#great room for draw said RAREPAIRS

[dawnofiight]

Found these in my camera roll who's who

[adhd-merlin]

Rarepair fave is def Merdred, those mfs had Vibes™ that were just.... Something else. Like, they needed to be locked in a room so they could either talk it out, fight it out, or fuck it out. Something. Anything. Because I really think if not for that goddamn prophecy, Merlin would like Mordred! A lot! Another sorcerer that's actually on his side, actively helping him! Tbh, I think he liked him in canon, even though he didn't want to, which just adds to the Angst of them.

Fave scenes of them are in "With All My Heart" when Mordred says he hopes he and Merlin can be friends and you can just see Merlin internally screaming at a volume to break glass, and in "The Drawing of the Dark" when Mordred asks why Merlin always thinks the worst of him, and again, you can see that moment of Merlin just being weighted by what he knows and being unable to say it.

And for a fic rec: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25627360 (it is smut, but there are also feels, and it's Mordred POV)

FINALLY! THANK YOU!

I really think if not for that goddamn prophecy, Merlin would like Mordred! A lot!

He did like him! He said it himself!

GAIUS: If Mordred wished Arthur ill, he has had ample opportunity to do so. He's a likeable boy, Merlin. MERLIN: I know. I like him myself, but I can't ignore what I saw. — From The Disir, Ep 5x05

That's what makes it tragic, they could get on, they could be friends, they actually have much in common — but Merlin can't afford to get close to Mordred because of what he knows/thinks Mordred's going to do.

Here's my thoughts about this ship:

Arguments in favour:

• ENEMIES TO LOVERS

• the delicate balance of power: Alex and Colin go on quite a bit about Mordred and Merlin's relationship in the commentary to ep 5x02. Mordred technically outranks Merlin, given he's a knight and Merlin is just a servant, but also Merlin is Emrys and, as a Druid, Mordred is aware (and likely in awe) of his role and power. And they are both the unwilling keeper of the other's secret, as they both have to hide their magic in Camelot. It makes for an interesting dynamic.

• Like I said, it's tragic that Merlin had to keep Mordred at arm's length (emotionally) because they had some common ground: they both loved Arthur — I mean they both cared about him, and they both had faith in him. Mordred believed that Arthur would bring about a golden age just as much as Merlin did! They both yearned for peace, and they both had to stain their hands with blood to survive. They both had to go through so much trauma.

KARA: You're a knight. MORDRED: That doesn't matter. KARA: Of Camelot. Why, Mordred? MORDRED: Arthur is a good man. KARA: I can't believe you'd say that. MORDRED: You don't know him. — From The Drawing of the Dark, Ep 5x11

• As with Sefa, I think Merlin could benefit from having a Druid partner.

• Merlin glaring at Mordred is pretty hot. He also gets slammed into a wall by him which, again. Pretty hot.

• They could literally mind-fuck each oth— [gunshot sound]

Fave scenes of them are in "With All My Heart" when Mordred says he hopes he and Merlin can be friends and you can just see Merlin internally screaming at a volume to break glass, and in "The Drawing of the Dark" when Mordred asks why Merlin always thinks the worst of him, and again, you can see that moment of Merlin just being weighted by what he knows and being unable to say it.

Both great scenes! I love all the scenes they have together, I think. The way Mordred always looks and sounds vaguely menacing without doing or saying anything outright evil. They way he is desperate for Merlin's approval :(

My favourite Merlin & Mordred scene has to be the one from episode 5x05 (The Disir).

MERLIN: It won't always be like this. One day we will live in freedom again. MORDRED: You really believe that? MERLIN: I do. Beat. They both look down at the grave. MORDRED: Until then, we go unmarked in death as in life. — From The Disir, Ep 5x05

It's a rare moment of bonding between them. Mordred appeals to their shared nature ("he was one of us") and, for once, Merlin puts down his defences. He offers Mordred a few words of comfort ("It won't always be like this"). And then Mordred hits him with that fucking PROFOUND line and Merlin doesn't know what to do with it.

This is not the horrible future-murderer he's made Mordred up to be in his head. This is a boy with hope in his eyes and kindness in his heart (still). It speaks so much of what they could have been if destiny hadn't got in the way. (I've also gone on about Merlin's complicated relationship with other magic folks in another post. Yes, I have many feelings about it).

I love that scene from ep 5x11, too, ("Everything I do, you think the worst") — probably my second favourite scene with these two.

It starts out with Merlin being so confrontational and aggressive, but it ends with Merlin deciding to trust Mordred, for once. Perhaps reluctantly, but he does.

It's tragic that he seems to open up to Mordred when it's too late. I've touched on before on why I think it is that it happens at this moment. Merlin has literally been in Mordred's position. In fact, some of the dialogue in this scene echoes Merlin and Gaius's confrontation in ep 2x09, when Merlin was ready to run away with Freya.

If that wasn't clear enough, we also have Mordred asking Merlin directly:

Tell me you wouldn't do the same for the woman you love.

But of course Merlin would. He has. Well, he's tried to.

But again, because of what he knows about Mordred, Merlin can't let Mordred escape, even though he gets what he's trying to do, and doesn't blame him for trying.

I also like when Mordred angrily confronts Merlin later in the same episode. His outburst shows how he is well aware of how unfairly Merlin has been treating him, and although he's been remarkably chill about it up until now, it doesn't mean he's not angry and resentful about it. He may not show his emotions much, but he's not unfeeling.

"You did it because you hate me", he says, and "This time you've gone too far!"

THIS IS A MAN WHO'S HAD ENOUGH. It's also a reminder of how much Mordred has been putting up with — for all he knows, Merlin hates him for no good reason. I think it says something about Mordred's nature that he only truly snaps when Merlin's meddling threatens the person he loves. MY STABBY CHILD IS FULL OF LOVE OKAY

I just think they have such an interesting dynamic!

I can see why they wouldn't be a super popular pairing, given Merlin's attitude to Mordred in the show and what Mordred ends up doing. And also the age gap, I guess (I personally don't find it too weird because the actors are so clearly close in age that it can be easily brushed off, but I can see why other people might find it off-putting).

Fanfics

THANK YOU for the fic rec anon, I've skim-read it and it looks very much up my alley ♡

I actually haven't gone looking for many Merlin/Mordred fics. I've a read a few ages ago, most of them just short ficlets, but I only have one bookmarked. It's the fic that put Merlin/Mordred on my radar:

Set in Stone by EachPeachPearPlum (on AO3).

It's a relatively long fic (almost 50k words), so there is space to explore Merlin and Mordred's relationship.

I actually read it before watching the show properly (I basically watched a bunch of scenes from the show and dipped my toes in fanfiction before deciding to watch all of the series).

I haven't re-read it since, and I don't even remember how it ultimately deals with the whole prophecy thing, if it even gets to that point (I think the author meant for this to be part of a series but they didn't continue, although this story is complete). But the prophecy was addressed, with what I thought was an interesting twist.

(I won't say anything too spoiler-y in case anyone wants to check it out, but Mordred is actually aware of the prophecy and he even knows an extra bit about Merlin which Merlin himself doesn't know about. It's revealed pretty early in the story, so it's not really a spoiler).

It touches on some aspects of Merlin and Mordred's relationship that I find fascinating, so I think it's worth a read if you're interested in this pair.

Random lil' excerpt:

"I am not a child, Emrys," Mordred hisses, leaning in close; Merlin suspects he's going for menacing, but all it really comes off as is petulant, which sort of proves his point. "I was the last time you tried to kill me, but not now." And then there are words in Merlin's head, words he is powerless to stop, filled with a rage that is everything and nothing all at once. Keep your reasons to yourself, Emrys, but do not try to placate me with what we both know are lies. Mordred stands then, the expression on his face one of youthful rage, burning bright and burning quickly, and Merlin wishes he was right. If Mordred wasn't so young, Merlin could kill him without hesitation, could dream about him without hating himself (or without hating himself quite so much, since the fact that Mordred is destined to destroy everything Merlin is destined to protect is at least as much of a concern as Mordred's age). This could all be over and done with, one way or another. "Get out of here, Mordred," Merlin snarls. "You live because I let you, and you live for as long as I let you. Do not tempt me."

I JUST THINK IT'S HOT WHEN HE THREATENS TO MURDER PEOPLE OKAY

I'm just going to bring this post back to your attention. There are dozens of us! (people who find mean Merlin sexy). DOZENS

As a final note — my Italian brain refuses to call this ship Merdred. There's got to be a better name for it 😭

[wolf-and-bard]

The Edge Of The Edge Of The World

Prompt: Human Shield

Relationships: Jaskier/Filavandrel

Rating: M

Content Warnings: some violence, not graphic; implied minor character death

Summary: When Jaskier starts to have the same apocalyptic dream from Filavandrel's point of view over and over again, he decides to go a-looking for the elven-king. He finds Filavandrel in the valley of flowers, finds also that his old crush has not dampened. Just when they are reuniting, they are disturbed by a hired assassin... In which: Filavandrel bears the weight of the world upon his shoulders and Jaskier is drawn to him, helpless to fix it, but willing to try anyway.

Word Count: 4.6k

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​ I AO3-Link

It's the dreams that ultimately bring Jaskier back to Dol Blathanna. After everything was said and done - the clutches of the elves escaped, his song written, Geralt pestered - he swore himself not to meddle with Filavandrel and his sundered court ever again. Out of respect, yes, and out of fear, and out of a strange mixture of both. The latter concerns a part of Jaskier that is all lust and greed, and would have been strip-dancing for Filavandrel if it hadn't been for the imminent threat to his and Geralt's lives. Jaskier finds no shame in that, he was eighteen then, but he also isn't quite so certain that upon meeting the elf again, he wouldn't fall prey to those same desires. His heart has a strange way of becoming stuck in time like that. And Jaskier wasn't going to give in and go. He wasn’t going to return to the Valley of Flowers, no matter how often he thought back to his time among the elves, no matter how many sonnets he dedicated to the stern eyes, proud figure, golden locks, and tragic history of one Filavandrel aén Fidháil. He wasn’t. But then the dreams start around the same time that Geralt starts being tossed more prophecies than coin and Jaskier has to attribute some significance to that, right? Destiny tends to meddle in heaps like that and while Jaskier is no firm believer in higher powers, he can see clear as day the strain it puts on Geralt, avoiding it day and night.

On top of that, the dreams repeat. Jaskier never has the same dream twice. He just doesn’t. Only this one, he goes through every night for a fortnight straight and it comes to the point that even Geralt - who's still treating Destiny like his lavatory - calls him out on it. "You've been crying through the night again," he grunts one morning by way of greeting and when Jaskier gently brushes his own cheeks with sweat-sticky fingers, they come away wet. Salty air clings to his nostrils and he sniffles, still caught in the undertow of the great melancholy that suffuses every moment in that other world. The inn room around him feels thin, see-through, and Geralt wavers around the edges, fuzzy like smoke so much so that Jaskier doesn't dare reach out to his friend for fear of him dissolving.

“It seems I have,” he mumbles to himself and glances at his lute. The instrument sits idly in its case, having caught dust as they’ve been away on a three-day hunt for a rabid, enchanted bear, and the ornamental swirls glitter in the first sunlight of the day. Jaskier can feel her like a presence, the same way Geralt can feel his medallion, he suspects. She hums with a similar sort of magic.

A treasure from Filavandrel himself. More than a kingly gift, the instrument serves as a constant reminder. To remember and shut the fuck up about it. Jaskier gets up and ignores Geralt’s confused grunts. He’s in nothing but his smalls still, but this cannot wait.

“Jaskier, are you awake?”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier says, waving Geralt’s inquiry away. Careful not to upset her – something Geralt would roll his eyes at him for, no doubt – Jaskier picks his lute up by the neck and props his foot up on the chair the case sits on. He balances her on his knee and puts his fingers down on the neck to play the first chord he ever strummed on her. Jaskier does and it sends a jolt through his body.

The notes go straight to his chest and he sobs out loud. More tears stream down his face and he knows he has to heed those dreams. Filavandrel needs him. Jaskier is sure of that.

“There is something I have to do,” Jaskier says and puts the lute back into her case, then turns, scrambling about for his clothes. “A journey I have to take.”

“Jask, you’re crying. Is there… are you… do you need my help?” Geralt’s head is cocked, his eyes wide. Jaskier shakes his head. This is something he has to do on his own. Jaskier gets dressed and wolfs down the breakfast Geralt orders for the both of them, then disappears. He only notices when he’s two days out of town that he forgot to tell Geralt where he’s going. Destiny holds his life in her hands then and Jaskier find he doesn’t mind.

---

Jaskier doesn’t know the way to Filavandrel’s halls exactly. It takes him a week or so to travel to Posada where he stops for a rest. The people there remember him, well they remember the white-haired witcher that took care of the devil, but they also remember the bratty bard they threw bread at once prompted, and Jaskier gets a chance to update his reputation with beautiful renditions of his top three songs. They earn him a hearty dinner and a feather-stuffed bed for the night. He sleeps like a rock for the first time in forever, and once more wakes with mournful tears staining his cheeks, his skin thin. The dreams have been more intense, more vivid and real. Jaskier can barely remember what it felt like to wake up without this great grief weighing him down and still, he pastes on a smile. Whistles a tune as he gets ready to search for the elven-king.

