#cause the potatoes were looking a little green when I quartered them

[rileys-battlecats]

trying to deduce if current stomach pains are from my usual condition of Body Being Bad At Living (random stomach aches basically daily) or if I gave myself food poisoning (made and ate soup made with ingredients that tasted A Little Off but not bad enough for me to think they had gone fully rancid)

[findingjoynweirdstuff]

Dream SMP Recap (March 1/2021) - Breaking Point

Sam has been unable to find a cause for the security breach, leaving Tommy trapped. A heated argument in the cell escalates to a horrifying end.

As the rest of server mourns, the Eggpire celebrates. With their biggest obstacle in the way of their objective gone, it’s time for the next step.

It’s the start of the Final Stage.

---

VOD LINKS:

HBomb94

Ponk

Tommy

Tubbo

Ranboo

Jack Manifold

Connor

Badboyhalo

Captain Puffy

---

- HBomb hosts Foolish and Jack Manifold’s episode of L’Cast!

---

The Prison Stream

(This portion of the recap will be more detailed than normal since it’s one long conversation and there are many important lines here, including a couple that were hard to hear during the stream)

---

- Tommy’s stream starts with him making sounds and singing “Roadtrip.” Dream tells him to stop, he’s trying to write a book.

Tommy: “What are you writing, Dream? What are you writing?”

Dream: “None of your business.”

- There’s a little gray and white cat sat on the chest. Tommy says it’s annoying.

Dream: “No he’s not...he’s actually the best thing that’s happened to us.”

Tommy: (Trying to lead the cat away) “Come with me, come with me...you know what I named him, don’t you? Pussboy, Pussboy!”

- The cat returns to its spot on the chest

Tommy: “Oh, Pussboy, you are so ugly.”

Dream: “C’mon, you’re being mean!”

(Tommy punches the cat)

Dream: “Tommy! Stop!”

- Tommy starts singing “Roadtrip” in autotune. Dream tells Tommy that if he can be quiet, he’ll give Tommy more potatoes.

Dream: “I think that...the cat is the best thing that’s happened to us.”

- Sam joins the call to say hello and ask how it’s been going. He’s come to drop more food into the cell. Tommy also picks up a new clock.

- Tommy asks to be let out, but Sam says he still hasn’t found out what the security issue is. Dream asks how long Tommy will be in here for. Potentially for a while, but not forever.

- Tommy protests about how bad the prison has been. He threatens to get lawyers on Sam, he knows Big Law.

Tommy: "Sam...you know I don’t deal very well in...close quarters situations for a long time, Sam. Sam, you remember when you visited me in exile, Sam? Alright, this is worse than that, Sam...let me out. I don’t like this. Let. Me. Out. Sam.”

- Sam insists he’s doing the best he can and leaves.

- Dream tries to say that it’s not that bad. He’s been in there for a long time, but now it’s better! Tommy writes a book to Dream, signs it and throws it to him.

Dream: “I have company. I have a cat -- I mean, technically it’s not my cat, technically it’s your cat, but still! It’s just as good, keeps me company when I write and everything, we talk sometimes -- ‘cause you’re annoying a lot of the time--”

- Dream throws away the clock in the lava, saying they don’t need it. Tommy punches the cat again.

Dream: “Tommy, hear me out, hear me out...what if...we get out together, okay?”

- Tommy is not a fan of the idea, Dream shouldn’t be let out too. He goes over to the cat and shouts at it for being in his spot. He punches Pussboy twice.

Dream: “Tommy...TOMMY, STOP!”

Tommy: “Excuse me! Come this way, come this way, excuse me Dream I’m trying to right-click Pussboy--”

(Dream moves to get in front of the cat)

Dream: “Tommy.”

Tommy: “Come here, come here! Do you like this cat, Dream?”

Dream: “Yes, I do.”

Tommy: “Why?”

Dream: “Because he -- Tommy, he keeps me company --”

(Tommy punches Pussboy again and leads him towards the lava)

Tommy: “Pussboy, this way. Pussboy, this way. Let me show you the light--”

Dream: “He’s probably low, he’s probably low!”

Tommy: “Oh what, you love him? Do you love him? Do you love him?”

Dream: “Yes, I do...Tommy, he’s made things better in here -- okay listen! When you leave, can you sit him down and leave him here?”

(Tommy goes over and punches Pussboy again. He tries to lead Pussboy away again, but when the cat doesn’t come he punches Pussboy twice more, killing him)

Tommy: “Yeah. And that’s what happens when you love something, bitch.”

...

Tommy: “See, now when I leave, when I leave, you’ll have nothing! ‘Cause you are lonely, and you’re m-m-manipulative, you’re a fuckin’ twat, and I mean that.”

Dream: “Tommy...I’m gonna get out! And you just motivated me -- you motivated me all the time, you just -- that was hope, right? The cat was hope -- the cat was hope that I could live a nice life in here--”

Tommy: “And now it’s dead, now it’s dead.”

- Dream insists that he’ll get out, and when he does, he’ll get his revenge on everyone who wronged him. Tommy asks if he’d kill Tubbo. 

- The subject goes back to Dream’s plan of escape.

Dream: “I have a plan. And the thing is, Awesamdude’s never gonna believe you that I have a plan because he thinks it’s unbreakable, unescapable--”

“I have a plan. And you know, there’s a certain someone who owes me a favor, but -- that might be a part of it, but...I do have a plan.”

- They argue about the conditions of the prison again. 

Dream: “I’ve been in here a for hundred times longer than you, and you sit there trying to tell me that it’s so horrible, that it’s so bad -- yeah, it was! But guess what, we have each other to talk to, and we had a cat until you fucking killed it!”

Tommy: “Dream...Dream, and listen to this -- fucking engrave this on you, write this into your arms, Dream...You don’t have me. You’ll never have me. We don’t have each other, alright? I am me, and you are this fuckin’ loser who goes around manipulating people, lying to get what he wants. You are a fuckin’ no one, man, alright? And when I’m going to leave here, you’re not! You might have a favor -- you think, who is it, Technoblade’s gonna be able to come in here to let you out -- Technoblade, he doesn’t like governments, but he likes self gain! You think he wants to piss off the owner of the most POWERFUL building on the entire server, just so that he can get a video that BARELY scrapes the five million view mark -- NO, Dream, alright? You’re a fuckin’ asshole, you’re deluded, you’re delusional, and I fuckin’ hate you.”

Dream: “Okay...yeah, but I have something Techno would want, so...it means knowledge, alright?”

- Dream says that even when he’s in here, he’s more powerful than Tommy outside. Tommy replies that if he wanted to, he could kill Dream right now. The only reason he doesn’t is because they need the revive book.

- Dream says that he will never use the revive book to help Tommy or his friends. Ever.

Dream: “So kill me. Go ahead, come on.”

- When if Tubbo dies, Dream says, they’ll come begging for Tubbo to be revived, and Dream will ask to be let out.

- Tommy then says that this isn’t worse than exile, because in exile, Tommy thought Dream had all the power, and Tommy knows something...he thinks the revive book isn’t real. Jschlatt was just a drunk, why would he have this book?

Dream: “Jschlatt gave me the book -- why else would I switch to Jschlatt’s side?!”

...

“I’m not lying! Jschlatt gave me a revive book after...before he died....because...he said--” (he cuts off here)

- Dream asks why he would be lying about that.

Tommy: “You’re a liar! You’re a liar, and really, through your Netherite armor and skin, I look at you and you know what I see? I see a sad little man who’s insecure about the fact that this server has gotten so far ahead of him that his only little glimpse of power in this world is gone. And I see an insecure, sad little man. So fuck off. You stupid green lad.”

Dream: “Your life...is literally in my hands. Does that piss you off? Does that make you mad? Does that make you so mad that I -- if you kill me -- I MIGHT AS WELL BE A GOD, TOMMY! YOU CAN’T KILL ME, AND I CAN KILL YOU! So what does it mean, that you can’t kill me because of the revive book -- what does that mean? If you can’t kill me, does that make me some kind of god?”

Tommy: “No Dream. I could kill you right now. If I wanted to.”

Dream: “Okay. But you won’t. But you won’t! I could kill you if I wanted to! I could kill you right now, actually.”

...

Tommy: “I don’t think this revive book is real. Schlatt? He’s fuckin’ dead. I’ve seen his grave! His grave is real, his corpse is there!”

Dream: “Okay...Why don’t you go see him then?”

Tommy: “NO -- stop it stop it stop it st--”

--- ---

CANON DEATH: TOMMY

Cause: Punched to death

--- ---

End of stream.

---

- Tubbo, Ranboo and Jack see Tommy’s death message in game chat.

- They go to the prison and Sam is there to tell them what happened. Sam couldn’t get there in time. He didn’t think Dream would actually kill him. They’re all in shock. 

- Tubbo and Ranboo think Tommy will be back. There’s no way he’s actually dead, right? 

- Jack Manifold is in celebration. He got what he wanted! He thought Dream would want Tommy alive, and killing Tommy himself would be an extra jab in the chest for Dream, but apparently not? And now he has a hotel!

- He decides to check on Tubbo and makes sure he’s okay. 

- Jack walks down to the shore and looks up at the prison, and...it hits him. He’s spent months plotting to kill Tommy. Jack realizes his victory feels hollow. Even now, Tommy and Dream have managed to take away this from him. 

- Of Ze Haus, he says that this place no longer means anything to him. He gets a flint and steel and sets it alight, watching it burn.

- He passes by Tommy’s house and finds Ranboo planting red and white flowers outside.

- Jack switches into his L’manburg uniform and walks along the Prime Path.

Jack: “I remember the day I joined the server. The day after the first war. L’manburg was still a big hole, and we built it up. And Tommy invited me to join. And I betrayed him (laughs), so really this has all come full circle.”

“Maybe I was always really just upset because I always felt like he cared more about the discs than...anyone. And I guess I just enjoyed it when we were friends...and...I’ve not really had any friends...since...then, really. Never really wanted any.”

- Jack later speaks with Foolish and tells him that Tommy’s never coming back from prison. Foolish didn’t know him too well, but he’s still a bit sad. When anyone passes, it’s sad.

- Jack heads back out into the wilderness, wandering to the beach area at the edge of the forest where Quackity had his argument with Badboyhalo a while back. There’s something just beyond the hill.

- Quackity meets him there and escorts him back home, telling him he was heading too close to something, could have gotten “a nice view of it.”

- He’s been thinking of writing up a draft of their contract. He also sees the new McPuffy’s.

- Jack tells Quackity that Tommy’s not in the prison anymore. Quackity says they need to talk to him and make sure Jack keeps his hotel. As the rain pours, Jack tells him. Tommy didn’t make it.

- Quackity and Jack have a moment in front of Tommy’s house. Though upset, Quackity says it’s time to get back to work.

Quackity: “Jack...don’t let this affect business. The train doesn’t stop.”

Jack: “No, it only goes faster.”

- Jack also speaks with Antfrost. Antfrost gives his condolences, and says he’ll put together a celebration “of life.”

Ant: “Bad and Sam will be happy...to attend, of course!”

- Afterwards, Jack heads down into Karls nightclub and ends stream there.

- Connor speaks with Sam Nook at the hotel.

- Bad meets Ant at the Holy Land. Ant asks if the church would be a good place for a celebration. Ant sits Bad down to tell him. Bad is overjoyed. 

- Bad says that now, they don’t even have to do any preparations: 

They can move into the Final Stage.

- They get milk for the cake and decide to throw the party at Tommy’s house!

- They meet with Sam at the prison entrance. He sounds dejected.

Sam: “I didn’t think Dream would ever actually...try and kill him”

Bad: (laughs) “Is this the same Dream we’re talking about? It’s Dream, Sam.”

Sam: “I mean...Dream had...I thought I had...broken the will out of him, to do something like that. But he...he did.”

- He says they need to find out what it was -- he wandered around the prison several times and couldn’t find any sign that someone had done something.

- Ant and Bad try to reassure Sam that Tommy signed the waivers, he went to see Dream, and Sam shouldn’t blame himself. Sam doesn’t see it that way.

- They say they’ll talk to Sam later and leave the prison. They see Sam Nook at the hotel. Sam is excited about the new upgrades for the hotel! Tommy will be so excited to see them!

- They return to Tommy’s house and speak with Punz as they make a party floor and sing the Crab Rave song in dudududus.

- Meanwhile, Captain Puffy is grieving, feeling like she failed Tommy. As she logs on, Bad and Ant decide that Puffy might want to join them for the party! 

- Punz meets them there, and they tell him that Tommy’s dead. Punz isn’t sure how he feels, it’s bittersweet.

- Puffy arrives and angrily tells them to leave. What’s wrong with them?!

- The Eggpire sees Sam Nook at the hotel and goes up the floors to find a place to party. Puffy comes up and tells them to find another place to party. They argue again.

- Foolish arrives to visit his room in the hotel. Puffy leaves them. They quarrel about who has the room for the night.

- Puffy mines down the Eggpire’s meeting room. She’s noticed that being a hero hasn’t worked. Sparing people, being merciful, it hasn’t worked. She might need a change of perspective. 

- The Eggpire decides to visit the Egg and break the news to it. They see the wreckage, but Puffy is in the Nether by the time they get there.

- Puffy visits Logsted.

- The Eggpire goes down to the Egg Room and finds the pathway blocked up with obsidian...is this why the Vines have been slower to grow lately?

- They break the barrier and find the Egg drenched in water. They wake up the Egg and it speaks.

“This world is mine. It belongs to me.”

“No no no, I know, but we’ve got something to tell you!”

“I see all...I...am...all...”

“Oh so you--”

“I know all.”

“You know then! Guess -- well, we’ll tell you anyway in case you don’t know -- but guess what? Tommy’s dead! Dream -- the green guy, you met him -- killed him in the prison! I guess Tommy got stuck there, and Dream killed him! Are you happy?"

“Feed me...I require nourishment.”

“No no no, don’t worry -- that’s coming soon! We’ll take care of that! We’re already gonna begin the preparations, right guys? Yeah, we’re gonna begin the preparations, and we’ll send out the invitations, we’ll let everyone know...and the final stage can commence! This is wonderful!”

- Once on the surface, Bad announces that with a little more preparation, they’ll all get exactly what they want. The final stage is about to commence. 

The day of celebrations, the day they’ve been preparing for, the day the Egg has been preparing for, is about to happen...

- Bad goes down to the Egg Room one last time and stands at the Egg to give a final speech.

���Everything leading up to this point, EVERYTHING, all the way going back to the discovery of this...beautiful, luxurious Egg, okay...we had it all planned. As soon as we found it, we knew what was gonna happen. We knew the objective...”

“We may have forgotten what it was, forgotten the ultimate goal as soon as we boxed the Egg up in obsidian. But guess what -- that didn’t stop the Egg! Boxing it up only made it STRONGER, and LARGER, and more powerful! And the Egg’s been storing up that energy, okay? You may have been thinking the Vines have not been spreading...but that’s because we haven’t WANTED them to spread. We have been working, storing energy, storing power...in preparation for the final plan. The final objective. And there were only a couple people getting in the way. But guess what? One of the biggest obstacles -- Tommy -- is no longer in the way...now that he’s not in the way, we can commence with the final stage...the final party...before it all comes to a conclusion...”

“Brace yourselves...everybody on this server, prepare. Anyone who is anti-Egg...you guys better get ready, because we know who you are. And at the end of the day, the Egg is gonna be victorious. And there’s nothing ANYBODY can do to stop it.”

“Good luck.”

[pillage-and-lute]

An Ever Fixed Mark (Part 3)

 Part 1 Part 2 (here) Part 4 Part 5 Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,

Read it on Ao3 HERE

It’s back! The boys get hitched, and Geralt gets nervous. 

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

Three days.

Three entire, fucking awful days until the wedding.

Geralt had paced in their quarters, he had paced in the halls, he had paced in the courtyard (after getting lost and pacing until a footman found him). He had taken Roach out for a ride and paced her.

It wasn’t just cold feet, pre wedding jitters, or the usual sort.

He was afraid for Jaskier, afraid for himself, and afraid of letting down witchers. If Jaskier became unhappy in their marriage the contract was void. Jaskier didn’t seem happy in Lettenhove but it was comfortable and he had plenty to eat and a warm place to sleep. Nice clothes. Like minded, well educated people. The list just kept getting longer.

Geralt had to keep him happy.

More than that, he’d have to keep him safe. The path was dangerous, no place for an Earl’s son who’d only known luxury. He understood Jaskier had been at Oxenfurt, so he must know something of the world, but only of the academic world. He’d studied literature and music, what good was that for a witcher’s companion?

He liked Jaskier. It would be hard not to. But would he like him on the Path, as a constant companion? Another person to look after, another mouth to feed? He liked Jaskier, but he also barely knew him. He knew he was young, thankfully unafraid of witchers, but could he fight? Would he do as he was told? 

And Geralt would be around him all the time. 

Geralt didn’t like being around anyone All. The. Time.

He needed space even at Kaer Morhen, sometimes disappearing into his room all day, or if the weather allowed just taking Roach into the forest for a day.

Eskel was beating the stiffness from Geralt’s muscles again, the evening of the day before the wedding, and said quietly, in between vertebrae numbing digs,

“You ever think all that worrying will be a self fulfilling prophesy?”

“Hmmm...OW Eskel the fuck!”

“Listen, first of all I didn’t even do it that hard. Geralt, you’re my brother, and I know you better than anyone. You get all trapped in your head, and you worry, ‘cause you don’t understand people. You think you’re different.”

“I am different.”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Eskel said, popping Geralt’s back with well placed pressure. “You’re different, okay. I don’t know what all they did to you with that extra trial. I don’t think Vesemir knows, really, no one does. But I remember you before, alright? You were like this before. It isn’t a bad thing, some people just don’t always get other people. Jaskier does though. Allow him to understand you, don’t try and understand him all at once.”

Eskel finished the massage with a truly bone-wrenching press. “I think you could be really good for each other, just don’t...don’t go and mess it up just because you think you shouldn’t have something good.”

“Hmmm.”

Geralt woke up on his wedding day feeling hungover, except he hadn’t been drunk last night. 

Eskel didn’t look well rested either, although he had a sort of stupid grin on his face. Mabel had been by a few times in the past days, and Eskel at least was having the time of his life. 

Judging by the scratch marks she’d left all down his back, she’d been having the time of hers as well. 

Geralt sunk into the bath, which had been tepid by the time the tub had been lugged up the stairs and servants had filled it with water. Igni took care of that, and Geralt sat and steamed behind a little standing wooden panel that the servants had also brought. 

The little modesty panel room divider had been a source of some amusement for the witchers. Body shyness was bred out of witchers before it had time to form. Lambert did comment, however, that it would be nice not to have to watch Geralt sit and cook in the bath like a boiling potato.

Rosewater had been put in the bath, not much, and it wasn’t a strong scent, but to witcher senses it was heady. 

Geralt scrubbed his hair. Then Vesemir scoffed and told him he was too gentle. Vesemir practically beat his scalp into submission.

Geralt had a gold doublet and he felt like a ponce. Lambert insisted that he couldn’t wear black to a wedding, and certainly not his own. Geralt wanted to protest, but he couldn’t, not really. None of the wolves were wearing black, and if the occasion had pried black from Vesemir, then it really was time for colors.

Lambert was in a mahogany brown-red, and looked almost dashing, if a little rougish. Eskel was in dark green, he looked good, too. If Maybel was serving at the wedding there would almost certainly be some appreciative remarks. Vesemir was wearing brown. If he couldn’t wear black, Geralt supposed a neutral color was the next best thing. 

It was still inexplicably a party brown. There was some quilting on the sleeves of the doublet done in a coppery thread and, all in all, Vesemir looked as festive as Geralt had ever seen him.

Geralt didn’t look festive, he looked like Midas had touched him, then, when apparently that wasn’t enough, covered him in glitter and embroidery. The wedding was to take place outside, and Geralt wondered if he wouldn’t blind people. Still, looking at the School of the Wolf, he thought he at least had a rather handsome entourage. 

His face was scrubbed and, short of the miraculous disappearance of a couple scars, he was as handsome as he could get. Lambert had pulled his hair back with a couple braids. Also, in Geralt’s opinion, poncy, but he’d seen a few of the other nobles in a similar style so perhaps he’d best leave it to fashion and not put up a fuss. 

They were lead by a footman, more a foot boy, with a face full of freckles and unfortunate ears, to a garden. It was probably a bower but Geralt didn’t know about horticulture. Trees had been planted and then twisted by someone dreadfully patient into a sort of cathedral of arching limbs. Spring meant flowers, and they were everywhere. The trees were the flowering sort, almond trees with fragrant blossoms. Delicate petals had fallen to the ground in a sort of pale carpet. Every time a breeze blew a few more drifted to the ground like spring snowflakes. Smaller, brighter flowers abounded near the edges of the manmade clearing. Their perfume was giving Geralt a headache, but he couldn’t blame the knee-knocking terror on them. 

Little stone benches had been arranged in rows, but were empty as of yet.  Vesemir sat in the position traditionally meant for the father of the groom. Eskel was best man, with Lambert beside him as the other groomsman. 

And they waited in silence, blossoms falling around them as Geralt’s knees turned progressively into liquid.

He felt sick.

He might throw up.

The image of stuffing his head into one of the bushes of pink and yellow roses and puking lurked threateningly in his head.

Lambert smirked at him unsympathetically. 

Ladies swept in, dusting petals from benches and hanging little baskets of flowers off the back of the benches. Geralt absently wondered what for, all the while fighting his roiling stomach.

He’d been too nervous to eat this morning, and now he was worried it would growl during the service, but if he ate now he’d vomit for sure.

His flower question was answered when a broomstick-thin lass came up to him with a basket in hand and nervously proffered a little twist of flowers. He took it, baffled. One of the funny pink and yellow roses, something purple, a bit of greenery, and a couple almond blossoms. He glanced at Vesemir, questioningly, who pointedly stuck the flowers in a decorative slit in his doublet. 

Next to him, another girl nudged the skinny, nervous one out of the way. He recognized Mabel. She gave him a cheerful grin.

“Switched places with Leeann for the day,” she whispered to Eskel. One of her hands slid slowly up his chest, wrapped in green silk. “And I’m so glad I did.” She stuck the boutonniere into the collar, his doublet lacking anywhere else, and sent him a wink that, in more conservative countries, got women jailed.

Past Eskel, the nervous girl was holding flowers out to Lambert. They shivered in her grip. Instead of the vicious grin Geralt expected, Lambert gave her a polite smile and an attempt at a courtly bow. She scuttled off and he tucked the flowers into a small pocket on his doublet, looking at his brothers and shrugging.

Geralt looked at the twist of flowers in his hand. They seemed very easily bruised and broken in his fingers. He didn’t have anywhere to tuck them. 

Eskel came to the rescue.

“There’s a little slit here somewhere,” he said, poking at the embroidery on Geralt’s chest. He found it. “Ah, here we go, just stick those in there.” Geralt did. “You almost look presentable.” Eskel said, not totally unkindly. 

Then he must have seen the raw terror in Geralt’s eyes. 

“It’ll be fine, brother,” Eskel said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You look good.”

Eskel stepped back into place, sending a wink towards Mabel, lined up near the back with the other housemaids. 

Guests slowly filtered in. 

There were more jewels and crystals about the throats and in the hair of the ladies than Geralt had ever seen before. Geralt felt a little better about his golden doublet, because there wasn’t an outfit on the benches that didn’t glitter. 

Then a couple minstrels struck up a sweet, simple tune, and two little children entered. A girl in an almond blossom crown was scattering pink petals on the already well-petaled floor. She was so sweetly serious about her duty, solemnly distributing the petals, that coos and chuckles filtered through the crowd. The little boy was holding a cushion with wedding bands. 

Geralt cursed mentally and began to panic. He’d left Jaskier’s mother’s ring in their rooms. It was too late to get it. He felt even more sick. Vesemir gave him a worried look and Geralt took a deep breath. They could always swap the ring out later.

