Your heart flutters as Percy’s face brightens before sheepishly looking away from you for a second.

He didn’t get compliments like that often. Well, he has, from his mom, but he didn’t count that. It wasn’t the same as getting the compliment from a girl, a girl as pretty as you are.

“I-it was nothing,” he moves his hand in a dismissive wave, and you giggle. “Well… I don’t know if you were done with your ‘prayer,’ but I think you should go back to the party in the Apollo Cabin. I’ll come with you. It sounded like a lot of fun in there."

"Ugh, but they’re going to make me sing,” you slouch, and Percy laughs at the slight pout on your face.

“I’ll sing with you,” he says, and you furrow your eyebrows, surprised at his offer. You’ve only seen him at karaoke a few times, and he always stayed on the sidelines.

“You can sing?” You ask, amused. Percy definitely didn’t seem like the musical type.

“Nope, I’m pretty much tone-deaf, but I’ll embarrass myself for you since you had a rough day," he nudges you softly before standing up. You look up at him as he pats down his pants, and you lean back on your hands.

“I’m gonna pick a ballad so you can embarrass yourself even more," you smirk at him, and he stops patting his clothes, squinting at you.

“Don’t make me take it all back,” he jokes. He reaches his hand out to you, and you grab it, letting him help you up from the ground.

“You know, I’d kill to hear you sing a Britney Spears song," you mention as you pat your own clothes down and begin to walk out of the forest, Ambrose acting as your guide by trotting ahead of you.

Percy is quiet for a moment, and you glance over, positive that he's starting to regret his offer to sing with you.

"Please don’t do that to me.”

You laugh at him; the thought of Percy singing a Britney Spears song was way too funny to you. Percy gave you a cautious look, not sure if you were serious or not. “Fine, fine! I shouldn’t take advantage of your kindness,” you admit as your laugh ceases. Percy nods, playfully agreeing with you. “You listen to My Chemical Romance?” You ask, and he scoffs,

“Of course, I listen to My Chemical Romance.”

“Let’s sing Teenagers then,” you suggest. “It’s a crowd favorite. Everyone sings along, so no one has to suffer through your singing. What do you think?” you tease, and you take in his bright smile as he nods his head,

“Sounds good to me.”

masterlist taglist: @nct127bee @xxyrr @mochabreezeee @minamisulemisa @yanfeisluvr

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

mock the meat it feeds on

For the prompt: could you do geraskier "Don't you trust me?" / "You're not the one I don't trust..." with jaskier being jealous over/worried about triss? (in the books+games she does some manipulative stuff to be with geralt.)

I’ve only ever seen the show so I wasn’t too sure about the shady stuff regarding Triss and couldn’t find a simple explanation of it when I tried to look it up so I kinda took a different route because I really like show Triss so hopefully you still like it! Also on ao3!

And I’m gonna tag @roughentumble again!

In all the years that Jaskier has known Geralt, since that very first day in Posada, he's never known him to tolerate cities well, let alone actually enjoy them, which is why his sudden affinity for Novigrad is so vexing. Well, that and the reason for his newfound affinity.

Her name is Triss Merigold. She's a sorceress, of course, because Geralt apparently has a type and much to Jaskier's disappointment it's decidedly not talkative bards, and Jaskier trusts her about as much as he trusts a rabid dog.

The first time Jaskier meets her, he and Geralt are in Novigrad to replenish Geralt's dwindling supply of herbs and elixirs after a string of back-to-back contracts along the northern Redanian coast. They're searching for an apothecary, Geralt in the same foul mood he always slips into when they're forced into larger cities for whatever reason, his enhanced senses easily overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds and smells of the city, making him incredibly susceptible to sensory overload and the consequent migraines that followed.

Jaskier's done his best over the years to accommodate for Geralt's sensitivity, content with either avoiding large cities altogether when traveling with Geralt or taking it upon himself to venture into busy marketplaces or meet with aldermen while Geralt waited on the outskirts of the city. But buying food or delivering severed monster heads to aldermen was a far cry from collecting the necessary ingredients Geralt needed.

Geralt himself was a walking encyclopedia of flowers and herbs needed for his potions, but Jaskier only possessed a rudimentary understanding of them, garnered from explanations Geralt had supplied when Jaskier had sufficiently wheedled him enough for a herbology lesson. Making the potions used by witchers was a precise science; one wrong ingredient or combination of such could result in a potion meant to staunch bleeding instead thinning the blood and preventing clotting or an elixir meant to heal instead being little more than poison.

And Jaskier would rather Geralt not die because he confused puffball and sewant mushrooms.

With no other option and Geralt's supplies running dangerously low, too low for him to risk even thinking about taking another contract, Geralt's reluctantly accompanied Jaskier into Novigrad.

They initially avoid the main marketplace in favor of backstreets and narrow alleyways in search of a more niche apothecary, hedge witches or homeopaths selling their wares out of their small homes. But after finding three small-scale herbalists' inventory severely lacking, they're forced to head to Hierarch Square in the heart of the city where the crowds are busiest.

They're scanning the overwhelmingly busy Square with its many shops and storefronts and throngs of swarming shoppers for a larger apothecary when they stumble onto Triss.

She's standing outside of a three-story house right on the Square, dressed in resplendent orange robes the color of fresh tiger lilies and, unsurprisingly, marigolds. The color, and the bright midmorning sunshine, brings out the bronze and auburn notes in her thick brown hair and highlights the brilliant sage green of her eyes, even at a distance.

She's watering a row of plants in a red brick planter that Jaskier immediately recognizes as healing herbs, yarrow and nettle and chamomile, milk thistle and Echinacea. Affixed just above the door to the home she's standing in front of is a large sign advertising her expertise as a sorceress, specifically one specializing in healing magic.

Jaskier's torn quite evenly between relief at finding someone who should have all the herbs Geralt requires and immediate distrust. Neither of them have very good track records in regards to sorceresses. They tend to want nothing more than to bed Geralt and get him wrapped around their little finger and tend to despise Jaskier solely for the fact that he exists.

If Jaskier didn't know better he'd say they were jealous, his friendship with Geralt always outliving the witcher's whirlwind affairs with his sorceresses. But Jaskier does know better and it wouldn't do to believe such a foolish notion, to think that Geralt truly wanted him more than he did any of his past lovers.

Now, Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek, weighing their options, or rather the lack thereof, when he notices Geralt noticing the sorceress, his eyes lighting up with recognition. Without any further warning, he strides through the crowd of busy shoppers with Roach in tow to greet the sorceress with one of his rare half-smiles.

She returns Geralt's smile with a radiant one of her own and him into a quick hug, leaning up to peck him on the cheek. Jaskier can only watch dumbly, feeling like a knife has just been plunged into his heart, reopening old wounds along the way.

After a moment, Jaskier hurries after Geralt, weaving in between people who don't seem to acknowledge his existence, stomping on his toes and elbowing him in the ribs as he rushes over to Geralt. Triss greets Jaskier with a wide smile, more polite than he expects her to be as she introduces herself when Geralt fails to bother with proper introductions, leaning in to give Jaskier a hug of his own.

Brushing a few of her curls behind her ear, she invites them in for tea and quite generously offers to help replenish their supplies as much as she possibly can. They sit in her drawing room that's fragrant with sage and neroli, full of dried herbs and various crystals displayed on a shelf above the large fireplace, sipping the orange blossom tea she pours them in delicate porcelain teacups while she and Geralt catch up.

Jaskier listens attentively as Triss explains how they'd first met in Temeria, about the striga and the witcher who fell victim to it before Geralt had arrived, about King Foltest's scandalous affair with his sister, about how she had soon after left Temeria in favor of setting up shop in Novigrad. She's much friendlier than Jaskier is used to sorceresses being, smiling warmly as they talk and laughing when Jaskier jokes about Geralt being much more tight-lipped when Jaskier had asked him for the story about the striga.

After they've finished chatting, Geralt lists off the various herbs and other ingredients they're in search of at Triss' request. With a radiant smile directed at Geralt, Triss rises from her seat and starts bustling around the room, gathering herbs and flowers and small glass jars to store them in, leaving Jaskier and Geralt to finish their tea.

She's across the room with her back to them, standing at a work table scattered with potted herbs, meticulously gathering leaves and petals, when Geralt suddenly stands and crosses the room to stand beside her, leaving Jaskier alone at the table with Triss' cat, a giant fluffy orange beast of a feline with a smushed face that bats at his hand whenever he tries to pet it. Jaskier watches with a sinking feeling in his stomach as Geralt leans in close to Triss to say something to her that has her blushing and giggling as she turns to playfully swat at Geralt's arm, their faces intimately close.

Jaskier forces himself to look away as they continue talking softly amongst themselves, his honeyed tea suddenly bitter on his tongue. The knife in his chest twists.

Triss sends them on their way an hour or so later after providing them with everything they need, declining any sort of payment when Geralt reaches for his coin purse. With a gentle hand on Geralt's shoulder, orange painted nails a sharp contrast to the black of his armor, inviting them to visit her again the next time they're in Novigrad. Jaskier selfishly hopes they need never again enter the city.

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Quite predictably, Jaskier’s hopes are cruelly dashed and not two months later they're returning to Novigrad to collect a bounty for a fleder that had been terrorizing an old cemetery not far from the city proper. As they approach the city gates, Jaskier offers to take the proof to the local alderman, hoping to spare Geralt the inevitable migraine, but Geralt just grunts something about having another errand to run.

They head to Hierarch Square immediately after seeing the alderman, Geralt's pockets heavy with coin as he leads them directly to Triss' home. It really is a lovely him, a pale cream color with dark wood timbering and a steeply pitched brown clay roof. It's a shame Jaskier despises the mere sight of it.

Triss greets them at the front door with a smile, the warm afternoon sunshine on her face highlighting the scattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She's enchanting in a sage green dress that matches the shade of her eyes, yellow and orange marigolds embroidered along the hem and modest neckline.

She invites them in much to Geralt's visible pleasure but Jaskier politely begs off, lying about needing to pop into Books and Scrolls across the way for a few things and ignoring the look Geralt gives him at the obvious lie. If he truly did need anything from the bookshop, he would have mentioned it to Geralt, something he and Geralt both know but it's the first excuse that springs to mind aside from being brutally honest and explaining that he has no interest in watching them flirt again.

He does actually head across the Square to wander aimlessly through Books and Scrolls in hopes of distracting himself from thoughts of what Geralt and Triss could be currently doing now that they had no audience. He chats with the proprietor for a bit, then indulges himself and purchases a few inexpensive chapbooks of poetry and a new leather-bound songbook, the pages gilded and the top right corner of every page stamped with the image of a charming little nightingale, a familiar symbol to a poet like himself. By the time he returns to where Roach is waiting outside of Triss', Geralt and Triss are still inside.

He scratches Roach behind the ear the way she likes and feeds her a carrot he's been saving in one of his bags for her, sits on the edge of one of Triss' planters and halfheartedly strums his lute, figures he might as well try to make some coin while Geralt's...preoccupied.

He's made enough coin to afford a nice room at the Kingfisher by the time Geralt emerges from Triss' home, a small self-satisfied grin on his face. It's a shame, really. Typically Jaskier would be basking in the rare sight of Geralt smiling but at this moment it just sets his heart plummeting.

Jaskier would like nothing more than to leave Novigrad as soon as possible but it's growing dark and he'd like to indulge in some creature comforts only an inn of fine repute in a large city can offer, rich wine and a large tub and feather mattresses. Geralt doesn't argue, either in too good of a mood from his dalliance or simply because he enjoys said comforts just as much as Jaskier does, leading the way to the nearby inn while Jaskier forces enough enthusiasm to prattle on about how it was one of his own ballads that led to the particular naming of the Kingfisher.

He performs the very song that evening at Olivier, the innkeeper's, request, stealing surreptitious glances at Geralt in the dark corner he's claimed as his own for the evening as he sings of an unrequited love so painful and all-consuming that when the young maiden learned that the knight she so adored had eloped with a gorgeous princess, she threw herself into the sea. It was only the compassion of a sympathetic goddess that saved her from her fate, turning her into a kingfisher so she could sing of her lost love forevermore.

Jaskier thinks of the nearby harbor, with its fishing ships and sailors, and wonders what kind of bird he'd become if he threw himself to the mercy of the sea.

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To Jaskier's disdain, the pattern continues for the next several months.

Any time that they're even remotely close to Novigrad, they make a detour to the city, booking a discounted room at the Kingfisher (the rate generously halved by Olivier who gives Jaskier his drinks for free and always insists he grace them with a performance or two of his ballad about the kingfisher) that Geralt scarcely uses, constantly at Triss' home.

Jaskier splits his time at the Kingfisher, catching up with Olivier or performing with Priscilla, or the Passiflora, baring his heart and soul to the Marquise Serenity's sympathetic working girls who always coo over him and let him wax poetic about the brave, stoic, unfairly handsome witcher who will never return his affection. In the evenings, when Geralt deigns to return to the inn, always smiling the smile of a well-fucked man, Jaskier forces conversation while Geralt plays Gwent with Olivier or other patrons of the inn.

But most of all, he aches.

It's harder, somehow, with Triss. With Yennefer, while just as powerful and ever-present, the jealousy he felt was accompanied by the fact that he simply disliked Yennefer altogether, even before she and Geralt started their weird, complicated, fucked up relationship.

It wasn't difficult to dislike her when she had threatened him, held him at knifepoint, demanded he make a damn wish at the risk of losing his manhood if he refused. She would've easily killed him in her pursuit of the djinn and never lost a wink of sleep over it, disliked him just as much as he disliked her.

But Triss, Triss is sweet and kind, unassuming and about as intimidating as a kitten regardless of the powerful magic she wields. She smiles warmly whenever she sees Jaskier, greeting him with offers of tea and sweetcakes or questions about how he is rather than with snide comments about his age or appearance or his singing.

She's altogether lovely, nurturing and generous and absolutely gorgeous. Someone Geralt deserves. And Jaskier hates it. Hates her, as petty and vindictive as it may be. Hates her kindness and her gentleness and her warm melodic laughter. Hates that the man he loves seems to love her.

He hates her. But not nearly as much as he hates himself.

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Not a full month has passed since the last time they've graced the streets of Novigrad and here they are once again back in the city after hearing word of a siren that's wandered into the busy harbor to prey on merchants from Skellige and local fishermen alike.

Accustomed to sirens hunting in packs, the way fish swim in schools and seabirds scavenge in flocks, Geralt had finished the contract in record time, lugging the siren's head and tail from the harbor to the alderman's home to collect his payment. By now Jaskier knows that it's useless to waste time hoping that they can simply leave Novigrad now that's Geralt job is done.

So when Geralt abruptly announces he has business elsewhere in the city, Jaskier just sighs and informs him that he'll be at the Passiflora in the event that Geralt needs to find him. Rather unlikely given that Geralt will be occupied with Triss for the next few hours. Fucking witcher stamina.

He ignores the odd, irritated look Geralt gives him as they part ways. Like Geralt has any right to be bothered by him seeking out his own pleasure with the ladies at the Passiflora when he's off getting tangled up in expensive sheets with a bloody sorceress.

It's not as if Jaskier's actually going to the Passiflora to indulge in the services offered there. Geralt knows that he loathes the concept of having to pay for a fuck, not when he can seduce nearly anyone he chooses with his charm and wit alone, as evidenced by the scores of married men and women whose beds he's graced.

No, Jaskier's heading to the famed brothel for much more selfish reasons than wetting his wick. To strum melancholy chords on his lute and cry and complain about his one-sided love.

Which is exactly what he does. This early in the day the Passiflora isn't very busy, the ladies milling around the extravagant front parlor with its thick red brocade curtains and exposed wood beams, relaxing on red velvet chaise lounges and large tufted couches big enough to host an orgy on.

They greet him with kind smiles and calls of his name, like they're welcoming an old friend, and he manages a smile that isn't entirely forced. He sits on one of the chaise lounges and begins playing, another melancholy ballad about lost love and heartbreak, the ladies gathering round to listen to him sing, charitably ignoring the way his voice shakes.

He leaves the Passiflora a few hours later feeling a bit lighter for having aired his grievances to his enraptured audience, heading straight to Triss' house to collect his witcher for supper. Roach isn't waiting outside like she typically is but Jaskier just assumes Geralt left her in the warmth and comfort of the Kingfisher's meticulously maintained stables under the care of Olivier's best stablehand.

Jaskier isn't sure what exactly possesses him to actually head inside to collect Geralt, should know from experience to be wary about poking his head in on Geralt and his sorceresses. And yet he strolls right into Triss' home like a lamb to the slaughter.

The drawing room, filled with multiple bouquets of marigolds and orange dahlias, is empty aside from Triss' cat. The great orange beast is sprawled out on its side on the green velvet sofa, watching Jaskier with its pale yellow eyes rather judgmentally. Quite childishly, Jaskier sticks his tongue out at it.

He continues through the house to the kitchen, Geralt's name on his lips, and immediately regrets it.

Triss is leaning against the edge of her wooden kitchen table, nearly sitting on it to accommodate the large witcher standing between her parted legs, knees bracketing his hips. The dual swords, silver for monsters steel for humans, strapped to Geralt's back are all that he can see of him. That and one of his big callused hand as they slip under the rucked up hem of Triss' deep green robes to gently clutch at her bared thigh.

It's like Rinde all over again, helplessly watching Geralt in another's embrace as his heart shatters in his chest with enough force it could shake the earth itself. His entire chest aching like he's just been sucker punched, Jaskier averts his eyes and starts spouting half-formed apologies, stepping backward and accidentally knocking a mortar and pestle off a nearby counter with a loud clatter in his haste to retreat.

It's as he's still profusely apologizing that he belatedly realizes that Geralt doesn't have any scars on his left wrist. Unlike the wrist connected to the hand on Triss' exposed thigh. And that while he saw the broad shoulders and dual swords of a witcher, he didn't spot a single white hair, instead what appeared to be a thatch of dark hair.

He looks up sharply, trailing off, to see Triss hastily pulling down her skirts, cheeks darkened with a blush. And standing beside her is...

"Eskel?!" Jaskier gasps, looking the witcher up and down in shock. He's unmistakable with his dark wispy hair and spiked jacket and handsome smile, not to mention the rather distinctive scars running down the right side of his face.

They've only met on a few occasions, on contracts serious enough to attract more than one witcher. Such an occurrence would typically lead to the witchers trying to beat each other to finish the contract in order to claim the reward for themselves but in the case of two Wolf School witchers such as Geralt and Eskel, it simply led to the contracts being finished quicker than expected, the reward evenly split, and Eskel regaling Jaskier with embarrassing childhood stories about Geralt.

Now, Eskel greets him with a crooked smile, rubbing the back of his neck as though embarrassed about being caught. "Jaskier! You manage to drag Geralt to Novigrad?"

The mere mention of Geralt's name sets Jaskier alight, in an instant absolutely fuming as he cries, "What in the hell is going on here?! I would expect this from the likes of you — he points an accusatory finger at Triss, then turns to Eskel — "but you?! My gods, what's Geralt going to think?! His own brother...! Melitele's tits, how in the bloody hell is going to handle this-this despicable behavior?! You should be ashamed of yourselves!"

To his chagrin, Eskel merely laughs, turning to Triss who sends him a confused look. She turns back to Jaskier, still smoothing out her skirts, and opens her mouth, undoubtedly in an attempt to defend her cruel deception.

"I don't want to hear it!" Jaskier snaps, incensed. He throws up his hands in frustration and turns on his heel to stomp back out of the kitchen, through the drawing room, and out of Triss' home, slamming the door behind him, fully prepared to storm across the Square and retreat to his and Geralt's room at the Kingfisher.

He has no plan, no inkling of what exactly his next step is beside waiting for Geralt to return to their room and somehow explaining that once again his sorceress lover has hurt him with her selfishness. The thought of breaking such dreadful news to Geralt is daunting; Jaskier doesn't ever want to be the cause of such pain for his friend.

He may act the careless rakehell when it suits him, ricocheting from one whirlwind affair to another, but even he isn't immune to the sting that comes with being left for another. He's grown attached to lovers time and time again only to be cast aside in favor of someone else, someone younger, prettier, less annoying, the pain always just as sharp as the very first time.

He thinks of the careless way the Countess de Stael had abandoned him for her new lover, of how she had callously ousted him from her home and her life, of how he'd drowned his sorrow in women and wine and a wasted wish on a djinn that wasn't even under his command. Of the horrible pain he feels every time Geralt goes chasing after Yennefer, leaving him behind with his bruised and battered heart still on his sleeve.

He only gets a quarter of the way across the Square, still trying to sort out how exactly he's going to explain the horrid situation, before he quite literally bumps into Geralt, having paid no mind to the bustling crowd around him in his anger.

Geralt's clearly on his way to Triss' home; it's the only reason he ever steps foot in the busy Square, otherwise avoiding it like a plague even he wouldn't be immune to. Jaskier plants one hand on Geralt's chest and points back at Triss' house with the other as he resolutely declares, "You do not want to go in there!"

"Jaskier," Geralt grunts, rolling his eyes and pressing forward, making Jaskier slide backward across the stone-paved street, propelled by the unstoppable force that is Geralt of Rivia. Roach offers no assistance. "I need to see Triss about getting more wolfsbane, I'm out."

"Not right now, you don't!" Jaskier insists, holding up a finger in Geralt's face. Geralt ignores him, continuing to walk forward as Jaskier's boots make a horrendous sound as the soles scrape over the cobblestone. Jaskier lets out an affronted squeak. "Geralt! For once in your miserable life will you listen to me, you stubborn oaf! Especially when I'm trying to protect you!"

"Protect me?" Geralt echoes, abruptly freezing in his tracks. His hand immediately goes for his swords. "What's in there?"

"Oh, put your swords away, it's not a monster," Jaskier says, though he certainly considers anyone who would hurt Geralt in such a way to be quite monstrous indeed. Regardless, the swords aren't entirely necessary. Jaskier sighs. "I just... I don't want you going in there, alright?"

Geralt narrows his eyes almost imperceptibly, little more than a slight squint as he looks at Jaskier, dropping his hand back to his side. "Don't you trust me?"

"Oh please, Geralt," Jaskier scoffs, rolling his eyes. "It's not you I don't trust..."

"Jaskier," Geralt says again, patience wearing thin.

Jaskier sighs again, feeling absolutely awful about having to relay the terrible truth to Geralt. At the very least, he can spare Geralt the pain of witnessing it himself, from having the sight of his lover and his brother tangled together in an intimate embrace ingrained in his mind's eye forevermore.

"Geralt, I'm so sorry," Jaskier begins, unable to stop the nervous fidgeting of his fingers, alternating between wringing his hands together and picking at his cuticles. "I... I was looking for you at Triss' and I found her. With Eskel."

He hopes it's self-explanatory enough to be a sufficient explanation, that he won't have to delve into the lurid details, but Geralt simply stares at him expectantly. "And-And, oh Geralt, I'm so sorry. They were in a rather...compromising position."

"And?" Geralt demands when it becomes apparent Jaskier has nothing else to say, cocking a brow. He seems entirely unfazed by what Jaskier's just revealed to him, as though he had simply reported the weather and not an instance of infidelity.

"And? And?!" Jaskier repeats, aghast. "And, I'm sorry that your lover has been unfaithful! With one your own brothers of all people!"

His voice raises without his volition, the slightest edge of hysteria sharpening it. Fortunately, the dull roar of the marketplace around them drowns it out a bit and keeps him from making a spectacle of himself.

Still, Geralt does not react beyond the confused look plastered on his face. Jaskier doesn't exactly expect a jealous outburst or for Geralt to break down in tears but he does expect a reaction of some sort! Anger or resignation or upset. Anything! Something! Not confusion, not this otherwise blank expression.

Jaskier's about to ask if Geralt heard him when the other man finally speaks.

"Jaskier," he begins almost cautiously, like he has something of grave importance to inform Jaskier of and fears he might startle the bard. "Triss is not my lover."

Ooh, lovely, now Geralt's lying to him. It reignites Jaskier's anger with a vengeance.