Jaskier leaves his horse with the lovely innkeeper in Posada, as well as the rest of his belongings – spare clothes, spare lute strings, his journal – all save for the instrument herself. The woman will keep them save in exchange for his promise to play at her establishment some more to draw customers once he returns. Before he knows it, Jaskier’s out in the valley again, by himself this time. Without Geralt there, the pervading aroma of onion doesn’t subtract from the rich smell of the flowers that are in full bloom all over. It seems Jaskier just about managed to capture the right season for his visit. Colour explosions burst to every side as far as his human eye can see. He is not here for those though, he is here for a very particular flower, and he finds Filavandrel not among his peers, not in the caves that are hidden, interspersed in the jutting hills.

He finds Filavandrel on the edge of the Edge of the World, keeping watch over the valley atop a steep peak. The wind gently ripples through his hair and the beige cloak he wears over his clothes to blend in with his surroundings. His feet are bare, his stare solemn and distant, and Jaskier watches him from behind a boulder for half an eternity.

“Come out, bard. You need not hide nor cower before me ,” Filavandrel says eventually. His voice is soft, low, but the gale carries it to Jaskier’s ears as though the elf was standing right beside him. Jaskier’s heart picks up and he swallows before yielding his spot. He approaches Filavandrel from the side and sinks to one knee when they are mere feet apart, chin pressed to his sternum. To show his enduring respect and to get his facial muscles under control because his eyes prickle as though he’s going to cry again, but his lips want to slip into a grin and his nose itches. Filavandrel is a marvel, even forlorn and lost as he currently stands. Jaskier decides to strike the word beautiful from his vocabulary the moment that Filavandrel places a crooked index finger under his chin and bids him to look up.

The word ought to be reserved for the sight that greets Jaskier, and that sight alone. Filavandrel peers down at Jaskier from under hooded lids, his eyes dark and mysterious. His hair glows molten yellows and golds, tinged orange from the descending sun, and specks of that light dance on his pale cheeks. His long lashes cast shadows, his lips are parted ever so slightly, pink and wet. His throat is sinewy and strong, shifts with the long inhale he draws. Jaskier blushes, thinking that this is not a king, this is a god, and he should be captured in paint and music, and yet, each medium trying to depict his splendour would undoubtedly be a shallow caricature of the true beauty that is before Jaskier. He is about ready to swear an oath of servitude, but his voice fails him.  

“Why do you kneel?” Filavandrel asks, breaking the spell with the bitter undertone of suspicion his words carry. “I am not your king.”

“Common courtesy,” Jaskier says and rises to his feet, dusting off his breeches. Filavandrel merely raises a brow, then goes back to staring out at the crashing waves of flowers below. Jaskier takes it as an unspoken invitation to remain, to join him in gazing out at the world. It feels so small, so far away from up here. With bated breath he waits for Filavandrel to say something, anything. Where usually, Jaskier would burst from having too many words, he finds himself coming up short. How does one breech this topic?

‘Yes, hello, I’ve been having terribly crushing dreams from your perspective for the past month. Do tell why, if you please.’

That’s no good.

So, Jaskier waits. And Filavandrel gathers his words and speaks, still so softly, as though he doesn’t want to disturb the peace of Dol Blathanna with crude human words. Falling from his lips, they sound like small caresses, but they still break the clandestine atmosphere.

“What did you do with the life I spared?”

Jaskier glances sideways, gazes at Filavandrel’s set profile for a breath before he answers the question. This is something he has endless words for. How he travelled with Geralt and gained renown for both witcher and bard, how he returned to Oxenfurt to teach and research, start writing papers, and comments, and reviews, and essays, how he’s been trying to appreciate perspectives other than his own and has not been brilliant at it.

“… but first and foremost,” Jaskier concludes on a small smile. “I’ve been pouring my heart into song.” This time, Filavandrel doesn’t hesitate with his answer and his hands clench into fists at his sides, something which Jaskier did not anticipate.

“Tell me then, little scholar,” the elf says. His voice is lightning that crackles under Jaskier’s skin. “Are all of them as deceitful as the one you wrote about our army? Or do you only lie when it caters to the ideology of the masses?”

“Nothing quite so political, I assure you. I sing what I want,” Jaskier replies. If Filavandrel would just look at him, he might be able to read what Jaskier feels. No hostility, no inclination to cause harm. Yes, Toss A Coin was a selfish piece of writing, meant to entice and enthral, embellishing the events in order for it to spread more quickly, but Filavandrel has to realize that it was never meant at the expense of the elves. It was drama, poetry, a story.

“I see.” Jaskier jerks around, half his body turning at Filavandrel’s tingling laugh. What in Melitele’s name?

“Beg pardon?” he asks and finally, Filavandrel meets his eyes. His are pure mirth, lip curled in mischief. He is so fucking divine that Jaskier’s mouth dries up.

“You are a creature of selfish lust, then?”

“Quite,” Jaskier says, grinning and bows his head. He was right about one thing at least, right in his hunch that in the presence of Filavandrel, he would be reduced to a bashful eighteen-year-old boy who is unable to tear his eyes off anything even remotely pretty. With Filavandrel, he thinks he’ll find anyone else lacking.

Filavandrel opens his mouth to say something else, but right then, a hiss cuts through their amusement and they both whirl around to find that they are no longer alone. Someone has joined them, a massive man with a silver medallion gleaming atop his breast. In each hand he holds a knife and his teeth are bared in a growl, his head bald. Two swords, strapped to his back, gleam in the sun.

Oh fuck.

A witcher.

And he doesn’t seem in the mood for talking.

Jaskier’s body takes over for him and he builds himself up between the approaching figure and Filavandrel.

“Stop right there,” he says and mentally pats himself on the back for how steady his voice comes out. The witcher halts, staring at Jaskier with his head cocked and his form blots out the low-hanging sun. Jaskier stands his ground, arms and legs wide, but his only weapon is his glare, the set of his mouth. Don't, he thinks. Don't. They don't stand a chance. Geralt already has the capability to crush Jaskier's neck in a strong grip if he so wishes, this man looks like he could lift a leg and flatten Jaskier to the earth with one precise step. Filavandrel wouldn't fare much better even if he had steel on him. They are doomed.

“I’m here to kill a king,” the witcher says and his voice rattles like a cart full of armour being pulled across a cobbled street. “Step aside, human, and your life will be spared.”

“I will not.”

The witcher musters him for another long minute, then shrugs. Tucking one of his knives under his beefy bicep, he shoots out his hand. A blast of air hits Jaskier and he’s thrown backward into Filavandrel. They’re not close enough to the edge that they fall off, but the blow forces them to the ground. Jaskier is quick to get into a crouching position before the fallen king, arms open wide once more. The witcher approaches, his glare punctuating Jaskier’s resolve. But no, he will die if he must, die if it means preserving that which he cherishes so.

“Bard,” Filavandrel says under his breath. “You’re being foolish.”

“No such thing,” Jaskier replies. The witcher stomps ever nearer, blades raised, but before he can attack, a whirring noise fills the air and a dagger buries itself in the witcher’s left eye socket, buries itself to the hilt.

“HNNN FUCK,” the witcher yowls and pulls the knife out, casting it aside. He stumbles about blindly, his hands pressed to his face and Jaskier jumps to his feet. This is about the only opportunity they will have if they want to come out of this alive. He hurries over to the witcher and shoves. There is no way a bard like him has enough power to topple over a giant like this, but the witcher is already off-kilter and he doesn’t expect the push. He barely catches himself, still howling through his pain and Jaskier follows the few steps he takes backward and in doing so, gets caught by the flailing arm of the witcher. He winces as pain breaks out across the side of his face, but he pushes again.

The witcher teeters where the hill falls away sharply, and Jaskier has no time to think about how he’d rather not be hurting this man. He gives one last determined shove and with a yelp, the witcher tumbles over the edge and rolls down the mountainside in a cacophony of crashes and dust, branches breaking and rocks rolling after him. His cries fill the valley until, with a suddenness that is jarring, they stop.

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, panting hard. Fuck. Fuck, he might have just killed a man and he doesn’t feel guilty one bit. He is here to protect Filavandrel, he understands that now. Understands that that’s what the dream was about. To protect Filavandrel and to be his advocate. It’s an unsettling certainty, one that only Destiny can have created. Jaskier sighs, thinks up a silent prayer for the fallen man and mentally apologizes to Geralt for hurting one of his kin.

“That was an impressive showing of determination,” Filavandrel says. Jaskier opens his eyes again and squares his shoulder. The elf has picked up his dagger and is cleaning it on his cloak which he has pulled off to reveal a simple set of faded blue linen clothes. He looks at Jaskier, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth and Jaskier bows low.

“My king,” he says.

“Come with me.” A hand on his arm that tugs lightly. Jaskier’s blinks, but lets himself be guided by Filavandrel. “I know somewhere were we will not be interrupted again.”

---

Filavandrel’s rooms – which section off from the ones Geralt and Jaskier were held in last time – are barely more than a hollow in the mountains, furnished with a narrow cod and few planks of wood that have been nailed to the stone opposite it. The elf has Jaskier sit down on the hard straw mattress, then disappears for a short time to retrieve a wet cloth. “Who was he?” Jaskier asks when Filavandrel returns and crouches before him so that they are on eye-level. His face aches properly now and he suspects that a plethora of bruises is already blooming on the side the witcher caught with his fist.

“You are the one who congregates with witchers,” Filavandrel replies. Jaskier huffs indignantly. “I only really know one of them and we don't congregate so much as keep company.” “Really?” Filavandrel raises a brow as he dabs Jaskier's jaw with the cool cloth. It soothes some of the sting and he sighs. “Does that shock you? Geralt wouldn't let me touch him with a fishing rod,” Jaskier laughs. It’s not true exactly, they have touched of course. It is inevitable when travelling together, but the kind of touch they’re referring to has been strictly off the table. “How very unreasonable,” Filavandrel laughs and brushes back Jaskier's hair to access his forehead. His hands are gentle, his smile shy and Jaskier finds himself blushing. This is another Filavandrel altogether. Not the rageful king that almost had him and Geralt executed, nor yet the solemn figure atop the hill. He’s sweet and teasing. Oh, dear. “Tell me, little scholar, do you want to touch him?” “Are you asking me if I want to fuck him or if I have feelings for him?”

“Both. Either. No matter.”

“Ah… well, I find myself tempted ever so often, but the feeling does not endure and any sexual draw I feel to him is not worth risking the friendship we share. Of course, his attractiveness stands in no comparison to your beauty.” “It is a non-human fetish then?” Filavandrel asks. He wipes Jaskier’s forehead one more time, then puts aside the cloth. “Brought that upon myself, didn't I?” They both laugh, Jaskier shaking his head, Filavandrel privately, behind his hands. Jaskier wants to pry it away, wants every bit of that laugh for his eyes and ears to feast on, a remnant of the bells of the elven towers of old, wants this beauty, but for once in his life, Jaskier practices restraint. He basks in another few seconds of shared delight, then catches Filavandrel's gaze again. “Who hired that witcher?” “Doesn't matter who hired him, there's always a price on my head,” Filavandrel grumbles and Jaskier could kick himself for killing the light chirping laughter, for turning this conversation back to a serious avenue. But he had to, didn’t he? Because a witcher almost killed them both and the dreams are still in the forefront of his mind. “Always a price.” With that, the elf gets up and starts to pace the small perimeter of his room. Jaskier watches every step. "You can share your pain with me,” he offers. "So you can fashion pretty rhymes from it? No thank you. I will pay you in gold,” Filavandrel snaps, eyes distant now. So very changeable, strange for one so old. But Jaskier supposes that Filavandrel lives in extraordinary circumstances. "Pay me?" he asks weakly.

“That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? More… of us. More of our artefacts, our names, our stories, our emotions. More for you to accessorize and capitalize on, more to feed your disgustingly human greed with. I gave you your life and your lute and you stayed away for how long? Nigh on two decades. What will it take for the next two?”

Both elf and human glance at the lute that is propped up in the corner upon Filavandrel mentioning it. The instrument has survived the scrap without harm, not even a speck of dust on it. Jaskier’s fingers itch for it, but he folds them in his lap. Two decades, yes, twenty years in which he’s had time aplenty to think. Churn over the events of those days when Geralt was but a stranger and Filavandrel an enemy, an outlandish creature sprung straight from Jaskier’s lecture notes. Now, Geralt is Jaskier’s oldest friend and Filavandrel is… a god descended. A god that has been battered and beaten, treated like a dog. Fuck, but Jaskier is not here to uphold the tradition of exploitation and near-to-kin-slaying. He is here because after traversing the maze of his thoughts and closing the covers on his books, Jaskier cares. He cares, he treasures, he worships, he loves. He loves so much. Jaskier looks up at Filavandrel until the elf can’t help but return the gaze. His eyes are wide, wild.

"Have you had dreams of late?"  Jaskier asks simply.

A breath. And then: "What do you know of it?”

"Let me paint a picture for you, golden one, then you can decide what I have come here for.”

Filavandrel considers him, inclines his head a fraction as if to listen for the backstabs Jaskier is trying to veil with his words. The cavernous halls are eerily silent and finally, Filavandrel gestures for Jaskier to speak. Jaskier clears his throat.

“It is like this: You open your eyes and you stand upon the very hill we just got attacked on, all by yourself. Before you, you see a firmament in bleeding reds and yellows into which the grey ink of the end days has been spilled. At your feet, a vast desolation, hundreds turned to dust, obliterated by your hands, and it still does not satisfy your hatred for the humans. You feel as though upon your shoulders, you carry the weight of all those who have come before you, all those who are yet to perish. Each step you may take, in whatever direction, feels like the last. There is thunder in the distance, but it is not of this world. It rumbles off-key, distorted and cacophonous, and you try to catch that sound in your own throat to guess at its origin. You can’t. There are cries of woe also, just beyond the next peak, and you are determined to absolve those souls of their agony. You begin to walk, are weighed down, your limbs burn and your knees tremble. No matter how badly you try to reach that place from whence the pain stems, you make no progress. Your back aches so much, so fucking much. All you want is to lay down your crown and die. The world may well splinter and vaporize around you and still, duty would bind you to remain and see your people safely through the gates of heaven. You feel alone. So very alone,” Jaskier concludes, the last words naught more than a whisper. Tears stream down him his cheeks.