A young woman in a pale blue dress entered, holding a small bouquet of the white almond blossoms. She was followed by another young woman, in the same dress and a very similar bouquet. Bridesmaids, Geralt supposed. One of them reached down and took the hand of the little flower girl. The ring bearer, slightly older, stood without a hand, but fidgeted. Geralt could sympathize.

The music changed.

A slow processional began and a hush fell on the crowd.

 The Earl stepped forward, Jaskier on his arm. The earl wore grey, like a dove, but Jaskier.

Jaskier.

Well.

Wow.

He wore pearly white, with a crown of almond blossoms and roses, and every inch of his doublet was covered in tiny, delicate seed pearls. In this beautiful bower, with delicate flowers all around, he looked like the spirit of this place. Like a dryad made of almond blossoms and sunlight. 

He was beautiful. Truly breathtaking.

He wore no boutonniere, and his hands were free of bouquets. Geralt’s stomach chose this exact moment to remind him that he really, really wanted to throw up right now. His head pounded and his knees felt weak.

He vaguely registered the slow procession being brought up at the rear by a priest in white. Next to Jaskier, the white looked dull and lifeless as the priest took his place.

“Who gives this man,” the priest croaked.

“I do,” the earl said, linking Jaskier’s hand with Geralt’s and sitting in the mirror of Vesemir’s position. 

Geralt looked at that hand, so delicate in his giant paw. He thought of the flowers tucked into his doublet, so easily crushed. 

The priest was saying something about eternity, but Geralt’s blood was rushing in his ears. Jaskier was looking at him too, but Geralt’s gaze was locked on their hands. 

Vows were said, and Geralt was lucky they were short. 

“From this cup we shall drink,” Geralt repeated, taking a sip of wine from a goblet that appeared out of nowhere and handing it to Jaskier. 

“And we shall share this wine as we share our lives,” Jaskier said, taking a sip.

“All the days of our lives,” the priest said, taking the goblet.

“All the days of our lives,” Geralt and Jaskier said in unison. Their eyes met for the first time, and Geralt’s stomach protested. 

“Have you the rings” intoned the priest. The little ringbearer stepped up. Jaskier took a wedding band and thanked the boy with a smile. Eskel nudged Geralt and palmed a ring into his hand, Jaskier’s mother’s ring. 

The ringbearer took this well in his stride and went back to his place. 

Jaskier smiled up at Geralt, then carefully slipped the little golden band onto Geralt’s finger. Geralt gulped, Jaskier’s smile slipped a little, looking concerned, and Geralt wondered what he’d seen in his face. 

His big fingers fumbled a little with the delicate ring, but he slid it into place on Jaskier’s finger. It fit as exactly as it had in the little study, which seemed very long ago now.

“You may kiss the groom,” said the priest. 

It felt like a badger was gnawing Geralt’s intestines. He slid his hands hesitantly around Jaskier’s waist. The young man’s arms wrapped around his neck. It would have been nice if Geralt wasn’t so nauseous. 

Geralt gave Jaskier a peck. 

He pulled back and caught Jaskier’s disappointed look, but then they were being ushered back down the aisle and into the hall and there were congratulations. Bells were ringing, people were throwing rice, Geralt’s head was pounding like his brain was about to leak from his ears. 

Out on the steps of the chateau they were handed plates, most of the wedding party were, and they smashed them on the ground, to the misery of Geralt’s poor head. 

Jaskier seemed to be having a wonderful time, laughing as the porcelain smashed and shining even brighter in the bright sunlight on the steps. Geralt longed for the dimmer lighting of the glade. Jaskier kept looking over at Geralt, and the laughter in his eyes kept dimming. 

It made Geralt’s ribs ache to see. He knew he must be scowling, but the thought that Jaskier’s day was being ruined by him was awful. He wasn’t an ideal husband but surely he wasn’t that bad. It definitely didn’t bode well.

The tide of people bore them into the great hall, and they were sat at the front table with the earl and Amaria. Vesemir and Geralt’s brothers were at another table and Geralt felt very alone. 

“Is everything alright?” Jaskier asked, leaning in close to whisper in Geralt’s ear.

“Headache,” Geralt grunted. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, rubbing his thumb over Geralt’s wrist. On his finger, the opal caught the light. The young man’s shoulders slumped a little. “I’m sorry too that you’ve been roped into all this,” he released Geralt’s wrist. “I know this isn’t your choice.”

It wasn’t Geralt’s choice of course. But if he was getting married, Jaskier didn’t seem like a bad husband. There was something in Jaskier’s eyes, though, a sort of wistful distance. It occurred to Geralt that Jaskier was in this arranged marriage too. This wasn’t his choice. From what he’d said before, the viscount had probably grown up believing he’d be able to marry for love, or at least someone he liked and was of suitable social status.

Geralt wondered if the young man wasn’t looking around at his own wedding, wishing love were the base of it after all. True love, a smile during the procession, giggles during the ceremony and little jokes and kisses during the reception, instead of a witcher with a headache. 

Geralt realised that he didn’t know if Jaskier liked men at all. Perhaps he was looking around wishing some pretty noble lady was wearing white instead of he. 

Clanging started up as first one, then many people tapped spoons to glasses. 

“They want us to kiss,” Geralt said numbly.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, turning towards Geralt and leaning in. At least he didn’t seem to horribly mind kissing men. Geralt rested a hand, the one towards the audience, on Jaskier’s face, hiding the view of their lips. Then he leaned in and kissed the air less than a centimeter from Jaskier’s mouth. 

It satisfied the crowd, but Jaskier looked unhappy as he pulled back. Had he minded the play acting? Did he just want Geralt to let them ring the glasses indefinitely? Had Geralt crossed a line, even pretending to kiss him? Jaskier stared at his lap.

Geralt stared at his own.

They both picked at dinner. Sounds swirled in Geralt’s ears.

“Geralt.”

He wouldn’t have heard it but for his enhanced hearing. To anyone else it was just another murmur of conversation, the susurrus of the ballroom. Geralt looked up, to meet eyes with Eskel. 

“Geralt,” Eskel said. “Don’t mess it up, you deserve nice things.”

Geralt nodded, and Eskel broke their locked gazes. 

Some of the headache had subsided by now, and it was too late to be nervous. He took a big swig of the wine. 

Jaskier may not have wanted to marry him, may be dreaming of a different wedding day, but Geralt could still make it memorable. He took another swig of the wine and wished it were stronger.

Dancing hadn’t been planned, but there was music and a clear space between tables. Geralt stood and took Jaskier’s hand, giving him an only slightly wan smile.

Jaskier looked baffled, but followed Geralt to the impromptu dancefloor. The minstrels picked up on what was going on, and a rather cheerful waltz was struck up. 

Geralt wasn’t much of a dancer, but he’d been taught the basics long ago, and Jaskier was an excellent partner. His skill made up for Geralt’s more clumsy footwork. Geralt slid his hands to Jaskier’s hips, keeping his grip firmly appropriate, then lifted Jaskier into a twirl he’d seen once before at a ball he’d been forced to attend.

In that case, the lady’s skirt had swirled and swished most attractively. Here, Jaskier’s slightly wilted flower crown came off, but Jaskier was laughing, head back, the sound like sunshine. The crowed oohed appreciatively at the display and Geralt guided his new husband down to the ground again.

Jaskier’s fancy footwork saved them from stumbling into one another but Geralt wasn’t paying attention. He’d saved Jaskier’s wedding day, or at least he hoped, this portion of it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw motion, Lambert flinging the recovered flower crown to Geralt. He snatched it from the air and placed it firmly back on Jaskier’s head, to applause. 

More couples joined the dancefloor, and soon it was pretty crowded. Jaskier led them back to the head table, giggling a little. 

The earl wasn’t dancing, and Amaria looked wistful, or perhaps just distant, it was so hard to tell with her.

“Look,” Jaskier whispered, pointing surreptitiously at a couple. It was Eskel. Geralt half expected him to be dancing with Mabel, but she was busily serving tables.

Besides, Geralt reflected. Theirs wasn’t a romance, per say, more simple physical appreciation.

No, Eskel had the little flower girl standing on his boots, and was happily spinning them about the dancefloor. He took great, hopping steps that bounced her about, holding her hands gently to keep her grounded. Geralt listened carefully and, in the din of the hall, picked out her delighted, pealing laughter. 

Lambert liked dancing, and Geralt carefully pointed him out to Jaskier, as he showed the shy, thin housemaid how to do one of the fancier spins. 

Jaskier seemed to delight in the people watching, and they chuckled together at a couple, a very large, glamorously dressed woman with her small, slim beau. She whirled him about, sometimes holding him entirely off the ground. 

“He doesn’t seem to mind,” Jaskier said.

Geralt looked at the man’s expression as he was crushed against a frankly enormous bosom. It looked blissful. “No, he certainly doesn’t.”

Vesemir approached their table.

“My congratulations,” he said to Jaskier. He gave a handshake and then pulled the lad into a warm hug. “Welcome to the family,” he whispered. 

“A fine party,” he then said, to the earl and Lady Amaria. “If you do not care for dancing,” this was adressed to the earl. “Would the lady perhaps wish to join me for a dance?”

“By all means,” said the earl, waving Vesemir away. Lady Amaria smiled absently and limply took Vesemir’s hand. 

Geralt knew trading dances was usual, but he was curious to see his mentor dancing. As he watched the couple, he saw Vesemir conversing with her ladyship, whispering into her ear. Even Geralt’s advanced hearing couldn’t catch the words.

After the dance Vesemir returned Amaria to her seat. Perhaps it was a fluke, but she looked more alert. Then the earl tapped his knife to his crystal goblet. 

It had the same effect as a drop of ink falling into clear water.

Silence spread through the hall, twisting between couples and curling around tables until everything was still.

The earl stood. 

Like his son he was a fairly tall man, and in the grey, with his steely eyes and sharp demenour he didn’t just command attention, he demanded it. He got it, too, as men rich enough to have dungeons in their basements tend to.

“I wish to make a toast to my son,” he gave a smile like a stiletto. “And his new husband.

“Before, witchers have been seen as wicked mutants, monsters,” a tiny pause, like the glint of a crossbow bolt. “Butchers.” 

Unease was in the hall, and there was something in the earl’s voice, he was a truly charismatic speaker. And a dick. 

“Long has it been known how they viciously kill, dismember, and pillage.”

“No,” Jaskier whispered under his breath. The words had really set the cat among the pigeons. A few short sentences reminded the crowd of their distrust. The flower girl, still standing next to Eskel, was ushered away from him. Lamberts dance partner was edging away.

“Of course, not anymore,” the earl continued, snakelike. “And it behooves us to make a contract, that so long as they act appropriately, they are to be treated as other migrant workers.”

Damn, Geralt thought. Migrant workers weren’t treated that well, and after this speech...well. 

“It brings me great joy to marry off my only son,” the earl gripped Jaskier’s collar and hauled him to a standing position. “Although many of you know, he is more of a daughter,” here the earl gave an unpleasant chuckle. “And a troublesome one at that, not much of a warrior, too headstrong for knighthood...but today he sacrifices for his people.”

The earl’s voice swelled, an impressive, ringing oration, like a good preacher ringing home the moral point. “He sacrifices much, and it is sad, I am, that I may never see my son again, to submit him to the ravages of a witcher,” a vicious breath, “’s lifestyle.”

Lambert looked murderous, Eskel betrayed. Vesemir’s face was entirely impassive. Granite. Unreadable.

“But we each make sacrifices for the greater good, and I place my faith in our people, as I have always done. My, admittedly troublesome, shameless son has become part of a new...family.” Family was said like it poisoned the tongue. “And my people become my children. I work for your benefit, my beloved subjects, and today, so does my son, Julian. Three cheers for the new couple!”

Three very hesitant cheers were given, then Geralt and Jaskier were very nearly pushed into a room.

“What the fuck?”

“Evil, stupid, bastard,” Jaskier cursed at the same time. 

Jaskier looked furious, but there were tears in his eyes.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, crossing to the young man and guiding him to sit on the huge, lavish bed. Their marriage bed, Geralt supposed. “Jaskier I don’t understand, what was all that.”

“He couldn’t resist humiliating me, his last chance, I suppose,” Jaskier said, pulling off his boots. “But it’s worse what he did to you lot.”

A tap at the door. Geralt opened it hesitantly, but it was the wolves, and there was fire in Vesemir’s eyes.

“I didn’t know,” Jaskier said, looking up at Vesemir pleadingly. “I swear I didn’t know what he would do.”

“I understand lad,” Vesemir said, but the fire in his eyes didn’t bank. At least it wasn’t directed at Jaskier, who looked positively wilted.

“I don’t,” Geralt said. “He said, some awful stuff, he referenced Blaviken, I get that, but what does it mean.” 

“The common people don’t know the specifics of out contract,” Jaskier said. “Most of them can’t read, and they’ll never see the document in any case. He implied that you’re going to...well, that ravaging bit, he implied that there is a consumation requirement, and the rumors about witchers...”

“Ah,” Geralt said. The rumors about witchers were never kind, what they said about their sexual interests he didn’t know, nor cared to find out, but they wouldn’t be kind. 

“I’m rather well liked by our people,” Jaskier continued, tearfully. “Father’s convinced most of them that I’m simple, but I make a point to be kind and a kind reputation goes around. They’ll hate and fear witchers even more.” He began to cry in earnest, not loudly, but hot, angry tears rolled steadily down flushed cheeks.

“Worse, now,” he said, looking up at the witchers. “He’s some sort of martyr, sacrificing his son to keep the horrible witchers at bay.”

“That’s not even what he said!” Lambert exploded. He’d been fuming this whole time, but his temper was short and he was done.

‘No,” Eskel said. “But that’s what rumor will make of it. He’s going to be seen as some sort of a self-sacrificing hero.”

“He’ll probably use it to raise taxes,” Jaskier said, damply. “And I doubt witcher treatment will get better either.”

“But then, is the contract void?” Geralt asked. 

“Not officially,” Vesemir grumbled. “Improved conditions hold de jure, but not de facto.”

Jaskier shivered. “If the contract is voided everything will only get worse.” The witchers looked at him. “Whatever reason the contract becomes void, Father will say I was mistreated. That’d be enough to convince most of the country to go to war with witchers, all witchers.”

“It wouldn’t take much,” Vesemir mused.

“And I’d be a ruined woman, except that I’m a man.”

“What?” said the witchers.

“I’d have been married,” Jaskier explained, fiddling with the ring. “And no matter the situation, in Lettenhove the woman is almost always blamed for the failure of the marriage. There is no woman in our marriage, but I take on that role, If I’m mistreated, I should have better pleased my husband.”

“That’s idiotic,” Lambert said.

“I’d never be married off again either,” Jaskier continued. “Not only was I ruined, I was ruined by a witcher.”

A deep, heady pause.

“I could probably even be put to death, for failing the contract and shaming my father.”

‘But your people like you,” Geralt said. 

“They won’t if I’m the reason we go to war with the witchers,” Jaskier said. Then, a little more brightly, “At least whatever happens, I wont be an earl. My father may be a rat bastard and a small minded pig and a...” he paused searching for more insults.

“A cunt?” offered Lambert. 

“Yes, thank you, a cunt. But he’s right about one thing, I’d be a very poor earl. No head for politics, I can understand it, I just can’t do it.” He looked up at the witchers apologetically. 

“And now because of me,” he said, “You’ve all been dropped right in it.”

“No worries, lad,” Vesmir said, clapping him on the shoulder in a gesture that made Jaskier’s spine visibly buckle. “We’ve been dropped in it before. As it happens, I may have caused some political trouble for your father all by myself, and it might even be better if we leave a little earlier than planned.”

All the boys looked baffled, but Vesemir looked satisfied.

“Can we leave tomorrow?” Jaskier asked hopefully. “I don’t have much stuff and I want to get out of here.”

The witchers agreed, and then Jaskier and Geralt were left alone with just one bed.

Geralt coughed awkwardly.

“I thought there wasn’t a consummation requirement,” he said.

“There isn’t,” Jaskier said, taking off his flower crown, now quite battered. “There isn’t explicitly, I mean, but there is a hidden fidelity agreement.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. He meant a panicky, ‘what!’, but couldn’t say it.

“We both need to be happy in our marriage, if word get’s back to father that either of us is sleeping with someone else, well...”

Shit. Geralt thought. Shit shit shit.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said aloud. 

There were no extra clothes in the chamber, meaning no sleep clothes, so they both undressed to undershirts and smallclothes, then Jaskier snuffed out the candle.

On either side of the large bed, there was plenty of room between them. 

Geralt heard a sniffle. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, feeling awkward.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier said. “It’s silly anyway.”

“Can’t be silly if you’re crying over it.”

“It’s just, this isn’t exactly...” Jaskier trailed off, but Geralt thought he had it.

“Isn’t how you pictured your wedding day?” he asked.

“Exactly,” Jaskier sniffled.

Geralt didn’t know what to do, but he stretched an arm out, above the soft covers, and covered Jaskier with an arm. The young man turned over, so they were facing one another, and inched a little closer.

It wasn’t an embrace, not nearly, but it had a whisper of the same emotion.

Geralt listened to his new husband silently cry himself to sleep on their wedding night, and wished there was some way he could help.

A part of him, long suppressed, was crying too, for the bright and cheerful young man in his arms.

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

Wow  5000 words that I basically had to thumbscrew from my brain. 

Taglist! Tags were being weird, let me know if I didn’t add you, forgot to add you, added the wrong person, etc.

@llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @aziz-the-fangirl @mordoriscalling @bastardofmothman @negativenuggetz @morte-mistrata @ailorian @hayleynzlive @filledepluie @bygodstilliam @sociowithatardisachevyandawand @faery-god @honeysuckletook @theflurtifly @saibowtie @1stbonesfan @frywen-babbles @the-kewlest @innocentbi-stander  @aqueenrisesintheeast @toothhurtyam @marauders-fan-account @ineffable-lasagna @limevodka @rocknrollphanda @seralyra @permanently-exhausted-witcher @aj-itated @watchthewolvesfall @00qtee @the-blondey @birds-of-forgiveness @west-moor @abstractartwithoutpaint @darkonesdagger7437 @onwardsandfourwords @underwaterattribute @whenrainbowsend @goldbvtton @in-love-with-writing002 @flustratedcas @fontegagrilledcheese @little-piece-of-tamlin @somanyfandoms @werevampiwolf

[pinkmirth]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ (ch.1 | feenin')

—𝑶𝑵𝑬.

SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER | WK: 2.8K

Frenzied cheers buzzed throughout the raving auditorium, the basketball’s reverberating bounces against the slick court floor adding onto the thrill. This match was nothing but hyped, but in a good way so.

The sports chants of the college goers sounded rather foreign to you, since it wasn’t like you attended Stohess University anyway. The fellow audience around you were at the edge of their seats, hailing their team’s basketball players as the raving shouts began to sound borderline intoxicating. So much so that you couldn’t help but clap along to another school’s anthem.

“Havin’ fun?” Marco questions, the corners of his mouth upturned into a smile that showcased his quirky dimples. You beamed right back at the freckled male, plush lips curved into a grin of your own.

It all seemed trivial, just a friendly collegiate basketball match that your friends Jean and Marco had invited you to free of charge, but it was all the break you needed from your own studies and more.

“Hell yeah I am,” you chuckled in reply, “but you know what’d make it better?”

His doe brown eyes flitted between you and the vibrant box of candy in hand, which was seemingly low in supply after you and him dipped your hands in for a bite a countless number of times.

“A refill on these, yeah?” His claims were just as what you were thinking, earning your brief nod of agreement. Marco subtly shook the snackbox within his hold, the spare pieces left beginning to rattle around with the motion.

“You read my mind, Coco,” you grinned, rising up from your reserved seat with spare cash stuffed into your back pocket. “I’ll be right back, ‘aight?” He sends you a brief smile in compliance.

“Get the sour patch this time!”

“You got sour patch money..?”

He pursed his lips momentarily, unsure as to whether you had been joking or not. “M’just messing ‘round with you, Coco,” you snickered with a teasing grin, slipping a hand into your pocket to retrieve the few bucks. “It’s on me.” Was all you said before making your way through the crowded stands, descending down stair after stair.

“It’s only the first game of the season, and our pride and joy, the Stohess Scouts, are already dominating tonight’s guest competitors!” the commentator boomed through the mic, their voice adding onto the various noises that filled the gymnasium. “We’re calling for a halftime, but let’s keep our fingers crossed that Kirschtein can pull through with a fair amount of two-pointers by the upcoming final quarter—“

The mentioned name of your close friend makes you beam with pride, content that your Jeanie was the star of the show. You set eyes on the brunette from where you stood, who was now making his way to the sidelines for a desperately needed and duly earned swig of water, his light brown hair in a disarray of stray strands fraying out from underneath the simple hairband you’d given him a while back.

You eagerly began to flit down the stands to reach him, striding past the poor row of benched players, from the injured to the water boy.

Jean eventually takes notice of your arrival and instantly beams, subtle puffs of air leaving his agape lips after all the running and dribbling and such that came with game day.

The first thing you do is taunt upon your arrival,“Y’all had better win, Jeanie.”

As always, Jean only smirks. “You doubting that I won’t bring that trophy home, Pookie?” you playfully grimaced and let out a stifled laugh over the somewhat embarrassing nickname— one that you made up when the pair of you were seven, and it's the same one that he’s been holding onto for all these years, even at nineteen.

“Well, I’d be lying if I said you aren’t lookin’ pretty damn promising out there,” your reply is genuine, the soft grin that you display causing Jean to display one of his own. It was an affable, never ending cycle— you’d tease and he’d do it right back, until the both of you would laugh over it and depart with a brief smile.

“M’getting snacks, I’ll be back before the breaktime ends, okay?” Kirschtein briefly nods in compliance, sending a few adjusting tugs to the white basketball sleeve hugging his bicep before departing with the sharp squeak of his shoes sprinting against the court floor.

Once again, you find yourself strolling past every individual seated on the benches. You’re speed-walking alongside them, anticipating to retrieve a couple snacks for you and Marco, until something— Someone catches your eye.

It was brisk and almost too sudden, but flashes of green meet your line of vision. You managed to make out the blur of thick brows, long dark hair having been thrown into the messiest attempted bun, a modest, charming smile, and a pair of turquoise irises that seemingly peered into your own with an intensity that made you take it personal. Yet, you hardly even caught a good glimpse of their face, whoever they were.

You passed by said person a good thirty seconds ago, already pushing your way past the double doors and over to the vending machines stationed along the semi-populated hallway, but that striking gaze was still heavily implanted within your mind.

Hazy green-grey eyes, you recalled, accompanied with them shooting you the briefest grin just as you whisked by. Though, as recent as it was, that was all in the past now.

You glance around to see a decent handful of people here to buy food of their own, being perched at other vending machines. The snack-wielding contrivance before you isn't drawing much attention and doesn’t have an awaiting crowd standing around for a bag of potato chips, so you withdraw the dollars from your back pocket and attempt to straighten them out a bit before inserting them into the slot.

“Wow,”

This sudden breathy gasp from a “random whoever” is something that you take notice of, but it isn’t enough to rip your attention away from your scavenge for Marco’s sour patch. To their dismay, you do nothing but continue with what you came to do. In your opinion, whoever that was had been getting a bit too close for comfort..

Albeit the evident way you choose to ignore, another whistle resounds, along with an unpleasantly suggestive hum. It sounds somewhat louder, and it seems much closer than before. You can’t help but tear your gaze away from slot E7 and look up, since it seems so directed towards you.

You've hardly turned around before being met with the abrupt presence of a stranger uninvitingly looming beside you, the man’s beaming grin seeming sickeningly sweet. Almost too approachable.

“Oh, I’m sorry to pop up out of the blue,” his apologies come out within a chuckle, and as inviting as he attempts to seem, your brows only furrow. “—but you really caught my attention!” He was greatly unfamiliar to you, some white male around your age with shaggy auburn hair and chestnut colored eyes in contrast. Despite his subtle charm, you weren't growing a liking to him and his stupid little smile.

“Oh,” You muse with a dull hum, pursing your glossed lips before releasing them with a slight pop, “Did I really?” His nod is too enthusiastic, and you hardly try to cover up the mug-like expression that overtook your features, eyes grazing across his plain face uninterestedly. You promptly slide the dollars right back into your pocket, “Nice to know. Can you mind your own now?”