"Oh, please, Geralt! Despite what you may think I am not an idiot! You hate cities, can barely tolerate them for more than a moment, and yet over the past year, you've made us stop in Novigrad whenever we're even remotely nearby! You spend hours with her doing Melitele knows what while I'm relegated to playing at the inn to earn coin for a room you scarcely even use!"

"You never gave the impression you wanted to sit with us," Geralt answers, as though that's what Jaskier is upset about, feeling unwelcome during their little trysts. "You seemed content keeping Roach company, but you were always welcome, Triss said so herself."

Jaskier lets out an outraged squawk, gesturing aimlessly in his frustration. "Welcome to what?! Watching the man I've been in love with for half my life and his new lover?! Well, no thank you! I may be a glutton for punishment but I am not a bloody masochist and I have no interest whatsoever in subjecting myself to such a thing!"

He barely has a moment to register what he's just said, what precious secret he's just so carelessly divulged, because as soon as the words are out of his mouth the bell tower across the Square erupts into sound, filling the afternoon with the clamor of bells. It's too much for Geralt, much too loud much too fast, the sound most assuredly deafening with his heightened sense of hearing. He immediately winces, squeezing his eyes shut and raising a hand to his temple.

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier says, tone softening as he steps closer to Geralt to lay a hand on his shoulder. Geralt just hums, sounding pained. It immediately spurs Jaskier into action.

Keeping his hand on Geralt's shoulder, Jaskier sets his other hand around Geralt's right wrist, guiding him across the Square and letting him lean some of his rather considerable weight on him. Geralt maintains his light grip on Roach's reins like an anchor, earning a soft, soothing nicker from the mare as she gently bumps her snout against the side of his arm.

"Come now, we'll get you to the inn and get you some peace and quiet away from all this hubbub," Jaskier needlessly explains as he ushers Geralt down a less busy side street towards the Kingfisher. He bites his lip to keep from rambling the way he tends to when he's anxious or nervous, not wanting to exacerbate Geralt's migraine.

Fortunately, Geralt allows himself to be led to the Kingfisher and up the two flights of stairs to their room that's significantly quieter than the busy streets outside without any complaints, only speaking up to insist Jaskier make sure Roach is properly stabled. Jaskier leaves Geralt's side just long enough to ensure that Roach is content in her cozy stable with fresh hay and a few apples the size of his fist.

Returning to Geralt's side, Jaskier sits him down on the edge of the bed, helping him strip out of the heaviest pieces of his armor until Geralt waves him off to finish removing it himself, kicking off his boots in the meantime. As Geralt finishes removing his armor until he's in just his dark shirt and leathers, Jaskier bustles around the room making him some tea.

He boils the water over the fireplace, briefly lamenting the fact that he can't instantaneously boil it with a quick Igni, and prepares the dried chamomile flowers he keeps for just such an occasion. He digs a chunk of ginger root out of the bottom of his bag, grating a bit of it into the dried chamomile; just a touch so as not to overwhelm Geralt's sensitive palate.

He wraps the chamomile and hint of ginger in some cheesecloth as a makeshift teabag, setting it in a teacup Olivier has brought up at his request. The teacup is hand-painted, the delicate ivory-colored porcelain adorned with a ring of forget-me-nots and kingfishers in mid-flight. The irony of both symbols makes Jaskier's chest ache and a hollow laugh slip past his lips.

Once the water's done boiling, Jaskier pours some into the teacup, letting the tea steep for a few minutes before bringing it to Geralt who's still rubbing at his forehead. He instructs Geralt to drink it all then steps out to fetch a fresh pot of water from the kitchens, ferrying it back up to their room as quickly as he can. He dips an old rag, also taken from the kitchens, into the pot of cold water, wringing it out until it's damp rather than sopping wet before folding it and gently draping it across Geralt's forehead, setting his empty teacup aside.

He's holding the rag against Geralt's forehead, hoping it'll help alleviate his migraine to some degree, when Geralt's fingers curl around his wrist. His other hand comes to rest on the small of Jaskier's back beneath the hem of his doublet, reeling him in closer until their chests are nearly molded together, his shins hitting the side of the low mattress and his free hand settling on Geralt's shoulder.

Geralt's expression is significantly less pinched than it was in the Square as he looks up at Jaskier, pinning him in place with his gaze alone.

"Jaskier..." he rumbles, voice like an incoming thunderstorm. "What you said earlier..."

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, the memory of what he'd said outside Triss' washing over him like the rainstorm accompanying Geralt's thunder. Once again his careless tongue has gotten him into trouble, only this time instead of enraging some twopenny duke or sweet maiden's father, he's potentially ruined the most important relationship in his life.

He's said too much, like he always does. Always blathering on like the lovesick fool he is, using all sorts of pretty words and melodies to hide the ugly things he feels, like his jealousy and distrust, his petty resentment towards those whose only sin was that they'd had Geralt in the way that he's always wanted but can never have.

And now it's going to cost him Geralt, the way he's always known it would eventually. A foregone conclusion he'd tried to delay for as long as possible.

Now that Geralt knows that Jaskier's in love with him, now that Jaskier's so carelessly confessed his most well-guarded secret, he's sure to leave Jaskier in the dust the way he's always threatened. And Jaskier will be without the man he's devoted so much of his life to, with only memories and unsung love songs to keep him warm at night.

He waits patiently for Geralt to continue, pressing his lips together as he tries valiantly to steel himself for the inevitable. But bracing oneself for heartbreak is like bracing for a hurricane; being prepared did not alleviate the devastation that was wrought, it only made it slightly more manageable.

"Triss and I aren't lovers," Geralt says instead, and Jaskier just barely refrains from laughing in his face. "We're friends, acquaintances, really. Nothing more."

There's something about the tone of Geralt's voice, some undercurrent of steel and soft thunder, that makes it impossible for Jaskier to doubt the veracity of his statement, not when for all of Geralt's tendency to deflect Jaskier's prying questions he rarely ever lies to him.

Jaskier opens his eyes, looking down at Geralt with a confused frown. "But—"

"Last winter Eskel told me he'd met her on a contract in Novigrad, that they're...involved," Geralt elaborates. A small smile curls the corner of his lips up, it's the same small smile he wears when he teases Lambert or decides to make a joke at Jaskier's expense. "I've been visiting her to tell her about him. Old stories of dumb shit he's done, mischief he caused that led to a hiding."

Jaskier gapes at him, trying to wrap his mind around what Geralt's just told him. Once he does, he can't contain his incredulity. "You mean to tell me that for the past year you've been venturing into a city you despise solely to tell your brother's lover funny stories about him just to embarrass him?! Oh, gods, what am I even saying? That's exactly something you'd do you-you... You bloody muttonhead!"

Geralt's smile persists. "Muttonhead? You're the one who thought I was fucking Triss."

"Of course, I did!" Because you were always off slipping away to go see her at all hours, always whispering and cooing like a pair of lovesick mourning doves! What was I supposed to think? How was I to know you were just trying to embarrass your poor brother!" Jaskier defends, throwing up his free hand, indignation swelling within him before ebbing away to be replaced by a tide of embarrassment. He groans, hanging his head and closing his eyes. "I'm such an idiot, I cannot believe I've made such a fool of myself! Over a bloody misunderstanding of all things! Oh, sweet Melitele, I'm a fucking fool."

He draws in a sharp, ragged breath, raises his chin and tries to brace himself, staring over Geralt's shoulder. "And now... Now I'm sure you'll be taking your leave. Suppose Olivier will let me stay for a bit until I regain my bearings, as long as I perform my song about the kingfisher for him, he really does love that ballad."

"Jaskier," Geralt says, cutting off Jaskier's rambling before he can manage to embarrass himself any further. How very charitable of him. "Why would I leave?"

"Why would you...? Geralt! I just professed my love for you not half an hour's time ago! What else should I expect you to do? Pick me up in your arms and declare your endless devotion to me?!" Jaskier's impassioned diatribe trails off with a deep sigh. Still pressing the damp rag to Geralt's forehead, ever gentle to compensate for every hand that's touched him with nothing but cruelty, he breathes deeply and meets Geralt's eyes. "I told you, Geralt, I'm not a masochist. I would not torture myself with such grand delusions."

"I know well that you do not reciprocate my feelings. I understand, of course, and I've made my peace with it," Jaskier goes on, forcing himself to go on even when he feels his throat tighten. "I didn't intend on admitting it in such a way — in any way, really — and I apologize. I would be happy to continue traveling with you, truly nothing would make me happier, but I understand if you wish to part ways. I would never...hold it against you or any such thing, I swear."

"Did you mean it?" Geralt asks, catching Jaskier off guard. He's not sure what exactly Geralt's referring to.

He frowns at Geralt, sure his confusion is scrawled across his face. "Did I mean what?"

"What you said," Geralt says rather helpfully. Jaskier raises his brows expectantly. He's said a great deal this afternoon.

"When you said you love me," Geralt clarifies, meeting Jaskier's eyes with no trace of hesitation.

Jaskier manages another weak smile, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "Of course. With every breath in my body. Every line in every song."

"Jaskier..." Geralt breathes, sounding wounded. His eyes slide shut and he tips his head to the side until his nose and cheek graze the heel of Jaskier's palm. He presses his lips to the spot where Jaskier's wrist and hand, softly kissing it.

Jaskier's breath catches in his throat at the fleeting touch of Geralt's lips, his stubble rasping against the smooth skin of his inner wrist. Hearing the hitch in Jaskier's breath, Geralt opens his eyes, gazing up at Jaskier with those buttercup gold eyes of his that always make Jaskier melt, knees weak from naught but a look.

With the hand he has on the small of Jaskier's back, warm through the fabric of his chemise, Geralt pulls him even closer. So close that Jaskier has to straddle Geralt's knee to avoid falling on his ass.

The movement startles another gasp out of Jaskier. He drops the wet rag with a muted thump against the hardwood floor as Geralt places another barely-there kiss to his wrist, just shy of where his own fingers are still curled around Jaskier's forearm.

Geralt raises his head and Jaskier can't resist the urge to cup Geralt's cheek in his hand, only having to move it an inch or so to rest his palm against Geralt's jaw, his thumb automatically brushing over the sharp cut of his cheekbone. Geralt leans into the touch the same way that Roach leans into scratches behind her ear, full-bodied and surprisingly trusting.

Chests brushing and Jaskier's knees bracketing one of Geralt's, they're dangerously close together. He knows Geralt would never hurt him, knows he could likewise never be able to be truly afraid of him. But Jaskier's heart pounds against his ribcage like waves crashing against the rocky shore, the ebb and flow thundering in his ears like warning bells.

Geralt's face is close to his, only a few scant inches apart, a temptation like he's never known. Geralt's always been a temptation, a constant one dangled in front of Jaskier but just out of his reach, closer than a brother. But he's never been *this* close.

Jaskier's been good for the past twenty odd years. Has resisted all of his selfish urges and one-sided wanting. Hasn't let his hands linger longer than could be deemed friendly, hasn't succumbed to his ever-present desire to just throw caution and consequences to the wind and kiss Geralt with all the passion and longing he's managed to contain thus far.

He's been tortured with temptation over the years, nearly driven mad by it all. By the temptation of helping Geralt out of his armor and sullied clothes, face to face with miles of pale skin and mouthwatering muscle greater men than he would find hard to resist drooling over, ignoring his baser desires in order to help bathe him. By the temptation of waking in a shared bed with Geralt only an arm's length away, if even that far, his handsome features softened by sleep and the early morning sunshine bathing him in rays of pale gold.

But he could never make that leap of faith, could never close the distance between them even for the most chaste of kisses. He was too worried about losing what he already had and cherished so dearly in his pursuit of more, afraid he would lose his world while shooting for the moon.

He wasn't lying when he said he would be happy to continue traveling with Geralt, content to have Geralt in his life as a friend rather than the alternative of not having him in his life at all.

But Geralt's eyes flicker down to his lips for a long moment, a flash of brilliant gold promising treasure far beyond any precious metals or priceless gems and Jaskier can no longer resist the temptation, yielding to it instead.

He leans down toward Geralt at the same moment Geralt raises his head, pulled together like two magnets, binary stars drawn towards one another by mutual attraction. He's not sure who exactly kisses who first or if they simply crash together at precisely the same time, Jaskier's hand slipping into Geralt's hair when Geralt releases his wrist in favor of cupping the side of Jaskier's face in his big hand.

Kissing Geralt is like feeling the first rays of morning sunshine wash over him, like walking in the first rainfall after a long drought. It's like the rush of performing for a large audience at a prestigious event and like the intimate camaraderie formed when performing for just a small tavern full of attentive listeners.

It's honey and salted sea air, steel and silver and snow, blood and ambrosia. Like coming home and embarking on a new adventure all at once.

Jaskier never wants to stop. Knows he could easily get addicted to it if Geralt let him, could grow drunk off the bouquet of his lips like the finest wine. And, wonder of wonders, it seems as though Geralt just might.

Because Geralt's kissing him with the same remarkably focused, single-minded intensity he uses when completing an especially difficult contract, when he's sharpening his swords by the firelight, when he's taking care of Roach. Being the object of such intensity is heady, rather flattering.

Geralt's right hand is warm on Jaskier's back, his little finger dipping under the hem of his chemise, using the hand cupping Jaskier's face to guide his head just the slightest bit to the side as he deepens the kiss. His lips are slightly chapped but addictive nonetheless as he curls his tongue against Jaskier's in a way that nearly makes him see stars. Jaskier's knees are perilously weak, knees gone to jelly like the strawberry preserves Geralt fancies so much at the first touch of his lips.

The position is a bit awkward. With how low the bed is, Jaskier's forced to crane his neck at an awkward angle, head tipped to the side to avoid simply mashing his face against Geralt's like a schoolboy having his first snog. He can feel a crick in his neck that's going to plague him for days if he doesn't move but the thought of tearing his lips away from Geralt's is downright torturous and he'd rather stand there forever in slight discomfort if it means he can continue to kiss his witcher for just a moment longer.

But Geralt, ever vigilant, seems to notice the uncomfortable way Jaskier's head is angled, moving farther back on the mattress and pulling Jaskier with him until the bard's crawling on his knees on the mattress, now straddling Geralt's thigh rather than his knee. They're of a height now, easing the way as Jaskier pours all of himself into the kiss with renewed passion.

But even with the lungs of a singer, Jaskier has to break the kiss to catch his breath, chest heaving as he presses his forehead against Geralt's. Geralt shifts his hand from Jaskier's face to his hip as he brushes the tip of his nose across Jaskier's cheek, practically nuzzling him, and mutters, "Never wanted her, Jaskier. Just you. Only you."

Jaskier can't help the groan that's wrenched out of him at the hushed confession, lowering his head for another deep kiss, fisting his left hand in the fabric of Geralt's shirt. His heart feels fit to burst at the confirmation that his feelings aren't one-sided, that his love for Geralt is reciprocated to some degree, enough for him to be straddling the man's lap and kissing the daylights out of him.

A few moments later, he again reluctantly drags his lips away from Geralt's for the sake of breathing, smiling when Geralt grunts almost petulantly as Jaskier pauses their kiss. Catching his breath, he runs his fingers through Geralt's hair, the glide of the silk-soft strands through his fingers both soothing and exhilarating.

Geralt ducks his head to bury his face in the side of Jaskier's neck, peppering kisses down the side of his neck from just below his ear to the collar of his doublet. Jaskier lets out a soft breath, hand tightening in Geralt's hair.

"I... I should apologize to Triss," Jaskier manages to say in spite of the cloud of lust filling his entire body, mind clearing for a moment even as Geralt very lightly grazes his teeth up the long line of his neck. "I said some rather awful things to her..."

"Hmm... Later..." Geralt rumbles against his throat, lips rasping over the sensitive skin and making Jaskier squirm atop him. Jaskier shudders as Geralt starts laying open-mouthed kisses on his throat, wants him to leave a mark, a bruise in the shape of his mouth as proof that this isn't just another midday fantasy or late-night dream, that it's real. He doubts Geralt would be adverse.

"E-Eskel, too," Jaskier says shakily, eyes fluttering shut as Geralt continues showering his neck with attention, his tongue occasionally darting out to taste his skin. He gasps out a sharp moan when Geralt nips at a rather sensitive spot just behind Jaskier's earlobe, apparently not a fan of Jaskier saying other people's names while wrapped in his arms. Jaskier can't exactly fault him for that, dipping his head to press his lips against Geralt's.

The hand on Jaskier's back slips more fully beneath the hem of his chemise, fingers fanned out across the small of his back, Geralt's other hand on his hip squeezing gently. Jaskier shivers again, Geralt's bare skin on his own sending a frisson of pleasure down his spine, heat pooling low in his gut.

He blindly feels for the front laces of Geralt's shirt, humming happily when he finds them. He abandons his grip on Geralt's hair to settle both hands on Geralt's broad chest, sturdy and warm beneath his palms, fingers toying with the laces.

He unlaces them as much as possible, revealing a wide swath of his chest, scattered with old scars and dusted with hair. Jaskier can't resist running his hands over the bared skin, tracing his fingers over familiar scars he knew the stories of by heart: claw marks from a griffin, an old stab wound from a lucky bandit, a slash from the tail spikes of a forktail, all of them part of the man he loves so much, features rather than flaws.

He wants to touch more of Geralt's chest, wants to strip him of his shirt and run his fingers over every scar he can find, press kisses to each one. But he also wants to bury his hands in Geralt's hair again, to brush his fingertips through the silky strands that smell faintly of jasmine bath oil. He wants to cup Geralt's face in his hands, brush kisses across his cheeks and forehead and eyelids and chin. He'd also very much like to get his hands on Geralt's ass.

Years of wanting have left him with so many desires to touch, all of them getting muddled in his head in his haste to accept whatever Geralt's willing to offer even if it's just a few more kisses. But his mind is still clear enough for something to occur to him.

"Oh!" He gasps, pulling back for a moment, panting a bit. He winces theatrically, genuinely contrite. "You may not ever be able to go to the Passiflora again. I may have told all the girls there that you're a heartless cad who's quite thoroughly shattered my heart with your gallivanting ways."

Geralt quirks a pale brow, clearly annoyed that Jaskier's once again put their kissing on hold in favor of prattling on. But there's a smirk slowly tugging at the corner of his lips as he looks up at Jaskier. "Is that what you were doing there?"

Jaskier nods a touch sheepishly, chewing his lip. He runs his thumb over Geralt's bottom lip and the cleft in his chin, feeling a bit foolish as he admits, "You know I don't like paying for sex. I needed a shoulder to cry on. The girls were always rather sympathetic."

"Hmm," Geralt replies, reaching up to card his fingers through Jaskier's hair, brushing his thumb over his cheek. His eyes flicker down to look at Jaskier's mouth, lips pink and kiss swollen. "Somehow, I think I'll manage without their services. Now shut up, Jaskier."

And Jaskier, well, he's more than happy to comply. For now. The sea won’t be claiming him tonight. He’s found his halcyon days.

[suddencolds]

Pretense | Genshin Impact | 2/2

Part 2 of my Gen/shin Imp/act fic w Childe/Zhongli, ft. a cold, a meeting Childe doesn’t want to cancel, and dinner with Zhongli. (Here’s part 1!) 

—

Zhongli stands. “Childe,” he says earnestly. “I was beginning to worry that something had happened.”

“Trouble at work,” Childe says dismissively.  “It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle, that’s for sure.” It’s not the full truth, but how can he tell Zhongli that he’s only late because his cold is taking its toll on his usual brutal efficiency? He’s sure that, in conjunction with his lateness, it would only sound like an excuse. “I’m sorry to make you wait.”

“There is no need to apologize,” Zhongli says, unperturbed as ever. “You are worth waiting for.”

Childe grins at him, a little shakily. “Still, it’s cold out. Had I been closer to town, I would’ve sent someone to tell you about the delay. “I didn’t think you would still be here.”

“You are the one who suggested for us to meet here,” Zhongli counters. “It was only natural for me to uphold the agreement until you arrived.” 

Childe wonders if he’s like this with everyone—loyal and almost infuriatingly genuine. Surely Zhongli has run into his fair share of people who don’t keep their promises—Childe wonders, not for the first time, if there’s any limit to his seemingly limitless patience.

“Is everything resolved now?” Zhongli asks.

“Yeah. I just ran into some difficulty with recruits. You know how it is,” Childe says. “Business as usual, yet the newcomers can be… difficult to cater to.” He conveniently leaves out the fact that he’s usually the one pushing himself past his limits to impress them—that’s not something Zhongli needs to know. “I had a couple good spars with them, though!” He makes a show out of stretching, stifling a yawn. “If I’m more tired than usual, that’s probably why.”

Zhongli only nods. “If you are tired, we can postpone our walk, and end our meeting early so that you can be properly rested when—”

“No,” Childe says, maybe too quickly. “No, no, it’s okay. You waited all this time for me, and… I’m excited for tonight.” That’s not a lie. He feels better standing next to Zhongli already—something about being in his presence makes him feel strangely comforted.

There’s also the irrelevant, lesser-known fact that Childe hates being alone when he’s ill. But that’s not something he intends to share, either.

“So…” he sniffles as discretely as possible. “...dinner?”

Zhongli smiles to him. “I am looking forward to it.”

They fall easily into step, shoulder to shoulder. Liyue is busy as always, and one of the merchants—carrying something or other, not looking where they’re going—bumps into him, sending him closer to Zhongli. It’s only a moment of contact, but Zhongli is… warm. Childe pulls away quickly so that Zhongli doesn’t feel him shiver.

As always, Zhongli talks, and Childe finds himself more than content to listen. For once, he’s glad that the market is so loud—it makes it so that when he sniffles or clears his throat, it’s not very noticeable.

Halfway through the walk, though, a familiar, sharp prickle settles back in his nose. Zhongli is still talking, so Childe turns away slightly, his breath wavering.

“... hH!”

“The jade plaques are hand-carved, so they are all unique,” Zhongli is saying, oblivious, as they pass a stall that sells jade pendants. “As jade goes, it is priced for its translucency and the evenness in its coloration, though true jade always has imperfections.”

Childe pinches the bridge of his nose in a desperate attempt to stave off the growing urge to sneeze. “A double edged… hH! S-sword,” he comments. “I imagine that if they’re too clear, there’s a chance they… Hiih! … might be counterfeits.”

Zhongli nods sagely. “That’s right. Jade plaques like this are especially valuable, given their history, which makes them a popular relic for dishonest merchants to emulate. It is said that they were originally made to honor Rex Lapis, Lord of Geo, back before his form was—” 

Childe jerks away, cupping his hand over his face as a sneeze snaps him forward.

“HiiHH’ISCHHEW!”

The sneeze echoes in his cupped hands, barely muffled, and still… loud. He flushes, embarrassed, as he lowers his hands slowly from his face.

“Bless you,” Zhongli says.

Faintly, Childe realizes that Zhongli is looking at him. Childe refuses to meet his eyes. He’s sure that if he makes eye contact now, Zhongli will be able to see straight through him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Childe says, sniffling again.

Zhongli is quiet for a moment, observing him with his usual scrutiny. Childe wonders if his hesitance is out of disgust. 

“Are you alright?” he says finally.

Childe nods. “I’m fine! Must be that…” he looks around. They’re next to one of the food stands that's heavy on its spices, which he assumes is as good of an excuse as any. “...one of the spices here… hhIH… hIHh’NDGt!” He almost winces, turning away to sniffle with one knuckle pressed to his face. “...doesn’t agree with me, ahaha. Nothing to worry about! Uh, you were talking about the Lord of Geo’s forms?”

“Ah. Yes,” Zhongli says. He launches into the history of jade plaques and Rex Lapis’s many forms, and somewhere along the way, Childe forgets what he’s worried about.

The sun’s going down, and uncharacteristically the cool air is making him shiver. He crosses his arms mid-walk in a mostly-futile effort to conserve warmth, but it doesn’t do much. In between his frequent interjections, his voice is starting to sound worse, too—he supposes he’s overused it in talking to the recruits; it’s lucky that Zhongli is content to do most of the talking.

When they get to Wanmin, Zhongli leads him to one of the tables outside. 