"How?" Filavandrel sobs and claps a hand over his mouth.

"Trade secret."

"Who are you?"

"A friend.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“To share some of your burden as I have been sharing in your dreams. To save your people.”

“There is no salvation for us, little scholar, none at all,” Filavandrel says, voice trembling.

“Filavandrel of the edge of the world,” Jaskier says and stands up. “Filavandrel of the pain of the gods.” He takes a step towards the dumbstruck elf. “Filavandrel the kind-hearted and trustworthy.” Another step. “Filavandrel of the old tragedies.” A foot separates them and Jaskier reaches out to gently cup Filavandrel’s jaw. “Filavandrel of the dawn of a new age.” He brings up his other hand, cradling the elf-king’s face in his lute-worn hands as though it is a precious piece of china. Jaskier smiles softly and wipes at Filavandrel’s tears with his thumbs. “Just take your pick and I will write you into the stream of history,” he finishes. Filavandrel squeezes his eyes shut.

“You don’t have that kind of power,” he says. “You simply cannot change our fate.”

“I can make you beloved. Immortal.” Jaskier leans closer, ever closer, but he doesn’t dare break the barrier between them, not when Filavandrel looks so very pained. More so when he softly utters his next words.

“That is what you don’t get. What would I be but an exception to prove the rule? Even if you turned the tide of human hatred in my favour, they’d still murder my kin and I would stand alone because I had been dubbed friend-of-men. You would make my dream turn reality.” “I don’t-“

“I do not begrudge you the ambition,” Filavandrel cuts in and the sun of a chuckle breaks through the heavy tapestry of clouds over his face. He shakes his head as his eyes flutter open, and one hand comes up to wrap around Jaskier’s wrist where’s he’s still cupping the elf’s cheeks. “I was perhaps wrong to judge you by the standards of your species when the crime you have committed is a rather personal one.”

“And what crime is that?”

“That fetish we spoke of, of course. Though I cannot tell whether your infatuation is genuine or whether you are but a magpie.” Jaskier's mouth feels dry and his gaze drops to the pretty curve of Filavandrel's lips. He lets go of his face, touches one of Filavandrel's silken curls and wraps it around his pinkie as he holds the king's gaze. He can’t think of a retort to that, not even an earnest one. "Is this your wit's end, little scholar? Is this where words fail you?" "Kiss me," Jaskier replies in a surge of confidence. It's insanity, even with the weird carnival of feelings they've gone through today. Insanity. It's also the right thing to say, apparently. Filavandrel leans closer and kisses him softly, holding onto Jaskier's shoulders and Jaskier reaches for the elf's hips to steady himself. He inhales sharply when Filavandrel deepens their kiss. The poet in Jaskier hoped he would taste like flowers or honey or sunshine or anything worth putting in a ballad. The romantic in Jaskier rejoices in how perfectly sweet and slow their kiss is, how they both close their eyes and lose themselves in the simplicity of the connection. The realist in Jaskier – and he is very quiet and small – knows this is fragile. A moment suspended in time and bound to pass. After a while, Filavandrel pulls back, a small smile playing about his features and he traces Jaskier's reddened lips with his thumb. "I could be your consort," Jaskier blurts out. Filavandrel laughs and steals another kiss. "The valley isn't entirely safe at night so you may stay until the morning," he says and lets go. "And after that?" "After that you return to your books and your songs and your witcher." "And you?" "I will try to make sense of these dreams. I will find a way for my people to survive. And I will cherish the sentiments you offered, useless though they may be. Come now, little scholar, come to bed." 

[seventfics]

Lionhearted

Written for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Prompt: Talking in your Sleep Relationships: Cirilla/Morvran Voorhis (+ background Emhyr/Geralt) Rating: T  Content Warnings: None Summary: Before her future reign can begin, Cirilla has to commit to the trust exercise that is an arranged marriage. If only her sleep would be peaceful.

Read on AO3

* * *

“...Cirilla?”

Ciri stirs fully awake at a gentle touch over her shoulder. It is a miracle she does not lash out instinctively and break something. Her limbs feel tight, aching by how tense they’d become in sleep. The faint shadows of a nightmare still dance behind her eyes. She hears the clopping of hooves, the horses of the Wild Hunt approaching—the cold blast of winter hits her as if naked in the snow.

Pure imagination. The bedroom is warm-lit by a hearth. It is summer, and she is safe. She is more than safe.

The touch that rose her pulls her back from the lingering vision of doom. She turns to light eyes, pinched in worry.

“Sorry..." She draws the sheets closer, her wild hair a fan over her face. The room is warm, but a chill runs under her skin all the same. "Did I disturb you?”

Morvran studies her. He sits a comfortable distance away from her. The monstrously-large bed makes that easy. “Not really.”

Slowly, her muscles unwind from their tense curl. A minute passes, and she’s tired again. “Don’t let me keep you awake,” she says rolling on her side, and then, almost a whisper, “you know, you can call me Ciri.”

* * *

The final battle is over. It has been for a peaceful few years. And yet, her mind stays restless, ready for the next enemy to come tearing through her life. So far it’s only been arrogant old men with predictable ambitions, which is pitiful compared to the ageless Aen Elle that had chased her through time and space, and the world-ending White Frost waiting at the end of it all. Really, they should step up their game if they want to make her sweat.

Her dreams made of frost and blood do most of the work for them. It's inescapable. Exhausting.

Every time she wakes from snow clogging her lungs, she sees Morvran had stirred awake in the night, and she apologizes with genuine-felt guilt.

Her husband is always polite about it, which is hard for her to accept at first. Experience tells her to expect a confrontation, or a fight about affecting him with her sleeplessness. But Morvran—she discovers quickly into their spousal arrangement—is quiet company, even if sometimes he seems a little on edge himself. A soldier's nervousness lies behind his gaze. The General without a war to fight. At least she’s not the only one struggling with peacetime.

They say that marriage forges a bond between two souls. That is what her father—of all people—tells her on one of their joint-breakfast mornings.

“There is a responsibility there," Emhyr says with enviable composure. "He is the only one’s opinion you must consult and rely on with matters of state.”

Ciri nearly scoffs. “Not even yours then?”

“Not even mine. Do you not trust him?”

She thinks long after that, a little angry with his nonchalance. Of course she doesn't. Of course it's not that easy. Ask any other lady or princess what their marriage gave them and see if any one of them bring up the word trust. Her father is biased. His own marriage had been sown by destiny's hand.

And yet, after the whispers of dark dreams rouse her at night, she does trust Morvran to be near, to remind her with his presence that she is no longer a child running from great and powerful enemies anymore. She is the daughter of the Black Sun. Nothing can touch her now.

Would be nice to sleep well again on her own soon, though.

Emhyr accepts her silence and sips his tea while it is still warm. He doesn't say anything about the dark circles under her eyes, and she doesn't talk about why they're there.

Geralt visits not a day after, the first time after her marriage, and he sure won't let it go unaddressed.

“I'm fine, Geralt. Haven’t slept well is all.”

That is all she's willing to say, not wanting to bother him too much when he'd arrived so happy to greet her. But it’s Geralt. He knows her better than anyone. Better than she knows herself.

"Haven't slept? You know what that does to your clarity of mind. And are you doing anything about it? Is it the mattress? I tell you, they make them too soft in the south. You need a little firmness to stop you when you're tossing..."

His fussing calms her heart. The opposite would be just as true. If he panics, all her own worries neutralize as she remembers how to think straight for him. They are each other's pillars.

So he frets, and she waves him off, feeling a little better by the second.

Tea together in the garden is a relaxing surprise activity with him, although now that he's brought up the topic of modern furniture and poor craftsmanship, Geralt is grouching about how uncomfortable the chairs are.

“They’re meant to keep your spine straight," she says, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, and it’s crap. Doesn’t fit all of me.”

“That’s because you’re carrying fifty pounds of armor and steel. You might not want to rest all your weight on it actually.”

Geralt purposely leans back on his chair, the wood giving an alarming creak. “Are you calling me fat?”

She laughs at him so hard the Impera keeping guard from the garden's entrance twitch their heads to them. They act like a sign of joy from her is a terrifying dragon come to burn the palace down.

“I miss that,” Geralt mutters with a fake pout.

“What? My laughter?”

“Your…ease with it. I know being empress is nothing to scoff at." At the mention of her future court, Ciri touches her imperial diadem—both a symbol of her patrimony and a wedding band. Geralt tracks the gesture. The sigh he gives is heavy and long. "I mean, shit, this whole marriage thing attached to it isn’t what either of us planned for."

The metal warms under her rubbing thumb. "None of what's happened in our journey ever has been."

A witcher's path is unpredictable. One lives by the day and learns to adapt to what comes. And she's doing that still. Adapting like a witcheress. Soon, she'll have to start thinking more like an empress.

"The General," Geralt starts, and she refocuses on him and the serious set of his brow. "He’s a good man at least. A little…eccentric I think, but he is one of the better ones in Emhyr’s court.”

Now it's her turn to grumble, “I know. It’s annoying. I wish I could have a reason to hate him but he’s so…ugh, mannerly!”

This time Geralt laughs, and for a moment, Ciri is a witcher’s child in the wilds again, punting her father’s shoulder for a dumb joke he's pulled at her expense.

She stops suddenly when a familiar figure, all shoulders and dark colors to contrast his light hair, comes through the garden gates. 'Speak of the devil' might be a rude thought to have, yet it perfectly encapsulates how luck draws its cards on her this morning.

“Geralt of Rivia!” comes Morvran’s happy voice. “I thought I heard the rumble of bickering servants on the way here. Now I understand what displeased them so.”

“I’m not wearing their black-and-white cotton traps and you can’t make me.”

Ciri blinks between them. It surprises her how well Geralt gets along with him, and how openly joyous Morvran is being about his company—and yes, she would call him joyous even as his face is subtle in expressing it. Breaking courtly address would normally upset her recently-made husband no matter the suspect. And yet Geralt, who does not mean to do it intentionally, receives no such berating speeches on etiquette and formality. Actually, Morvran shakes his hand the northern way of greeting. Maybe he's good at adapting too.

“Of course not, sir witcher," Morvran says with his other hand raised in acquiescence. "There is no dire interrogation to fulfill at this hour.”

"Don't threaten me with a free clean shave again." To her, he offers a parting, “Alright. I've taken up enough of your time, I’m gonna head out.”

Her heart sinks at the cursory goodbye. This is her father in all but blood leaving her secure little bubble once more, to be a witcher without her. She is not a child anymore—he doesn't ruffle her ashen hair, though she dearly wants him to for old time's sake. It would mess up her diadem and the intricate plaiting of the braids behind her head.

She is not a child anymore, and yet she is already melancholy at the quick turn of his back.

"See you later, Geralt." Her words are a promise. We will see each other again.

As he steps into the flower path that winds back to the guards, Morvran calls out, “His imperial majesty is currently in a meeting.”

Geralt stops. He looks, for some reason, abashed. “What? Why are you telling me that?”

“I thought you would be privy to that information." Morvran shrugs in dismissal. "Va faill."  

It's almost funny how fast Geralt stomps out of the garden. As Ciri observes the exchange, all her previous heartache is swept under the rug. There is something she's not picking up. Fortunately it's not all she has to talk about to her present, lingering company.

“It’s weird that you two actually get along.” At her words, Morvran turns to her with open surprise.

“Geralt of Rivia is a genial man," he says, his hands meeting behind his back as is Nilfgaardian custom in public. "I believe anyone would be glad to refresh their acquaintance with him.”

Ciri, who was not raised with said customs and is instead being tutored in them with little success, snorts. Loudly.

“You just like that you can rope him into joining a riding competition on a promise of free food.”

Under all his Nilfgaardian powder, Morvran blushes. She can see it in his ears.

She laughs at him too.

* * *

It’s another night of bad dreams. Her memories have toyed with her enough that now she is witness to futures she cannot control. Geralt alone on the Path, the Empire at war with itself from her negligence, all of her old friends, her family, broken apart and dying as she lives on.

She wakes slowly, not in a startle or a choked breath. Her body aches worse than if she had.

Morvran is already awake beside her, a frown set upon his lips.

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

Between waking and the dissipating fear of her nightmare, Ciri is caught completely off guard. “I...didn’t, no.”

He doesn't explain any more, choosing to give her space as he's done for previous interrupted nights. Part of her wants to ask more. She wants to hear what she had said—what nightmare had she been speaking into existence. Did he recognize anything? Did he want to ask, but simply refrain out of properness?

Whatever it is she uttered in fever sleep, she lets it go. Talking about it now would be worse, somehow. Like making her nightmares a real, concrete thing.

Sleep still fights her long into the night. It does not come a second time. Which is good, as she opens her eyes to a timely assassination.

The weapon under her pillow slides into her hand not a breath later. She always keeps something sharp and deadly there. Good habit, both her fathers would say, for different reasons.

Before the assassin can strike, Ciri blinks in between time. They are dead where they stand, frozen mid-step, collapsing the very next instant time moves for her.