“Wait! I'm not meaning to be a bother, but.. I don’t see girls like you around much..” You're instantly encased with a shiver of deep cringe, one that annoyingly scurries up your spine and makes your lip twitch into a vexed glower.

You emitted the most exaggerated huff, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, all the while glancing at the sheen glass of the vending machine to see your own reflection. It was plastered all across your face, yet this dense-ass man still couldn't get it; you were pissed-off.

Great. You internally groan, Another snow roach who thinks I’m exotic.

“I really appreciate how different you look,” Was he really still rambling on, despite knowing damn well that you were growing uncomfortable? Or maybe, he was just an utter dumbass and couldn't take the painfully obvious hints.

“You wanna know what I’d appreciate, hm?” You say sharply, taking a swift inhale through your nose, “If you left me alone.”

Your smooth, placid voice was the first thing that Eren heard when he trotted into the hallway, that of which sounded dulcet and intriguingly accentuated, but more annoyed than anything else. He turns the corner and is met with the sight of a bastard that looked too smug for his own good, and a girl, such a pretty girl, whose melanated skin even found a way to gleam under the shitty fluorescent school lights.

It then clicks in Eren’s mind, briefly but distinctively. You were the person who'd strolled by the bench that he was sitting on earlier. You were also the same one who did a double take upon seeing him, glancing once— No, twice, with those captivating eyes of yours. He remembered the way his leg started to bop along the floor with a newfound excitement that he just couldn't place. Though, more than anything else, Eren recalled that he did the exact same; hold his gaze and grin at the sight of you.

“Ah, but you can spare me a minute more, can’t you?” You respond with the swift roll of your eyes, eliciting an exasperated groan, “Nigga, I said bye.” Eren’s thick, neat brows falter into a furrowed position, looking upon the scenario that was being splayed out before him, which everyone else in that hall was seemingly content with ignoring. It couldn't have only been him that saw that this bastard was relentlessly bothering you, could it?

“Woah, no need to get aggressive,” Eren’s expression contorts into a grimace upon hearing every little word, the tips of his ears red with brewing rage. Despite his matured will to control his daily outburst of emotions, it was safe to say that he'd never exactly gotten past his trial of anger issues since he was a kid.

“Listen, this is my nice way of tellin’ you to fuck off, but I can get aggressive if you want.” Your offer sounds downright threatening, “Do you really want that?”

You’re snappy and direct, and Eren can't deny that he likes that. Though, as much as he's growing fond of your strong will and defensiveness, he knows he can't stand idly by all day, he just can't. Besides, everyone knew well— It was practically Eren Jaeger’s forte to intervene.

The green eyed male eventually begins to make his way towards the scene in the form of subtle limps, being cautious of his ankle sprain as he grows closer, which was the reasoning behind him being benched in the first place.

You were much too preoccupied with that cheeky, unrelenting bastard to notice the way that Eren was gradually coming over, anyway. What could he say? He was a fan of the element of surprise.

You halt in the middle of your opposing rant, growing aware of another’s emerging presence. You're yet again bombarded with somebody else making their way beside you with an act of stealth that you were unknowingly soon to be thankful of.

Before you get the chance to merely peer in their direction, tall, a long haired male clad in the black and grey Stohess basketball uniform is towering alongside you, his toned, burly arm slinking around your shoulder.

This sudden proximity leaves your head spinning in the best way possible, and how could it not? You don’t know a single thing about this alluring stranger, but he’s close, so close, and it gets your heart and mind racing miles in a minute. You were subtly, but instantly enraptured once the weight of his arm rests comfortably upon you.

Eren doesn’t pay the confused male not one glance, but instead tends to you and your own state of delighted shock. “Play it cool, alright? I wanna help.” Your breath instinctively hitches once he leans down to ease out his whispered plan into your ear, flashing you a consoling half smile.

You return a brief nod before dragging your eyes along the male’s face, which looks so much better up close. Your interpretation of his image was more literal and precise than you thought to be; The dark, long tresses that had been pulled back with the aid of a thin elastic scrunchie, his expressively thick brows, pink lips that upturned into a supportive smirk, and those sea-green eyes that left you feeling weak right in the knees.

Albeit Eren’s prior grin, he eventually turns his attention towards the unrelenting man for a second or two. In that moment, his expression speedily grew all the more intense, practically sharper than before, and contorted into something of a scowl. Although, you can tell he’s trying so hard to channel his temper and mask away his revulsion.

“I’ve been, ah.. waiting for you to come back to your seat!” Eren begins to improvise, flashing you a subtle gleam that made it seem as though the pair of you were familiar with each other. “S’been a while since then."

He purses his lips within a pause, nimble fingers draping along your shoulder before shooting you a reassuring squeeze, "Is it ‘cause this bastard is keeping you occupied? He’s bothering you, isn't he?”

You're damn near close to stammering over the words that were bound to leave your mouth. Though, it doesn't take much for you to regain yourself. Your lips fall slightly agape all the while you briskly dragged your line of vision along his charming features, but your response follows after in a quick manner. It was just that you couldn't help how his unnerving gaze left you mesmerized.

“—Yes. Yes he is.” You hum, accompanying the claim with your hands crossing over your chest as you leaned into his grasp, in an attempt to appear convincing. Your confession sounded assured and stern, which was the complete opposite of how girls would act around him.

Eren knew well of the doting effect that he had on females— It was hard to forget when he’d merely ask for a spare pencil and wind up with an unasked phone number in return. Though, he admired the way you saw him as any other person and played along so well.

The brown-haired male scornfully laughs, and just the sound of him leaves you feeling uncomfy, “Whaddya' mean? We were just having a small chat, isn't that right?” Your contorted expression is full-fledged disrespectful, and Eren has to stifle his chuckle over your unsmiling glare and scrunched up nose. Damn, were you entertaining.

“Small chat, huh? Well, it was real one sided..” You voice out an irked murmur, “You're over exaggerating, you just haven’t warmed up to me yet—”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Eren makes a very much intended interruption, “I’d say that she doesn’t want to mingle with a sorry bastard that should leave her alone already.” You note at the subtle flex of Eren’s clenching jaw, signifying the way his already weary patience was running rather thin.

“Bastard—? Wait, who even are you?”

“Who am I, huh?” scoffs the green eyed male alongside you, a twinge of drawled hesitance in his voice. Eren pauses momentarily, only now beginning to realize that his little hero act wasn’t as planned out as he thought to be.

What could he say that would be persuasive enough to get this sorry fucker to leave you alone other than throwing fists unnecessarily? Jaeger’s emerald-hued eyes eventually light up in the dawn of an idea. One that he’s somewhat unsure of, but it’s much better than nothing.

Besides, this plan of his had been set in stone by the very moment he had draped his bare arm around you and shot you that all-too-suggestive smile, so he might as well finish what he started.

Eren’s touch trails downwards swiftly, spreading riveting tingles from your shoulder down to your forearm, then along your wrist, and even past there. His hand is now encasing the left side of your hip as his lithe fingers press into the curve of your supple waist. He takes a light inhale, giving you a light squeeze with his large palm, as though signaling for you to brace yourself over what he was bound to say.

“—I'm her boyfriend.”

—𝑭𝑰𝑵.

[foulcrownkryptonite]

Tracing Constellations

A storm rages through the 104th's wooded training quarters, leaving a long hike for Jean and Marco to fix a water-logged issue... the time alone making for some unexpected discoveries.

(for the sake of the fic + levels of maturity I am achieving with this story, everyone will be legal adults!)

Chapter One: An Obscurity.

“I’ll kill them all! Just you wait and see!!” The dining hall had been relatively calm, the tranquil buzz of steady conversation and cutlery clinking against plates mixed to create a pleasant hum. It was one of those rare nights their usual starchy glop was exchanged for a more sustainable, hearty potato soup, paired with a cheap but effective booze. A good night to say the least. A good night until Eren (Dumbass) Jaeger opened his obnoxious mouth. The young man’s tired phrase reverberated throughout the hall, pitching obnoxiously off the high ember ceiling. God, I’m too sober for this…

Eren’s endless prattling of ‘I’ll save the world’ or ‘I have more passion than anyone here’ had gotten old fast. It bugged the ever-loving shit out of him, and with the current daggers-for-eyes and under-the-breath-scoffs Jaeger was getting, the sentiment was well shared.

“Don’t give me that Mikasa, I mean it! I’m going to kill every last one of those-'' Eren was promptly cut off by Jean’s hands smacking the table in front of him, causing a nearby fork to clink to the ground. Jean rose from his seat with an overly dramatic flare, making a show out of swooping his hair back. If the entire dining hall weren’t already watching the pair with dreadful, tired looks, they certainly were now. Some hushed whispers and exasperated groans sprinkled about the room as Jean assumed his stance towering over Eren.

“Well, all hail King Jaeger, eh? Oh don’t worry my friends, the man who can’t balance on his ODM gear will stop the incoming apocalypse!” he taunted, voice oozing with that special kind of ridicule Jean knew got Eren’s blood boiling. He was up and out of his seat before Mikasa had a chance to pull him back. Jean snorted loudly.

“Eager are we? Well then Jaeger, fight me like the man you’re always claiming to be.”

“Says the fucking horse face”

“Oh how original”

“Foal!”

“Jackass!”

The surrounding cadets watched with jaded faces, sighing at the scene unfolding for at least the third time that week. It was no longer entertaining, or really worth wasting any time or energy on, so they returned their attention to their much more exciting dinners and side banters.

The ever arrogant duo stepped to the center of the room, assuming, of course, all focus to be on them. Sharing dissent and ill-bred sneers, they theatrically assumed their fighting position. Guess I’ll just have to put him back in his pla-

“Nope. Okay-hah, we’re done here.” Marco interrupted, their foolish behavior striking his last nerve, the last nerve of the entire collective dining hall for that matter. Sighs of relief and annoyance sounded around them as Marco marched over and grabbed at Jean’s jacket, pulling him out from the table and towards the door.

“‘Ey, what’re you doin-” Marco wordlessly dragged the half pissed, half confused and positively tipsy Jean across the room, the grip on his jacket unwavering. A small chuckle escaped Jean’s mouth at Marco's unexpectedly forceful behavior. Damn, those muscles aren’t just for show, huh?

Marco sighed as he led him towards the door, a poorly concealed smile creeping its way onto his features. “Bedtime.” Marco concluded, biting back his smile in need of a more threatening look. Jean didn’t fight it. Instead, he bristled as he caught Conny’s snide face before the door to the dining hall was shut by Marco’s boot. The low lit lantern illuminated the two in a soft orange glow and the thick wooden door effectively drowned out the murmurs coming from behind it.

The change in air was drastic, shifting from a crowded and loud mess hall to the peaceful sounds of an autumn night and Marco’s freckled face incandescent under that old lantern. Marco’s hand remained firm in the layers of his jacket yet neither made motions to move. Jean was in a weird sort of trance and yeah he should move and unblock the way for Marco but for some reason he didn't. It wasn’t as if the other had really given him a chance to, what with him still holding onto the front of Jean’s coat.. A couple still moments passed and Marco had a strange, almost calculating look on his face.

Jean couldn't remember how long he had been standing there, the alcohol starting to intoxicate his body and the sheer closeness of Marco starting to intoxicate his brain. But if the loosening grip on his chest and Marco’s suddenly flushing face said anything, whatever this was had gone on a bit too long. The last thing Jean wanted was to make his good friend uncomfortable- No matter how nice just standing there in the cool breeze with Marco’s hand on his chest… Nope. Backtrack on that line of thinking. Immediately.

Things were getting awkward fast and Marco looked like he was going to say something and shit he probably shouldn’t have chugged that last bit of his drink, huh? To clear the sudden tension caused by his inability not to fucking gawk at Marco, Jean did the only thing his dumb tipsy brain could think of: make a drunken escape.

“Betcha can’t catch me.” he blurted before breaking out of Marco’s loose hold, running towards their quarters in a less than put together fashion. Was Jean literally running away from whatever moment just passed between the two? Why yes, indeed he was. But Marco’s eventual breathy laugh and quickening footsteps enclosing in on him told Jean everything was fine. Well consider that a job well done.

The two then stupidly ran around the camp, Jean hiding behind every tree and supply wagon trying to scare Marco, and Marco doing everything in his power to tackle the other. After a particularly bone crushing embrace and a loud laughing fit quickly admonished by Shadis, the inebriated pair walked the rest of the way to their dorm, the air around them now whimsy and casual.

They trudged through the wooded path, torches lighting the ground every few yards. They sprung into sporadic fits of giggles over absolutely nothing, both of the men now feeling the full effects of dinner’ mead, and Marco no longer playing the role of the responsible sober friend.

The cadets had been training in the woods for a week now, the goal being to get them used to ODM gear and combat in a dense forest. It was a welcome change of scenery from the usual parching desert and brutal heat. Being surrounded by rich greens and active rivers somehow made the strenuous drilling and long hours somewhat enjoyable.

Though navigating the dark forested path whilst drunk proved to be more than a little difficult. His attempts at walking straight in the dense woods were apparently remarkably entertaining, as when Jean confidently waltzed straight into a tree the slightly less drunk Marco lost his absolute mind, laughing himself into a puddle on the ground.

With minimal bumps and bruises, they eventually made it to their quarters. Marco plopped himself dramatically onto an old shipping barrel and started to squirm his way out of his jacket. Ok, perhaps the other was drunker than Jean thought.

Chuckling to himself, he walked over to help his struggling friend out of the confines of the fabric. Marco stopped squirming and tried to accommodate for Jeans helping hands, flushing slightly when his eyes met Jeans. He quickly averted his gaze, turning to eye the door as Jean finished struggling with the last button.

With the jacket discarded, Marco straightened his gaze to look up at Jean, who seemed to tower over him. A couple heated seconds passed in silence until Marco started… shaking? Before concern could settle in, sporadic chuckles started to escape from the man underneath him, evolving into a full on belly laugh. Jean took a small step back and looked down at him in bewilderment but Marco just shook his head, words be damned in his current state.

“Sorry, I just-” he began to topple over himself, a fit of laughter bubbling in his stomach. “I don’t know why I’m laughing honestly-” he spat out through giggles. He was fluctuating between attempting to catch his breath and then losing it all over again. It was utterly ridiculous, but Jean couldn’t hold back his own ugly laugh at the scene. Every couple of seconds Marco would try to stop and speak through the laughter but to no avail, making Jean slump to the ground in front of Marco, clutching his stomach as his body heaved with mirth.

Marco was snorting at that point and on anyone else he would’ve been annoyed at the sheer volume. Say, if Eren was sitting on that barrel losing his damn mind over nothing at all he would’ve slapped the sense back into him. But something about Marco’s water filled eyes and big loud smile just made him feel warm. Or.. perhaps that was just the alcohol.

He grinned as he looked only at the mad man sitting in front of him. From this distance he could see each little freckle adorning his nose and cheeks and the way his nose would scrunch in between sets of giggles. It was an endearing sight, cute even, though Jean would never admit that aloud.

Too caught up in their snickering, the two almost didn’t notice their comrades briskly stumbling in, Ymir being the one who pushed the two large wooden doors hurriedly. “In.” she commanded, and stepped back as everyone else dashed inside. Jean startled and Marco’s laughter alleviated as Ymir eyed them, her face contorted so it was impressively indecipherable. She had quite the poker face, though some general annoyance seemed to seep out as usual.

“What’s the damn ruckus about?” Jean demanded more than he asked, his filter coming back down hard now that more people were around. Ymir looked at Jean with a face that basically read as, ‘Shut the fuck up you’re the one making a dopey ruckus.’ Instead of voicing any of that though, she shut and locked the door as the final cadets made their way inside.

“Massive storm coming in, it’ll do some damage” she stated plainly before her eyes went back to Marco. “Maybe you two lovebirds would’ve noticed if you weren’t screaming like damn hyenas.” she joked dryly, her arms coming to a close across her chest. Marco snorted slightly at the tease but Jean stood up defensively, though perhaps a bit wobbly.

Before he could say a word, Ymir cut in with a raised brow. “Whoaaa relax there horsey, I’m kidding. Mostly. Just go lock the windows in the other rooms before they blow out in the middle of the night.” he nodded hesitantly in response and gave Marco a floppy wave of sorts. He still looked like he was glowing, as if somehow the light from the torches outside still reflected in his pale brown eyes. A sneer from Ymir brought his attention back to… what exactly? Oh right, the windows. Jean quickly left without another word, cursing the alcohol slightly under his breath. The rest of the cadets shuffled about, fulfilling whatever it was their makeshift Captain Ymir ordered.

Not without a scoff and an eye roll, she turned back to Marco. “Just us,” she demanded. “Help me with the rest of the rooms.”

__________

(MARCO POV)

After a solid half hour of flood-proofing the place to the best of their ability, as well as general clean up, Ymir poured the two of them a small whisky to top off the night. Marco relaxed into the sole couch of the common room and Ymir slumped herself into a chair by the window.

The living space was dusky and growing winds pounded the windows, putting them slightly on edge. Nevertheless, Ymir seemed to have something to say to him. She gulped down her drink and tossed the empty glass onto the ground, Marco’s eyes widening in both awe and intimidation. He steeled his nerves as he prepared for whatever it was Ymir needed out of him.

She looked at him like a scientist to a specimen, searching for something upon Marco’s features. Marco squirmed under the intense stare, and it was then that Ymir asked the burning question, cutting right to the chase.

“Do you like Jean?” she probed. Marco sucked in a quick breath at this question. The answer was yes, but why was she asking in the first place? Not knowing exactly what angle she was getting at, he tried to answer in the simplest, most non revealing way.

“Yeah I mean we’re definitely good friends.” he said apprehensively. Not wanting to look Ymir in the eyes, his gaze fell back to the rather pretty glass in his hands, thumbs tracing the engraved pattern.

Ymir smirked at this reaction and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees in a carefree ‘Ymir’ kinda way. “Marco. You know what I'm asking.” her voice was laced with mirth and her sneering face told him she probably already knew his answer. Damn her perceptiveness. Marco had hoped he wasn’t too obvious in his… feelings. But he supposes after tonight's less than subtle antics, e.g., grabbing a laughing Jean into an animalistic embrace and holding it for much longer than necessary, people would start suspecting something.

His eyes still didn’t meet hers as he sighed shakily, knowing there was little to no backing away from this conversation. “Please just… Don’t tell him?” he pleaded, looking back to the girl sitting across from him. Her previous visible mockery and inevitable taunt had faded, her features setting into something akin to understanding.

“Sure, you can trust me.” she said casually, taking a swig of the remaining whisky straight from the bottle. “We’re the same in that way if ya catch my drift.” Although compared to, say Christa, Ymir’s words would seem invasive and rude, they were sweet in their own way. And although Marco wouldn’t say this wasn’t invasive, he appreciated the kindness nonetheless.

Regardless, Marco definitely “caught her drift”. He looked at her with a sort of twinkle in his eyes, pleased to know there was at least one other person in the 104th that wasn’t straight. He chuckled, still embarrassed despite the genuinely accepting nature of their conversation thus far. “God, what gave it away?”

“Oh, I dunno,” she sighed dramatically, “Maybe the way he was looking at you. Maybe the way you were looking at him… Or maybe just a hunch I happened to get right.” Marco laughed at the sentiment before a frown crept onto his face. “Does anyone else…”

“Know?” she finished. Marco nodded. “No, they don’t. It seems only I had the misfortune of seeing you two ogle each other all the damn time. Awful luck on my part. But don’t ya worry, your dirty little secret’s safe with me.”

He snickered as he raised his glass to his lips, downing the rest of the liquid inside. Ymir gave him a curious glance, and Marco softly set the drink down to his side, hands reaching up to grab at his warming face.

“God, what do I even do about it?” he mumbled through the palms of his hands, and Ymir could taste the desperation from where she sat.

Resting her chin between her fingers, she spoke. “Look, hear me out before you interrupt and tell me I’m wrong - but he likes you too.” Marco lifted his head to speak but Ymir cut him off with a glance. “I said, listen. I see the way he looks at you. I saw the way he looked at you tonight. He wasn’t just glancing at his friend… He was admiring you, Marco, your features. Now to me, that’s pretty telling.” Marco contemplated what she was saying, tried to really think about it before he shot it down entirely.

Is that really true? Is it even possible that the oh so straight Mr. ladies man Jean could… Feel the same way about him? It’s true they had some… moments tonight. Hell they’ve been having “moments” for as long as they've known each other. Though Jean did end up speeding away from one of those so called moments just over an hour ago… Was he being too hopeful? Oh god was he coming on too strong?

Ymir groaned at Marco's crestfallen face and stood up, closing the distance between the seats and plopping herself next to Marco. He gave her a curious glance, and in turn she gave a patient smile, well it was really closer to a grimace but still, it was the principle of it all.

He sat quietly, picking his lips with his bottom teeth. Ymir let him wallow in his worry for a whopping three seconds before kicking his ankle with her boot.

“Ow!” Marco pouted. An unspoken question of ‘The hell was that for?’ being shut down before it could be voiced.

“Oh shut it you were visibly spiraling.”

Ymir sunk into the back of the couch, pondering a moment before speaking again.

“You know, Jean isn’t going to initiate anything. Seeing as you’re more in tune with your emotions than that knucklehead is, you need to drop your damn balls and make a move.” Marco scoffed, shaking his head with a slight smile at Ymir’s bluntness.

“I know, I know… You’re right.” Marco finally begrudged, causing Ymir’s ‘Of course I'm right’ smile to appear. “But we never get alone time - we’re always interrupted before he can fully open up to me…”

“Yes!” Ymir exclaimed. “You see it now. Sure it might seem tricky, but if Christa and I can find a way, you can too.” she winked and Marco damn near choked.

“You- and- I had no idea I mean-“ he stuttered before she kicked him again.

“Shut up. And don’t tell a soul.” She smiled cheekily. He nodded intently.

“Course, Ymir.” She playfully punched him, standing up from the sunken couch.

“Good luck, Marco.” she whispered.

He beamed, his chest gleaming with a soft gratitude. “Thank you.”

When Marco turned in for the night, his mind raced with endless possibilities, ranging from transcendent to nightmarish. Wishful thoughts flashed through his mind; Jean getting impossibly close, feather light touches of hands, his head resting in the crook of Jean’s neck, Marco being told he was wanted, telling Jean he wanted him. He bit his cheek, smiling stupidly at the fantasies before he felt a deep sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Jean could easily not feel the same. Jean could easily have never entertained the same idyllic fantasies as Marco was now.

Great, now it hurt.

Plagued with a new sense of guilt, he tossed and turned in the seasoned cot, praying for sleep to take him away from the build up of emotions in his chest. He pondered the possibility of similar thoughts dancing in Jean’s mind…

__________

(Jean POV)

Jean didn’t “wake up”, he just was up. That damned storm last night had kept him awake practically all night. What first was an occasional gust quickly turned into a rampaging wind-demon set out to prevent him and apparently only him from sleeping soundly. Someone had cursed him. Probably that damn Jaeger out for revenge due to Jean always winning their feuds. Typical.

The little sleep he did get consisted of repeated unsolicited scenarios about… Well that didn’t matter now.

It was the morning after a ferocious storm and he was reluctant to see the wreckage he knew he had to help out with. He groaned, rolling out of his bed in an overly dramatic pout. Sure he was acting a bit like a child but right now he just needed sleep so damn everything else, he’s going to throw his little fit. He caught Marco looking at him out of the corner of his eye, his hair ruffled and looking extra fluffy. He was giggling at Jean’s stubborn theatrics, a sweater-hooded hand loosely covering his mouth. Cute. Jean felt a bit more energized after that and he didn't bother to question why.

Once dressed, he headed out to meet the rest of the trainees outside the sleeping quarters. Holy hell, the damage was bad: shingles of the roof scattered the grass, trash was knocked down, even some large trees had fallen in the distance.

Eren rolled his eyes before their commander could even step close. “God, can’t we make someone else clea-” the brat began before getting hit softly by Armin.

