#but my brain just cannot supply the titles at the moment

[oswildin]

The Good Kind (President Loki x GN!Reader)

Summary: You and Loki are rivals. Then why did he never harm you? Why did he never truly want you dead? Loki is complicated, but underneath it all… Perhaps he was more simple than you expected. (Enemies to Lovers vibe, slow burn, kinda angsty?)

Rating: SFW, All ages

Warnings: Mentions of blood, stab wound

A/N: Okay, this took me far too long to finish. Don’t know if I’m completely satisfied but I just cannot give anymore brain power to this idea lmao. Probably would’ve worked better as a fic series but like I just can’t mentally give that! Hope you enjoy!

Surviving in the void was… Well, how do you think surviving in the void was?

Cruel, harsh, dangerous…

You get the idea.

But it was especially difficult when you had rivals. In a place where everything came to die, still there was time for such things. It all seemed rather futile and pointless… But… Perhaps it made the days go by a little faster - or ‘void days’ anyway. Funnily enough, time moved differently at the end of time.

One of the most common variants found in the Void were Loki’s. Truly, take a walk for a few minutes and eventually you’d come across one. But the problem with encountering a Loki is trying to figure out whether they were the ‘good kind’ or the ‘bad kind’.

Now, of course, that was a generalisation. An easy way to box them in your mind. You weren’t naive, you understood the nuisances of Loki’s, you lived with four of them.

They found you when they were out searching for supplies in the wasteland, and you were thankful they did. If they hadn’t, Alioth would’ve devoured you or worse… Someone else may have found you. Cassandra was someone who most Loki’s - if not all - stayed well away from. They weren’t stupid. In fact, there was a tale that one Loki was brave, or foolish, enough to try and face her… And well… Let’s just say, it wasn’t him who told the tale.

(Dead. He was dead.)

No, Loki’s tended to keep their fighting amongst themselves. It would be comical if you hadn’t witnessed their hostility and attempts at backstabbing first hand. Surely they could see how ridiculous and ironic it was? Even at the end of time, Loki’s were fighting against their greatest enemy…

Themselves.

The group you had been taken in by were just grateful to have someone who wasn’t a Loki variant around. You brought some sense of order to their self-created chaos. The older variant was the most visibly exasperated most of the time, and you could hardly blame him. You felt exasperated too and that was without the factor of constantly arguing with yourself.

Aside from Alioth, pirates and the general savages of the void, your groups biggest rival was another group of Loki’s, lead by the variant who was known as ‘The President’. A title that you always refused to use. Even with the child, you never called him ‘King’ or ‘My Liege’. Although, he didn’t seem to mind so much, knowing you had no interest in acquiring the throne or any interest is the chaotic politics of the void. It all seemed rather pointless in such a place. Or maybe that was the real problem, that unlike the world you came from, trying to implement any form of order or system seemed like a moot point, especially when so many fought over wanting control over the wasteland.

You were currently sat on the edge of the manhole, your boots resting on the ladder. You knew not to go far, and being in such a position allowed you to warn the others of any danger and make your own quick retreat back inside your hideout. You sighed, the breeze brushing your skin as you enjoyed a moment of peace - or at least what you considered ‘peace’ in the void. However, you quickly spotted an approaching figure in the near distance, walking over a grassy mound as your eyes narrowed.

Your hand moved to rest on the hilt of your dagger in your belt, a precaution, ready to defend yourself if need be. However, you relaxed slightly as you realised it was the one who you refused to address as ‘The President’. He was alone, and he hadn’t seen you yet. You pursed your lips, thinking for a moment before shifting, turning your body so you could push yourself to stand on the grass, quietly closing the manhole cover. The last thing you needed was him finding your newest hideout spot after he discovered and recked your last one.

You made the decision to follow him, keeping a safe distance, your curiosity getting the better of you. It was rare you ever saw him without his little gang of followers. And something told you that something was amiss.

After a minute of following the variant, he came to a halt, spinning around as his icy eyes narrowed in on you. Shit. You quickly reached for your dagger, the metal making a slight noise as you removed it from your belt, seeing him conjuring his own dagger as you both began to stalk towards one another.

“Did you really think you could sneak up on me?” President Loki asked lowly, arrogance colouring his tone, that familiar sly glint in his eye.

“I wasn’t sneaking, I was following.” You replied, your own voice steady, your steps slowing as you both came to a stop, a few feet between you.

“Hm, either way-“ Loki raised his dagger, pointing the tip towards you. “You failed. You are rather bad at being inconspicuous.” He quipped, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Why are you out here alone?” You ignored his comment, raising a curious brow. “Where’s your loyal possy?” Loki’s eyes narrowed further, darting around you both briefly to check for any sign of your own group, ensuring this wasn’t an ambush.

“They’re busy.” He simply stated, raising his chin as his gaze fell on you once more. “And what of yours?”

“Also busy.” You shrugged faintly, your fingers twitching around the hilt of your dagger. A tense moment of silence fell between you both before Loki lowered his dagger, satisfied it was safe to do so. Well, safe for now. With a flick of his wrist, the dagger disappeared in a green shimmer, allowing you to relax slightly.

“Do you have a death wish?” He asked, a hint of amusement on his features.

“In this place? Probably.” You said wryly, sheathing your dagger back into your belt as you let out a sigh. “Trouble in Loki paradise?” You asked, raising a brow. Loki’s jaw twitched faintly. “Oh dear, did one of your own try to backstab you?” You continued, voice filled with mock sympathy. “Even you can’t keep yourself in line it seems.”

“Watch your tongue, mortal.” Loki hissed, taking a step closer, his hands moving behind his back. “Or I won’t hesitate to cut it out.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Maybe it was because of how much of your time you spent surrounded by Loki’s, but any threat given had lost its effect after hearing so many of them. You folded your arms over your chest, tilting your head as you regarded him.

“Have you ever just… tried to talk it out? Instead of threatening your… followers?” You asked, making Loki blink before a breathy, mocking laugh left him.

“Threats invoke fear and fear makes others more… cooperative.” He replied smoothly, his own head tilting faintly. “Kings do not get their thrones by simply ‘talking’.”

“Maybe not, but Kings don’t get to keep their thrones without it.” You countered, the distant rumble of Alioth sounding through the air. Your eyes flickered over to the left, seeing the giant cloud monster lurking, searching for its next meal. Loki’s eyes lingered on your profile, a look of thought passing over his features before his gaze followed yours.

“I suggest you head back.” He muttered lowly, turning on his heel, facing away from you. “Before Alioth decides he fancies a rather defiant-tasting dinner.” You bit your lower lip lightly, knowing he was right. You looked back at him, seeing him beginning to walk away, continuing on his original path.

Good kind or bad kind? You were still figuring him out.

You’d had a few run-ins with him, and never once did he harm you. Never one did he even attempt to take you, use you as bait for the other Loki’s, or at all factor you into his schemes. It was confusing. Why? He had plenty of chances, this being one of them. Perhaps he just didn’t think you were worth his time. You were just a mortal after all, he had bigger fish to fry.

Unbeknownst to you, President Loki did indeed keep you alive for a reason… Probably the same reason as his fellow variants…

You weren’t a Loki.

Spending so long in the void with only himself, literally… Well, having someone who wasn’t him was… a strange comfort. He’d never admit it, of course. You were the potential of a different perspective, a different way of thinking, a different attitude. Even if you were just a mere mortal. But most mortals perished within the first few minutes of their arrival, and you… You survived. That was the only thing about you that was even remotely close to a Loki. Survival.

If he had stumbled across you when you first arrived, he was sure he would’ve killed you, or left you to Alioth. But his other variants had taken pity. But perhaps his way would’ve also been him taking pity, stopping you from being subjected to the harsh reality of the void. Maybe his cruelty would’ve been a kindness.

And maybe, he did hold a… tiny spec of respect for you. Not in the typical sense, but in twisted way. Perhaps he respected you, because you weren’t one of him. He didn’t even fully understand it himself. And he didn’t care to.

“You did what…?”

President Loki’s voice held a dangerous edge, his back straightening as he turned to look at the two fools before him. The two Loki variants shared a look of confusion at their leaders tone, clearly expecting him to be pleased with their actions. Loki took a slow step closer, his golden horns making him look even more intimidating as they glinted in the dim light of their hideout.

“Speak!” Loki’s voice barked, command lacing the simple word as one of the variants obeyed.

“W-we caught the mortal.” The woman Loki variant spoke, her blue eyes darting to her accomplice. “They were split from the others, and we saw an opportunity…” She paused. “For you, my liege.” She quickly added, brows furrowing faintly. Loki exhaled a deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as his hand moved to pinch to bridge of his nose. “We can use them to lure the others, ambush them!”

Another Loki variant walked past, holding an old chalice of wine in his hand as the President whirled around, smacking it from his hand, the cup clattering to the ground. He didn’t pay the innocent variants offence any mind, his hands moving to his hips, pushing back the hem of his blazer as they settled there.

“You beef-witted… Oafs!” Loki insulted them, irritation clear on his face as he whirled back around to face them. “You were sent to survey them! Not capture one of them!”

“We saw an opportunity for the upper hand and took it!” The other variant finally spoke, stepping forwards. “Which is more than you have been doing as of late.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake. But it was too late for apologies, Loki had summoned his dagger in a heartbeat, advancing on his idiotic variant, grabbing him by his makeshift armour. His dagger moved to press against the variants throat, his followers all pausing their chatter in the decrepit room as they watched with half amusement and half caution.

“You undermine me?” Loki growled, a snarl curling at his lip. “Your fierce leader? Your future King? The superior Loki?” He pressed the blade of the dagger closer to his variants neck, making his variant try and move his head further back, trying to put space between him and the cold metal.

Loki knew there had been whispers amongst his ranks, doubts about his leadership, his resolve for the throne… And he knew it wouldn’t be long before those whispers turned into action, a rebellion… And he couldn’t have that. No. He worked too hard to get here.

With a low sound of frustration, Loki pushed the variant back, the dagger disappearing in a flash of green. The variant took a breath, composing himself as he glared at his leader.

“If I hear any more treacherous words, any more doubt about my ability to lead us to victory…” Loki turned slowly, eyeing all of his followers, ensuring each one felt the gravity of his words. “And I’ll make sure Alioth is well fed.” He threatened, tense silence following. Satisfied he had made his point, he turned on his heel, stalking off towards the stock kept further inside the hideout, leaving his variants to stew over his warning.

Pushing aside the tatty curtain, Loki’s eyes fell upon you. You were sat on a crate, wrists and ankles bound with rope and tape over your mouth and you were… glaring at him. He could hardly blame you.

“Shoddy workmanship.” Loki remarked, raising a brow as he nodded towards the ropes, a hint of a smirk on his lips despite the lingering irritation. “I personally would’ve used magic, but some of my variants lack… finesse.” He added, letting out a short sigh before stepping through the curtain into the small room. It was filled with random scraps of metal and wood, cans of food and other items that could be useful to their survival.

Quite frankly, you were pissed.

Loki summoned his dagger once more, twirling casually between his fingers, his eyes narrowing. You eyed the dagger, feeling a hint of uncertainty creeping in. You had heard part of the disagreement that had just taken place, and couldn’t help but worry that… perhaps he would use this to his advantage now. He may as well, right? You were right there. Maybe he would use you to lure out the others or maybe he would just kill you, just to make a point to his doubters that he was still as fierce as he once was.

Silently, he stepped closer, your breaths quickening as you felt your heartbeat pound in your chest. He held your gaze, an unreadable expression on his face. He lifted the dagger, moving it towards you, making you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the harm to befall you.

But instead…

You heard the sound of rope being sliced through, the slight tug of your wrists before they fell free. Your brows creased, confused as your eyes reopened, looking down to see the rope in your lap. Your wrists were in fact now free.

“I assume you’re capable of untying your ankles yourself.” Loki commented casually, as if he hadn’t just toyed with you, once again sending his dagger back into his pocket dimension. “I don’t want to get my trousers dirty.” He added wryly, gesturing towards the stone floor, well aware that his trousers were already rather tatty.

He was… letting you free? Or at least, free from your restraints?

You felt suspicion and skepticism rise as you reached up to remove the tape from your lips, pulling at it as the sound filled the small space before a ‘fuck’ left your lips at the sting of it pulling at your skin. You took a breath, throwing the tape aside with distain before leaning forwards to eagerly untie your ankles.

“Think of this as a… I scratch your back, you scratch mine situation.” Loki continued, stepping back to give you some space, his eyes flickering around the stock.

Of course, there was an angle. There always was with a Loki.

“I’d rather you just killed me.” You muttered with a huff, making Loki’s lips tug into a brief smile - one that was toothy and sly.

“You see… Not everything I do involves a threat.” He mused, leaning against a nearby rickety shelving unit. “It’s a fair bargain, is it not? Your freedom for a favour. A favour which I can call upon at any time.”

You kicked the rope from your boots, pushing yourself to stand, an ache in your muscles from the fight you’d tried to put up against his two lackeys. “And by favour you mean betrayal.” You said lowly, narrowing your eyes. “Let me guess… I rat out my group, help you scheme your way to the boys throne?” Loki averted his gaze for a second, giving you your answer. Scoffing, you shake your head in disbelief, beginning to move towards the tatty curtain, giving him your own answer.

Smirking, Loki pushed off of the rickety shelving unit, watching as you shoved the curtain aside, features frowning. “I take that as a ‘we have a deal’?” Loki called after you in amusement, hands moving to clasp behind his back. He swore he heard you mutter a ‘asshole’ under your breath as you disappeared from view, and it only made his smirk widen. After a second, he followed you out, heading back into the din of his followers, seeing them all watching you stride confidently away, unfazed by their eyes all watching you. Loki’s gaze flickered over his group, a scowl forming on his face.

“Let them go.” He ordered lowly, sending one last warning glance before turning on his heel and venturing further into the hideout, away from prying eyes. As soon as he disappeared, a few members of the group shared glances with one another, seemingly skeptical of their leaders decision to let you walk free… Only adding to their suspicions that, perhaps, their leader wasn’t as ruthless as he made them believe.

Loki lounged on his makeshift throne, his mind elsewhere as his variants chatted amongst themselves. He really did grow tired of his own company. It was the same routine over and over - bickering, fights, backstabbing… Maybe his brother had a point to be irritated by his antics. He was disrupted from his thoughts by three of his followers rushing into the hideout, the three he had sent to do a perimeter check. Loki straightened in his throne, eyes narrowing. Something was wrong.

“My Liege-“ One of them began, a little breathless. “We spotted a group of Cassandra’s ruffians.” They informed him, making Loki’s grip on the arms of his seat tighten, irritation flaring. How dare they trespass on his land? But what another one of them said next, only heightened his attention.

“The mortal was there.”

Loki didn’t need a name, he knew exactly who they were referring to… And much to his own surprise, his blood ran cold. You were capable, yes, you had survived this long in the void… But Cassandra’s lot… They were a whole other level of savage.

Loki pushed himself to his feet, the variants that were sat instantly following suit, awaiting orders. He took a sharp breath, trying to remain calm despite the tug of concern that nagged at him in his chest, still clinging to that composure and strength he knew his followers needed to see from him.

“Gather your weapons and secure the perimeter.” Loki ordered, his voice steady and commanding. “Ensure they do not find our hideout.” Loki stepped down the few steps, his shoes clicking on the stone floor as his followers did as he commanded, adjusting the cuff of his suit jacket - a habit he had when he was on edge or anxious. “If any of those savages get close, you strike.”

As his variants moved about the hideout, Loki strode towards the three who had brought the news, a determined look in his eye. Stopping before one of them, he leaned in, eyes boring into theirs. “Where was the mortal?” He asked lowly, his tone holding no room for arguments or questions. The female variant raised her chin slightly, glancing at the other two before meeting his gaze again.

Leaving his variants to secure their hideout, Loki traipsed through the wasteland of the void, determination sharpening his features. Why did he care? Why was he so determined to ensure you were unharmed? He let out a sound of frustration, irritated at his own mind for stirring such thoughts. Caring was a weakness, especially in a place like this, in his position. Yet, something about you stirred memories of a simpler time. A time before everything went… to shit. Memories of connection… Connection to his mother, his brother… His father. Everything in Loki’s life had been complicated, at least to him, but something about you was… simple. And even that managed to stir such complex emotions he hadn’t felt in… centuries.

“Useless.” Loki muttered under his breath, shaking his head faintly. “Mortals. Weak and feeble.” He tried to remind himself, yet his eyes continued to scan the land around him for any sign of you. Maybe letting you go to the chaos of the void would be a kindness… Even as that thought went through his mind, his heart - something rather dusty - tugged in discontent.

He couldn’t.

Movement caught the corner of his eye, his head snapping towards it as he prepared to summon his seidr, to protect his territory from the enemy. But his posture relaxed as he recognised the figure.

You.

And you were wounded.

His feet moved quicker than his head as he strode towards you, his brows creased. As he neared, he saw your hand clutching your side, seeing the scrapes and cuts on your face. You had survived. That familiar flicker of respect appeared in his chest at that fact.

“You’re resilient.” Loki called steadily. “I’ll give you that.” Your gaze lifted, eyes meeting his when he stopped a few feet away. You watched as his gaze drifted over you, clearly assessing your current state. You were hunched faintly, clearly in pain, and Loki mentally cursed himself before he drew closer, stopping right next to you. “Why do you insist on wandering alone?” He sighed, shaking his head.

“Why do you?” You quipped back, voice strained. Loki let out a sharp breath, pursing his lips. Of course, the answer was peace. A bit of solace from the chaos you both found yourselves surrounded by - Loki variants. Clicking his tongue, Loki’s slender fingers reached towards your hand at your side, prying it away so he could take a better look. His jaw tensed as he took in the damage, feeling a wave of anger at Cassandra’s savages for harming you.

“You’re losing blood.” He stated lowly, making you scoff. Loki sent a warning glare, but you missed it, busy trying to remain on your feet. “Come.” His hand fell from yours, allowing you to once again grip your side as he began to head in the opposite direction to his hideout. Your brows furrowed in confusion. Where was he going? “Hurry up.” Loki snapped. “Unless you truly do have a death wish.”

With a sigh, you began to follow, Loki making no move to slow down. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps he was going to lure you away, out of sight and finally finish you off. You stumbled slightly, wincing at the jolting action of your body, making Loki halt and whip round to look back at you. He saw the way your face scrunched in pain, noticing the exhaustion in your breaths. With a deep breath of his own, he headed back towards you.

Without saying a word, he moved to your side, an arm wrapping around your shoulders before he bent his knees, his other arm slipping behind your knees. You barely had time to register what was happening as he lifted you easily, holding you in his arms. Your eyes widened faintly, looking up at his face. He refused to meet your eyes, keeping his own ahead.

“Do try not to bleed on my suit.” He muttered lowly, continuing to walk once again.

This was a strange way to lead someone to their death…

Loki kicked open the rickety shack’s door, the wood creaking as he did so, stirring you from your half lulled state. He hadn’t taken you far, but it was definitely not his hideout you were at. Lifting your head from his shoulder, he walked you both inside, heading towards a tatty cot in the corner of the room as he set you down - a lot gentler than you had expected. Your brows furrowed, watching him as he straightened, still not meeting your gaze. He turned away from you, striding gracefully towards the other side of the room, giving you a chance to take in your new surroundings.

It was dimly lit, a shattered window being the only light source, dusty books were littered on the rickety furnishings along with a few odd trinkets and such. It was only when you noticed the familiar splash of emerald green of a blanket at the end of the cot that you realised…

This was his space. His own personal hideout… Away from prying eyes.

“Yes.” Loki finally spoke, breaking the silence. “This is my… personal haven.” He added wryly over his shoulder, finally turning to look at you. When your eyes finally landed on him again, you noticed the lack of his signature horns that usually sat upon his head, now set aside on the old, small writing desk. Without it, he looked less… sharp. His features weren’t accentuated by the shadows from his horns, now looking much softer. In his hands were medical supplies, bandages and gauze.

He was… offering help?

“Don’t look so surprised.” Loki quipped, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “Even I need a break from myself from time to time.” He mused, raising a brow. Purposefully, he approached, his shoes making the wood beneath his feet creak with each step, before he placed the supplies on the cot beside you, elegantly lowering himself to kneel on one knee before you. You had yet to say a word, still taking in the situation you found yourself in.

“No one else knows about this place.” Loki continued, his voice calm. “And I’d like to keep it that way.” His eyes held yours for a moment, searching yours - it was almost a silent plea. Reaching for the gauze, he gestured for you to lift your leathers slightly, a hint of tentativeness in the request. He wasn’t used to patching up others. This was… new for him. Shifting on the cot, you twisted yourself slightly so he could access your side easier, your bloodied fingers slowly peeling the leather up, revealing the stab wound you have received. Thankfully, you had managed to angle yourself defensively during the scuffle, making the attacker miss anything vital, but leaving a rather nasty gash. Loki’s azure eyes flickered to the wound, his jaw tensing again, and you swore you saw a flicker of anger go through his gaze.

“It could be worse.” He uttered through gritted teeth, moving to carefully press the gauze against your wound, making you hiss, body tensing. Loki felt a flair of regret, but he knew it was necessary. “Bear in mind… I’m not a healer.” He murmured. Being this close to Loki, you could see every detail of his face - the faint scars, the flecks of green in his eyes, the lines around his brows and mouth. He looked… human. It was as if Loki could sense you staring, his eyes snapping up from his hands to meet yours. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to stare?”

“Sorry.” You found yourself muttering, finally speaking again, averting your gaze quickly. Loki’s lips tugged upwards briefly, eyes dropping back to his hands. After a few moments of silence, he spoke again.

“I didn’t say stop.”

You couldn’t help but let out a huff of amusement, which shifted into a wince. “Asshole.” You shook your head, missing the way Loki’s smirk widened into a quick grin. Within these walls, Loki could let his guard down - if only a little. This was his safe space, a place where he could hang up the role of fierce leader and trickster, just for a short while.

Gently, he pulled away the gauze, the material having soaked up some of the blood so he could see the wound clearer. “You’ll live.” He told you quietly, discarding the bloodied gauze to reach for another. “For now.” With a quiet sigh, he once again pressed the new gauze against your side.

“That sounds like a threat.” You murmured wryly, glancing at him. Loki met your gaze, letting your words hang in the air for a moment. It felt like there was a shift between you both, the underlying tension that had always been present bubbling to the surface. Ever so slightly, your breath hitched, suddenly feeling nervous - but not in the usual way the void elicited.

“No.” The word came from Loki’s lips, barely above a whisper, his head ever so faintly shaking. A pause. “It’s a promise.”

The statement was spoken with a softness that you hadn’t seen from Loki before, a level of acceptance. Loki was complicated, yet in these moments he felt… simple. No matter how reluctant he tried to appear, or how aloof and cold… Beneath it all, he did care… In his own way. And it showed, in his own way too. It wasn’t an outright confession, but it was as close as you would get… That he did have a reason for keeping you alive, for not harming you, for not wanting harm to befall you…

Finally, Loki tore his gaze away, feeling the weight of the moment in his chest. It became a little too much, a little too intense. But… it didn’t feel wrong. Delicately, he once again removed the gauze, reaching for a new one so he could finally wrap your wound.

“When you get back to your group, it will need properly cleaning.” Loki cleared his throat, voice clear once more. “And try to avoid any more sharp objects.” He added wryly, raising a brow and giving a pointed look. “It would be… a shame if my rival were to perish from such a boring form of death.” And just like that, your usual dynamic clicked back into place, making your lips curl into a faint smirk.

“I shall aim for something more adventurous next time.” You quipped, a softer edge to your voice.

The good kind.

He was definitely the good kind.

[calicohyde]

@fallenangelontheceiling said:

I love the actual Tarot tie ins! It seems to start a little brightly with plucky heroes (Jess, Maddie, and Fred) but Death is necessary to start the series. Does Lily fuck up Evan’s plan or is she unknowingly a wmd? Dido’s arc is all about betrayal and murder (fitting for her name, in mythology Dido’s big character moment was in the underworld iirc). Her book has a bent towards mysticism and religion?

I intend to make a witch noir tarot deck to go along with the series, and for maybe one of the pre-order goodies for each book to be a couple of free cards(/mini art prints, basically) from the deck! and the book cover designs will be based on the rider-waite designs of their corresponding card (so those cards in the deck would basically just be the covers without the title and byline).

Anyway, yes to all! Although Jessica is not so much plucky as just very, very wealthy lmao. And the story absolutely cannot begin - or go on - without Death. And like many "beginnings" CTM is a turning point.

I don't know the acronym wmd, and looking at it my brain keeps supplying "web md". Is Lily unknowingly web md. And I mean, considering she's the fantastical version of a surgeon... yeah maybe? alsjkkjsf. But no, she doesn't really fuck up Evan's plans so much as she fucks up her own and he has to attempt some damage control (RIP). Pride before the fall, etc etc.

Dido is bang on! Her arc absolutely is about betrayal and murder, though it's more of a metaphorical murder. A forced, violent ego death, if you will. And her big moment is in the midst of Death, so also the underworld so to speak (most of my character names are Chosen to also be foreshadowing in their way).

Tarot cards for OCs?

The witch noir characters (and books) actually come with tarot cards on purpose, so this is a very on point question!

Eddie is the POV protagonist of Curse The Messenger, the first book of the series. Her card is Death and the book's card is Eight of Wands.

Also prominent in that book are Fred, Strength, Jessica, The Sun, and Maddie, Page of Swords.

Evan is the POV villain protagonist of Gilded Verdict, the second book. His card is The Emperor, and the book's card is Seven of Swords.

Also prominent in that book is Lily, The Tower.

Dido is the POV protagonist of The Vanishing Point, the third book (and prequel). Her card I haven't actually decided yet, and the book's card is Nine of Swords.

Also prominent in that book are Ferris, The Hierophant, and Anca, The Moon.

Angel is the POV protagonist of Latchkey Craft, the fourth and final book. His card is The Hermit, and the book's card is The Wheel of Fortune.

Also prominent in that book are Kapua, King of Cups, Jack (tee hee), King of Wands, and [SPOILER], The Devil.

I don't want to outright explain why these cards for these characters/books, just because I know you're familiar with tarot and I want to know if you can make any assumptions with the cards as clues! 👀👀👀👀👀

[fayes-fics]

Moments: Chapters 7-8

Moments Masterpost

PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Slow-burn fic. Follow on to No Good Advice probably best to read that first. Read previous chapters of this fic here and here. In these chapters, James & his mum meet the Bridgerton family and Benedict makes a decision.

Word Count: 4.3k (these chapters only, 12.2k total for all chapters to date)

Warnings: none really - pining, fluff, humour, touch of angst. Ratings/warnings will increase in future chapters.