In the commotion that follows, everyone wakes. The emperor looks as regal and rested as always and Ciri envies that as her hair resembles a rat’s nest, mussed from the fear-sweat of her haunted sleep. At least Morvran is just as unkempt as her. They make quite the competition for most messy bedhead, side by side. And though the hours stretch on, from private meetings to argued suspicions, Morvran looks in his element. Her element.

Put an enemy in front of them and they will beat it down until it’s rid of.

Her mind is driven to this new task. Securing entry points, questioning any guards that had slack. Her edges feels frayed—sticking to Morvran like a shadow as they move from room to room, servant to official, order to action, way past sunrise. Her angry expression turns any worried servant away from asking for her imperial majesty to eat.

The assassin had tried to kill him. And no one seems to be that concerned since her own head is still attached to her shoulders. Not even Morvran.

Things calm down well past noon. They both return tired and dry-eyed to their arranged room.

She touches his sleeve and holds his weary gaze. “If you die I won’t forgive you.”

Morvran nods, like she makes sense. “I would never plan on it. It would upset your father.”

For a second, Ciri doesn’t know which one he means, and that makes her smile stupidly, at its pure truth.

She wipes her grin off before Morvran has a chance to politely appreciate it.

* * *

“You’re antsy.”

Ciri hums, taking a bite of her deviled eggs. “I'm not antsy.”

“You are bending the good fork.”

She stares down at her hand and finds that Emhyr is right and the fork is just a little twisted at the neck.

"I'm sure someone's job is to fix it. Just, call them."

Nothing in her posture or her expression could possibly tell Emhyr what sits heavy in her head, short of him being a mindreader. And yet, somehow, he pieces everything together correctly to ask, “Would it be so terrible for you to like him?”

Ciri sighs, looking up at the ornate chandelier, begging it to crash down on her and get her out of this conversation. Because she already does like Morvran, quite a lot, and it is terrible. She would hate to admit to her father that he is right. He’ll never live it down.

Of course, she doesn't need to say anything at all. Her godsdamned mind-reading father already knows. When did he learn to read her so effortlessly?

...Has he been consulting Geralt?

However it may be, Emhyr clears his throat and straightens his fork on his side of the breakfast table. “Some people," he says as she sulks internally, "are fortunate and marry the one they love. Others find a way to make it work.”

At his following pause, Ciri straightens in her seat to meet his gaze. His silences are always weighty and grave.

“I hope that he is worth the work,” he ends.

Then the moment passes, and he's eating again. Leaving her to contemplate alone what it means that her father, the emperor, might actually want her to be happy with the man who would share her rule once she is officially crowned. It's...it's trusting. It's too much to think about so early in the morning.

Being who she is, however, Ciri returns to the source of her sulk and the many questions it created.

“So, have you spoken with Geralt?”

Emhyr drinks his tea very slowly. “Of course not. Had he anything important to relay to me?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “I'm sure you know he came to visit recently, but you don’t ask me what we talked about?”

“Whatever it is you two get up to does not concern me.”

She hums, sipping her own tea. “It’s funny I guess, I thought you asked of him through Morvran.”

Emhyr sets his cup down, narrowing his eyes in thought. As he studies her, she keeps on sipping her tea until it’s finished. “Just curious,” she adds before parting for the day. Give him something to puzzle over that isn't her.

* * *

'Did you know you talk in your sleep?'

Only two nights of the next seven does she stir awake. Not from bad dreams, exactly. Not from dark memories or anxious fears either. Ciri rubs her face now, frustrated, pulled from sleep again for no apparent reason.

Morvran is awake beside her, as he always is. His face is not pressed with a frown, though. She can't stop thinking on his words so casually spoken the night an assassin tried to take him from her, and settles back onto her enormous pillows.

“...What did I say this time?”

“Oh,” he blinks at her, and it’s sleepy and lazy, not at all very general-like. “Something about a swallow. That you miss it. Did you used to own a bird?”

She closes her eyes briefly, oddly at peace with her sleep talking. He had listened to her secret fears for all these nights, her haunted screams, and made them his own secrets.

If she could trust him to know that, then, it is not so difficult to trust him with the more simple things.

“No. Swallow was the name of my sword. I carried her with me everywhere.”

“Ah. Where is she now?”

“I gave her to Geralt before I came to be here. A witcher’s sword is not something I can wield from a throne.”

He touches his hand to her cheek, the first time he’s breached courtly etiquette with her. It is warm and callused.

“I am confident that sir Geralt keeps Swallow sharp and oiled so that the blade stays strong. I am...sorry,” he says with more awkwardness.

She covers his hand with her own, a little laugh escaping her when he blinks rapidly at her returned touch, like he had not expected it at all. “It's alright. I entrusted her to him.”

Marriage forges a bond between two people.

[tarklesbehindthescenes]

Hi, Tarkles! I've got a rarepair request for you. G1!Megatron/Ratchet. Any length you like and any circumstances you like, but maybe how they might end up getting to know each other. I hope that was specific enough, sometimes I'm not sure the amount of detail folks might need. Have a great day!

Ho-kay! So I went a little overboard! Word count capping at 1,360. Hope this falls in line with what you requested!

--

The Decepticons were a crafty bunch. Everybody knew this. Despite not having the smartest bots among their ranks, they made do with what they had or could get their hands on. Today was a case where they had to steal what they needed. Megatron sat within his quarters in his desk chair, optics offline, head resting on his right fist while his left tapped its fingers against the arm of the chair impatiently. Just how long were his soldiers going to keep him waiting?

Soundwave’s voice cut the silence through Megatron’s commlink. “Blitzwing and Skywarp inbound with the target.”

“About time,” the warlord grumbled in return. “Send them straight to me.”

Within five minutes, Blitzwing and Skywarp knocked at Megatron’s door, then stepped in once he bade them enter. Megatron flicked on his optics and turned his chair to see a furious and chained Ratchet gripped between the triple changer and grimacing seeker.

The commander raised a brow. “What is wrong with you, Skywarp?”

“Nothing, mighty Megatron,” Skywarp grunted through gritted teeth, shifting his legs with notable discomfort so they pointed slightly inward.

Blitzwing cleared his throat and gave Megatron a brief salute. “Target captured, sir!”

“You have ten seconds to explain why these brutes made a mess of my medbay and abducted me!” Ratchet snarled at him, staring with absolute loathing. Such a fiery temper. If Megatron had been in a better mood he would have been amused by it.

Instead he addressed his soldiers. “Remove his binds, then leave us. Skywarp, you will return to your duties. Blitzwing, you stand outside the door and keep guard.”

Skywarp threw Ratchet a wary look and winced when the medic returned it with a piercing glare. So it was up to Blitzwing to carry out the order while the seeker beat a hasty retreat. Once Ratchet was freed, Blitzwing stepped outside and shut the door behind him, leaving them alone.

“Well?” Ratchet demanded.

“I will get to my reason in a moment. You were unharmed, correct?” Megatron checked, remaining in his seat.

The Autobot before him huffed and placed his fists on his hips. “Aside from some mild aches, no. I sustained no injuries. Why?”

“Because this meeting—”

“Kidnapping.”

“—is happening under a white flag.” The Decepticon commander finished.

The ambulance scoffed with a roll of his optics. “And what are the terms of this ‘meeting’?”

“You solve my medical issue, we will return you to your team unharmed.”

Ratchet squinted. “You want me to fix you? You’ve got Hook. You’ve got Soundwave. Get one of them to do it.”

Megatron glowered in return. “Do you think I would have my mechs bring you here if I hadn’t expended my resources already?” He hissed. “This is beyond their knowledge. Will you assist under these terms or won’t you?”

There was a thick silence that fell between them as the medibot thought over the request. Just as the warmonger was about to lose his patience, Ratchet huffed and lowered his arms to his sides. “Alright, what’s wrong with you? Aside from everything about you.”

“The humor in your sarcasm is lost on me,” Megatron said. “I find my stabilizers are not functioning as they should. It is not a matter of a broken part. Hook and Soundwave both confirmed that.”

Ratchet made a gesture to encourage Megatron out of his chair. “Get up. Let’s see it.”

“I said solve it. You do not need to see it.”

“Do you want my help or not?” He snapped back. “Let’s get one thing clear, Megatron. You summoned me here as a last resort. You have confidence that I know what I’m doing. And I do. Nobody does a medical job the way that I do it. If you want my help, then you will do things my way.”

This no-nonsense attitude was irritating, but at the same time Megatron had to admire it, if only slightly. The other Autobots all talked tough, but when it came time to combat him, few of the warriors had the nerve to face him alone or bark out orders at him like Optimus Prime did. Their cranky medic, however, clearly cared little about Megatron’s capabilities and stood right next in line to Prime in that aspect.

With reluctance, Megatron got to his feet and wobbled a bit. He put his arms out at 45 degree angles to his sides, working to keep balance as he took a few steps forward. He wasn’t able to walk straight in the slightest, teetering from side-to-side before finally tripping on himself and collapsing on his side with a surprised shout.

This appeared to attract Blitzwing’s attention as he came bursting back into the room. “Megatron?!” He yelled.

The commander shot him a furious look as he struggled back to his feet. “Did I give you permission to come back in?!”

The triple changer shrunk back a little, looking confused.

Ratchet proceeded to grab Megatron’s arm and guide him toward the door. “Yeah, there’s something janky, all right.”

“What are you doing?” The warlord demanded.

“You don’t expect me to fix you with no tools, do you?” The medic pointed out. “Where’s your medbay?”

Humiliating as it was to be paraded for his army to see in this condition, he had to admit it was a necessary evil. He should have just put himself in the medbay in the first place, all things considered. What tugged at Megatron’s mind, though, was the fact that as they traveled, it wasn’t Blitzwing helping him stay upright. It was Ratchet.

When they entered the medbay, Ratchet threw his gaze around it with growing frustration. “Hook leaves his work space in this condition?”

“No,” Blitzwing answered. “It’s the other Constructicons whenever he’s not looking. Just to annoy him the next time he enters.”

Ratchet muttered under his intakes as he deposited Megatron on an empty table before he began looking around for the needed tools. “Take off your helmet,” he barked over his shoulder.

Before doing so, Megatron shot the triple changer a warning and dismissive look. Blitzwing took the hint and scampered out of the bay, shutting the door behind him again.

“It’s a wonder you Decepticons have even lasted this long,” Ratchet continued to gripe. “You need to get yourselves a bot with real medical training!”

“We’re a little spread thin, at the moment,” Megatron grunted. “Even back on Cybertron.”

“All I hear is an excuse.” The ambulance returned to Megatron’s side and opened up a panel in the back of his head and plugged in a cable attached to a handheld console. With deep concentration, he made use of the console in silence until he finally said, “Aha. Yep. That would do it.”

“What? What would do it?” The Decepticon leader asked, turning his head to try and see.

Ratchet just forced him to face the front again before removing the console and walking to one of the few computers in the room. “Your BIOS isn’t playing right. It isn’t shooting the right hardware address for your systems to find the stabilizers. Just needs an update, that’s all.”

Megatron stared at the back of Ratchet’s head. He made it sound so simple. Like it should have been found immediately. “Why didn’t Hook or Soundwave figure that out?” He scowled.

“Because they didn’t go to medical school and haven’t been doing repairs like this for twelve million years. You need to know where to look.” The medic returned to standing behind Megatron and plugged the console back into his head. Words flashed across Megatron’s vision telling him to standby as an update was being downloaded and installed. Approximately thirty minutes. “There.” Ratchet said. “We’ll just give that time to put itself in.”

The room fell silent as Megatron processed the new information he’d obtained about the Autobot medic through this ‘meeting’. The attitude, the confidence, the disregard of factions simply to provide aid to a bot in need. And… he’d put fear into the spark of one of his seekers. How? This medibot was certainly drawing the warlord’s interest. Perhaps… he should ‘meet’ with Ratchet for any future health issues Megatron develops.

Yes.

[doyelikehaggis]

Rowing the Rarepair Rowboat: Klaus Mikaelson x Lexi Branson (The Vampire Diaries)

Requested by @insidious-wxlf

Klaus eyes the girl standing alone in the corner of the exhibit. He thinks the word "girl" lightly only because her face is surprisingly smooth and unblemished by the age that he's aware she possesses.

He politely excuses himself from his conversation with an over enthusiastic guest. She doesn't mind in the slightest when her agreement rewards her with a pleased smile that holds the potential of a promise of his return. He's not one to keep a promise.

The girl with the locks of golden curls just stands there, head tilting this way and that. Sidling up to her, he notices her even squinting her eyes a little bit with her lips twisted uncertainly.

"You're not impressed," he says bluntly, and knows he's guessed correctly.

The girl doesn't even turn to him. She merely glances with a sideways flick of her sparkling eyes, like bubbles in champagne, and gives a tittering smile. Familiar and infuriating at the same time.

"Now, did I say that?" Alexia responds.

"You didn't have to," Klaus says flatly, hands behind his back and doing his best to keep his face a mask so as to not seem wounded by the slight poking of a sharp dagger in his chest and his throat. "Your face said it for you."

"Well, I wasn't aware that my face had developed the unheard of ability to speak for me. And with my mouth closed, to add further astonishment."

Klaus rolls his eyes and sighs, already sick of their little game. He waves a hand at the canvas in front of them.

"If you're going to come here and silently judge my work, then, do tell, what exactly is it about it that you find so unimpressive?" he asks. More demands, but one never really demands anything of Alexia Branson. He's learned that lesson before. Many times.

Sure enough, she takes an extra moment to answer simply to spite his tone. He clenches his jaw but stays quiet, waiting.