“Eren! One day of cleanup doesn’t equate to the fall of humanity.” he sharply retorted. Jean chuckled at this exchange, overjoyed to see the prick put in his place by his own best friend. Speaking of which, he couldn’t seem to spot Marco…

“ATTENTION CADETS.” their Commander roared as he marched toward the gathered crowd.

“YES SIR!” They yelled back in unison, fists crossing chests in an assertive salute.

“Deep woods ODM training is put on hold for today due to the storm. I will be assigning you each in groups of two or three to aid in cleaning this mess.” Jean scanned the surrounding area nervously, where was Marco? “Proceed to the front to get your duty from me before you grab a cold meal.” the Commander directed. Pairs of people made their way to get their job of the day, but Jean stayed behind, unable to spot Marco. Nerves crept up his spine as the line got shorter, indicating he would have to grab a job with someone he possibly couldn’t stand - especially after such a shitty sleep.

A few moments later and the remaining crowd was scant, still no Marco to be seen. “Jean, you’re on running water. I need you to go up to the creek and find the source stopping the water from running back to us. We have enough for the day, but this cannot go on. You will need a partner…” Shadis trailed off, finding only Annie and some guy Jean barely could remember the name of. Tomas? Tobiaus? Timothious?

He sighed, knowing nothing but complaints would come from either cadets if forced to spend an entire day with him. Jean crossed his arms, awaiting a choice of partner from his boss while he dreaded the inevitably long journey stuck with either insufferable silence or annoying small talk.

“Commander sir, I can go with Jean.” A pleasant voice chirped in from behind. And with those few words: salvation. Jean subconsciously uncrossed his arms and smirked as the Commander let out a sigh of relief upon seeing Marco approach.

“Thank Heavens, the one person who can stand him.” he murmured, Marco frowning at the not so quiet comment as he walked up to Jean's side. “That is fine, pack plentiful in case you get stuck for a night, we are not sure how much wreckage is up there, nor how long the journey on foot will take. There’s a shed around there you could set up in for the night. Do not come back today if you do not have ample time before sundown. Now get moving!” he ordered, his last words reverberating in a loud squawk.

“Yes sir!” They saluted before Jean met eyes with Marco. “Where the hell were you?” he questioned. Marco playfully rolled his eyes.

“Worried, hmm?” he chuckled, “Don’t worry, I was just helping Ymir with something.” he replied brightly. Ymir? That seems random… But he decided to not question it.

The two went back to their rooms to pack for their lengthy and no doubt strenuous trip up the mountain. Jean found himself not only not dreading the excursion, but actively looking forward to it. He felt a bit like a hyperactive kid as genuine excitement coursed through his veins. Should he bring his comb? Nah he probably won't need it. But what if they do end up having to spend the night and Jean turns too much in his sleep and his hair gets all messy and floofy and Marco looks at him with damned bed head and then probably giggles to himself and makes a dumb but cute comment about it because its Marco and somehow he always manages to make what Jean is insecure about into something he can actually like about himself just like when he’d said Jean’s eyes were pretty like a brown hibiscus and he stopped hating the way his eyes looked when he saw his reflection looking back at him and- Jean grabbed the stupid hairbrush and threw it into his bag.

Once sufficiently supplied, they scarfed a crummy cold meal before heading out as quickly they could manage.

Marco seemed awfully giddy as they started down a gravely path lined with fern. Though cheerful he often was, Marco was struggling to hide a smile. It wasn’t a bad sight at all, though Jean was curious. “What’s got you so damn happy today?” he questioned. Marco shrugged.

“I think I made a new friend - always a nice feeling, yknow?” Jean would say he’s surprised, but everyone in the 104th loved Marco, even the stoic ones, and he had a sneaking suspicion of who exactly his new friend was.

“Ymir?” he asked plainly. Marco nodded, a soft smile finding its way onto his face.

“Yeah. Y’know, she may seem edgy but she can be really kind.” he expressed, eyes a bit starry and thoughtful. He clearly didn’t hear how the words sounded to Jean.

Jean bit back the bitter remark already forming as envy crept its way into his mind. Why was it bothering him? He’s still his friend. His best friend even. Gah, not a big deal, keep it together. He told himself before rephrasing whatever edgy comment he was going to sneer into a hopefully harmless question.

“You like her?” he ended up asking, false humor falling from his tongue.

Marco looked visibly confused. “What? No I’m- not my type. She just has a good head on her.” he surmised. Why won’t Marco ever admit attraction? Does he not trust Jean? Jean had no problem divulging about those he found hot, so why wouldn’t Marco do the same?

The next few hours were spent bullshitting around as they walked; sharing stupid jokes about who in their class was most likely to get kicked out, a stupid conversation about Ymir that probably shouldn’t have peeved him so much, Jean going on a long winded rant about how justified he is in smacking Eren atop the head, Marco stopping to pick up random bird feathers exclaiming each time that, “No Jean, you don’t get it, this one is rare.” and eventually, as the sun started its descent towards the horizon, their casual banter shifted into their hopes for the future.

“Eh, I don’t wanna get married. Who wants to be stuck with a chick forever?!” Jean quipped. At his words Marco chuckled nervously, his gaze diverting to the coarse dirt beneath him.

“Yeah, me too. I don’t wanna get married. I’m fine living a life alone with me and my hobbies.” he said flippantly, fiddling with the strap of his backpack. Jean found the tone of his voice had changed into something more sullen and somber, and a glance over at his friend did not yield him any better results. Jean must do something about this.

He lightly elbowed his friend. “Well, if ya change your mind, I think you’d make a great husband some day.” Jean said honestly, no lick of sarcasm to his voice. Marco’s knees wobbled for a moment before he corrected them, clearing his throat to cover his obvious nerves.

“Thanks, Jean. You too.” he replied, biting his cheek. Another glance towards his friend showed a soft smile and a flushed face. Jean succeeded. Though now he too felt a bit hot in the face. He once again decided not to unpack that.

As they hiked, they spotted a would-be stream leading down to their base. Taking note of the lack of obvious running water, they were certain something rather large had blocked it. “Guess it’ll be a chore huh.” Marco pointed out. Jean began flexing dramatically, his tight muscles showing slightly through the thin white tunic.

“Pfft, your ol’ buddy Jean here will fix it right up for us, eh?” he joked, Marco eyeing him with a raised eyebrow followed with a hearty laugh. Sure, he wasn’t helping Jean’s ego, but he didn’t care.

The more they conversed alone, the more Jean felt his social facade fade, ending up losing whatever filter he had in place for other people all together. He wasn’t sure why this was the case, only knew that it made him feel relaxed and just genuinely, all around good. Perhaps it was the lack of a crowd - or Eren Jaeger. Either way, he was loosening up and took joy in seeing Marco enjoy himself on this trip as well.

“This is nice,” Jean said, smiling at the open air and lack of obvious walls. It felt open here, almost free. Hell, for the most part, they’ve forgotten completely about life inside the walls. Marco looked over and followed his friend's gaze to the sky, basking in the comfortable feeling.

“It is…” he began, sneaking another glance at Jean. “Really nice.”.

PART 2!!! 

https://foulcrownkryptonite.tumblr.com/post/663166809268224000/tracing-constellations-pt2

[oohnoniall]

Hawk & Sparrow [Rowan Whitethorn x OC] - Chapter 3

WARNINGS; Fantasy violence, cursing, Mirima doesn’t have self-control and that leads to her burning out a Lot, Rowan avoiding his feelings, Mirima having no idea about her feelings, there’s a lot of feelings being avoided, power dynamics in the relationship.

Prologue.

Chapter 1 

Chapter 2

       Her body ached, her mind ached. While she had not done anything as horrible as burnout, Fenrys had put her through her paces. She had never known how hard just keeping her control could be. She had never realized just how badly she suffered from control issues. Rowan had told her time and time again that she needed to control herself. But she hadn't realized how hard it was actually going to be.

       She trudged into the kitchens, slumping onto a stool that sat just before the fire. Normally, Emrys sat there but he was at the countertop, forming some type of dough that had what appeared to be raisins in it.

       "Hard day?" The older man questioned, his eyebrow quirked up slightly.

       Mirima scowled slightly as she slipped a dagger from her belt and a whetstone from her pocket. "It didn't seem to be until this morning," she admitted as she dragged the blade along the stone.

       "Rowan goes easy on you," Emrys teased her, causing her scowl to deepen. "I haven't seen you this exhausted in twenty years."

       "I'm used to Rowan's tactics," she sat down the dagger once she was certain the point was sharp enough. She took care of her blades ritualistically most of the time. Sharpening the blades calmed her, oiling them helped ease her mind. Normally it was saved for a pre-bed ritual, but the night before she had crawled into her bed and fallen into a hard and heavy sleep. She hadn't dreamt. Instead, she had been blissfully at peace. For once in her life, she had not been aware of the dangers surrounding her. She had been aware of the pillow beneath her and the blanket on top of her.

       It had been peace she didn't know she craved.

       "Of course," Emrys' eyes twinkled as he looked away from her. Mirima knew he meant well. But it was hard to know that he was well aware that she cursed Whitethorn's name half the time and still assumed Rowan was kind to her.

       The man had made it abundantly clear that he didn't want her there. He had told her time and time again that she was not ready for any of this. Mirima wanted to prove him wrong. She wanted nothing more than to be welcomed into the cadre. Although, at this point, she was unsure if it was because of her own dreams or if it was just to spite Rowan Whitethorn. Anyone with half a brain would know that spiting him was unwise. The man was more of a monster than anything. It was one of the reasons that Mirima admired him.

       Even if she didn't admit that fact to anyone.

       "I am! He's been putting me through Hellas and back since I got here," she nearly snarled as she began to peel the potatoes for breakfast. She wasn't normally on breakfast duties, but she had figured it would be best to help out. At least while she was complaining to Emrys.

       "Have I?" His voice caused her spine to straighten, her grip on the dagger tightening just slightly. "Considering you're still here, I haven't done a good enough job."

       Mirima looked up then, her eyes catching Rowan's long white hair before anything else. Her throat felt dry, her stomach knotted up as she glanced once at the expression on his face. He looked as though he was either amused or furious. With Rowan, it was hard to tell the difference. Especially when it came to her and her training. She knew that he didn't want her there. She knew that he thought she wasn't good enough.

       That or he really hated the cadre. She couldn't actually tell.

       "I thought you'd be gone for a week," Mirima stated, her tone casual despite the racing of her heart. At least her training had taught her how to keep her composure.

       "I never said how long I'd be away," he stated as he leaned casually against the wall. Rowan never looked casual. Something was off. Mirima did not know what it was or what it potentially could be, but she was determined to figure it out. If she didn't it was likely to drive her mad.

       "You're normally away for a week," she shrugged her shoulders, turning her gaze back to the potato in her hand. She focused on how the skin felt gritty underneath her calloused fingers. She focused on the way the blade slid across the potato, the slight bit of force it took to begin the initial peeling process. How it felt to focus on something other than Rowan Whitethorn and the stare that always made her feel somewhat nervous. "I assumed that it would be the same."

       "We have something to discuss," Rowan said before she could ramble about his usual schedule. "In private."

       She knew his meaning. She wiped her dagger off on her breeches before she stood, sliding it back into its sheath in a graceful movement. "I'll be back by dinner. Tell Luca to stop taking the good jobs," she said cheerfully to Emrys. Neither man would be allowed to know how nervous she was.

       Rowan had met with Maeve. He had told her he would be. He had also said he'd be away three days but had barely been gone two. Maybe she had been declared unworthy. Maybe Maeve had given up on her. Or maybe it had nothing to do with that whatsoever. This could be something completely different, she just had to trust him.

       Easier said than done.

       Mirima followed Rowan up the steps and towards his quarters. She had been a fair amount of times. He would patch her up in his rooms, often snapping at her for whichever stupid choice she had made. She had been allowed to watch as he tattooed Gavriel once. She had been silent the entire time, her eyes never left his hands.

       His rooms were grander than anyone else's. She wondered if it was because he was a Prince or if it was all to do with the fact that he was part of the cadre. With his dark, wooden furniture and his grand fireplace, it felt cold. Uninviting. Rowan clearly hated Mistward. He had never made it into his home, unlike Mirima.

       She had turned the fortress into her own personal safe haven. She had spent so many years there that she would have gone mad if she had not. There was no reason for her to feel cold, alone. Not when the forests sang with the early morning sunlight. Not when she could smell the sea whenever a fresh breeze blew through the fort, always making her ache with need. The need to control it, to harness it. To be part of it. She knew there was a lake hidden somewhere nearby, she had been able to sense it from the moment she had stepped onto the grounds. Yet, she'd never had the time nor opportunity to go off and search for it.

       Rowan was not fond of letting Mirima near large bodies of water. He seemed to believe it would be the quickest route to a burnout. Mirima thought he was too cynical. The water was part of her. As much as the air was part of him.

       She stood in front of his desk while he took up space in front of the fireplace. The fire crackled, albeit not merrily, spreading slight warmth through the cold room.

       "What did you want to discuss?" Mirima's voice came out softer than she had expected it to. She hated sounding small around him. Hated that he might see her as someone meek, vulnerable. She knew that she was a warrior. Someone who would one day stand beside him in battle. She couldn't let him see her as anything else. It would risk the only future she could see for herself.

       "I didn't speak to Maeve about you," he didn't look at her as she spoke. Despite his words, she did not feel relieved. "I didn't have the opportunity to."

       "What happened, Ro?" Normally, he would have glared at the use of the familiarity. He would have told her how inappropriate it was. When he still didn't look at her she realized just how horrible things must be. Rowan never missed a chance to show his disapproval.

       "We'll have a visitor during our training sessions," the words seemed forced. She could practically taste the tension in the air.

       Mirima worried her lower lip as she took a cautious step toward him. "What do you mean? Is Fenrys going to stick around for a bit?"

       "No," his voice was clipped. At least that was normal. He wasn't dying or sick. Mirima hated to think that he would never get to see her successes. She didn't know why she wanted his approval, why she aimed to please him in some fashion. Maybe it was just because then she would know she had done it. She'd beaten the odds and become the member of the cadre she had always wanted to be.

       "Tell me," she rested her hand on his shoulder. He flinched away, causing her to drop her hand. It felt as though a shock had gone up her arm from the brief second her fingertips had brushed against his neck. But that was stupid. It was probably just her being far too familiar with her trainer.

       "Maeve wanted me to train another girl."

       "For the cadre?" Mirima's eyes grew hard as Rowan finally turned to face her. There was something in his eyes. Something that dulled the forest green to a grassy color. She wondered what that emotion was but found that she did not care. Anger coursed through her body. It burned too brightly and too quickly for her to care about whatever Rowan Whitethorn was feeling.

       "Hellas, Mirima, no," Rowan snapped at her. The anger that had flared so brightly quickly calmed. "I wouldn't train another damned soul for the position you want. You'd gut them than me. No, this is just a little demi-fae who never got control over their magic."

       "Who can't control their magic?" Mirima did not see the irony in her own question. She had always assumed her own control issues were rare. She had no idea where they stemmed from, just that no one else in her village had ever had trouble doing what they wanted with their magic. Neither had anyone else in Doranelle.

       "Someone who's afraid of it," Rowan stated bluntly.

       Mirima gave him a mock glare. She wasn't sure if he was completely wrong about that. It brought forth a question that she had never had to ask herself before. Was she frightened of her magic? Did she know what to do with it? She thought she did. She thought that it was as much a part of herself as breathing. But could there be something deeper? Rowan had never brought up this idea before. It was enough to temper her tongue, to make her sit and think for a moment.

       "I'm not afraid," she stated after thinking for a few moments. She didn't know if she was telling him the truth or not. But it felt like it. She felt as though she would know if she truly was afraid of the power that lived within her.

       "You're not afraid of anything," Rowan sounded as though this were not a compliment. "You'd sooner get yourself killed than listen to reason. That isn't bravery, Mirima. That's foolishness."

       His words stung her more than she cared to admit. Is that why he didn't want her fighting alongside him? He thought her nothing more than the village fool? Perhaps it made sense. Mirima had lived her entire life in the same small village. She had been stifled there but that didn't mean she had belonged elsewhere. Maybe she was just a foolish girl from Varnsway. Maybe that was all she would ever be.

       "Tell me about my new friend," she moved then, sitting on top of his desk as though it were her own. Rowan seemed not to notice, too lost in his thoughts as he stared at the mantle above the fireplace. "Will I have to play nicely?"

       "Maeve will kill you if you drown her," he said bluntly. "Besides, Terrasen would be left without a queen."

       That caught Mirima's attention. Her spine straightened, her eyes turning into the blue of a crystal sea. "So it's true then? Aelin did survive the massacre?"

       "It stays between the two of us," Rowan warned as he finally looked away from the mantle. Upon seeing her on the desk, one of his brows twitched slightly.

       "Why?" Even as she asked, she realized that it would be safer for the woman. "I mean, wouldn't she be better off with a guard surrounding her at all times? I'll volunteer for a shift."

       "Mirima," he snarled, causing a slight smile to cross her features. "She'd be in more danger if anyone knew. Adarlan is after her. If they manage to kill her, you know they'll have some advantage over Wendlyn. It'll break their spirits."

       "Which means we're next." One didn't have to be a military strategist to understand the risk the wrath of Adarlan. Mirima was not afraid of anything, Rowan had not been wrong about that, but the idea of bending the knee to the tyrant of Adarlan.

       "You'll help me train her. You know what it's like to be uncontrollable. Help her get used to life here," he looked older. His eyes darker than she had ever seen him, lines beside his eyes showing his half-century of life. She wanted to make things easier for him. She wanted to give him a moment's reprieve. But she couldn't. Mirima knew that they needed to keep some sort of wall between them.

       Even if she gave him nicknames.

       "Ro," she picked at her fingernails, "are you certain that's a good idea? I could drown her. Or you. Or I could accidentally kill her during swordplay or something."

       "I trust you."

       He'd never said that to her before. Rowan had never made her feel as though she could do anything she wanted. Half the time, he was trying to get her to abandon her dreams. Half the time, it felt as though he wished he could snap her neck and be done with her. Having his trust was something that she had never dreamed of. She had always thought that he would turn his back on her the second he was done training her.

       Maybe there was hope for them yet. Maybe Mirima would be able to prove herself to him through this whole damned thing. Or maybe it would just ruin whatever trust she had managed to build. Maybe she would never truly be able to live up to her expectations of herself. But that was okay. Rowan trusted her and that was all that mattered.

       At least for now. Mirima knew she still had a very long way to go when it came to proving herself.

       "So what's our plan?" She looked him in the eyes, ignoring the way her stomach knotted when the forest green met hers. It had happened every single time her eyes met his. Thirty years, thirty long years of feeling something odd whenever he looked at her. It was no wonder she tried to force that away, to tell him jokes when she shouldn't and to make light of things when she was terrified.

       "I don't know yet," Rowan admitted as he stepped over to her. His steps were light, never making a single sound. She wondered how often he had prowled around, silent and always listening. How many times had he caught her talking about him with Luca and Emrys? How often had he heard her curse his name?

       Despite both of them having the heightened senses of a Fae, Rowan had always been more of a predator. For years, he had been walking that line by himself. He had been alone with only the bloodlust and the killing that Maeve had made him do. Mirima saw it as glory, despite not knowing the truth of any of it. It was Rowan's business. She knew better than to ask him about any of it.

       She would take the stories told by others over the haunted look in his eyes whenever he pinned her any day. She didn't want to relive her own moments of glory. She supposed it would be the same for him.

       "Rowan Whitethorn not knowing something?" Mirima teased, a gleam in her eyes as she looked up at him. Her head tilted back, blonde locks cascading down her back in a waterfall while a playful smirk found a home upon her lips. "Now that is something I never thought I'd see."

       "When will you learn how to talk to a superior?" His brows furrowed slightly as he looked down at her. She had to ignore the overwhelming scent of pine and snow that clung to him.

       She hated that stupid scent. Hated how she dreamed of it at night, how she felt both enraged and comforted by it. None of it made sense to her. Nothing about Rowan Whitethorn would ever make sense to her. He was horrible and kind, the worst and the best. He was everything to her and nothing all at once.

       It was a miracle she had managed to keep his name out of her letters to her parents.

       "When will you learn that I'm not inferior to you?" Mirima turned her head away from him, wanting to break free from his gaze and that disgusting scent.

       "No one said you were," his fingers twitched. She wondered briefly if he wanted to run his fingers through his hair or strangle her. Either option seemed reasonable. "But you can't hope to make it any further if you don't listen to your commanding officer. They're not all as friendly as me."

       "Or Fenrys," Mirima interrupted.

       "I heard that he made you nearly flood our practice space," he snorted. "That doesn't seem as friendly."

       "So I'm not great at breathing exercises," she shrugged her shoulders. "I still managed to go without burning out." She was surprised that Fenrys had not told Rowan of her disappearing act. She would have been made to run laps until she vomited, would have been reprimanded hundreds of times had she done the same to Rowan. He would never have let her just walk away. Perhaps Fenrys had taken pity on her, perhaps he had seen something that Rowan did not.

       That or she had looked as though she were on the verge of burning out.

       "Don't joke about that," his voice hardened as he stared down at her. She looked back at him, hating the way he stared at her as though she was nothing more than a piece of glass. "Your burnouts are serious. If you die on my watch, I ..."

       Mirima didn't want to know what he would do. She didn't particularly care either.

       "I am not going to die, Rowan. I know myself better than any of you seem to realize," she crossed her arms in front of her chest, looking more like a petulant child than she realized.

       "You're not invincible, Mirima. You never will be," he told her, looking down at her with a gaze that she could not comprehend. Rowan Whitethorn gave her several incomprehensible looks. She often wondered if he hated her based on those looks, wondered if he even knew the fire that blazed in his forest.

       She doubted it. Rowan was too busy with his own problems to worry about how he looked at her. That wasn't something either of them thought about. It was always about training, always about Rowan teaching her everything she needed in order to be part of the cadre. Part of everything.

       "I'm capable though," she breathed softly, her voice barely a whisper. "I'll help you train her. Just ... Just don't let my training fall to the wayside. I expect to be in the cadre by the end of the year."

       Mirima shoved herself off of the desk, brushing against him as she did so. Rowan quickly backed away, his spine stiff and his gaze hardening to one she knew so well. She began to leave. Her gait smooth and steady unlike the pounding of her heart.

       "You'll never be ready," he called after her. "Lorcan would eat you alive just from your recklessness."

       "Then I guess you'll have to enjoy the show," Mirima stated without ever looking back at him.

       She kept up appearances as she headed back out of Mistward, a smile on her lips and a gleam in her eyes that normally meant trouble. If Rowan thought she was nothing compared to this would-be-queen she would just have to prove him wrong.

       She slid a dagger out from the sheath on her thigh, twirling it between her fingers as she headed deep in the forest. If Rowan was giving up on her, she would train herself.

       Hellas save them.

[collecting-stories]

Rick - ep. 09 - Georgia

Summary: After you and Daryl spend the afternoon together Rick and Michonne come over for beers, Rick finally figuring some things out.

A/N: I wanted to add more depth to the relationships in this version of the series. 

Georgia Masterlist | The Walking Dead Masterlist

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

Daryl sat in the passenger seat, window rolled down as he smoked a cigarette, watching you sitting behind the wheel of his truck was more enticing than he thought it would be. He figured, this truck being akin to a child, that he’d be keeping an eye on you so that you didn’t damage her while you were driving but in fact it was just the sight of you in the driver’s seat, taking precious care of something special to him, that was making it hard to turn his gaze away.  

“Ya ain’t a bad driver.” Daryl commented, smoking blowing out the open window as he spoke.  

“I told you!” You laughed, “you know Rick Grimes?”

“Yeah, how do you?”

“Our mama’s went to school together, his mom’s my godmother. But he taught me to drive.” You supplied.  

A week before you got your permit your dad went on a week-long bender that resulted in his third stint in rehab. Your mom had asked Rick if he minded teaching you, telling him that your dad’s brother had passed away and he’s gone up to Virginia to be with his family. One year he’d caught the flu and another time an uncle in Tennessee had passed and he’d gone to bed with family’ because apparently your mother had married a family man.  