Authors note: I hope you all enjoy the latest adventures of little James Darby. Thanks as ever to @makaylan for her fantastic betaing and advice. Couldn't do this without you lady <3

Chapter 7: Moments from a family visit

Your carriage pulls up the long drive to Aubrey Hall, and your heart leaps. What a beautiful building, resplendent in flowers and vines. James leans forward excitedly, huffing mist onto the glass as he peers at the approaching house.

“Is this where Benedict lives?” he asks excitedly.

“It's his family's country home, darling, like Darby Hall is our family home. But it is not his; I believe he has his own cottage. Just like we do.”

“Oh, ok,” he nods, understanding better. “Can we see his cottage? I bet he has so many paints! Oh, mama, please? Can we? Can we?”

You huff a laugh. “Darling, I don't think his cottage is that near to here; I believe it is down in Wiltshire. This is Kent - that is a long way away.”

“Oh,” he looks a little deflated.

“But I'm sure Benedict has plenty of painting supplies right here,” you add, seeing James instantly brighten at that. “You like Mr Bridgerton, don't you?” you venture, a little trepidatious.

“He likes painting as much as me, so he is my favourite person ever,” James smiles gleefully as if that is the full measure of a man. “Except you, Mama,” he adds as a charming afterthought. The adorable little rascal.

“What would you say if I told you he wanted to spend more time with you?” you ask carefully, “not just painting,” you add as James goes to speak.

His mien turns thoughtful. “Why would I spend time with him other than to paint Mama?” he asks - a perfectly reasonable question.

“He is a… very special friend to me, from a long time ago. And a friend of mine must be a friend of yours too, James.” you reason. “Or the… friendship… cannot be.”

“He is very nice, Mama,” he says, looking far away. “Issy told me about him in a dream.”

“Who is Issy, my love?” you ask, wracking your brain for someone with that name.

“You haven't met her yet, Mama,” he says breezily.  

You can't think of a single person he knows you have not met, so you just assume it's one of his imaginary friends. He has such a rich imagination you marvel at him sometimes - every day, raising this child is a new adventure.

Your carriage pulling to a halt outside the main entrance has your mind turning to your hosts. Butterflies roar as you see the entire Bridgerton family emerge from the doorway. Chief amongst them, Benedict. He is all you can see as the footman opens the carriage and holds out an expectant hand for you to descend. The urge to run and fling yourself into his arms alarms you - a person of comfort in a sea of mostly new, expectant faces.

“Lady Darby,” Violet greets warmly as you step out. 

“Lady Bridgerton,” you reply, “thank you so much for inviting me early to spend time at your beautiful family home.”

“Please call me Violet,” she says.

“Then it's y/n, for everyone,” you insist, looking around politely.

Anthony steps forward with his beautiful wife “Apologies, my lord.” you correct yourself. “This is actually your home as the Viscount, isn't it?”

“Indeed, but my mother has always been best at leading introductions,” he smiles warmly. “Lady Darby, this is my wife, Viscountess Bridgerton.”

“Oh, it's been years, and I'm still not used to that title,” she says with a slight comic frown, “Please call me Kate.” warmly shaking your hand.

You see out of the corner of your eye Benedict is hovering expectantly, almost shyly, off to the side, slightly behind them.

James comes leaping out of the carriage behind you. “Benedict!” he cries happily and practically launches himself at the man. On instinct, Benedict crouches down to hug James.

That is rather a conversation stopper as everyone’s eyes crane to watch the young boy.

“That… is my son, James,” you say apologetically, “he has umm, been receiving art lessons from Mr Bridgerton,” you offer by way of explanation.

Violet has an enigmatic smile as she tears her sights away from James and back to you.

“He is a talented artist?” she inquires politely, but you feel there may be more to her question.

“Well, he is only five years old….” you begin.

“He's a master in the making,” Benedict finds his voice, “aren’t you, James?”

James nods happily, holding onto Benedict’s leg as he straightens back to standing.

You feel everyone looking at you, James, Benedict and back. A lot of thoughts behind silent eyes.

“Shall we head inside?” Violet announces. “You can meet everyone else later. I'm sure it's been a long journey from London, and you would like to freshen up and rest before dinner.”

“That sounds wonderful,” you reply, reaching your hand for James, making brief but meaningful eye contact with Benedict. He gives you a reassuring nod and smile.

“Come here, James,” you call gently when he doesn't move.

“I’d like to stay with Benedict,” James announces, grabbing his arm. “Mama said you might have some paint here,” he looks up hopefully.

Benedict huffs a laugh. “Maybe later, James, go with your mummy for now. I will see you at dinner, okay?”

James looks ponderous and then agrees reluctantly, “Okay.”

“What a delightful child,” Kate murmurs as you ascend the staircase into the house, “he has very striking eyes,” she adds a little too pointedly, with a smile you know has more meaning. 

You know. You just know she has already figured this out; she seems too fiercely intelligent not to have.

“Thank you” is all you can say. 

This is Benedict’s announcement to make to his family if he chooses to. You wouldn't blame him if he didn't; they seem quite a formidable bunch, friendly but rambunctious when gathered together. What a day this could prove to be.

___

By the time you appear for dinner, you are refreshed and ready to face what could be a gauntlet. No doubt there have been precious few other topics of conversation, but the young widow with the little boy who ran straight to Benedict. 

“Lady Darby,” Violet gestures, “you and James are sat down here with me”. You take your seats and realise Benedict is opposite you, next to his mother. His eyes meet yours over the table, and he smiles. 

You itch to ask him what his plan is for this dinner. You really don’t want him admitting to being James’ father while he is in earshot.

You are introduced to the remainder of the family around the dinner table, minus Daphne and her husband and child, who you’re told will arrive the following day. 

Conversation flows spiritedly as appetisers are served. It’s unusual that all the children, including Kate and Anthony’s eldest son, who is three, are also at the table, but you’re glad James can join in. Experience what it’s like to be a part of a social evening. It’s been just the two of you for so long that you’re worried he will become anxious around other people. Luckily he seems unphased and engaged with everyone. Like his father, he can have an easy-going natural charm when he wants to. He has Eloise and Kate wrapped around his little fingers in no time. 

“Benedict, can we paint tomorrow?” James calls out across the table as dessert is served. The conversation seems to quieten suddenly.

“If it’s okay with your mummy, yes, I think so, James,” Benedict answers, “if the weather is good, perhaps we can paint outside again.”

“That would be so nice!” James chimes, “I really like the easel you gave me. I’ve painted so many things with it.”

“You bought James an easel, my love?” Violet inquires gently, touching Benedict’s wrist, “Do you do that for all of your art students?”

“No, mother, just the very talented ones,” he replies, attempting nonchalance but coming out somewhat awkwardly.

Violet hums and takes a bite of dessert, then turns to your son.

“Tell me, little James, do you collect anything? Perhaps, oh, I don’t know, pressed flowers or something like that?” She glances briefly at Benedict as she asks.

“Yes!” James chimes, “I collect rocks! From places I visit, or when I see one in a pretty colour.”

“That’s fascinating!” Violet enthuses.

You look over and see Benedict staring at James open-mouthed. You'd neglected to mention that little inheritance. Frankly, there are so many similarities you almost wouldn't know where to begin.

“And what a coincidence! My lovely second son here used to do the exact same thing as a child, didn’t you, darling?” she pats Benedict’s hand affectionately but pointedly.

“He still does,” it has slipped out of your mouth over your wineglass before you’ve even engaged a thought.

Oh shit.

It’s hushed around the table now. Benedict's shocked look swaps from your son to you.

Your cheeks burn hot, “…or that’s what he told me,” you mumble mortified, putting down your glass to stab at your dessert. Too little, too late.

You can feel Violet’s eyes on you. An enigmatic smile.

“Benedict, dear, is there anything you wish to share with us?” Violet asks, feigning innocence.

“Perhaps later, mother,” he responds with a pleading look, glancing at James briefly and then back to her.

She pats his hand and smiles, then addresses the whole table. “Come on, eat up, my dears. This delicious gooseberry pie won’t finish itself!”

The buzz of conversation picks up again, and Benedict shoots you a look. You mouth ‘sorry’. This wasn't how you wanted things to go. You decide you have probably had enough wine for the night.

“Benedict, can I see your rock collection, please?” James pipes up as he cleans his plate.

“Yes, James, but sadly, it’s not here,” Benedict explains.

“Is it in Wiltshire? Mummy says that’s where your cottage is. We have a little cottage too, and it’s my most favourite house we own. When can we visit your cottage?”

You almost drop your spoon. If it was quiet before when they conversed, it’s silent now. 

“James, it’s rude to ask for an invitation to someone’s house,” you admonish tacitly. 

“No, not at all. Of course, you are most welcome. You can accompany me to Wiltshire next time I go,” Benedict nods, “I shall invite some other students of mine, make it an artists retreat, as such” you can tell he is covering his tracks a little.

“Fun!” James exclaims. 

Benedict clears his throat as dessert gets cleared away and after-dinner chocolates are placed on the table. “Everyone, I would like to make an announcement later in the drawing room. For just the adults.”

“What? why?” Hyacinth whines, “Why do we always miss out on the best information? I am fifteen now, brother.”

“Yes, and I am sixteen,” pipes up Gregory.

“I'm sorry, are either of those numbers higher than eighteen?” Benedict queries sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at them.

They both groan and cross their arms defensively.

“I'm five,” James announces proudly to the room, half understanding the game but enthusiastic about being included. 

Everyone peals with friendly laughter, and Colin leans over and ruffles his hair affectionately. “Indeed you are, James.”

James' nanny comes to collect him and take him to bed, just as you all spill into the hallway on your way to the drawing room.

“Goodnight, everybody,” James calls, the little charmer he is.

There is a chorus of goodnight Jameses’. He takes his nanny’s hand, but sudden runs back and hugs you, throwing his hands around your waist. 

“Aww, goodnight, my love,” you whisper lovingly, swaying him a little.

“Goodnight, Mummy,” he looks up at you with his big beautiful eyes, so you lean down and kiss his cheek.

Then he runs straight over to Benedict and hugs his legs.

“Goodnight, Benedict,” his little voice says.

A universe of emotions crosses Benedict’s face, and everyone else freezes in place.

“Goodnight, James,” Benedict replies quietly, patting his hair.

“Can I have a kiss on the cheek, like the other day?” James asks sweetly.

Benedict’s cheeks dust an adorable shade of pink. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Eloise's mouth drop open.

To your utter astonishment, Benedict leans down and hauls James into his arms, placing him on his hip. “It's time for bed, young man,” he lectures softly, then kisses his cheek as requested. “Now, do you need a bedtime story, or will you be able to read one yourself?”

The two of them together are your whole focus. You watch them clutching your chest, not even noticing the eye tennis of the rest of the gathering. 

“I can read all by myself,” James answers proudly, looping his arms around Benedict's neck.

“Well, that's because you are such a smart boy, aren't you?” 

“Yes. Mummy says I get my brain from her,” James replies, and Benedict laughs.

“I don't doubt it for a second.”

“She says I get my charm from my Daddy,” he adds with a winning smile.

Benedict looks over James' shoulder at you, and your cheeks burn. “I bet she did,” he chuckles.

You feel Violet looking at you again.

‘I'll join you all shortly,” Benedict says over his shoulder, giving you a lingering glance, then starts to walk away towards the staircase, James still in his arms. The two of them engaged in a quiet conversation, your nanny following behind them.

“I don't think this announcement he has to make will be much of a surprise, do you?” Colin pipes up cheekily once they are out of earshot.

You'd like the ground to swallow you up right now.

“Colin!” Violet admonishes, “whatever Benedict has to say to us all, his family, will be treated with the utmost respect and sincerity.”

“Yes, mother,” he grumbles dutifully, with an eye-roll.

As everyone drifts into the drawing room, Kate comes over and loops arms. “Pay no mind to my brother-in-law,” she counsels, “You'll get used to him. If you marry a Bridgerton, you’ll have to; they’re sort of a package deal,” she winks.

It's only after you sit down do you realise what she said.

___

Benedict slips into the drawing room about five minutes later and crouches down behind the chair you are seated in as you listen to Eloise rhapsodise about the book she is currently reading.

“I hardly think it’s going to be a surprise now, but I am going to announce James as my child,” he whispers, “I would like you to stand with me if that's alright?”

“Really,” you murmur, “why?”

“Moral support?” he shrugs, and you see a slight tinge of anxiety on his face for the first time.

“Of course,” you offer.

He moves to stand next to your chair and offers his arm. He walks you in front of the fireplace; you feel the literal heat on the back of your legs as you prepare for heated glances from the gathered family.

“Everyone,” he annunciated clearly, “I would like to announce to the family some important news.”

“When’s the big day?” Colin teases. Eloise violently tosses a cushion at him.

“Oh... no… it's not… that” Benedict suddenly looks flustered and drops his arm from yours. You lower your head. Nothing could be further from the reality at the moment, much to your chagrin.

“Tell us then, brother,” Anthony prompts, acting very much the patriarch.

“You all met James earlier, and well, although this can never be public knowledge, I very much wanted you all, my family, to know that… he is my son” his voice wavers a little. “Many of you may remember about six years ago I was… in a relationship with Mrs Darby before she got married to the man she was promised to her whole life,” he rushes to add, “and that resulted in, well, little James.”

He looks over at his mother.

“Mother, I know this is not the ideal way you would want to hear about another grandchild, who is already five years old, but well, I wanted to be truthful with you. And with you all,” he gestures around the room, “I only just met him myself a few days ago, but he is very important to me.” 

Your eyes mist as he speaks plainly but passionately about your son. His son.

“Benedict dear, I am so very happy for you. And another grandson, I am overjoyed, and I look forward to spending so much time getting to know him this week. But, you do realise, this is not exactly the news we were expecting you to announce?” she says gently.

“Whyever not?”Benedict looks shocked.

“Darling, the minute he stepped out of that carriage, I knew. We all knew,” she explains slowly. She gestures at a row of miniatures on the wall depicting all the Bridgerton children. “Do you really think the spitting image of you would not be a total giveaway?”

You are instantly drawn closer to the picture; it looks so much like James you are speechless. 

“This is Benedict?” you gasp.

“Yes, dear, aged seven,” she confirms as you run your fingers reverentially over the miniature painting. He has the same hair, eyes, and face; it's disconcerting how much James looks exactly like his father at a similar age.

“We honestly thought you knew that we knew already. And certainly wouldn't feel the need to announce it so formally,” she chuckles, “Kate and I had already discussed buying him some family blue outfits.”

You steal a glance at Kate, who just smiles and shrugs a shoulder.

“Wait?” Anthony says, standing, “You all knew?” 

All the women in the room nod.

“I didn't,” Colin opines from the couch. “Well, not until he put the little whelp to bed, then I couldn't exactly unsee it.”

“I had no idea,” Anthony remarks, frowning to himself and then looking pointedly at his wife. Her smirk gets even bigger.

“What a surprise, always the men who are the last to cotton on,” Eloise mutters, rolling her eyes.

Anthony shoots her a look and then clamps his hand onto Benedict's shoulder. “Well, maybe not traditional circumstances, but I’m happy for you, brother. Welcome to fatherhood.”

“Thank you, brother,” Benedict exhales, looking relieved.

“So... no other news?” Violet inquires.

“No, mother,” Benedict says brusquely and a little too pointedly. 

“Hmm, shame,” she mutters under her breath and smiles indulgently at you.

A little while later, you see Violet take Benedict's arm and whisper something in his ear. You have no idea what, but it looks like he is getting a stern but loving motherly lecture. 

When she is done, he looks over at you in a way that is so intense and full of longing it steals your breath. 

Suddenly light-headed, you have to excuse yourself for the night.

Chapter 8: Moments from a country ball

The next evening the ballroom of Aubrey Hall is humming with people and looks beautiful. The bustle of staff setting out flowers earlier in the day has been replaced by the lazier-paced members of the Ton admiring the floral displays and quaffing their champagne.

You nervously smooth your gloved hands down over your blue dress. You specifically asked Madam Delacroix to make you a gown that would match the Bridgerton family colours. She had just winked. “Certainly, ma cherie, they are quite the family”. The lady knows far too many secrets.

With James tucked up in bed for the evening after a fun day exploring the estate just the two of you, it’s your chance to enjoy some grown-up company. You grab a glass of champagne and watch the assembled young ladies and gents take their place for the first dance.

Suddenly you feel a presence by your left side.

“You look beautiful,” Benedict murmurs. All of your body lights up from just a simple compliment.

“Thank you,” you say quietly and bump him lightly with your shoulder, “and you look very handsome,” you add, looking up into his eyes.

Oh god, that was a mistake. Trapped again. Unable to look away.

“I was hoping you would do me the honour of a dance, Mrs Darby,” sotto voce, your gaze still locked on his.

“Don’t call me that,” you implore, “please just call me by my first name.”

“Will you do me the honour of a dance, y/n?” he amends a little smirk on his lips.

“Yes,” you are far too breathy.

You have never danced with him before. The simple act of being in a respectable hold sends your thoughts scattering. In the past, you have mapped every inch of this man’s body with your tongue, but the feel of his arm curled gently around your back undoes you.

You are swept up into the dance. Into him. The father of your child. The best lover you ever had. The person that feels most like home and an adventure all at once.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks quietly after a few minutes as you move around the dancefloor, “you look so wistful.”

“You,” you admit simply. 

“Oh,” he looks bashful, “what about me?”

“How different things can be after so many years, but also strangely how it can be as if no time has passed at all.” you sigh.

He inhaled sharply. “I couldn’t agree more” his intense gaze drops to your lips as the music ends, but you stay locked in each other’s arms.

“Benedict…” you stutter, “I….”

“Is this the reason?” A woman’s voice cuts into your reverie.

You look over to see Miss Elliott standing nearby, arms crossed, looking at Benedict with a sour expression.

“Miss Elliott?” You greet hesitantly.

Her head whips to you, and she frowns when she recognises you “wait… Mrs Darby?” she shakes her head a little “You? You are the one he…” she stops mid-sentence looking stunned. 

“Oh….” She turns her heel and bustles away.

“Miss Elliott,” Benedict calls, “wait.” 

He gives you an apologetic look and then takes off after her, leaving you suddenly alone on the dancefloor.

You feel eyes on you, those who just witnessed the odd moment. So you walk briskly to grab a refreshment before anyone can corner you and ask questions. You plan to retire to the terrace to get some air, your thoughts a jumble. 

As you step outside, you revel in the feel of the evening air, cool on your skin. You take a sip of lemonade and look around for a seat until you hear voices below. Curious, you move into earshot.

“…I thought we had an agreement,” the woman sighs.

“Circumstances have altered,” is the reply. You’d recognise that voice anywhere. 

Benedict.

You know you shouldn’t, but you draw closer, standing behind a stone column so you'll be hidden even if they look up.

“How?” she asks; a peek around the column tells you it's Miss Elliott.

“I am reconsidering how my future may look,” he says slowly. “I have recently received news that has, well, it’s changed my whole life. My whole perspective on everything; I desire and want for things I thought impossible.”

Your heart pounds.

“What?” She asks. 

Yes, what? You think.

“A wife I love. Children.” 

Those five words have you spinning.

“I thought that the exact opposite of what you wanted?” She argues

“It was,” he admits, “but sometimes life throws you the most… amazing surprises, and I would be a fool not to at least try to get what I want. What I’ve always wanted.”

You feel your hands shaking. 

“Is it her? Mrs Darby? The one to whom your heart belongs? I saw the way you two were looking at each other when you were dancing.”

“It’s not just her,” his voice emotional, “it’s someone else. A very special someone I recently met.”

Oh god, he means James.

“Someone so perfect and wonderful. The love I feel for them. Even though I’ve only spent a few precious moments with them… It’s so profound and life-altering. I never knew…” he sounds choked up.

You feel a tear roll down your face.

“You are irrevocably in love, aren’t you?” She says quietly, resigned.

There is no audible response.

She sighs. “Where does that leave me?” 

“I am so sorry,” he replies sincerely, “I will try my best to find you another who would be favourable to this type of match. I know of some artists who have such arrangements. Perhaps they have friends seeking the same. So you can be free to love who you love.”

“Mr Bridgerton, thank you, but… I will be okay. I am not annoyed. Just disappointed. This was always about convenience. I wish nothing but the best for you. I just hope it works out for you.”

“So do I”, you hear him sigh. Then the crunch of footsteps on gravel as one, if not both, of them walk away.

You stay leaning against the column, closing your eyes, your head spinning with all you just overheard. 

So wrapped up in your thoughts and feelings that you don’t hear footsteps up the stone steps from the garden below until it’s too late to flee.

“Y/n?” You open your eyes and see him standing a few feet before you. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, it's a little stuffy inside; I came out just this moment for some air,” you lie.

He steps closer. “Why have you been crying?” His voice suddenly filled with concern.

“Benedict…” you breathe, and his arms enclose you in a tight embrace.

“What happened? Tell me,” he implores, rocking you gently. His cheek pressed against your temple. The warmth of his body seeping into yours.

You can’t tell him you are crying because you overheard him, all the beautiful things he said; it feels like such an invasion of his privacy.

“No, no, I’m okay,” you dismiss, “just happy tears,” your explanation is intentionally vague.

“Happy tears? What do you mean?” He cranes his head back slightly and looks at you, confused.

“I… just… I can’t explain it. But please just hold me,” you whisper.

“Of course. Always,” he breathes, and you wrap yourself around him, pressing your face into his neck, inhaling his scent. He says nothing, just lets you stand in his arms.

Unseen by you both, Violet appears in the doorway to the terrace and smiles to herself. 

[princecharmingwinks]

i did the thing <3 and i'm back with a fail date that i'll leave open ended ;) was dating a chef and we went to a restaurant he wanted to try in the next town over. we order lunch, we're chatting, we're laughing, its going great. food comes out and he took one bite, he stopped smiling and whispered 'oh no...' XD

You did a thing!!! Hello!!! Welcome to the fold, fabulous to have you in the ranks. Hope you meet some nice beans :) Opened endings? Oh, we kicking up a notch haha.

--

Setting the scene - Derek is definitely the chef. No one should trust Stiles with sharp objects like knives. Derek is a werewolf and knows it's time to tell Stiles. They've been seeing each other for a few weeks and he's never felt this way about anyone. He wants to officially ask Stiles to be his boyfriend (why does he get butterflies everytime he thinks of that word?).

His family and pack (Laura and Erica in particular) have been dying to meet the human who has swept Derek off his feet. Not that he can blame them, Stiles is everything he has ever wanted and more. They just, click. But it was getting to the point that the women of the pack were threatening to stalk Stiles if they weren't formally introduced asap.

So Derek decided today was the day to ask Stiles to be official and start explanations of the supernatural kind. They'd travelled a town over to avoid the Hale pack's pesky eavesdropping. And to try out a new restaurant that's been getting rave reviews. The lunch was going well, they ordered and chatted and it was perfect.

The waiter places their food on the table and leaves. Derek swallows and is about to start explaining (how do you even start to tell someone that you have a desire to howl at the full moon?) when Stiles jumps in first.

"So are you finally going to tell me your secret?" Stiles asks, all big eyes and soft smiles.

Derek's heard of gay panic but is there such thing as wolf panic?

Derek is too caught up with the question to even register the mild but unusual scent of his meal. He takes a bite to try and calm himself...and internally curses.

"Oh no..." he whispers.

Stiles frowns and watches as Derek swallows his mouthful slowly and grimaces in the direction of the kitchen. He follows the movement as sees two stunning - like model stunning - women wave from the kitchen peak hole. One with dark straight hair and the other with blonde ringlets, both with predatory smiles.

"Do you know them?" Stiles cocks his head in confusion.

Derek looks like he ate a lemon, "This cannot be happening."

"What’s going on?" Stiles reaches out for Derek's hand which the other man takes and interlocks their fingers.

The women have left the confines of the kitchen and are walking over to their table now.

Derek gives a tight smile, "If we survive this, I'll buy you all the curly fries in the world."

"Oh Der-Bear, brother of mine!" The brunette is calling out in a sing-song tone.

It all clicks in Stiles' brain. He grins and gives Derek's hand a squeeze, "If we survive this, promise to marry me one day."

Derek doesn’t get a chance to answer that particular request when the women have reached the table. When first meeting someone, the usual custom was to introduce yourself and ask to join the meal. These women did not get that memo.

The brunette, Derek’s sister slides into the booth blocking Derek’s escape routes, the blonde does the same to Stiles, snuggling in close.

Derek sighs the way only a brother could, “Stiles, meet my older sister, Laura and my friend - although at this moment I’m not too sure why - Erica.”

Derek should have known something was up when he found the latest restaurant reviews magazine left open on the dining room table. He had assumed it was left out by his mum, the two of them often discussing the latest food trends. He hadn’t thought it was left as a trap by his manipulative pack mates. But the moment the ever-so-light sprinkle of wolf’s bane had touched his lips, Derek knew he was in trouble.

How the two biggest trouble makers in his life had managed to find out the exact details of his date and get themselves access to the kitchen was beyond him but he imagined it had something to do with their feminine prowess (or their intimidation tactics) both equally as strong. 

He was still trying to process how Stiles could know about his wolf and now he had to manage these two? 

“What are you two doing here?” Derek reluctantly asks.

Erica grins, a dangerous twist of crimson red lips, “You’ve been keeping Stiles a secret for too long, Derek. We had to take proactive measures.”

“And ambushing my date was the best way to do that?”

“We’ve gotta make sure Stiles can handle the unexpected.” Laura ‘helpfully’ supplies.

“I don’t mind thinking on my feet.” Stiles interjects. 

Derek is in awe of this man. How did he find someone so perfect?

“So are you all werewolves or just the Hales?” Stiles asks. The three wolves all stop and blink at him. 

“What, is that not the right terminology? Is lycanthrope more appropriate?”

Erica is the first to break the silence, almost doubling over from the force of her laugh. Laura is joining in too.

Derek on the other hand is just in plain shock. “You knew?”

Stiles shrugs, “I’m a curious creature. I research. And things didn’t always add up with you. Like you are way too good looking to be just human. And there’s the whole tendency to growl when things get - ah - heated.”

“We are so keeping you! Come over for dinner tonight so you can meet the whole pack.” Laura announces, not waiting for an answer. She kisses Derek on the cheek and rises up from the booth. Erica follows suit and throws Stiles a wink before the two of them walk out of the restaurant with linked arms.

Derek breaths a sigh of relief. 

“So did I pass the test?” Stiles asks, moving over to sit beside Derek in the booth. Derek lifts his arm and draws Stiles in. 

“You were perfect.” He kisses the human’s forehead. “You are perfect.”

“You going all soft on me now, Hale?” 