Then she squints her eyes some more, gives another tilt of her head, as if really examining the flaws in the painting. Klaus even finds himself glancing over it uncertainly. Perhaps it wasn't one of his best. He does recall being rather frustrated with it during the process of creation, and there had been a light squabble between his siblings that he had been made to deal with in between. Maybe it reflected a little too much in his work.

Then Alexia says, with an air of finality on her descision, and extreme confidence, "It's too blue."

Klaus stares at her. "It's too... blue? Your problem with this piece is that there is too much... blue?"

"No, not too much of the colour blue," Alexia says, shaking her head, making those curls move with her, fascinatingly. "It's too blue. Sad. You may has well have just painted a big frown on it and titled it, "My Inner Soul"."

She turns to him and he finally sees the grin stretching across her delicately painted lips. A weight is lifted out of his chest and then he's shaking off his disbelief.

"You're mocking me," he scoffs, a low chuckle starting beneath it in his throat. "To my face as well, a very bold move, I have to say!"

It's her turn to roll her eyes now. "Oh, I'm so scared, Nik! What are you going to do? Kill the only person who actually buys your paintings? Now, would that not just be a poorly-thought out business move?"

She's turned to properly face him now, her head tilted again, and that smile still playing across her lips. It's impossible to hold any displeasing thoughts or feelings inside of him when it feels as though she can peer right into the soul that he questions the existence of. She doesn't. She has no doubt that it's in there -- she's told him as such, time and again, despite his protests and attempts to prove her wrong. She's so certain.

He sputters a bit, fumbling over his words, something in which she finds great amusement. And he finds fondness in her amusement, so really, he doesn't mind too badly.

"Now -- that is simply untrue! I have other buyers."

"Mhm." Lexi hums. "But if that's the case, then why have I been granted the absolute privilege of being allowed to remain... well, undead?"

Klaus considers it. In truth, he's snapped necks for lesser insults and grievances.

But he looks at Lexi, and his mind instantly softens his hands to caress the delicate skin of her neck instead. He can see the places where his lips have left love letters, once reread over and again, now tucked away beneath the surface of her skin to be kept secret.

An odd feeling posesses him for a moment longer than he'd like. Similar to the time one vampire got brave and made a grab for his heart, managing to get their idiotic little fingers wrapped around it for just a moment. They had just started to twist when their head had landed on the other side of the room, courtesy of a well-timed Elijah.

It's that feeling. The twisting of his heart, phantom fingers around it like it's some kind of ball for them to play with, just to give the strings a little tug.

It's an aching, hollow feeling right in his chest and down a bit, where no one should be able to reach.

He swallows and draws his eyes away from Alexia's unmarked neck, back up to her still sparkling eyes. She raises her eyebrows at his delay in answering.

"My god," she says, widening her eyes with feigned amazement, "I've actually rendered the great Niklaus Mikaelson speechless. I wasn't sure anything could ever make you stop talking -- if you don't inflate your ego, who else will?"

Klaus' mouth twitches at the corner and he allows the smile to blossom into another chuckle. He shakes his head.

"Precisely, my love," he says, but he is too soft, still caught up in his thoughts, where the desire to be gentle always won out.

Alexia doesn't bat an eyelash. "So, am I going to be walking out of Chicago with a head then?"

She's kidding, of course. Teasing him because they both know that he's never had a single desire for her pain in any form. Even the thought of it makes his gut twist like someone has stuck a dagger in it and forgot to remove it.

"I'd rather you didn't walk out of Chicago at all," he confesses before he can think.

This wasn't how things were supposed to be. Alexia was simply a fellow vampire he stumbled across during a darker period. Many vampires have come and gone through his many centuries, many during much worse times in his life, and yet she's one of the rare few who got stuck in his mind. Her gentleness, the way he softens just by being near her or thinking of her and how she'd react if he made a particularly unpleasant descision.

Finally, she's the one who's caught off her guard. "Oh," she flusters. "Um... I mean, I don't have to go right now. Kind of got forever. So... I can stay."

Klaus nods. "Good. I'd..." he clears his throat, but the words seem to have lodged themselves firmly in there.

Alexia's grinning again, leaning in closer. "What was that? That word you were going to say? You'd...?"

Klaus clenched his teeth again but it's partly to keep his smile from stretching like it wants to.

"I'd advise you quit while you're ahead, dear Alexia, or--"

"How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?" she interrupts. "You sound like your brother when you call me Alexia."

Klaus actually is wounded this time. "Point made. Lexi it is."

She smirks, and says, "Good. Now, you were saying that I should quit while I'm ahead?"

"Which would apparently be always," Klaus concedes.

Lexi laughs, looking rather pleased about it, too. Such cockiness on anyone else would infuriate him. With Lexi, it's more fond exasperation. If anything, it's a good look on her and one he always takes pleasure in.

"I would be very happy if you were to stay for a little while longer," Klaus says, finishing his thought.

Lexi beams at him. She tilts her chin up and takes his arm, surprising him as she hooks it over her own.

"Then it is a very good thing that your happiness actually means something to me," she says. "Now, show me the rest of your paintings. And I want less sadness! Show me your happiest one."

Klaus peers at her for a moment. She just smiles that beautiful smile at him.

"I know just the one," he says, and she gestures for him to lead the way.

[sanchoyo]

Looks like you’re gonna have to gush some more cuz I meant in general uwu🌸

🌺😌🤟 Always happy to! Okay here’s just some General bnha Thoughts ™ Mostly Lov centric. You asked for them, and you said GUSH about them, so here’s. A Lot! :)

This isn’t a lov one but it’s really funny so I thought I’d put it out there:

-when bnha was first gaining traction on tumblr, it was all art of Tsuyu. I have no idea why. People were talking about the funky frog lesbian superhero anime. Maybe it was just the people I was following, maybe it was a general trend, but I LOVED her design!!! my fav color and frogs r super cute!!! And I already loved superhero media, so I was like. I’ll watch it. For Her. SO. FROPPY IS THE REASON I WATCHED/READ BNHA. I went in thinking she was the protag and I was sooo confused when Izuku was... tbh I still think it’d be more interesting if she was lmaooo aus where? ...seriously if anyone has good aus where this is the case send them LOL

-I don’t actually feel that bad abt what Shigaraki’s doing. I still feel bad for him. I’m this post. yes im an apologist. its not my fault hes sexy and has been running around shirtless. hes a lesbian icon like thor is. I want to touch his hair. hes never done anything wrong in his life. he could kill all might, deku, bakugo, whatever, I’d still be sayin this. I don’t feel bad for gt. like. was anyone genuinely attached to him? lmao

-well u know how spinner’s quirk is just sticking to things? We haven’t seen him use it in canon except like, (1) time iirc?? I think this is probably bc he’s embarrassed about it even in front of the league... I loooove the idea that he gets more comfortable with it around them :”) and also how shigaraki. um. does that falling asleep thing while standing up with his eyes open, canonly? (which I still love lmfao) Imagine someone in the league walking in a dark room, turning on the light n just seeing. Spinner upside down, stuck to the ceiling asleep bc heat rises and its Warmer Up There. (cold blooded thing like tsuyu?? come ON give him a big fuzzy coat and scarf...) and Shigaraki in the center of the room, slouched but still standing, eyes open and motionless. Theyre both sleeping. Whomever sees it just...slowly walks out. LMAO

-Toga roller derby au. No deep thoughts I just think she’d be good at it. 

-Toga 100% is a social butterfly and could befriend anyone if they didn’t just judge the fact she was trying to stab them smh :/ (ok but seriously anytime I see cute friendships with her n the other kids im like :) aw. I feel like her and Camie...would be good friends. Camie feels chill enough to be like ‘ok whatever thats totally fine I forgive you!!’ LMAO we love airheads here)

-HOW DID TOGA GET SO GOOD AT FIGHTING? We know she’s been on the run since middle school or so, but good enough to pin Deku down after he’s been formally trained at a ~hero school~ for a while? (she pinned him TWICE I think, once when his arms were messed up, but, the other time as Camie, so? AND THEN WAS ONE OF THE 100 PEOPLE TO GO THRU TO THE 2ND ROUND OF THAT? even tho she didn’t bc she had to leave) good enough to beat Aizawa in a fight and stab him? A professional hero and teacher for YEARS? Is that seriously just street training??? Can people acknowledge how amazing her combat skills and reflexes are??? More Toga appreciation when?? Also her backstory??? SO subversive and incredible, hate when people reduce her to just a ~typical anime yandere~ :/

-Tomura doing stuff with his hands/fingers to train his quirk!!! And to learn to be careful with it!! obv I’m a Big Fan of him playing piano to do this and video games are prob the canon answer, but like, guitar or any stringed instrument that requires Hands would work too. Or knitting/sewing? EMBROIDERING? ??? Please, let me give you the mental image of him knitting aggressively while mentally scheming, watching a twitch streamer or smth too while doing it. (Doing stuff with your hands is a great way to let your mind come up with creative stuff, that’s how I come up with writing/drawing ideas 70% of the time)

-Tomura actually PREFERS cutesty, relaxing games. I mean, he does fighting and bloody stuff irl, games are a way to relax...he’ll play shooters and gta type games with The Lads, but. on his own?? animal crossing. pokemon. kirby games. mario. zelda. BIG ZELDA FAN (not saying this bc I, personally, am biased, but,) slime rancher, stardew valley, funny simulator games... he really enjoys those :”) God forbid he has a kid bc they’re 100% getting named after a viddy game character unless someone can talk him out of it LOL. Toga and Tomura are that animal crossing /doom meme where she’d be asking for doom and him asking for animal crossing :”)

-Bits and pieces of Before are kinda stuck in Kurogiri’s brain, but like. mostly useless stuff the doctor didn’t care about removing. Like, types of clouds. So Tomura kinda picks up on stuff like that. He can just look at clouds and tell you what type they are because Kurogiri used to take him up to high places in the city and point them out to calm Tomura down from a panic attack when he was younger. He can tell you if the sky looks like it’ll rain with a 80% accuracy rate too. 

-Kurogiri left food out for kitties in the alley beside the bar. They weren’t allowed in for Health Reasons (it IS a bar with sanitation standards!!) And Tomura really wouldn’t stop it or encourage it either way so long as Kurogiri did his job, but occasionally would stand outside with Kurogiri and just watch the kitties from a distance. If any approached he’d go back in (lowkey afraid he’d hurt them by touching them :( ) They kinda kept that between them tho, bc they both Know AFO is a big bag of dicks and no fun

-people have pointed out how similar aizawa and tomura look. this was 100% the intention. tomura has a hatecrush on him. THIS IS SO FUNNY AND HORRIBLY AWKWARD FOR KUROGIRI LMAO

-Sako??? Mr. Dramatic?? Opera fan. Drama kid. Like, obviously, but. Really. He is. I feel like he can speak a dozen languages. I also feel like he used to be an overachiever but got too ambitious. He was def some kind of leader at one point of a diff Group or something that fell apart. I LOVE how creative he is with his quirk and the magician theme??? incredible. I don’t show him enough love but I Love Clowns :o)

-I don’t care what their canon heights are. Spinner and Dabi? short kings. My height hcs are (tallest to shortest) Kurogiri, Twice, Sako (who also has heels on his boots and a tall hat, keep in mind), Tomura, Magne (Tomura and Magne are about the same height imo) Toga, Spinner, Dabi. LISTEN. Dabi has short energy. Sorry. it’s true tho

-This is a semi-popular hc I think bc I KNOW I’ve seen it before, but Dabi having Terrible Vision and needing glasses is so so good. (seriously, with burns THAT close to his eyeballs, how could he not?) 

-he tries to be a tough loner coolguy. you’d think he’d smoke, but I hc his ‘weak constitution’ comes with weak lungs (esp from years of a flame quirk?? inhaling smoke over so much time is SO bad for you, most people who die in fires actually die of smoke inhalation...) so he’s got like, an inhaler, can’t smoke, actually gets carsick, needs glasses, overuses quirk to save friends constantly, likes napping, a little awkward and rude. Tomura put him in charge of the vanguard so he’s smart, and good with strategies too, like a nerd. this is the Dabi I wanna see, not the popular fandom version of him tbh also step on hawks one more time sir :”)

-I wish all the lov fics weren’t?? villain!deku like I said earlier, but also, chatfics? I have nothing against them but most of them are just a bombardment of Memes with NO PLOT!!! Listen. text/chatfics CAN have plot and be an interesting way to tell a story. I almost want to write one just to show what I mean...

I know I’ve said I like spinaraki and blackmagic, but I am a multishipper, so a few ships I don’t talk about that I like that involve the lov in some way:

-toga/any of the 1A girls??? or Camie??? super interesting. ALSO in the radio drama, bakugo’s voice actor said Toga was his favorite girl??? so?? bakugo/toga ?? I WANT TO SEE IT. but specifically my fav dynamic with her is when someone ELSE is the one to like her first, it’s what she deserves.

-Kurogiri/aizawa/mic?? any variety of that is also 👌🏻 I also kinda wanna see kurogiri/all might bc. Dads. COME ON. they bond over ‘well, I raised him, and you want to have a part in his life now?? ok. earn it. prove it. I’ll screen you first’ or something LMAO they’re both genuinely concerned for the boy, and SOOO biased. let them bond.

-WAIT WHERE IS THE MIC/COMPRESS CONTENT. THEYRE BOTH DRAMATIC. ENEMIES TO LOVERS?? HELLO??? SOMEONE?? ANYONE. rarepair hours

-giran/twice is cute. like he was hyping him up so much and so ready to go save him...