Rick had been happy to help and you’d been happy to have him teach you. If you could’ve had an older brother you were sure you would’ve wanted it to be Rick. He was a little older than you, Daryl’s age, but he had always hung back at kids' tables and parties and church picnics with you, never letting you feel left out.  

“He ain’t too bad.”

“Of a person or of a driver?” You asked, glancing over at Daryl as you slowed to a stop at a streetlight.  

“Both, likes to hassle me whenever he drops by.”  

“I didn’t know you were friends!” You said, already preparing all the questions you were going to ask him next time he came into the diner.  

“Ain’t clipping pictures to my visor or nothing,” he remarked, grinning when you frowned at him. There was a picture of Maggie and you from last year’s Harvest Festival clipped to your visor in your jeep and Daryl had teased you about it when he’d first noticed it there.  

“I’m gonna get a picture of me and clip it to your visor so you can see my smiling face every morning.” You replied.  

“Lucky me.” He managed to sound sarcastic as he said it but he thought immediately that he wouldn’t mind a picture of you in his truck, tucked away to look at whenever he was having a shitty day.  

“Where am I going once I get in to Woodbury?” You asked, crossing over the pike to take the back way into town. You liked backroads better than the main highways, something you and Daryl had in common. He wasn’t as much of a backseat driver as you thought that he would be.  

“The industrial park on the other side of Cartwright...ya know where that is?”

“As long as you tell me where to turn.” You passed the Woodbury diner, the chrome exterior catching the sun and drawing your attention. “We should get food there on the way back.”

“This ain’t a whole day thing...I got stuff ta do when I get back.” Daryl replied, taking a look passed you to the diner as the truck continued on.

“It’ll be fun, come on.” You begged, glancing over at him.  

“I’ll think about it.”  

-

Daryl lacked the ability to say no to you, something he had already known to be true but discovered over again when he told you to pull into the diner in Woodbury after a stop off at the bank to cash his check. You led him to a table in the back that had a tiny jukebox on it and he rolled his eyes as you ignored the menu in favor of finding a quarter.  

“Ya play any a that crap ya listen to I’m leaving ya here.” Daryl piped up as you dropped the quarter in.

“I was gonna play Dolly...it’s classic.”

He shook his head at you and you stuck your tongue out at him before settling on Bruce Springsteen. “You have a beef with the boss too?”

“Nah, this is fine.” He replied as the sounds of ‘I’m on Fire’ played in the booth. A little too on the nose, he thought, as he sat across from you watching you read over the menu.  

“Do you like working at the slaughterhouse?”

“I cut up dead cow all day long...not exactly the dream.” Daryl replied, “my brother got me the gig after I dropped out and I been working there since. Got bills to pay.”

“Does your brother still work there?”

“He’s in jail.”

“Oh. Sorry-”

“Ain’t your fault, he’s a fucking moron, got himself arrested. Been fucking up since we were kids.” He shrugged. He loved Merle but he certainly didn’t like him. Merle had gotten him in more trouble than he could keep track of.  

“I don’t have any siblings...I think I was enough.” You replied.

“I’m sure.” He teased, grinning at you.  

When the waitress came around to take your orders, she winked at you, assuming, you were sure, that the two of you were on a date. You smiled back at her and Daryl rolled his eyes when she walked away.  

“Are ya like that too?” He asked, “too perky for yer own good?”

“Probably. The happier you are the better the tip.” You replied, shrugging.

“I’m sure ya get tips just cause everyone knows who ya are.”  

“Well yeah.” You shrugged, “I can’t wait to get a different job.”

“Ya ain’t thrilled waiting on people all day?” Daryl asked, biting at his thumb to calm his nerves. He was sitting across from you at a diner and you were fishing in your bag to play the same Bruce Springsteen song over again.  

“No. I hate it. People are the worst!” You replied. There was nothing you could think of worse than having to deal with people all day. “What about you though? You have to deal with annoying people coming in to get their cars fixed.”

“Yeah I’m sitting across from one of ‘em.”

“Shut up!” You laughed, nudging his leg with your foot, “you love spending time with me.”

“You keep saying I do.” He said it but he knew that you were right. He liked spending time with you a little too much.  

-

Rick sat in the Adirondack chair that you usually occupied whenever you were over, cooler full of beer next to him. Daryl finishing some work on your jeep, showing Michonne the repairs he had done while Rick talked about passing his sheriff’s exam.  

“Ya ain’t President of the United States Rick,” Daryl cut off the second wind of the same story, laying his wrench down to look over at his best friend. Michonne laughed, shaking her head at the two of them. “Ya just made deputy.”

“Yeah and it’s a pretty big honor I’d say. Not everyone is out there making deputy D.” He replied, taking a swig of his beer.  

“Well as another person who made deputy, I’d like to point out that it isn’t the hardest thing in the world either.” Michonne piped up, grabbing a beer from the cooler. She handed one off to Daryl, taking a better look at the Jeep he was working on. A tassel made of different color yarns hung from the rearview mirror with an air freshener that looked especially feminine too, certainly not something Daryl would hang in his car. “Who’s Jeep?”

“Nobody’s, just doing a favor.”

“A favor for...” Michonne trailed off, popping the driver’s side door open. Daryl didn’t say anything as she slipped into the seat, taking a look around the inside. Vinyl stickers on the dashboard and as she scanned her eye caught the picture in the visor.  

“I been thinking the Jeep looked familiar to me,” Rick piped up. He’d thought one more than one occasion when he stopped ‘round his friend’s house that the Jeep he was working on was one he had seen around town though he couldn’t place it. “Just don’t know why.”

“That’s cause ya ain’t a good cop.” Daryl joked. Michonne laughed as she pulled the picture down and looked at it.

“I’m assuming it’s not Maggie Greene.” She said, handing off the picture to Rick.

“No, Daryl-”

“I’m just fixing her car.”

“What am I missing?” Michonne asked, looking between the two of them.

“She doesn’t need any trouble D, she gets enough of it.” Rick said, handing the picture back.

“I’m just fixing the damn car Rick. It’s my job.” Daryl repeated, tossing the wrench he’d been using, listening to it clang against the car before falling to the ground.  

“That was her backpack, wasn’t it?”  

“I didn’t ask her to come around.” He insisted.  

“You gotta stop seeing her.”

“I ain’t seeing anyone.” Daryl replied, “I gotta repeat myself? Ya ain’t her family, anyway. Ya can’t tell her what to do. Or me, for that matter.”

“Someone’s gotta look out for her.” Rick replied, “lord knows she’s not good at knowing what she needs.”

“What is going on?” Michonne asked again, stepping out of the Jeep and closing the door.

“Nothing’s going on.” Daryl snapped.

“I can’t believe your-”

“Swear to god Rick, I ain’t repeating myself again. Either shut the fuck up or get the hell off my property.”

“Whoa.” Michonne held her hand out when Daryl moved closer to Rick. She turned toward Rick, “I think you need to cool off.”

“We’re not done talking about this.” Rick announced, looking passed Michonne to Daryl. Before his best friend could say anything in response Rick was walking down the driveway to where his car was parked. He climbed in, slamming the door, before taking off.

“You wanna tell me what that was about?” Michonne asked, looking back to Daryl as he picked up the wrench he was using, “And don’t give me the ‘ain’t nothing’ excuse. I know when something is nothing and this clearly isn’t.”

“Said I’d work on her car cause she didn’t have the money to pay Dale.” Daryl shrugged.  

“And?”

“Don’t know.” He replied, honestly. He didn’t know and he didn’t like to think about it too much.  

“Come on D,”

“I said I don’t know.” He insisted, shrugging his shoulders in defeat, “I just like having her around.”

“You got a crush.” Michonne smiled, watching the way his face flushed.  

“I ain’t gonna keep ya ‘round if yer gonna make fun a me.”

-

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[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 29, Part I

Buster had hoped that the picture would progress more smoothly back in Culver City. New York had been recreated on Lot Two in no time and was ready for filming by the time he returned to M-G-M on Monday the 30th. He was finding that even without the onerous script, however, he just couldn’t go back to the way he’d done things a few short months before.

When arrived on the set, he hadn’t wanted to get into the scenes of him and the girl right away. Instead, he pulled Bruckman aside and chewed over ways to lead the audience into the story, break the ice a little. Maybe a fussy grande dame carrying too much weight wanted a portrait of her little boy. Buster could see them in his head, the fat lady brushing the shoulders of the kid’s jacket, posing him just so. When she wasn’t looking, the scoundrel would stick out his tongue or thumb his nose. In the meantime, he—that is to say, the photographer—would be growing more and more frustrated with the boy. After being scolded by the lady, who wouldn’t hear that her perfect angel was monkeying around, he would finally take the portrait and show her the result. Upset, she’d blame the kid’s behavior on him. The conversation would get heated, drawing the attention of a drunk panhandler who would ask for his portrait to be done too. After all, his cup was full of pennies, wasn’t it? He could afford it. The lady would object. No, her boy was first in line. There’d be a yelling match between the two, the finely dressed fat woman and the ragged skinny drunk, followed by some shoving, in which Buster became collateral damage when the drunk ducked a punch. The hullabaloo would attract a crowd, and finally a policeman (giving Buster a suspicious look as though he was the cause of it all) would disperse the crowd. Buster would be left on the sidewalk, unpaid for his portrait of the kid and worse off than when he started.

This idea having occurred, he’d called to the crew to get him a fat lady, a kid, and someone who could play a drunk. They just looked at him like he had three heads.

“What’s the big idea?” he’d said.

“C’mere, I wanna word,” Sedgwick had said, frowning over the cigarette between his lips.

They’d gone around the corner until they were out of earshot, then the older man rounded on him. “What in the fuck was that?”

“What in the fuck was what?” said Buster, genuinely baffled.

“All the business of ‘Get me this, I want that.’ You made me look like a damned ass in front of my men.”

“How?” said Buster, astonished.

“By undermining my authority, that’s how. I’m the director. You barking orders makes me look like a spare prick.”

Buster had tried not to gape. He felt his own anger begin to rise. Wanting to keep the peace, though, he’d swallowed and said, “Well, I’m awful sorry. It’s nothing personal, honest, I just never worked another way. It won’t happen again, alright? You have my word.”

Sedgwick’s shoulders had relaxed somewhat and his expression softened. “Thanks. Look, I know it’s got to be tough to adjust, but we do things different. Just watch. You’ll see it’ll get taken care of.”

The scene didn’t get taken care of, despite Sedgwick’s assurances. Buster had stood back chain-smoking and watching calamity unfold. The kid was uncooperative, too green to be anything other than nervous in front of the camera. The fat lady couldn’t seem to understand that the camera couldn’t see the kid when she stood in front of him in all her overproportioned glory. The drunk couldn’t take direction at all, to the point that Buster suspected the drunkness wasn’t an act.

Finally, Sedgwick had thrown up his hands. “This is a disaster. Buster, line these god damn people up and get this fucking shot over with.”

Buster stubbed his cigarette out. “Me?”

Sedgwick had looked pained. “Yes, you. Who else?”

Feeling satisfied inside, Buster had taken over and soon had all parties in line and the scene rolling right along. In the days following, Sedgwick didn’t try to interfere with him and he didn’t try to interfere with Sedgwick, and they grew to like each other. A large man, he had a big appetite and liked to come over to Buster’s half of the bungalow to eat an elaborate lunch cooked up by Caruthers rather than patronize the studio cantine. Buster dubbed him Junior.

Even though Weingarten was up his ass about something every other day, shooting was going alright, too. Maybe it wasn’t the way he was used to working, but at least he’d gotten three-quarters of his control back and could dispense with things like jewel thieves and kidnappings.

As April gave way to May that week, he stayed overnight at the bungalow. On Wednesday he managed to sneak Nelly in. They had to forgo their usual activities beneath the sheets owing to her monthly visitor, but they had a nice dinner of roast lamb and potatoes and tried a few foxtrots in the front room, bumping into furniture because was hardly any room, then Nelly practiced her lines while he smoked and perused the latest pile of newspapers and magazines that Caruthers had left.

On Friday night, he drove back to the Villa. He arrived just in time for dinner, catching Natalie as she passed through the atrium.

“Hello, Nate,” he said. He’d just hung his coat and hat and kicked off his shoes.

“Oh, you’re back in time for dinner,” she said without a smile. He could tell by the way she said it that it was a question in disguise: Why haven’t you been home for dinner?

“Well sure, it’s Friday night. Ain’t filming tomorrow. I’m staying at the bungalow while we’re filming,” he added.  “Toldja that.”

“You didn’t,” she said, unsmiling. “You didn’t say you were staying at the bungalow this week.”

He considered his wife’s unhappy countenance and tried to remember if he’d called her on Monday. He’d had dinner with Sedgwick, then there was a bridge game and drinks with some of the M-G-M brass. Sam Goldwyn had been there. Or had that been Tuesday night? He couldn’t remember, and couldn’t remember calling her. “I thought I did. Honest. I got caught up in stuff, I guess,” he said.

“Oh, your card games?” she said, hand on her hip. She looked beautiful, all polish, poise, and elegance. “Maybe with that girl from your picture? Marceline?”

His eyes widened. “Marceline? You mean Marceline Day?” He knew he ought to be used to Natalie’s jealousy by now, but sometimes it flew at him out of the blue and smacked him straight in the face like that baseball last July. He’d hardly filmed a single scene with his newest leading lady, let alone entertained thoughts of seducing her.

“I simply find it incredible you’d forget to call me over a card game.”

“Well, it’s true whether you believe it and I said I’m sorry.” He reached for her arm. “C’mon, let’s not fight about silly stuff.”

“Oh, I agree it’s silly alright,” she said, brushing off his hand. “I didn’t make it so, you did.”

“Nate,” he said. “The kids. C’mon, they’re in the other room for Christ’s sakes.” In an attempt to extinguish the argument, he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed both her cheeks in quick succession. “Please? You’ve got me tomorrow and Sunday. I’ll spend all that time with you. I’m all yours.”

Natalie grimaced. “I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon for Lake Tahoe. With Norma. Don’t tell me you forgot that too.”

“Of course I didn’t,” he lied. He had no recollection of her telling him about Lake Tahoe, though supposed it had been discussed in New York when he was listening with half an ear. “Let’s make the most of tonight then, and tomorrow morning.”

“We’re having veal for dinner,” she said, ignoring his offer.

“Good. I’m hungry.”

It wasn’t much of a truce, but he treated it like one and put his arm through hers and walked her to the dining room.

Natalie went to bed early that night complaining of a headache and was too preoccupied the next day buying new outfits for her trip with Norma to trouble with him. “I’m sorry, but it’s supposed to be warm and we’ve got to have some lighter dresses for the trip,” she’d said just before departing.

He tried to distract himself golfing with Tom Mix, but kept getting stuck on thoughts of his wife like a skip in a record. There had been a time when Nate had loved him and they’d gotten along, he could almost swear by it. He’d once spent hours with her mother and sisters, not resenting them for taking up Natalie’s time and attention. Rather, he had been glad to be in their midst even though Peg had never made a secret of the fact that she didn’t think him good enough for her middle daughter. It had been easy then to love the people who loved Natalie.

There had also been a time when Nate and him had talked about more than the children, kissed in more than a perfunctory way, and shared more than just a house and money. To this day he couldn’t understand why it wasn’t that way between them anymore, couldn’t remember when they’d begun to drift apart. He was pretty sure she had still loved him when they’d moved into the Villa. When had she stopped? Why had she stopped?

Tom would bring him back to reality at intervals, reminding him that it was his turn to put. He’d forget about Natalie for a couple minutes, but the needle would return to the beginning of the groove and he’d start worrying all over again. If only if he just—maybe if he just …

That night, he got roaringly drunk at Marion Davies’ party, not bothering to see Natalie off at the train station when she left late in the afternoon.

The Villa was vacant the following day, his sons having been kidnapped by Constance and all the servants but Caruthers dismissed until Monday. Their benevolent mistress had decided they could do with a little holiday as a treat. Tired of fretting about Natalie, he drank some black coffee to tame his headache and called Nelly afterward.

Note: I know you’re all sick of waiting, so I decided to publish Chapter 29 into two parts. The second part will likely be longer. Sorry I’m so busy, but 🤷‍♀️

[denis-the-ghost]

Ranpo as LawLight´s love child

(Please, don´t take this too serious, it´s only for fun (and boredom). Think about this like a kind of Au, probably a notKira!Au)

Why them?

Well, in one of the BSD´s light novels, it was stipulated that Ranpo´s parents were geniuses, both of them. His father worked solving cases with the police, and his mother was capable of beating her husband in his work. They died when Ranpo was little.

A couple of genius detectives, both of them death. Mmm, let me think for a moment. Yeah, this sounded a lot like: LAWLIGHT.

Now in the next paragraphs I will explain some points of my theory.

1) Hair

Color theory 101. Black + Light Brown = could give you: Dark Brown.

Also L´s messy hair + Light´s PERFECT® hair = Ranpo´s hair, with kind of messy bangs well defined.

2) Food liking

L and Ranpo share their liking for sweets.

But this point doesn´t end here, because we know that Ranpo enjoys eating another kind of food like snacks (Movie) and pizza (S02EP12). Probably he likes potato chips with a little sweet flavor, and remember, what kind of chips Light prefers? Yes, BBQ potato chips. A lot of BBQ potato chips have a light sweet flavor. Whit this I´m not saying that Light has a fascination/obsession with potato chips (this is more like a headcanon from the fandom). 

3) Sitting

L´s famous way of sitting is a classic. Ranpo doesn´t sit like L, but he is one of the members of the ADA that sits in “so comfortable” ways, not the more ethical for work.

4) Personality

From L, Ranpo got the non-filter to say what he is thinking, more with people that “annoys” them with their lack of intelligence. But of course they don´t say those things in a mean/cruel/pure evil way, both L and Ranpo have other perception of the society functions, for example Light thinks very high of his intelligence, he insults others but in his mind, because he knows more about social constructions and the "importance" of how the others see you.

Now, talking about Light´s ego, Ranpo has his own. Remember, how in the first episodes Light thought about him like the chosen one and the “God of the new world”. Ranpo is always pointing how he´s the best detective and that his ability is the best of the best. As well, both of them have a lot of people always feeding their egos, like Light´s parents or Ranpo´s co-workers.

5)  Deduction Support

The reason for L sitting in his particular way is because “Sitting like this increase my deduction abilities in a 40%”. Ranpo “needs” his glasses to activate his “Ultra-deduction”.

In both cases, these two have conditioned their deduction abilities to a thing or a particular action.

6) Height and Eyes

Let´s be honest and let´s be realistic (kind of), not all the children look like a copy-paste of their parents, this is something that fics have taught us and is not 100% correct, genetic doesn’t work this way. Some kids can look more like their grandparents or uncles.

First, let´s talk about the height. Both L and Light are 1.79cm tall *, Ranpo´s height is 168cm. The difference is 11 cm. For his age, Ranpo (26) is a lot shorter in comparison with L and Light (19-25). Light´s father is taller than his son (1.81 cm), and we don´t know L´s parents, neither L´s or Light´s grandparents. And for the height topic, I will choose Light´s mother's family ´cause Sachiko has the average Japanese female´s height, and probably her family too. With that Ranpo´s height fits better in the family tree.

*In the official character sheet L´s height is marked as an estimation.

Second, the eyes. As in the height explanation, Ranpo could have inherited his green eyes from his grandparents or from another family member/ancestor. In this case I will incline my theory with L`s family.  Tsugumi Ohba has said "I think of him (L) as a quarter Japanese, a quarter English, a quarter Russian, a quarter French or Italian, like that”, with this information, we could say that L has a high percentage of European/Caucasian heritage, green eyes included.

7) Bonus: The history repeats itself

The cherry on the top in this theory is that like Light, Ranpo got himself a goth/emo-look alike-boyfriend. And as Light and L, Ranpo and Poe share similar interest. Because, don´t forget that Poe is a detective (and writer) too.

Thanks for reading, sorry about my english : )

[gwaciechang]

I Don't Want To Go Home (2/15?)

We're kicking off into the actual plot now! The dialogue still comes from the pdas in the outpost base, but rewritten to fit the characters and the new story. Again, no need to have played Subnautica Below Zero to understand this fic, although it does help.

No warnings for this chapter, but please be aware that the reader character discusses an intergalactic pandemic and lockdown, written before the current one. It's not ongoing as far as the plot of the fic is concerned.

As soon as it hits the end of your shift, you put your samples on top of your workstation and practically run all the way back to the habitat to get there before anyone else.

“Oh, hey,” Mundy greets you, “you’re here early,” he attempts to wink seductively and succeeds in looking like he’s having a stroke.

“I know, I ran here to make sure I got here first,” you hang up your coat. “I need to borrow your pyro-what are you doing?” you ask when you realize Mundy’s holding something behind his back

“I’m just slacking off,” Mundy’s voice is shrill in the way it gets when he panics. “Don’t tell the boss lady!” he gives you a terrible, fake chuckle as he tries to hide his drawings behind his back.

You feint to the left, before grabbing the sheets with your right hand. “Ha!” you cheer as you examine his art of some strange green thing that makes you smile to remember. “It’s beautiful! Why would you try to hide these? Also, what are they?” You’ve definitely seen them around the island.

Mundy scratches the back of his neck, and his voice is at least an octave higher than normal. “I'm doing a series inspired by bacteria. Mutant beauty, life, death, risk. You know, that kind of thing?”

Ah, bacteria, now you know what he means. “What do you mean, bacteria?” you hold one up that you really hope isn’t what you think it is. “It looks like Kharaa, but,” you look more closely at it even though you already know why. “Gordon, is this a mutation?”

Mundy’s nervous again. “It’s just a personal art project,” he insists. Somehow, his voice is still rising in pitch.

You don’t dare look down at your skin for fear of seeing glowing green pustules. “You know you’re doing that thing with your voice,” you say as calmly as you can, “like when you're trying to bluff in Alien Intruder?”

Mundy sighs, before confessing, “Alright fine, I’m bad at lying.” He gives you a weakly hopeful smile.

You can hardly believe what you’re hearing. “Are you mutating Kharaa bacteria, from the frozen Leviathan, here, in this lab? If this bacteria gets out, then-”

“Why would it get out? We have professional containment, we’re protected from contact at every step of the process, and we know how to neutralize it in an emergency.”

You feel ice settle in your stomach. “Not when it’s mutated, we don’t. And you responded way too fast.”

“It was my area of research before Jensen made you take over!”

“Hey, uh, am I interrupting something?” Monk asks from the doorway.

“Uh, no,” you say hastily, walking toward the fireplace to start one with more force than is really necessary, or helpful. “You want some roast Chinese potato?” you ask, pulling a few out of the growbed as you wait for the flames to reach a decent height.

“I could take one, I took the salt deposits out of the water filter,” Monk says carefully. “Mundy, you want to shred some marblemelons?”

Mundy starts, like he only just realized Monk was there. “Uh, yeah,” he reaches out to grab the melon from your hand, and his face falls when you don’t let your fingers touch.

There’s a timid knock at the door, followed by an even more timid, “Hello? It’s Ernst.” Suddenly, your heart soars, and you wipe your tears as you open the door.

“Hey, Schmidt.”

He stares at you before asking, “Are you alright?”

Jesus, you must look really miserable, if even Schmidt is concerned about you. “I’m fine, go help Monk and Mundy shred the marblemelons.”

Schmidt puts down a bottle of, holy shit, “Is that lantern fruit wine?”

Schmidt blushes. “I discovered that lantern fruit has a chemical composition similar to-”

“Yeah, no one cares,” Mundy says, pouring at least half the bottle into his glass, making Schmidt wince, before handing it to Monk.

“I don’t drink,” Monk refuses it, so Mundy puts it down. Schmidt picks it up again and hands it to you.

“You’re not drinking?” you ask.

“I can always make some for myself later,” Schmidt demures, but you leave a quarter of the bottle out for him. He looks up at you, just for a second, before looking back down at his feet. “So, how do we play alien intruder?” Schmidt asks in a voice so quiet, it’s almost nonexistent. With his head bowed, it’s even harder to hear him.