“Wanmin is well-known for its variety,” Zhongli says. “While it offers Li style and Yue style food, you will find that Chef Mao also fulfills even the most specific of customer requests.”

“Specific customer requests, huh,” Childe says. “Does that mean you’ve ordered something off the menu here, xiansheng?”

Zhongli smiles. “I have ordered everything except for the seafood dishes.”

“I forgot about your aversion to seafood,” Childe admits, laughing. “You will have to tell me the story behind it someday. Besides that, what do you suggest?”

“I think I have something in mind,” Zhongli says untellingly, looking contemplative. “First, sit down.”

Childe obliges. Sitting down is a relief—as much as he would never admit it, their short walk has left him exhausted. He resists the urge to slump forward on the seat. Worse, the persistent itch in his nose from earlier is back.

“Stay here. I will order for you,” Zhongli says, laying a hand on his arm, and Childe—

Childe actually shivers, which is embarrassing, to say the least. Luckily, Zhongli doesn’t seem to notice.  “Don’t forget about the mora,” he says, and fishes for a pouch of coins from his pocket. “Here. I’m sure Chef Mao has dealt with his fair share of your forgetfulness.”

Zhongli smiles sheepishly, which is probably more endearing than it has any right to be. “Thank you, Childe. I will be back in a minute.”

As soon as he disappears around the corner to talk to Chef Mao, Childe exhales, lifting a hand to rub his nose. It’s a bad idea. Suddenly the tickle from before is back, and he’s snapping forward with barely any warning, his eyes squeezing shut.

“hHIH’NGDt! hH!..HIHh’GKtt! hhH....”

Stifling isn’t very relieving at all. If anything, it seems to make him more congested. He casts a quick, desperate glance towards the restaurant. It’s still loud outside, the marketplace as raucous at night as it is at day. Surely Zhongli won’t notice if he—

“hIIH…. hIIH’ISChH-u!” Well, it’s not like he has much control over it now. “hHh... hiIH’IZCHhew!” He gasps again, ducking lower to muffle the sneeze in the crook of his arm. “hIIh’IISCHEEW!”

They’re forceful in a way that suggests that this is going to be a really awful cold,  but it’s relieving to succumb to the urge at last. He sighs, sniffling hard, and lowers his arm. Zhongli is still ordering, it seems. Childe is suddenly grateful that he’d chosen this moment to step away.

His eyes are watering a little, so he blinks quickly. Finally, Zhongli comes back to sit down across from him.

“That was fast,” Childe says, wincing a little at how congested his voice sounds. “I hope you gave him a tip?”

"Of course," Zhongli says, sliding back the pouch of mora. 

They fall back into conversation easily enough after that. It’s only when Zhongli goes quiet that Childe snaps out of his reverie.

“You have been quiet,” Zhongli remarks. “Is something on your mind?”

Childe blinks at him. “Ah. Sorry,” he says, muffling a cough. “I’m still listening. I can talk more if you want me to.”

“No,” Zhongli says. “There’s no need. I was only wondering if it would be better if I refrained from speaking so much.”

Childe frowns. Zhongli has the wrong idea—Childe likes listening to him—but he can’t help but wonder if he’s worse company than usual. “I like listening to you,” Childe insists. “If… it’s okay. I just… I’ve talked a lot today, so...” He looks away, feeling his face grow hot at the admission. “I think I’m, uh, losing my voice, or something.”

Zhongli frowns at him. “Will you have recruits to train tomorrow?”

He tries to recall his schedule for the week. “Don’t think so. Tomorrow’s errands will… hiH!...’NGDshH! be more straightforward. I—” he coughs again. “I hope.”

“That is a relief,” Zhongli says. “Regardless, you should save your voice. Your assurance that you are still interested is enough.”

I’m always interested, Childe thinks, as Zhongli launches back into another story about Liyuen history. His voice is smooth and low and, in every capacity, as comforting as always. Childe falls into it entirely.

It’s only when the food arrives that he finds himself staring down at a bowl of still-steaming soup.

It’s not something he’s had before. He takes an experimental sip. The warmth is immediately comforting; it's exactly the sort of warmth he's been craving all day. He doesn’t have much of an appetite, and he can barely taste it through his congestion, but what he can discern of the flavor is...

“This is delicious, xiansheng,” he says, letting his eyes fall shut in his indulgence. “What is it?”

“Bamboo shoot soup,” Zhongli answers simply. “It should be a good remedy for your cold.”

Childe nearly drops his spoon.

He blinks, surprised. “What?”

Zhongli stares back at him, his eyebrows furrowed. “Your cold,” he repeats. “You have been showing symptoms of it all evening. It is not unlikely that you have a fever as well, if the way you have been shivering is any indication. Were you not aware that you were ill?”

Childe buries his face in one hand. “I knew! Just... was it so obvious?”

“Did you intend to keep it a secret?”

“Not exactly, but…” he sighs. “I didn’t want to cancel our plans over something so trivial. You had already waited so long for me, so it wouldn’t have been fair if I’d just… used it as an excuse to - hIHh!”

Childe feels his breath wavering. He shuts his eyes in desperation, ducking away from the table. This is really the worst timing. 

“hIihh… hIIH’NDGxt! snf… s-sorry, I... hIIH’ISSHHEEw!”

He flushes as another shiver racks his frame. It’s… embarrassing, to say the least, to sneeze so openly right in front of someone he admires. 

“Bless you,” Zhongli says. When Childe looks up at him, he looks sad, his shoulders hunching as he stares down at his own food.  “Childe, are you only here because you felt obligated to uphold your end of an agreement?” His voice is soft, as always. He doesn’t sound accusatory—only uncertain, but somehow, that makes it worse. “I would not have thought any less of you if you had been honest with me.”

“That’s not it,” Childe says, and fuck, he wants to say anything just to get that hurt expression off of Zhongli’s face. “I came because I wanted to see you.” He blinks past sudden exhaustion.  Suddenly his breath catches wrong and he’s coughing harshly, hurrying to press his forearm to his face as his shoulders shudder with the effort.

“I… realize I might not be great company right now, though,” he admits, wincing. His voice is really shot.

Maybe it would have been better had he been less selfish. Maybe he should have cancelled their meeting the moment he’d started feeling bad. Or maybe he should get rid of his strange over-reliance on the funeral consultant in the first place.

Zhongli reaches for his hand. Childe wants to pull it away, on instinct, but Zhongli’s grasp is firm and strangely, hopelessly grounding.

“You are always good company,” Zhongli says sternly, with as much conviction as he has when he recites history or recalls fact. “If you wanted to see me, you could have just asked. For you, I would have said yes.”

“You indulge me,” Childe accuses him, sniffling. Zhongli smiles, as if he’s taken it as a compliment.

“Perhaps. Will you let me walk you back home after we finish our meal?”

Childe wants to protest. They had a walk planned, after all, but he’s exhausted, and the trip back to the inn he’s staying in suddenly seems much less arduous when he considers he could be walking back with Zhongli.

“Zhongli, you are proving my point,” he says, cracking a smile. “...If you don’t mind, though, I would love that.”

He’s really going to miss Liyue when he leaves.

[dontcrywrite]

a kingdom betrayed chapter four excerpt

word count: 1,656 words

notes: here's the very first helen/cory scene in akb, ft. everyone's favorite horse whiskey!!! <3 this takes place the night before helen leaves for her quest!

taglist (let me know if you want to be added or removed!): @bronwennjames @twentythreecrows @writeblrfantasy @chishiio

@nikkywrites @drippingmoon @forthesanityofsome @amberskywrites @ashen-crest @hellishhin @oh-no-another-idea@thelaughingstag

Once the excitement dies down, Helen slips off towards the stables.

It’s an old habit of hers, one that goes all the way back to when she was a child, hiding in her foster father’s stables and waiting for the panic choking her to subside. Even now, years later with the chaos of the day hanging over her head, Helen is only able to breathe once she sinks her fingers into Whiskey’s mane.

The stables are quiet this time of night; if they aren’t on duty, most knights are lounging about the courtyard enjoying their rare free time. If she listens hard enough, Helen can hear their voices floating on the air. Usually she’d go out and join them, but right now she’s content to sit in the dark and let the gentle sounds of the horses moving about in their stalls calm her nerves.

She’s supposed to head out tomorrow morning, according to Muriel. Helen’s been waiting for this moment ever since she first joined the palace guard; she even has a bag already packed and stored safely under her cot, ready to go. And yet Helen can’t help but feel a low sense of panic humming under her skin at the thought of the quest. There’s so much hanging on this. What if she doesn’t succeed?

Helen is so focused on running her fingers through Whiskey’s mane that she doesn’t hear the creaking of the stable door opening. She does, however, see the shadows move across the wall as someone slips inside.

Now, logically Helen knows that it’s someone from the palace, but she’s been on edge all evening. Instinct pushes her to move without thinking. Jumping in front of Whiskey, she throws one arm out in front of the horse and the other resting on the sword hanging at her hip. Whiskey didn’t react, too engrossed with the food in front of him to realize what was going on.

“Helen?” A familiar voice calls out from the shadows. “Are you in here?”

Helen’s shoulders slump, and she leans back heavily against Whiskey’s flank. Whiskey nudges her shoulder gently before returning to his food. “Don’t scare me like that,” she says.

Cory steps out of the shadows, a grin dancing on her face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

The sight of Cory is enough to dissipate the tension that has been coiled around Helen’s spine ever since the prince had returned to the palace with one foot in the grave. She looks exactly the same as she did this morning when Helen ran into her: light hair pushed back from her forehead, spade shoved in her pocket, a streak of dirt across her cheek. Helen has never been more thrilled to see anyone in her life.

“What are you doing here?” Helen asks, lips twitching up in a small smile.

“Thought you might be in here,” Cory says with a shrug. She walks over to Helen, a slight bounce in her steps, before rummaging in her pockets and presenting Helen with a slightly crushed daisy. “Stressful day?”

“Don’t get me started.” Huffing out a small breath, Helen accepts the flower and threads it behind her ear. It’s a little ritual the two have shared since they met; Cory had started it, when she all but shoved a bright lily Helen’s hand the first time they’d run into one another.

Cory hums gently, sidling up to Helen and pressing into her side. “You’re heading out tomorrow morning for your quest, right?”

“Yeah.” Silence fell over the two. And then Helen realizes what Cory had just said. “Wait, how do you know about that? I haven’t gotten the chance to tell anyone yet!”

Cory shrugs. “Emory overheard Muriel talking to Joanna about it. The whole castle knew twenty minutes later.”

Helen groans and buries her head in her hands. Cory pats her shoulder sympathetically.

“So where are you going?” Cory’s voice is casual, but Helen knows her well enough to hear the undercurrent of curiosity in her voice.

Now, technically Helen isn’t supposed to talk about her mission to anyone. She was given strict instructions to keep everything close to her chest, to not trust anyone. Someone had infiltrated the palace and passed information to Ausburn; no one could be trusted until the Mage’s plans were unveiled. Not to mention that any and all missions handed down from the king himself weren’t to be shared with anyone, not even her fellow knights.

But this is Cory, the first person Helen befriended when she came to the palace. This is Cory, who always knew how to draw Helen out of her shell and knows exactly what to say to make Helen smile. Helen would trust Cory with her life. She’d never even considered keeping this from Cory.

“You know what happened to Prince Levi.” It isn’t a question. There isn’t a person in the palace who hasn’t heard what occurred that morning. Cory nods, wrapping a hand around Helen’s arm and giving a reassuring squeeze. “Well, Muriel has reason to believe Mage Ausburn was behind the attack.”

Cory hisses in a breath. “I thought he was holed up in the Hingcour Peaks?”

“Apparently he got bored.”

“So, what, they want you to go find him and ask him to stop? I’m sure that’ll go over well.”

“There’s no concrete proof that it’s him. Not yet. Muriel doesn’t want to go after Ausburn until it’s strictly necessary.” Helen gestures to herself. “That’s where I come in. I have to find Ausburn. I find him, I find the proof we need.”

Cory’s fingers tightened around Helen’s arm, just shy of being painful. “That sounds incredibly dangerous.”

“It’s part of the job description,” Helen shrugs.

Cory’s hand leaves Helen’s arm. Helen turns back to Whiskey, resuming her brushing. She can feel Cory’s gaze on her, but doesn’t look up, not wanting to see the concern that she knows is shining out of Cory’s eyes. Whiskey shakes his head gently under Helen’s hands, pleased with the attention.

“Alright,” Cory says after a moment. Helen readies herself for the lecture on safety that is sure to follow. But instead, all Cory says is: “I’m coming with you.”

Helen whips around to face Cory, brush hanging limply from her hand. Even Whiskey lifts his head, as if he was just as shocked at Cory’s words. Had Helen heard her right? "What - what do you mean you're coming with me?"

Cory’s lips are pursed, arms crossed over her chest. Helen knows this look far too well; Cory’s gearing herself up for an argument. “I’m coming with you,” she repeats, narrowing her eyes at Helen.

“That’s - you -” Helen splutters. “You’ve never said this about my other missions!”

“Your other missions didn’t involve you running headfirst at the most dangerous mage in Arla!” Cory throws her hands in the air, voice bordering on a shriek.

“I’m not running at him! It’s just reconnaissance!”

“But what if you get caught? What if he hurts you?”

“I won’t.” Helen reaches out and grabs Cory’s hand, linking their fingers together. “I’m going to be fine. I’d be more worried about you if you came along.”

Cory’s really pouting now. “I can take care of myself!”

“Well, right, but -”

“Remember when I beat you in that spar?”

Helen frowns. “Just because you fight dirty -”

“I won fair and square!”

“What about your job?” Helen asks, hoping the new topic might yield better results. She knows for a fact that Cory would rather cut her own hand off than let anyone touch her flower beds. “You can’t just up and leave without any explanation! Who’ll take care of your flowers?”

This slows Cory down. She rocks back on her heels, looking torn.

“They’ll probably have Ryan take over for you,” Helen says, nodding sagely. “Remember what happened last time he came near your flowers?”

There hadn’t been a plant left untouched. Cory had been devastated. Ryan spent weeks apologizing; he didn’t mean to kill the plants, not really. The poor man didn’t have much of a green thumb.

For a moment, it looks like Cory might conceded to Helen’s point. But then she just shakes her head. “I can always plant new seeds. If I lost you …”

She trails off, but Helen can hear what Cory isn’t saying. If Helen fails this mission, there’s no coming back. Cory’s doing her best to hide it, but Helen can see worry in the way Cory holds herself, stiff and unyielding.

Of course she knows how dangerous this mission was. How could she not? But how could she bring Cory along, only to put her in danger? Cory is more than capable of taking care of herself, yes, but what if she got hurt on Helen’s watch? She’d never be able to forgive herself.

On the other hand, isn’t she one of the only people who would could keep Cory safe?

Cory is pouting again, eyes silently imploring Helen in a way she’s never really been able to say no to. And really, that’s not playing very fair.

“Alright,” Helen sighs, already knowing she’ll regret this. “You can come.”

Cory brightens immediately, throwing herself at Helen and throwing her arms around her shoulders. “Thanks, Hel! This is going to be great!”

For a moment, Helen can’t breathe. Despite her small stature, Cory was deceivingly strong. “If you come with me,” Helen says, wheezing just a bit, “you can’t mess around. This isn’t a game.”

“Of course,” Cory nods solemnly. She then immediately ruins the mood by grinning at Helen. “You know, I’ve never been on a road trip before.”

Helen groans, pushing her face into Cory’s neck. “You’re going to be the death of me,” she grumbles, voice muffled.

Cory laughs, and Helen can feel the vibrations through her skin. “You love me,” she teases as she tangles her fingers in Helen’s hair.

“Yeah,” Helen sighs softly. “Yeah, I do.”

[tessiete]

HELLO. *Yeets at you with no expectations or pressure* The grass reached for the sky in uncoordinated brambles. Flowers sprouted in the voids, gasping in relief in the sun. If one was to lay within it, they would be completely hidden. "I thought I might find you here, little one."

OH HI! No, I’ve not completely forgotten about prompts, and yes, I will post at midnight again. 

I fear no gods.

Anyway, thank you @kyber-erso for letting me make this about my boy, the Korks, and his dumb grandpa.

ILU Your gorgeous prose is such inspiration!!! (It was the only part @lieutenantmittens praised :sunglasses:)

Let’s have a title....um...

TO FORGET OURSELVES

The grass reached for the sky in uncoordinated brambles. Flowers sprouted in the voids, gasping in relief of the sun. If one were to lie within it, they would be completely hidden. Qui-Gon Jinn, however, was a large man, and though he crawled forward on his belly, and twisted to lie on his back, his knees still arced above the grassline like ancient monuments on a foreign plain.

"I thought I might find you here, little one.”

Beside him, couched like a barah fawn in a nest of broken reeds, and soft needle greens, Korkie Kryze grumbled out a paltry welcome. He snapped the twig in his hands then launched the pieces into the air above him. They arced high, then fell out of sight, disappearing into the long grass surrounding them. 

“No one knows this place,” the boy countered. “It’s secret.”

“Ah,” Qui-Gon said, suitably chastened. “Do I need a chain code, or civil chit to stay?”

Korkie frowned. The dry litter crinkled beneath his head as he shifted to consider Qui-Gon with all the seriousness of a Mand’alor.

“No,” he decided. “Just a password.”

“Oh,” Qui-Gon said, nodding sagely. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you,” Korkie sighed. He kicked his feet out straight, flinging a handful of needles into the sky to emphasise the impossibility of Qui-Gon’s request. “You have to guess. Otherwise it’s not very secure, is it?”

Staves - small brown and green slivers of yesterday’s sunlight - fell like confetti around them, pricking the skin of his cheeks and brow. He closed his eyes, as beside him, Korkie flinched away to shield himself.

Once recovered, Qui-Gon considered his options.

“What password shall I guess?” he asked.

“If you can’t guess it, then you don’t know it, and you can’t stay,” Korkie decreed.

“A fair judgement,” Qui-Gon said. “But I am so very old that perhaps I just forgot it. Would you be kind to an ancient, aged fossil such as myself, and give me a clue?”

Korkie sighed again, loud enough that he nearly gave it voice, just to be certain that Qui-Gon was quite aware of the inconvenience of his request. Still, he relents, and he cupped his hand to Qui-Gon’s ear to breathe the secret between them.

“Oh, I see,” the Jedi said. He opened his mouth, and exhaled, the confidential code a near corporeal thing in the world before Korkie slapped his hand across his mouth, preventing the sound from escaping.

“You can’t say it out loud,” he cried. “You have to whisper it to me. Otherwise anyone might hear it.”

So Qui-Gon held his own hand to the boy’s much smaller ear, and murmured the password back.

“Okay,” Korkie said, satisfied. “You can stay.”

“Thank you,” the master replied. 

For a while, they lay in silence, staring up at the wide expanse of sky above them. The firmament above was a bright blue, but to those two votaries it appeared bruised, and dark as the heavy dome of Sundari arched high to dim the effulgent rays so that mortals, too, might bask in them.

Between them, there was perfect accord, both content to rest in the company of the other. There was a meditative peace in the sound of grass, and in the touch of the sun. But, at four, Korkie had little patience for the beauties of the world. Instead, he was much preoccupied by his own troubled thoughts, and unlike the heavy evergreen needles, they refused to settle softly beneath his head.

“It isn’t fair,” he houghed, another twig straining to reach the escape velocity of their orbit.

“That is true about many things,” Qui-Gon agreed. He reached his hand to the earth beside him, digging until the litter gave way to fine silt. It ran over his fingers like silk, weighed down by the oils of his skin, and left a dusting over his palms. “What, in particular, are you most troubled by, my boy?”

Korkie sighed again. His sighs contained whole systems within the bounds of their expulsions. He rolled to his side, facing Qui-Gon, curling his legs, and tucking his hands beneath his head. His entire aspect was bent toward the consideration of his most serious complaint.

“It isn’t fair that Bebu must leave again when you only just got here.”

Qui-Gon rolled to face him, equally considerate.

“Well, that’s not entirely true, is it?” he asked. “After all, your father and I have been here for nearly four months. Since before your mid-break. And we shall not be leaving until after Holyhod Day. That is quite a long time, don’t you think?”

“If I were in school the whole time,” Korkie agreed. “But break doesn’t count. And plus, I was in school for some of it, so I didn’t get to see you as much.”

“Your buir saw you every day, Kiorkicek,” Qui-Gon said, quite firmly. There would be no slighting of his own evergreen, and erstwhile padawan by anyone.

Korkie felt the justice of Qui-Gon’s correction, and thrust his lower lip forward in tremulous defiance.

“I said, not as much.”

“So you did,” agreed Qui-Gon, quick to acknowledge his own fault. “Forgive me. Go on.”

“I am only saying,” continued Korkie, “That it isn’t fair that Bebu is going so soon, and taking you with him.”

“As I am the elder, perhaps it is I who is taking him.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Korkie said.

“No, I suppose not,” Qui-Gon said. It was his turn to sigh, as he rolled to his back once more, and stared up at the sky, watching it ripple behind the glossy dome, like light over water. “Do you know, when your father was little he used to lie in the grasses at the Temple, just like this, and look up at the vaulted claricrystalline of the Coruscant day?”

“Bebu did? Like me?”

“He did.”

Korkie screwed up his mouth, riddled with scepticism. “No, he didn’t,” he said. “This place is much too dirty for Bebu. He always tells Belli that I look ‘a wild creature unfit for civil tables’ when I come back like this.”

“And what does your mother say to that?”

“She says she loves wild and untamed things the best. And Bebu always laughs, and -” he added, leaning near to confess - “he never gets actually mad when I get mud on his trousers or his tunics. He just pretends.”

“Well, I tell you quite truly,” Qui-Gon murmured back. Korkie’s eyes were brightened with expectation. “When your father was not much older than you are now, he used to hide in the grass in the Room of a Thousand Fountains and look at the sky.”

“Really?”

“Really, really,” Qui-Gon vowed. “And I can recall several instances where he found himself covered in muck up to his ears!”

“You’re tricking me,” Korkie said.

“I am not,” Qui-Gon denied. “On one occasion, he dropped your mother into a great puddle of mud, and she was covered, too!”

“And then what?”

“What do you think,” Qui-Gon said, his eyes glinting with mirth. “He reached in to help her out, and then -”

“Then?”

“Then she pulled him in after her!”

At this, Korkie burst into a riot of laughter, so bright and clear as to startle a flock of dozing echo’lanaar from the trees. 

“Bebu was covered in mud!” he shouted, alive with joy. “And Belli, too! They must have looked so silly!”

Qui-Gon grinned. “They did,” he swore. “Quite silly. Much sillier than you look when you go home covered in needle greens or clay. And do you know what else?”

“What?” Korkie asked, falling silent and reverent again, caught in the grip of Qui-Gon’s voice.

“Every time we left the Temple he missed his home, and his friends, too. Just like you miss him when he’s gone.”

“It’s different,” Korkie said, feeling slightly betrayed by the way Qui-Gon has turned back to beckon his troubles join them in this den. “Because he left his friends. His friends didn’t leave him.”

“What is the difference, Kiorkicek, if everyone is still parted?”

And that is something he had not thought. 

Korkie frowned, trying to puzzle it out, but Qui-Gon spared him the struggle because the lesson to be learned was difficult enough for a master, fully grown, never mind a boy hardly older than a few revolutions of the earth.

“Don’t you think that your Bebu misses you?” he asked. “Don’t you think he’s sad when you’re not there?”

“Maybe,” Korkie conceded. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” Qui-Gon said. “And I can promise you that when you are here, and he is there, he always wishes you close.”

“I don’t think so,” Korkie said. “Because if that were true, then he wouldn’t leave at all. He’d always be here, and he wouldn’t care about there.”

“But he has many duties and responsibilities to do there,” Qui-Gon countered, his voice soft as the brambles below. “You know he saves lives. You know he frees people. You know he changes whole wide worlds, Kiorkicek. And he can’t do that from here.”

Korkie breathed deep, and exhaled. Needles scattered. The curving back of a tiny strill appeared in the dirt beneath his finger, gaining a wide jaw and a long tail as Qui-Gon watched, and Korkie thought about things.