-dabi/magne where is the content. when. why not everywhere??? I’ve also seen magne/compress which was cute!! or twice/magne? they’re the big sibs of the lov...

-dabi/spinner?? come ON dabi could get over his learned biases and spend time with him and they could hold hands. I want them to.

-dabihawks. Obviously bc the Drama. yes even still, don’t @ me. (also, shigahawks, seen some REAL interesting fics with it tbh) or spinahawks?? adding hawks to a ship is like adding extra chili powder. makes it SPICY dramatic)

-nine/tomura don’t @ me once again. both kinda afo’s playthings, nine obviously was the test for tomura’s new upgrades...they both love their friends...That Scene in the Flower field </3 hmmm tragicships are fun.

-tomura/mirko. more enemies to lovers. big fan of her and bunnies. remember when he wore bunny ears in bnha smash. (ok its crack but. CUTE.) 

-I’ve also seen shiganatsu and shigafuyu and I’m like. these are cute, but also Dabi’s reaction always makes me cry laugh. so good.

-MOST EVERYONE IN THE LOV IS LGBTQA+!!! heres my personal headcanons:

Toga: pan or bi (CANON BASICALLY)

Magne: transwoman (CANON BABEY) bi, leans towards men. (her crush on dabi in bnha smash... uwu content where)

Shuichi: gets sooooo flustered canonly, I think he’d go for the first person Who Hit On Him (I can see him being the target of those mean pranks where someone says ‘my friend likes you!!’ and the friend is like ‘eww!!’ :(((( ) he’s super hesitant for romance, lots of repressed stuff. gay but takes sooo long to realize it bc he thinks most women are conventionally pretty Aesthethically, feels obligated to Like Them, but has bad self esteem so never goes after them, then only likes (1) guy so hes like?? is this allowed?? is this allowed???? (HES LIKE. IN LOVE WITH SHIGARAKI)

Dabi: bi but rly hasn’t ever gotten to date anyone, so he’s actually more reserved about it and while he’ll tease, he absolutely is absent and kinda oblivious (again, I KNOWWWW bnha smash isnt canon, but. my god. when magne is hitting on him and he Just Doesnt Understand.) also hes ace

Tomura: doesn’t care. (just prob says ‘its whatever’) trans/nonbinary (i’M NOT PROJECTING, BUT. :’/) probably goes with like, the label queer if any but doesn’t care much for labels

Kurogiri: bi??? kind of??? I say kind of bc well, I hc U Know Whom as bi, I feel like thatd carry over but he’d be really avoidant to date anyone bc hes gotta Watch His Kid u know? this is gonna sound surprising but I think he’d be the type to be like ‘ok we can have a one night stand/fling BUT it cant get personal bc I have a Job to Do for my Son so don’t get up in your feelings’ and act a little coldly at first or very ..not personable... depending on who it was he’d prob turn around eventually, esp if that person valued his feelings/job :”)

Sako: that mans Not Straight. I hc him as gay and also trans :3c

Twice: Bi and HAS dated prob more than anyone else in the league imo, super comfortable with his sexuality and supportive of everyone else’s :)

ok that’s about all I can think of atm, come back in 5 minutes and my brain will refill with lov headcanons :3 thank you for asking!!

[friendly-peep]

Which Homestuck characters would read Homestuck and their opinion

idk i’m bored. What’s Homestuck^2? What’s epilogues? We’re strictly Homestuck in this house. Also only doing main characters, I’m not going to dive into the Felt or caparacians, I want this to be done today.

Beta kids:

June: Avid reader. Got in early and read the whole thing. Got shirts, unironically liked it.

Rose: Got in late, but got into it. Loved the tarot deck, uses it to pretend she’s reading while she just tells people their truths. Noticed some narrative issues but overall liked it.

Dave: Got in shortly after June did, read for a while, but his irony poisoning led to him sassing the HECK out of it. Made a diss blog. Kept reading it “ironically” and cannot tell if he actually likes it or not. Got a god tier hoodie he wears at home. Sampled some of the soundtracks for his raps.

Jade: Loved it. LOVED IT. Got the full soundtrack. Made remixes. Got all the shirts. One of the blogs that posted “UPD8!” whenever an update happened. Big fanartist during the Gigapauses.

Beta Guardians:

June’s Dad: Tried to get into it to connect to his daughter’s interest, but the memes were too much, so he became the “Are ya winning, daughter?” dad. Very supportive but would need fifty slow paced “Homestuck explained” videos.

Mom Lalonde: Read it, but was too intoxicated to remember most. She holds obscure knowledge and will remember minute trivia, but don’t ask her about any of the large plot points.

Bro Strider: Too busy being A Mess Of A Human Being to sit down and read.

Poppop Harley: Too busy being A Dang Explorer to sit down and read.

Alpha kids:

Jane: Takes time to read it slowly. Has a blog of theories she constantly updates. Was upset about how some plot points got dropped and underdeveloped.

Roxy: Much like Jade, loved it. While Jade made remixes, Roxy cosplays. She has killer cosplays of most characters. Screamed about updates on twitter. No filter, accidentally drops spoilers left right and center.

Dirk: Deep, DEEP character examinations. Draws diagrams, writes essays. Unironically liked the potential of Paradox Space, may have even submit his own stories to be a guest artist.

Jake: Read the whole thing, liked it, missed many connections and plot points, was satisfied with the ending. Got some merch, can say “I read Homestuck” in public and be blissfully unaware of any positive and negative baggage that comes with saying so.

Alpha Guardians:

Jane’s Dad: Much like June’s Dad, tried to get into it. Unlike June’s Dad, watched and read his daughter’s theories (and Dirk’s explanations when Jane linked them to him) and became A Walking Homestuck Encyclopedia. Jane is unsure how to feel about this. He, however, does not reference it.

Roxy’s Rosemom: Too busy fighting the good fight to read. It’s in her radar but didn’t get the time to read it.

Dirk’s Davedad: Read it as a novelty. Sent Hussie a gold-plated Bad Dragon dildo. Put offhand references to it on his movies, but they were so oblique that even readers didn’t get it.

Jade English: Too busy running her own baking good company to read Homestuck. Not even in her radar.

Alternia Trolls:

Aradia: Much like Dirk, got REAL DEEP into it. Makes youtube vids explaining classpects and narrative points. Actually wrote a dissertation on Homestuck.

Tavros: Tried to get into it, but the first few acts were not to his taste so he never got to the trolls ironically enough. Likes the character designs though.

Sollux: Next level Dave. Critiques the FUQUE out of it on every platform he can. If Hatedom is a thing, he made it. He’s the founder. It’s him. But he read it to the end.

Karkat: Read it, loves it, does some interesting character relationship examinations. Predicted who would end up with who with 100% accuracy. Wasn’t a vocal fan, didn’t get merch, but still liked it.

Nepeta: The shipper who launched a thousand ships. She writes crackfic but with deep care, making sure it makes sense that characters would end up together. Got one of every homestuck shirt. Very into it.

Kanaya: Got into it only because her friends got into it. If Karkat hadn’t talked about it she would not have gotten into it but she did because she wants to be able to carry a conversation with her friends. Not a huge fan.

Terezi: She can and WILL correct you if you get trivia wrong. She did not sit through hours of text-to-speech pesterlogs for some scrub to get it wrong. Defiant Homestuck defender. She’ll cut you if you say you don’t like Homestuck (she won’t, but she’s judging you from the other side of the room)

Vriska: Skipped the first acts and jumped right into Alternia. Little context, little care. Pretends she didn’t, gets facts hilariously wrong which Terezi takes as an invitation to tease her. Fanartist.

Equius: Another fanartist. He made physical media as opposed to drawings. Slow reader, got into it late and didn’t finish until way after the comic had ended. Did not get to experience the comic without Random Paradox Arms all over the place. Loved by the community for his short reaction posts about what happened at the point he’s at.

Gamzee: Either first person to post “Update” when comic updated, or doesn’t read for months and then catches up in two days. Skips many chat logs, but still gets most of the plot no problem. Remembers exact phrasing of the posts he does read though.

Eridan: Another Character Analysis blogger. He dives into (pun unintended) why some characters are The Absolute Worst and writes fanfic of how they would be if they had a chance to be in a different circumstances. The Problematique fan, but only because people assume the worst of him. He’s actually pretty chill.

Feferi: Superfan, and Super Content Creator. Started making plushies and charms and eventually started selling them. Her stuff became a badge of honor and people posted themselves hugging their plushies during the gigapause.

Ancestors:

Too busy caught up in their personal turmoils to read any of it. Except the Condesce. She sent Hussie a diamond-studded Bad Dragon dildo.

Beforus trolls:

Damara: Big fan, but doesn’t express it because of the crowd she’s with. But she has a blog where she tries to get in touch with new readers and is always open to answer questions others might have. Not a Big Name fan, but she’s much more vocal online than in person, and even then it’s through an alt account.

Rufioh: Got people into it, but he himself didn’t finish reading after the Scratch. Said he would but he just never got to doing so.

Mituna: Prone to ranting when updates happened. Very emotionally invested, nearly died when Game Over happened.

Kankri: The nitpicker to end all nitpicks. He critiqued everything, and hated that there were hero mode, simplified and silly drawings. Genuinely disliked all characters for faults that he himself has, yet never self-examined. Got a following that  consisted three-quarters of people who made fun of his rants and one-quarter of people who were as intense as he is.

Meulin: Big, BIG fan. Prolific fanfic writer, if a character pairing exists, rarepair or not, she wrote a fic about them. Likes all characters and as such thinks she must devote roughly the same wordcount for everyone she can. Disappears for months then reemerges with twenty new fics.

Porrim: Moderate fan, great cosplayer. The more complex the outfit, the more she wanted to make it. Routinely goes out in Jade’s Dead Shuffle and Three in the Morning dresses because she is incredibly proud of them.

Latula: Not a big fan. Knows most of what she knows through cultural osmosis because her friends got into it, but she’s not likely to ever read it herself. Likes how into it her friends are though.

Aranea: Much like Jane’s Dad, she’s the walking encyclopedia, except she memorized the content of almost every page, and if she doubts her knowledge, will immediately go to her computer and look up what she is unsure of. Tries not to talk people’s ears off and will only talk about Homestuck when asked about it.

Horuss: Super into it. To a maybe creepy degree. Doesn’t show in public but if you get access to his secret blogs it’s more like character shrines. Don’t dig too deep into it.

Kurloz: Read it, kinda into it, but not that big of a fan. He will talk about it but he’s pretty lukewarm about the whole thing.

Cronus: Read it to impress a crush, got genuinely into it, but isn’t a vocal fan.

Meenah: Didn’t read it, much like Latula learned about it because everyone around her talked about it. Unlike Latula, she mocks everyone for liking something she says is “for nerds”. Still kinda wants to read it to be part of the conversation but her pride of Not Knowing About Homestuck is too great to overcome that hurdle.

[flammablehat]

nott/jester hurt/comfort where Jester cant magically make the flu go away so instead she stays with Nott and does all the things her mom would do to help her feel better from being sick, even holding Nott's hair back for the icky bits that she isn't a fan of. Just Jester trying to pamper and help her sick girlfriend because I like this rarepair.

“Go on without me.” Nott spoke from the great depth of her misery. “Tell my story.” 

“I’ll never leave you,” Jester insisted, ardent, kneeling by Nott’s head at the end of the couch. She carefully set down a tray laden with a full bowl, a glass of water, a few small crackers, and a folded square of cloth. Settling back on her heels, she shook out the cloth and arranged it carefully over Nott’s forehead. It was damp – an immediate, cooling relief. “Do you think you can sit up a little for some soup?” Jester asked. 

Nott groaned, wretched at the thought of it. “Go away with your…torture tools,” she mumbled. 

“Are you sure?” Jester gently stroked her ear. For such a loose canon, she could be surprisingly soothing. “Caleb finally told me how to make his matzoh balls. I told him you were so sick and he still wasn’t going to share at all and I begged him and so he just made me promise not to write anything down, but he loves you so much he taught me how so that I could make you some.” 

Nott’s ear perked up at the mention of the matzoh balls. Few things were more delicious, sick or not. She struggled up against the arm of the couch, letting Jester spoon her soup with only minimal complaint. Her matzoh balls were dense, a little more gluey than Caleb’s, sinking to the bottom of the bowl. But they were still a comfort, and the hot broth felt good on her sore throat. 

Or it did, until it came back up about fifteen minutes later. Jester flew back into the room at the sound of Nott’s retching, carefully drawing her hair back out of the way of the wastebin while rubbing soft circles between her shoulders. 

“You should really get in bed,” Jester said, not for the first time. Nott swirled a bit of fresh water in her mouth and spit into the empty soup bowl, letting her head fall back onto her arm. 

“I’m disgusting,” she said, hating how weak, how tired she sounded. “Don’t want to contaminate it. I’ll be fine out here.” 

“Nott,” Jester said, that sad note in her voice Nott hated. She closed her eyes, avoiding the even more painful look that accompanied it. It left her wholly unprepared for the press of soft lips against hers. 

“What was that for?” she sputtered, shocked for a moment out of her cloud of self-pity. 

“Well, now I am contaminated too,” Jester said brightly. 

A beat of silence.

Nott’s eyes narrowed. “You just think you’re so clever, don’t you.” 

“Yeah!” Jester smiled, bundling Nott up into her arms. “I win!” 

“I guess you do. This time,” Nott grumbled, choosing not to struggle as Jester carried her off to the bedroom. 

—

Send me a h/c prompt and a pairing if you’re in the mood!