“Well, we guess who the alien intruder is,” Mundy stares at Schmidt like he’s an imbecile, something you doubt the robotics technician has any experience with.

He shrinks ever further into himself at the accusation. He doesn’t get any better when the game starts, constantly looking at you before doing anything, which gets him accused of being the alien, more out of Mundy’s jealousy than anything else. You know this, so you keep shooting down Mundy’s accusations.

Monk innocently kicks off the argument. “If you ask me, Schmidt’s been blinking a lot,” he says casually. “I think it's a tell.”

“He does have a point there!” Mundy looks at you.

“It's allergies!” Schmidt says stiffly.

“Allergies?! Oh no!” Mundy says mockingly. “Is something in bloom in our little frozen habitat?”

“There are thermal lilies,” Schmidt scowls at him. “And if you gang up on me, I swear, you're all fired.”

“You're not our real boss,” Monk reminds him.

“Let's just take this to a vote,” Mundy downs his glass and slams it on the floor. All those who think Schmidt’s allergies are a bad case of alienitis, say, ‘Intruder.’ Intruder!”

“Intruder,” Monk cheers.

The two turn to you, but you stay nothing except, “I’m going to use my pass.”

“There’s no such thing as a pass!” Mundy argues.

Schmidt slides himself between you and Mundy. “Are you two cheating?” he asks with smoothness he hadn’t displayed all night. “You two are suddenly very aligned.”

“You know what, I’m starting to wish I had cheated,” Mundy looks directly at you, leaving no way for you to miss his meaning.

Neither did Schmidt, because he’s on his feet, screaming for Mundy to apologize. Mundy jumps up to his feet as well, and your heart thumps in your chest. You press your hand against Schmidt at the same time Monk does the same for Mundy, but Monk actually manages to force Mundy to sit down again. All you can do is stand between the two of them and hope.

“No, wait, don’t,” you press a hand ineffectually on Schmidt’s chest at the same time Monk does the same for Mundy. But Monk manages to force Mundy to sit down. All you can do is stand between Schmidt and Mundy, and hope neither of them speak again.

Schmidt searches your face, and whatever he finds has him take a step back. “I made a mistake, coming here,” he says, his voice stiff and formal. “Thank you for inviting me, and I’m sorry I caused so much tension. I’ll go now,” and he turns and exits the room.

“It wasn’t your fault!” you won’t let him take all the blame, and you follow him out of the room. The moment the door closes behind you, he turns around and takes your hands in his. You hadn’t realized how cold your hands had become until you felt his soft, warm skin around yours.

“I’m the new person, the outlier. Monk and Mundy will be more than happy to blame any existing tension from today on me,” his voice is oddly desperate. “Go back in, let them construct their narrative, and have fun like you normally would.”

You shake your head. “The tension between me and Mundy isn’t going to go away until I resolve this-” you freeze. Schmidt is in the cave with the leviathan all day, so there’s no way he has no idea what Mundy’s been doing.

Schmidt lets go of you and holds his hands up. “What do you need help with?”

Well, you can’t trust Mundy, so you might as well see how deep this conspiracy goes. “The Kharaa samples from the frozen leviathan-”

“Is nothing to worry about in and of itself,” his tone is reassuring, almost. The way the light reflects off his glasses obscures his eyes.

“I have it on good authority that mutation experiments are being performed on this bacterium. I don’t need to tell you that the bacteria, as it was, killed billions, and we’ve only just discovered a cure. If it mutates-”

“Are you feeling unsafe?” Schmidt interrupts.

“Yes!”

He takes his glasses off to look at you eye to eye. “If I escalate the issue for you, will you feel comfortable enough to concentrate again? I have deadlines for the Snowfox and the mining bots coming up. I really need you not to fight with our coworkers.”

“Oh,” you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, “yeah.” A giggle bubbles out of your chest. “That’s a relief, actually.”

Schmidt puts his glasses back on, but his gaze is no less severe, or sincere. “Nothing is more important than your safety, and the safety of all of my crew. I will take care of it, do you trust me?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Thank you, I won’t let you down, sir,” you add a cheeky wink to the end.

The corners of his mouth twitch. “No, thank you, and thank you for inviting me. Go back in and,” he hesitates as the corners of his lips droop, “go have fun with Monk and your boyfriend.”

[chaoskirin]

The Seven Seas--Chapter One

Fandom: Queen Genre: Sci-Fi/Gen Rating: PG Chapter 1 Word Count: 2379

I haven’t written any Queen fanfic in a while, but I’ve had this one in mind for about a year. Figured now was a good time to give it a go!

---

The morning started like any other: At quarter past noon, and with beer and potato chips for breakfast.

"Fred, I want to go home," Brian said, hand on his forehead, leaning back in his chair. Roger stretched his leg out and attempted to tip the chair over; the back collided with the wall and Brian shot him a grumbly look.

"No. We're staying right here 'til we're done," Freddie replied. "And I would say we've been productive thus far--except for all the complaining."

They wouldn't be done until Freddie said they were, which could be today, or tomorrow, or three weeks into the future. With his Mercurial temperament, he'd named himself well. That's something none of the four would ever argue over.

John, typically, said nothing.

Roger flipped over in his chair, reclining upside-down with his bleached hair splashed across the dusty floor. Out of all of them, Rog felt the crushing boredom the worst as they sat and sat and sat and thought about lyrics for a good chunk of the day. He just had a different way of dealing with it; while Brian complained and John entertained himself within the recesses of his own mind, Roger caused Trouble.

"Oh, Roger," Freddie said. "Do sit up."

"I'm gettin' the blood to my brain," he replied. "So I can think of your stupid songs."

"If they're stupid, we're not using them," Freddie said.

"You let the car song through," John muttered under his breath, after which Roger grabbed a handful of wood chips and attempted to launch them--while still upside-down--across the room. He performed an unintentional backflip out of the chair and crashed to the floor.

Where he remained for some reason.

"Entertaining," Brian observed. "I still want to go home. I've got things to do. My thesis--"

"Oh, your bloody thesis. You're a rock star now, Brian!" Freddie exclaimed. He stood, paced across the barn, stepped over Roger, flailed his hands for effect, then paced back. "You don't need a doctorate if you're a rock star!"

"I thought we were to be rock gods," Roger provided, insinuating that a god was somehow superior to a star.

Freddie supposed he had a point. "Yes, yes, we're getting there. Patience!"

Asking this lot to have patience was like asking an elephant to fly. Like asking a fire to burn cold. Like asking a monkey to type the full works of Shakespeare with both hands tied behind its back. All possible, when one considered how very exciting and unpredictable the universe was... But still vastly implausible.

Something very small and very loud crashed through the barn's roof, landing mere centimetres from Roger's outstretched arm. Roger jumped to his feet with the alacrity of a twelve-year-old non-smoker and stumbled away, knocking over stools, a bandstand, a whole table, and a random chicken as he went.

The chicken, perturbed, scuttled from the barn.

John sat up, his face perfectly passive as Freddie asked, "What the fuck was that?"

Brian stood, creeping toward the shimmering object. It appeared frictionless with all its sparkling silver splendor, and as aerodynamic as the most advanced American war devices. Oblong and saucer-shaped, it sat off-kilter within the barn's floor, its leading edge plunged clear through the rotting wood and stuck soundly within the dirt. It wiggled a bit as if to free itself, then seemed to deflate in defeat as if sighing.

It was no larger than a standard record.

"Aliens, probably," John said.

"Oh, aliens!" Freddie poo-pooed, swatting him with the back of his hand. "It's clearly a toy. A frisbee or somesuch. Roger, go outside and see if--"

The frisbee whirred and hissed, a door opening and consummately vanishing as it did so. A bright green light shone from within as steam and fog poured out of it like water.

"Is Spielberg here?" Roger said. "Is he having us on? He's making a movie, you know. Offered me a part--"

"Oh, he did not," Freddie said. "Hello in there? Hello? Is it aliens?"

"Well, they wouldn't be aliens to themselves," Brian griped. "We'd be the aliens to them."

"Bother your semantics," Freddie said, kneeling next to the oblong contraption. When he poked it (as he could think of nothing better to do with it), his finger slid off the surface as if it were made of particularly slippery ice.

"Well don't piss 'em off," Roger said, kneeling next to Freddie and poking the thing as well. "Whoa. I can't touch it."

Indeed, it was covered in some sort of shield, which reflected all attempts at poking, no matter how vehement. Whenever one of them thought to touch it, it shimmered with a glowing rainbow of energy before repelling the contact entirely. It was neither cold, nor warm, nor anything at all. However, Roger could make the shield wiggle with a sort of frustration if he touched it in two places, and when Freddie added his fingers to the mix, the whole saucer seemed to burble in scandalized protest.

"I can't help thinking that's a terrible idea," John said.

"We should kick it," Roger suggested.

"That's exactly what I meant," John replied.

As Roger stood and drew back his leg to give the thing a good kick, Brian said, "It's not a football."

Defeated, Roger stomped the ground with the very foot that had been just about to launch the thing back into the sky. "Then what's it doing in our barn?"

Brian opened his mouth to answer, then his eyes dulled with the abject inability to answer Roger's inane inquiry. "What kind of question is that? Do footballs inherently belong in barns where you're from? If something enters a barn, does it become a football?"

"Well... Kinda? If it can be kicked?"

Meanwhile, the little door on the saucer-object remained open. Freddie wondered how much more mist could pour out of the thing before it was empty. Or perhaps it contained its own mist generator and it would continue to spew forth a cloud of noxious green gas until evicted from the barn. "I actually think Roger may have the right of it," Freddie said, detecting the faintest hint of ozone. "Exciting as all this is, I don't want to be poisoned."

Roger reeled his foot back again.

Fortunately, the occupants of the saucer picked that moment to show themselves. A single moment later, and they might have been stepping out into earth's atmosphere, tumbling end over end in the worst result of first contact ever written about in any science fiction in history.

Thwarted again, Roger collapsed into his chair and crossed his arms.

The aliens--for that's the way Freddie had begun to think of them--appeared as silhouettes against the burning green light from inside the saucer. Unsurprisingly, they were tiny, each barely the size of a paperclip or perhaps even smaller. A walkway extended in front of them as they squirmed out into the barn's dim light; the creatures meandered down it, leaving a trail of slime behind them. Vaguely slug-like, they were nevertheless adorned with at least half a dozen tentacles each, which were in turn adorned by an incredibly ridiculous amount of jewelry. Enough to rile Freddie's jealousy at any rate. If only he had more places to put shiny things, he could be a much happier man!

There were three of them. The tallest one spoke:

"ARE YOU THE QUEEN?"

Freddie blinked. The alien repeated: "ARE YOU! THE QUEEN?"

"We're... Queen?" Freddie tried. "The band. Queen."

"HAIL QUEEN BAND. THROUGH THE RADIO CHATTER OF YOUR ILLUSTRIOUS PLANET, WE HAVE DETERMINED YOUR LOCATION AND SEEK AN AUDIENCE."

John muttered, "I'm sure this is going to go well."

"I'm not sure you understand," Brian said. "We're not the queen. Or any queen, really. We're just--"

The aliens seemed undeterred. The tallest one interrupted: "NONSENSE. YOU HAVE PRODUCED MORE RADIO CHATTER THAN ANY OTHER ENTITY CALLING THEMSELF A QUEEN ON THIS PLANET. WE DEEM YOU THE SUPERIOR OF ALL OF THEM. YOU WILL NEGOTIATE ON BEHALF OF YOUR PLANET."

One of the smaller ones, who seemed to be wearing glasses on his protuberating eyes, asked, "WHAT IS YOUR PLANET CALLED?"

"They've been listening to our radio chatter," John began, "and they don't know what the planet is called?"

"Er... This is earth," Brian supplied.

"OF COURSE IT IS EARTH," the smaller alien said. "ALL TERRESTRIAL OCCUPIED PLANETS ARE MADE OF EARTH. WHAT DO YOU CALL YOUR PLANET? WHAT NAME?" He pulled out a very tiny, very adorable starmap from one of the flaps in his skin. Freddie didn't know whether to be awed or disgusted.

"That's--" Brian tried. Puzzled again, he scratched his head, as if the aliens had made a perfectly reasonable point.

In the silence, Roger clarified. "The planet is called earth."

The three beings conferred with each other for some time, their slimy tails wriggling behind them like rain-saturated worms. Occasionally, their stalk-eyes would flick around to fix the quartet with a glare--at least, Freddie thought it was a glare. It was hard to tell when one didn't understand the intricacies of alien expression.

Finally, the visitors turned. The one holding the starmap said, "EARTH IS A TERRIBLE NAME FOR A PLANET. WE DEMAND TO KNOW WHICH IDIOT NAMED IT."

Never mind that none of this made any sense whatsoever... Brian still engaged in a heated argument with the aliens about the virtues of a planet named earth, and how no one had ever actually named it. That's just what it was called. Roger found that hard to believe, since the idea had to have come from somewhere--and after all, the people of earth hadn't always known there were other planets, which meant they had to discover earth was a planet at some point, which meant they would have had to name it. When asked why, Roger shrugged and said that if humans were presented with something to name, they would inject their opinion onto it without questioning whether or not they should.

Brian supposed that was logical, then he further supposed that the person who named earth would certainly be dead by now, which the aliens thought was probably better for everyone.

"And just what is your planet called?" Roger asked, once the argument exhausted itself. Freddie thought the whole point of the alien visit probably wasn't to discuss the names of their respective planets, but here they were.

The other shorter being stood up just a bit taller. He was wearing different colors than the other two, although those colors were so random and chaotic that no one in their right mind could describe them. He seemed for all intents and purposes to be a diplomat of sorts. After a wiggle of importance, he said, "DENMARK, OF COURSE."

No one said anything for quite a while, then everyone started speaking at once. Except for John, who was quite content to smile at the absurdity of it.

"You're just from Denmark?" Roger asked. "How are you so short? And slimy?"

"I'm sure it's lost in translation," Brian observed.

"They've come billions of kilometers all to tell us them come from a place called Denmark!" Freddie exclaimed.

"NO, NO, NO," the alien said. "IT'S WHAT ALL CIVILIZED ENTITIES CALL THEIR HOME PLANET ON A MAP! SHOW THEM, WOULD YOU?"

The other short alien--the one with the glasses--lay its starmap out on the floor and opened it to a rather obscene size. It shouldn't have been possible for so much paper to fit inside one pamphlet-sized document, but the creature continued to unfold it and unfold it and unfold it until it covered an enormous portion of the dirty floor. Moreover, the stars elevated themselves just above the paper in a spectacularly impossible three-dimensional layout. Freddie couldn't help an awed "Oooh," of admiration.

John, sarcastically, added "Ahhh!"

"YOU SEE?" the tallest alien said, pointing to an X on the map. As it poked the location with a tentacle, it lit up with a vast trove of information--exact location, atmosphere type, composition of the rocky surface, current radio traffic, and climate. Probably. Freddie didn't actually know, as he couldn't read their language.

"Okay, what's it really called?" Roger asked.

"OH, YOU COULDN'T POSSIBLY PRONOUNCE IT," the diplomat said.

"Don't tell me what I can't pronounce," Roger insisted.

The aliens conferred again, this time for quite a while. When they turned, the diplomat cleared his throat and announced something that no human would ever be able to pronounce: a cacophony of squeals and thisksks and clicks and sub-sonic whistles and grunts and whoops and probably a boat horn or two.

Roger narrowed his eyes, considered for a moment, then opened his mouth and screamed.

"IMPRESSIVELY CLOSE," the diplomat said, as one would comfort a toddler who also happened to be a horse.

"IN ANY CASE," the leader said, his eyes spiraling around in what might have been an eyeroll, "WE CANNOT EXCHANGE PLEASANTRIES WITH A PLANET NAMED EARTH. IT IS SIMPLY PREPOSTEROUS. WE DEMAND YOU RENAME IT."

"But as we've said before--" Brian tried, but the leader held up a remarkable number of tentacles to halt him.

"YOU ARE QUEEN BAND," the leader said. "CLEARLY IT IS YOUR RIGHT TO NAME THIS PLANET."

Freddie, rather half-asleep from the long day they'd already suffered (at his whim), imagined it would be easier to give the visitors a name now, then sort things out later. After all, nothing political could come about as a result of this visit. The aliens were far too tiny to be any sort of threat. And if he just gave them a name, he could get back to writing lyrics with the others and no harm would be done.

Without any sense of impending doom despite his foreshadowy thoughts, Freddie searched around the barn until his eyes fell upon an open, half-stale loaf of bread. "The planet is now called Rhye," he said, adding the H in his mind since it sounded more dignified. "Yes, Rhye. Has a nice ring to it, I think."

"The moon's called Chicken Shit," John said.

Brian elbowed him.

"THEN ON BEHALF OF DENMARK," the leader said, "WE DEMAND THE UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER OF RHYE AND ALL ITS INHABITANTS! IMMEDIATELY!"

[toloveawarlord]

Turning 5- Finley

You can find my masterlist in my bio!

Characters: Finley and Fenrir ft. Luka

Series: Black Army Mischief Maker

A/N: The first story for Finley’s birthday! Her actual birthday was the 12th but I didn’t get this finished on time. Enjoy a little slice of the Godspeeds.

Tagging: @plumpblueberry​ and @christmaswarlock​

and @ikerev-appreciation​ It’s Fenrir’s Appreciation Week and I’m appreciating him and his daughter this week.

“Slow down, Bug. The shop is open all day long.”

Fenrir’s words fell on deaf ears. His now five-year-old daughter barreled down ahead through the street. A chorus of Happy Birthdays came from all around, as everyone in Central Quarter knew what today was. The vendors and bystanders alike gave a warm greeting as if cheering on a parade featuring only her had rolled into town.

He couldn’t fault her for being so excited. As many times as Finley had asked and been told to wait, waking up in the morning to news that she’d get what she wanted for so long had catalyzed this ball of energy. 

The artist at the tattoo and piercing parlor, Dante, had been forewarned about this event, and had even gone as far as putting up a banner above the chair that had been prepared just for her. “We’re doing two on each lobe, right? That was the final verdict?”

Finley sat in the chair, kicking her feet and radiating with happiness. “Yeah, I wanted one like daddy’s, but he said no. So, I can get two here and here,” Finley said, pinching both her ears between her thumb and index finger.

“You can get it when you’re older.” Fenrir ruffled her still messy hair. He’d barely gotten her dressed properly before they’d left. Next year, he’d wait till after breakfast to tell her about any surprises.

“You really wanted a helix piercing at only 5 years old? That one is really painful,” Dante replied, trying to dissuade her from it. Grown men and women would cringe and cry out in pain with that one.

Her head tilted to the side as she gave him a confused look. “I’m not afraid of it hurting.” She meant every word and showed no hints of fear. Hardly a day passed where the girl didn’t hurt herself in one way or other, running into doors, walls, people, or just getting ahead of herself and falling. Finley simply popped back up and never let it bother her.

Dante and Fenrir both chuckled at her resolve.

Finley never flinched as the needle pinched into her ear. It stung for a moment but not enough to faze her. This might have been the stillest that Fenrir had seen her since she started crawling. Always on the go and never wanting to miss a single thing. His heart ached with bittersweet feelings. How had five years passed already?

Exiting the parlor with the elated girl, Fenrir dug out a few coins from his pocket. “Alright, bug. You can pick out your treat.” This part of the day was a tradition now, for the third year now. With the big party coming later and an ungodly amount of her favorite foods and a chocolate cake, he had to limit the intake of food that she ate during the day.

She rarely had a typical sugar crash, but she’d eat herself sick if he let her.

The young Godspeed took off into her favorite sweets shop. Slipping past the woman and her daughter to get a peek into the case of delectable treats, the conversation piqued her interest.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart but I can’t afford that. We can make something at home for your birthday.” The mother’s dejected voice kept to a hush as she crouched before her child that had an equally crestfallen expression. She brushed her thumb across her cheek to comfort her before taking her hand and leading her from the store.

“Hello Miss Finley. Here for your birthday treat?” The owner of the shop knew her well. A regular customer year-round but he’d marked his calendar of her birthday because he’d gotten to know her so well. She always made an impression and he adored her like a grandchild. 

Finley stood up on her tiptoes to peek over the counter. “Can I have whatever they were looking at? Was it a cake?” 

The older man slid the small cake back to the edge of the counter. “This is it. You want a whole cake?” An odd request. He’d never known her request something so big, especially on this day.

Her head bobbed in response and she dropped the few coins that she had on the counter as the door chimed signaling another customer. Without hesitation she took off with the entire cake. “Thank you!” She called over her shoulder.

“Wha- Finley, didn’t ya want Luka to bake you a cake?” Fenrir had waited outside, chatting to a friend of his that happened to be passing by. Both Godspeeds were popular among the citizens of Cradle. It was hard to go anywhere without finding someone they knew.

“Wait! Hey, wait!” Finley called to the pair up ahead. Her shout turned many heads but finally, the mother and daughter stopped as the girl caught up to them. The cake felt heavier with each second that she held it. “Here, this is for you!”

The mother was stunned for a moment but gave a warm smile. “Oh, sweetie, we can’t accept that. It’s too much for us to pay for.” She could hardly glance at her own daughter, unable to see that flash of hope disappear again.

“That’s okay. I already paid for it. It’s your birthday, right? It’s my birthday too.” Finley offered the box to the girl, grinning widely at her. She practically pushed it into her arms. “I turned five today! What about you?”

Her green eyes lifted from the box to Finley, voice bashful and raspy. “Six.” Her lips tugged up into a soft smile.

A light laugh passed her lips and Finley clapped her hands together. “That’s so cool! You’re a year older than me! Exactly one year! My name is Finley.” Her happy chatter seemed to brighten the mood surrounding the mother and daughter.

“Maria.” Her head turned up to look at her mother. “Can we keep the cake?”

“Mhmm! Mhmm! Everyone needs a cake on their birthday! Luka always makes me a biiiiig-” Her arms stretched out to exaggerate the size, nearly smacking a man walking by. “Big cake! But you don’t have a Luka, so I want you have this one.” Her tone dipped in reverence to the fact that this other girl couldn’t have Luka’s cooking and baking.

The mother glanced between the two girls, unsure of whether to accept or not. “Maria, I’m not sure-”

“Bye, Happy Birthday!” Finley shouted before she took off again. They couldn’t give back the cake if they couldn’t find her. Happiness flooded over her. Maria didn’t need to be sad on her birthday, that wasn’t what birthdays were about. “Daddy!”

Fenrir scooped her up, having paid the last bit of the bill as the coins Finley had left hardly covered the price of a full cake. “That was very nice of you, bug. You’re a good kid.” He couldn’t be prouder of her. Yet, he wasn’t surprised. Finley loved giving gifts to others, to make them smile and feel happy.

“That’s because I’m your kid!” Finley pressed both hands against his cheeks and kissed his nose. “Though I’m ready to go back home. I have something important to do!”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

Her finger hovered in front of her lip and she shushed him. “It’s a secret.”

*******

Fenrir had to check on what exactly this secret mission entailed. He greeted the soldiers as he passed but kept a sharp eye on where his child was intent on going. He stopped in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Luka!” Finley threw her arms around his leg and squeezed him tight.

The Jack continued to chop up the potatoes on the counter but cast a curious glance at her. “You’re back early. I thought you’d be out all day.” His chopping filled the room for a moment as she was strangely quiet.

“I met this girl and bought her a cake cause it was her birthday.”

“Okay?” Luka’s amber eyes flickered to Fenrir and then back down to Finley. He couldn’t figure out what that had to do with her death grip on his leg.

Finley gave a sigh and rested her chin against his thigh as she looked up at him. “I was sad for her because she gets to eat a yummy cake, but it won’t be as good as yours. I’m glad I have you!” How did others survive without Luka’s cooking? She shuddered at the thought of being without him. She grinned up at him. “So, I wanted to come back to tell you that I love you!”

Fenrir couldn’t contain the laughter at the surprised expression that crossed Luka’s features. She’d given up the rest of her day out to come tell Luka about how much she cared for him and all he does, even if she didn’t quite say it all out loud. Even on a day that is completely about her, she showed compassion and gratitude for others in her life. He couldn’t have asked for a better kid.