Derek smirks, “Do you like my last name?” 

Stiles crinkles his eyebrows in confusion, “Yeah?’

“Do you wanna keep it?" Derek is full-on smiling now, little bunny teeth and all. “That was the rule, right? We survive this and I marry you?”

Stiles blushes at the memory, “Only if you buy me all the curly fries in the world. And we are hypernating, Mr Old-School. I’m always going to be a Stilinski in one way or another.”

“Done.” Derek whispers as he leans in and kisses Stiles.

Derek wasn’t sure why he was ever nervous to make things official. Somehow he had gone from worrying about the title ‘boyfriend’ to this. They still needed to have a proper conversation and he knew the human would have excel spreadsheets of questions about the supernatural. But as Stiles’ hands cupped his jaw and pulled him in for another kiss, Derek thought those discussions could wait.

Now they just had to meet the rest of the pack - oh no...

--

Ta da! Hope you liked it my friend. This one was fun to write. Can you tell I like big happy Hale alive families? Because I certainly do. Also, my version of Laura will forever and always be played by Meghan Ory (just as a fun fact). Thanks for popping in!

[my-pink-yandere]

❤Obsession❤

Prompt: Yandere Bakugou, Midoriya, and Todoroki (separately) has a crush on Y/N...who is actually obsessed over a fictional character.

C/N: Character Name

Warnings: Yandere Tendencies, Swearing, Also this is sorta long cause I wrote a lot ;-; 

💥Katsuki Bakugou💥

❥ This boy is angered when he finds out about this

❥ Like wow he’s super pissed

❥ If you’re unfortunate enough to ever have a Yandere Bakugou take a liking to you, when he realizes that you’re obsessing over someone who isn't him, a fictional character nonetheless, he’s... well...

❥ “Very upset” would be an understatement

❥ He sees that as basically losing to a person who doesn’t even exist

❥ The chaos begins when he’s in the middle of his daily routine of admiring staring at you from afar, and when you stand up with one of your friends and begin walking out of the cafeteria, he hears a few... interesting statements escape your mouth as you pass him by

❥ “I can’t believe you actually like them, Y/N! You’re totally hopeless when it comes to love, huh?” His head was tilted your way, seeing your friend looking disappointed and you looking flustered. “It’s not my fault they're so perfect!” you answered, practically radiating embarrassment. He smirked, assuming you were talking about him. I mean, who else would you get so worked u about>

❥ “Besides, I’m not the only one who simps for C/N! So shh-”

❥ ...

❥ All that’s going through Bakugou’s head right now is why that name wasn't his

❥ He’s gone eerily still, and all of his friends sort of stop and look at him

❥ “Bakubro? You good-”

❥ Bakusquad is going to have to hold Katsuki back from blowing up the entire cafeteria

❥ This b*tch only sees red rn

❥ ‘WHO’S THE PERSON YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT AND WHERE CAN I FIND THEM SO I CAN BREAK THEIR F*CKING KNEECAPS’

❥ he got murder on his mind :0

❥ Despite how angered Bakugou is, he’s not a complete dumbass, believe it or not

❥ He’s not going to confront you about it, at least not right now.

❥ Once he calms tf down, he’ll come to his senses and have his top priority being to get rid the competition first, meaning he has to hunt down whoever C/N is and delete them from existence

❥ When he learns that C/N is actually a fictional character from some anime tbh he just feels extra insulted

❥ You chose a f*cking fictional character over him >:(

❥ It’s now where he begins to get even angrier when he realizes how easy it should’ve been for him to notice sooner. All the stickers on your school supplies, the pins on your bags, how you’d sometimes sneak in their merchandise to show off to your friends at lunch

❥ It was when he overheard you possibly owning a body pillow where he went feral

❥ Will go out of his way to steal your shit and burn all of your merchandise of C/N, or anything that would remind you of the character

❥ He’d catch you when you were alone, and would shove you off your feet as he’d grab your bag and roughly go through it, angrily tearing off the stickers on your notebooks and pins off your bag as your crying and screaming at him to stop

❥ At this point he doesn’t care about how you feel about this at all. It’s never even crossed his mind (blind rage)

❥ His plan is to pluck C/N out of your life, replacing all your thoughts of them with just him, so you’re only thinking of him

❥ It doesn't matter to him if they're good thoughts or bad thoughts

❥ All that matters is that you’re thinking of him

❥ Only him.

In a nutshell, he’s gonna steal all of your items that have any reference to C/N and get rid of it all. He doesn't care how much he’s hurting you by doing this, he’ll concern himself with your feelings later. He’s going to hang around you more despite your protests for him to just leave you alone, quite literally forcing his way into your life so that he infests himself into your brain and become the only thing you think about, so that you can truly understand how he feels about you.

💚Izuku Midoriya💚

❥ Bold of you to assume he doesn't already know about this “obsession” of yours

❥ This child takes notes on EVERYTHING and ANYTHING related to you, so he obviously knew about your love for this certain fictional character

❥ At first glance, he believes your obsession with C/N is similar to him with All Might- just an innocent but deep admiration for them

❥ He’ll buy you their merchandise and gift it to you at school (accompanied by some flowers and sweet little cards of course ❤)

❥ He was nervous to do this at first, his crush on you rendering him a stuttering, blushing mess whenever you so much as glanced his way, but he pushed through his anxiety just to see your cute smile and feel your warm hug when he gives you those gifts

❥ He cherishes those moments more than anything, to see you so happy

❥ (Especially because  it was him to make you so excited! Not Kirishima or Uraraka... him)

❥ He’ll binge the entire show as fast as he can and memorize everything he deems as important just so he can chat with you about it at school

❥ “Isn’t C/N so cool?” he asked you, and you had quickly turned to him with a surprised and then starry gaze. “Izuku, you like them too?!”

❥ You were both on a first name basis now ;D (You even gave him a little nickname: ‘Zuku. Let’s just say he was a bit more than ecstatic when you began referring to him in such an informal way. You must really like him! ❤)

❥ And Midoriya, being the delusional little yandere he is, sees this as you both basically dating

❥ You both hang out everyday at school, discussing the show and characters, who your favorites were, how the plot was going, etc.

❥ You see him as one of your closest friends now, and eventually you trust him enough to bring him to your house to chill without your family home ;0

❥ The thing was, Midoriya noticed how you would never invite anyone from school to your house, always brushing it off and just saying how your parents would get angry or how dirty your room was

❥ This was the first time you’d ever invited anyone from U.A. over to your house

❥ His thoughts were running wild as you both walked home together: ‘What’s Y/N’s house like? Will their parents be home? Why have they avoided anyone coming over until now? Have they only invited me because we’re dating? Are... are we going to kiss?????’

❥ (For clarification, even with the dorms in place, over the weekend you like to hang out at home where you’re more comfortable)

❥ “We can re-watch some of the episodes for awhile. I think I also have some snacks...” you grinned, and he memorized every detail of your house as you both made your way to your room

❥ He was greeted with a room filled entirely with C/N merchandise, but caught his attention the quickest was your bed

❥ You had a body pillow of C/N

❥ Now Midoriya, like I said before, is a very delusional yandere

❥ He has excuses for literally everything you do. You love him just as much as he loves you after all!

❥ But this

❥ This he cannot ignore

❥ He was just staring at the pillow with a blank face as his eye twitched

❥ “’Zuku? What's wrong?”

❥ “Hmm?” he hummed, turning towards you. “Oh, nothing! It’s just, um, your pillow...”

❥ You felt your face catch on fire as you moved to block his view as you tried to quickly shove it under your bed. “UHM, HAHA SORRY ‘BOUT THAT I FORGOT IT WAS THERE-”

❥ Midoriya was quiet as he watched you struggle at hiding the pillow

❥ He was thinking

❥ He loved All Might a lot, but he’d never buy a body pillow of him

❥ What type of love did you have for C/N?

❥ “Hey Y/N?” You turned to look at him, but the moment your eyes met you felt a shiver run down your back. Izuku was smiling at you, but his whole vibe was different...

❥ ‘Was he angry?’

❥ “Why don’t we watch a different series today?”

In a nutshell, he’d go along with your character obsession up until you cross the line, and that would be either him finding out about you reading fan fiction of C/N, a body pillow of them, or some... questionable fan art you have of them saved on your phone. Then he’d do anything in his power to distance you from that show, hiding your merchandise and distracting you with more hero-related hobbies, like geeking over pro heroes or training. Just please stop simping over C/N. You’re making the smol boi jealous of a fictional character :( Why can’t you just pay attention to him a bit more?

❄️Shoto Todoroki🔥

❥ Tbh he doesn't really acknowledge your love for this certain character for awhile

❥ All he focuses on is that you look really happy and cute when you talk about this show

❥ That’s all that really matters to him 😊

❥ Similar to Izuku, he’ll buy you all of their merchandise just to see you all adorable and excited

❥ And Todoroki is a rich boi so that’s a plus

❥ Will probably buy u all the expensive merchandise and you’ll just be 🥺️💞💞💞

❥ The only reason he never really gets angry is because he doesn't understand what's so terrible about your little obsession with the show/character

❥ He just sees it as a little hobby of yours that you’re really passionate about

❥ Despite his cold demeanor, Shoto is always trying his best to support anything you do

❥ While he can get very intense as a yandere, we gotta remember this is Shoto we’re talking about

❥ He probably has no clue what simping even is

❥ He only gets bothered when you own a body pillow or compliment C/N looks too much (he doesn’t appreciate you getting so worked up over someone who isn’t him... even though you both aren’t technically dating)

❥ But he wont flip out like Midoriya or Bakugou

❥ If you both are on the couch at the dorms and you're just going on and on about C/N he’d prob just like-

❥ Reach over and grab your hand and just state how cute you are

❥ He’s a bit of an idiot when it comes to flirting, but he notices that whenever he touches you in an affectionate way you sort of freeze up and forget what you're talking about for a few seconds

❥ Because of how supportive Shoto’s been you sorta developed feelings as well 

❥ Cause I mean who wouldn't ;)

❥ He becomes your close supportive weeb friend :D (even if he doesn’t completely understand what a weeb is...) 

❥ But Todoroki doesn't like that title that much

❥ But he’ll take it slow because he loves you and wants you to love him back :)

❥ “I like it when you smile like that, Y/N.”

In a nutshell, Yandere Todoroki is prob the calmest of the three. He doesn't understand how simping works and the idea of you passionately loving a fictional character more than him has never crossed his mind. But he uses your love of the show to get closer to you. Closer and closer and closer-

Until maybe he can just be the one to make you smile, and not just that character from the show :)

[winterskywrites]

how about combining bad batch and reinvent love? what happens to the bad batch in your au?

The regs all go weird on Kaller. Hunter isn’t quite sure what’s the matter with them, but Tech says it’s some sort of programming, and he trusts Tech to know what he’s talking about. Tech also says he thinks the five of them are immune.

In that respect, Tech is wrong.

They flee Kamino with Omega and without Crosshair. It’s not right for them to leave one of their own behind, and Hunter can feel the tension in the air, but there was nothing else they could have done. They’ll go back for Crosshair eventually, but now, it would be suicide. They’ll have to wait for the right moment.

And then, the day after they leave, a message goes out to all clone troopers on the same official channel that the first strange order came through on. “Order 66 is revoked,” Anakin Skywalker tell the galaxy. “All clone troopers, stand down, and report to your commanding officer immediately.”

“Do we believe him?” Tech asks Hunter warily.

“No,” Hunter says, shaking his head. He liked General Skywalker when they worked with him before, but he doesn’t trust him with this. It could be a trap to lure in any defectors, like themselves, and now they have a child to protect. “We’re not going back.”

They go to visit Cut and Suu instead, since Cut is the only deserter they’ve ever met who’s been able to actually avoid getting caught. Saleucami isn’t very different under the new Empire than it was under the Republic, and the Lawquane family is much the same as ever. Apparently, they’ve missed Rex by a day, and Hunter can see the mingled relief and disappointment on Echo’s face. At least he’s alive and apparently unaffected by whatever’s happening to most of the regs. Hunter keeps a close eye on Cut, but he doesn’t seem to be affected either.

While Omega plays with Jek and Shaeeah, Cut and Suu fill Hunter and the others in on some things that have happened since they fled Kamino. Apparently, the Chancellor-turned-Emperor has been overthrown and revealed to be a traitor who spent the whole Clone Wars playing both sides against each other, and rumor has it that Senator Amidala will be taking his throne as the new Galactic Empress. Hunter has always liked Senator Amidala, and she’s always been a proponent of clone rights, but this whole Empire feels wrong to him, and he’s not sure he can trust anyone who plays a part in it.

He does gather the rest of his squad to discuss it in private, though, because this is a decision he thinks they should all make together.

“I don’t know,” Echo says, shaking his head. “I trust General Skywalker, and the Senator always seemed like a good person, but with everything that’s happening...”

“I don’t like it,” Wrecker declares. “I don’t like the Empire either. I don’t like any of this.”

“Neither do I,” Hunter agrees. He looks over at Tech, who’s been strangely silent. “What do you think?”

“I have been attempting to run calculations on the matter, but there are too many unknown variables,” Tech replies. “I cannot properly calculate our odds either way.”

“What about worst case scenarios?” Echo asks. “Which ones are better?”

“The worst case scenario either way results in our deaths,” Tech replies bluntly. “But I believe it is more likely that we will face danger from going back than from staying away, with the data I currently have. If this changes, I will inform you.”

“Then we’re staying away,” Hunter decides.

Tech adjusts his goggles. “What about Crosshair?”

Hunter doesn’t want to think about how they left Crosshair behind, but he forces himself to. He may have given them no choice but to leave him, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to be forgotten. “If he’s on Kamino, there’s no way we can get him back ourselves. If he’s not on Kamino, we don’t know where to find him. I want him back just as much as the rest of you, but I don’t think we can go after him yet, especially not with the kid.”

“Is she staying with us?” Echo asks.

Honestly, Hunter has been thinking about that as well. He doesn’t know how to raise a child, none of them do, and their lifestyle is too dangerous for a little girl, even one who’s an enhanced clone. She has no knowledge of the galaxy outside Kamino, and that could get her killed.

“I’ll talk to Cut,” Hunter says. “For now, let’s lay low and decide what to do next.”

They stay on Saleucami overnight, making plans. Hunter has a conversation with Cut about leaving Omega behind with him, which Omega overhears and vehemently disagrees with. Hunter tells the others to factor Omega into their plans.

In the end, they leave with some supplies, some news, and some tips on raising a child. They don’t have a real plan yet, but Hunter figures they’ll come up with something as they go along. Their main objective is just to keep their heads down and stay hidden.

And then, on their second day of aimless flying, they get a call.

“It’s from Kamino,” Echo says. “What do you say, Hunter?”

“Tech, can you make sure they can’t trace us or see us?” Hunter asks.

Tech nods. “Easily.”

“Then do that,” Hunter says. “Then we can see what they want with us on Kamino.”

After a few moments of fiddling, Tech accepts the call. The hologram fizzes into focus, and it shows...

“Commander Cody?” Wrecker demands.

“He can’t hear us,” Tech says helpfully. Wrecker gives him a dirty look, but before he can say anything else, Cody starts talking.

“I assume my message is getting through, even though I can’t hear you or see you. I’m here with someone who wants to speak to you.”

Cody steps aside, and Hunter's chest clenches as Crosshair steps into view. “I don’t blame you for leaving me behind when I was trying to kill you,” he says dryly, “but you could at least answer the comm properly now.”

Tech looks over at Hunter, but Hunter shakes his head. He’d like to believe this is really Crosshair, their Crosshair, but they still don’t fully know why he turned on them on Kamino, and Hunter can’t trust him until they know beyond the shadow of a doubt that he’s really back.

“I don’t know how much you know about this,” Cody says, “but all clone troopers have behavior modification chips that can be used to control us. The Emperor” - Cody says the title with more derision than Hunter’s ever heard in his voice before - “used them to turn us against the Jedi. But the order has been revoked, and the control chips are being removed.”

Crosshair turns his head to show a small red incision near his temple. “Recreational brain surgery,” he drawls. “The longnecks put up a fuss, and that sleemo Tarkin had to be taken care of, but it was nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Cody gives Crosshair the sort of fondly exasperated look that he’s given every member of the Bad Batch so many times, and Hunter wants so badly to believe this is real. He wishes he could.

“I understand that you aren’t likely to take us at our word,” Cody begins.

“Because you’re paranoid bastards,” Crosshair cuts in.

“But we’re willing to meet you at a location of your choice, just the two of us. You’ll outnumber us, two to one.” Cody’s lips twitch up the slightest bit. “Or two and a half to one, if you include the child you recused. And you all said I was a mother hen.”

“You know people called you that?” Crosshair asks.

Cody rolls his eyes, a surprisingly undignified move for the usually dignified commander. “No one was particularly subtle about it.” He turns his focus back to Hunter and the others. “If you want to meet with us, send coordinates and a time to my comm and we’ll be there.”

“And Wrecker,” Crosshair adds, “since the war is over, you’ll never have a chance to beat my total. I win.”

“Hey!” Wrecker protests, clearly forgetting that Crosshair can’t hear him.

The comm fizzles out on Crosshair’s smug expression. Hunter turns to the others, seeing his own uncertainty reflected on their faces.

“What do you think?”

“The cut on Crosshair’s head is in the right spot for it to be from removing the chip,” Omega offers helpfully. Hunter carefully doesn’t jump. Omega wasn’t in the cockpit when the call came in, and somehow, Hunter missed her entering. He must have been more distracted than he realized.

“It could be a trap, but the offer for us to choose the location makes that less likely,” Tech says. “Although they could prepare to mobilize troopers the moment we give them the coordinates.”

“I’m not sure if I believe them or not,” Echo says slowly, “but I think it’s worth looking into.”

Hunter looks to Wrecker. “What do you think?”

“Cross didn’t make any jokes like that after he started acting weird on Kaller,” Wrecker says. “All the regs acted like droids or something. Cross and Commander Cody weren’t acting like droids.”

“If it were just up to me, I’d meet up with them,” Hunter says. “But I think we should all be in agreement on this. What do you think?”

Echo, Tech, and Wrecker all look at each other. “I think we should meet with them,” Omega pipes up. “If we get to pick the spot, then we have the advantage, don’t we?”

They may or may not have an advantage, depending on whether or not Cody keeps his word about not bringing anyone else along. Hunter wants to do it anyway.

“I believe we should take this chance,” Tech says. “We may not get a better one. We can find out more of what’s happening, and if he still needs it, we may be able to rescue Crosshair.”

“I’m with Tech,” Wrecker agrees. “Let’s do it.”

“Echo?” Hunter asks, turning to the last member of the squad.

Echo looks at all of them, then nods once. “Let’s do it.”

“Alright,” Hunter says, immediately starting to make a plan. “Tech, figure out the best spot for us to meet them. Wrecker, Echo, check our weapons and start planning the best ways for us to get out of this alive.”

“What about me?” Omega asks as the other three go to do as they were told. “What can I do to help?”

“You’re going to stay on the ship when we meet with them,” Hunter says. Omega begins to complain, but he continues over her, “So that means I need to show you how it works.”

Omega’s complaining stops. “You’re going to show me how to fly the ship?”

“Just the basics,” Hunter says. “Come here.”

He manages to teach Omega the basics of takeoff, landing, flying, and using the guns by the time they reach Tech’s chosen location. It’s an ocean planet with small islands and rough atmospheric conditions, chosen so neither an aerial nor ground fleet can reach them easily. It reminds Hunter of Kamino. He wonders if that was purposeful.

“Assuming they come directly here and take the most direct route, Commander Cody and Crosshair should arrive within the hour,” Tech announces. “We can set up defenses while we wait.”

“Wrecker and I have some ideas for that,” Echo says, pulling out a box of land mines.

“This island is uninhabited, right, Tech?” Hunter asks.

Tech nods. “Entirely.”

Hunter turns to Echo and Wrecker. “Then go ahead.”

The two of them get busy preparing while Tech monitors for any incoming ships or transmissions and Hunter waits with Omega. It won’t be long, Hunter doesn’t think. Cody and Crosshair will arrive soon.

He really hopes this doesn’t end in a fight.

“Ship incoming,” Tech says, and Hunter jerks to attention. “It’s small. It wouldn’t fit more than a single squad.”

“Are you scanning any other ships?” Hunter asks.

Tech shakes his head. “Nothing else.���

So they’ll be fighting a squad at most, unless there’s another ship that’s evading Tech’s scanners. Of course, it’s possible that Cody and Crosshair were actually telling the truth when they said they’d come alone, but Hunter’s not going to take their word for it, not with the way everything’s been going lately. If they come with a squad, then he thinks his own squad, incomplete as it is, will have a fighting chance.

“They’re landing,” Echo reports from outside. “Are you coming out?”

“We are,” Hunter says. He turns to Omega and sits her down in the pilot’s seat. “You know what to do, right?”

“I know,” Omega says, nodding. “You can trust me.”

Hunter tousles her hair. “Alright, kid. Be careful.”

“Good luck!”

Hunter and Tech leave the ship and join Echo and Wrecker, who seem to have gone through the entire box of land mines. “Those aren’t going to blow us up, right?” Hunter asks dryly.

“They’re all wired to this detonator,” Echo says, taking the detonator off his belt to show the others. “They won’t go off unless I press the button.”

“Hopefully, we won’t have to,” Tech says. “It could cause serious damage to the ecosystem.”

“I thought you said nothing lives on the island,” Wrecker counters.

“It is uninhabited, yes, but the sea around us is not,” Tech replies. “And if we destroy this island, it will have consequences for the sea around.”

“We can talk about the consequences combat has on the ecosystem later,” Hunter interrupts. “Focus. The door is opening.”

The door to Cody and Crosshair’s ship lowers, and Hunter’s hand hovers just above his blaster. The others are in similar positions around him. None of them want this to come to a fight, Hunter knows that, but they’re all ready if it does.

And then two figures step off the ship, neither in armor nor, as far as Hunter can tell, armed. Cody looks mostly the same as ever, except for a shaved patch on the side of his head and a new scar under it. Next to him, Crosshair has a matching scar and expectation glittering in his eyes. For a moment, everything is silent.

“I told you they’d be ready for a fight,” Crosshair finally drawls. “You owe me five credits, Commander.”

“I didn’t take that bet, Crosshair,” Cody replies. “I’m just surprised their blasters aren’t drawn.”

“How can we know this isn’t a trap?” Hunter asks.

Crosshair reaches to pull something out of a pocket. Hunter tenses, but Crosshair just pulls out a small sample of something and tosses it at Tech, who catches it neatly.

“That’s the chip,” Crosshair says. “The four of you have them as well, but we’ll talk about removing those later.”

“What is it, Tech?” Hunter asks Tech quietly.

“It does look like a bio-organic chip of some sort,” Tech says. “I would have to study it in more depth to be certain that it was the one implanted in Crosshair, however.”

“I understand the hesitation to trust us,” Cody says, stepping forward. Hunter’s hand twitches closer to his blaster, and Cody puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I understand,” he repeats, “but we’re telling the truth. What do we have to do to convince you?”

Hunter swallows, then he looks at Crosshair. “The Jedi kid, on Kaller.”

“You’re an awful liar,” Crosshair replies immediately. “But you were right not to kill him.”

It could still be a trap. Hunter knows it could be trap, but he wants to believe them so badly. He can see the same desire on the others’ faces. If they had to run, he has no doubt that they could do it, but if they don’t have to...

“Hunter,” Cody says - Cody, the one reg Hunter has always respected, the only commanding officer whose orders he’ll follow gladly. “You can trust us. This is real.”

Slowly, Hunter relaxes, moving his hand away from his blaster. The other do the same around him, readily enough that he knows they agree with his assessment. Cody and Crosshair aren’t a threat. They’re telling the truth.

“It’s good to have you back,” Hunter says to Crosshair, taking a step forward and not tensing at all when Crosshair and Cody do the same.

Crosshair doesn’t really smile in response, because Crosshair rarely smiles, but Hunter can read him well enough to know he’s pleased. “It’s good to be back.”

[fun-with-colors]

Persona 5 Royal and “Poe’s Masquerade”

I recently (read: a few minutes ago) saw a post about how Beneath the Mask is a brilliant and tragic character study of Joker, and I felt compelled to talk about some of the awesome references in Persona 5 Royal (not sure if they’re all in the vanilla game, never played it.)

So, in Beneath the Mask, there’s the line “I’m a shapeshifter, at Poe’s Masquerade,” right? Which is a reference to Edgar Allan Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death. Seems like a pretty cut-and-dry thing, it ties into the theme of there not being anything beneath the mask, as was the case in Poe’s Masque. Well, I am here to tell you that that particular reference is anything but simple. It’s brilliant. 

Fair warning: this is gonna be a long post.

First off, some context on The Masque of the Red Death. It’s a short story where, basically, there’s this plague going on. It’s called the Red Death, it makes you sweat blood and die in less than an hour. Terribly contagious, the Red Death. So this rich guy gathers up all of his friends and allies to hole up in his abbey, and locks the gates behind them. A few months in, they decide to throw a rocking masquerade party. 

The party is structured as such: 

There are 7 rooms in order, each color-coded. Blue, then purple, then green, then orange, and then violet. The last room is black, and lit up by red lights. There’s a big imposing clock in the last room, and whenever it chimes the hour everyone stops partying until the clock is done, and then resumes. 

Everything’s going great while people are dying outside until midnight, when this new guy shows up in a gaudy red costume that looks like a corpse killed by the red death. The host chases this guy down with a dagger. They go through all the rooms, and once they reach the last room the host finally looks the mysterious stranger in the face, and instantly dies. The guests panic and remove the mask to see who it was, only to find that there was nothing there. The guests then all also die to the Red Death. 

Grim, right? Well, it also has a lot of striking similarities to Shido’s palace.

The basic premise of some rich asshole trying to save only his friends from the plague on the land, only this time the plague is one that he himself has orchestrated: the mental shutdowns. Those on his ship are safe from being permanently cancelled, while those who aren’t (like the Shujin principal) are not. 

The letters of introduction parallel the 7 rooms, since all of that preparation is in the eventual goal of unlocking the final room.

The guests on the ship are all wearing masks that look a heck of a lot like masquerade masks. 

The intruder, ie: the thieves. 

 as a last-ditch effort to kill the thieves, Shido takes a pill that will temporarily kill him, mirroring the moment when the host dies in The Masque of the Red Death. 

But wait! We’re not done!

That is just the first layer of references

This is why I said that it was gonna get super long. Strap in folks, because those references aren’t even an original choice that the game made. They’re INHERITED references. Also I have a lot to say, and am bad at being succinct. Well, they say that if you can’t be concise, you can at least be interesting, and I hope that I’ve managed that. 