[miraclesnail]

When your primary ship in a big fandom are crackpairs or rarepairs 😞

And for PJO that has to be Will/Travis and I wrote a fanfic on how I think their dynamic will work! rather than study for microbiology like a good student 

 [Travis]

Travis Stoll. Son of Hermes. Head Counselor. A prankster. Can pickpocket and steal like no other, a prodigy in that sense. 

A decent swordsman. 

A slightly above average bowsman. 

And absolutely incapable of being remotely serious. 

Even when the situation direly calls for it. Even on the verge of death, is too lax. Even seconds away from passing out, got to get one last joke in. Even when I’m about to nag his ears off for being too careless, will nod attentively with a stupid, stupid grin and do the stupid, stupid thing again. 

Ask me what I find attractive about Travis, and I’ll definitely say its not his unhealthy love for pranks. His desire for some ‘fun in his very boring life as a yearrounder’ sometimes (most times) bringing only pain and misery and even acrimony. And even though he apologizes, the very next day he’s doing it again. 

Travis doesn’t learn. Not from lectures. Not from mistakes. Not from him or Chiron. Only Connor can change his behaviors (and Connor doesn’t. Connor only just encourages and pushes Travis to go further by bringing Travis’s ideas to fruition.)

Travis is tactless. He jokes around when no one should be and he says stuff that never needs to be said. ‘No, Travis, you shouldn’t be joking about how Clarisse is a chicken for not wanting to enter the labyrinth again. And you shouldn’t be joking about your dead half-brother actually being Olympus’s savior when he was the one to start it all. And you really shouldn’t be joking about breaking into the camp store in such precise detail when Chiron is right there.’ But he still does it. 

Travis is careless too. How does someone set landmines on the wrong hill? Seriously? When there are only so many hills at camp? And that time during the 2nd titan war when he wanted to raid a candy store, who the heck thinks of such things in the middle of a freaking war?! I wonder sometimes how he made it this far in life with his attitude. Maybe it’s his brother. Connor’s (only slightly) more level headed than Travis. 

But even though Travis can be too casual at times, and too careless, and his morals sometimes delve too much into the grey, he’s a kind friend and a kind brother.

He likes to have fun. To live life to the fullest. To laugh and smile as much as he possibly can. To never waste a second regretting the past. Even when some of his pranks backfire on him or when he gets caught and cursed, he doesn’t dwell on it for too long. I met people who said they don’t look in the past, but Travis is the only one I know who commits to it. Snide comments. Unkind gestures. The Sneering and taunting he’ll get from other campers simply for being Luke’s half-brother back during the Second Titan War. He really doesn’t linger on any of that even though it gets my blood boiling. 

He doesn’t hold a grudge towards any of them and that’s admirable. If it was me, I would have made them beg for my forgiveness, maybe made them do some of my side chores. It grates on my nerves whenever I recall those years. The fact that he refused Luke even though he’s his brother, even though almost all of his siblings followed Luke, even though he knows first hand how neglectful the gods are, Travis still refused. That counts for something. 

Travis is also stupidly powerful. I don’t know anyone who can get into so much trouble yet still find a way out. 90% of the time, he gets away with his pranks because nobody can prove he and Connor set it up. That takes skills. He once moved live mines from Ares cabin to the other side of camp. Not anyone can just move landmines but he somehow did. 

He has a soft side too. It’s not really hidden, but it’s not really apparent either. I can see it whenever he welcomes a new camper to his cabin. Or whenever he says goodbye to a newly claimed camper. Although I find it debatable when Travis teaches his cabinmates how to beat anyone at poker, he truly offers them a home in his cabin. 

And whenever he tried to teach me how to pickpocket or how to lie with a straight face or even shoot an arrow, he’s so patient. Even though I am so bad at it, he doesn’t laugh or make fun of me. He doesn’t give up on me even though I never make progress. 

I try. 

I really, truly do try to aim, but after years of faulted attempts, most people give up on me. Even Chiron did eventually. But Travis would still follow me to the archery range. Travis would still be in the same room as me as everyone else hurries to leave. Travis would still stay as my arrows go everywhere but the bullseye. Travis would still give me advice. Travis would still follow me again the next day even if I utterly failed today. 

“It’s okay,” he would say calmly as an arrow thunk a centimeter to the right of his knee cap, “You don’t have to be perfect at everything you do.”

I’ll admit, Travis worries me some time with how carefree he can be and he may be morally gray at times, but when it comes down to it, he just wants people to know life is fun. 

And I guess that’s what I like about him.

 [Will]

Will Solace.

What can I say about the Will Solace? He’s a son of Apollo. He’s blond. He has blue eyes. And he can be a total prick, but I guess that’s what draws me to him. 

Will is talented at so many things, but he also sucks at many things. 

Do you all know Will is very bad at thievery? Pickpocketing, lockpicking, even just lying or fibbing, he’s bad at it all. He can’t keep a straight face and will starts talking faster and faster and faster. It’s adorable. He’s so honest and righteous, I don’t know why he ever liked someone as dishonest and shifty as me. 

Back during the battle in Manhattan when I volunteered to get some medical supplies, Will actually told me to leave money. Who the heck thinks about businesses when we’re right smack in the middle of the battle of the century? Will Solace, that’s who. Only Will Solace.

Oh, and Will is bad at being… what’s the word? Compassionate? Kind? Merciful? Sympathetic! He’s not very sympathetic when it is absolutely needed. He’s blunter than unsharpen pencils. Normally, he’s a chill person but if someone is being bullheaded, out comes his fangs. He says what he thinks even though he doesn’t know the full picture. When he told Nico di Angelo that the camp’s dislike of him was all in his head, I wanted to wince. I know Will means well but he didn’t had Nico living in his cabin for a couple of months. 

People were scared of him. People did avoid him. Maybe nobody outright confronted him, but they all certainly gave him a lot of space. When it was game night, only Connor or I would partner up with him. It wasn’t all in his head. 

Will is that way with everybody. 

Luckily for me, I have skin made of titanium. Years of pranking and getting caught and suffering the worst humiliation I ever can has made me immune to all criticizations. 

“Travis, you’re never going to make friends if you piss everybody off with your pranks. Travis you can’t keep using comedy as your coping mechanism for everything. Travis, stop bottling everything up and talk to someone.” 

I admit Will can be pushy and forward, but his heart is in the right place. He just has an indelicate way of showing it. 

Will is also awful at archery. He’s remarkably bad actually. It’s one of the few things he’s insecure about. He can be surprisingly fragile when it comes to that. Hours of training and nothing comes out of it. I feel like when Apollo was deciding what to gift Will in, rather than distribute it evenly across healing, archery, music and prophetic abilities, Apollo just shove all he can into healing. 

Maybe that’s why Will is so great in his medic role. He is the best healer of this millennia. I don’t know how his whole healing power works but it’s crazy taxing on him. And the more monster related the wound is, the more power it takes to heal it. He almost passed out trying to heal Annabeth back in Manhattan. You would think Will the health fanatic, the perpetual worrywart, the ‘If you shadow travel one more time, I’m going to seriously handcuff my arm to yours’ Will Solace would limit himself. But no. The guy goes and goes till he gets the job done. Either the person is healed or he passes out. 

I wish he wouldn’t do that. 

I wish he knows it’s okay to not be 100% perfect. 

Will tries more than anyone I know. I would have given up archery after a month of training and no improvement. Just write it off as a lack of talent, you know? But not Will. He goes and goes till his fingers are blistered and his arms ache. 

Will is incredible sort of in that way. He’s incredibly hardworking. He’s incredibly ethical. And he’s incredibly nice. 

Will genuinely cares for everyone. Even for someone like Octavian who was seconds away from destroying our home. I’m kind of ashamed to admit this but I would have let Octavian go. I might have even lighted the cannon myself if given the chance. Because if it was Octavian's life over my brother’s, over my siblings, over my friends, over Will’s, I wouldn’t hesitate. 

Will is genuinely nice, remarkably nice, even to someone like me, to someone like Octavian, to the point I worry if he’ll be taken advantage of. 

But his unconditional kindness is what I like about him.

(Tell me what you think! Good, bad, okay, down to hell, up to heaven, or just plain nothing. I’m okay with it all.)

[wolf-and-bard]

Resigned To Fate

Prompt: Memory Alteration / Gaslighting

Relationships: Guxart/Vesemir (from one of the witcher-centric cards), Lambert/Aiden (background)

Rating: M

Content Warnings: heavy angst, suicidal tendencies, grief, mild gore, self-harm allusions

Summary: In the aftermath of the betrayal of the Cat school, Vesemir has not only his own school to hold together, but also a traumatised lover to care for. In which: Vesemir is strong and Guxart is weak and they find it hard to meet in the middle.

Word Count: ~2k

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​

I.

Witchers survive.

Witchers endure.

Witchers outlast.

No matter the tragedy that befalls them or how difficult the contract. When they're being persecuted and beaten, starved and denied basic human decency. There's always a way forward.

Survive. Endure. Outlast.

Those are the thoughts Vesemir clings to, each sentiment falling as a whisper from his cracked and splintered lips to puddle at his blood- and gut-soaked feet, each word accompanied by the low wheeze of his shovel penetrating dry earth.

He couldn't fight for them, has to bury them. All of them.

He doesn't cry like the pups do, they haven't yet understood.

This is no genocide. This is merely a manifestation of what has been a long time coming, a natural course of history.

Vesemir cradles that truth tight to his chest. He survives, endures, outlasts. It's his birthright, duty, privilege, honour, burden, curse, cure, calling, punishment. It's a law of nature, the first one the new recruits learn when coming to the keep.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

II.

When the wolves all sleep, the living in bed rolls pushed together in the great hall, the dead in their forever resting places of hard-packed dirt, the new day is already sloshing over the horizon in waves of muted scarlet. Vesemir finds no beauty in that, he doesn't think he will find any beauty in and around Kaer Morhen ever again. All that was tranquil about this place has been soaked in blood and so, it seems, has the sky. He fills a pack with their sorry dinner's leftovers - stale bread, hard cheese, dried berries - foregoes the soup and the spirits. Two deerskins of water and a faded quilt blanket. It smells like cinnamon and honey, like comfort he hopes. It's not cold enough to warrant any kind of coat yet, but halfway across the courtyard, Vesemir finds himself shivering. He unpacks the blanket and wraps it around his own shoulders, then briskly walks out of the keep's enclosures, the sun a cool caress on his stained cheeks. He's never hated her more than in that moment.

III.

She follows him even into the dingy half-dark of the outpost's only bedroom. The curtains are drawn, the room lit by a single artificial torch, but Vesemir finds another echo of the red horizon in Guxart's eyes as they meet his across the few paces that separate them. Seeing him is somehow still a bit of a surprise.

Guxart doesn't look haggard and wrung-out the way Vesemir knows he himself does. In the wake of their shared misery - the imprisonment, the wait, the release to find their schools in ruin and their charges mostly dead or mutilated - Vesemir aged a century while Guxart is frozen in time, barely more than a shell of the witcher Vesemir begrudgingly fell in love with.

His salt-and-pepper hair falls in curls just below his ears and his greyed beard looks freshly groomed, obscuring the permanent tremble of his lips, pressed together to contain the creature of mourning that grows in his chest. His slitted pupils are constantly thin so that they nearly drown in the red hue of his irises. There are but two things about Guxart that have changed in their trudge through agony - in physicality that is. He is pale now - almost as pale as Vesemir, who always used to look like a wraith next to Guxart's light-brown skin - and his voice has lost all its natural thunder. A husk, yes. But not irrevocably so.

Guxart may be broken, but Vesemir is barely more than cracked and he can hold it together for the two of them.

"Ves," Guxart croaks from his perch on the bed and Vesemir doesn't pretend like this is a happy meeting. He draws the door shut behind himself and opens the curtains with a precise blast of Aard. The light that filters in is grimy still and Guxart turns his back on it. It's the only thing he can do. In an act of protection, born from love, Vesemir had to shackle Guxart's wrists and ankles, just so the other witcher wouldn't hurt himself. Last time, Vesemir was nearly too late and that is not something he will stand to experience again. It's a precarious arrangement, temporary, but Vesemir didn't know how else to help either Guxart of himself. Bringing him to the keep would have been certain death for them both.

"I brought food."

"I'm not hungry."

Vesemir puts the pack down by the window and slips out of his boots, then crawls up on the bed and drapes the quilt over both their legs. The sight of it puts his gut in a twist.

This is where he used to let go. Relax his shoulders and drop the teacher, the torturer. Just be. Guxart gave that to him and he to Guxart. Had he any imagination, he would let his head fall to the brick behind himself and close his eyes, imagine it's just another morning after a night spent tangled up in each other, relishing dawn's kiss and each other's presence.

Vesemir is exceptionally bad at self-delusion.

"Will you have water?" he asks. Guxart shakes his head, remaining in his strained position, even when Vesemir jerks his chin to the side in an invitation to sidle up to him.

Guxart, for his part, is exceptionally bad at accepting love and pain at the same time.

"I'm not thirsty."

"Fine," Vesemir replies and they look at each other. It's not a staring contest like they sometimes held across the training fields when their students were locked in combat. It's searching for some remnant of joy and coming up short.

"There's dirt under your nails," Guxart murmurs without breaking the eye contact. "You buried them."

"I did."

"Mine also?"

"They took them back to the Camp."

Vesemir can still hear the hisses of cats, wolves, and swords alike as the witchers collected the bodies of their fallen comrades to separate and honour them. Vesemir suspects that what he feels for Guxart will be the last love ever lost between the two schools.

"It's all my fault."