[rollforpersuasion]

The idiots go to Saltmarsh pt. 3

Sept. 16

Talia, brushing the remnants of spoiled potatoes off her pants, positions herself in the center of the boat once more. This time she choses the worn deck as her stage rather than the now suspiciously decrepit looking barrels. Calling to Umberlee, a goddess of the sea, she raises her arms to the sky. 

Using Minor Illusion she focuses on what she imagines the goddess might look like and begins to pray. 

Her voice raises and those hustling around her cringe expecting her to call upon another dark and unknown spirit. Instead they hear the name of Umberlee roll from her lips. A face appears above them in the dark clouds, illuminated by the flashing bolts of lightning and the sailors gasp at the wisps in the darkness. (Rolls an 18). 

“Look upon her face as she smiles upon us,” Talia yells. 

“Umberlee is with us!” A sailor cheers. “Umberlee is here! Go lads, go!”

Illyria mentally runs through a checklist of things she could be doing to justify getting herself soaking wet in the rain. Eventually she decides to peer into the night and attempt to perceive if they should steer the boat in one direction or another. (Perception check is 10) 

“You can do this, you were born to do this,” Illyria whispers to herself. “Ugh. It’s dark as shit out here.” Slowly she pans her head searching for any indication of land or a safe harbor. Unsurprisingly she fails to locate a haven.

Len’s back aches due to her frequent rough descents from the mast’s ladder toward the deck. She eyes the still furrowed sail with sheer determination before biting her cheek and reaching for the crossbow nestled at her side. 

An idea comes to her, almost as if it were whispered into her ear. A dramatic and inventive solution that she normally would need to be drunk to come up with.

Using nimble fingers she ties a rope onto the end of an arrow and loads it into the crossbow. Aiming at the crow’s nest she taps the trigger. The arrow whizzes through the air and disappears into the night. The crow’s nest remains unpenetrated. No rope is dangling to give her easy access to its unreachable heights.

“FUCK!” Len screams before refastening the crossbow to her side.

The ship tosses again in the waves and Cleis, upon hearing Len’s scream, eyes the still furled mainsail. 

Cleis is many things. A mathematician is not one of them. However, she thinks if she can just reach far enough she might be able to summon up a little magic to help. 

She ties a rope around her waist and quickly fastens the other end to the railing at the edge of the quarter deck. Leaning into the night she tips precariously over the deck below and raises her hand toward the sail. Green magic swirls through her skin once more and she casts Mage Hand toward the rope keeping the sail fastened. 

She tenses feeling the powerful magic surge through her when she hears Illyria exclaim from somewhere underneath her.

“I’m an excellent sand crafter!” Illyria says with glee as she leans closer to Len. “How much do you have? I can build entire homes out of sand you know. Seats, art, beds, anything really as long as I have the right sand. There are so many different types and all are used for different aspects of sculpting.”

Len holds up her hands as if estimating the size of the bag of sand she carries with her everywhere and begins suggesting different things Illyria could carve from it. 

Shaking her head Cleis focuses once more and urges the hand to move toward the rigging.

Illyria is holding up her fingers naming all sorts of sand she’s excelled at utilizing in a quick build when a spectral hand appears above them, slicing through the storm toward the rope. It grips the slick, woven latch and tugs. Cleis is shaking with effort and with a final pull the sail unfurls. The wind catches the cloth and the ship rights.

Talia is inspiring the crew with her prayer, Len and Illyria are still discussing the wisdom of bringing a bag of sand with one everywhere one goes and the crew are running this way and that pulling on ropes and bailing water. 

“Well done!” Captain Stormbreaker cheers. Cleis breathes a sigh of relief, unties herself and clasps the captain’s hand. “I think we might actually pull through this!” Almost as if in mockery of her optimism a swell hits the back of the ship causing all on deck to lurch in the sudden chaos. The ship sharply tips and all are tossed overboard. 

Those who survive the impromptu baptism claw their way to the surface, but the ship is nowhere in sight. 

A wave rises far above their heads and begins to rush toward them. 

Cleis takes a deep breath, Illyria teleports to her side and wraps her arms around her, squeezing the precious air from her now burning lungs. Talia mutters to the great old ones and takes a sharp breath, bracing for the impact. Len panics, glancing this why and that in the darkness when she nearly faints in relief upon seeing a white feathery head emerge nearby. Using the precious seconds she has before she’s more than likely drowned she grabs the flailing, honking body with a firm grip. 

Everything goes dark

TBC

[allthegodstars]

Sapphire Flames Snippets

Little Snippet:

The Harris County Institute of Forensic Sciences occupied a nine-story building on Old Spanish Trail. Its blocky lines, rectangular windows, and orange brick practically screamed that it housed some sort of government agency. 

I maneuvered our Honda Element into the parking lot. It used to be our surveillance vehicle, but last year Grandma Frida decided to rebuild it from wheels up.  Now the Element sported a new engine, a reinforced suspension, and custom dampers for enhanced shock absorption. The windows were bulletproof, and the new glass had both the safety glazing and a polycarbonate layer on the inside, so if someone did shoot at us, the windows would crack but hold together. And most importantly, the Element was now equipped with B5 level armor, which meant it would stop most handguns and shotgun blasts.  It could have been armored enough to withstand a sniper shot; however, Grandma Frida reasoned that our best chance of survival was getting away fast, and armor was heavy, so she stopped at B5 and added a reinforced floor and run-flat tires. 

Unfortunately, even Grandma Frida had her limits, and steering was a bit sluggish.  I was used to it by now and I aimed for a parking spot in the middle row.

“So, what’s with you and Alessandro Sagredo?”  Runa asked.

The steering was sluggish, but the brakes worked perfectly.  I jerked forward, and my seat belt slammed me back.

“Nothing.”

“Aha.”  Runa pulled on her own seat belt.  “That’s why we screeched to a stop halfway into the parking space?”

“My foot slipped.”  I gently eased forward and brought the Element to a smooth stop.

Last night, after Bern carried Rutger into the guest bedroom and Runa settled in on inflatable mattress next to him, I went back to my office, rescued Alessandro’s picture from my desk drawer, and brought it upstairs to my bedroom. He looked so carefree, caught in a magic moment somewhere sunny and warm.  When I looked at the picture, a disquieting, unpleasant feeling squeezed my chest, not pain exactly, but a kind of discomfort. I stood in my bedroom and wished with everything I had that I was there, in the sun, with a backdrop of green mountains and Alessandro and I were going somewhere.  Together.

It was stupid, and childish, and it would never be.  I hid it all inside, put the picture on my nightstand, and went to bed.

“So, you’re just going to go with ‘nothing?’” Runa asked.

“That’s right.”

“Your sister said you met during your trials.”

Sistercide was not a word, but it would be after today. “Yes.”

“Yes what?  Is there a story behind that?”

No. He didn’t follow me on Instagram, and he didn’t take my breath away during the trials.  And he definitely didn’t show up under my window after trying to convince me to go for a drive.  

 “We met during the trials, and my sisters haven’t stopped trolling me about it for the last three years.  There is absolutely nothing between me and Alessandro Sagredo.”

Strictly speaking, there was 5,561 miles between our warehouse and the Sagredo estate near Venice, Italy.  A commercial flight with one stop could get me to Venice in thirteen hours. 

“Your cheeks are turning pink,” Runa said.  “Are you imagining there being nothing between you and Alessandro?”

***

On Rants, Well Deserved Nature Of:

As I’ve pointed out four times now, this entire incident has been recorded by security cameras. The footage will show that Ms. Etterson and I were attacked without provocation and we defended ourselves as is our right under Article 3 paragraph 1 through 4 of the House Protection Act.”

“Is that so?” Sgt. Munoz’s eyebrows crept up a quarter of an inch.

“You have no cause to detain either me or Runa Etterson.  We have cooperated, and we have given our statements.”

“Ms. Baylor.”  He frowned.  “You wouldn’t happen to have an older sister, would you?”

That was just too much. “When Nevada encountered you, she was under a great deal of stress trying to keep us alive and save Houston.  She didn’t have a chance to note that every time there was an incident requiring a law enforcement response, you mysteriously appeared on the scene.  But I did.”

He watched me, impassive.   I kept going.

“You are attached to the House Response Unit of Houston PD, tasked specifically with handling incidents involving Houses.  Every member of this unit is assigned a number of families, in which he becomes expert. So, you know perfectly well that I have an older sister and that she is currently out of the country.  You know the names of every person in our family, their birth dates, and their magic. You probably know the exact nature of my powers, despite the fact that my records are sealed.  You are here because my last name popped up in your system. So please don’t insult my intelligence.”

***

When English Language Is Just Not Enough:

Warning: hilariously odd bad language ahead. Poor Catalina.

Bug served as Rogan’s surveillance specialist. Magically altered, he processed visual information at an astonishing rate. If anybody could find [Redacted], Bug could. He was also fanatically loyal to Rogan.

The moment we involved Bug, Rogan would know every detail of what we asked and why. Then Nevada would know, and, considering the usual colorful way Bug made his reports, there was a strong possibility that she would freak out. Bug found the vast array of curses available to an average English speaker completely inadequate and used every opportunity to add his own, which often amounted to a random collection of expletives that left you befuddled. I could just imagine the way that report would go.

“Hey, so you’ll never believe this dick fart thing: they want me to find [Redacted]. Isn’t that just pork balls? The gnome molester apparently stabbed somebody. Whore dimwit shit brain dungarees!”

***

A Simple Menu:

Since it was my turn to cook breakfast anyway, I headed to the kitchen.  Cooking was basically my and Mom’s job.  When Nevada lived with us, she was too busy keeping us fed and clothed. Bern and Leon usually made meat, preferably, steak, and they served it charred on top and raw in the middle. Grandma Frida came from the generation when things weren’t cooked unless they were slightly burned, and my younger sister, who was actually a decent cook, when she had to be, couldn’t be trusted to stay in the kitchen for the duration of the cooking process.  She’d start something and then end up outside texting to her friends or in the media room laughing at some show, while we raced to save the meal. 

I decided on a simple menu. I put two packs of bacon into two baking pans and popped them in the oven, mixed the batter for the blueberry pancakes, and called Nevada while chopping mushrooms for the egg, mushroom, and cheese scramble.

***

Just You Wait:

My cell rang. An unlisted number. Oh good. Ten to one, somebody wanted to sell me super-special medical insurance or inform me that the IRS was about to arrest me unless I dropped everything and bought an armful of gift cards at Wal-Mart.

I answered it. “What is it?”

“You’re tracking me,” Alessandro said.

Runa’s eyes went big.

“I am not tracking you,” I told him. Technically, it wasn’t even a lie.

“You’re having me tracked. I understand that I’m irresistible. It’s a cross I bear. But do try to have some self-control, Catalina. I’m embarrassed for you.”

He… Argh. “As I recall, I never had a problem resisting you.”

“I thought we agreed that you would drop this.”

“I didn’t agree to anything.”

“Catalina, listen to me. This is serious, the people involved are dangerous, and your well-being is important to me.”

Since when? “Why don’t you tell me more about it? Maybe if I fully understand the danger, I’ll stay out of it.”

“No, you won’t. You have no sense.”

“I have all kinds of sense.”

“This is your last warning, Catalina.”

“Or what?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to find out.”

He hung up.

“I have all kinds of sense?” Runa quoted.

“I was too mad to think of a snappy comeback.”

I glared at the phone. Insufferable ass. When I got my hands on him, I would pry his mind open like a tin can.  And then I would make him do a little dance, record it, and play it for him on a loop after I drained my magic off. Irresistible. I’ll show you irresistible. Just you wait.

***

A Pithivier:

Steps sounded behind me. I turned. Runa caught up with us. “Matilda said you would be out here. That child is odd.”

More like unsettling, until you got to know her. “She’s an animal mage. They are unique. Did something bad happen?”

“You mean in addition to everything else?  No.”

We both watched Shadow sniffing at cracks in the asphalt.

 “Whatever is cooking in the kitchen smells amazing.  What are we having?”

“Lemon roasted chicken with rosemary baked potatoes, chive butter, kale and brussels sprout salad with tahini maple dressing, and an apple pithivier.”

Runa gave me a long look.

“I cook when I’m stressed out. It sounds more complicated than it is. In reality, it’s mostly season things, dump them in a baking pan, and stick them in the oven.”

“What’s a P.T.V.A.?”

“It’s a French pie-cake made with puff pastry.  The traditional version uses rum and almonds, but nobody likes rum, so I make mine with apples.”

***

For more check notes.

[thislassishooked]

How to Carve a Turkey (Not Yourself)

I finally finished my sequel to How to Carve a Pumpkin!!! if you haven’t read it yet and are interested here’s the AO3 link https://archiveofourown.org/works/16565039 This one has plenty of fluff and feels, but also some of my finest smut if I do say so myself. (Hey, I’m new at this, I need some shameless self promotion.) And here’s the link to this fic on AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/16704463  Enjoy!

tagging a few of my friends who showed me some love @hollyethecurious @ilovemesomekillianjones @kmomof4 @snowbellewells @laschatzi @xemmaloveskillianx @winterbaby89 @hookedonapirate @bestshipcaptainswan @teamhook @darkcolinodonorgasm @vvbooklady1256

 Emma stood from her seat and bent over to reach for the potatoes. He watched as she dipped her finger in the buttery side dish and licked it off salaciously, moaning in satisfaction. The dip in the collar of her blouse revealed her lace covered breasts and Killian had to suppress a moan of his own. Emma sucked her finger into her mouth and that’s when he felt the sharp pain between his thumb and forefinger.

Rated: M  Words: 6K Killian had been out of sorts all morning. He and Emma had decided to prepare all of their dishes for Thanksgiving dinner at her house the morning of. The reason Killian was so flustered was currently bent over, searching for a pie tin. Emma had yet to change out of her sleepwear which consisted of a black tank top and tight green shorts with the words “Kiss me, I’m Irish” written across her hind quarters. He had read it out loud the first moment he had noticed and Emma had spun around to give him a mind blowing kiss that still had his head spinning.

Killian had spent nearly all his free time with Emma and Henry, having taken Emma out every chance he since Halloween, but they had yet to take that next step in their relationship. Responsibilities and lack of time seemed to keep getting in the way. There was also the matter of Henry. Emma didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of making love for the first time with Henry in the house. He had to agree with her on that one.

The reason for his reverie righted herself, turning to him in triumph, pan in hand. She handed it to him. “Thank you, love.” He took it to his side of the counter where his dough was waiting to be placed inside. He was baking a cinnamon apple pie, an homage to his Swan’s delicious scent. As he was dumping his apple mixture, Emma came up to him from behind, wrapping her arms around his chest and placing soft kisses along his neck. Her mouth on him was not helping him in his current predicament. A groan escaped his throat when she nipped at his pulse point. Seconds later they heard loud footfalls as Henry made his way downstairs. Killian turned quickly, spinning Emma in his arms so she stood in front of him, hiding the evidence of his prominent erection. He heard Emma gasp as his cock pressed against her backside.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” Henry crooned excitedly.

“Happy Turkey Day to you as well, lad,” Killian greeted.

“Mom, are you okay? You look like I do when I have a fever.”

Killian snorted into her hair, knowing exactly what was wrong with her.

“Yeah, kid,” she started, elbowing Killian playfully as she spoke, eliciting an ‘oomph’ out of him. “I am just a little flushed from all the… anticipation. You know me I love a good feast.” Killian couldn’t help but breath her in in that moment, his arousal only building with each passing second.

“Whatever, I’m gonna go play some xbox. You should probably take some medicine though, just in case you’re getting sick.” He scampered off just as Emma spun back around, the effect he had on her evident from the tips of her ears all the way to the swell of her breasts. The lust he saw in her eyes had him fully hard.

“I’d very much like to feast on you, Swan,” he said as he pressed his lips to hers, pulling a moan from her at the contact.

“You fight dirty, Jones,” she mumbled against his mouth.

“You have no idea, love,” he said as he lifted her up and placed her on the island where his unfinished pie sat.

“Killian, we can’t, Henry is in the other room,” she protested weakly.

“I’m not going to try any funny business, love. I’m simply giving my girlfriend her medicine.” Emma wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer. They continued to make out until the buzzer on the oven brought them back to reality. The pie, right, that was why he was in her kitchen, greedily devouring her mouth and neck. Killian reluctantly pulled away and released his hold on her hips. They both resumed their preparations. One of these days he was going to get her alone and ravish that gorgeous body.

__________

Emma stepped out of the shower a couple hours later, having finished preparing her yams. She was so excited to get to share Killian’s first Thanksgiving with him and the heat from the shower was not the only cause of her flushed skin. Henry had asked her last night if he could spend tonight at David and Mary Margaret’s house because Leo had gotten a new game for his xbox. After confirming with David that Henry was welcome to stay the night, Emma enthusiastically gave her permission. Probably too enthusiastically judging by his raised eyebrow, a gesture he had been practicing since he saw Killian do it. She loved that Henry was supportive of their relationship. He was actually more like a cheerleader, practically pushing her out the door every time Killian came to pick her up for a night out. Killian was great with him on nights they decided to stay in. They’d play on the xbox and Emma would laugh uproariously when they’d play racing games which always came with trash talk. She was pretty sure she was already in love with him. Killian had no idea that they would have the house to themselves tonight. She couldn’t help teasing him this morning by wearing skimpier sleepwear then she normally would. Not to mention she had pretended to be looking for the pie tin much longer than was necessary. She wanted him so wound up that by the time the dam broke, he was ravenous for her.

As she dressed she could hear her boys from the living room excitedly talking about the floats in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. In the five years Killian had been living in the states he never observed Thanksgiving so he had never bothered to watch the annual celebration. Emma thought about how lonely he must have been since his brother died. Over the last three weeks she had learned that his first home in the states had been in Boston. He liked it well enough and had kept himself busy with volunteer work and sailing, it just hadn’t felt like home. After bouncing around the New England coast he finally found what he was looking for; an old, dusty bookstore and a new friend. He often said that moving to Storybrooke was the best decision he had ever made. She had to agree with him on that.

Emma found the blouse she purposely picked out for dinner. It was blue silk that looked appropriate when standing or sitting upright, but if she bent over, her black lace bra and cleavage were fully exposed to any set of eyes on her. She smiled devilishly into the mirror. She paired the blouse with a knee length black skirt and tights.

She found Killian and Henry sitting on their knees in front of the t.v. pointing out their favorite balloons and floats. She beamed at the site.

“Did I miss anything good?” she asked as their heads whipped around, both with wide smiles.

“Swan, they had a pirate ship!” “Mom, they had a pirate ship!” they both shouted unanimously. Emma chuckled at their shared enthusiasm.

__________

Killian leapt to his feet to his feet to embrace his beautiful girlfriend. She giggled into his neck, sending pleasant vibrations through him. He couldn’t wait to tell her how much he adored her, desired her, loved her.

“Alright, after Santa’s float, we’ll head to David and Mary Margaret’s house,” she announced. Killian pulled her to the couch where they cuddled and watched the rest of the parade.

*

David placed the big, juicy bird at the head of the table. It looked absolutely delicious. Killian had never celebrated such a holiday.

“Gather around the table everyone!” Dave called from the formal dining room. Then he directed Killian to stand beside him. “Seeing as this is Killian’s first Thanksgiving, I think it’s only appropriate that he have the great honor of carving the turkey.”

Killian’s elation suddenly turned to panic. “Mate, I’ve never carved a turkey before, I’ve no idea how.”

David reassuringly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’s a skill that comes naturally to all the men in this family.” Dave winked at him and his heart swelled at being considered a member of the family.

“And women,” Mary Margaret asserted.

“And women, of course, we don’t discriminate on holidays,” Dave placated. He then handed Killian a large, serrated knife and carving fork. “The knife will cut through the bird like butter. The only tricky part is separating the legs. You’ll have to get your hands dirty for that part.”

Killian stuck the fork into the breast of the turkey and began slicing, finding that Dave was right, he was a natural.

After all the white and dark meat had been placed onto a separate serving dish Killian set down the fork and grasped the meaty leg, holding firmly while working through the tough joint. He successfully cut through and held it up proudly to show Emma who was seated a few chairs down from him. She beamed at him as he started on the second. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Mary Margaret had placed the mashed potatoes directly in front of the turkey. The second joint was a little tougher to get through so he lowered his hand a bit more to hold it in place. Just then, Emma stood from her seat and bent over to reach for the potatoes. He watched as she dipped her finger in the buttery side dish and licked it off salaciously, moaning in satisfaction. The dip in the collar of her blouse revealed her lace covered breasts and Killian had to suppress a moan of his own. Emma sucked her finger into her mouth and that’s when he felt the sharp pain between his thumb and forefinger. He let out a yelp that made Emma jump.

__________

Emma was horrified that she was the reason she had to wrap a cloth napkin around Killian’s hand and rush him to the bathroom to give him first aid. She knew how sharp carving knives were and she knew he had his hand in the path of said knife. She had let her lust cloud her judgement and now they may have to postpone Thanksgiving dinner to drive Killian to urgent care. She was in the middle of an internal panic attack when Killian placed his good hand on her cheek and instantly calmed her.

“Swan, it’s alright, love. It’s not as bad as you think.” He pulled the napkin away and she could see that, although he was still bleeding, the cut was not deep enough to need stitches. Being a mother of a rambunctious ten year old boy had taught her to recognize when stitches were needed.

“I’m so sorry, Killian. This is all my fault,” she admitted while she searched for the first aid kit. “I shouldn’t have distracted you like that. I don’t know what got into me?” Killian’s smirk at her words told her she had unintentionally given him material for an innuendo laden quip, but she put a stop to that by placing her fingers on his lips as they started to move. “I know what you were going to say, Jones, and I’ll have none of it. We have to focus on getting you patched up,” she asserted with a barely contained smile.

“Aye, love, patch away,” he said, his eyes dancing with amusement.

She was almost finished wrapping his hand when the irony of the situation hit her like a ton of bricks. She couldn’t help the giggles that escaped her, much to Killian’s amusement.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, chuckling at her.

“Do you realize how ironic it is that three weeks ago, you were wrapping my hand for the same exact reason that I am wrapping yours now?” Her giggles had evolved into full on laugher.

“I had no idea you cut yourself because you were distracted by my sexy physique.”

After the laughter died down, Emma finished with his hand, making sure the self adhesive bandage was secure.

“It was your eyes.” Killian arched his eyebrow in curiosity. “I was distracted by your eyes. They were so mesmerizing, I didn’t want to take my eyes off them.” She looked into those very same eyes now, all amusement gone from them, replaced by something like determination.

“I love you, Emma,” he said as he reached up and brushed his thumb across her cheek. She sat down beside him on the edge of the tub and pulled him in for a kiss, tears threatening to fall. The kiss was sweet and unrushed and then she suddenly became aware of where they were and this time she giggled against his mouth, unable to contain it. Killian broke the kiss, letting his face fall to the crook of her neck on a groan.

“Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for, love.”

“I know, I’m sorry, but you just told me you loved me for the first time in a bathroom and I couldn’t help myself.” He lifted his head at her explanation, but seemed to relax when he saw the wide grin across her face. “And that’s okay because I love you too.” Unlike their previous kiss, Killian slammed his lips into Emma’s so furiously she would have toppled into the tub if he hadn’t wrapped his arms around her. The lust that she had felt all day suddenly rushed through her once again and all she could think about was how much she wanted Killian to take her right now against the bathroom door. How was she going to survive dinner and digesting and desert? Maybe if they pretended Killian needed stitches they could sneak back to her place and have a quickie, but she knew a quickie wouldn’t be enough to stave her desire for this man. No, she needed to calm her libido and wait for tonight. She pulled away from his puffy red lips reluctantly. “Easy, Tiger, our hosts and kid are down the hall.” The change in his demeanor when she said “our” and “kid” in the same sentence made her heart melt. He looked hopeful and nervous like he feared she was going to take it back. She cupped his face reassuringly, gazes locked. “Hey, you heard what David said, you’re a part of this family.” A tear slipped down his cheek, wetting her hand.