Some more context:

Akechi is based off of the famous Japanese detective Akechi Kogoro. The author of the Akechi Kogoro stories is a man by the pen name of Edogawa Ranpo. If that name sounds familiar, it should. It is, as wikipedia puts it, “A rendering of [Edgar Allan] Poe’s name.” 

There is one Akechi Kogoro story, called Gold Mask (Or The Gold Mask, or The Golden Mask), that is especially relevant here. In it, Akechi goes up against the mysterious Gold Mask, who turns out to be none other than Arsene Lupin. 

It should not be surprising how many similarities there are, but I am somehow surprised nonetheless. 

These are some insane connections, y’all. I’m basically just gonna retell the events of the story because it’s mostly relevant anyways. It’s not even all about the red death thing. Also I just really like this section of the story. This is gonna get rambly, but bear with me here. 

Ok so first plot twist: this book also references The Masque of the Red Death. Big time. Like, there is a chapter titled “The Masque of the Red Death.”

The setting: a masquerade ball put on by the French Ambassador (The Count de Rouzieres). The ball takes place in seven chambers, in the same color order as in the original story. This time, however, they are set up so that one can only see one room at a time. Do note that the final room is described as making things look as though they are “somehow not of this world.”

The inevitable twist

Guess who shows up unannounced at the moment the clock strikes midnight? Ding ding ding! That’s right, it’s the Gold Mask. 

(The next chapter is called “The Gold Death”)

The investigator who had been Akechi’s sidekick (more on that later) chases after the Gold Mask, along with the Count and one other dude. 

I’m just gonna quote the book’s description of the third man. 

“It was impossible to identify the man on account of his eccentric costume. [...] He wore a form-fitting black shirt and trousers, black shoes, black socks, a black cloth on his head, the ends of which rose sharply into two long horns, and, of course a face mask.”

...Yeah. I was way more surprised to find out that that design is straight out of the source material than to find out who that mysterious third man was. (more on why akechi was disguised in a bit)

The Count is the first into the final room with the Gold Mask. No sooner does he enter than the other two men hear a gunshot. They run in, fearing the worst. 

Turns out it’s the Gold Mask who’s been shot by the Count. They pull off the mask and discover... the Count’s interpreter. One of the investigators declares that the interpreter must be the gold mask, and this all can be called off. The guy’s dying, everything’s fine. 

Suddenly, the man with the black mask starts laughing. They demand he removes his mask, he does so and reveals himself as Akechi Kogoro. Akechi insists that this man cannot be the Gold Mask, because Arsene Lupin is the gold mask.

Everyone else thinks he’s ridiculous, until he gets the dying interpreter to confess that yes, he was working for Arsene Lupin.

Now. The part that makes this all really funny is that as the interpreter is dying, he points out to Akechi who Arsene Lupin is (since Lupin has so many disguises as to not fundamentally have a true identity). The interpreter points to (dun dun duhDUH) The Count of Rouzieres, the French Ambassador to Japan. 

Obviously the police commissioner is finding that hard to believe, but when Akechi produces an envelope that he claims is evidence, he orders that the rest of the investigators and guests leave the room, so that it’s only him, the POV character, Akechi, and the Count. 

The letter is apparently from another well-known detective familiar with Arsene Lupin, full of evidence that proves that the Count of Rouzieres is actually Arsene Lupin. Incriminating stuff, blah blah blah. 

Arsene admits to being, well, arsene, and then proceeds to have a superficially amicable conversation with Akechi. He then pulls his gun out of nowhere and threatens to shoot akechi. Suddenly, the detective who supplied Akechi with the note (his name is Weber) jumps out of the clock mechanism behind Arsene and confiscates his gun. Arsene Lupin is about to be arrested, with no way out. One of the investigators pulls out his own gun on Arsene, and both Akechi and the police commissioner are very experienced in making arrests. Even beyond that, there’s an entire crowd of investigators waiting outside the only door. 

We cut to the aforementioned crowd of investigators, who have just noticed that the voices from inside the room have gotten very quiet. After knocking and hearing only silence, they decide to open the door.

The room is empty. 

We cut back to Arsene, who is acting very confident despite his precarious circumstances. He says that he has the power to create such a catastrophe as to make it impossible for them to arrest him, before calmly walking out of the only door in the room. 

The detectives call for the police officers outside to arrest Arsene, but... there doesn’t seem to be anyone there to do it. He locks the door to the room from the outside, and flees out of an open glass window and down a fire escape to his waiting allies. (very similar to the way Joker attempts to escape from the Casino, and VERY similar to how he ultimately escapes from the interrogation room.)

It turns out that the “black-velvet room” was actually a cleverly disguised elevator, with the mechanism in the clock. Arsene used the elevator to separate the detectives from the rest of the investigators, and to make his escape for real. It is SHOCKING to me that of all the things in persona 5, the interrogation room escape is ENTIRELY true to the source material. It’s wild. 

Anyways, I’ll stop there. I’ll probably make another post with all of the miscellaneous connections between the Gold Mask and Persona 5, since there are a lot. I’ve had this topic sitting in my brain for a while. 

Edit: I forgot to get to why Akechi was disguised. Well, it turns out that’s another connection: Akechi had been presumed dead. Everybody thought he had been shot. Turns out it was just a fake version of himself, a trick taken from Sherlock Holmes. (and one that shows up in Persona 5 Royal). He was taking advantage of the fact that everyone thought he was dead to get more info without being suspected. 

[iatethepomegranate]

Just a fic about Caleb buying a house in Rexxentrum with Beau and Yasha, and coping with that kind of change and newfound stability (and becoming Professor Widogast). Angst and fluff are at war in this fic.

Content warnings: lots of grief, Caleb's backstory, referenced child abuse

Chapter summary: The Nein goes shopping and Caleb is tired. The market offers up an expected memory, and the chance to hold a little piece of childhood in his hands.

Notes: Title is from Nine by Sleeping At Last.

****

Chapter 4: I let the scale tip and feel all of it, it's uncomfortable but right

Jester and Caduceus were a force to be reckoned with at the marketplace. They had already convinced Caleb to let them buy him a set of curtains for his side of the house. Thick fabric to block out most light and definitely any nosy neighbours. They were a soft yellow-green patterned with watercolour chamomile flowers, which they had figured out were native to the Zemni Fields behind Caleb’s back.

“These are so pretty Cay-leb,” Jester said, gently sliding them into the bag of holding with Fjord’s help as they stepped out of the shop. “We’ll put these up as soon as we get back, okay? Yasha promised she’ll help us.”

Yasha was a little way off with Kingsley, her arm over his shoulders as they looked at swords at a nearby market stall. Caduceus dragged everyone off to stock up on kitchen necessities and more seeds for Yasha’s garden. And a ton of baking supplies, because Yasha had begged Caduceus to teach her, even though everyone knew no one had to beg Caduceus for that kind of thing.

Essek, disguised as a half-elf with soft brown hair and eyes, held himself a little awkwardly here in the heart of the Dwendalian Empire, but he defiantly refused to complain. He had little input on Empire goods, aside from wine, about which Beauregard happily bickered with him. Caleb was happy enough to let the others direct him, even if he theoretically knew the markets better than they did.

He trusted them. And he was so tired.

So he quietly followed the Nein around the market and let them make decisions for him with minimal input. He must have looked wrecked, because Essek, despite his disguise and clear nervousness, held his hand to anchor him.

Fjord, Jester and Kingsley bought him a ton of high quality paper and ink for the study, with Essek’s subtle guidance. Caduceus picked out basic kitchen staples for Caleb that would keep him fed even if he didn't have much time to cook, in the event he couldn’t eat with Beau and Yasha. Veth found some orange-amber cushions that complemented the curtains. Yasha found an orange-white checkered tablecloth that she declared matched his hair and therefore was a necessity for the house. She and Beau bought two, one for each side.

Caleb, in a lucid moment, found a soft blue rug for Beau and Yasha’s bedroom and bought it for them, despite their objections. It was only fair he gave them something back after everything they were doing for him. He would have to work out the logistics of installing a real-world sex mirror later as a proper gift. He’d ask Essek to help, and Essek would do it, but he would hate every second of it. The one sex joke he had ever made in front of the Nein was 50% deflection. And jokes were very different from installing a sex mirror for someone.

Jester would be up for it. A little bit of gold dust would be enough for Caleb to hold it in place with Immovable Object while they secured it.

Caleb was pulled from his calculations about dimensions and weight for a ceiling mirror when Veth tugged on his hand. “Hey, Cay. There’s an old lady selling homemade quilts. Rexxentrum is very cold, and you are going to catch a chill if we don’t get you something better than that one shitty blanket. Come on.”

She led him over, catching up with the rest of the Nein. Jester was chatting with an old Zemian woman sitting behind the table behind piles of bright quilts. The stitching sparked an old, old memory in Caleb, and he found himself stepping closer before he had consciously thought about it.

“Ja, I make the trip up from Blumenthal every few months,” the old woman said in a thick Zemnian accent, much thicker than Caleb’s after all his time travelling.

Caleb froze for half a second, easing himself through the shock of that information. “Ah, hallo, grandmother. It is good to meet someone from home.” This conversation would be easier in Zemnian. Common lacked the polite Sie form that Caleb would typically have used for respect. But he wasn’t sure he could handle having this conversation in Zemnian, so it was probably for the best.

The woman smiled up at him, her lips wobbly with age. “Hallo, young man.”

Caleb’s knees ached a little, just to remind him some parts of him really were not young at all.

She held out a wrinkled hand for him to shake. “Call me Lisbeth.”

Caleb had a strange moment of indecision regarding his name, trying to remember if he had known this woman as a child but coming up empty; Blumenthal was just large enough that it was possible not to know everyone, and she may have even moved there after he was gone. “Ah, Caleb Widogast.” He shook her hand. “I grew up in Blumenthal. This stitching is…” Why was he just saying everything that came to his mind?

“Very traditional, ja.”

“Ja, my mother used to make quilts like these...” His was probably ash now.

He was dimly aware that the Nein were watching him, and that Veth had done an extremely visible double-take.

Lisbeth searched Caleb’s face for one terrifying moment, and he was convinced that maybe she did know him after all. But then, whatever she saw made her soften, and she reached beneath the table. “I like to save my best work for those who will appreciate it. Here.” She laid a thicker quilt on top of the others. “I made one like this for my grandson. He wears it like a cape around the house.”

The stitching was a little more intricate, and the squares were detailed with minimalist animal shapes. Mostly cats. Una had taken Caleb’s cat obsession to heart; the quilt she had made him had been similar. Painfully so.

Caleb traced the stitching of an orange cat, his vision blurring. Essek squeezed his hand. Caleb blinked until he could see again. Even with the disguise turning purple eyes to brown, these were definitely Essek’s eyes staring up at him with a familiar look of both affection and concern.

“We’ll take it,” said Veth. Veth, who had already bought Caleb a house, and cushions. This was… no.

“Veth.”

“Caleb.”

He sighed. “A word, please.” He took her hand, leading her a little away from the group. “Veth, this is too much.”

Veth’s eyes were wet. “No. No, it’s not. I saw how much this means to you. Caleb, you just talked about your childhood and your mother to a total stranger. That’s not…” She sighed. “I saw your face when she pulled out that quilt.”

“I cannot let you…” Caleb could barely speak. “Veth.” He swallowed. “You bought me a house. You are still buying things for me. This is… I can’t take this.”

“Why not?” There was an edge to her voice, but it was a genuine question. “I thought we were over this. Why is this the line?”

Caleb did not know where he found the strength to stay on his feet when all he wanted to do was fall in a heap. He stared at the dirt.

“Cay, look at me. Please.” Veth couldn’t reach his face, but she absolutely could conjure her mage hand to lift Caleb’s chin until he met her eyes. “Will having this make you happy? Or does it hurt too much? I won’t force you to take something that hurts you, but if this is because you don’t think you deserve it…”

“I don’t know, Veth.”

They had spent a long time alone together, relying on each other to survive. If anyone could read him, it was her. She stared at him for a few moments, eyes moving as if his face were a real book.

“I don’t think you would’ve struck up a conversation with a random Zemnian lady if this was the bad kind of pain,” she said. She rolled her shoulders back. “That settles it: you’re getting the quilt. I’ll get the Nein to chip in if that makes you feel less weird about it.”

It kind of did. And Caleb didn’t have it in him to argue anymore. “Ja, okay.”

Veth pulled him down so she could kiss his cheek and led him back to the stall. “All right, everyone give me your money.”

It was probably a sign of how bad Caleb looked that nobody questioned her. But when Essek reached for his pocket, Caleb reached out to stop him.

“No,” he said. “Not you.”

Essek frowned deeply with the half-elf’s face, but the expressions were undeniably him. “Caleb.”

“No. You need that money. Do not put me through this.”

Essek’s face softened. “All right.”

The rest of the Nein, even Kingsley who still barely knew Caleb from a bar of soap, coughed up enough coins to pay for the quilt. Lisbeth, a little teary herself, offered a discount, which they refused. Jester and Veth gave her extra gold that Caleb couldn’t count through his brain fog. Okay, he was very much not coping if he couldn’t even count things.

Veth was too small to pick up the quilt without dragging it on the floor, even after Lisbeth had gently folded it, so Yasha accepted it from Lisbeth and handed it to Caleb. Old muscle memory took over, and he buried his face in the soft fabric.

“Danke schön,” he said quietly.

Lisbeth smiled at him again, but it was sad. “You should come by the market and say hello before I go back home in a few weeks.”

“I will.” It would hurt a lot, but Caleb meant it.

“Take care, Schatz.”

No one had called him that in a long time. It hurt. It hurt so much.

Grief was funny like that sometimes. You think you’re getting on with things, doing okay, and then there will be a scent on the wind, an old term of endearment, stitching identical to your mother’s… and you break.

Caleb squeezed the quilt and barely held himself together as the Nein led him back home. Whatever shopping they had left to do… they had wordlessly agreed to leave it for another day.

****

Back home, Caleb asked to be alone for a bit. That meant Essek was allowed. They laid the quilt out on Caleb’s bed, Essek’s disguise abandoned. Caleb stopped fighting the tears, letting the sobs come as he smoothed out the edges, fingers catching on a stitched golden retriever puppy.

Essek pressed his palm between Caleb’s shoulder blades. “Sit. Please.”

Caleb lowered himself slowly, wholly convinced he would collapse if he wasn’t careful, and settled on the edge of the bed. Essek pushed him onto his back and curled up next to him, guiding Caleb’s head to settle against his chest. Limbs tangled together.

No more words were said for a while. Caleb drifted asleep at some point, waking with a headache. Essek left briefly to fetch him a cup of water. Caleb stretched and his back cracked a little bit. He felt hollowed out, but in a good way. The way you felt after a good, well-deserved cry.

Essek returned in a few minutes, wiping his own eyes on his sleeve, and made Caleb drink the whole cup. “You should eat something.”

“Soon.” Caleb still felt a bit queasy from the tears.

Essek tucked himself into Caleb’s side, arm around his waist. He squeezed, just a little, and kissed Caleb’s collarbone. Caleb pulled him in close and kissed the top of his head.

“Danke.” The word was not enough to express the depths of Caleb’s gratitude that Essek had lain here with him through his grief, that he had taken such a risk to stay at Caleb’s side in the market to begin with. Under better circumstances, Caleb would have been furious with Essek for that, but they both knew Caleb had needed him today.

Caleb slowly rubbed his palm across the surface of the quilt behind Essek’s back. It felt exactly the same as the one he’d had when he was little, which Una had repaired again and again over the years because he was so attached to it. She had made it last until he was seventeen. Until the night he had destroyed everything because of a false memory, primed by faux-patriotic indoctrination and horrific abuse. Caleb would never fully shake off the guilt. Not entirely. Whatever Trent had put in his head, it had been Caleb’s hands that set the fire. But it was getting easier to accept that Trent had engineered the situation very carefully, so that Caleb did not feel like he had another choice.

He was glad Veth had convinced him to accept the quilt. One more piece of his past reclaimed. One more piece that could become a comfort instead of a knife in his ribs.

Caleb felt better. The two of them slowly stretched out their limbs, rolled aching joints, and headed to Beau and Yasha’s side of the house. There was a scent of baking in the air. Not apple tarts--Caleb probably would have broken again if it had been, no matter how happy the memory. He could smell spices.

They stepped down the stairs into the living area. Beauregard was grumbling over some Cobalt Soul report, while Kingsley, notably bored, lazily slapped her leg with his tail over and over. Fjord listened to Beauregard’s complaints with a constructed look of sympathy. Veth was openly ignoring her, head in her spellbook once again. Yasha, Caduceus and Jester were notably absent.

“Oh!” Fjord was very quick to find an excuse to stop listening to her. “There you are. The others are baking biscuits that none of us can pronounce.”

Beauregard rolled her eyes. “I’m telling you I said it right.”

“Caleb, help us out,” said Kingsley. “They’re some kind of spiced biscuit dusted with sugar while they’re still hot. Normally for special occasions.”

“This is a special occasion,” Veth told him. “It’s got the same number of syllables as fluffernutter. I think.”

Caleb suspected he knew what they meant. “Ah. Pfeffernüsse.”

“Yeah, that.”

“Told you I was right,” Beauregard muttered.

“They’re very good,” said Caleb.

“I think the first batch is almost done,” said Veth. “You should be our taste tester.”

Caleb crouched beside her on his way to the kitchen, pointing at the book. “Veth, that rune is upside down.”

“Fuck!”

He found the spell she was copying out in his own spellbook and set it beside her. “Here. It’s easier with more than one source. I’ll be back to help you in a moment.”

Caleb then stepped into the kitchen, with Essek on his tail. Yasha had a pair of soft pink oven mitts on, pulling a tray from their dark metal oven. Jester held a bag of confectioner’s sugar, bouncing in anticipation while Caduceus tried half-heartedly to close the bag before she spilled it everywhere.

“You’re just in time, Mr Caleb,” Caduceus said, giving up. “The lady selling baking supplies at the market gave us the recipe. I am not going to try pronouncing it again.”

“Pfeffernüsse,” Caleb supplied again.

“Yeah, no.”

Jester snickered. “He kept trying to say it while you were upstairs. It was very cute.”

By now, Yasha had set the tray down and put another in the oven. “Caleb, Caleb, come here! Look!”

Caleb stepped to her side and gazed down at the cookie tray. They were a little less round than the pfeffernüsse Caleb was used to, but recognisable. Jester came over and sprinkled the sugar over them with far more grace than anyone had expected.

Once cooled a bit, they brought the biscuits out to the living area. They were soft like Caleb remembered, and the spice blend was excellent. “These are perfect,” he said. “Thank you.”

Yasha looked genuinely touched, and swept him into a huge hug.

“May I help you next time?” asked Essek. “I have never baked before.”

“Of course,” Yasha said. “Caduceus is going to teach us to make bread soon.” She held up her hands in a slow-motion shrug. “Goes well with soup?” Her voice went up at the end, making it sound like a question.

Kingsley, who had absolutely not paid any attention to the conversation, shoved an entire biscuit in his mouth, his eyes widening to a ludicrous degree. “What the fuck? This is the best thing I have ever tasted.”

“We are famous for our baked goods,” said Caleb.

“You’d think Zemnians would be a happier bunch if this is the shit they eat,” Beauregard said, her mouth covered in sugar.

“Depression baking is a cultural pastime,” Caleb said.

“Bro, what the fuck?”

“Do you think Astrid and Eadwulf eat these things?” asked Jester.

“Probably,” said Caleb. “We used to.” That reminded him; he needed to message Astrid and arrange a time to discuss the job offer. “Ah, one moment.” He pulled out the copper wire, sticking to Common for the sake of his companions. “Astrid, it’s Bren. The Professors delivered the offer. Do you have time to talk? I am a little nervous about it. Time and place?”

Astrid replied in Zemnian, “Do you remember Trent’s old office? I’m there now. Come when you are ready.”

Caleb re-upped the spell. “I will be there in half an hour,” he replied in Zemnian.

Still in Zemnian, Astrid replied one last time, “I look forward to it.”

Beauregard was the only one who could understand the Zemnian half of what Caleb had said. “Caleb, I don’t wanna be patronising, but are you feeling up to that?”

“I want to get it over with,” Caleb replied. He clarified for the rest of the group, “I am going to see Astrid soon, to talk about the job.”

“I’ll pack some cookies,” said Jester, grabbing the plate and rushing into the kitchen. Yasha chased after her before she could break anything.

“Do you want an escort?” asked Fjord.

“Nein. I’ll be all right.”

“You will call if you need us?” Fjord’s voice was firm; it wasn’t a question.

“Ja, of course.”

****

Caleb was out the door in a few minutes, carrying a cloth bundle of six Pfeffernüsse, all that had been left of the first batch. It was four in the afternoon, the air having chilled a little but it was still pleasant. Caleb didn’t mind the cold too much, as long as he wasn’t trapped in it.

Walking into the Shimmer Ward was less frightening than it used to be. There would always be a lingering hint of anxiety, but he had it well in hand. There were crownsguard stationed at the Academy gates; they silently let him pass into the manicured gardens of the campus.

Coming here as a teenager had been a dream come true, which had quickly become a nightmare. Maybe coming back here to teach would let him reclaim those memories, turn them into something useful. He headed to the nearest tower, where he knew most staff kept an office. Trent had rarely been in his, but Caleb recalled that Astrid had been teaching here, so it made sense she would make better use of it.

The tall marble archways and huge windows had not changed one bit since the last time Caleb had been here, not long before he murdered his parents. Maybe coming here was a bad idea, especially after the day he’d had. Or maybe he needed to get this over with. If he got emotional about being here, at least he could claim it was because he was tired.

Muscle memory carried Caleb to Trent’s old office. He felt nauseous. He knocked on the door. It swung open, seemingly of its own accord.

Astrid was seated behind the massive, heavy mahogany desk. Caleb knew from personal experience how sharp the corners could be. He was going to be sick.

Astrid set aside her pen, capping the inkwell front of her. “Hallo, Bren.”

Caleb swallowed before he spoke. “Astrid.”

Astrid continued in Zemnian, so Caleb decided to match her. “Sit down,” she said , gesturing to one of the three chairs. They looked spindly and delicate, but Caleb knew for a fact how sturdy they were. And how much force it took to break out of any bindings tying one’s arm to the arms of the chair.

Caleb took a deep breath through his nose, picking up the spices of the Pfeffernüsse. It helped. He placed the bundle on the desk. Astrid’s desk.

“Jester, Yasha and Caduceus are experimenting with Zemnian baking,” he said quietly, letting himself fall into a chair. “They’re good.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow, gently picking at the piece of twine holding the bundle closed. She lifted a biscuit from the cloth. “They smell right.”

“They taste right, too.”

Astrid split the biscuit in half, handing the larger part to Caleb. He wasn’t sure if it was affection or distrust. She waited for him to take the first bite but also quickly followed suit, so maybe a bit of both. Understandable.

“These are good,” she said, finishing the biscuit and rubbing a thumb across her sugared lips. Slowly. It had to be deliberate. “You look tired.”

“Long day.”

“How is the house?”

“Good. Different. I am...” He laughed, just a bit, thinking over the last couple days. “A little out of practice. I don’t know if you knew… I was homeless for a while. It felt safer.”

Astrid did not look surprised. “I know.” She exhaled through her nose, visibly rousing herself. “You wanted to talk about the job offer?”

“Alphira would have made a terrible Volstrucker.”

Astrid cracked a small smile. “She told me about your meeting today. I apologise for her clumsiness. You took it more gracefully than I would have.”

“I doubt it.” Caleb didn’t tell her about his breakdown behind the shop. “A shame the smut shop is gone.”

“Evidently their business fell apart without your patronage.” Astrid gave an extremely put-upon sigh. “Wulf found another place. Get him to give you directions.”

“Kingsley is curious.”

“Yes, I am sure that is your only motivation.” Astrid cleared her throat and visibly put her mind back on task. “Bettina needs a replacement. The Archmages are falling over themselves to sing your praises. They are, in some ways, full of shit. Hiring you will terrify them. I think you will like that.” She glanced at the now-closed door and lowered her voice. “Headmaster Zivan Margolin is a weak link to Trent, but a link nonetheless. Your presence will make his life very difficult.”

Caleb matched her volume. “Whoever decided the Headmaster of Soltryce Academy should be the same person as the Archmage of Conscription is…” He sighed, unable to put into words how much the deck had been stacked against him, Astrid, Wulf and every other child pulled into the Volstrucker program. And how much it upset him. “What the fuck.”

“Margolin is busy pretending he loves you,” said Astrid. “He’s become a little bold in his claims that he saw your potential from the beginning. The Martinet is growing uncomfortable with the implication and will throw him to the sharks to save his own skin. One word to the right people…”

Caleb knew Beauregard would carry the message to Yudala Fon in a heartbeat. “We need to be careful. Take it slow. We have disrupted the Volstrucker pipeline for the moment. We cannot afford to stumble now.”

Astrid leaned back in her seat, looking very much like a cat who had just eaten a bird it had been chasing for miles. She raised her voice to a normal volume. “So, you will take the job?”

“I might.”

“Bettina told me your demands,” said Astrid. “We’ll put them before the Archmages. See what we can do. If nothing else, making the demands will prove a point no matter what they do about them.”

“Astrid, I am serious. I want them fulfilled.”

“I know. Bettina has suggestions about the ethics lessons. I agree you should teach it as part of the Transmutation classes, at least for now. Would we have listened when we were students?”

“I think that depends on who it came from. And whether Trent had gotten to us yet.”

“I agree. I think you will make a more compelling speaker than anyone else we could find.” She smirked a little. “You were always charismatic, and you have the lived experience to make an impact.” She took another biscuit, chewing thoughtfully, eyes tracing through the air as if she was reading calculations. “You said you were nervous.”

Admitting that in the Sending had been an impulse decision, born out of an emotional day. He didn’t regret it. Outside the Nein, Astrid probably understood best that Caleb had always been an anxious person, even if he had handled it much more gracefully in his youth. When he eternally swung between deep insecurity and excessive arrogance owed to his skills, and the fact he had known very well how charming he could be. Anyway, Astrid and Wulf knew his old insecurities well. Now he had new ones, and Astrid was trying to be on his side as much as she could.

So Caleb voiced something he wasn’t sure he would ever tell anyone else. “I have always wanted to teach. You know that. But. It’s a lot of responsibility. Maybe Trent is still in my head a bit, but I am afraid. He said that I am not the only ‘one of us’ in the Assembly who went through similar trauma. What if I… turn out no better than he did?”