“Are you sure he misses me?” he asked, at last.

“I am certain,” Qui-Gon said.

“How do you know?”

He looked at Qui-Gon then with such belief, such faith, and all at once, the Jedi saw another little boy who’d looked at him much the same for years, who also hid in brambles when upset, who also longed for the reassurance of desire, and he knew that this time, he would not hold back.

“I know,” he said, his voice solemn, and his gaze steady, “Because when your father is here, and I am there, I miss him just as much.”

[omgrachwrites]

Tell a Tale of You and Me - Chapter Twenty Three

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Summary: You knew that making a bet with Sirius Black was like making a deal with the devil but you just couldn’t help yourself. You had never been a heavenly woman.

Warnings: fluff, angst, major character death

Words: 2380

A/N: Here we are, the last chapter! I would just like to thank everyone who has supported me on this whirlwind of a journey, I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have! There will be a sequel probs in a months time about Y/N and Sirius’ daughter which will be another reader insert so I might have to give her a name otherwise there will be loads of Y/N’s running all over the place! Hope you guys enjoy and please let me know if you would like to be tagged in the sequel! I love you all! xxx

Chapter Twenty Three

Sirius sighed out in immense relief as the powerful jet of scalding hot water soothed his aching muscles, he hissed through gritted teeth as the water pounded against his bruised skin. He was exhausted, his eyes ached and they were bloodshot but try as he might, sleep wasn’t coming easily. Sirius had arrived home at about 5am after being on duty all night for The Order of the Phoenix. The Order was a secret society that had been formed by Dumbledore to fight off Voldemort and some people – including Y/N – had given up their usual job to work for The Order.

Sirius had slept for about two hours, drifting in and out of fitful dreams – sleep was much harder to come by these days with everything going on in the world – and he had awoken around 7:30am when Y/N got up with their daughter. He had contented resting his eyes for a few hours but he hadn’t slept. He sighed as he reluctantly shut off the water and got out, wrapping himself in a fluffy towel before he got dressed and padded down the stairs.

He grinned as he admired the Halloween decorations that Y/N had put up to bring some season’s cheer into the house. Halloween had always been Sirius’ favourite time of year but he felt like something big was going to happen this year, he just couldn’t place his finger on it. Y/N smiled up at him as he joined her in the living room – their daughter was happily playing and babbling by herself in the middle of the floor.

Y/N snuggled contently into his chest as he wrapped an arm around her and he kissed the top of her head, “you look exhausted baby. Was it a hard night?” she asked, pulling back to look at him, worry etched into her features.

Sirius smiled as he pressed his lips against her forehead, “nah, it was all fine, just some superficial things. What’s on the agenda for today then?”

“Well, my mum and dad are coming over tonight but until then, nothing,” she laughed, “I mean what can we do when it’s hardly safe to leave our house?” Sirius nodded in reply, his teeth biting into his bottom lip as his mind wandered, “what? What’s the matter?” Y/N asked.

Sirius sighed as he rubbed his hand against his jaw, his eyebrows knitting together, “I don’t know why, maybe it’s because we haven’t heard from Peter in a while and I’m worried about him. But, I’ve got the feeling that something bad is going to happen. I can’t really explain it, it’s just a feeling. When your parents get here I’m going to check on James and Lily.”

Y/N didn’t look at him like he was crazy, instead it looked like she understood and she nodded distractedly as she gazed out of the window, “I know,” she whispered, “I know because I have the same feeling, I’ll go with you.”

Sirius appreciated the offer but he couldn’t worry about Y/N too, he could very well be walking to his death, “no sweetheart, thank you but I can’t worry about you too,” he sighed as he cupped her jaw.

Y/N frowned, a look of hurt flickering across her face that made Sirius’ heart constrict but she nodded all the same, knowing it was useless to argue, “okay but you have to be careful.”

That evening, Sirius kissed his daughter goodbye and Y/N’s fingers clutched at his leather jacket as she kissed him passionately, “come back to me Sirius, promise me. I love you.”

Sirius smiled, hoping it would disguise the fear that he felt, “I will, I promise. I love you too Y/N,” with one last lingering kiss and longing look he took off into the night clenching the wand in his pocket.

As soon as he rounded the corner time seemed to stand still as he heard an awful anguished cry, like some sort of wounded animal and he knew that he was too late, as Sirius approached he saw that it was Hagrid. Hagrid was sobbing with a tiny bundle in his arms. Sirius looked behind Hagrid and saw with sorrow that the Potter’s cottage had been destroyed. So many happy memories and promises of the future were gone, lost forever.

“James and Lily are dead, ‘e killed ‘em,” Hagrid sniffled, looking at Sirius with watery black eyes, “’e couldn’t kill Harry, ‘e couldn’t.”

At Hagrid’s words, Sirius’ knees almost buckled as a terrible sadness washed over him as the breath was stolen from his lungs. His best friends were dead, they couldn’t be, they were only twenty one. He couldn’t imagine why someone would betray him, Peter was the Secret Keeper but it couldn’t be Peter. Peter couldn’t have betrayed them. But, as Sirius looked at the ruined cottage, he knew that Hagrid spoke the truth. Choking on his tears, Sirius held out his arms.

“Give Harry to me Hagrid, I’m his godfather, I can keep him sage,” he looked down at the tiny baby with the split open head and felt an almost overwhelming rush of love for him. He had to protect Harry, with his life if it came to that.

Hagrid however shook his head, “I need to take him to his relatives, Dumbledore’s orders. Harry could still be in danger.”

Panic washed over Sirius, he couldn’t let Dumbledore take him away, “no! He can’t, he,” he trailed off as he choked on a sob. He hated it but he also knew that Dumbledore always got his way, no matter what the cost. But even Sirius had to admit that Harry could still be in danger for Death Eater’s so he couldn’t stay.

“Take my motorbike, it’ll be safer,” Sirius had charmed his motorbike to fly a couple of years back, “can I say goodbye to him?” he sniffled.

Hagrid looked at him warily but he nodded all the same and passed Harry over. Fighting back tears, Sirius looked down at the tiny baby in his arms, the baby who was whimpering and crying, the baby who didn’t know that his parents were dead. He sniffed as he bent down to kiss the top of Harry’s head, whispering into his jet black hair.

“You’re going to be okay Harry, I promise you, and you’re going to grow up to be an amazing wizard. You’re the boy who lived, I love you Harry,” with a heavy heart Sirius passed his godson back to Hagrid, “goodbye Hagrid,” Sirius nodded numbly at him before striding away, anger mixed in with sadness. He was going to find whoever had betrayed them and he was going to make them pay. He was going to kill them.

It was down a dark and crooked alleyway that Sirius cornered a rat – literally – it was the last person that he had expected, someone that he had once called a friend. The coward turned and looked at him with watery beady eyes and he was wheezing heavily, almost like he was in pain. Sirius had never felt so much fury and pain all at once. How could Peter do this? How could Peter be the one who had betrayed them?

Then Sirius saw it, Peter pointed at him with shaking hands and Sirius saw that there was a bloody stump where his first finger had been.

“Lily and James, Sirius! How could you? They were our friends! How could you?” Peter screamed, his face was stark white and he was shaking violently.

Sirius knew what Peter was doing and he held onto his wand that was in his pocket; Peter was trying to get people’s attention. Peter was going to pin this on Sirius, “you can’t blame this on me Peter because this was all you! Tell me why! Tell me why you killed them; your betrayal was their death sentence!” Sirius’ voice was drowned out by the noise of Peter’s screams and shouts. He was going to wake the whole street.

Suddenly, there was a flash so bright and a bang do loud that Sirius had to lose his eyes, when he opened them, Peter was gone and there was a rat scampering down the grid, “no!” Sirius screamed, the only thing that Peter had left behind was his finger. The coward might have faked his own death but Sirius would find him. No matter what corner of the earth that the piece of filth ran to, Sirius would find him.

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

You anxiously bounced your leg as you chewed your nails, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, out of the corner of your eye you saw your parents looking worriedly at each other before back at you. They were worried about you and unfortunately, you knew the feeling, you knew the feeling all too well. Sirius had been gone for about 15 minutes, he only went to check on Lily and James, they only lived down the road, he shouldn’t have taken so long. What if something awful had happened to them? Ever since you had woken up this morning, you couldn’t help feeling that something awful was going to happen.

Five more minutes passed and you decided that you couldn’t take it anymore so you jumped up, startling your parents, “he’s been gone for too long, I need to go to him.”

Your mum let out a little whimper as she cupped your cheeks, she looked scared half to death, “you can’t Y/N, because it’s too dangerous. Sirius wouldn’t want you to put yourself in danger.”

“I know, but I have to go to him. I have to see if he’s okay, I love him mum.”

Your mum sighed as she hugged you tight, stroking through your hair, “you’ve always been so brave Y/N,” she bit her lip, “go but be careful. Please be careful, I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”

You nodded with a tight smile as worry curdled in your stomach before you ran out of the door into the swirling snow. The wind howled as you walked down James and Lily’s street, it was deathly quiet and your blood ran cold with dread. You hardly noticed the ruined little cottage; instead, your attention was focused on Sirius getting roughly shoved away by three men. Tears sprang to your eyes as you realised that they were Ministry Officials.

“Sirius!” you screamed as you ran towards him, trying not to slip in the snow, the Ministry Officials looked startled as one of them put out an arm to stop you, “let me see him! Where are you taking him?” you sobbed but you knew.

“Y/N!” Sirius looked over his shoulder as he was getting shoved along the road, the tear tracks and despair was visible on his face and it broke your heart, “James and Lily are dead! I didn’t do it; I had nothing to do with it! You have to believe me, Y/N please believe me! No matter what you hear! Harry is safe.”

James and Lily were dead, how could they be dead? It couldn’t be true but you noticed the ruined cottage and Sirius looked so heartbroken that you had to believe it, you believed they were dead. You sniffled as tears ran down your cheeks; you thought that you were all going to be together forever.

“I believe you,” you sobbed, the expression on Sirius’ face made you believe him.

“I love you, always will,” he gave you a tight smile but before you could reply he was gone, the Ministry Officials had apparated with him.

You sobbed as you sank to the ground, your knees getting damp with the snow, your heart too much, you could hardly stand it. You just wanted the pain to go away, “I love you too,” you whimpered, “Sirius!” you shouted, “Sirius,” you cried but you knew that it was no use, he was gone, he had disappeared into the swirling snow.

By the next day, the news was out; Sirius had been sent to Azkaban, convicted of betraying the Potters and for killing Peter, along with numerous other Muggles. The newspaper painted him to be a monster but you knew that it wasn’t true, it couldn’t be true. Sirius would never do anything to hurt James and Lily, or Peter, they were his best friends. There must be some sort of misunderstanding; you believed that he was innocent.

Your parents were amazing, for the first couple of months they had moved themselves into your cottage so they could help out with you and your daughter. They too believed that Sirius was innocent; they saw the expression on your face that night, the night that James and Lily had died. As your daughter grew up, you told your daughter tales of her father, you wouldn’t let her believe that he was guilty of murder. You were going to let her know that he was a hero.

Eleven Years Later

You sighed as the tawny owl flew right in through your kitchen window, dropping the letter on the kitchen counter before flying out of the open window into the warm air. Sniffing, you picked up the letter; this letter just like numerous others had been sent back from Azkaban. Anxiously, you twisted your engagement ring on your finger; you just wanted to let Sirius know that he was going to be okay.

After eleven years it still hurt so much, it hurt that you didn’t have the chance to marry before James and Lily died and it hurt that he couldn’t watch his daughter grow up. All the things he should have been a part of, all those things he had missed.

You heard a squeal coming from upstairs and seconds later you heard the pitter patter of feet on carpet before your daughter ran into the kitchen, waving a letter around, “I got it mum! I got my Hogwarts letter!”

Blinking the tears out of your eyes, you pasted a smile onto your face and you turned around to look at your grinning daughter. She looked so happy, you were glad for this one little bit of good news.

You stroked your fingers through her soft hair, “you’re going to be amazing baby! Your dad would be so proud of you.”

-Fin-

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@approved-by-dentists @thefuturelawyer @a-miserable-hufflepunk @firelordmillie @seriouslysiriuss @sleep-i-ness @play-morezeppelin @pregnant-piggy @sleepingalaska @smiithys @blisfvll @rexorangecouny @findzelda @wangmangagavroche @the-moon-and-the-book​ @hxrgreeves @ghostofstudentspast @they-write-once-in-a-blue-moon @my-unique-mind @im-an-angel-of-the-lord-you-ass @acciovisio @kashishwrites @fific7 @blackbirddaredevil23 @siriusblackspam @mads-bri @lilulo-12fanfiction @mrspadfoot4​ @tinymalscoffee​ @ur-riddikulus​ @obsssedwithjustaboutanything​ @ourloveisforthelovely​

[besanii]

shattered mirrors 54

Wangxian ; 1586 words

   “You know, I didn’t think banquets in Gusu could get this lively,” Wei Wuxian comments, pouring himself another cup of wine. “All the ones I’ve attended before have been quite…well, quiet.”

He throws back the contents up his newly-refilled cup in one swallow and sighs gustily. The Gusu Lan Imperial Court may be stuffier than Yunmeng, but they sure knew how to make wine—Emperor’s Smile may be the finest he’s ever tasted, and he’s always tried to make a study of wine tasting on top of his other cultural pursuits. If Jiang Cheng were here, he’d scoff at this claim and insist that Yunmeng’s lotus wine is better, but Wei Wuxian knows there is nothing quite like the soft sweetness of Emperor’s Smile.

Beside him, Nie Huaisang nods in agreement as he sets his own cup on the table.

“It’s only ever like this when they’re entertaining important guests from other states,” he says sagely. “You know…diplomats, royalty—important people.”

Wei Wuxian bristles.

“Aren’t I considered a foreign diplomat?” he asks, affronted. “I don’t recall there being a banquet like this for me!”

“You, Wei-xiong?” Nie Huaisang laughs. “You’re more like a foreign student than a diplomat. You don’t attend court, or participate in state affairs, or have any influence over the politics between Yunmeng and Gusu. Of course they wouldn’t look twice at you!”

“I take offence to that statement, Nie-xiong,” Wei Wuxian says with mock anger and a waggling finger. “I have a lot of sway in Yunmeng!”

He punctuates this with a jovial laugh and washes it down with another cup of wine. His eyes stray towards the head table at the highest level of the dais that sits conspicuously empty, the unoccupied throne more of a figurehead than anything else now, with the Emperor in seclusion due to poor health. One level below, Lan Wangji sits at a table of his own, with his uncle beside him and his brother and sister-in-law across the aisle. He does not touch the wine, and barely spares a second glance at the revelry below, until a young woman dressed in pale yellow robes and bearing a vermilion mark between her brows approaches his table.

“Who’s that?” Wei Wuxian whispers to Nie Huaisang, immediately wary.

“Jin-wang’s eldest daughter,” Nie Huaisang whisper back, holding his fan up to obscure his mouth. “Jin Yantong.”

It takes him a moment to place the name. His eyes widen.

“Isn’t she the one who he sent as a marriage candidate for Taizi-dianxia a couple of years ago?” His brow furrows in confusion. “What’s she doing back here?”

Nie Huaisang taps his fan against his lips thoughtfully.

“Well, since she didn’t become Taizi-fei, I guess she’s here to try for the next best thing,” he says. The look he sends Wei Wuxian out of the corner of his eye is weighted with meaning. “Or, at least, her father is.”

“Can you even do that?” he asks with a shaky laugh, hiding his discomfort behind his wine cup. “Put forward the same candidate for two princes?”

“There’s no law that expressly forbids it,” Nie Huaisang replies, shrugging. “Though I suppose the bigger issue is whether the young maiden in question would willingly submit herself to the potential for ridicule.”

Wei Wuxian hums, although he’s not sure if it’s out of sympathy or something else. He would not put it past Jin Guangshan to put forth his daughter as a candidate repeatedly until she is finally selected as consort; even if Jin Yantong does not succeed, Jin Guangshan has children to spare—he could very well keep putting forth all of his eligible children until one of them helps him get a foothold in Gusu. Three years ago, Lan Xichen had selected Nie Qiongyue as his primary consort and refused to take a concubine; now that Lan Wangji is of marriageable age, Jin Guangshan undoubtedly has him in mind for his daughter.

His stomach clenches as he watches Lan Wangji rise to greet her with a polite bow; she returns the greeting with a dip of the knee, bowing her head gracefully, her hands clasped by her hip. She offers him a sweet smile as she rises, her mouth forming words Wei Wuxian cannot make out from the angle at which he’s observing them. What he does see, however, is the slight softening of Lan Wangji’s mouth as he listens to her, and the softness in his eyes as he responds.

He slams the cup down on the table with more force than necessary, startling Nie Huaisang. Across the hall, Lan Wangji is also watching him with concern, although he makes no move to leave his seat.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, averting his eyes.

Jin Yantong is truly a beautiful young woman, he thinks. Intelligent, accomplished, well-connected. And capable of bearing sons. He coughs as the wine slides down the wrong way, tears springing to his eyes; a few of the surrounding courtiers glance his way with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity, but he is too preoccupied getting his breathing under control to pay them any mind.

Where had that thought come from?

He clears his throat a few more times and pounds on his chest with a fist in an attempt to alleviate the burning pain.

“Wei Ying.”

A hand under his elbow brings him out of his thoughts and he looks up to find Lan Wangji kneeling by his side, looking concerned.

“L-Lan Z—” he clears his throat again, embarrassed. “Er-dianxia.”

The corner of Lan Wangji’s eye twitches at the title, but he does not mention it. Instead, he moves his hand from beneath Wei Wuxian’s elbow to his shoulder, his other hand taking a cup from the tray being offered by an attendant, pressing it into Wei Wuxian’s hands.

“Drink,” he tells him. “Slowly.”

Wei Wuxian looks down at the tea, tendrils of steam curling up from its hot surface, his face flushed. All around them, people are starting to notice—Nie Huaisang has returned to his seat, his eyes lowered respectfully, only chancing the occasional glance in their direction—even the occupants of the dais are watching them, although their faces betray no outward emotion. He sees Jin Yantong across the hall where Lan Wangji had left her, watching them both with an inscrutable expression in her dark eyes, and a stiff set to her pretty lips.

Lan Wangji’s attention is fixed on him.

Wei Wuxian’s heart does a strange little flip.

“Thank you, Er-dianxia, for your concern,” he says with an embarrassed laugh. “I must have had too much to drink. I apologise for causing trouble.”

He goes to set the cup down onto the table, but his wrist is caught in a tight grip as Lan Wangji presses it towards him more insistently.

“Wei Ying,” he says again. “Drink.”

He can really find a reason to refuse, so he obediently raises the cup to his lips and takes a sip. The spiciness of the tea takes him by surprise—how had Lan Wangji known to prepare sobering tea?—he takes another, longer sip, savouring the pleasantly sweet aftertaste. The grip around his wrist loosens and falls away once Lan Wangji is satisfied he is following instructions; when the cup is finally empty, he takes it from him and hands it back to the attendant without a word.

Wei Wuxian sits up, his head already feeling clearer as the tea takes effect, and offers Lan Wangji a sheepish smile.

“Thank you, Er-dianxia,” he says again. “I apologise for causing trouble. I will excuse myself to clear my head.”

Lan Wangji rises to his feet—both Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang immediately follow suit as per protocol—and shakes out his sleeves.

“Wei-gongzi should not feel the need to apologise,” he says, letting his voice carry around the hall and to the ears of their spectators. “No harm was done. If you wish for fresh air, allow me to accompany you outside.”

He raises his arm in a sweeping gesture towards the doorway with an expectant look in his direction. Wei Wuxian hesitates, painfully aware of everyone’s eyes on them, before he sinks into a bow with his hands clasped before him.

“Please do not let me take you away from the festivities, Er-dianxia,” he says, with all the formality of a courtier to his prince. “I am already much recovered and will be fine on my own. There is no need to worry Er-dianxia.”

Lan Wangji opens his mouth as if to protest, but a soft cough interrupts him before he can speak. Nie Huaisang catches his eye and tilts his head pointedly towards the dais, where Lan Qiren looks on disapprovingly.

Lan Wangji sighs heavily through his nose.

“Very well,” he says, sounding none too pleased to be saying so. “Take care, Wei-gongzi.”

Wei Wuxian bows again at the dismissal and hurries from the hall without a backward glance. Once he is far enough from the entrance and certain he is not being followed, he allows his shoulders to slump. His heart is racing, the heat still high on his cheeks despite the sobering tea—and the expression on Lan Wangji’s face looking down at Jin Yantong is still vivid in his mind, causing his stomach to twist uncomfortably.

He looks down at his wrist, where Lan Wangji had held him.

Oh, he thinks faintly. I see.

  --

Notes:

Taizi-fei (太子妃) - Consort to the Crown Prince

Jin Guangshan is king/lord/wang (王) of the state of Lanling Jin, and Jin Yantong (金燕彤) is his eldest daughter by a concubine. And yes, Jin Zixuan does exist.

Set early on in the Wei Ying arc, just after LWJ’s birthday ficlet (#33).

--

Master Post and ko-fi link on my sidebar!

[whyiask]

when you finally let go (and you slay that solo) CH. 1

Note: just to clarify, they're all like, 8th grade-high school aged. like, 14-17 or so(except Phil). OKAY SORRY FOR NOT POSTING ON ANY OF MY OTHER WORKS but I've been in a bit of a writing slump, and this AU forcibly pulled me out of it, so here you are. Ao3 Link Masterpost

Philza Minecraft considered himself to be a pretty chill guy, all things considered. Managing a dance studio shouldn’t be such a hard job, but Phil was pretty sure no other studio could even compare to the chaos that the students of Dance Revolution got up to. He was numb to most of their bullshit by now.

So when Wilbur came up to his office after practice one day and knocked on his window with a scheming grin, Phil sighed and waved him in, already expecting the worst.

“Philza,” Wilbur proclaimed, stupidly dramatic. Phil waited a second, but Wilbur didn’t make any move to continue, staying draped across the door frame. He held a large, completely full binder. Phil eyed it warily.

“Yes, mate?”

Wilbur clearly took this as his cue to stride into the room, using his wrist to flick the wheeled chair that sat, unassuming, in front of him. It spun around and he plopped into it gracefully, letting it spin back to the front before stopping himself with the desk. Phil had to begrudgingly admit it looked cool.

“What, you been practicing that chair thing?” he asked, knowing full well that Wilbur had definitely practiced his dramatic entrance.

Wilbur met his eyes, knowing the same thing. “No,” he said.

Phil wheezed out a laugh.

Wilbur scowled good-naturedly, before pulling a miniature gong out of his pocket and hitting it with an equally sized-down mallet. It made a small bong and Phil looked at him, confusion alight in his eyes.

“Wh-”

“Phil, I need to ask you something. A favor, if you will.”

Immediately Phil’s guard shot up. “Whatever it is, the answer is probably no.”

“I would like to start a country. A brand new nation. A place where we can be free and independent from the stifling rules that are holding us back from out potential. We can be free, Phil,” Wilbur looked directly into Phil’s eyes, determined and completely serious.

“What are you literally on right now?” Phil questioned, mildly concerned and altogether flabbergasted.

“We can be free,” he repeated.

Fundy had been walking past the open door, when he stopped and looked in, rolling his eyes fondly.

“Is he talking to you about wanting a student-run competition team finally? He’s been ranting about wanting it for ages now.”

Wilbur scowled again, dropping his dramatics and flipping Fundy off. Fundy cackled, before continuing down the hallway.

“He stole my fucking thunder,” Wilbur muttered angrily, most likely already forming some sort of revenge plan that involved mass amounts of property damage. Phil tried hard not to crack up in order to preserve Wilbur’s delicate feelings.

Phil considered what Fundy had said. “So what would this team involve?”

Wilbur perked up and flashed a grin Phil’s way, before picking up his 4-inch binder and pushing it across the desk for Phil to read.