“I love you so much, Emma. And I love Henry, as if he were my own flesh and blood.”

“Good.”

__________

By the time Killian and Emma exited the bathroom, Elsa, her sister Anna and her fiance Kristoff had arrived for dinner. Killian was so relieved to discover that none of his blood had tainted the turkey.

“I’d like to make a toast,” David announced. Everyone ceased their chatter and gave him their full attention. “First of all, I’d like to say that I am thankful for my family. It doesn’t matter if we share DNA,” he raised his glass to Leo, Leo raising his cider in return with a huge grin plastered on his face, “or if we’re bonded through marriage,” raising his glass to his wife, “or adoption,” tipping his glass toward Emma and Henry, “or friendship, both old,” he looked to Elsa, Anna and Kristoff, “and new.” David gave Killian a significant nod and Killian raised his glass.

“To family,” Killian choked out.

“To family,” everyone chimed in raising their glasses in unison.

Emma rested her forehead against Killian’s, and he knew in that instant that he wanted to marry her. If he was being honest he was pretty sure she was the one by the end of their first date.

*

Dinner had been a complete success. They continued to much on the delicious dishes that everyone had provided throughout the day while David and Kristoff explained American football to him.

“But why is it called football if you can use your hands?” he asked.

“Uh…er...because,” David stuttered. Kristoff just opened and closed his mouth and shrugged his shoulders. “They do use their feet… occasionally.”

Killian barked out a laugh and Dave and Kristoff joined in. Emma poked her head in to see what the commotion was all about.

__________

It was wonderful to see the boys bonding over the American tradition. She flashed a smile to her boyfriend which he eagerly returned before heading to the kitchen with the girls.

“So he really has no idea about tonight?” Mary Margaret inquired.

“What’s happening tonight?” Anna asked excitedly. Elsa also gave her a curious look, raising one eyebrow and folding her arms. Emma, on her part, gaped at them, opening and closing her mouth like a fish.

“Thanks a lot, Mary Margaret.” The brunette apologetically shrugged, but Emma knew there would be no deflecting. The sisters would never let that slide. “Henry is staying here tonight.” She didn’t need to elaborate after Anna squealed at the news. “And no, he doesn’t have a clue.”

“I bet you can’t wait to get out of here,” Elsa added with a huge grin.

“Yes and no. I’m dying to try Killian’s apple pie.”

“I bet he’s dying to try yours too,” Anna quipped and Emma was genuinely shocked that something that dirty could come from the lips of the epitome of innocence. Mary Margaret and Elsa burst into laughter. At that moment Killian entered the kitchen and she knew she was bright red.

“Hello, love,” he greeted with a kiss to her cheek. “It sounds like you’re having fun in here.”

“Oh, it’s a riot,” she replied sarcastically.

“Well, I just wanted a bit more of Elsa’s delicious dressing. Who knew crusty bread could taste so good.” Emma smiled at his enthusiasm. He was getting to try a lot of firsts today. First Thanksgiving, first turkey carving, first taste of dressing, and of course, first taste of her. “Do people really stuff it up the turkey’s…”

“Yep.” He made a face at that and proceeded to dish up a healthy second portion.

“Don’t fill up too much on that, Killian. There’s still a lot more to come,” Elsa said on a giggle. Killian looked at her, then to Emma then back to the giggling girls, his brows scrunched in suspicion, but shrugged it off and returned to the living room.

“Elsa!” Emma chastised.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

__________

Emma sat beside him as desert was being dished out. Everyone made sounds of appreciation as they tasted his pie, but his eyes and ears were trained solely on her as she moaned obscenely.

“Oh, god, Killian, that is amazing.”

Images of Emma crying that out as she writhed under his mouth or rode his cock flooded his mind. It was so sexy that he briefly entertained the idea of dragging her back to that bathroom and having his wicked way with her. Shaking his head to clear the lusty fog, he took a bite of his own slice.

He loathed the moment the night came to an end and he would have to say goodbye to Emma and Henry and return to his loney home above the bookstore. Unfortunately, that time was drawing nearer as everyone cleared their plates.

Elsa, Anna and Kristoff bid farewell about an hour later, giving hugs and the girls once again sharing a laugh over some secret. For some reason, Kristoff and Dave didn’t look the least bit confused, although Dave did look a little apprehensive. Emma strode up to him after waving her friends off.

“I think it’s about time we head out as well, don’t you think?”

“Aye, love,” he sighed.

“Hey kid,” she called to Henry as Killian helped her shrug into her jacket. “Be good for your aunt and uncle.”

Killian whipped his head between Emma, Henry and the smiling couple opening the door for them then back to Emma who was smirking fiercely at him. Realization set in as Henry promised to be good and ran off with Leo calling out a goodbye to both of them.

“Have a good night!” Mary Margaret called as the two of them practically sprinted out the door after offering their gratitude. “You’re welcome!”

Killian was buzzing with anticipation during the short drive back to Emma’s.

_________

“Why didn’t you say anything, love?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” she said with a giggle.

“So that’s what you ladies were laughing about when I walked into the kitchen.”

“Yeah, Anna made this really dirty joke, it’s not important,” she assured with a blush.

“Oh, no Swan, I think it is very important that I be let in on this joke that apparently involves me.” Her breath hitched as he leaned over and nipped at her neck and ear. She felt overheated even in the cold car desire coiled in her belly causing her to rub her thighs together for some relief.

“She said,” Emma barely breathed out, “that you can’t wait to taste… my apple pie.” Emma nearly lost control of the car when he growled in response.

“I intend to taste every inch of your delectable body, Swan.”

Her panties were soaked by the time she pulled into her driveway. Killian was out the door and rounding the car to open hers before she even engaged the parking brake. As soon as she freed herself from the seatbelt he pulled her out of her seat and into the hard planes of his body. He captured her lips in a breath stealing kiss, desperate to begin tasting her. Their tongues tangled as their hands explored each other. He pressed her into the car and she could feel just how much he wanted her. She whimpered when he broke contact, but found herself being lead at breakneck speed to her front door. She fumbled with the keys as Killian pressed himself to her back, nuzzling and licking the spot right behind her ear that drove her crazy. Finally the door flew open and they stumbled through, Killian kicking it closed behind him. He pulled her back into his arms, assaulting her mouth, face and neck with his lips and tongue.

“This needs to come off, darling,” he muttered against her pulse point while fumbling with with the buttons of her blouse.

“Just rip it off,” she demanded. “I know how to sew.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. Buttons flew as he tore them from the silky material. The blouse fell to the floor of her entryway as they frantically made their way through the house with clothes flying. She divested him of his sweater in the living room, her skirt falling to the floor at the base of the stairs. The sound of heavy breathing and occasional laughter of their shared impatience filled the house. They nearly tripped several times as they stumbled up the stairs, refusing to separate.

Emma moaned at the sensation of having Killian’s hands on her bare stomach and legs. She raked her hands through his exposed chest hair, loving the tickle of the course hairs. She still needed to rid him of his pesky jeans. How they managed to reach the top of the stairs without injury was beyond her. She popped the button on his pants and ripped them down his legs, not needing to ask him to step out. Suddenly she felt herself being swept off her feet, Killian carrying her bridal style to her bedroom. She smiled at his determined face, giggling as he tossed her on the bed.

__________

Killian gazed at his adorable and sexy girlfriend. He still had a hard time believing that this was his life. That Emma loved him, that her family cared for him, that Henry liked spending time with him. He had resigned himself to a life of loneliness after Liam’s death until Dave approached him outside the store asking if he needed help hanging the refurbished sign baring the shops name. He’ll be eternally indebted to his friends for bringing Emma into his life.

“Killian?” Her concerned voice brought him out of his reverie.

“Sorry, love, I was just thinking about how lucky I am to have you in my life.”

She raised an eyebrow and licked her lips salaciously. “I know of another way you could get lucky.”

Killian groweld and threw himself onto her, careful not cause her any harm. Oh, he was going to get lucky several times before the night was over. She pulled him to her lips, moaning as she rolled her her hips into his throbbing cock.

“I need you,” she pleaded, biting his lower lip.

“There is something I have to do first.”

“You don’t need a condom. I’m clean and covered and I trust you,” she reasoned. Killian looked lovingly at the angel beneath him.

“While that is incredibly good to hear, that is not what I was talking about, my love” he said giving her what he hoped was a sexy smirk. She looked adorably confused as he proceeded to kiss down her delectable neck. “I simply,” he kissed the swell of her breasts, “cannot wait,” another kiss above her navel, “to taste,” a third kiss to the inside of her thigh, earning him a moan, “your apple pie,” a final kiss to her clothed center. He hooked his fingers in the band of her black lace panties and dragged them down her slender legs, reveling in the sound of her ragged breaths. He nudged her knees, encouraging her to open for him and she complied, giving him a delicious view of her glistening folds. “Already so wet for me, darling.”

“Oh, god,” she stuttered out.

“Indeed,” he said huskily before diving in. Her scent alone had him salivating, but the taste of her sweet arousal almost had him coming. He traced a circle around her clit before taking it into his mouth and teasing it with his tongue. He focused his efforts on finding her sensitive nub and used the tip of his tongue to work her up to a writhing mess.

“Yes, Killian, yes… so good!” she screamed as she grabbed ahold of his hair. He removed his right hand from her thigh to bring his fingers to her slick entrance, coating the tips in her essence before pushing two inside of her.

__________

Emma gasped at the welcome intrusion of his fingers. His tongue was so fucking talented and the dual sensations of being licked and fucked had her seeing stars. No man had ever put in enough effort to make her come this way, but she was well on her way. She tugged on his hair which elicited a groan from him and the vibrations had her quivering.

“Oh, fuck, I’m so close, please don’t stop!” Her words gave him reason to double his efforts, plunging his fingers into her so fast that she momentarily forgot how to breath. With the slightest brush of his teeth she was there, calling out his name in ecstasy as ripples of pleasure spread through her entire body. He brought her down gently, pulling his fingers from her and lapping up any extra juices.

“The best damn pie I have ever eaten,” he declared as he climbed up her heaving body.

“You bet your ass, it is and it wants you inside of it right now.” He dropped his head to her still covered breasts.

“Now this simply won't do,” he said against the valley between them, biting at the fabric.

“Then I guess we better do something it, shouldn’t we? Roll over.” He cocked his eyebrow and complied as she rolled with him to sit in his lap. She reached behind her back to unclasp her bra, slowly pulling the straps down one at a time, unable to resist teasing him. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip once she had thrown the offending material across the room. “I know you want to taste them too,” she started in her most seductive voice, “but you don’t get to until you’ve made me come again.”

“Challenge accepted, love. Don’t you think we ought to do something about these?” he asked nodding down his body to his boxers.

“Leave that to me,” she said as she slithered down his body, removing the last barrier between them. “Fuck,” she breathed at the sight of his thick length. She licked her lips and decided that her orgasm could wait a while longer. She had to taste his weeping cock. She leaned down and licked a stripe along the engorged vein ripping a guttural groan from his throat. Using her right hand to hold him up, she took him into her mouth, moaning at the taste of him.

“Bloody fuck!” he cried, gathering her hair in his fist. She hallowed her cheeks and slid her mouth up to the tip, using her tongue to lathe at the his most sensitive spot before taking him in again.

__________

Watching his dick disappear into Emma’s magical mouth over and over again as she worked him up, loving the feel of her tongue lapping at the underside of his tip, he was teetering on the edge of bliss much more quickly than he wanted to. He didn’t want her to stop. He wanted to shoot his seed down her throat, but the desire to make love to her was much stronger. He wanted to take her and there would be plenty of time for foreplay in their future because he intended to always be by her side. And he also really wanted to taste her perfect, pink nipples.

“Emma,” he rasped. She looked up at him, his cock still between her luscious lips, “let me make love to you, darling.” She released him with a wet pop and licked her lips. He gently flipped them over, settling in the cradle of her thighs.

“Killian?” She gazed at him with pure love, the picture of innocence. “After you make love to me and we’ve had a moment to recover, will you fuck me senseless?” It was his turn to gasp in surprise.

“My love, when I’m finished with you tonight it will be a fucking miracle if you can walk tomorrow,” he ground out. She spread her legs even wider to give him better access and guided his tip to her entrance. He sank easily into her warm, wet depths, groaning as her tight walls gripped him. He allowed her a moment to adjust to his girth, and to give him time to wrangle in his primal instinct to take her hard and fast. He was saving that for next time.

“Make love to me, Killian,” she urged. He pulled out almost all the way then plunged back in, a little quicker but still in control. “Oh, my god, you feel amazing.”

“The feeling is mutual, love.” He set a languid pace, making sure to slide in to the hilt with every thrust. He reached for her hands, entwining their fingers and gazed into her dark green, love and lust filled eyes. He picked up his pace as her moans and whimpers increased in volume.

“I love you, god, I love you so much,” she cried out. By now his hips were snapping into hers, making her gorgeous breasts bounce up towards her flushed neck.

“I love you too, Emma, more than anything in this world.” He could feel her walls begin to flutter, she was close, but not close enough. He was going to explode any second now so he let his control slip a bit more with a quicker pace and harder thrusts. He snaked his hand to where they were joined and flicked her clit with desperate speed and within seconds she cried out as her tight quim clenched around him, triggering his own explosive orgasm. He let his head fall into the crook of Emma’s neck, whispering her name on a prayer.

__________

Emma cuddled up to the man she loved as they both came down from their high. She placed her hand on his chest and drew nonsensical patterns into his damp chest hair. A thought occurred to her in the blissful aftermath of their lovemaking, but she was nervous to voice it.

“I can hear your mind reeling,” Killian said, kissing the top of her head. “Spit it out, Swan, you know you can tell me anything.” She knew it was useless to deny her inner thoughts to him, he could read her like an open book.

“I was just thinking… that your bed is really small and… well the whole apartment is really small and…”

“And…?” he inquired.

“And perhaps it wouldn’t be a terrible idea if you…” she met his hopeful gaze as she looked up and all pensivity melted away, “moved in with me, with us, that is if Henry is okay with it, which I’m sure he will be, he absolutely adores…” he cut her off with a life altering kiss and it really was because they were taking a huge leap in their still young relationship.

“I would love nothing more than to live with you and your boy… our boy,” he said on a choked sob, resting his forehead against hers. He captured her lips once more, this time morphing into a passionate, hot, wet kiss.

“I think now is as good as any to see how good you are at fucking, Mr. Jones,” she breathed out huskily, eyeing his erection. He eyed her like a predator would eye its prey.

“Get on your knees, love.” She eagerly flew to her hands and knees, presenting herself like a mate in heat. He rose to his knees as well, placing his hands on her hips and nudging his length against the crease of her ass. She dropped to her elbows and arched her back ready for the stretch she knew was coming. He positioned himself at her entrance and thrust in with no preamble. Hard and fast, just as she had craved. He didn’t wait as long this time for her to adjust before he was slamming into her at a punishing pace. “Gods above, Emma, your tight sheath just might be the end of me.”

“That would be, ah, a shame, oh god!” He was hitting her g-spot with every hard, desperate thrust. “I do believe I’m a… a… a… addicted to you, Killian… Jones.” He was fucking her so hard that speaking in fully formed sentences had become nearly impossible. “Yes, fucking hell, YES!” she screamed as he pulled her upright, her back against his chest, him still fucking her with abandon. She knew she was a goner when his finger found her clit and rubbed furiously in fast, tight circles. She came with a silent scream, all oxygen needed to be reserved for her barely functioning brain. He let her fall back to the bed as he continued to ravage her, his thrusts becoming erratic. By now she was practically laying on her stomach, her boneless body unable to hold itself up, and it felt amazing.

“One more, Emma. Come one more time for me, love,” he begged. She could feel her orgasm coming as he placed his hands on either side of her head and pummeled into her, his front slapping against her ass. Just the sound alone was enough to tear an earth shattering orgasm from her. She was far from quiet this time.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fucking, FUCK!” he roared into her shoulder as he shot his hot seed into her womb. His chest heaved against her back as they both attempted to calm their breathing. He eventually managed to flop to her side.

“You’re a bloody marvel, Emma Swan,” he managed to breath out. She scooted herself into his willing arms.

“I could say the same thing about you, Killian Jones.”

She fell into a restful sleep in his arms, dreaming of their future. A wedding, a baby, a bigger house, Killian officially adopting Henry all flitted through her mind and when she woke still encased in his loving embrace she smiled at the fact that their future was now.

[forestsstories]

Unsolved

Sunlight filtered through my beige curtains, casting highlights on the walls and playing gently across my face. I let out a soft moan, not yet ready to release myself from the visions dancing behind my eyelids. As consciousness reluctantly was thrust upon me the images faded from both vision, and memory. However I left my eyes closed for several minutes, until I heard familiar music fill the tiny space which I am permitted to occupy in my house. Another moan rumbled in my throat as I finally forced my eyes wide.

It seemed like a fairly normal day, maybe even a good one. The sky was an azure blue with small but fluffy clouds dancing across it. My hand fell upon my phone, which was vibrating with the force of my morning alarm, and my day began.

My eyes drifted lazily over my accumulation of clothing, dismissing each article with disgust, the way teenage girls often do. Hearing the ruckus of the rest of the house stirring I decided it was best to get my ass in gear if I was planning on having breakfast before school, and decided on my white shorts and red v-neck tee.

I grimaced at the wrinkled state of the tee as the hanger swung back from the force of its burden being snatched from where it hung, and flung it to the bed. My breasts complained slightly as I lifted my night shirt over my head and I made a mental note that it was time to start dieting again unless I wanted to outgrow all my clothes. The idea of asking my mother to take my shopping for new ones, coupled with the look of disdain I could already picture on her face was not one I relished, so dieting was definitely the way to go. It was when I folded down my pj pants and made to kick them to the floor that something abnormal finally hit me.

A quarter sized mark, blue around the edges and a center the colour of caramel, perched delicately upon the outside of my thigh. My brain reeled, going slowly over every possible cause, as one does when a foreign mark finds its way onto your person. My bare skin grazed the soft blankets of my bed as I perched there to go over the likely culprits.

Yesterday had begun in much the same way today had, with the exception of the sunlight. Clouds had hung in the sky and threatened rain, I recalled this clearly as the threat had persisted and I had wondered if soccer practice would be canceled. I remembered packing my cleats anyway, which had taken a while because they weren’t where I had left them. “Ryan!!” I could almost hear myself shouting at my dimwit brother for taking my cleats, feel the vibration of the floor as his feet pounded down the hall toward me. The ensuing argument had lasted several minutes, minutes which were precious in the morning. The result had been a lack of shower, and still missing soccer cleats. So I hadn’t slipped in the shower then.

I closed my eyes, tracing where I had gone next, and wincing inwardly at my whiny tone as I had stood outside my mother’s door. “Ryan took my cleats, I know he did, and I need them for soccer! This sucks!” I remembered stamping my foot, as my mother had told me off for my childish antics and threatened not to let me continue having a job if I was going to act like a child. “Adults don’t stamp their feet when they’re upset Jillian. Use your words.” I sighed, mom was always like that.

But nothing had hit me when I stamped my foot, and nothing else of note had happened at home. I’d packed my usual ham sandwich and ran to catch the bus. Had I fallen? I recalled each time my feet had struck the pavement, but as far as I could remember had arrived at the bus without issue. My father had shouted something that sounded suspiciously like “wear a coat!” as I dashed out the door, but a bruised ego left no physical marks. When my keester had found the hard plastic seat that was the best our cheap school bus could offer I unzipped my bag and rifled through it. Soccer cleats, textbooks, my work uniform, everything I would need for an unremarkable day. The bus ground to a rather jerky halt to pick up one of my friends and I heard some rabble rousing at the back as a couple of the kids had been thrust forward. Katie plopped into the seat next to mine and I recounted the tale of my stolen cleats while the bus puttered onwards towards the hell we liked to call our school.

Bad pop music droned through speakers that were older than I was in the halls. As I made my way to my homeroom I saw the usual high school bull, someone studying, a couple dumb boys wrestling, one of the drama students reciting lines with just a little too much gusto (one of the best tells of inexperience) nothing amiss. I struggled to remember if anyone had bumped me, but nothing remarkable came to mind. My classes had all gone smoothly, I got my English homework back (got an eighty, not bad) and everything had been normal until lunch. I winced a little remembering lunch.

I don’t usually find myself in the cafeteria at lunch time (remember my sandwich?) but today when I unwrapped my carefully prepared meal I spotted a disgusting spot of green fuzz nestled in a sea of soft white bread and knew I would have to brave it. I begged Katie to protect me from the masses but when she shook her head I gathered my courage, took a deep breath and strode in.

The noise was palpable. I like to listen to my music at a temperate sixty percent and this was well abouve seventy decibels. I ducked as a spoonful of mashed potatoes whizzed past my ear and sent the culprit of the attack a nasty glare. It must have worked because I remember feeling a sense of smug satisfaction as he sat his ass down and feigned remorse. I had chosen a cup of strawberries with yogurt and a grilled cheese for lunch. Ten dollars seemed like a bit much for the contents of my tray but I needed staying power if I was going to make it through a shift at work on top of soccer practice. The buttery crunch of the sandwich almost made up for the near miss of potato in my face, and I found myself not entirely sorry that my ham sandwich had proven inedible.

It wasn’t until I had half finished that I realized where I had decided to sit. A mere five feet from me, and staring at my chest with gusto was the mouth breather who always watched our soccer practice. Kevin. I frowned and scooted sideways to put a little more distance between us, until I felt my thigh brush against the steel leg of the table. The leg was cold and I considered just ditching my food and leaving, but ten dollars is a lot of money. It’s incomprehensible how I could hear his breaths amid the din of the cafeteria, but I swear I could almost feel the air being pushed between his teeth, even though I know that isn’t actually possible. My chewy grilled cheese didn’t taste nearly as good once I realized I was watching it beneath his watchful gaze.

I ended up walking the halls with my yogurt cup, carefully smuggled out as you’re not supposed to have food outside the cafeteria. The rest of the school day had been formulaic, and I couldn’t think of any reason a bruise would have blossomed on my skin from it. Had it been the table leg? I couldn’t remember hitting it with any amount of force, but possibly. I sank my teeth gently into my bottom lip as I continued to peruse the days memories.

Finally I landed at soccer practice, slipping on my cleats in the changing room. I told Katie about my impromptu lunch date and we both shared a laugh at our mouth breathing friends expense. I gazed longingly at the showers, wondering briefly if there was time to slip in a quick wash to make up for this morning, but the coach had launched into a tirade over something or another and I had to at least pretend to be paying attention. I expect I wasn’t because I couldn’t recall what the speech had been about, but I’ve gotten pretty good at pretending. Seven short minutes later we were on the field, sweating as we raced each other around it, attempting to foot wrestle the spotted ball into the opponents net. I remembered a chill in the air and a crisp scent that made me wonder again if it was going to rain.

A slight drizzle began about ten minutes in and persisted throughout practice but we were not to be done in by a little rain. Anything short of a downpour and we were determined to play, because we’re girls. I recalled the ball hurtling toward me. I remembered a split second decision to knock it to Katie, and my eyes flew open as I remembered my foot coming out from under me.

My breath caught in my throat as my foot slipped on the grass, slick with rain. My shoulder slammed hard into the dirt and my eyesight went dark for a moment, as it tends to when you take a hard fall. Play had stopped as everyone gathered around me and the coach asked if anything hurt. I frowned, concentrating on how exactly I had struck the ground. I remembered my ankle had been twisted, and as I touched my shoulder I realized a bruise was also blossoming there, but my thigh hadn’t taken the weight of my fall so an injury there didn’t make a lot of sense.

That was it though. I felt my brow furrow as I sat naked upon my bed reaching for any other possible explanation. My mother had picked me up after practice and due to having to ice my ankle I had called in sick from work. My manager had groaned a little, but there was little to be done. The remainder of the evening had been spent in bed, icing my ankle and studying. I pushed the mark, watching the pale skin around it regain colour for a moment after I released it and sighed. It would seem that the mystery mark on my thigh, similar to the reason of why Kevin can’t operate his god given nostrils, would remain unsolved.