“He also said you were defined by your trauma, if I recall.” Astrid’s face had shuttered a bit the instant Caleb invoked Trent. “He likes to find our pressure points and push until we break. You know that.” She took a third biscuit and shoved it into his hand. “He saw what he wanted to see, and he wanted his vision of you to be what the rest of us saw as well. I… made an error. I misunderstood your ambitions. As did The Martinet.”

“What did Ludinus think I wanted?”

“Power. Like most others in the Assembly. Revenge. Like most Volstrucker who have thought deeply enough about what Trent put us through.”

“He would have been right. Once.”

“I know. The first time you came to me, you were still very angry.”

“I never stopped. My goals changed. I… learned better, I suppose.” Caleb owed so much to the Nein, especially his talks with Caduceus that helped clarify what he did and didn’t want in the end.

“I didn’t. You know I would’ve killed him if you hadn’t stopped me.”

“I wouldn’t have resented you if you had.”

“You were right to stop me. It was more satisfying to shame him in public and have him tossed in a dark cell with a silencing collar glued to his neck forever.”

“And his hands glued together for just as long.”

Astrid’s eyes softened a bit. “One of the most beautiful things I have seen in my life.” Her gaze lingered on him, just a second longer than either of them could dismiss as casual. “How’s your beacon thief?”

“He’s fine.” Caleb wasn’t sure he could handle talking about his current partner with Astrid of all people.

“Have you seen him recently?”

“I am not telling you that.”

“I won’t turn him in. It would not go well for me.” Astrid rested her chin in her hands, searching his face. “Are you two happy?”

“Yes.” Caleb did not offer further details, and Astrid did not pry.

“You deserve it.” She smiled down at the bundle of biscuits. “Tell your friends thank you for the Pfeffernüsse. Will you take the job?”

“I will.”

“Good. For what it’s worth, I think you will be a good professor. You and I both know how important that will be.”

Caleb matched her sad smile. “No more children on the pyre.”

“No more.”

Caleb felt better. He could do this. It would take more than one person to make change, but he could do his part. Astrid had her ambitions, but he knew her in a way very few people did. There were conversations to be had between them, more damage to stitch up.

But it had been a long, emotional day. There would be more days. More time to pull the vulnerable from the flames, to stand between them and the remaining elements of this government who would use, abuse and discard them.

And, he hoped, time to care for those had already been hurt.

[straighttohellbuddy]

World building is the best tbh. I’m forever world building and now I have several worlds to play in and my neurodivergent brain cannot stay still enough to focus on one lmao. SLOWBURN ROMANCES ARE MY LITERAL JAM LIKE PLS!!! I LOVE THEM!! Also!!!! Concepts!!!! Pls share!!!! I love learning about the worlds of my fave fics and I can hands down say right now that this fic will literally shoot to the top of my list of favourites which means you’ll occupy the top three spots. Sorry to hear that ur feeling rough, so am sending u the biggest hug. I’m not okay but I’m taking care of myself today so that I will be 🧡-🐈‍⬛

alsjfsldkjf i have too many worlds TBH, literally one of the best parts of my 2020 was writing for the classic rock fandom and writing one of my good friend’s ocs alongside mine, like there’s so many different worlds that our two characters have now, i’m like 26k deep into a high school au that i need to get back to at some point, and then i wrote a oneshot abt the high school au but they’re adults, and then there’s also the original timeline, and then there’s the present day in the original timeline where they have kids and i probably care too much about people who aren’t real...... hahaha

OKAY OKAY OKAY HERE WE GO I’LL GIVE KIND OF AN OVERVIEW OF THE ALBUMS AND A FEW SONGS BUT IF U WANT ME TO GO IN DEPTH ON ANY OTHER SONG JUST ASK!!!

yes i have a playlist for each, if you wanna hear how i interpret the vibes of the songs. if you interpret them differently, thats awesome!! i’d love to hear y’all’s opinions on them!!

testing one two - the first ep they release, the song titles are mostly themed (fast forward, press play, pause, rewind), but are mostly things y/n has been working on for a while but never got around to finishing, things they are rather proud of. i see you shiver with... is the first song they wrote specifically for the album, and it’s the last song on the EP because it’s a Rocky Horror reference; i see you shiver with...

a n t i c i p a t i o n - first full album!! the vibe is Hopeful But Hesitant it has all the songs from the ep, plus some new ones!! collabs with youtube musicians troye and dodie, and y/n’s label sets up a collab that turns into a genuine friendship. the breakout dance hit is what else is there to say ft. Troye Sivan, which is about not knowing what to make content about when it feels like you’ve already told the world everything. it featured the prechorus and hook

You, know, ev-ery-thing about me / gave it all for free / my life in HD / So, let’s dance, let me see your hips sway / we’re gonna be okay / what else is there to say?

So say that you love me, say that you love me, say that you love me / let’s die hand in hand. / I’ll tell you I love you, tell you I love you, tell you I love you / supply and demand. 

personally, i also conceptually enjoy srs bsns which is a really upbeat song about how they don’t care if people don’t take them seriously because they know in their heart that what they’re doing is good

hyperfocus - 2nd EP, a pretty substantial departure from their usual style, but also happens to quietly be Corpse’s favourite, and is actually y/n’s most polarising, because it has both the Grammy award winning HEARTBURN and the o brother where art thou which was written partially as a joke to capture a fond moment of them and 5SOS dicking around together in a hotel. written while on tour wit 5SOS, im writing the reader as having ADHD (because I have ADHD and i can do what i want), and the backstory is that they’d changed the medication/dosage they were taking, and as it’s their first full tour, they were under a lot of stress and were in a weird place mentally and emotionally, and hyperfocus is the result of that. i’m going through some stuff has HUGE agoraphobic vibes. 

HEARTBURN has the same vibes as Florence + The Machines’ Howl. It’s about being a demon without saying that or directly implying that unless you know demons real well. This is when the pressure for them to confirm their identity got real bad, and it was their way of working through those emotions.

tear in existence in the shape of a person / when i’m seeing clearly i can’t see myself / world can’t swallow what it can’t get it’s teeth into / got everything i wanted but i ain’t got my health

Got heart-burn--- / I’ll tear me apart / I’ll tear you apart / I’ll tear me apart. 

SCREAM gets rereleased as a remixed single featuring Fall Out Boy the following year. It won the MTV music award for best collaboration in 2018. 

In the time between hyperfocus and working on it, Y/N releases several singles, including a cover of Tell Him by The Exciters to be featured in To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before. They also take time to sort out their health, do a little bit more YT stuff, and travel internationally to do festivals. 

working on it - is kind of a middle ground between their original stuff, and hyperfocus, like pop-punk meets horror-pop meets whatever you’d classify halsey as. the first three songs were mostly written before the fic starts, so before they’re getting back to YT, but the last three, nightmare scenario, designed to hurt (touch me), and not scared were all written after they’d started hanging out with sykkuno and corpse. 

in-universe, imposter syndrome was originally something else, along the same lines of tired that they’re hiding that they’re a demon, but after meeting corpse nd sykkuno and having people who know, and lowkey being influenced by corpse’s music, the song changes directions, and YO OKAY YO::

I literally am so fucking flattered, my darling friend @bingusmode​ wrote lyrics for imposter syndrome and I’ve been yELLING about them ever since i’ve read them!! (also bunnie is fantastic and lovely in general 10/10)

if you thought you saw me 

i’d think about it twice

cuz while i know i’m naughty

everybody thinks i’m nice

cutest giggles get me

places that i long to be

but it’s not long before

everybody hates me

when you figure out i’m fucked up

you’ll probably think that can’t be right

but babe my image runs to save me

cuz i’m ugly day and night

nothing good about me

not the angel that i seem

cuz i’m a piece of shit

and i’ll ruin your fuckin dreams

i’m an impostor babe

you better run for your life

cuz there’s a bloodlust runnin through me

and you’re dripping off my knife

there’s no one here to save you

cuz you ate up all my lies

so beg me while you can

and draft up all your goodbyes 

if any of y’all are inspired by anything i put out, feel free to take it and run!! you have my blessing!! i am so overwhelmingly flattered by people who like my stuff enough to create because of it, directly or indirectly! lyrics, art, songs, anything!! legit! I love you!!

okay so designed to hurt (touch me) has big House of Memories by Panic! At The Disco vibes, and YES it’s about Corpse. YES it sends mixed messages. YES it has greek myth imagery and YES that imagery is confusing. not sure if any of these sets of lyrics actually go after each other but also idk??

will my fall from grace be graceful / as each move i see you make? / propped up on pedestals side by side / beneath our feet they shake / i’m the only one to hear you ask  / “What have they done to me?” / My boy, your wax throne is sun-drenched / you’ll fall in the name of your legacy.

eyes like yours watched rome burn / while hands like mine lit the pyre / we both heard me say we’d go down in flames / now you’re turning me into a liar / since you smile like that, like you can’t feel the sting / and we both know i can’t feel the fire

been telling myself i’m designed to hurt / but, baby, aren’t we a sight? /

check your reflection, your angles, apollo / you’re icarus in the right light /

we’re on the edge, i’m not scared to fall / we’ll take refuge in the night /

been telling yourself you’re designed to hurt / but, baby, doesn’t this feel right?

also, albumtouralbumtour is a reference to Bohemian Rhapsody.

OKAY AND FINALLY

n o s t a l g i a - the album the reader’s working on during the fic.

literally as i was writing this, bunnie sent through some FIRE lyrics for how the light gets in, (@bingusmode) i am going to be thinking about these on REPEAT for the next MONTH BRUV

little bit of darkness, treat me like a toy 

i got my hopes up and got them destroyed

bitter taste of regret sitting heavy on my tongue

can’t believe i let you convince me that you were the one

sitting here in silence, fabric running thin

petals burning in my lungs and stealing oxygen

embers from a cigarette falling to the floor

god i can’t take anymore

so i stumble to the window and pull the shades

and the moon pours in like you threw a grenade

i can’t understand why

i keep trying

cuz i never seem to win

but having any hope is how the light gets in 

from there, moment before impact ft. Billie Eilish is a club anthem along the lines of bad guy or COPYCAT, bass heavy with a drop that’s out of this world.

powdered pain, i’m in your veins / i’m the sting, the drip, the thing / you’re craving, but you hate to see me misbehaving / i heard my breakdown got you high / it’s true, but baby i can’t lie / i never got that rush, that burn / that makes you feel alive, i had to learn / to pick the slippery slope down which i fell / plan my pitstops on the way to hell / to pick my padding before i spiral / so if i break it’ll be in style

watch my misdirect, now freeze, / notice you can’t see the forest for the trees / you’re so desperate for my demise / but baby, i’ll make you watch me rise.

this is the moment before impact

controlled chaos, crash land / take a breath, trust the plan / i know you hope i’m not okay / you get off on my audio misery

controlled chaos, crash land / take a breath, trust the plan / i need you to know i want it this way / my breakdown won me a grammy

and this is the moment before impact

ur my favourite - interlude ft. sykkuno is probably one of my favourites, it’s just really soft, just a snippet of a conversation between the reader and sykkuno, maybe one of them told a joke and they both just sound real happy and sweet. its nice. it’s a nice moment.

means something is also for sykkuno!! it’s about how good-strange it is to be open and honest with friends, and how they usually aren’t but they’re glad they can be open and honest with him!!

meanwhile, i don’t think about u - interlude ft. CORPSE is a phonecall between corpse & the reader right after they announce they’re going to feature on acting like that, where corpse asks if they do this sort of thing to spite him, to which the reader responds ‘do i consider you when i’m making decisions about my career? no, corpse, actually i don’t think about you at all’ which then directly contrasts the song that ends the album, which is (how it feels to be) beautiful fireworks, which is essentially ‘i know how hard it is to exist like this, to be the centre of attention, to give off light and bring people joy, even when you’re in pain. i’m here for you. i love you.’

okay, i swear im done now, i’ll get back to writing the fic! (also i cannot BELIVE i managed to figure out how to embed those playlists but im so happy) edit: it didn’t actually work when i posted the ask, so anyways im sorry but y’all are abt to be spammed with playlists because i care too much abt this fic

[harley-style]

@hiccups-peg-leg, this is for you (your fuckin username man, its glorious)

HI AND WELCOME TO 100 + 1 REASONS I'M BEGINNING NOT TO LIKE HTTYD:THW

Disclaimer: It might not actually reach 50 reasons because I have a healthy amount of concern for my fingers

​It makes sense as the final part of a trilogy, for them to separate, but the whole set up of how the separation goes was...blargh.

​Hiccup was not acting like himself.

​Neither was Toothless, actually.

​Astrid was weaker in supporting Hiccup. I mean, don't get me wrong, she was still as badass as always, but never have I been more uncomfortable with her way of "supporting" Hiccup throughout this entire movie.

​"You gave him his freedom, what did you expect?" BITCH WHAT

​THIS IS NOT SOME CALL OF THE WILD BULLSHIT WHAT THE FUCK

​part of the reason Toothless STAYED even when Hiccup presented him with an automated tail was because he preferred BERK. you know, a civilised, NOT WILD settlement even if Toothless himself was a wild dragon prior

​in fact NONE of the dragons were being forced to stay there. Which means they CHOSE to stay with humans.

​Why was there no internal conflict between Berk? Why are they all just following Hiccup after some discussion about "Berk is not a place, its the people and our dragons!"??? Just???? They didn't feel like a village at all, is what I'm saying.

​For the record, I think Valka and Cloudjumper would have been harder to separate because these two were together for like twenty years why wouldn't they stick together???

​Toothless should not have been the King of the Hidden world. there are several reasons.

​1 - he was already a bad fucking leader when it came to priorities. he chose his MATE over his FLOCK. what the absolute fuck. 2- in coming to the hidden world, he promptly forgot about the BERKIAN FLOCK THAT HE HAD RESPONSIBILITIES TO. 3- it just doesnt make sense for all dragons to have bowed to him accepting him as their king. Night Furies are deadly, but they are not of the Dragon king breed. Toothless only managed that title because he FOUGHT a fucking dragon of that SPECIFIC breed. 4- he's horny as fuck. I'm sorry, it had to be said. He and the Light Fury have met for, what, a week at most? And already he's in love? Give me a fucking break. but anyways, my point is, if he dropped EVERYTHING HE KNEW AND LOVED for a person he BARELY GOT TO KNOW, then he should not have been made leader in the first place. 5- this is more personal, but fuck the fucking fact that he left hiccup for this unknown stranger. its like his human didnt even MATTER to him at all. which brings me to my next point.

​why the ever loving FUCK did the team EVER imply that hiccup and toothless were SOULMATES if all they were gonna do is separate them and have toothless forget hiccup entirely.

​are the dragons intelligent, sentient creatures

​or are they just wild animals capable of replicating human behavior without understanding the deeper implications of it

​because if the latter was true, then what the FUCK was the first two movies for?

​the hidden world cannot exist in a geological scale. it cannot sustain itself either. if toothless did somehow recall EVERY dragon, then the ecosystem of the hidden world is suddenly shot to fucking hell.

​the movie basically spat to our faces that romantic love is stronger than the power of friendship. and family.

​im pretty sure GOTNF was canon, and THW just spits all over its message and story.

​what happened to my badass dragon riders, dreamworks?

​okay ill be honest A LOT of my issues with this movie are centered around toothless and hiccup

​berk did not need to be separated from its dragons. in fact, dragons leaving berk, realistically speaking, would actually be detrimental to berk.

​for one thing, theyd be totally cut off from the rest of the world -- they suddenly relocated without any warning, to a place where no one had actually explored thus far. traders would not have known where to find them and, if they were in the merchant thinking mode, would cut their losses and find some other village to trade to. so new berk isnt gonna get any support for a long while.

​berk chose an island than can only be safely accessed via dragons. do you see where im going with this?

​by choosing to LET DRAGONS GO, hiccup and toothless have now condemned Berk into a generation of hardship, one that will make its people struggle with getting supplies, rebuild their homes, and basically a lot of their basic survival needs.

​and MIGHT I ADD, hiccup has REVOLUTIONIZED the viking way of life by INCORPORATING dragons into it. what happens when that system suddenly loses a big chunk of what made that system work?

​may i also add that hiccup has also REVOLUTIONIZED the term BIG DUMBASS when referring to decisions that were made.

​im also salty about how quickly toothless forgot about hiccup when entering the hidden world. like, holy fuck, i cannot even begin to explain how dreadful i felt when toothless was just "oh fuck yeah" in that glowing neon underground while poor hiccup was like "do you think he's okay?"

​if it were me, toothless would at least be having a moment to himself, looking at his tail, and you can clearly see in his eyes, "what about my human? what about berk?" before getting distracted. I would have accepted at LEAST that.

​nope. we get a toothless reluctantly going back to hiccup and new berk, resentful and somber as he longs for, what, a home?

​goddamn it i hate the hidden world in the movie the hidden world. i like the movie, i really really do, but that fucking plot device grates my fucking brain.

​RTTE handled a dragon haven a lot better.

​Vanaheim was a perfect place for wild dragons to settle but dreamworks fucking abolished that idea

​i KNOW vanaheim is like a resting place for sick dragons but like

​if hiccup was half as smart as he was the first two movies thw wouldnt have been a thing in the first place.

​its really, really hard for me to defend a movie i liked the first time i watched it when the only things i can see from it are toothless not caring enough about hiccup and hiccup making the niggest mistake of his life.

​this movie honestly felt like emotional manipulation. watching it i always remembered the other two movies, which should NOT have happened. when i watched the second movie (and may i add i barely remembered a thing about the first movie at the time) i was so MOVED to the point of TEARS. i had no context and i was moved to tears anyway. THW constantly pulled at my nostalgia strings and indirectly and directly called back to the first two movies and that just....what???

and that's it.

i mean if youd like to add more feel free to, probably missed some there

and there are a couple of ao3 essays that depict the same reasons i have. just put the tag "the hidden world" in your filters uwu

one last thing: despite the reasons i mentioned above i did enjoy watching thw, im just sayin it took me a long time and a lot of reading to figure out that, no, thw wasnt as great as the hype made it seem.

this isnt meant as an attack to people who like THW. i understand that this movie is special to you and I have no right to take enjoyment from you. im just laying out the reasons of why I personally don't agree with what happened in THW.

[retvenkos]

he smiles // mordred

Merlin (BBC) - Mordred x Fem!Reader, fluff

A/N: 8.1k words!!! i didn’t think it was in me, but i clearly love mordred more than i should...

Summary: There had been time for them to bask in each other’s presence, to feel their souls intertwine as their paths converged onto the same road. For, in those days, few as they were, Mordred and (Y/n) shared a common destination and their fates were one.

i.

brother, you could never understand the beauty in his eyes and the pain reflected there. i have found legends of the most desolate of places with the most gruesome of histories and none of them compare to the look in his eyes. he has been rubbed raw of everything he’s loved and has been chipped away of everything he once was.

but he is beautiful, brother, when the stars are resting in the black night of his hair and when the ivy climbs his skin like a statue of marble.

and when he smiles…

is there beauty that could compare?

ii.

Laughter, warmth, and wine filled the Banquet Hall. Knights celebrated, feasting and drinking to good fortune, speaking with one another in their usual, rowdy tones. Music played and merriment filled the hearts of every soldier and guest in the room.

Instead of sitting at the high table where his father had sat before him, King Arthur was amongst his people, Guinevere at his side, speaking to the man that was cause for celebration; Mordred. An old acquaintance and new ally, this young man was knighted earlier that day and the newest recruit was being honored the only way Camelot knew how.

Mordred was smiling, disbelief clinging to the edges of his mouth, hope blooming roses on his cheeks, underneath his skin. His joy was more subdued than that of those who surrounded him, but it seemed as though the happiness that clung to him was the most pure and full joy he had ever experienced in all his years on Earth.

(Y/n) had yet to meet Modred when Gwaine grabbed her arm and took her over to where his fellow knights were huddled together, in the center of the hall.

“Gwaine,” (Y/n) huffed, following her older brother, despite her initial reaction of refusing, “what is it, this time?”

“You haven’t greeted the King and Queen! Guinevere was wondering if you had gotten holed up in the library again, archiving histories no one’s ever going to read.” Gwaine’s voice bubbled with glee, the mead he had drunk already taking effect on his mood, making him even more playful than usual.

“Are you sure it wasn’t because you didn’t want me talking to the ladies at court? I heard a pretty blonde knows you better than I.”

Gwaine grabbed another drink from a nearby servant and took a swig of it. “If she knew me better than you, she wouldn’t have talked to me the way she did.”

(Y/n) scoffed. “Apparently she spends quite a lot of time in your chambers, as well.” (Y/n) raised an eyebrow and stole her brother's mead, taking a drink of it herself.

“We’ve been getting better acquainted.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes and Gwaine laughed, taking his drink back, only to find it empty. He nudged her in the ribs with a playful scowl before letting go of her arm and nodding to the Queen. He disappeared into the crowd after that, leaving his younger sister to bow and exchange formalities.

“My Lady.”

“(Y/n),” Guinevere smiled, laughing at the title she now wore. Her spirits, too, had been lifted by the contents of her goblet, and the candle-lit hall seemed to be painted in rosy hues. “You know you can call me Gwen.”

“But that isn’t nearly as fun.”

(Y/n) bowed once more, her eyebrows raised in jest and Guinevere shook her head. “Have you met Sir Mordred?”

“No, I’ve not.”

“Well, then,” Guinevere led (Y/n) a few paces deeper into the throng of knights and very quickly found who she was looking for. She smiled triumphantly when she did and put a hand on the shoulder of a man turned away from her. “Sir Mordred, this is Lady (Y/n).”

The knight turned around, (Y/n)’s gaze met his, and the world around them slowed. Her heartbeat quickened and her breath caught as his blue eyes shook her to her core, seemingly looking right into her soul, finding the pure gold that lay at the heart of her very being. In that moment, which stretched into infinity for them but never left the stream of time for others, (Y/n) could see the most beautiful sky form in his eyes.

And she knew the poets to be right in their rambles of beauty and desire and all that fell in between.

“Sir Mordred,” (Y/n) bowed low, long lashes kissing her cheeks and allowing her a second of relief from his intoxicating gaze.

He breathed her name and it sounded like a forgotten memory; like something that was all at once fondly missed and discovered anew.

“I see you’ve met my sister!” Gwaine’s strong voice shattered the still moment efficiently. The knight clapped Mordred on the shoulder with a strength that could have made mountains crumble, but Modred did not move. “She works with Geoffrey of Monmouth in the Royal Library.”

“She’s the brain to his brawn,” Guinevere supplied with a grin, a twinkle in her eye.

“And the beauty,” (Y/n) teased, earning a laugh from Guinevere and a protest from Gwaine. Through the laughing, (Y/n) caught Mordred’s keen eye as it lingered on her.

iii.

brother, i cannot describe it, but there is a kindness in his bones. it is so deeply rooted in the fabric of his being that it cannot be separated without destroying him - picking him apart piece by piece, excavating his soul until it becomes a cavern, stripped of it’s jewels and metals.

the heavens treat him as though he is a part of them. the sun haloes around his head like a crown, like he is an angel on earth.

and, brother, when he smiles…

the skies above clear just for him.

iv.

(Y/n) walked through the castle, purpose quickening her step, her mind stuck in days gone by, those scholars called the Great Purge. She had been translating history texts written in languages that had died with the Old Religion, and had come across a mention of a sorceress she had not heard of in her many years of learning. Geoffrey of Monmouth, the keeper of the library, had told her to take the name to Gaius in search of more information.

“If the sorceress does, indeed, exist,” Geoffrey had told her, “then there is great reason to believe she did not perish in the Great Purge and the king must be warned.”

(Y/n) understood the danger that a sorceress could present to the kingdom, which fueled her haste in going to Gaius’ chambers, but hesitation pricked at the back of her mind, making her avert her eyes from those around her.

Was a sorceress inherently evil? It went against all her beliefs to concede to that idea. She had always been taught that evil was a thing to be cultivated, it was not the natural state of mankind. Then how could it be justified, slaughtering her before she has committed a crime? All men face hardships that poison them with the potential for great evil, yet they are not senselessly killed. But with times being what they were - with Morgana threatening everything Camelot stood for…

The sound of swords clanging disrupted her thoughts, and (Y/n) stopped to calm her mind.

The world was a hard place to navigate through and come out unscathed. There were times when (Y/n) thought it just might be impossible. Sometimes, it seemed that humans were made to bleed. Skin was made fragile for a reason, after all.

Swords clashed together once more, and (Y/n) turned to the source of the noise. The knights (just as she has suspected) were honing their sword fighting skills, the men engaged in one on one combat. Her eyes immediately found Gwaine, who was sparring with Percival, both of them clearly taunting the other. (Y/n) rolled her eyes at their antics, chuckling when Percival was able to get the jump on Gwaine, delivering a harsh blow that her brother was only just able to block, stumbling backward.

Her eyes drifted, then, to Mordred, who was sparring with Elyan. As she gazed at the pair, (Y/n) found herself under his spell once more. His brow was furrowed in concentration and his jaw was set; he looked lethal, like a dangerous poison had been unleashed in his bloodstream and was ready to consume everything in its path. (Y/n) looked deeper into his eyes, expecting a hurricane to be raging within but found no animosity there.

Mordred; like all men; like the sorceress who’s name she had on a scrap of paper, tight in her fist; had the capability to be cruel in this harsh world, but it was not in his nature. She could see that in his soul, and the fact that she could see it from such a distance was a testament to that goodness and beauty she had seen in the Banquet Hall, only a day prior.

King Arthur called for his men to cease their training. Swords no longer clashed. Mordred’s eyes locked with (Y/n)’s.

She smiled politely and he nodded to her, his own mouth curling upward, slightly; a look that was meant for her, and no one else. (Y/n)’s breath caught in her chest. The ache that lingered there was pleasant and bearable, when she remembered who had left it.

Gwaine saw his sister and called to her. (Y/n) snapped her attention to him and waved.

Then, with one last glance at the knight who had caught her attention, she continued on her path to Gaius’ chambers, her thoughts straying from the sorceress at hand, her cheeks warm and heart hammering.

v.

brother, there is a knowledge in his voice that could drown the world in sorrows. he speaks and his words are heavy enough to bury us all alive. but that is not who he is. for, brother, when he looks at me with eyes like diamonds forged far beneath the ground, i see a light that he has created within.

it is warm and kind and believes in the world this one could become. how has he fallen in love with this world when it has come to him broken, already in shambles?

i do not know, but when he smiles…

could the world really be this way?

vi.

The gossip ladies shared while dining was, for the most part, colorful but frivolous. Most of the time it was rumors about a prince who couldn’t banish his feelings for a commoner or a princess who couldn’t hold her tongue while in the presence of men. It was spoken of in tones that made it sound more interesting than it was, and it was passed through the table like another dish they were being served.