Phil stared down with incredulous eyes. “Is this all-”

Wilbur nodded sagely. “All of it. Meeting plans and dates, organization information, how it would run, the logistics, accountability system, emergency procedures, funds, leadership, everything. My L’manburg is ready to be born, just as soon as you sign the form at the very bottom of the binder. I’ve got it all handled.”

“Mate…”

Phil opened the binder cautiously, seeing a table of contents. He flipped through a few sections, skimming over the words. Everything was incredibly organized and clear.

He closed the binder and met Wilbur’s expectant gaze.

“Well?” he prompted. “What do you think?”

“How much time have you spent on this?” Phil asked, equal parts terrified and in awe.

Wilbur dismissed the question with a haughty wave of his hand. I’ve had the idea for about a month now. I started typing it all out last week.”

“Last week ?”

“Yep,” he said, popping the P.

Phil stared hard at him. “Okay, I’ll sign it," he said, already filling with regrets. But even if he had said no, he was certain Wilbur would've found some other way to start it. He was stubborn like that.

Wilbur’s face lit up like a beacon.

“As long as you promise it won’t cause another arson incident or wild animal in our hallways. Or get the studio any type of lawsuit."

Wilbur gave a mock salute. "Don't worry, it shouldn't cause too much chaos. I'll try to tone it down a bit, just for your peace of mind."

The smirk on Wilbur's face said otherwise.

Phil sighed heavily, gazing at the binder in resignation. There was no way it was going to go smoothly. Might as well sit back and enjoy the show. Wilbur would undoubtedly put on a good one.

---

---

---

Tommy had been in the private practice room for a little over an hour when Wilbur came by. He was running through the group jazz routine, as he had missed a practice due to his altercation with Dream and the discs. His precious music discs. He glanced fondly towards his backpack where they were safely tucked away. He refused to let them out of his sight anymore.

Turning back to the work at hand, he rewound a little bit and started the music. Focusing intently, he ran through the first half smoothly, only stopping when he fell out of his triple pirouette.

Without the music to accompany him, he did the last eight count again, almost completing his turn but wobbling sideways. He scowled, getting in position to try again, when a clap startled him out of his practice.

Wilbur Soot was leaning against the doorframe. Wilbur freaking Soot. Not to be a fanboy, but Wilbur was probably one of the best dancers in the whole of Dance Revolution and Tommy was silently panicking.

"What do you want, bitch?" Tommy called over to him. Wilbur smiled, tucking his hands in his pockets and walking over to meet Tommy in the center of the room, a unidentifiable gleam in his eyes.

"Try relaxing your shoulders a bit. They're a bit tense and probably throwing off your balance. Also be sure to tuck your foot in all the way, you want your knee straight forward and right now it's slightly at an angle."

Tommy immediately went to apply the corrections. He was being assisted by Wilbur Soot, who was he to deny the man?

Tommy didn't quite land the turn correctly, but Wilbur smiled at him all the same.

"That was much better," he praised. Tommy beamed.

"That's very impressive, good job. You're like, nine or something, right? It's very good technique and form for someone of your age."

Tommy blinked once. Twice.

"You bastard , I'm way older than that, so incredibly old, older than you, probably," he fumed.

Wilbur laughed, patting his hair. Tommy smacked his hand away.

"Suddenly all respect I had for you is gone," he announced.

"It was only a matter of time, child," Wilbur said through his grin.

Tommy faltered for a second. "Now that's rather depressing, innit?"

"You'll do perfectly," Wilbur said.

"What?"

"I heard the stories about you, of course, who hasn't? And you have real potential."

Tommy swallowed down an insult. Of course people were still talking about the Disc War. It came as no surprise. Everyone in the whole studio was chaotic and slightly insane, but the Disc War really had been something else.

"Tommyinnit, I want you to be my right hand man."

"....what?"

Tommy stared at Wilbur, hard. Wilbur stared back, a fondness alight in his eyes.

"I want you to be my right hand man, Tommy, because I know that together, we can lead our nation into victory."

"Fuck yeah," Tommy cheered, having absolutely no idea what he had agreed to.

"That's the spirit!" Wilbur shouted, matching Tommy's volume.

"Now, Tommy-"

Fundy stopped in the open doorway. "Wilbur, you dickhead. You're disrupting the class next door with how loud you're being. Also, hi Tommy."

Tommy waved. He had met the ginger a few times before but they weren't extremely close.

Horror filled Fundy's eyes. "Wait- what-" he asked, looking slightly constipated, "are you doing to Tommy, Wil?"

"Leave us be, my son, no one wants you here. Tommyinnit and I have important business to discuss." Wilbur sniffed in fake disdain.

'My son' ? Tommy mouthed.

Fundy grimaced. "Don't ask," he muttered back.

Fundy's eyes flicked between Wilbur and Tommy, before realization dawned in his eyes. "Oh god, you're inviting him to L'manburg, aren't you."

"L'manburg?" Tommy asked. He quickly did a mental run through to see if he remembered the name from anything, but drew a blank.

"It's our nation, Tommy," Wilbur said, at the same time Fundy replied with,

"It's a student-led dance group that Wilbur finally got permission for."

"Goddamnit, Fundy. Disowned."

Wilbur made to walk out of the room, before turning back and whipping out a pamphlet from his pocket. He handed it to Tommy with a serious nod and a salute, before whisking away, flicking Fundy in the back of the head as he passed.

"You should probably get back to class, big man," Tommy suggested.

Fundy stopped scowling at where Wilbur had disappeared to and gave Tommy an awkward pair of finger guns.

"You're right, see you later, Tommy! Have a good practice."

Tommy waved as the older student left the room, wondering what in the name of Church Prime he had gotten himself into.

---

---

---

“-don’t know, he just came up to me and was like ‘oh Tommy you are the biggest man alive and you’re so cool that I want you on my new dance team,’ and I just don’t know what to do!”

Tommy ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room. Tubbo stared at him in confusion.

“Isn’t that..a little dramatic?” He asked, perplexed and choosing to ignore the fact that that was definitely not what Wilbur had said.

Tommy spluttered. “Dramatic? What do you mean ? Wilbur Fucking Soot literally asked me to dance in his special group.”

Tubbo shrugged, turning back to his sketchpad and picking up a new pencil. “Tommy,” he said, letting his amusement color his tone, “It’s just Wilbur. It’s not that big of a deal.”

He could practically hear the scowl in Tommy’s voice. “That’s just because you know Wilbur Soot.”

And it was true. Tubbo had to join a duo with Wilbur last year when his original partner had fallen down with the flu the week before performance. It had been the most stressful week of his life, understandably, as he had to learn and perfect the full routine before the competition day. Wilbur was a good partner, thankfully, and had helped him a lot. Afterwards, Wilbur had made an effort to talk to him more and really thank him for filling in, and they had become semi-friends.

Tubbo snorted. “Once you get talking with him, you’re realize he’s just a huge nerd.”

Tommy continued to stress for a few more minutes while Tubbo hummed to himself, quietly coloring. Until Tommy let out a gleeful gasp and Tubbo looked up in anticipation.

“You could come with me!”

Tubbo squinted at him. “What?”

“Come to L’manburg with me.”

Tubbo looked at his best friend incredulously, raised his eyebrows and went back to his sketchbook.

“Isn’t it a private invite though?”

Tommy waved off his concerns with a dismissive hand. “Not important. Besides, I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

Tubbo genuinely considered it for a moment. He could always leave if Wilbur wanted him to, and it would be nice to see his older friends again. He hadn’t had much chance to hang out with them in a while, and at the very least, he could be their music guy.

Yeah, he thought to himself. Nothing could go wrong with this.

“You know what, Tommy? Maybe I will come. Maybe I will.”

---

---

---

Dream was fuming. Through all of his usual strength to calm himself down, something about the entire situation grated on his nerves like nothing else before. Maybe it was the fact that Tommy was a literal child. Maybe it was the fact that the said child had publicly humiliated him. There’s something scalding about losing, something hot like acid under your skin.

Dream was no stranger to losing. He had been in competitive dance for years, he had his fair share of losses. But he had been humiliated and he and his friends had sworn revenge, half-jokingly, half-seriously. Although none of them had been serious about committing actual crimes, they had all mutually sworn to get back at Dance Revolution for making the SMP Studios look bad.

And then their revenge plan had failed.

Maybe that was it then, not the fact that he lost to Tommy, but more the fact that they had been bested twice. Dream didn’t like to lose.

With no place to properly vent his frustrations with the child, he turned and punched Sapnap in the arm.

“Ow, dude, what the hell?” Sapnap sent Dream a betrayed look, rubbing at his arm. The overdramatic bitch.

“Dream, are you still mad about the whole Tommy incident?” George asked, light teasing in his voice.

He considered lying, but remembered that George had an uncanny ability to see straight through his bullshit.

“Why do you always have to be right?” Dream complained. “It’s like you can read minds or something.”

“Literally!” Sapnap nodded vigorously. “How do you do it?”

“It’s because I’m colorblind,” George said simply.

There was a full moment of silence before Dream let out a wheeze at an unholy pitch.

The conversation moved on, it always did. It wasn’t too long before they were back where they started.

“We’ll get our revenge eventually, yeah?” George nudged Dream’s shoulder comfortingly.

“We will!” Sapnap cheered, like the maniac he is. “Do you think he has any pets? We could kidnap them or something.”

Dream gazed long and hard at Sapnap until he cut off his rambling. He knew George was doing the same thing.

“What?” He asked, crossing his arms defensively.

“Sapnap, you have issues, clearly,” George said.

As their mindless bickering started up again, Dream found his mind wandering. They would clap back at Dance Revolution, they would . They had to. Dream wasn’t sure if his pride could take it if they failed again. Either way, this was war . It was time to fight.

[nelllraiser]

no good deed | luce & nell

LOCATION: nell’s greenhouse. PARTIES: @divineluce​ and @nelllraiser​ SUMMARY: luce asks for nell’s herb supplies to help with her phoenix cleansing. absolutely NO emotional talk or introspection follows. CONTENT: discussion of the lydia plot without specifics, very brief and vague sibling death allusion.

Luce washed her hands in the sink, wincing as the hot water and soap stung the healing wounds. She glanced at herself in the mirror-- she looked like she’d been through hell. Deep purple bruises had blossomed across her skin, but most were covered by winding bandages she’d wrapped over the jagged cuts that ran along the back of her legs. Her back was a mess and it made sleeping a nightmare, but she couldn’t do much about it. A crooked butterfly bandage kept the cut over her eyebrow shut, and the wound was purple at the edges. She looked like shit and she felt it too. But, she couldn’t stop now.

Leaving the bathroom, Luce returned to her room and sat back down at the books she’d borrowed from Rio. The ash had been collected, a piece of the cursed earth for good measure too. The Bloodroot sat in a vase next to the window, the stems dying the water a light pink. Which left… tears, from a phoenix and cleansing herbs. The tears wouldn’t be too difficult-- Leah had said she’d help her with this, so she’d probably be alright parting with a few tears. The cleansing herbs though. Luce couldn’t pretend to know which ones were best suited to a ritual like this. Plants had never been her thing and she didn’t have the coven’s knowledge at her disposal anymore. But… there was someone else who might know. Taking the book with her, Luce made her way out to the greenhouse. And, as she suspected, Nell was there. 

Knocking lightly on the door, Luce spoke up, “Hey.” 

It was no surprise that Nell was puttering about her greenhouse after everything that had happened over the past week or so. In reality, it wasn’t all that much in comparison to the things she’d weathered before. The mad rush to save someone she loved, the devastating blow of losing that same person merely days later— though it hadn’t been in the way she’d anticipated. Frank hadn’t been the one to fell the curtain between Nell and Bex by stealing her life, it’d been Bex herself that had made the severance. The witch wasn’t trying to throw herself a pity party, it was simply that the only way she could think to keep her storming thoughts at bay was to create something, and to care for the plants she nurtured with a gentle hand. The greenhouse had always been a sanctuary of her’s, a place of peace that was her’s and only her’s where she could be alone with herself. She never needed to find the strength to draw her armor within its walls because she didn’t need it’s defenses between the fragile glass panels lining the perimeter. Here she was free to be happy, or hurt, or whatever else she might be feeling at the moment.

But with the sound of a soft knock that changed, and Nell rolled the softness from her shoulders as she went to the door, setting them into their usual and proud position. “Hey-” she began thoughtlessly when she heard the sound of her sister’s voice. A moment later shock was flitting over her face, brows drawn together with concern as she took in the ugly picture Luce made with her collection of injuries. “Luce- what the fuck. What happened? What the hell is wrong with you? I could have closed whatever cuts you have instead of whatever shoddy job you made of your legs,” she chastised while she took in her sister’s bandages. 

A grimace spread across Luce’s face as Nell stared at her, face shifting to an expression of surprise. Maybe she should have put on a jacket or something. Heatstroke would be preferable to getting a lecture. “Slipped and fell on a hike.” Luce said. It wasn’t entirely untrue. She’d been on a hike and she had fallen. Nell didn’t need to know that Morgan had helped with the fall. That Morgan had shoved her down, that she’d thought the other woman was going to kill her. “Yeah, you know me. I’m shit with first-aid.” She said offhandedly, glancing down at the haphazardly wound bandages. “It’s fine, though, I’ll be fine with some time.” Moments like this reminded her of how lucky she’d been all her life-- their mother had always been an option, even if they didn’t necessarily want her help. Now? Mixed messages aside, Luce was never stepping foot in her parents’ home again, not if she could help it. She didn’t need her mother’s help. She didn’t need her pity either. “I’ve got a question for you,” She held up the leather bound book and flipped it open to the page she’d been staring at. “Do you have any idea about what sort of herbs would be used for this sort of thing?”

Nell fixed Luce with a scrutinizing look, arms crossed over her chest as she decided whether or not she wanted to fight her sister on the lackluster answer she’d given. But for once in her life she decided that she was simply too tired, and Luce could give her the answer in due time. Nevertheless, that wouldn’t stop her from mildly calling the fire witch out. “Right. Slipped and fell.” Another disapproving glance flitted over her face before her chastisement continued. “Yeah, but you live with someone who has an entire greenhouse of healing herbs. I’m literally just upstairs in case you forgot. I could have at least scabbed the shit over and lessened the amount of ‘time’ needed.” The mention of a question and the book being presented was enough to spark Nell’s interest, if only for the sole reason that it could provide a distraction from the pity party she’d been throwing herself, wondering how she’d so spectacularly failed at teaching Bex. She should have known. Just because she wasn’t the girl she’d been a year ago didn’t mean she was suddenly equipped to take in a baby witch with her newfound emotional maturity. For a long moment, Nell scanned over the text, lips pursing further the longer she read. “This is about the phoenix that Adam told me he was helping you with? Loved finding out about that from him and not you, by the way.” 

Luce wearily rubbed the heel of her hand against her eye, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain that shot across her forehead. “It’s a long story.” She said lamely. She knew that answer wouldn’t be enough for her sister, but hopefully it would do for now. Later. She’d tell her the details later. Right now, she needed to focus. She had the flowers, she had the ashes, she had the dirt. She just needed the herbs and then the hard part-- the phoenix. And the fire. She didn’t have any idea how she was going to get that whole situation figured out, but… she had to try something. Hopefully the ritual wouldn’t be too affected by a couple cans of gasoline. “I mean, no time like the present? Care to help a sister out?” Luce joked weakly.

At the mention of Adam and the phoenix, Luce blinked. Ah. Yeah, that made sense. They were dating, Adam was a decent guy. Of course he would have told Nell about the situation they had on their hands. “Sorry. I’ve been caught up in trying to figure out how to fix shit. Spent a lot more time in the scribrary than I wanted to. Rio-- Winston’s ex? He’s lending a hand with it. Hence the book.” She said, holding the book up again.

A long story. Nell was growing increasingly tired of the ‘long stories’ that seemed to make up the majority of her life since she’d returned to White Crest. How many ‘long stories’ could someone fit over the span of a year and a half, anyway? “I’m sure it is,” she mumbled lamely, once again proving herself to be uncharacteristically not nosy for the time being. Luce had meant her words to be joking, but Nell failed to continue in that vein, unable to find the energy needed for sarcasm in the moment. “Of course I’ll help you,” she said a little too seriously, clutching onto one of the only constants in her life now that she’d lost yet another person in the form of Bex. It was beginning to look as if the only people she’d always have in her life and at her side would be her sisters, and that was a gift she couldn't afford not to treasure. Leading Luce towards a nearby chair, she began to gather the healing poultices she’d made, the ones their mother had taught her. “So you need lavender and sage.” It wasn’t a question as she took another look over the book. “That’s easy enough.” Squinting at the last plant, she was already beginning to search her brain for what the words could mean. “And a white flowered herb?” Of course a ritual wouldn’t be complete without a sufficiently vague ingredient.

“You know I could have helped ‘figure out how to fix shit’.” Nell had failed at making sure Bex didn’t feel alone, she wouldn’t do the same for her sister. “You mean the guy you punched, and then refused to apologize to?” Perhaps she was still a little bitter about the argument she and Luce had following the happening. “Yeah, that makes sense that he’d help. He’s a good guy.” 

A wave of guilt washed over Luce at the defeated sound of her sister’s voice. Fuck. “It’s-- just don’t fucking… fly off the handle, alright?” She said before running a sloppily bandaged hand through her hair. She paused, not entirely surprised by how quickly Nell figured out what kind of purifying herbs they’d need. Sage and lavender. She should have known that. But she’d never paid attention to purifying rituals, she’d never really paid attention to the plants they used at the coven meetings. She’d just accepted the bundle of herbs and lit the ends, allowing the smoke to waft through the air and mingle with the combined power of the rest of the coven. How she’d taken it all for granted. “Cool, yeah. You’ve got that growing in here, right?” Luce said as she followed Nell to a chair, looking around at the greenhouse as she walked. She’d done enough lavender tattoos to be able to spot the tall sprigs of purple. But, she refocused on her sister and stared over at Nell. “The white flower-- it’s Bloodroot. It grows at Lyssa’s Peak and I needed the stuff that grew at the top. Lunar cycles, drawing power from the moonlight, you know.” She said. Rip the bandaid. Just tell her sister what happened. No more secrets.

“I went hiking up there to get to it the other day. And I ran into Morgan. She showed me a way up the mountain and we got to talking and I was in a… mood about shit. About… Lydia.” Luce said, wondering if Nell would understand why she was in a mood, if her sister would get just why the killing didn’t sit well with her. “And she kept trying to figure out what it was and I snapped at her. And then she snapped at me. Because she’d cared about Lydia. Even though she was a fucking…” Monster. Murderer. Torturer. “Even though she was what she was. Morgan lost her cool, I lost my footing, I took a tumble down the peak. But, it’s fine. She helped me down the mountain.” She didn’t need to. She could have kicked me off. She could have let the coyote finish me. She could have let me die up there. 

Swallowing, Luce blinked at her sister’s words. Yeah. Nell could have helped her. Bea probably could have helped her too. But, again, she’d felt like she’d needed to do this on her own. And where had that landed her? Right fucking here, with no magic to speak of and just struggling to make things work. “Sorry. Old habits. And I’ve said that before, and I’m sorry. I just-- fucking, it’s hard to remember that I don’t have to do everything alone.”

“Me? Fly off the handle? Where would you get an idea like that?” There was the sarcasm Nell had been missing before, but it was short lived as she unwrapped the bandages from Luce’s legs, her frown renewed while she took in the extent of the scrapes and cuts. “Yeah, of course I’ve got those growing. They’re pretty good staples. So the sage is obviously for cleansing…” That made sense, she supposed. They had to rid the phoenix of whatever it was that had made them this way. “And the lavender...it’s for healing.” Healing couldn't take place without the cleansing. After all, you had to clean the wound before it could properly heal. Otherwise you risked it becoming infected, a festering thing that wouldn’t even get a chance to scar, let alone fade. “Sure- the moon. It makes sense.” The great glowing woman in the sky was like butter to a witch’s bread, always ready and willing to lend her strength to those who sought it. 

But the mention of Lyssa’s Peak had Nell remembering her own time in the shadow of it, watching the yellow-eyed wolf and Layla attempting to murder Adam while she and Ariana did their best to prevent it. “Lydia?” That hadn’t been a name she expected to surface, and Nell hadn’t heard it since the brief conversation of guilt she and Luce had following her death. Besides, what did Morgan have to do with Lydia? The zombie had cared about the woman who kept innocent people in a basement? Nell wasn’t all that sure what to make of that— especially when paired with the recent revelation that Morgan had befriended Miriam as well. “Her losing her cool was related to you losing your footing or not?” There was a vagueness there that Nell wasn’t ready to let go of. Not when it concerned her sister, and her injuries. “You tumbled down the fucking peak,” Nell hissed, knowing that Luce was lucky to escape with her life, let alone her bones intact. 

Nell sighed, knowing it was hypocritical of her to call Luce out for refusing help while she was guilty of the very same. She knew accepting assistance wasn’t so easy as flipping a switch. “I know.” Apparently Nell was in a forgiving mood, too tired to fight in the wake of the heaviness the past few weeks had held. “Why are you helping the phoenix, though?” Nell knew her sister had a decent heart beneath her barb-like exterior, but she’d never much gone out of the way to help an utter stranger. “Obviously I’m glad someone is- I just didn’t expect it.”

Settling into the chair, Luce cast Nell a wan smile as she listened to her sister speak. As she unwound the bandages, Luce could see just how sloppy a job she’d done. Nothing looking infected-- she wasn’t that stupid, she’d done enough tattoo aftercare to know how to wash wounds-- but it didn’t look great either. The roses on her legs were bleeding red angry cuts, the backs of her knuckles were scratched and raw, and she knew her back looked fucked to hell. None of them seemed too serious though, so with enough time, they’d fade away. “Sage for cleansing and lavender for healing.” Luce repeated, wincing as one of the bandages pulled at scabbed skin. “Good to know.”

“Hey. What did I say about handles and flying off them?” Luce reminded her sister. She’d had a brief vision of what would happen if Morgan had let her die up there, if Morgan had shoved her just a bit too hard. And it was that endless cycle of blood and vengeance, one that she didn’t want Nell to continue. It didn’t matter that she was hurt, it really fucking didn’t. “I’m alive, aren’t I? Didn’t even break anything.” She said with another grin, though the motion made the cut over her eye sting.

Why are you helping the phoenix, though? Luce looked down at her hands. The million dollar question. Why. Why was she doing this? Why was she helping them? Because it was the right thing to do? That had never mattered much to her before. “I don’t know. Because I can. Because I should.” But even those weren’t quite right. She’d never been more powerless in her life, she didn’t possess the flames to be able to really help them. She didn’t need to help them, they were nothing to her. “I just… I don’t want more people to burn. You see the news?” She gestured to the night sky through the glass of the greenhouse. “There are fires sprouting all over the forest, burning shit, running animals off their land, threatening people. Adam called me to help him deal with the situation. And I know more about fire than almost anyone in this town.” Except Mom. And Dad. And probably Bea. “And fuck, I have to try and do something.” 

While Nell continued to work with Luce’s legs, she nodded in confirmation as her sister repeated the words. “Cleansing and healing- and lavender’s also about serenity, and the peace that comes about healing.” It was clear enough why these herbs had been chosen for a ritual such as this, used to drive out whatever had brought the phoenix to this point to begin with. Cleansing, healing, peace. It was a cycle she herself hadn’t yet mastered, not even sure whether she’d washed over the wounds of the past years. If Beltane was anything to judge by...Luce had taken better care of her spiritual wounds. But the problem with letting wounds heal was that you didn’t remember them as vividly once they were gone, no longer a thorn in your side as a reminder of how they’d come to be in the first place. Healed wounds could make for complacency, and make one forget to be cautious enough to avoid the same cuts and breaks a second time around. Her cuts made her stronger, more willing and ready to take care of the people she loved. More vigilant. Was it right to give that up?

A healthy eye roll later, and Nell was tugged from the stormy seas of her thoughts, all too ready to deny Luce’s words. “You know better than to think that’s flying off the handle,” she teased back. All three of them had more than healthy tempers, though all in their own ways. Nevertheless that didn’t stop them from burning bright and hot when the time called for it. Morgan losing her own temper was something of a surprise, but Nell knew Morgan would have never willingly hurt one of the Vurals— even in the case of Luce and her tendency to push away the kindest of people. Morgan was family as well, and she wouldn’t steal another sister from the Vurals. 