(Y/n) listened and engaged with it at yet another banquet, thrown in the aftermath of yet another victory over sorcery. The music played energetically, and as the wine flowed, the painted lips of women loosened and their words came freely.

“That Sir Mordred,”—(Y/n)’s ears perked at the sound of his name—“he’s grown awfully close to the King, hasn’t he?”

The lady who spoke tilted her head and her friends urged her to continue - to finish the thought that was stewing inside her head.

She smiled wickedly, lowering her voice and leaning in, “I’ve heard nasty whispers about where he’s from - no one really knows, but some think he’s a slave-trader, and others…” she paused for affect, and when the music played loudly again, she divulged, “others say he might be a Druid.”

The ladies gasped and (Y/n) felt bile rise in her throat. Suddenly, she wished the gossip to stop - for the music to become so loud that the lady who sat across from her wouldn’t be able to finish the vile thought that she was already speaking.

“If he hadn’t saved King Arthur’s life… Well, we know where he would be.”

(Y/n) stood up in a flash, her jaw set, her eyes angry and frightened, her nerves a mess. The ladies startled and turned to her, but the rest of the celebration carried on. The music still played, the instruments now shrill and jarring, the voices of men suddenly harsh and cruel. (Y/n) was suddenly overwhelmed by the crowd - their fanged grins and ravenous eyes, the hate and anger that lay in their hearts.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves.” (Y/n)’s lips quivered, but her words rang true. The women at the table looked at her, their mouths working soundlessly.

With no further ceremony, (Y/n) left, walking through the castle, letting the sounds of the Banquet Hall fade behind her. Unsure of where she could clear her racing mind, (Y/n) let her legs take her where they pleased.

She stopped in the middle of the balcony corridor, the gentle wind calming her mind, the moon above reflecting a soft, steady light that played against the stone beneath her. The only sound here was her skirts grazing the floor. The stillness calmed her. She sighed and leaned against the stone wall, turning her face to the inky night sky.

What had angered her? She looked at the stars scattered across the sky and wondered at her own actions. Had it been the ladies questioning who Mordred was? No, people were always questioning from where people hailed. It was a way to understand a person without ever knowing them - it was an easy way to allow comfort when in the presence of a stranger. Had it been them accusing him of being a Druid? Perhaps. But, then again, it was not the Druids that had angered her. What had brought her to stand was the implication of what could befall him if he were, indeed, a part of them.

It was dangerous to be something more than just flesh and blood. For there to be rumors, there had to be doubt - and if there was the smallest ounce of doubt in the hearts of those most adamant in the war against magic…

It was not fair - none of it: the rumors, the fear, the suspicion, the deaths of innocents. There was no crime in being born. There was no evil in having been created with skills that few understood. Nothing was inherently wicked, so then how could magic be persecuted as such?

(Y/n) sighed. Perhaps she cared too much. What good could she do, at the end of the day? Being a magic sympathizer only passed suspicion on those you cared for. Was it wise, then, to speak the way she did, to let her feelings be known?

“(Y/n),” a voice called from the shadows, disturbing the silence that had given the woman peace of mind, only moments before. (Y/n) spun around, feeling guilty, her heart beating louder.

It was Mordred, dressed in a knight’s finest, his expression impassive in the moonlight. (Y/n) calmed when she saw it was him who had called for her, but heat rushed to her face.

“Mordred,” she smiled, despite herself, and the dim light played against the curve of her mouth. “I didn’t hear you come. Is the celebration over, already?”

“No,” he answered, walking over to stand beside her, a respectful distance between the two, “I doubt it’s going to end anytime soon.” (Y/n)’s hands itched to be nearer to his, and she folded them together to occupy them. “But what brought you out here?”

“Some of the women I dined with are not as kind in their hearts as they should be.” (Y/n) gazed into the never ending sky, wondering how the stars burned so bright in such a dark expanse. Did their warmth, too, come from within? Did they see Mordred below and feel the same heat fill them so completely? She couldn’t imagine feeling any other way, in his presence. “They may be at court, but they are not nearly as deserving as others.”

Mordred’s eyes twinkled with mirth, like tiny stars igniting in blue skies, although (Y/n) did not seem to notice, her gaze still searching the night around them. He looked at her admiringly, his eyes tracing the curves and dips of her profile - that serene face that drew him out of himself and towards her.

“None of them have any idea of what it’s like to be an outsider, but their judgements of others are swift and cruel.” She turned to him, hesitant to see his reaction.

(Y/n)’s words, so sincere, so carefully chosen, turned Mordred’s face into something softer - something (Y/n) had only seen once before, but felt like she knew more deeply than anything else. “Nobility knows nothing of the suffering they can inflict.” He held her gaze when he spoke, and his words were a melodious lament - almost a siren’s call, pulling (Y/n) deeper into his depths. He sighed, his eyes averting from her own. “But everyone pays for their soul, in the end.”

“Then let ours be pure of heart while we’re still here.” (Y/n) leaned heavier against the stone before her, her shoulders falling deeper, her forearms bearing her weight. She tilted her head to look at Mordred beside her, and he relaxed in a similar manner.

“This world needs more people with your ideals.” Mordred complimented her and heat flooded (Y/n)’s cheeks. He regarded her with a smile - small and conspiratorial, like a soft embrace.

“You can thank my brother for any beliefs I hold. He was the only man to teach me how to rise above what I am.”

The wind visited them once more, weaving through their hair, twisting Mordred’s cape and twirling (Y/n)’s skirts. (Y/n) leaned into its caress, her eyes closing for a brief moment, her entire being becoming one with the heavens above.

“You’re lucky to have each other. Being alone isn’t easily shaken.” A shadow came over Mordred’s eyes, heavy and dark.

(Y/n) turned to the man beside her, her lips parting as she moved to say something.

She was untimely interrupted by Gwaine calling for her. She held Mordred’s gaze for a moment longer, as though debating whether or not to stay and say something more, but when her brother called again, she obeyed.

vii.

brother, he lives with such gravity. every breath is a gust of wind, every step is a tremor in the earth. he is so heavy on this earthly plane, the world presses down on him as though he were made to carry it upon his shoulders.

and yet, when he is still and the world stops around him, he looks weightless, as though he could fly. and brother, when he soars above me he is an angel out of reach, a dream beyond imagining.

and then he smiles…

is there freedom such as this?

viii.

(Y/n) held her skirts in her hands, running through the castle’s corridors, taking the familiar path to Gaius’ chambers. Weaving in and out of people who were in her way, her mind raced faster than her legs. It was only by luck that the gossip of the servants reached her, and she hadn’t a moment to lose.

The King had gone on a patrol to the Black Mountains that morning, and when they had come back…

The servant’s weren’t clear in what had happened, but Mordred was wounded - carried into Gaius’ chambers by Arthur and Merlin.

To be wounded was one thing; but to be carried into the castle by the King, himself? (Y/n) didn’t know what to think, but she feared the worst. Her heart was beating faster than ever, a drum to which her anxieties chanted inside her skull.

Still running, her feet slapping the stone incessantly, she turned a corner and stumbled headlong into someone walking the opposite way. (Y/n) muttered an apology as she started to dodge the obstacle, but whoever it was moved in her path once more, grabbing her shoulders with a tight grip.

“(Y/n), what’s the matter?”

It was Gwaine, his brows furrowed in worry.

“It’s not me you need to worry about,” she all but snapped, her tone clipped from worry. “Were you with Mordred?”

“He’s with Gaius, now.” Gwaine’s worry started to melt away, seeing his sister unharmed by the day’s events, but (Y/n) shared none of his relief. “He’ll be fine,” Gwaine repeated, trying to reassure her by catching her eye.

“What happened?” Her voice and lower lip shook, her nerves frayed and unable to settle. “I - I heard rumors, and—”

“—And you won’t settle down until you see for yourself. I know.” A smile slowly grew on Gwaine’s face, and he wrapped an arm around (Y/n)’s shoulder, walking with her to Gaius’ chambers. In all their years together he had become the father his younger sister never had, and learned her better than any lesson he had been given in his entire life. Gwaine knew his sister, and he knew she wouldn’t be able to still without absolute confirmation.

He slowed her eager pace, trying to soothe her before she saw what lay within the physician’s chambers.

“So,” he began, a grin already plastered onto his face, “you’re that worried about Mordred?”

(Y/n) felt herself burn from embarrassment.

“Not not, Gwaine. He could by dying!”

Her brother laughed and allowed her to see the knight she fretted over. She rushed to his side, and the pallor in his cheeks made her stomach twist in knots. She brushed his raven hair off of his forehead, feeling his fever. She looked to see if his eyes moved behind his lids or if his chest rose as he breathed inward, but he didn’t seem to respond to life at all. She whispered a prayer under her breath before turning to Gaius, already questioning what was wrong and what could be done.

“There is old sorcery at work - knowledge beyond my understanding.” Gaius’ words were uncertain and he shook his head just slightly, as though he had already concluded the worst. “The Disir were said to be a most sacred court with power unimaginable.”

The Disir. (Y/n) knew their name from stories she had translated from dead languages to that which was spoken, now. If Mordred had been stuck by a force so revered and entrenched in the Old Religion...

“But there could be a cure?” (Y/n)’s tone was adamant in their desperate hope - far more so than her thoughts. Gaius looked at her as though he saw something deep inside her gaze, and eventually conceded.

“Perhaps… in the texts of the Old Religion…”

(Y/n) was out of the physician’s chambers and racing down the hall before he could finish. She had no practical skills in medicine, but she was an archivist. She knew languages and history, and due to her position, she had unlimited access to the Royal Library. If there was an answer between the pages Camelot stored, she would find it and use it to save him.

The candles in the Royal Library burned brighter than usual, lighting the shelves that lay in dark, unused corners. (Y/n) situated herself amongst the shelves she knew had to keep the secrets she so desired, choosing books from the rows. She lost herself in piles of ancient texts, her hands careful and precise as they skimmed down page after page, searching for an answer. Volume after volume was pulled from its resting pace, meticulously scoured, and replaced once more.

Geoffrey of Monmouth allowed the candles to be burned all night long, eventually retiring for the evening and leaving (Y/n) to her search, giving her a fond, supportive squeeze on the shoulder before shuffling away. Servants still gossipped out in the corridors, their voices drifting like ghosts to where she sat. Gwaine came to her before his nightly rounds of the castle began, and found her sitting on the floor, her skirts pooled around her as she continued her search. She was desperate for some kind of news, but Gwaine had none; Mordred’s condition was unchanged and dire, still. Tears threatened her eyes and he had taken the time to embrace her, rubbing her back soothingly, promising her things would be alright.

(Y/n) clung to his faith, feeling the crushing weight of gravity bearing down on her. How could people live with such pain?

She felt herself grow tired. She opened more books. She felt herself grow tired. She flipped more pages. She felt herself grow tired. She sought more answers, feeling them slip through her fingertips - elusive and intangible. She felt herself grow tired.

The candle burned lower until she could no longer feel it’s warmth - until she could no longer see it in her mind’s eye.

In her dreams, she could see pages before her, with drawings of three women in robes of black, with writing that was slanted and almost unable to be read. (Y/n) reached out to grab the page, hold it in her grasp and learn it’s secrets, but her body was heavy like stone, unable to move - unable to save him.

“(Y/n)...” Mordred’s voice called out to her, so full of life, so full of love. She stirred. “(Y/n)...” She moved.

(Y/n)’s eyes opened, and she was lying against a shelf, a volume open on her lap. Light from the morning sun spilled from the nearby window, and when she looked up, she had to blink to believe it was real.

Mordred smiled down at her, his cheeks pink and flushed with beauty, his eyes bright. He was something out of a dream, in that moment, the sun’s rays casting the shadows away from him, bathing him in golden light.

His name slipped from her lips in wonder, and she repeated it once more, euphoria filling her tone with something akin to a song.

“I was told I could find you here.”

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away from him long enough to hide it.

ix.

we could never see it, brother, with our lives painted in such rosy tones, but his world is drenched in stormy, blue waters. it is salt rubbed into wounds and waves battering stone until they erode away. it was not a crucible that forged him, but an ocean that drowned him and left him washed on shore, gasping for breath. brother, his story is one that we whisper at night, voices low in fear of giving those wayward souls power over us all. if he so desired, we could be crushed and left. the crows would pick us clean.

but he looks at me and his ocean eyes cradle me, rocking me back and forth with the tide. and i am safe, in his embrace. i am loved, wrapped in his arms.

and when he smiles…

our story has yet to unfold.

x.

(Y/n) looked at the wares of different vendors, strolling through the streets with no real destination in mind. The day was beautiful, with the sun partially covered with thick clouds, the heat emanating from it just enough to be comfortable and without chill. The people around her were happy, for the most part, their worries few and their good fortune abundant.

There was peace in Camelot, and (Y/n) wished - foolishly, perhaps - that it would last.

Stopping to search for coins to buy a loaf of bread, (Y/n) readjusted the basket she held and a book she had been carrying fell out. Before she could lean down to grab it, the book was already in someone else’s hands, being wiped clean. “I’m sorry about that.” (Y/n) looked up to see who had helped her and found Mordred before her. He had a grin on his face, lopsided and pulled to the left, his teeth just visible beneath his lips.

His sharp eyes were on the small volume before him, reading the title with interest (Y/n) had not thought she would find.

Mordred shrugged off her apology, instead turning his interest to that which he had recovered. “Poetry?” (Y/n) shifted under his teasing gaze. “Is it for the King, perhaps?”

(Y/n) scoffed, well aware of the joke that had been floating through the palace - Merlin and King Arthur learning poetry by candlelight. Was the Queen impressed with her husband’s talents? Leon had been given extra training for two weeks when word of it reached Arthur.

“The King and I have very different tastes in poetry, I believe. He’s more of a romantic.”

Mordred snorted, flipping through the worn pages. “These poems…” Mordred’s eyes flashed with something unreadable, his tone still gentle when he spoke, but his countenance changed nonetheless. “They’re about magic.”

(Y/n) bowed her head, training her eyes at her skirts brushing the ground below.

She had been caught.

It was just literature, and she didn’t believe there was any harm in it. Poetry could not teach her sorcery. The knowledge that lay in those poems were not spells that she could wield against Camelot and those she loved, and yet, she knew, deep down, that such things would not matter to those who would wish to persecute her for harboring such knowledge and allowing it into her home.

“They’re just poems. Just stories written in beautiful languages. There’s no harm in it, only understanding.” (Y/n)’s words were low but spoken with conviction and heart. “I only wish to understand that which I am to fear.”

“And I admire you all the more for it.”

(Y/n) looked up into Mordred’s eyes where she held his tender gaze. Her worries were put to ease by his serenity, and she idly wondered why she has ever been nervous in the first place. Even now, she could look into his gaze and see the kindness that lay deep within his heart. Within those blue eyes, she could see his sympathy for magic, not dissimilar from her own, but more deeply sown. She could see, deep in his soul, that there was something he knew and had not shared.

She wished to tell him she wouldn’t tell a soul. (Y/n) wished to hold Mordred and whisper in his ear that he could bare his entire soul to her and she would regard him the same. She wished to let him know that she knew him deeply and irrevocably, that in those still moments when they walked with one another or locked eyes from across the room, she felt their souls were one and she could not distinguish where one began and the other ended.

“Would you like to hear some?” (Y/n) put her hand on the book lightly, her fingers brushing his, warmth igniting where they touched. “The old way of speaking… it’s beautiful.”

Mordred smiled and she slipped the book out of his hands, starting to leaf through the pages, searching for the right sentiment she was looking for.

He spoke, then, his words soft and with a lyrical lilt, whispered between the two of them. (Y/n) gazed up at him, and it took her a moment to realize that he was reciting a poem - a variation of one of the poems inside the book she had in her hands. She listened to him, allowing his language to captivate her senses and pluck at her heartstrings. The poetry spoke of magic - it’s ubiquitous power and intentionless existence - and how the world, whether it wanted to be or not, was gifted with it.

When he finished, (Y/n) realized that the warmth that had spread through her body had made her lips pull into an expression of awed wonder. She tried to regain control over her features, but Mordred had already seen her beauty and wouldn’t forget it for all his days.

Mordred took (Y/n)’s hands in his and closed the poetry book, placing it back in her basket. “Keep that safe,” he said. “It’s not wise to have poetry about magic in Camelot.”

(Y/n) started to grin, staring up at him challengingly. “And to have it committed to memory? Is that just as guilty?”

Mordred chuckled, but after a moment, his face turned grave. “In Camelot, I believe so.”

“Then Camelot is too harsh with matters of magic.”

Mordred did nothing but nod.

xi.

there is a ferocity deep within him, brother. it has the strength of a bear and the loyalty wolf; baring its teeth and tearing out throats. he keeps it deep within himself, burrowed beneath the ground, hidden amongst the trees.

it is strong, brother, but he is it’s master. he has run with the wolves and become one with the pack. he has faced the bear and made peace with its power. he has a strength inside of him that cannot be changed, and it protects this world from what he could be. and i stare at him, in awe of the power which he possesses within.

and when he smiles…

he is nothing i could not love.

xii.

The forest around them teemed with life - birds singing from the treetops, the undergrowth shaking from the movement of small animals, and the nearby brook babbling. (Y/n) breathed in deeply, the smell of the fresh air clearing her mind and filling her senses with a feeling of calm. Absentmindedly, she fiddled with the bad slung around her shoulder, the books inside of it slapping against her thighs as she rode her horse forward. Mordred, riding alongside her, looked at her from the corner of his eye, but she did not notice his gaze through her pleasant sigh.

They were riding to Carleon - Sir Mordred escorting the Royal Archivist - to meet with the genealogist that worked for Queen Annis. Geoffrey of Monmouth found a discrepancy in their bookkeeping of the old, noble families and needed to compare his records with the other kingdom, but at his age he was far too old to undertake such an adventure - especially at such a critical time in Camelot’s history. (Y/n) had been sent in his place, her expertise growing with every day that passed, the old librarian sharing his knowledge and legacy with the woman so that she might one day succeed him.

It was to be a fairly safe journey. Carleon was an ally of Camelot, and the two kingdoms were not far from one another. King Arthur had allowed Mordred to escort the woman, his warnings minimal - only that Mordred not forget his duty while protecting (Y/n).

Gwaine had been there to see the pair off, teasing (Y/n) of her feelings for the young knight.

“I believe your love life is the one we need to keep an eye on, Gwaine.” Her brother had laughed at that, and she told him to behave while she was gone. The last thing she needed was to worry about him while traveling to another kingdom.

Their journey so far had been a peaceful one. The two had time to talk about all that had happened in Camelot - from the gossip of what happened in the lower towns to the battles that the knights had waged in the name of the King. After that, there had been time to talk about the histories she had been translating and scribing; the worlds that she learned about on weathered pages were vibrant in their age and charming in their customs and habits - all of which had betweitched her, ensnaring her attention.

Mordred had deep interest in what had come before him - those millenia in which magic reigned, free - and (Y/n) was happy to share her passion with someone who listened and cared.

There had been time for them to bask in each other’s presence, to feel their souls intertwine as their paths converged onto the same road. For, in those days, few as they were, Mordred and (Y/n) shared a common destination and their fates were one.

Now, there was less than a two hour ride left, and with the end in sight, (Y/n)’s anxieties started to claw their way into her heart. She closed her eyes and focused on the world in front of her, this forest of bright yellows and deep greens, this sanctuary where she and Mordred were together, close enough to get lost in each other’s eyes for eternity.

“How much do you think Gwaine has worried while we’ve been gone?” (Y/n) smiled at the knight who rode beside her, her tone fighting to be as light and cheerful as the words she spoke. “I saw him talking to you before we left. What did he—”

A high-pitched scream that was not their own erupted into the sky. With a flash of metal, Mordred had unsheathed his sword and was riding for where the sound originated. (Y/n) followed, and when they burst into a clearing, they found it to be full of bandits surrounding an elderly man and his daughter. Without a second thought, Mordred sprung into action.

(Y/n) grabbed a sword from one of the bandits that Mordred felled and joined him in battle, her strikes proper and effective, although unceremonious and without the craft of a true swordsman. Mordred spared her an impressed glance before engaging with the rest of the marauders.

Surprise was their biggest advantage, and the two of them were able to dispose of four of the bandits quickly. The rest of the men ran, reasoning that the spoils weren’t worth the risk involved, now that a knight of Camelot was among them.

After the last of the men disappeared into the trees, (Y/n) dropped the sword she had been using, looking over the scrapes and minor flesh wounds she had received. Mordred walked over to her, his own eyes scanning her for injury, and she reassured him she was fine, her eyes moving to search him.

“Where did you learn to use a sword?”

(Y/n) scoffed, the adrenaline still buzzing through her veins. “Gwaine. Who else would arm a young girl against her will? He said I would need to one day.” A grin tugged at her lips. “I suppose he was right.”

Mordred smiled briefly and the two of them turned to the people who had cried out for help. The elderly man thanked them, taking their young hands in his own and blessing them good fortune for days to come.

“Such kindness is lacking in the world, today, when it is most needed.”

“We are just glad we could be of assistance to you and your daughter.” Mordred dipped his head low, and his voice echoed with past transgressions - moments of his past where he was a victim to circumstance, just as they were. “No one deserves such violence and pain.”

The old man peered at Mordred with years of wisdom, and he squeezed his shoulder like a father would. “You have such good souls”—he looked at (Y/n), as well, with a kind twinkle in his eye—“both of you.”

“Good souls are hard to come by.” (Y/n) agreed, gently. “They’re a rare treasure, indeed.”

Mordred looked at her, his eyes like the sky on a cloudless day. She regarded their bright brilliance with a warm glance and roses of the most vibrant pinks blossomed beneath his cheeks.

Later, after the travelers had gone on their way, and the two were riding for Carleon once more, (Y/n) found the courage to speak something that she had been thinking on for a while, but had only articulated just then.

“Mordred, when we were fighting those bandits…” her words trailed off, but Mordred was patient as he waited for them. “I know we’re only human - average and simple - but when I’m at your side, I feel stronger than that - better, even. It’s almost like…”

Silence didn’t stay between them, long.

“Like you have magic.”

xiii.

brother, we live such violent lives and meet such violent ends, but his life is precious in it’s softness and should never die on the end of a blade. this world has rubbed his edges with stone to sharpen them to fine points, but he wraps himself in soft down and refuses to be changed.

this life he lives deserves to be full, brother, with none of the emptiness that has surrounded him for so long. so much has been taken from him, so much of what he owns has been displaced. and so he holds me as though i am already gone.

but when i am resolute beside him, he smiles…

could the world bear to tear us apart?

xiv.

“All I’m saying is that Mordred is a lucky man to have caught my little sister’s eye.”  Gwaine held up his hands in mock defeat as the two of you walked down the castle steps and into the Citadel. “How many people have you turned down over the years? I vividly remember at least three…”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes at her brother’s teasing, quickly shooting back, “And for every person I turn down, you lead another to your chambers.”

Gwaine feigned hurt, but a grin grew on his lips all the same. “I have more honor than that, (N/n).”

“More tact, you mean. If Arthur were to see you—” Gwaine nudged (Y/n) in the side and she laughed good-naturedly, elbowing him right back.

“But, truly, (Y/n). Mordred is a fine knight and if the two of you—”

“Gwaine...” (Y/n)’s face was hot with embarrassment and her brother smiled down at her, affection in his gaze.

“I would be happy, is all” —he tilted his head, then, his lips pulled into a thoughtful frown— “and a bit proud.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes. “Exactly what I always wanted.” The two laughed, and once the moment sobered, (Y/n) turned to Gwaine, her expression genuine and earnest. “But really, thank you.”

Gwaine put a tender hand on her shoulder, squeezing it strongly. He opened his mouth to say something, but the clapping sound of horse hooves hitting stone caught his attention, and both siblings turned to see who was approaching.

An entire patrol of soldiers burst into the Citadel, many of them leaning over, their expressions drawn in pain and suffering. (Y/n)’s eyes searched frantically until they settled on Mordred, his expression grim and worried, but the rest of him seemingly okay. Gwaine walked over to him and he dismounted, both Knights meeting each other half-way.

“What happened?”

“We were attacked.” Mordred’s blue eyes flashed dangerously. “It was Morgana.”

“And you got away?” (Y/n) walked over to them, her eyes scanning over the injuries that the patrol had sustained. Almost all of them had a bruise or two, some of them with gashes on the head or sides. What had she done?

“It’s the King she wants,” Mordred sighed. “She’s just trying to draw him out.”

Gwaine nodded deftly, his brow furrowing as his entire disposition changed. “I’ll let Arthur know,” he assured Mordred, putting a hand on his arm before leaving.

(Y/n) watched as Mordred turned back to the men behind him, checking their wounds and sending them to Gaius if necessary. She watched his face contort with worry as he passed over each man, his eyes filled with care and legitimate attentiveness to each of their circumstances. The soldiers smiled gratefully at him, as though thanking Mordred for showing them that they were seen. In such a large military, it was easy to get lost in the sea of hundreds; people stopped becoming human and were just another sword in combat, just another body left on the battlefield. But here, under Mordred’s worried gaze, they were human. Bleeding, battered, and bruised people with hearts that were broken and minds that were screaming in the silence.

The love that resided within Mordred was quiet, but (Y/n) could see it from any distance and behind any facade.

When the last soldier was tended to, Mordred made his way over to (Y/n) and she looked at him deeply, with a soft care that made him feel entirely known and wholly loved. “Are you alright?” Her voice was low and pleading, careful but firm. “Morgana didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m alright.”

(Y/n) looked at him, her eyebrows still furrowed as she searched his expression for something to tell her the contrary. Finding nothing, she sighed and reached out to embrace him, holding Modred close to her beating chest.

He melted against her slowly, then all at once. His arms moved to wrap around her more securely and she responded to his touch, her hand getting lost in his hair. The pair stayed like that, enveloped in each other’s arms, until their hearts synced together and beat as one.

“Things happen so quickly Mordred,” she spoke without pulling away, her breath hot against his ear, “I don’t want you to be someone that passes by without me ever telling you how much you mean to me.”

Mordred hugged her tighter, until he felt he couldn’t breathe from her love. “Nothing can happen to me while I have you to live for.”

(Y/n) pulled away slowly, her eyes questioning whether or not he meant what he said. Mordred’s smile was in full bloom, adoration and love pouring out from him with no end in sight. She stared into his deep, blue eyes and her question died before ever making its way to her lips.

xv.

brother, you could never understand how the world has wronged us all and the poets exist only to make amends, but when i feel his heart against mine, i know it to be true. this existence is strife and heartache and nails tearing into flesh, but there is consolation in the arms of a lover and there is peace in their kiss.

and, brother, you may not understand his depths, but my lover is good. despite how he bleeds and breaks, he is whole when he lays beside me, his hands lacing with mine, his features carved by the artist we know as Time.

and when he smiles…

is there love that could rival mine?

xvi.