Lydia, the phoenix, Morgan, and not wanting to burn others paired with the fact that Nell was more than familiar with the expression on Luce’s face had the younger witch’s sneaking suspicion reaching a boiling point. She knew the look- had seen it and felt it enough in her own features to recognize it in a face that was half her own with their family resemblance. She let loose a long sigh, shoulders deflating while she finished working with Luce’s legs. “I’m glad you wanna help. And you’re obviously right about knowing fire. But it...doesn’t fix it. It won’t fix that way you feel inside about things that already happened.” Bringing food and caring for the families whose loved ones she stole with a rampant shark demon hadn’t fixed it. Hadn’t made it any easier. “I want you to help with the phoenix I just...don’t want you to be disappointed. If it doesn’t do what you think it’ll do when it’s all over.”

The peace that comes with healing. As thought such a thing existed. And maybe it did, but it wasn’t something that Luce was familiar with. But, had she ever really healed from the wounds that she’d suffered this last year? She didn’t know. Maybe this was part of the healing process too. The pain and the anguish and the guilt. Everyone thought of grief as just being sad and healing as just recovering from pain. When her grief had never just sadness-- it had been deep-seated rage and helplessness, frustration and guilt. And so was healing. “Sounds like it’s just what this person will need.” She said with a nod. “I don’t know how much I’ll need but I think a lot? The more we have, the more potent?”

Luce arched her good eyebrow at Nell, nonplussed by the eyeroll. “And that’s not what I’m talking about. Seriously, Nell. I’m okay.” She said, reaching out to grasp her sister’s hand, to squeeze it tight. Her hand was still hot against Nell’s skin, still burning with the flames that refused to listen to her call. She was still here. And she didn’t want Nell to go off and do something that might change that. 

Watching as Nell wound clean bandages over the wounds, freshly daubed with healing poultices, Luce reflected on how things had changed. A year ago, this would never have happened. A year ago, she would have licked her wounds back at the safe isolation of her cabin, maybe drowned her feelings away with more whiskey than she ought to have, and have pretended as though she was fine. But, she wasn’t pretending anymore. She was too tired to play those games, to pretend that the world was anything other than it was. But, as Nell’s words continued, Luce’s gaze snapped up, expression shifting. “What do you mean by that?” She asked abruptly. “I know that this doesn’t change anything I’ve done. And I’m not-- What do you think is going to happen? Nell, if this doesn’t work, I’m going to keep trying. I’m not letting this go.” I’m not letting them go.

Nell held Luce’s gaze for a long moment, feeling far too tired to actually address their shared trauma at the moment. They both knew what was on each other’s minds, and that was enough. She was so tired. They’d both been fighting for so long— all Nell had ever truly known how to do was fight. To refuse to give in, refuse to let the day win and simply allow herself a moment’s rest. She didn’t know who or what she would be without that fight, but occasionally she wondered what it was like for those who allowed themselves peace, whether they were truly happy with the battles they’d let lie, or if regrets haunted them as well. Maybe there was no actual winning. You just lived with the path you chose, and that was it. “Yep- sounds like just what the phoenix doctor ordered.” Not that she actually knew all that many details of the phoenix, but all anger stemmed from somewhere, and most often it was a product of hurt. “Sure, the more the merrier. It’s not really like you can over cleanse something when it comes to things like this.” 

The feel of Luce’s hand against her was enough to melt a little more tension from Nell’s shoulders, and the distant memory of crawling into bed with her sisters as children to hoard their shared elemental warmth was brought to mind while she let herself feel the momentary salve of nostalgia. “I know,” she assured softly. “I’m glad you are.” Her overprotectiveness wasn’t subtle, and Luce understood the source of it better than anyone in tandem with Bea.

Nell straightened from her place before Luce, standing as she began to rifle through the greenhouse towards her sage plants. “I just mean...I don’t know if this is what you’re thinking or whatever but- helping people isn’t gonna make the past sit right. Not really. And also...saving someone from something you think you’ve gone through isn’t gonna fix you either.” Hadn’t she just finished learning that with Bex? Or maybe they’d just been too different. Maybe the feeling of loneliness wasn’t as universal as Nell had thought, and she couldn’t fix her own by putting love into another person who was caught in the throes of it. “It’s not that I don’t think it’s gonna work, and I know you’ll keep trying. I just don’t want you to expect something of it that’s not gonna come.” 

Good to know that burning fuck tons of sage and lavender wasn’t going to create some kind of flower monster-- christ, Luce realized how fucking little she actually knew about magic outside of the flames. But, at least she had Nell here to help. Because she did, even if Luce didn’t often think about it that way. Her sisters were here. They were all here and, ever since they’d been excommunicated, they were all each other had to rely on. She had Nell, she had Bea, they were three and… in the past six months, she’d somehow forgotten about that. She’d drifted back to her old ways, of trying to handle things on her own. But she couldn’t now, it was impossible. She needed them, needed people. She couldn’t do this alone.

“Yeah. Same here.” Luce said, giving Nell’s hand another squeeze before slipping away, pulling the sloppy bandages from her hand to treat the wounds on her hands herself. The poultice stung a bit as she spread it over the open cuts. She kept her gaze trained on Nell as her sister moved away from her, aware of the distance that had just grown between them. “I’m not trying to make it sit right with me. And I’m not trying to fix me, either.” She said sharply. “I know that what I did was fucked. And maybe you don’t think it is, but I do and I’m making… some kinda peace with that.” She wound the bandages back around her hand, covering her raw skin once more.

Staring down at her hands, Luce could feel tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the stress, maybe it was just the crushing weight of everything that she’d been going through that had finally pushed her to the breaking point. Luce cleared her throat. “I just want to do something good, Nellie. I want to be someone good again.” She said, though the words came out as broken and hollow as she felt.

“I didn’t say that,” Nell replied instintcively in a defensive tone, even if she thought Lydia was far better off dead from what she’d heard. Even though she’d shared her own surprisingly introspective conversation with the fae, there was no question of whether or not the woman was doing more harm than good in the world. But she knew Luce wasn’t as accustomed to life and death judgements as she was, not when she’d simply been an artist with a grumpy streak. She didn’t want her sister to become wrapped up in such things anyway, not when it most often led to a life of constant stress, or having a target on one’s back. “But if you want peace...then you deserve it,” she finished stubbornly, her tone not quite matching the well meaning nature of the words. 

The hardness in Nell’s voice was washed away instantly as she looked over her shoulder back to her sister, recognizing the picture of a person desperately trying to keep themselves together at the seams. Had Nell been so wrapped up in her own world that she’d completely missed what was going on with Luce? She’d known her sister’s fire wasn’t in the best of straits, and that in itself was a flashing red sign in the direction of emotional turmoil. But she hadn’t thought— hadn’t realized it had gotten to such a point as this. Had Nell been too wrapped up in her own troubles and world to see it? A flash of guilt spread through her chest, and she went back to the other side of the greenhouse, moving to check over the bandages Luce had wrapped around her hands.

I just want to do something good. Nell could understand that— when one got to the place of wondering if they’d gone past the point of no return, and grasped at straws for a win. Nell needed a win, too. The feeling of being unclean after going too far...she’d felt it herself on more than one occasion though it was less centered on the suffering of her victim, and more about the shockwaves her actions had set into motion. Adam with August. Jared with the Ring. Bex with Frank. Dave and the shark demon. She’d made more than enough mistakes to know the feeling of desperately wanting to look for the light in oneself no matter how dim it might be- to know that you weren’t just darkness and sharp blades, as much a monster as the thing you’d killed. “I understand.” If this is what Luce needed to face the days coming, Nell would do anything in her power to make sure her sister got what she needed, that she crossed the finish line with arms raised, and a peaceful expression on her face. “So if that’s what you need...then that’s what you’ll get.”

Luce continued to stare at her hands, remembering the way that the blue flames had spread from them to consume the flesh from Lydia’s body, burning away the sinew and skin until there was nothing left. “Sure you didn’t.” Luce said, tone neutral. “I’ve spent the last six months trying to rationalize shit like… she would have hurt other people if I hadn’t killed her, she would have come back to kill us. But there’s no way of knowing if that’s true because I made a call that took away any chance she had to change her ways. I decided that I knew better. And I’m not… that’s not okay. It’s not fucking okay.” She said.

When Nell took her hands again, Luce let her sister fix the bandages wordlessly. For a year, it had seemed like everything she’d done had fallen into the same cycle of anger and rage and pain-- sometimes on the receiving end of that punishment, other times delivering it to others by her own hands. The anger and rage would burn wild and out of control until everything was dead and charred to dust. And it would lie low for some time, before flaring back to life because someone else was hurt, someone else was hurting her-- and endless fucking cycle. She just wanted to be free of it all. This phoenix situation, it was something... different. It was something that she could do and know, without a trace of doubt, that she had done something good. She just wanted to prove to herself that she was still capable of that. Of being more than just an instrument of death, bringing fire and ruin to the world around her. She just wanted to do one good thing. “Thanks Nell.” Luce said quietly. “Really. Thank you.”  

Nell couldn’t rightly say she agreed with Luce— not when she’d been ready and poised to kill Frank in the middle of the Outskirts. He’d been a threat so she was going to eliminate him. It was as simple as that. Except it hadn’t turned out to be so simple as Bex had begged for his life, and Nell had withdrawn her knife. How many chances did people deserve when it came to changing? She’d given Kyle his chance in that basement with Morgan and Bex, even taken it upon herself to help him succeed. But Kyle wasn’t a woman keeping people in his basement. It was different...wasn’t it? “I didn’t know Lydia well enough to know whether or not she’d change.” That was the gamble you took with people, the not knowing. And there was always the chance they could change back if they decided their new route was too hard. Would Lydia have made a 180 turn back to where she’d started if she’d decided ethical eating wasn’t quite the same? What was the straw that would break the back of Miriam’s new life?

“I don’t know if it was wrong,” Nell finally admitted. “I don’t know if it being wrong would have kept me from doing it, too. Probably not. And I’d probably still do it if no one stopped me or you hadn’t already done it.” She was selfish with her wanting to protect the people she cared about. “But I...don’t think it’s fair to condemn yourself with it. Maybe rationalizing it isn’t the answer, but burning yourself at the stake isn’t either.” Nell swallowed briefly, still not all that accustomed to being so open and honest with her sister. “And...I think you deserve to forgive yourself instead of needing to use a phoenix to prove you’re worthy of it. I think you’re worth it on your own. Just because of who you are. I think you can be good without having something to point at as proof.” 

But it wasn’t about that. Not really. Why did Nell want to summon the murderous selkie to her? For control. To have just one thing she knew she could do right. “But I think I get it. Sometimes you just...need one thing to go right. Just to know that...that you’re not a fuck up who ruins everything they touch.” Nell didn’t have fire like he sister’s, but she’d always been just as destructive. “There’s one thing you can do, and not burn a hole through. So...we’ll make this work.”

“Neither did I. But Morgan seems to think that she could have. And maybe she’s right, maybe she’s not. But we’ll never really know.” Luce said wearily. She’d spent so many nights mulling over that exact question. “I don’t want to make those calls, Nell. I don’t want to hold someone’s life in my hand and decide that I’m worth more than them. Because that’s exactly what happened to us and I’m… I’m fucking tired of it.” This town, this fucking town. She’d grown up here, been a part of this world but only now had she really learned the price that White Crest demanded of the people who lived here. This town was steeped in blood and suffering and senseless death. She didn’t want to contribute to that anymore than she already had.

“Maybe.” Luce shrugged, before regretting the action as a fresh wave of pain ran down the wounds on her back. “I also think you have to say that as my sister.” She said, a ghost of her old sarcastic grin flitting across her face. Luce stood up from the chair, collecting the herbs that Nell had gathered for her. Sage and lavender. Healing and cleansing. And the promise of her sister to help her see this through. Side by side, they’d be able to move forward. Luce didn’t know how Nell was holding up with all the grief and trauma they’d experienced in the last year and she wished that she did. Once this was all over, once the dust settled and she could finally rest… She’d try harder to be there for her sister. For both of them. Maybe Nell said that she didn’t need to prove herself, but Luce couldn’t believe that. If she couldn’t be a good person, at the very least, she could be a good sister. 

Reaching out, Luce took hold of Nell’s hand again, looking at her sister intently. “We’ll make this work.” 

[quazartranslates]

Welcome to the Nightmare Game - CH103

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

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Chapter 103: Slaughter Secret Society (V)

{cw: slight nsfw, sexual harrassment - I’ve marked the start and end of the scene in question with ++ and included a summary at the end if you wish to skip this.}

Help: How do I pretend to be a gay man without moral integrity but keep my moral integrity at a hedonistic party? Urgent, online, etc.

Answer: Hold steady first, then look for straight men to flirt with.

Qi Leren, who had made up his mind, calmly talked and laughed with Mrs. Kathleen. Obviously, when straight women and gay men know each other's orientation well, neither side will be too distracted. Qi Leren felt that this was probably called courtesy-flirting.

Fortunately, the bottom line of Mrs. Kathleen's moral integrity was still there, and the communication between them was limited to courtesy-flirting instead of courtesy-sex. She quickly recommended her male subordinates to Qi Leren, and showed him her "goods" in a row like a salesman.

The utterly hopeless Qi Leren looked at the group of coquettish men despairingly.

He, absolutely, did, not, want, to, go, one, round, with, men!

"Most of my subordinates like women, and these are not exclusive to men. Don't you like them?" Kathleen always paid attention to Red’s face. Although he kept smiling, he was always absent-minded and seemed to be not interested in her subordinates.

Ashley looked at Red nervously. The mask covered half of his face, revealing his deep red lips. He took a sip of wine and pointed towards a pair of men and women in the corner who were exchanging life experiences fiercely. "Is that man your subordinate too?"

Mrs. Kathleen looked intently and smiled softly, "Oh, Sid? He’s the lover of a female subordinate. Apart from his body, there’s really nothing commendable. If you insist on me saying it, his performance in bed is fine. Are you interested?"

Red’s mouth hooked up, and he lifted Mrs. Kathleen's hand and dropped a kiss on it. "Thank you for your recommendation."

With this, he left Mrs. Kathleen and a melancholy Ashley, and walked to the corner with the light gait of a cat.

The whole party scene is full of unpleasant smells, the smell of wine, smoke, and various drugs all mixed together, making people indulge in desire, and the crazy music was earth-shattering. Young men and women dancing on the dance floor got carried away, and the pressure of survival was forgotten. They indulged in passion and unscrupulous actions.

It was sad and pathetic.

Obviously, there was lively music everywhere, and there were people who had fun everywhere, but at this moment standing in the crowd, Qi Leren felt very lonely.

After all, this wasn’t a place where he should stay. He had to find a way to get away without being noticed…

He vowed to force himself to keep his eyes open to the end, mind over matter.

"It's the most pleasing thing in life to light a cigarette afterwards." A mysterious man dressed in a mask sat down beside Sid. Sid, who was entering the sage time*, paused. Instead, his female companion gave a charming smile and moved to kiss the mysterious man in front of her.

*{E/N: “sage time” means being post-orgasm. I’m pretty sure the implication is that Sid and this girl just got off together.}

A slender finger touched her lipstick-covered lips to stop her: "I'm sorry, madam, I'm not interested in women."

The woman rolled her eyes, picked up the clothes that had fallen on the ground and put them on her body, and walked away without looking back.

Sid, who’d been abandoned by his female companion, looked at the mysterious man warily. He’d never seen this man at the party. He remembered that Mrs. Kathleen had told them that a distinguished guest would come to the party this time…

Wait, what did he just say? He wasn’t interested in women? Then the question was coming. He is sitting here to…

Sid's cold sweat immediately flowed down.

{++}

The man in front of him looked at his body with great interest: "Your muscles are very good, and your ass is also quite firm. I once had a lover as strong as you, but unfortunately he’s dead. Seeing you reminds me of him."

Sid, a straight man who was forced to be naked in front of a gay man, felt deep pressure. The man in front of him had long legs, a thin waist, and white skin. At first glance, he was the type that was easy to play. Apart from gender, he was impeccable. He also knew clearly that he couldn’t offend the man in front of him, but… But heaven, have pity on him. He was a straight man!!!

His dull reaction seemed to make the man in front of him only more interested. As light as a cat, he rolled over and sat on him, slowly lighting himself a cigarette. The thick smoke made his slightly upturned lips have a charming allure. "Would you like one?"

"...Okay ...Okay."

The man straddled him, his long fingers stroking his muscles. The cold fingers aroused goose bumps on Sid's skin. He crouched on him like a snake, put a cigarette in his mouth, and then lit him up with the cigarette he was holding.

The faint light burning from the cigarette butt was very ambiguous in this hidden corner. The masked man flicked the cigarette butt and the ashes lightly landed on Sid's collarbone, burning slightly. The man breathed a sigh and blew away the ash that had fallen on his skin.

The smell of the smoke cascaded over his naked skin, even more arousing than the sensation of the cold fingers.

The man laughed in a low voice, and the light brown eyes hidden behind the mask stared at him: "But compared to a cigarette, don't you want to try the one I have lower down?"

Sid’s face suddenly changed. What, this shameless gay guy wanted his chrystanthemum?!

"Hm? What? If your technique is good enough, I don't mind trying again, as long as it can make me feel good..." The man pushed his knee towards the place where he was still weak, and he let out an embarrassing sound, tempted by the proximity.

The pale Sid looked at Mrs. Kathleen for help, but the latter nodded to him, telling him to do it!

As a straight man, he never expected to encounter such a crisis. If he couldn’t get it up… would he be killed? However, the desperate Sid was left unrequited. The mysterious man whispered an address into his ear, then climbed off of him, adjusted his clothes and smiled at him: "I’ll be waiting for you there. Don't make me wait too long."

{++}

With that, he walked lightly through the crowd and returned to Mrs. Kathleen.

"Do you allow take-away?" Red said cheerily, and Mrs. Kathleen clinked her glass.

"Of course, but you don’t need to. There’s a back room here that has everything you want," said Mrs. Kathleen.

"When people ‘communicate’ with each other, it’s also the time when people are least prepared. I prefer to be on my own site," Red said lightly.

Mrs. Kathleen expressed her understanding and politely sent him out of the door: "The selection ceremony is in a week..."

Red took his cloak from the waiter and put it on his body. He took off his mask and said to Mrs. Kathleen, haughtily and reserved, "It's just a ritual without suspense. The winner can only be me."

"I wish you all the best," said Mrs. Kathleen.

"Thank you for your kindness. Oh, have my 'pizza' come to me in half an hour. I have to prepare some 'good things' first. " He smiled and turned away.

As soon as he walked out of the bar, Qi Leren gave a long sigh of relief. Although he stayed in it for only half an hour, it felt like a year. As a great young man in the 21st century, he really hadn't seen this kind of battle before. He’d almost let his expression slip several times. Fortunately, he was covered by the mask and finally didn't show his feelings.

Qi Leren had considered rejecting Mrs Kathleen's "kindness" directly, but doing so would obviously cast a shadow over their cooperative relationship. The best way was to make a proposition first, and then find an excuse to send the person away. Time is short, he had to hurry and meet with the extra sent by the Trials Office who would make a guest appearance, together put on an act with him for "Mr Takeaway", and then drive the man back on the grounds of "I met a hotter one on the road, so you can go back and continue to pick up girls". The perfect plan.

Back near his temporary stronghold, Qi Leren whistled, and then went back to the house to wait for the people in the Trials Office to contact him. Soon he heard a slight footstep on the second floor, and he whistled again to signal that there was no one else in the room.

The footsteps were getting closer and closer, and someone came down the stairs. Qi Leren looked up, and his calm expression instantly solidified on his face.

"Ning... Ning Zhou?" Qi Leren, dressed in strange clothes and heavy make-up and smelling of alcohol and tobacco, immediately jumped up from the sofa, looking both embarrassed and nervous.

Ning Zhou's eyes stayed on him for a few seconds, then he frowned and asked coldly and stiffly: "What is it?"

Qi Leren felt awkward enough to burst into tears. Could he tell Ning Zhou, who was conservative and introverted, that he needed someone to undress and help him now? He had to replace him!

"Who else is nearby besides you?" Qi Leren asked, deathly pale.

"Miao Li."

“……”

Heaven will kill me!

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The author has something to say:

PS: Can you imagine how much the heart collapsed when the author modified this text to unlock it...

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Editor’s Notes: 

Summary of ++: “Red” acts suggestively towards Sid in a way intended to make him uncomfortable. Sid is instructed by Mrs. Kathleen to go along with it. Before anything can happen, Red pulls away and tells him to come to his house later so they can continue.

So, as indicated by BMBL’s end note, this chapter as it’s currently found on JJWXC has been edited from its original version due to being locked for sexual content, ~however~ the version you have just read is the uncensored one! I’ve been using two different mtls (the one I originally read and the one available on mtlnovel) and I was surprised to find that the one on mtlnovel is the uncensored version! Imagine my shock when I went to compare a sentence and suddenly there were butts.

For those curious, there’s actually not a ton different between the two. The censored version has removed Qi Leren commenting on Sid’s butt, several mentions of naked skin, one mention of Qi Leren stradling Sid, the mention of Sid’s “chrysanthemum”, and Qi Leren’s wandering knee. Also, it’s worth mentioning that any time I’ve used the word “sex” here, it was either censored or replaced by some innuendo originally.

Please look forward to the next chapter, it’s a good one ;) ;) ;)

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[second-chance-stray]

RP Log: Dorn and Cravs talk over a campfire.

Cravendy Hound - Weather and the coming of night would interrupt Dornn and Crav’s training session, though by the time they stopped, they had already been beating each other up for several bells. With rain at their backs, they would find shelter underneath a rocky alcove and watch as the sky steadily went from blue to black.

Cravendy Hound had kept an eye out for firewood and, by the time they settled, she had gathered a sizable pile. For now, she simply dumps the wood onto the ground and takes a seat next to it, exhausted.

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn had just about finished the wrapping of his old bandages--his ivory bicep now surrounded with a pristine, new layer of cloth coddling it warmly. Once the lass found her footing back, the male planted himself on his knees, dipping his chin approvingly of her yield. The brittle clink and brutish thud of the wood, as it piled together, prompted him to wind his palm lower, diving it into the confines of his pocket... And withdrawing a moderate pouch from within. Fishing thereonafter inside, he finally plucked out a diminutive, crimson crystal, before chucking it haphazardly into the midst of the wood, and gripping each piece of lumber readily, assembling a proper pyre upon a circle of stones. His runic palm danced alight anew, as he bore it before the hearth--and with the ignition of the runes, so too did the crystal within the wood grow saturated with fiery aether... Until a spark came to life, rupturing from its breast. Clapping his palms together, he drew back, exhaling profoundly. "...Aye, there we are."

Cravendy Hound takes half of her hair in hand and wrings it out like a washcloth. A line of water drips down between her fingers and falls from her wrist. It seemed every outing she went on resulted in her becoming absolutely drenched - perhaps it was Llymlaen? It certainly seemed that the gods had some beef with her. With a sigh of relief, she sidled up to the fire and warmed her palms.

Cravendy Hound: “I’m gonna be feelin’ this for days, ugh...” She gives her arm a painful stretch, sure of the bruises that were hidden underneath her glove. “Guess I should’ve expected as much, given that ye’ve been trainin’ on rocks for who knows ‘ow long.”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn gripped the loose end of his bandage betwixt his fangs, straightening it firmly, as he tied the remnant around his arm until the runic light was snuffed out from beneath. A wholly entertained rumble stirred within his breast, hinting at his approval of her predicament. Shuffling on all the closer, he'd rip the bandage's end off with a jerk of his burly neck, before planting both of his paws atop his thighs, wistfully exhaling. "...Mm, not too long. Should be 'round two moons now, dependin' on what day it be t'day..." Admittedly, the lattermost part infused his voice with a lasting confusion, only to be broken by a raise of his palm behind his head, idly scratching away at his pelt. "...Eh, apologies fer the sudden downpour earlier. Seems I let loose on me control a tad too much, so do try to dry up now, aye?"

Cravendy Hound shifts forward, arms wrapped carefully around her knees. Now that her body had time to relax, it was like all her soreness could now be at the forefront. Cravs lets out a hiss as she moves in just the wrong way for a split second. “Well, when did ye start? And don’t tell me ye’ve been out in the wilds this entire time. Don’t ye come back to town for supplies?”

Cravendy Hound - Dornn’s second claim goes unnoticed at first - she’s too busy warming up by the fire and licking her wounds to notice his odd statement immediately. She makes a sound of agreement but, after a delay, tired contentment twists into confusion. “Whuh? Are ye claimin’ control over the weather? It did get stormy back there but...”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn appeared all too befuddled by the erstwhile sentiment, prompting his furred noggin to turn sideways in a quizzical tilt. "Nay, I... Hunt fer my supplies? Y'can find just about all you need in the wild, from berries t' meat an' lumber alike. The Shroud is known fer its rich game, 'fter all." The Aerslaentean tint to his voice swelled with pride, as his Northerner accent grew all the bolder. "Not that the Lohengarde will tell ye aught different. Twelve know me life's condemned t' their company more oft than not, as it seems..." A fond smile washed those words down, before his palm swatted the idle recollections away. "Bah! I claim no mastery o'er the elements, nay. 'Tis one of the highest staples of our people to possess such skills to command the weather... Yet it comes with some ease, with a clear plateau at yer disposal... As well as the teeny-tiny presence of the Red Moon's vast aetherial reserves amplifyin' me command o'er the weather. Blame me uncle fer puttin' me on this path." With a somber shrug of his bulky shoulderblades, he peered up at her, inspecting her thoroughly. "So, a vaunted... Drunkard an' ne'er-do-well, then? Strange track record ye've claimed so far, accordin' to that runt from afore."

Cravendy Hound mouth curves into a smile. “The Shroud is also known fer, what’re they called...the Elementals? So ye best be careful, unless ye want a swarm of bees to be sent yer way for takin’ too much honey. That, and I’ve never found a good bottle of drink in the wilds.” With that, she pulls out a metal flask half full of liquor and unscrews the top. After taking a hearty sip herself, she offers it to him over the fire. “‘’Ere ye go, weather boy.”

Cravendy Hound: “Seems...dangerous to be tappin’ into that aether. Ye must ‘ave a good reason for seekin’ such power,” Cravs muses, gaze shifting over towards Dalamud’s general direction. “Ye best be careful to not let it taint and control ye.” She raises a brow.

Cravendy Hound then stares back into the fire, red refractions dancing in the pit of her sea blue eyes. A somber mood takes hold. “That’s a good way of puttin' it. A lotta folk get riled up by the way I live, or the fact that I’m still livin’. Or both.” She lets out a prolonged breath. “And it’s fair, most of the time.”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn hoisted an index digit aloft knowingly so, waving it up and down as he spoke. "Somethin' akin to that. The Elements 'ave yet to catch me, alas an' alack. All you hafta do is know how to conceal yer aetherial print with that of earth, wind and stone." Though, the mention of honey /did/ make his ears perk up at attention. "Kind of ye t' remind me, I could go fer fetchin' a comb or two right 'bout now..." Regardless, the offered flask made him rumble with even more curiosity, yet his customs compelled him to accept the offering, gingerly grabbing it out of her palm's domain. "Many thanks, yet I be 'ardly a -boy,- tsch." Peering over his shoulder as he pressed the drink to his lips, his concealed hues scoped out the outline of the lesser Moon. A generous chug or two, and he'd take abandon of the lid, handing it over with a hearty sigh. "...Aye, I ain't got plans t' mingle meself with whate'er that abomination behind me be. As fer ye, lil' munchkin..." His keen hues refocused upon her form, pondering over her own aetherial stream. "All the more of a reason t' piss 'em off with spite, I'd say."

Cravendy Hound takes back her flask. Without hesitation, she finishes off whatever’s left and shoves the thing back into her pocket, not bothering to cap the now emptied container. “Oy, if yer gonna be callin’ me shite like munchkin, then I can call ye whatever I want, -weather boy-.” She chuckles to herself. Both names fitted terribly, like a baby’s glove on a hulking beast. But that just gave her more reason to use them.

Cravendy Hound: “I’m done bein’ like that....or at least, I’m tryin’. Only so far ye can go til ye find the ‘ole ye’ve dug is too deep to get out.” She shakes her head. “Maybe it’s already too deep, but one can try to make things better anyway.”

Cravendy Hound: “‘Aven’t figured out the logistics, though, of ‘ow to make up to someone who wants ye dead without givin’ up my ‘ead as an peace offerin’.” Cravs shrugs.

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn kept a valiant vigil over her form as she spoke her case, his lips twisting into a half-smirk as she insisted on the nicknames. His barreled breast soon slumped thinner, as he exhaled a generous gale... Though her story had him issue no sentiment until it was fully told. At length, he'd plant his palms back onto his thighs, a timid growl rumbling in his chest. "Mm... Matters are e'er as simple or as complex as we think 'em to be. The truth is always somewhere inbetween." Nodding sagely, his digits patted against the plate of his legs, ere her resumed. "Northerners value deeds o'er empty words and silvery tongues. It has proved a grand solution t' solvin' disputes--either by trials by combat, or by feats o' heroism t' redeem one's name. Sometimes, all ye hafta do is look back to tradition, an' a simple solution may present itself, lass."

Cravendy Hound cranes her neck downwards and places her hand above her neck, each finger balanced on a boney ridge. Face hidden by untamed locks of hair, she lets out an even longer sigh. “But we’re not in the North, brother. We’re ‘ere. And specifically, we’re where Ul’dahn influence can reach, and the games they play in court are far beyond me.”

Cravendy Hound lifts back up and pulls her hair back behind her shoulders. Her eyes remain downcast, haunted. But the moment passes. “So, son of Hyrtfyr, ye claim to be a captain but I don’t see any crew. It seems clear to me yer in some kind of trouble. What ghosts do ye ‘ave locked in the closet?”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn balled up a fist proper with the might of his right hand, his pale, bare thumb stroking over the index digit next to it. "Ul'dahn courts, huh..." He mused to himself, seemingly drowned in a deeper well of thought. "We be not in the North, aye--but peoples' hearts dance the same, even if a few scores more cowardly they be. Though, I be curious as to who 'zactly ye've stepped on, now..." On the subject of his own ghosts and mates, he momentarily fell quiet, only to wave a dismissive paw away. At length, he'd raise it to his breast, pressing the fist against his collarbone. "Eh, I'm 'ardly worth talkin' 'bout, as are me... Ghosts. Still, if ye've a mind to visit me crew, they live in no mountains, I promise ye--fancy a lil' hideout in the Mists, even. Can show ye 'round one day, if ye'd like."

Cravendy Hound is taken by a bout of incredulous snickering. “What? Ye claim to be hardly worth talkin’ bout, but then ye go around introducin’ yerself as Captain and throwin’ around some oldblood names. Yer an odd one.”

Cravendy Hound: “W-who I stepped on isn’t yer concern. All ye need to know, is that while wounds are things that’ll ‘eal, a man’s pride is ‘arder to put back together. And I may as well ground my victim’s into mincemeat,” Cravs waffles, arms crossed and lips lifted in a pout. She dips her head in thought. “Crew in the Mists? Guess I wouldn’t mind meetin’ them but do they know yer out ‘ere?”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn rebutted with a simple, affirming nod of his chin. "Aye, I'm but a simple Sea Wolf man, no more, no less." He took vast pride in his heritage, that much was certain--yet he also did his best to shy away from her further prodding. Still, he managed to pursue the subject until she would yield no more answers. "Aye, pride is a bloody fickle mistress t' please. I'd know, 'tis me prime vice." A slight smile crowned his lips, as he confirmed her suspicions. "They be used t' me fleein' out an' about unannounced, worry ye not. I make sure t' leave them in proper care an' situated ere I sod off t' train me runic brawlin', 'fter all... An' apparently that entails bumpin' into fledglin' lil' she-Wolves in the wilds. Not e'en the Styrm whispered any o' that, aye."

Cravendy Hound: “What an introduction that’d be...oy, crew. ‘ere’s some random, wanted lady I found in the wilderness while I was out wagin’ war against rocks.” Cravs smirks somewhat, though it’s quickly brought back down into a snarl upon hearing his next few words. “F-fledglin’?! Oh, think yer a smart one, don’t ye? Call me somethin’ like that again and I’ll give ye a new ‘ole right between the eyes, ye oversized snowman."

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn presented both of his palms before himself, raising them in a surrendering fashion near-like. "Now, now, fair's fair... Those mean rocks had it a-comin'. Standin' 'round there, all... Menacingly... An' gray..." He hissed under his breath; the mere thought of rocks sent his blood to near-boil. Or so. Regardless, her reaction elicited a far more amused one from his end. "Somethin' like what, an itty-bitty she-Wolf that be by the fire sitty?"

(Cravendy Hound) the mere thought of rocks sent his blood to near boil.............. (Cravendy Hound) I am living (Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn) Heph. Heph. Heph.

Cravendy Hound hates this. SO MUCH. But as much as she wanted to grab her gun and turn her smug companion into swiss cheese, she had -just- spoke on not wanting to dig herself deeper into holes. And murder over sassy remarks, while something she had done in the past, was no longer acceptable. Think happy thoughts, Cravs. Think. Happy. Thoughts.

Cravendy Hound can’t. She instead gets up and menacingly steps (for the second time today) into Dornn’s space. If there was scruff to grab him by, she would’ve tried to lift him onto his feet and over the fire. However, his size and armor made such a gesture impossible. Frustrated, she simply puts her hand over his hat and pulls it down.

(Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn) Down as in off or down as in one of those comfy ear-warming caps that you just grab by their dangly things and pull over your eyes-- (Cravendy Hound) the second for sure (Cravendy Hound) bonus if this messes up his hair too xD

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn || The pale giant stood--or sat, rather--oddly calm in his perch, even as she abandoned her own lodge to assault his. Watching her near-boil over, then attempt to pacify her own thoughts, then inevitably fail and fall flat on her proverbial rear seemed of great amusement for the lad. Yet, as the rather fluffy, warm pelt of his head was tugged lower, he squinted momentarily up at her, only to grunt something fierce. Without a second thought, his ivory paws latched onto her wrists, commanding her to stay her movement in an instant. "Grh. Now'en, ye've had yer fun--don't make me make roasted cinnamon rolls from the cinnamon roll o'er this fire, 'ere."

Cravendy Hound winces from his grip, her body still tender from the training that had happened less than an hour prior. But like a wild animal caught in a trap, she didn’t know what to make of the situation. When you can’t bite anymore, the only thing left to do was bark. “Tch. ‘Hope ye like yer rolls with salt instead of sugar.”

Cravendy Hound - As Cravs rages on, tendrils of fire sputter from campfire, pulled thin from its source by an unknown magic. Like swirling threads, they reach towards the small of Crav’s back, eliciting a surprised yelp from her. “Bloody ‘ell! Dornn, I didn’t think ye were serious about roastin’ me, gods! Pull me out afore I melt!”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn knocking his helm back into place with a stern jerk of his noggin, the man's lips, ever-confident, now equally proud, bent upwards in his trademarked, half-smirk. At once, his feet collected beneath him, elevating him to his natural, imposing height. At eight full fulms he stood, towering and proud--but still, he clutched onto her wrists, this time invading -her- personal space--snout to snout, nearly. "Lass... I'm a Sea Wolf. Salt runs in me veins." He appeared wholly entertained by her antics, going as far as to smirk right into her own face. Regardless, the proud brawler only tantalized her by the fire for a spell longer, intent on the innocent torture for just a few more moments.

Cravendy Hound: “When ye finally croak, I ‘ope ye dry into a piece of jerky, saltblood, and get eaten by the gulls,” Cravs tells Dornn off, the fire behind feeling like blazing flowers blooming along her spine. She sweats under the collar and then finally shoves herself free of his grasp. When she turns, the campfire has gone back to normal, and despite the sensation, her armor remains unscorched.

Cravendy Hound brushes herself off. “I don’t know if I should ‘ate ye or like ye. But, by the goddamn twelve, does bein’ around ye wind me up like a pissed off cog. Bah, I’m too sober for this.”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn seemed in higher spirits from the ordeal indeed--as she wrung free of his grasp, he gestured with a free palm before him, while its twin saddled his hip in earnest. "Would ye -really- prefer t' see me in such a state?" He inquired with an innocent smile donned upon his lips, and a puppy-like tilt of his noggin to boot. "Sounds t' me like ye welcome someone bein' straight with ye... Even at the cost of it bein' infuriatin', eh lass?"

Cravendy Hound narrows her eyes at him, and if looks could kill, this one could’ve sent a primal whimpering back home. But despite that, he had hit the nail on the head. A small part of her enjoyed his company. “I’d pay a premium to get front row seats. But unluckily for me, ye seem the type to cling onto life like a bloody determined tick.” She slouches over, wrung out by his sass. In a much smaller voice, she speaks to no one in particular. “Lucky for ye though...and. For me. I guess.”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn maintained his good posturing and hearty attitude to the extent of planting his large paw upon her shoulderblade, issuing no small amount of comrot through a tap upon her shoulderblade. "A premium, aye? Ye honour me, lil' she-Wolf. Though ye don't stray far from the truth o' the matter--ain't allowed the Sea t' swallow me up yet, despite its efforts. Yer tongue, while a fierce contender fer it, shan't avail ye either, am 'fraid." Giving off a tender squeeze, he'd mull over her previous sentiment, his own shoulders now rumbling with a baleful storm--that not of thunder, but of bones crackling, as he stretched prim and proper. "Mmh... That be 'nough trainin' fer the moon, methinks. Parched o' throat, are ye? Care t' join me on the road back? Y'seem like ye bear a good tale or two on yer breast."

[kikithegeek]

An Amateur Review of Ridley Pearson’s Super Sons

Please be aware: This will contain some spoilers for the Super Sons graphic novels written by Ridley Pearson. If you do not wish to be spoiled on plot or character development, please stop reading this and come back once you’ve read through the books yourselves. Otherwise, enjoy this amateur review.

INTRODUCTION

As someone who grew up reading comics from Marvel, DC, IDW, and Archie, it was always fun when legacy characters were introduced or focused on. Characters that were students or the children of characters that my parents grew up with always felt nice to me, and even relatable when they were introduced or shown to be growing up in a similar or the same time period as my friends and I. Taking this into account, it’s no wonder that by the time I was in high school, some of my favorite comics involved Damian Wayne/Robin and Jonathan Kent/Superboy. Yes, I was definitely older than them by the time their series came in, but some of the problems they faced, even the small ones, seemed familiar to my own. Problems such as Jon’s reluctance of moving away from Hamilton County to Metropolis where he’d be leaving behind people he’s known for years into what is essentially a foreign environment for him, or both characters having to live up to the examples their parents have set; something I’m sure many of us can relate to as children are always compared to their parents or successful family members. The growing friendship between them was always a highlight no matter what type of adventure they were on.

In 2019, Ridley Pearson and Ile Gonzalez released the first book in their 3-part series starring Jon and Damian in a sort of rebooted universe. Fan feedback at the time was mixed, with some fans unhappy and others just happy they were getting more content featuring their favorite duo. Personally, I wasn’t paying attention all that much; I was in the middle of college and my focus had drifted away from comic books that year to focus on my studies, but with the recent pandemic and more time to read I’ve fallen back into the rabbit hole of super heroes and villains. I remember there being an outcry against the books when the previews began to be released, but after they did release and finished their run, I didn’t hear anything. No one really actively talked about what the books were about and most of what I heard seemed to come from people who read a handful of pages, if at all, and then never finished it. So, I decided to put my two cents in and read them. I’ll be looking at them as someone who has been a fan of their main-like counterparts for years, and as someone who also acknowledges that this isn’t canon to it and is an alternate universe (or alternate Earth in the cases of the DC comics multiverse), if anything to look at it from a neutral perspective.  

It should be noted that this isn’t the first time I’ve read through Ridley Pearson’s work. In middle school and even through high school, I couldn’t get enough of Kingdom Keepers and Peter and the Starcatcher, even getting tickets to see the touring cast of the latter’s theater adaptation when they came to my state. I’ve read a few interviews on his work with the Super Sons before going into the books themselves, and he doesn’t neglect to say that this series isn’t connected to the normal DC canon (whatever that is these days; any comic book reader knows that reboots, especially for DC in the last decade, usually happen quite a bit). Okay, that’s probably a given, and it makes things easier considering the main target demographic are kids aged 10-14. There’s a lot of content to go over when it comes to everything connected to Damian and Jon, even more so for Batman and Superman, so this makes it less difficult for kids who don’t have much experience with DC outside of the occasional tv show and movie to get into it.

But what about the story itself?

THE STORY

(The majority of the story spoilers are beyond this point since I summarize the books. This is your last spoiler warning.)

The story itself takes place in an alternate future. America is called Coleumbria and the global climate crisis has gotten to the point where it’s a race to find a way to stop the rising temperatures and constant flooding. While Batman and Superman spearhead the projects set to stabilize and then reverse the Earth’s temperature, their sons are moved from Metropolis to a city called Wyndemer with other refugees looking to find somewhere safe from the floods. This causes tensions in the city to heighten as refugees, called “flood runners”, are harassed by locals. Without going too in-depth into the books (otherwise, we’d be here all day), I’m going to summarize them. Certain characters and events might be omitted, but hey, at least it gives you a reason to read them even if I tell you what they’re about.

The first book introduces us to this crisis and shows us how this world’s Jon (who still goes by Superboy in this) and Damian (who is going by Batkid) meet. While there’s some animosity between them at first, with Jon having a not-too-hidden bias against Bruce Wayne, the two eventually start to work together when they realize their individual investigations are connected. Jon and his classmate, Tilly, have been looking into a mysterious illness that’s hospitalized Jon’s mother among many others, and Damian has been investigating sabotages against Wayne Tech dams. They also meet a girl named Candace who is trying to uncover a mystery that’s plagued her since her mom’s passing. After finding clues at a food company called Sage Foods, the group is attacked and manages to escape after Jon is told their attackers were sent by a woman named Arvyc. After finding out that Candace and Damian had set Jon up earlier in the book to be attacked by a few gang members, the group have a short fight before they go to the train station to stop Arvyc’s gang.

The second book opens with the boys helping Candace make it to a boat while escaping a group of girls called The Four Fingers. While they didn’t have as much of a presence in the previous book, had been shown as adversaries of Candace’s. Continuing into their investigations into the virus, Jon and Tilly learn that it was man-made as Candace’s visions lead her toward Coleumbria’s capital. The Four Fingers, meanwhile, are adamant about finding Candace, so they’ve taken to stalking her friends, until they realize they’re “dead ends”, so they choose to follow their own leads. It is revealed that The Four Fingers and Candace all have powers that connects them to certain species of animals; with Candace, she has a connection to birds and she states her grandmother was the same. Tilly comes up with her own vigilante persona, Puppet Girl, and stays behind in Wyndemer as Damian and Jon leave to go to Cinapolis to find the virus’s source. However, the boys get captured and Tilly decides she needs to help them. Candace in the meantime has found an anointing oil her mother had left clues for her to find, which is the key to the throne of Landis, the country she and The Four Fingers come from. It ends with the Super Sons and Tilly saving Candace and helping her get on a boat back to Landis while Arvyc escapes from prison.

The third and final book opens with Jon, Damian, and Tilly trying to track Arvyc down and it’s obvious that they’ve been at this for some time now, but they soon become the hunted. Candace makes it back to Landis and finds one of the rebels her mom had led before she was arrested. As Candace continues on her journey, Jon, Damian, and Tilly are sent by Batman to a LexCorp lab to retrieve a virus sample, only to find it isn’t there. They decide to go to Landis since The Four Fingers were heading there with the virus (and Candace had gone with intentions to stop them), but Tilly needs to stay behind again. The boys and Candace continue their respective journeys through Landis, however a man who’s been pulling the strings from the shadows for the last two books, Sir Reale, has decided to send Arvyc after them along with Talia. Talia and Arvyc attack the boys who manage to outsmart them for the moment, and are reunited with Candace who has been tracking the virus with two warriors named Kizuka and Archer. Tilly, back in Coleumbia, is sent out to retrieve Damian and Jon by Bruce’s assistant, Patience. After meeting up with Tilly, the group find a lab where The Four Fingers have been preparing vials of the virus in order to release it via bombs, and a battle ensues where they learn that sunlight can kill the virus and that Talia is Damian’s mother. Learning that they couldn’t stop all of the shipments, the group gathers the people of the local town to help them in storming the factory. They succeed in killing the remaining virus, save for a vial to be used to create a cure. With Superman’s mission a success and Batman working on a cure, the book ends with Candace being crowned the new Empress of Landis, Jon’s mother waking up, and Batman making Damian Robin.

MY THOUGHTS ON THE STORY

All in all, the story was okay. Personally, I felt like it was rushed in some places, such as how we’re brought from one character or scene to the next with little to no transition or breathing space. The endings were also kind of abrupt, which I feel really brought down the ending for the final book. We don’t really linger on whether or not Superman’s efforts to reverse global worming worked or have a moment where Jon and his dad are able to reunite with Lois. I was also disappointed to see they didn’t go anywhere with the whole “Talia is revealed to be Damian’s mother he had never met before and barely knew anything about” sub plot they had going in book three. People who know me know that the League of Assassins and any character associated with them are among my favorite villains in the Batman mythos, and to see it be brought in only for it to not have anything done with it was disappointing. Heck, you could have taken Talia out of it and the story would have been the same minus Damian being momentarily shaken before getting back to business. At the very least, an ending scene where Bruce confirms she’s his mother would have been nice enough closure for it. This might have been due to there being a page limit (each book was roughly 151 pages long) which lead to things being cut out, but it’s still disappointing nonetheless, especially since I did find myself enjoying parts that had pacing problems.

Pacing and unresolved plotlines aside, some of the things I did enjoy though involved Candace’s story arc. She’s one of the characters made for this series, and watching her figure out her past and come into her own with her powers was really enjoyable. I also felt like small snippets of character interactions between the boys, Candace, and Tilly were really well written. They actually felt like kids.

THE CHARACTERS

Since there are a lot of characters in this series, I’m only going to focus on the four main characters since we’re with them the entire time.

Jonathan Kent is probably the one out of him and Damian who’s the closest to his original counterpart, and I don’t just mean in looks. While he doesn’t have as many powers as he’s come to have in the main DC canon, he does have some of the powers he has early on in his appearances, such as super speed, super hearing, x-ray vision, super strength, and being able to jump high/far. He’s a bit older here though, 12 instead of 10 making him closer to Damian’s age and allowing him to go to the same school as him and Tilly. He holds his dad’s lessons close and seems to be apprehensive about seriously hurting people, mainly in the beginning. Being older though, he’s a bit more mature than his counterpart was before he was aged up, and I feel that this version of Jon is a good blend between the two.

Damian Wayne on the other hand was given the most changes in terms of backstory and how he acts, which goes hand-in-hand. In the original continuity, he was raised by Talia and the League of Assassins, making him spoiled and a literal killer in the body of a child. Here, he was raised by Bruce (how or why, I don’t know. Talia wasn’t brought up until book 3 so I can only assume she gave him to Bruce as a baby and they agreed to never tell him for whatever reason) and Bruce refuses to let him be Robin, leaving Damian to become Batkid (which is a good reference to past incarnations of Batman’s son in older Elseworlds stories). He’s still arrogant and looks for a fight more than he should, but it doesn’t seem like he wants to kill. Beat up a guy who is already out of the fight, yes, but not kill. One thing people who’ve read the books will notice is I’ve been calling him Damian. Well, that’s out of habit; in this series he is pretty adamant about everyone calling him Ian. Why? Again, I don’t know, and part of me is bothered by it because we never find out why he hates his name. I can only assume Pearson had things planned that would explain this a bit more but had to cut them out due to page constraints.