His lips were rough against her own, hot and wanting, pushing all thoughts that weren’t of him to the recesses of her mind. His arms were steady as he held her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other planted firmly on her waist, pressing her against him. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her hands trailing up his chest as they reached for his dark hair, thick and soft beneath her fingertips.

She kissed him deeply once more before parting to take a breath, her forehead resting on his, their noses bumping together, gently. Mordred’s eyes fluttered open and the world was extended to (Y/n), begging her to take it in her soft hands and make something beautiful from it’s fraying edges and tattered bits.

She didn’t know how to tell the world that it was already beautiful, when she looked through his eyes and saw its glory reflected there. If everything could be crafted in his mind’s eye this existence could be a much softer way of living.

“I love you,” she breathed the words, and even though they were her own, they made her heart race in her chest. She could feel his speed up as well, and placed a hand over his chainmail, where she knew his heart lay beneath.

Mordred sighed, “And I love you.” Their lips connected for one sweet, brief moment, and when their eyes met once more, he was smiling, his iris’ twinkling with the light of the sun. “I could love you for the rest of my days and it wouldn’t be enough.”

(Y/n) giggled at his charming words, unable to contain the love that filled her so completely. He kissed her again and it felt like a cloud - downy and warm, like what she imagined heaven to be like. For a fraction of a moment, his lips hovered over her own, and it was she who chased after them, her lips divine as they pressed against his.

A knock at the door pulled them apart, and Mordred looked at her with sympathy, unwilling to pull away from her embrace, not wanting to venture into the night when all of his world was right here, in front of him.

(Y/n) put a hand to his cheek, rubbing the smooth skin with her thumb. “Be careful out there, Mordred.” Her voice was still ragged, her breathing slowly finding its normal state, and the sound of it pushed on his resolve, begging him to stay.

“I promise.” He kissed her once more, and when he walked out the door, sword in hand and a smile on his face, she believed him.

xvii.

and when the sun has not yet come up and he is wrapped in my embrace, he is mine.

[come-on-shitty-boys]

//nine years time. kuroo tetsurou//

Request: Hello can you write royal kuroo promising y/n when he comes back they will both marry. But it has been 9 years and y/n married someone else to finish their duty as a royal. Then a month later kuroo comes back.

Warnings: none???

Word Count: 2.2K

Notes: hi yes i love you. please drink lots of water, okay?

“I won’t be long, I promise.  A year at the most and then,” he raised your hand up towards his lips, placing a lingering kiss against the skin of your knuckles before continuing, “we can finally get married, just like we’ve always wanted.”

The war had been waging for far too long, but with the kingdom’s final move on the horizons, it was only a matter of time before this would all be settled and an air of peace would once again fall over your home.  You should’ve been happy, ecstatic even, that everything would go back to how it used to be before this entire conflict started, but the young man in front of you, that you had been so captivated by from the first time that you met, was about to leave to stand with his military.  After all, some member of the royal family had to be present to negotiate the peace treaty and with his father becoming too old and frail to make the journey, it only made sense that the prince should take his place.

But, the goodbyes and the warm feeling of Tetsurou’s hand engulfing yours nearly brought tears to your eyes.  He was still going away to war and that title of “prince” just added a bigger target to his back.  And even if it was only going to be for a year, those days would seem like an eternity as you waited for his letters and counted the weeks to his return.  

“You’ll wait for me?” Tetsurou asked, raising his hand to lay it gently against your cheek.

“I’ll wait as long as I must to be with you, my prince.”

But, that first year had ended with a letter announcing that things had not gone to plan.  They would be staging a siege to cut off the supply lines of the enemy, but there was no telling how long they would be there, waiting for a surrender.  

Hopefully they will see that their efforts are futile and I will be able to return to you quickly.  I miss you more with every passing day and I want nothing more to have you in my arms once again.

Take care, my love, and I will see you soon.

K. Tetsurou

By the end of the second year, the letters had slowed.  Monthly letters now came at a snail’s pace of one every few months.  And by the third year, they had stopped all together.  No matter how many letters that you penned to your prince so far away, there was never anything in return.  It was only after the fourth year that you stopped trying to reach him, giving up and letting the worst possible outcome consume you.  

It was really the only logical outcome that your brain could come up with.  If he was still alive, he would’ve written to you.  He wouldn’t have just ignored all of your letters.  He would’ve gotten in touch with you somehow.  The loss of the kingdom’s prince, your first and only love, was the only explanation.  And it tore you to pieces.  He was meant to come back to you, officially make you his.  Tetsurou was supposed to meet you in town when he rode back in with the rest of the troops and give you the kiss that you had been waiting so long for.  But, there was none of that and there never would be any of that, because he was gone and he wasn’t coming back.  

The fifth year without him was the worst.  You found yourself struggling to carry out your day to day tasks, unable to see the purpose in carrying on if he wasn’t able to be there to give you tender kisses on your temple at the end of the day and hold you tightly within his arms.  There would be days when you would see something that was so distinctly Tetsurou that you would quickly turn around and hastily walk in the opposite direction so that no one could see the way your eyes glistened with tears that wished to fall.  You would lie awake and read his final letter to you over and over again, skimming your fingers across his name as if that would be enough to bring him back to you.  You would anxiously wait for the mail every single day in the off chance that maybe, just maybe, this would be the day in which a letter would come announcing his return.  But there was never anything apart from the occasional invitation to a ball or a letter from a friend that only brought sorrow to your heart when you realized that it wasn’t the letter that you were hoping for.  

But, it was year six when you met him.  The man with the bright smile and the shining eyes.  The man with the most cheery laugh that you had ever heard.  He had spun you around the ballroom for what seemed like hours, telling you stories about his travels, cracking jokes in an effort to see you smile all over again.  Yes, Bokuto Koutarou had made you feel something that had been void from your life since the letters stopped coming.  The way that he gripped onto your hands in excitement as he asked you for yet another dance had your heart fluttering as you nodded your head.  You were barely able to get a yes out before he was dragging you back out towards the center of the dance floor, giving you a low bow as the music began.  

In that sixth year, he had made you happier than you had been in a very long time.  There wasn’t a moment of sadness when he was there to brighten your day, his smile more contagious than the plague, and a heart that had the capability of producing such raw and honest emotions.  He was so intoxicating that you found yourself thinking of the prince that had originally stolen your heart far less than usual.  Whether you were awake or asleep, Bokuto consumed your thoughts, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to complain one bit.  

Because in the seventh year, when he was given your parents’ blessing and he asked for your hand in marriage, you couldn’t stop yourself from saying yes, thoughts of finally being able to marry a man that you loved so wholly bringing a smile so wide that it pained your cheeks.  But, it was also in that year that you found yourself sitting down at your desk in front of a piece of parchment, a quill sitting next to a bottle of ink.  In year seven, you drafted your final letter to Kuroo Tetsurou, a goodbye to set your mind at ease, to be able to guiltlessly move forward with your life.

Tetsurou,

I hope that this letter finds you well.  It has been much too long since I have last had the pleasure of hearing from you.  Perhaps the war has needed your full attention over these past few years and, if that is the case, then I cannot blame you for not taking the time to write to me.  But, there is something that I wish to tell you.  

Seven years ago, I made a promise to you.  Do you remember that?  I promised that I would wait as long as I must to be with you, to finally be able to marry you.  But, I am afraid that today I have broken that promise to you for I have accepted a marriage proposal from another man, one that makes me as happy as you did.  He brings me a feeling of happiness that I only ever felt with you. 

My prince, I waited as long as I could.  But, the silence had worn down on me to the point that it was unbearable.  I had waited in sorrow for a letter that never came and when I needed a light the most, he was there, shining brighter than any star in the galaxy.  I hope that you will forgive me and I wish you all of the best in your future.

Best,

Y/N

And you had folded up a letter with the name of a man who would never read it, but still, when the day broke the horizon the next morning, you met the postman at the door, a piece of folded parchment in your hand, a letter that would fall on deaf ears.  

It wasn’t until the eighth year after Tetsurou’s leave that you took a new last name.  You found happiness in Koutarou, a sense of peace that only he could offer.  His joyful laughter echoed through the walls of his manor as he lifted you from the ground, spinning the both of you around and around until he was sure that he would collapse as the room continued to spin even after he was sure that his feet had stopped.  But, he couldn’t have been happier.  Being here, in a home that had felt so lonely for a long time, now with someone that he loved more than anything in the world, Bokuto wasn’t sure that there was anything that could’ve made his life better.  

It was also in that eighth year that Bokuto realized that there was one thing that could make his world even brighter and it came in the form of a small bump that you carried with you everywhere you went.  His little bump.  A child that unified you better than any wedding band or string of vows ever could.  Everytime that he would look at you with your growing stomach, he could feel his heart swell, a new sense of pride filling his chest at the idea of becoming a father to his beautiful little baby.  

In year nine, the two of you became parents to a precious baby girl that had Koutarou wrapped around her finger from the very minute she was born.  With his wide golden eyes and silver locks, she was more beautiful than you ever could have imagined.  It was as if after all of your years of turmoil, the gods were blessing you with the perfect life that you had always envisioned, but a different man was by your side rather than the one that you had always pictured as the father of your children, your loving husband.  Yet, despite your life not turning out exactly how you had planned, there was nothing that you wanted to change.  You were finally happy and at peace with losing your first love.

But a letter had arrived in the mail.  One that announced that the war had finally drawn to a close and that the troops would be arriving home the following week.  

“It would be nice to go.  We could see the soldiers back and then we can go visit the shops downtown, stop for lunch, and do whatever else you’d like for the rest of the day,” Koutarou suggested, laying the letter down on the dining table.  “But, we obviously don’t have to go!  If it may upset you, then maybe we shouldn’t,” he added quickly.”

“Koutarou, please.  You have nothing to worry about.  I’ve come to terms with his death a long time ago.  I think a day in town would be perfect.”  You smiled warmly, laying your hand over his, letting him lace his fingers with yours.

There were very few things that you were expecting after nine years, but the look on Kuroo Tetsurou’s face when he laid eyes on you that day, the returning troops at his back, was unforgettable.  There had been an all too familiar sense of longing in his expression when he had initially recognized your form, but when his brain registered the man who had a protective arm wrapped around you and the small bundle of blankets in your arms, the adoration had fallen from his eyes only to be replaced by a sad look in his eyes, one unlike something you had ever seen cross his face.  The prince that you had fallen in love with all of those years ago, now looked like he had aged 20 years, whether it be from the stress of war or from the realization that his one love had continued moving forward in their life, even he wasn’t sure.

Yet, despite everything in his body telling him no, Tetsurou dismounted from his horse, long legs carrying him easily over the distance that kept you from him.  It was in that ninth year that Kuroo Tetsurou was careless and crashed his lips against your own, a desire to pull you closer to him and finally feel your body against his that had been stopped by a baby.  A baby that started crying when Tetsurou’s body bumped against it.  A cry that snapped him back to reality and had him pulling away from you.  Remembering that the child in your arms was not his.  Remembering that after nine long years, you were no longer his.  

[littleladymab]

The Phoenix Suite (SW Rebels Pod+Fic)

Do you know what a phoenix is? It is said that the bird would go out in a burst of flames, and then rise from its ashes, born again. Even if we lose here, the Rebellion will never go out. Someone will always be the spark.

((Kallus tries to get a message to the Rebellion, but he fails -- tries to get a message to the Rebellion but he fails -- but he fails -- he fails))

Series: Star Wars Rebels Characters: Kallus, Thrawn, and the Ghost Crew Rating: Teen Tags: S3 Finale, time-loop, warnings for implied torture/character death/suicide (but again, it's a time loop, so it doesn't stick)

Read by Litra (link to stream)

----

Kallus hits the ground, hard.

He wheezes, more in shock than in pain, and inhales a lungful of dust and air tinged with the ozone of blaster fire. His shoulder takes the brunt of the blow, hands cuffed uselessly behind him.

Still, he’s able to roll into the fall and scrambles to his feet as the call goes up behind him.

“Grand Admiral!” a trooper shouts. “The prisoner is trying to escape!”

Kallus can’t hear Thrawn’s response, but the screams of the dying Rebel forces and the heavy tread of the walkers is enough of an answer: He’ll die with Atollon, and with the Rebellion.

For a wild, frantic second, Kallus considers charging one of the rear guards and taking their blaster, dragging down whoever else he can with his inevitable demise.

But then the part of his brain that clings to survival, to the barest glimmer of hope that this can still be salvaged, urges him onward.

So he runs — away from the sounds of the massacre, away from the orderly advance of the troopers and their walkers. Far enough that the only thing he can hear is the distant roar of chaos and ships crashing to the planet’s surface in his ears.

Breaking the cuffs is easy when he has a moment. He knows where to apply the right amount of pressure, even with his hands locked behind him.

There’s a faint and ominous skittering sound to his left, so he banks right. He has no knowledge of Atollon, and he certainly doesn’t want to learn about the local fauna.

Not when his brain is reeling and clawing desperately for a solution. Not when he’s staunchly ignoring the voice in the back of his head, the cold, calculated tone of the ISB Agent, as it scoffs and says you know a hopeless case when you see one.

Because he does. He knew from the moment he woke up in the cell after being knocked out by Thrawn on the communications tower.

Shit, probably earlier than that, if he’s being completely honest.

Playing at being a Rebel, thinking he could handle the mantle of Fulcrum.

The moment Thrawn walked into the picture, he was fucked.

His feet carry him without thought, winding away deeper and deeper into the wilds of this uninhabited planet. Further, he thinks, from the remains of his failure.

Until he crests a ridge and he’s standing on a cliff and he can see it all spread out before him. The base flattened, like a bug squashed beneath a boot. The white shapes of troopers picking their way through the remains, and the occasional flash of blaster fire when they find a survivor.

His stomach turns at the sight, the now familiar sickening sensation that this is the mighty hand of the Empire. This is not a war, and it never will be.

And it’s not that he wanted to go down in a blaze of glory or anything. He just wanted to make a difference for once. The tug in his chest, the last desperate pull of hope that led him this way, finally dies, leaving him standing on uneasy legs at the edge of the precipice.

“This is all my fault,” he says to the valley below, and wishes that it could be more of an apology and less of a goodbye.

“Which side do you mourn for?” a voice like thunder asks, and Kallus whirls around — reaching for a weapon that isn’t there.

But instead of a man, instead of Grand Admiral Thrawn with his glowing red eyes or the emotionless mask of a trooper, Kallus finds himself facing a creature that towers like a mountain above him. Its head is framed in a halo of dust as constellations of atmo burners light up behind it, and eyes like twin suns stare down at the human.

Kallus is speechless. Nothing in all of his training has prepared him for this. “What are you?” he asks instead.

“I,” the creature intones, shifting its head so that its silhouette is visible in the fading light, “am the Bendu.” It creaks with every movement, the coral that forms its antlers and outer shell grinding together as the beast lowers itself to Kallus’ level. “And what are you? You found me, yet… you are not a Jedi.”

Kallus wonders what makes being a Jedi a prerequisite for this. “I am…” Kallus starts, but in the end, he can’t figure out what the answer should be.

“Alexsandr Kallus, Imperial Security Bureau Agent 021,” the creature supplies, and Kallus feels hot and cold inside all at once.

He grinds his teeth and clenches his hands into fists and refuses to give into a physical display of his anger. “Not any longer.”

The Bendu studies him, those burning yellow eyes peeling him away layer by layer. “You wear the uniform. You keep that name close to your heart. Who are you, Alexsandr Kallus, if not an agent of the Empire?”

Enough is enough.

Every bruise and broken rib and laceration stings, the pain pulsing in time to his ragged breathing and his labored heartbeat. They are what reminds him of who he is, because everything he can see and hear tells him that the Bendu is right, he still is ISB-021.

He draws himself up to his full height, and throws his shoulders back in a way that he has seen Rebellion fighters do — one that conveys defiance instead of the perfectly postured lines of the Empire. “I am Fulcrum,” he says. “I am a Rebel spy, an Imperial defector. I am—” Here he falters, voice finally cracking. “I am well and truly fucked.”

The Bendu gives a low growl of something that might be understanding deep in its chest. “So then, Alexsandr Kallus: Which side do you mourn for?”

A laugh, strained and hysterical, boils up the back of his throat, but he swallows it down before it can get loose. “Why would I mourn the Imperials? They are the clear victors here.”

“Ah,” the Bendu says, as if it had caught Kallus in a particularly clever trap. “But in their victory, have they not also lost? Things they don’t even realize are missing.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Kallus counters. “If you were here, why didn’t you help the Rebellion? Why didn’t you help the Jedi?”

There is another rumble, this time like a storm, and the blazing suns of the Bendu’s eyes flash in warning. “I am the one in the middle. As I told the Jedi Knight who came and asked for my assistance, I take no side.”

Kallus just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. More Force and Jedi nonsense taken to the extreme. “This is a war. You side with the oppressors when you refuse to take action against them.”

“You picked a side, Agent. You carry pride for what you have done. Who are you, with your accolades and titles bestowed upon you by your Empire, to tell me that I do more harm than good? I am the Bendu. I am the one in the middle.”

Standing there on the cliff’s edge, still in his ISB uniform, Kallus wonders if he himself isn’t currently dangling precariously in the middle. Stranded between two worlds, no longer one but not truly another. He rejected the Empire, but was never fully accepted by the Rebellion.

Except that’s not true, is it? Not really. It wasn’t all that long ago that he was in the detention cell, undoing Ezra Bridger’s handcuffs, and the boy turned to look up at him with an expression of distrust but determination. The crew of the Ghost put everything on the line to try and save him, but he had said no. I can do more good here.

“I didn’t think that I had a choice,” Kallus finally says. “I didn’t know anything else.”

“Then what changed?”

How to answer? A part of him had died after that night on Bahryn. The person who crawled his way out of the ice and into the trader’s ship was someone else entirely.

Kallus had been given a choice; several, in fact.

He had spared Garazeb Orrelios’ life, twice. He had declined the invitation to be rescued by the Ghost crew.

That’s when he began to acknowledge the cracks — the chipping veneer on the Empire’s elaborate portrait of the future. When given the chance to do something more, he knew that there was another answer than the easy one offered by the Empire.

Eventually, he gives a helpless shrug. “Everything.”

The Bendu considers this, considers him. It’s similar to the feeling of being studied by Kanan Jarrus, or by the Inquisitor. That depth in their gaze that sees beyond this moment, like they know something is about to happen.

Someone who can see the full picture, where Kallus cannot.

Kallus knows, without a doubt, that he’s about to be given another choice. He is a man who takes disjointed pieces and knows how to put them together into a narrative. He is a man who has thrived on logic and reason for so long that they are second nature to him.

There is nothing left for him except execution at the hands of the Empire, or a slow death in the wilds of Atollon. There is no other way for this story to end, except for the choice that he will be offered.

“Would you change this, if you could?” The Bendu waves one massive hand, encompassing Kallus beaten and bloody, the smoldering valley below, the remains of destroyed ships like falling stars in the hazy sky.

“Yes,” Kallus says without hesitating.

“What would you change?”

Another shrug, not knowing where to begin. “Everything.”

The Bendu leans in closer still, until its eyes are the only thing that Kallus can see, and its hot breath washes over him. “If you could do this over again, would you?”

Now is not the time for logic and reason. Now is the time for gut instinct, in trusting something bigger than himself, bigger than the Empire.

Alexsandr Kallus, no longer an ISB Agent, no longer Fulcrum, dead man walking, looks the Bendu straight in the eyes and says, “Yes.”

It happens all at once. (It happens over the course of an eternity.) [It happens in juddering starts and stops and flashes of moments strung together.]

Kallus feels like he’s being plunged into a pool (into the dead cold of space) [like he’s being torn apart and reconfigured]. There is a weight on his chest that saps the air from his lungs and before he can get a chance to wonder if he’s made a mistake, everything goes black.

(( read the rest on ao3 ))

[10moonymhrivertam]

Hello! A post by @west-moor got me thinking, and it resulted in this! This is a little left to the point of the post, but it just grabbed hold of my brain for a solid three days. It’s currently full of author’s notes, but I feel the Need to Share. (Please let me know if you’d like to see any of the struck-through bits revisited!)

Warnings: Renfri’s backstory mentioned throughout (rape tw); Jack Harkness-style immortality (death tw, not permanent)

Concept: With a little bit of timeline nudging, Jaskier could be Renfri’s son

“Dandelion, come here before I go.” Renfri held out her arms, and Julian dashed forward, snuggling into her. She squeezed him. “I want you to make me a promise, okay?” Her voice was soft but raw. Julian frowned - this must be serious. 

“What kind?” He asked, refusing to let go of her. She rested her chin on the top of his head. ((she’s grateful she doesn’t have to look him in the eye))

Renfri sighed, tracing patterns on his back. “The [hard/important/??] kind. What I’m about to do...it might get me in trouble. I -“ Renfri hugged him tighter. “I might not be able to get back home.”

“What?” Julian’s voice went up, and Renfri shushed him gently, kissing the top of his head. 

“I want to. I’m going to try to. But this is dangerous, Dandelion. Even so, I have to take this chance. I’m so sorry.” Renfri took a breath. “But I need you to promise me, Julian, that if I don’t come home...you won’t do anything about it.” She squeezed him, so he didn’t shout like he wanted to. “No matter what you hear. No matter what Stregobor might do. That bastard cannot have you, do you understand?” Julian squirmed, and Renfri loosened up her hug with an apology, finally pulling back to look at him. “I don’t trust him not to use any excuse he can to hurt you, too. So we’re not going to give him an inch. Not a thing he can twist about you the way he did me. Alright?” She cupped his face, looking into his eyes. “So that’s the promise. No revenge. I don’t care what else you do, love - swordplay or poetry, or -“ She grasped for a third option, shook her head when she couldn’t seem to find one. “Anything but revenge. Promise?”

“Promise, Mummy.” Julian saw her eyes go misty. ST ? It was probably because he’d called her Mummy instead of Renfri. That’s what everyone else called her, and she was fine with him doing it, too. [Also draws less attention than Mummy] But sometimes, when he was scared or when something was important, Mummy meant so much more ? ST

*****

Fuck, but it had been hard without Renfri. It seemed like it would be fine, at first. Renfri had left him with her friend Gina; Gina lived in Oxenfurt; and he kept living with Gina; so it was easy to badger the Academy into accepting him when his interests turned to poetry. (He ignored the pang he felt at the memory of his last promise to his mother.)

Since then...well, he was just glad Gina was an innkeeper and had seen every trick in the book for getting food, some less underhanded than others. He stuffed the bread into his pants - he wasn’t likely to be able to eat here in peace, not with everyone...

Jaskier’s eyes caught on the corner and narrowed. Not everyone. He’d thrown neither bread nor coin. Strange - even people nominally without opinions usually got caught up in the energy of a room. He hopped to his feet, grabbed an ale, and crossed the room. He’d expected it to be a little harder to wheedle a review from the stranger, considering he claimed he was there to drink alone, but he came right out with his opinion once Jaskier sat down across from him. Now Jaskier got a good look at the whole of him, though, besides that stand-out hair. His eyes were golden.

“White hair....big, old loner. Two very -“ Jaskier’s words caught in his throat. The hilt that peeked just barely out of the [bag (technical term?)]. He couldn’t look away from it. “Very,” he managed to find his voice before it could be suspicious. “Scary-looking swords. I know who you are.”

Geralt stood. [second instinct>] STDismay filled Jaskier. That was his mother’s brooch. Seeing it made his heart ache, and he wanted a piece of her - any piece of her - back. He tried to stop him by drawing attention, but it only landed Geralt a job. Well. A job would keep him in Posada long enough to talk, wouldn’t it? So he followed, letting his mouth run wherever it would. He surprised himself a little with the optimism in “death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak”.ST

[first instinct>] Jaskier nearly saw red. The Witcher didn’t get to just walk away with his murdered mother’s brooch. Drawing attention to Geralt didn’t work quite as well as he’d hoped, instead landing him a job. Jaskier hurried after him, not wanting to give him any chance of escape. He let his mouth run as it would, taking a kernel of malicious glee in pointing out the onion scent. Geralt either had a very good poker face or quite thick skin, or both. He surprised himself with the optimistic tone in “death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak”. After all, Geralt had already brought him two of those things directly.

“Ooh, I could be your barker, spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the - the Butcher of Blaviken.” He relished the taste of the title in his mouth. The way it hung in the air was viscerally satisfying. He shouldn’t have gotten caught up in it. It made the fist seem like it came out of nowhere. 

He couldn’t catch his breath back. He’d had the wind knocked out of him once before, falling out of a tree. It had seemed like it had taken hours for Renfri to come to him and hold his hand. It was probably barely minutes, if that. The panic stretched time. Long enough for him to remember his promise to Renfri and break his own heart. He’d nearly broken his promise. Over a piece of jewelry - a sentimental improvised weapon, but far from as useful as the daggers he hid on his person. 

When he could breathe again, he straightened to find Geralt hadn’t moved far. He seemed to be checking the horse’s reigns, but coincidentally finished just as Jaskier straightened up. Well. That was almost cute. Jaskier dug claws right into a tender title, and Geralt waited to make sure he hadn’t done permanent damage. He suppressed a smile. 

“You really do pack a wallop!” He crowed. He regretted it a little, his stomach still aching. “What’s this going to take, two minutes?”

Geralt ignored him, mounting Roach. Jaskier hurried to keep up, still talking.

*****

As he talked, Jaskier realized his mother would’ve disapproved. Home wrecking wasn’t puppy-murder, but it was still something Stregobor might use should he ever find out Julian de Lettenhove was connected to the Black Sun. But there was nothing to be done about it, now. It didn’t technically break his promise, and it did too many wondrous things for his mental health to simply go without.

Jaskier was tired of this semantic argument, and they’d only had it twice before. The first time Jaskier had called Geralt a friend, and the first time he’d called him his best friend. He was all too happy to turn the conversation back to the night’s contract, and years of living at an inn had him snatching away Geralt’s ale with barely a thought. There was work to be done, and drink made everyone slow, even Witchers. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Jaskier dismissed, setting the ale gently on the dresser. “You never get involved. Except you actually do, all of the time.” You got involved in Stegobor’s petty squabble. You killed my mother. But that would bring the mood down and might give Geralt the wrong idea. Real friendship had taken two years for Jaskier to admit to himself, and sometimes hurt still festered, but hate? It had all but vanished at Dol Blathana, listening to Geralt bargain for his life. Listening to him reason with the elves, Jaskier suspected he got a peek into his mother’s last few days. He had to stop thinking about it. He pulled a joke out of his ass and let the conversation carry itself. 