Tilly is one of the characters made for this series, taking the name Puppet Girl as her secret idenity. She’s Jon’s friend and classmate, and is a computer expert, allowing for her to help the team from home until they need her to fly one of Bruce’s machines to them. She hangs around Jon a lot due to going to the same school and because both of them are interning for the Daily Planet. In all honesty, she reminds me of Kathy from before it’s revealed she has powers and is actually an alien since she acts as Jon’s best friend who isn’t Damian, as well as a girl who Jon might have a crush on or vice versa. The blond hair and the purple-pink outfit scheme doesn’t help.

Candace is our final main character and the second character made for this series. We meet her in the books before we meet Jon and Damian, and her story plays a huge role in the overall plot. Candace has been following a string of clues her mother left her shortly before her death, and we learn as the comic goes on that she’s meant to be the next Empress of her home country, Landis, but was forced to flee to Coleumbria when her family was usurped by a general. Over time, she unlocks her power to communicate and control birds, and later to control the weather. I found myself enjoying her story just as much, if not more than the plots that surrounded the title characters, which helps since her story is intertwined with theirs. If I had to compare her to an existing character in the DC canon, I’d say Wonder Woman due to her super human abilities and her being royalty.

THE ART

The art is also good, definitely better than what I can do. However, a complaint I do have is that the characters feel stiff and rigid. It might be the art style, but something felt off at times, mainly with the posing. Again, it’s still better than what I can do, but I feel like it could have been better. I did like how the backgrounds were vibrant and you could tell where the characters were just from a look, and the art is more detailed in general compared to other young reader graphic novels DC has been putting out. Art is pretty subjective, so I’m not going to go into this too much and a lot of these are my own opinions.

The art has come into debate as well, though not for the reasons I mentioned above. When previews for the first book started to be released, a lot of people were critical toward Candace and Damian, particularly toward their skin color. In the preview images, Candace was shown to have a blue-ish-gray tint (you can probably see why this didn’t go over well) and Damian was shown to be paler than Jon (Damian is shown in the original DC canon to be half Arabic and even though he was sometimes shown to have pale skin like Bruce’s, he was also shown to have a tanner complexion due to his mother’s side. Most fan interpretations as a result more often than not have him with tanned skin). After fan outcry, this was fixed with Candace getting a more natural skin tone and Damian’s being brought down to a darker shade than Jon’s. With Damian’s it’s more apparent in the second and third books since in the first one I did notices there were a few panels where his skin tone would be lighter than in others which makes me wonder if it was a last-minute recolor for the first book’s release.

FINAL THOUGHTS

All in all, I’d say it’s okay. It’s not great, it’s not bad; just okay. I honestly think that if Pearson and Gonzalez hadn’t been given a page limit then it could have been better since the pacing wouldn’t be as big of an issue and they would have been able to get through all of the mini arcs they had set up. They obviously wanted to tell a bigger story but were only given so much room to work with.

It’s obviously not for everyone, and it’s definitely not the Super Sons people like me have grown up with, but that’s okay. Some of the kids I used to babysit who fall into the range of “I’ve never really read DC comics and only ever saw a cartoon episode on TV” read these books too and they liked it. Same thing for the few kids who did have prior experience with the Super Sons. What dragged them in was the climate crisis and (for the ones who read them after the world went into a lockdown) the fact the characters were trying to find a cure for a virus that was similar to the flu. Yeah, and these were written way before 2020, so that’s actually an achievement on Pearson’s part.

You don’t have to like them; heck, I didn’t really have any interest in them because of the backlash from people like me until my friends started asking me to make this review. But maybe give them a chance. Find a kid in your family or friend group and see if they’d be interested, maybe you can read it together once the craziness of the last year’s calmed down.

[thriceboundhome]

🕯

Thank you for the ask, Mun! Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy.

Sage:

"Hm, there are a lot of people from my past." The red head sat crossed leg infront the the asker in the circle of their found family. From the top of their head the only person that they stopped having contact with that they still feel for was, "My Acdemy crush, hah!"

With the person in mind Sage tried to piece together memories for the story. It would be a bit hard but they would like to get something out before giving up and passing the turn to Itani.

"Didn't know much about aside from the basics. Name, Age and all that jazz. We only spoke when we were paired for training or group projects. I don't really know when or how I got the puppy crush.''

The boy looked to the ceiling before looking at his hands. Thinking of what else to add to the story.

"I remember the day I decided to confess, though. It was the day we moved to over here. So I thought might as well tell 'em.

Turns out they didn't like me but since I was leaving it didn't hurt much, " he smiled as a way to show the story ended.

Sage looked at Itani and gave the boy a smile. It was answered by a groan and a roll of the boy's eyes.

After the giggles settle down, Itani cleared his throat before looking down at his cup of tea.

Itani:

Said boy swirled the liquid in his cup before shrugging. His eyes wandered around the room as he thought, he hadn't been very social in his childhood so there wasn't a varity of people he choose to talk about.

When his mind was made up he looked back at the expeactant eyes of Quinn and Sage. He cleared his throat before speaking," I could talk about my dad but that's a bit sad so I'll go with my sister- biological sister."

Itani added at the end when Quinn bumped her elbow into his side. He rubbed the area which was hit and shifted away from the girl.

"Dakota was straight forward. Really didn't like my sarcasm, said that she could never tell when I was joking. It made easier to trick her into beliving I was actually studing when I was out training."

A laugh left the male at the memory," Her face when she found out was priceless. Her mouth would've touched the floor if it could. Though I had to all her chores with mine was a pain, it was worth it."

He waited for the chuckles to settle before continuing," She was a good older sister, a great role model. She was focused but still knew when to let loose and was quite creative. I could never be bored around her."

Itani tapped Quinn's knee and nodded at her to let her know that it was her turn. In return, the girl's face stretched into a giddy grin.

Quinn:

The black haired girl placed her plate of cookies down at her side before folding her arms in front of her chest. She was thinking over her choice to make sure she wanted to talk about them.

"Alrighty, how about one of my good friends that I had. I don't remember her name but she was a big part of my childhood. She, just like any of my other friends, was like family to me since my parents weren't home alot I had plenty of time to play around and be wild.

There was few people in my clan that wanted to play with me aside from my tight circle. She was the one that introduced me to my other friends too. I was quite content with having only one friend so I didn't really try to make anymore."

Quinn took a breathe to back track so that her story was in order. Her hands fidgeted as she thought and her mouth twisted when she got stuck.

Her eyes brightened up when she got where she wanted," She's the reason I'm as lively as I am now. I wasn't as loud or this smilely back then as I am now. I remember my mom telling me that I've been smiling more ever since I became her friend."

The girl's hand went to her glasses that were slipping down her nose as smile lessend into one of contentness," I won't froget what she told me. 'Smile more, it'll show all the darkness and monsters that you aren't afraid of them.' So that's what I'm living by and I'm helping by making everyone around me smile too!"

Bonus:

At the end of the talk, all three of them were cuddled together at the fireplace at the end of the living room with a fluffy blanket covering them. Sage was reading poetry while Quinn and Itani nodded off to sleep on their lap.

[imagine-loki]

The Naughty Poltergeist

TITLE :The Naughty Poltergeist

CHAPTER: #1 of ?

AUTHOR'S: lokilover9 & velvetzybanshee

RATING: M

NOTES: This one shot is based on Loki having paid penance for ruining Thor's coronation. He never fell from the bifrost, nor attacked earth and is now free. Not to discount his true history, we just thought he deserved some happy. As for Felipe, he's based on the Spanish character Agador Spartacus, from the movie  The Birdcage and speaks in broken english. 

EXTRAS: Madre = mother  niña = girlfriend  panocha = pussy

Original Imagine  

Imagine thinking your new house is haunted. No one knows Loki lives there because he's always invisible and conjures furniture as needed. Disgruntled by your presence, he behaves like a poltergeist until one day you've had enough."I'm not leaving! Show yourself dammit!" Nothing happens for days and you think he's gone. Then while giving friends a tour, you find him naked on your bed drinking whiskey. "Cheers, darling. You did say show myself." Only you can see him and he follows you around like that for the remainder of their visit.

Loki was content residing on Midgard. With Thor King of Asgard remaining heavily influenced by Odin, he felt displaced as ever and decided to travel abroad. It was aloud providing he didn't hide from Heimdall and returned were the realm threatened, but that didn't mean he behaved. Midgard's continents teamed with beautiful maidens and Loki spent months at a time seducing them across the globe. Yet an introvert by nature, the constant socializing became exhausting. He needed intervals of solitude to rejuvenate his mind and cock. Indecisive of where, he conjured a world map, closed his eyes and randomly chose a location. 

First attempt. "A Frost Giant in the Amazon? I think not." 

Second. "Middle of the Bermuda Triangle? Know enough aliens already, thank you." 

Third. "Inside and active volcano? Fenrir's arsehole." He scoffed. 

Fourth. "Very well. Maine it is." 

The god settled in a vacant Victorian evicting its two following buyers with  'ghostly' shenanigans. Yet to the king of this miniature palace's annoyance the next didn't frighten so easily. 

Alexis was proud having bought her own house after a long divorce. Closer to friends and hours from meddling family, she'd thought herself free of troubles until sensing the place haunted. While unpacking, items started going missing and resurfacing in different places like her keys, clothing and once her vibrator after an evening of ménage à moi, disturbingly appeared in her dishwasher the next morning. Doors would slam, electricity short circuited, faucets unexpectedly ran, but most disconcerting was a voice randomly whispering 'mine' into her ear. Whether in the shower, her yard, doorways, the ghost didn't care. Alexis burned sage, had the house blessed, held a seance with a local paranormal group, but nothing helped. When returning after a long day at work to find half the main floor repacked, she angrily shouted into the air. 

"Ha ha, trickster! You don't scare me and I am 'not' leaving!" She held up a large envelope. "This is 'my' crib and here's the deed to prove it. Show yourself dammit!" Nothing happened so she put everything back, showered, grabbed her vibrator and stormed into the upstairs corridor. "And one more thing! See this? Touch it again and I'll summon your ass with a ouija board and douse you in holy water!" 

Loki inwardly chuckled. 'I'll be sure to bring a towel.' When she fell asleep reading in bed, he snuck a peek at what had intrigued her. 'Smutty fanfiction? Tisk, darling. Who could your heartthrob be? The name sounded familiar so he googled it. 'Ah, the actor from Crimson Peak. Good movie, but I'm much better looking. 'A wicked grin curled his lips when she moaned Tom's name. 'Maybe I need to play a little 'dirtier.'

With the next several days uneventful, Alexis thought she'd frightened the ghost off when in reality he was buying time. Since moving her in friends offered extra hands in their free time, but it was her befriended neighbor, a single gay man with a flamboyant, funloving personality who'd helped the most. They met one afternoon when she peered over his fence to complain about blaring Salsa music as he hosted a pool party. Felipe was sunbathing in a yellow thong, wearing sunglasses with enough bling to impress Liberace and choked on a shot of tequila when she whipped a pebble at his head. He invited her over with a promise to adorn shorts, they hit it off and became besties. 

Alexis planned to have other friends over for dinner one month after moving in, but with all the goings on had postponed twice. Now with a set date, Felipe was invited too and asked what she planned to cook.

"Who said anything about cooking? I suck at it Amigo and prefer no one hurling on my lawn." 

She waved a take out menu and he dramatically gasped. "Chinese food for eight people? Where you gonna put up you blow job booth to pay the mortgage after?"

Alexis smirked. "You're such a slut, Felipe."

He shrugged. "Happy whoopie stick makes a happy me."

"I think I've forgotten what they look like." 

"I show you mine, but no touchy touchy." She laughed, knowing he was kidding. "Too long without sex causes brain damage, niña. How long its been for you?" 

"Since my ex and I separated nineteen months ago."

"Ay dios mio. I lend you my Dustbuster for the cobwebs down there."

"Not funny, Felipe." 

"See. Abstinence makes everyone bitchy. My sister Maritza too. She was happy single before becoming a nun. Now she's Oscar the grouch with eyes like the chucky doll."

"How come you can pronounce words like 'abstinence' and 'cock' so well yet not others?" Alexis teased.

"Don't make me spank you. Come, we go shopping."

"For what?"

"I help you cook. We stay home and talk about cock, mine will curse me in Spanish. He's lonely too."

Alexis slipped on footwear. 

"Why you wearing those?" Asked Felipe.

"What's wrong with flip flops?" 

He stepped onto the porch. "You need something sexier, like bitch boots."

"It's ninety degrees in the shade today."

"So?"

Loki sighed when the door closed, relieved for some peace. He thought Felipe annoying enough as a neighbor yet worse as a guest who never stopped talking. So much so, he'd pondered concocting a tongue numbing spell, sneaking into his house and applying a heavy dose while he slept. But knowing his flair for drama, he'd run panicked to Alexis in the Boo from Monsters Inc. robe worn onto his deck every morning, carrying a note pleading to stay and until recovering, would hysterically sob each time he couldn't sing along to one of the show tunes on his phone. Loki opted to tolerate him for now. He'd be gone once Alexis left. 

The day of feasting came and while she handled finishing touches around the house, Felipe prepared guacamole dip and ingredients for fajitas while mixing margaritas. Hearing music, Alexis snuck to the kitchen and started recording him singing to Bad Girl, by Donna Summer while dancing like a hussy. 

"Toot toot, hey, beep beep

Toot toot, hey, beep beep

Hey mister, have you got a dime?

Hey mister, do you want to spend some time, ooh yeah

I got what you want, you got what I need

I’ll be your baby, come and spend it on me…"

He startled when noticing her.  "Girlfrien', you post that on social media, I kill you."

Alexis propped her phone on the counter and joined in wildly shaking her chest. 

Felipe tried the same. "No fair. I need big titties like yours to jiggle. Next time I bring tangerines and a bra."

Loki secretly watched on. 'Fucknuts.'

The three couples soon arrived. One, old neighbors of Alexis, Blake and Deidre, the others, her friends, Sage, Lisa and their newest flames Colby and Grant. She started a tour on the main floor then the upper leaving her bedroom for last. Excited to show it off, she was already opening the door as they shuffled out of the second.

"And this is my creme de la...eep!" She quietly squeaked once inside.

The resident spookster sat perched against her headboard sporting only what the Norn's delivered him to the universe in and winked pouring himself a whiskey. "You did say show myself, yes?"

She hurried out, slammed the door and her friends froze on approach. "Erm..wouldn't ya know I forgot to make my bed. Anyone for a drink?" 

Alexis passed them for the stairs and cringed when Deidre spoke. She was nice enough, but sometimes persistent when it wasn't welcome. "Nonsense, friends don't care. Right everyone?" 

Alexis continued down. "Enter at your risk then." 

Felipe watched her rush by into the pantry, close the door, followed and closed it too. "What you are doing?" 

"I can't go back out there."

"Why?" 

"He's upstairs naked on my bed." She anxiously whispered. 

"Which boyfriend? I take up the wooden spoon."

"No, the fucking ghost!" 

"It's a man? Is he hot and what do I tell your peeps? You afraid to come out of the closet?"

"Felipe!" 

"Sorry, it's the margaritas."

"I thought you the one person who believed my stories."

He eyed her sympathetically. "I do. You want I go bribe him to leave with a mcsqeezy?"

"Will you be serious? Ghosts aren't supposed to be naked. One look at him and everyone will think I invited them for an orgy." 

Blake and Grant came down first catching bits of their conversation and quietly conversed. 

"Can't believe she's still imagining this ghost." Blake wise cracked. "I always told Deidre she had a screw loose."

"Nah." Said Grant. "Lexi's a smart cookie. Sounds more like she needs a man. There's one inside with her. Maybe they'll shag, knock some shit off shelves." 

Felipe stuck his head out the door. "You not so quiet, cumquats. I gay. You want I show you my jolly green giant and shag 'you' inside against the creamed corn?"

Loki rubbed the back of his neck. 'I sacrificed prowling beaches of the French Riviera for this?'

Hearing the ladies coming, Alexis approached Blake and quietly inquired. "Still peeing in your wife's pond at night, murdering her koy? I'd see you through my bedroom blinds. Who's a few cans short of a six pack?" 

"Oooh snap." Said Felipe. 

Grant nudged the arse. "Let's chill in the dining room. There's a makeshift bar and appetizers."

The ladies entered the kitchen. "Who's a nincompoop?" Asked Deidre.

Felipe almost answered but pursed his lips together when Alexis loudly cleared her throat. "You know, just my ex."

"He sure is, honey." 

"Your bed's made, girl." Said Sage. "The room looks great." 

They all agreed passing through while thirty year old Lisa's younger boyfriend lingered. "Pretty awesome digs ya got here."

"Thanks." Replied Alexis.

Colby slid his hands into his pockets. "Soo..Lisa says you think it's haunted."

"Yep."

He spaced out for a second, staring at the floor. "I once thought a bat in our house was my dead uncle Howie haunting my parents for selling his mannequin of Vlad the Impaler. But hey, sometimes weird shit happens when you're stoned right?" Alexis and Felipe were saved when Lisa called him. "She misses me already. Laters." 

"He looks fresh from his madres panocha." Commented Felipe.

"That's the way Lisa likes them. Says the younger they are, the easier it is to train them."

Loki rolled his eyes. 'Age is irrelevant.'

Felipe feigned fright by playfully biting his nails. "She bad. Maybe Colby wear a leash and bark like a good doggy for her?" He goofily imitated one in a deep voice. "Woof, woof..woof. Or maybe he sound like an angry chihuahua?"

Alexis smirked. "I have my own problems. A streaking phantom who now makes unexpected appearances."

Felipe gave her a margarita. "Cheers. These make everything better." 

Alexis gulped down the beverage as he watched with raised brows. "Thanks. Next time that streaker appears, I'll just ignore him."

"Next time I give you smaller glass. Go enjoy you friends, niña"

She gave a thumbs up on her way out. "I got this. Easy peasy right?"

Loki mischievously grinned. 'Darling, I'm just getting started.

[swtorramblings]

Name: Richerd Class: Jedi Sage (formerly Seer, currently Telekinetics) Server: Star Forge Legacy: Ordannes

This one’s longer than usual, so it gets a cut.

Game role (my canon story for him): Former Alliance Commander, retired from that role after the events of Knights of the Eternal Throne and the second invasion of Odessen. While he understood that her history and her own choices may have doomed her no matter what he did, he never forgave himself for killing Vaylin. Not after listening so long to the monster that had made her what she was, not after using the techniques of that monster to control and humiliate her of his own free will. How had he expected her to react to that?

Was it his will? He is not truly sure. But, in that case, didn’t it mean he was too weak?

He may have been able to accept that. However sorry he felt for her, how many had she killed? How many more would she kill if allowed to continue? But then, with her death, with the urging of Valkorion and no attempt to take her alive, the Eternal Fleet went berserk, killing untold thousands, possibly millions. The final tally has still not been made.

And he was complicit in that horror, by provoking the Empress to bring her close in order to kill her, all according to Valkorion’s plans. It is what finally broke him.

He could not release his attachment. He could no longer be a Jedi, or the leader of the Alliance. He took the Throne, he freed Vaylin’s spirit at last, and together, he and Valkorion’s own family finally destroyed him. Having done what he could, he put down his lightsaber and rejected the Force. The Alliance he left in the hands of his advisers, who were always in charge anyway.

His sole order to the Fleet was to return to Iokath, to guard the riches and weapons he knew could be found there. He also hoped that, just perhaps, SCORPIO could return their free will once again.

After that, he lived in the Odessen wilderness for several years, wanting only to be left alone. Nothing bothered him, not predators, not people. His only contact was Lana Beniko, who insisted on bringing him supplies that she felt he would need and couldn’t acquire himself.

She had always cared for him, even when he did things that infuriated her Sith sensibilities, but perhaps there was more to it. Perhaps she blamed herself for putting a healer in charge of an army.

He kept a small farm there, and was reasonably content. Lana eventually stopped visiting. He was as safe as possible, she was busy, and she couldn’t stand seeing him give up any longer.

Eventually, though, things changed. It was not Lana that visited him that time, but his former Padawan, Nadia Grell. The Eternal Fleet was destroyed, the Alliance in tatters, Iokath was being fought over by fools. Beniko and Satele Shan had vanished. The best hope for the survival of the Jedi Order had been found by its enemies, which is what had brought Nadia to ask for the Alliance’s help, only to find they were in no condition to.

As he opened his mind again to the universe, he realized that, yes, he had made mistakes, he had been afraid, perhaps weak. He had taken the easy way and paid a steep price. That isolating himself had been one of those easy choices. How much of this would have changed if he’d stayed? He could never know.

But he is done shirking his responsibilities. He has let go of his guilt, but not the lessons. He cleared the cobwebs from his lightsaber, and the crystal sang in his mind again, a joyful song. With that, he and Nadia have returned to the eternal war.

May the Force be with them.

Stories I Shall Save Myself (2nd Draft): As in the canon story, again the Alliance Commander, but when he finally attempted to kill the Eternal Empress, she turned the tables and inflicted the very injury he had meant for her. Everything changes from that moment onward, including the fate of Senya and her two remaining children. The plan is for him to step down in that story, as well, but I’ve never gotten that chapter to work.

Bonds: The story where James Buchanan Barnes visits the Old Republic during KotFE/KotET, preventing the use of the command phrase on Vaylin and then guiding her to do certain things differently. Richerd is the Alliance Commander again, though in this story it is made very plain that he and much of the Alliance is being influenced by Vitiate lurking in his mind. He is likely to remain in that position after the Avengers arrive to help the Alliance take down Vitiate once and for all…

Relationships Richerd and Nadia were never a couple. He was her teacher, she was recovering from the murder of her father and her own barely controlled powers. Neither ever considered it. (Note: Yes, way back then I just went along with it, but I feel dirty now for having done so and I don’t want to go through the pain of the Lana breakup again if I can avoid it, anyway. I go through some effort now to make all the apprentice romance stories less awful, which, seriously, ALL FOUR Force sensitive classes?! And only the female characters? Ugh.)

His first official romance was with Lana, though it’s more than a bit rocky. Make no mistake, it doesn’t make sense to either of them, but war and trauma can make for strange relationships. Is it healthy? Neither of them are sure of that, either, but they are trying.

Felix is his best friend, and if Jarak weren’t already dead, he might have taken some time to hunt him down. He’s not entirely sure what would have happened.

Random Character Notes

He lost his healing powers soon after taking command of the Alliance. They just didn’t fit his new role, so his powers slowly shifted. He wishes he hadn’t changed so much, and is now trying to return to what he was in his connection to the Force. The galaxy doesn’t need more warriors, it needs healers.. (This is literally true, I changed him from Seer to Telekinetics either during the early stages of KotET or the later stages of SOR)

Random Other Notes This was my first character in SWTOR, way, way back when. And, yes, his specific story is informed by my feelings at the time when I played through those two expansions. I played him very little during the years since, pulling him out to get a few more tokens for the slots and things like that. Part of the point of the above longer-than-usual story is to explain his absence as I try to play him a bit more. For a while, every time I heard the male Consular voice, I kept hearing the smug, “Do your people know your… weakness?” It really left me turned off playing him.

I’d try to start his story off during happier times, but it’s been almost a decade since I played him through the class story, and the Knights stories are the ones that left their indelible imprint on me, so we start there.

He’s mostly based on an old Champions character, Richard Powers, the Sorcerer. I suppose he could have been Sith, but other than the name, he made more sense as a Jedi.

He’s also the closest I’ve ever made to a player insert, though it wasn’t really my intent at the start. He’s fitter and generally just better than me, sure, but I tried to make as much as a three choice system allowed the choices I approved most of, whether DS or LS or nothing. Not the ones I think I would actually make, since I’m not that good, but the ones I thought were right. I think that the fact that I couldn’t find any choices by the end of KotET contributed to whatever that was, along with the real life stuff I’ve alluded to before. I didn’t care for it.

Doing better now and would like to get him at least to Echoes of Oblivion, for reasons. My brain will keep chewing on this a little at a time until then, I think. Might also change him back to healing after that.