*

He had proven, via scorned lovers past, that he had a resistance to magic. It didn’t skirt away from him, not completely. But it was often less severe. However, a shockwave was a shockwave was a shockwave. 

***

A djinn was not a shockwave. And he thanked his mother, and Melitele - even Lillit for that. Because he could feel the djinn on the edge of his senses. Drowned, trapped, shaken, fought over: tired and hellishly angry. He should’ve dropped dead, his throat burst open. But no. There was the taste of copper in his mouth and he could hardly force air in and out, but he was alive. Barely. Because the djinn had underestimated the force it would need. As his head began to spin and he clutched desperately at Geralt, his mind took a few funny turns. Renfri would be disappointed in the wish about Valdo. Not against the letter of the promise, but the spirit - Stregobor could definitely use murder-by-djinn against him. Would Renfri think it was funny if he died in Geralt’s arms, when she had met her end at his hands? And make no mistake, he was dying despite the djinn’s miscalculation: that was Roach’s back. Even after a decade, he still didn’t get to ride Roach unless he broke a leg miles outside town. 

**

[Yenn POV of Jaskier definitely dying and coming back to life; deciding to make it her little secret???]

**

It was a spring snow, and Jaskier wasn’t dressed for it. He was pleasantly surprised when the puppy eyes he gave Geralt got a non-frowning eye roll. That was about as good as an exasperated laugh from Gina. Shortly afterward, Geralt had found a safe-ish cave, and Jaskier helped him to set up the campfire. Usually Geralt didn’t resort to an Igni to start a fire unless they were both running low on coin for supplies - better to have all his energy at his disposal if something came across them in the night. But the kindling was damp, and Jaskier was shivering. After the fire, Geralt rummaged around on Roach for a moment before producing a blanket to drape around Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier smiled at him. 

For a while, there was only the sound of the whetstone as Jaskier warmed up. Once he felt a little better, though, out came Filavandrel’s lute. It had become something of a game over the years, to try to make Geralt’s sword-sharpening his metronome. He plucked mindlessly in time to the sound, his eyes only half-focused. Renfri’s brooch caught the light as Geralt worked. Jaskier didn’t even realize what he was playing until Geralt stopped, looking downright alarmed. Well, for him.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt demanded. Jaskier frowned at him. The change in his face meant he felt the tear tracks. Then, he realized what he’d been playing. He clamped his fingers down on the fret board, strangling the notes. 

“Fuck. No.” Jaskier wiped roughly at his face. “I...didn’t think I still knew that.” He focused on his instrument.

“Do you...not want to talk about it?” He supposed it made sense for Geralt to be unsettled - he did usually tell Geralt about all his woes. He’d just kept him away from the serious ones, the old ones, so far.

Jaskier swallowed. He unfolded his hand and slowly began to play again. “Little Viscount Dandelion,” he sang. “It’s time to rest your head. Little Viscount Dandelion, it’s time to eat your bread.” He hummed a little. “Little lord, oh little lord.” More humming. “Little Viscount Dandelion, it’s time to comb your hair. Little Viscount Dandelion, it’s time to cut through air.” It was five lines, at best. How was he crying again? Why couldn’t he go on? Renfri had stretched it out as he grew up. The first couplet had been easy. But as she’d wanted him to do more than go to sleep or to eat his dinner without a fuss, rhymes had gotten harder. He’d helped her rhyme them, and she would sing it while he laid down to sleep, or while she combed his hair. Sometimes she would teach him to fight to it. “‘S just a silly kids’ song.” Jaskier said thickly.

“Nothing silly about something that makes you think.” Geralt looked down at his sword, his thumb skimming across the edge of Renfri’s brooch. Jaskier couldn’t stop staring at it now. Geralt must have caught his line of sight. “Even you’ll think less of me if I tell you where this came from.”

“No, I won’t.” He didn’t mean for his voice to be so low, so mournful. And the sincerity had to be confusing. 

“I killed the woman it belonged to.”

“In Blaviken?” He was relieved it sounded like a guess. Geralt grunted in grave affirmation. 

“It’s from Creyden, I gathered,” Geralt continued. 

“Princess Renfri’s.” Please, just let his voice not sound funny to Geralt.

“Not a Princess after what Stregobor[‘s meddling got her stepmother (to do)]did to her.”

“I imagine not,” Jaskier murmured. His hands clenched around his lute. Sometimes he wished his mother hadn’t told him about the man who sired him. But she had never, not even once, held it against him. 

“You should sleep, Jaskier. It’s not going to clear up before tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he agreed in a whisper. He rolled out his bedroll and curled up as close to the fire as he dared. If he hummed Renfri’s song and cried himself to sleep, only Geralt and Roach could say so. 

***

[mountain? Or just...skip the mountain, cuz it’s overdone and I don’t imagine much changes]

***

ST Jaskier stopped suddenly. Ciri noticed first and tugged Geralt to a stop. Jaskier turned on his heel and retraced several of his steps, stopping in front of a pair of [idle gossipers(?)].

“I’m sorry, couldn’t help but overhear.” He flashed them a quick grin so patently false that be even saw Geralt wince out of the corner of his eyes. “You said Gina of Oxenfurt’s in town?”

“Apparently she knew Jaskier before Toss A Coin. She keeps tryin-a find him, she said.”

“Right, right. Who did you say she’s with?”

“Ffffffrida,” the other one said slowly, far too drunk for so early in the afternoon. “Of Let-something.”

“Lettenhove?” 

“Hey, yeah!” They frowned then. “Did you need to talk to them?”

“Would help, yeah.”

“Right. They’re at the market,” the first one declared. The other frowned. 

“No. The [otjer place]”

Jaskier’s heart roared in his ears as they fought, and he charged out to go looking himself. Gina wouldn’t let just anyone use Lettenhove - she knew what it had meant to Renfri, the pretend city she’d given him because she could. Jaskier snarled as a hand landed on his shoulder, and he prepared for a fight. 

“Which one were you checking?”

“[place]

[Renfri back, bitches. I might prefer this pre-mountain tho idk. Best for Julian’s blood pressure if he finds her first instead s of Geralt finding her.] ST

*****

“Julian.” Jaskier froze. Then he nearly cursed himself out - there would be no denying after-the-fact that the name had anything to do with him. He stood there and clung to the strap of his lute, trying not to lose himself in swirling negativity. He turned, surprisingly controlled. He frowned at seeing it was Borsch. 

“I prefer Jaskier.” Well, at least his voice stayed even. He tried to settle himself, putting his arms at his sides. 

“Come with me, my boy. Didn’t you tell our companion you’d be getting the rest of the story?” His tone was complicated. He’d obviously noticed Jaskier had no intention of doing anything but going straight down the mountain, but there was a painful gentleness to his request. Jaskier followed just to shed the itch of vulnerability. He could hardly believe what he saw there [in the cave]. At least until he turned to speak to Borsch and fell flat on his arse with an undignified Yelp. Alright, then. Gold dragons. Rarest. That’s how he’d smiled like he knew better than a Witcher. 

ST“I sought out the Witcher for a number of reasons. The first being that I have, on occasion, insights into the course of destiny. The second being the way your songs painted him. Destiny showed me a number of paths. And I may have guessed at the wrong one, given the knowledge of what occurred in Blaviken. But I heard your songs, and destiny told me of you. I am relieved I let faith dictate my choice.”

[dialogue I don’t wanna deal with hammering out at work]

[Borsch revealing the Jack Harkness thing “there are some creatures on this Earth who are not slated to meet their makers even should they fall to tooth, claw, or blade.” Etc; mentioning Deidre as an “aunt”, maybe suggesting Eskel assumes she’s dead as well and maybe he should fix that; intro of idea that Renfri would call other girls of the black sun his aunts]ST

STBorch didn’t speak, letting Jaskier stare, his mouth flapping soundlessly. 

“You hired Geralt,” he eventually managed. 

“Yes.”

“For - protection?” He guessed, face screwing up in a sort of frustrated confusion. ST

“Fuck!” It felt good to swear. It made the loss, the anger, the confusion, and the heartbreak feel less intense. 

“The baby does have some understanding of the world, if you don’t mind.” Borch’s voice was terribly mild. Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut - he never was good at keeping it that way for long, though, not that Renfri or her men had ever minded. Gods, that was so long ago, now. 

“No one’s called me Julian in thirty years.”

ST“Will you keep your promise to your mother, even now?” Borch asked, softer than Jaskier would’ve believed possible. Jaskier sighed, curling in on himself and covering his face.

“He would deserve it if I broke it.” His voice was dark and angry. A moment later, he curled deeper in on himself. “No, he doesn’t. That bastard.”ST

“With all that’s happened today, I think it is safest if you know something in advance, Viscount Pankratz.” Jaskier looked up furtively, trying to make sure no one heard. When nothing stirred, he fixed his gaze on Borch. 

“There are some individuals in this world who are destined not to meet their makers until a god is satisfied with their work here. Wounds that should end them will not stick; substances that shouldn’t be inside them will be expelled one way or another; some days they will wake up and find that wrinkles they had the day before have retreated.” Borch looked at him. Jaskier frowned, a crease forming in his brow. “Many of Lilit’s chosen fall into that category.” The words settled slowly into his mind, his frown deepening. 

“Not all of them?”

“Not all. But - some. Including your mother.” Jaskier’s breath hitched. Borch fell silent. It felt like Jaskier’s mind was racing, but he couldn’t have articulated one single thought on his mind. He scrambled to his feet.

“I have to -“ Where before he’d felt lost, his tether of twenty years cut, now he had new purpose. “Thank you. Sorry.”

“You’re very welcome. Take care, Jaskier.”

Jaskier babbled another goodbye as he raced to start back down the mountain. 

***

[thing from receipt in work jacket pocket about Valdo discovering Gina isn’t Jaskier’s mother.]

“It’s what bards did at the Academy, make fun of each other,” Marx claimed. “It’s all in good fun, picking at your opponent’s mother. Nobody means what they say.” Geralt stated dubiously at Valdo Marx. Were students really that stupid? “We were at the inn - fairly traditional setting. Everyone knew it was where Jaskier was from, too. The regulars all knew him; Gina roped him into chores on the weekend. I was up first. I’d cultivated my set carefully. Nothing that might actually hurt Gina’s feelings.”

“But you were wrong,” Geralt rumbled. Otherwise, there’d be no story to tell - he’d learned that much from Jaskier. 

“Found out when he put a dagger to my throat, and I was the one Gina kicked out over it. Gave me a lifetime ban, but... did me the courtesy of explaining, a few years back. It hadn’t been all that long, in the grand scheme. His mother had gone traveling and never made it back. It was a mistake,” Valdo insisted. “One anyone could make. Glad, in hindsight, that it was me, even if he still holds it against me.”

****

[Deidre and Jaskier meeting]

***

Vesemir was tucked into a shadow on the battlements. He was glad he’d been in the courtyard; inside, the stone might’ve blocked their voices. But he’d been hearing them for a while now, giggly and serious in turns.

“Whose idea was this? All this trouble and they’re not even likely to be home.” The man’s voice had turned from giggles to complaints the closer they drew. 

“Mm. Yes. Terrible idea.” The woman sounded terribly amused. 

“Fuck you.” His voice was light. 

“Language!”

“Oh, fuck off!” He laughed.

“I’ll wash your mouth out with soap. It’s my right as an ‘aunt��.” Laughter, a pause. “How often were you mistaken for siblings?”

“Usually as soon as I opened my mouth and called her by her name instead of, y’know, Mum.”

“Figures.”

“Oh!” The man said after a beat of silence.  “Oh, towers! Oh, thank fuck, this mountain is too damn tall.”

[more break in]

They were rather a motley pair as they stood before Vesemir. [Deidre] and the brightly-dressed man who was probably a bard, to be carrying his lute this far. 

“Well, you see - sir,” the bard amended. Then he stopped. Frowned. “Where do I even start?”

“Your mother?”

“Bad decision.” He shook his head at her. “Too much, too fast.” He paused again. “Well.... A dragon told me to find my Mum because she didn’t stay dead. But it’s been thirty years and I didn’t know where to look. Ran into Deidre first. Mum always talked about other Black Sun princesses as sisters. I was interested. She heard me out. Have to say, the ‘Witcher’s child surprise’ thing gave me a headache. But when she told me it was a Wolf, well - I knew generally where Kaer Morhen is, and we thought it would be funny if we. Um. Dropped in. Especially since it’s Summer so the consequences are minimal.”

This bard knew too damn much. “Are you Jaskier, then?”

“Ah. I hoped it wasn’t quite so obvious.” Suddenly, tentative hope bloomed behind his eyes. “You’ve heard of me?”

[All Geralt talks about. Other princesses? ~~ Ah yes well no easy way to say this mine is one too. It’s Renfri. No, Geralt doesn’t know. About any of this. And please don’t tell him! well, you’re actually supposed to tell them all Deidre and her nephew came by, to make Eskel sweat, but - hand wring - don’t connect Jaskier and Julian in their heads, if you can avoid it?]

*****

Jaskier had a hand pressed to Roach’s neck as they walked. It was both easier and harder going this way than breaking in. He liked the directness of it, but he hated the cold. Ciri shifted on Roach and leaned down a little to fuss with the cloak Geralt had made him wear.

[Vesemir has found Renfri; reunions, identity confessions, etc...]

***

[hm. To mention all the ammo Stregobor could potentially have against him and then not having a Stregobor plot is about as distracting as an unused rifle on the wall.]

[jasper-dracona]

Thought:

We’ve seen Castiel fight quite a bit, he’s actually decent at it, and he has plenty of cool abilities that we see him use like once and never again. He can shoot lightning down from the sky, twist knives that he’s not touching, and he’s obviously pretty good with a dagger/knife because Angel Blades. So, here’s my Supernatural Better Ending idea.

So, after the confession Dean and Sam fight like hell to get Cas back. But, they make a rule: No more of this self-sacrifice garbage. It always gets us into more trouble than we were in before, and it hurts us all. So, we get Cas back by any means necessary, except that. Spells, trickery, killing demons, angels, reapers, all powerful creatures we’ve never even heard of, whatever, just not ourselves.

And they succeed!! It was... oooohhh my god it was fucking hard. The boys need a fucking nap.

After said nap, they sit down and discuss what they all want, and what they’re gonna do next.

Dean says that hunting is really the only thing he’s ever known, it’s what he does best. Sam got a year off to think and feel what living in the real world is like, but Dean’s never really done that, and he doesn’t really want to. He likes kicking in the door of abandoned factories and killing whatever ghoul or ghost is traumatizing or killing the local townspeople.

Sam says that he’s really tired, even after that nap. He wants to live a normal life, and he feels like he’s got the chance because for once it feels like the world isn’t hunting them down, or that he needs to go hunt someone else down to go save them. He’s got a knack for fixing things, for making things work and tick, and well... there’s this girl... But, there will always be this little voice in the back of my head saying that there’s lives to be saved, there’s ghosts to be killed, so maybe I can still help out?

Cas says, he’s not really sure what he wants, other than to be with them (it goes unsaid but they all know he has a uhhh preference if he “must” choose between them)

And Dean pipes up that, well “we’ve seen you fight Cas and you’re pretty good at it, a bit stiff” Sam snickers a bit “but, uh, you can handle yourself quite well.” He snickers again. “You can use an Angel Blade, I’ve seen you shoot lightning down from the sky in the past. Why don’t you come with me on my monster hunting trips?”

“Would I have to learn how to use a gun?”

“It might be good to know, but there’s other ways of fighting that work almost as well.”

“Alright, I... like the sound of that” Cas says, as he cracks a little bit of a side-smile.

Dean, on a bit of a roll, says “and Sam, you’ve always been more partial to research anyway, would you wanna be our...” he pauses for a moment, because this is an emotionally charged title he’s about to offer Sam, and a lot of memories and feelings come flooding back. He smiles warmly and with pride, but undertones of sorrow creep in. “Our new Bobby? I mean, like, part-time since you want a mostly normal life, right?”

Sam, seeming a bit taken aback by this proposition “d- uh- y-yeah! I’d- I’d be glad to do that! Oh and uh, I was thinking, since I’m good at fixing things and making things work, well, I could maybe design you two some new tools. I mean, we’ve got salt pellets for the shotgun and iron tools, and silver bullets, but there’s gotta be other ways to further simplify those kinds of techniques, make them more efficient.”

Dean face lowers a bit and he seems... sceptical. He’s always been one for tradition, “if ain’t broke don’t fix it” is a very old phrase and I think he’s a fan.

“Of course, never to the point where hunting would be un-fun. The danger is part of it! But, I wanna keep the number of hits you- two- (he pauses and gestures to Cas, getting used to this new dynamic) take before you kill whatever you’re hunting to a minimum, right?”

Cas, having been just kind of standing, listening mostly in silence until now, says “yes that would be good. Also, since the main weapon I use is an Angel Blade, would it be possible for us to get other, similarly styled blades for me to use? Because, as powerful as an Angel Blade is, it only kills some supernatural beings other than demons and angels.”

“Uh, yeah I’m sure we could get you that. I don’t think I could make it but I can definitely look into it.”

And then they go, they get right into a decent rhythm (I’m not technically caught up so the details of what’s going on with Sam are going to be lacking.) Sam goes and talks to his girl, tells her that he’s going to be living a mostly normal life from now on, just with a bit of research and a bit of tinkering. He gets a job as the local plumber, but also does work on cars, on electrical things. He’s kinda known around town as the fix-it guy. If you’ve got a problem or somethings broken, he’s a pretty safe bet. In his off time he designs this heavy cloth rope that’s been soaked in salt-brine and then dried, leaving it full of salt, so that you can more easily encircle a room with it. It works best for ghosts because they’re mostly incorporeal. He designs a little box, kind of like a craft supplies box, with a series of small tools and materials in each spot. Gold, silver, copper, a coin of each, a piece of iron, and all sorts of other little pieces of equipment and ingredients.

We jump to Cas and Dean, in The Car, having a laugh when Dean’s phone rings. Sam says he’s got a lead and that he has some stuff he wants them to try out while they’re there. He gives them the rundown and say he’ll mail the package to the local shitty motel.

Normal Supernatural episode stuff happens, they follow the lead, get the package, find the house, and get to work. And we get to see Dean and Cas dance-fight their way through like 12 ghosts. They flow around the room with such synchronicity, despite the difference in pace between their weapons of choice, shotgun and throwing daggers. A beautiful sweeping shot around the room of them annihilating ghost after ghost after ghost. The only interruption being that Dean takes just a second too long reloading and gets scratched across his left cheek. Cas quite promptly stabs that ghost in the back, and the room falls silent.

“I think we got them all.” Cas says, without looking around the room, eyes fixed on Dean.

“Thanks, Cas” Dean says in a near-whisper

“No worries. Let’s go get that patched up.”

Cut to Dean sitting on the edge of the trunk, with Cas patching up his cut. Can’t Cas heal people? Well... they prefer this ritual to magic-y insta healing, it’s not as fun. Cas will make sure it won’t scar, however. Cas finishes bandaging him up, and makes one more good press on it to smooth it out, leaving his hand gingerly on Dean’s cheek.

“There we go, all cleaned up.” He says, smiling and looking over Dean’s face once more, just to make sure that’s the only scratch, or is he looking for more personal reasons? Maybe both?

Dean was kinda looking off in the distance while Cas patched him up, but now he looks right into his eyes. He grabs onto Cas’s caressing hand gently, smiles ever-so softly and leans in and kisses him. It is the exact kind of kiss you would expect from Dean Winchester, if any kiss could be described as “gruff”, this would be it.

They both let go after a long moment, Cas’s eyes are full of so much: shock, confusion, excitement, joy, and for a split second, fear, thinking he might just get sent back to turbo hell the empty.

Dean however, simply has a cheeky grin on his face with a touch of embarrassment. “Y’know... we haven’t had a chance to talk much since you got back.”

“Uh- Dean- I...” it looks as though Cas’s mind is going about a trillion miles a second.

Dean revels in his love’s adorable awkwardness, that often shines through even if he isn’t the only one in his vessel, even if he hasn’t spoken, damn he’s the cutest. “I wish I coulda done that sooner. I just... felt I wasn’t ready. That one had to be 100% on my terms.”

Cas wants to say something, anything, but just- there’s so much happening in his brain right now he can’t- he just- ah! This is amazing but he just cannot get any words out.

“Hey uhh, you good there buddy? Did I short-circuit you?”

“I think maybe, yeah!” Cas finally says with a chortle and this expression of relief and excitement and at least a little bit of embarrassment.

We cut to the next scene, back at Sam’s house, giving reviews and suggestions about his inventions.

“Okay okay, I can probably fix that by adjusting the drying time based on the humidity, and you’ll probably need to keep it in an air tight container from now on.”

“Yeah I was uhh... a little distracted when we put it away last. Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright Cas, it’s good to know that proper storage matters for this one.”

Suddenly, a bunch of pinging comes from Sam’s computer.

“What’s that?” asks the ever-paranoid Dean.

“I set up a series of notifications on my computer to go off if it found any news article that had a series of key words. This seems like a big one, vampires most likely, telling by the key words it found. You guys down?”

“Always.” They say, in tandom. Somewhat surprised, they glance at eachother a moment.

Sam raises his eyebrows. His face then says the word “anyways” without him making a sound.

“The article says it happened in [town], [state]. A man was killed in the...” Cas and Dean step around the desk and Dean leans in to look at the laptop, both hands on the desk, Cas leans in slightly and looks intently as well. They begin to discuss, likely speculating what type of vampire and what to do as the camera pans back and up in an arc as Sam’s voice fades, Carry On Wayward Son begins to play (because it has to) and it fades to black.

(Honestly wanted to write that last scene as if it was far later, well after the kiss, so that I could mention an Easter egg, that would be for eagle eyed viewers if this was an actual episode, where Cas and Dean both had wedding bands. Couldn’t figure out how to make it work though, and not seems like a big, weird jump.)

[helbramstrauma-main]

Lost and Found

Masterlist

Jack Kelly X Reader

Modern Era Highschool AU

Word Count: 1130

No matter the logic behind it, no one can tell me that time does not slow down just for Chemistry. It seems like the teacher can ramble forever when in reality only a couple of minutes have passed. People say that when you stare at the clock time goes by slower but it goes by just as slow no matter where I look. I peel my eyes away from the clock to copy down the new notes the teacher has written on the board. However, my attention quickly shifts away to turn myself around. People say you can feel when someone is staring at you but when I turn around I only see a boy scribbling something in his notebook.

Jack Kelly is in a lot of my classes and I can always rely on him for subpar notes when I am absent. I usually settle for them because that way I get most of my notes from one person. Other than our occasional trading of notes we never interact, he is just another face in the school of faceless people. To me at least.  You can usually find me at school funded events working the concession stand or running the school store- classic College application activities. Jack, on the other hand, is often at school funded events but in the stands or is only at the school store to buy supplies. Two completely different worlds.

Eventually, I bring myself to look back at the analog clock to see that only three minutes have passed. People say time cannot slow down, tell that to the time paradox that is Chemistry class. After the alleged forty minutes have passed the bell rings throughout the school allowing the class to have an audible sigh of relief.

The rest of the school day goes by not affected by the time paradox and eventually the final bell rings letting a slew of my fellow classmates out for the weekend. However, most of them will be back for the home game tonight. Let's make one thing clear, our football team is not good, nor does our school have an excess of school spirit, it is just something to do in our small town. Unfortunately for me, that means working the concession stand, more importantly, that means I do not leave the school. Technically I have two hours of downtime before I have to start setting up the concession stand I would rather spend the two hours locked in a classroom finishing my school work and snaking than going home. At least here I get the full two hours alone, and uninterrupted, but if I were to go home I would only have about an hour and a half and that time would probably be full of distractions. From rowdy siblings to need to fix the sink, or making dinner, it is just easier to do my work here.

I am sitting in the side room off the principles office, which is often used as a waiting room for students who have been sent down to see Doctor Cavanough. Most people are terrified of him, but once you get to know him, he is not that bad, we are even on dropping the title terms! I can just call him Cavanough, a right reserved for me and a handful of other people. Another benefit of our relationship is that he lets me do my work in his side room. Most of the time he will not bother me, but that is not today. Cavanough comes in with his suit jacket not fully on and visible beads of sweat as if he has just finished a marathon. He always stresses sweats on home game days, not only is he responsible for Jeffersons Public High School, but he is also responsible for whomever the visiting team is. I always try to take off whatever stress I can as he should retire but he will probably die in his position. My task today is to go through the lost and found bin. I do not even know what that means, other than to look through some hoodies to make sure there are not any drugs.

I take my time going across the school so I can go through the bins, we keep the lost and found in the back room at the library. It is a small room that makes the most desperate people decide that their stuff is not worth spending more than a few minutes in there. However, I will be spending an undisclosed amount of time in this room, and needless to say, I am not looking forward to it. That being said I did not waste any time getting started either, my hands were practically already in a hoodie since the moment I walked in. After I sifted through the first bin I decided to look into the miscellaneous bin. The bin most known for holding the biggest mystery of the school, for instance, how someone only lost one shoe, or when was it acceptable for someone to bring in knock-off fine china, and somethings that I am almost certain are trash. An open bag of Uncle Ben's rice has lined the bottom of the bin.

At some point, I move a skateboard that someone had lost to see a notebook. A familiar notebook, but it is not mine. However, it is something I have definitely seen before, letting my curiosity take over me I open the book to the first page to see the initials JK. The realization hits me eventually as I notice the handwriting I have to decipher every time I miss a day of school. This notebook belongs to nobody else but Jack Kelly. Not wanting to get back to sifting through hoodies right away I begin to page through his notes. Often seeing little doodles on the side of his page that keep me entertained. I know I should not be going through his notebook but I cannot seem to stop myself once I have started. Eventually, I get to a page that contains no notes but instead is a portrait, the face does not look like him at all. He could not of come up with this person on his own, it is definitely a real-life person and I am determined to find out who.  

I stare at the well-drawn image until I notice a birthmark just under the person's nose. My hand immediately goes up to touch my own identical birthmark. Everything hits at once, the person is me. I turn the page again to see tons of fake dialogue of him asking someone out. It does not take much to put two and two together, he has a crush on me. My brain immediately does that thing where when anyone shows me any sort of attention I think I am in love with them. Although I am not completely sure about who Jack Kelly is as a person I am not opposed to getting to know him.

I grab a pen from the lost and found bin and write my number on the next blank page of his notebook.

You're a really good artist, 555-555-5555 - Y/N Y/L/N

It is not long after I returned his notebook that I get a text message from an unknown number.

Art is easy when you have a good subject - JK