"Come here," Vesemir says, keeping his tone levelled, understanding. He opens his arms a fraction, a more blatant invitation.

Finally, Guxart slumps against Vesemir, a heaving dead weight. Vesemir brings his arms around Guxart and presses his face into his curls. He finds little comfort there and lots of reminders to all that he lost at the hands of Treyse and Radowit's damned mage. Guxart presses into Vesemir with all the strength his restrained body can muster. They don't fit together quite so well anymore.

"They gave me a choice," Guxart says. "They gave me a choice."

"What choice?" Vesemir asks, mouth dry. He blinks rapidly as he rubs soothing circles over Guxart's sharp shoulder blades. In a moment here, he will have to think about how to feed the other witcher against his will, a painstaking process. Why keep at it?

Because he has to.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

"They took me away one night," Guxart continues. "When you were asleep. They took me away and told me how I was to arrange it. Their death sentence. And they gave me a choice."

"What. Choice."

"They said they would spare them. All of them, all of our beautiful pups and kittens. They said if I throttled you, they wouldn't make me act out the treaty. It's why we were put in the same cell after that first week."

No such thing happened.

Vesemir knows.

He feared for their schools during their time in Radowit's dungeons, but his mind was sharp always, awake and waiting. Even then, he knew of Guxart's tendencies to slip from reality into madness fashioned by others. A consequence of the meddled-with cat mutagens perhaps, or a personal disposition. Doesn't matter. What does is that Vesemir was awake in the cell opposite - never sharing, never touching - watching his lover pass from one fever dream into the next as they kept him drugged, whispering to him, sentiments Vesemir himself managed to deflect when the guards - or his own mind - threw them at him.

This is your fault.

You brought this upon them, mutant scum.

They will die for your sins.

Nothing. Breaks. Vesemir.

"A lie," Vesemir sighs and presses his lips to Guxart's scalp. The other witcher shudders and the worst part about this is that he knows they will have this conversation again. And again. And each time, Guxart will believe a little less.

"They were our children, Ves. They were our children and I betrayed them. Traded their life for yours. If you had been given the same choice, would you have been strong enough?"

They both know the answer to that. If it had been between Guxart and his wolves, Vesemir wouldn't have hesitated to kill his lover. But that is entirely beside the point.

"There was never such a choice and what happened is not your fault."

"But it is. My fault. I spared you. And then I went on to kill them all. Treyse, he tried to stop me once we got out, but I gave the command anyway. We could have stood together, could have flattened all Kaedwen to dust, but I was greedy. I wanted you and the reward. I wanted... I wanted..."

Nothing ever. Breaks...

"You're talking nonsense. We were only released after the massacre took place, remember? Treyse was the one to commit treason, he gave that command."

"I have to die," Guxart says numbly. He doesn't listen now and his bound hands paw at Vesemir's thighs. "I have to die. You have to kill me."

"No."

"Please, I cannot live with this pain. Knowing it was all my fault, I cannot... how can you?"

Vesemir closes his eyes. Nothing. Nothing has yet broken him.

IV.

There is no containing Guxart forever. Vesemir knows this, Guxart knows this.

He waits, tends to his lover until such a time that he feels he's coaxed Guxart away from the brink of self-destruction at least. At the end, most of what hangs between them is fatigue and resentment, indistinguishable from the scraps of nostalgic affection they yet harbour. Vesemir does not remember what it felt like to love without care. He has to let go.

"I'm sorry, Ves," Guxart says when it's time to part, a whisper over Vesemir's lips in what will likely be their last ever kiss. "I know you mean well, but I cannot believe you. I have to repent."

There is no penance for a crime uncommitted. The only forgiveness you should want for is mine once you leave me here to grief on my own. You will wander and you will weaken and you will wither. Nothing will break me like you will, the moment you fade from sight.

Vesemir bites down on these thoughts. They're silly, selfish, and he is neither.

"Take care of yourself."

Guxart nods and turns and walks away.

And Vesemir doesn't break.

V.

Decades pass.

Vesemir fixes up whatever fissures did sneak up on him, he remains whole, he moves on.

Guxart may be out there, he may not. Vesemir will never know what fate Guxart has resigned himself to and that is acceptable.

It is acceptable.

Until the day Lambert comes home, announcing that he has given and lost his heart to a young cat by name of Aiden. He howls through the night and Vesemir holds him, the way he himself needed to be held back then perhaps, and he understands that all the glue he has been applying to his own heart was a sorry fake.

Vesemir has been broken for a long, long time.

And once he accepts that, he feels the years fall off his shoulders like leaves from an old tree, preparing for another winter. Possibly its last.

[l0chn3ss]

Just For A Minute

A MaStar fic for the masses! I listened to these two songs as I was writing this, one that I found before, and one that I found towards the end that I thought were great :D i stole rose’s and ash’s eyes for this one

@se-rarepair-day this one goes out to the homies

She already knew that they wouldn't last.

Maka was by no means intuitive, but there were signs within their relationship that called out to even the most dense person. Like for starters, the most obvious, Black Star told her straight up, from the get go, that he wasn't looking for a serious relationship. He was in town for the summer, wanting a bit of thrill just before he went back from whence he came.

"It's all for fun, alright?"

And she agreed to that without question, because that's what she'd already decided herself. Afraid of commitment, afraid that whoever she'd love would just leave her anyways- perhaps it was better like this. So why not go out with the boy she knew will disappear in the end, save her a little heartbreak by knowing just how it would all play out?

As a visitor, Black Star hadn't seen most of the area. He talked about the clear waves that crashed in the evening, of the lovely sounds that a resident had been trained to call an annoyance. He pointed to a page in a guide book that he snagged from the airport, tapping animatedly of the so called bike trails that lead to the bluffs and of the sites that he was sure Maka had passed before. As silly as it is, watching him was like watching a puppy who found magic in the most mundane things; she found it endearing for a beat before shoving the book into his face, teasing his childlike excitement.

They started off slow as any couple did in the beginning.

Hugging after a day was the first step, then holding hands during a date was the second. Maka was careful to not move too quickly, functioning on a timely schedule that she believed would give them the most out of their relationship. She let him wrap his arm around her waist by the third date, then kiss her cheek by the fourth. And on the fifth? They were making out against a tree that Maka swore no one ever passed, yelping loudly when a gang of teenagers showed up ringing the bells on their bikes and whooping to the evening sky.

Embarrassment wasn't her strongest suit; Maka hid her face into Black Star's chest until he drew her out with laughter and kisses to her forehead. "Babe," he said. "Didn't know you had a thing for that shit." They continued as if there was no chance that they would be caught again.

Soon later, he'd convinced her first to show him around her favorite places, let her take him to the scenes that she'd shown others before him. They took walks down the shore, combing for the shells that Black Star wanted to send to his aunt who lived no where next to the ocean. Though the ones that they found weren't too big, he took them anyway, wading into the sea until he was ankle deep and washing them in the waters. While he was there, he stuck a hand into the bottom and collected a fist full of muddy sand, grinning happily when it turned into goo in the air and trickled down his wrist.

Maka turned her nose, telling him that there was no chance that she'd hold that dirty hand on the way back. And yet she did, swinging it back and forth with a sand dollar in her other palm.

Coming home late from the long day, crusted salts under her nails, Spirit asked her what kept her for so long. She replied smoothly that it was just a friend. Showing him around was eating up most of her attention, but she promised her papa that everything was alright, that he was leaving for the mainland in another few months. Unconvinced, Spirit warned her not to lose track of time, but she assured him again that she wouldn't lose a second to this boy.

In her room, she thought to herself though…

Even if it wasn't for keeps, can I keep you just for a second?

She was enjoying their outings, playing along with their improv kisses, tilting her head where he wanted her to. His touches were clearly well practiced, effective. Of all her short term relationships, Black Star's came most effortlessly to her. And despite not knowing each other beforehand, they behaved like they had. So he was a little different; there was still nothing to worry about. She just wanted to know the boy she was dating.

That next morning, if she could even call it that, she woke up to the sound of tapping on her window. Jerking up from a less than pleasant dream, Maka walked to her curtains, drawing them aside and ready to scare of any sea gulls that seemed to be pecking the glass. They should have been asleep during that time, she thought groggily, believing that anyone who was awake before the sun was committing a crime.

But face to face was Black Star rather than an avian army. He leaned against the frame, tall figure barely fitting and taking up more space than she expected. Voice muffled, he coaxed her closer, asking her to work the latch, pulling her outside once she had. With a knee on her window sill and her hand in his, she hastily asked him where and why? It was still dark and she wasn't dressed properly at all.

He didn't answer her, grinning widely and hoisting her up onto his back as to not get her clean soles dirty. From there, Black Star went along the trail behind her house, careful not to jostle her too roughly, still evading her questions. Instead he laughed, "Babe, don't you trust me?"

Resigning herself where she was, Maka buried herself where his neck met his shoulders, choosing to get just a couple more minutes of sleep rather than waste her breath. His warmth, his smell, was comforting to her, she discovered. There was no need for a blanket when she had him holding onto her against the early mist.

Waking up again the second time was much nicer than the first. He'd only needed to turn his head and kiss her forehead to stir her back to life, letting her register where he'd taken her at her own pace after wiping her drool on his shirt. They were back at the beach on top of a sand dune that held itself up with plenty of beachgrass. The sky was several tints lighter, glowing faintly since the last time her eyes were open. And she knew why he'd taken her out then. Placing her onto his lap, more than careful of her indoor pajamas, he nodded his chin to the horizon.

They didn't need to wait for very long, maybe just for a minute before the sun peeked behind the waves, turning the sky a gentle shade of orange that merged into a blue gradient. Maka must have seen that view thousands of times as a child, sneaking out of her window alone to see the sunrise before crawling back into her bed, only to be caught with dirty feet by her father at breakfast. She supposed that she didn't have to worry about that this time around, tucking her legs closer to Black Star and feeding off his heat. And when she looked up to him, she saw that he was already watching her.

With the sun inching higher, it casted a growing field of light across the beachfront. The rays gently touched his tanned face and the same ones turned the inner ring of his bright green irises a golden yellow. Burning under his gaze, she felt her cheeks heating up, suddenly feeling like time should've stopped then.

Leaning back on his arms, he had a smile softer than she'd ever seen on him. "Told you. Have some faith in me, ya?"

He used his chest to nudge her shoulders towards the ocean, but the scene failed to impress, as she knew what he looked like behind her. Luckily for her, sunrises weren't something that the world fell short of. She defied his notion and reached for his lips in the hopes that their kiss might slow time, make their moment last just a little longer.

Putting her head back onto the pillow was hard to do later that morning. Maka hadn't revisited a place with Black Star since he'd come to the island, and with that early trip, she felt just a smidge slighted by herself. How dare she let him claim something that belonged to her, to show her something that she'd already experienced long before. And even worse, how dare she be unable to wipe that smugness off his face, bodies touching, and let herself be drawn to it even deeper.

Out of pure pettiness, she decided to plan the next trip. But she found that the beach quickly became their date spot of choice, especially the cove just beyond the popular area. Where the waters grew calm, where the sand was finer and even the seagulls abandoned, Maka and Black Star made that place theirs. Along the shore were small rocks that were smoothed by erosion, dusty and imperfect in form. But with five or six in her palm, Maka grew accustomed to the feeling, preferring its fuzzy-like texture and crumbling layer.

Black Star placed the seventh one on top of the rest, cackling when they all tumbled away except one in the coincidental shape of a heart that fit snuggly in the center of her hand. The indent was rough, slightly discolored within the crack. She examined it for a moment before pelting it at Star, hitting his back and laughing as he chased her down, foregoing the rest of the collection that dropped back onto the sand. Though before they left for dinner, he managed to find that very one that Maka threw and pocketed it.

She figured that he saw beauty in those stones, as if there was something in them that wasn't there before. And how could there be- they've been in the same place since the morning tide. Was there something that she could learn from him? She hoped that it weren't true, especially since she couldn't stand to make the boy any more memorable than he already was.

But as he tugged her along, stopping every so often to point out something that he found interesting, unable to stop talking about the wild flowers that sprang in the middle of the road, she grew more confused. He told her that they weren't just weeds. They were resilient, and that someday he hoped to be like them too. He liked how untampered the island was, how they worked with the wind and shared the land with the people who lived there. And he would go on and on down that train of thought. Oversharing was a nasty habit of his, and Maka was more than happy to let him talk to fill the space.

Still, there were words begging to be said to him.

Teach her to see beauty in the very things that she'd seen too often. Remind her what it meant to be a wanderer, an explorer of the earth. And show her how to fall in love again, even though she really shouldn't, especially after all this time.

If nothing is for keeps, can I keep you just for a minute?

They were stretched across the top of a sand dune within a couple of nights. Maka nibbled on glasswort that she'd found on the way there while Star was playing in the grasses surrounding them, refusing her offer to try her evening snack. According to him, just because some things were edible, it didn't mean that they should eat them. And she laughed at that, discreetly spitting out bits of the plant that she didn't feel like swallowing. The late summer glasswort was much more tasty to her, but she was unwilling to wait those couple of weeks until they were ready.

Calling her attention away from the red sunset, he reached for her hand and presented a woven ring made of beachgrass. It was jagged in some parts; the smooth reeds didn't help hide Star's poor craftsmanship. However, it was made carefully enough to hold its shape, thick enough to be noticeable from afar. And it's a sweet gesture that made her hold her breath. She blushed as he rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. As if he had the intent to get married at all.

But she let him slip the ring onto her finger, daring to let the moment tug at her heart.

He chuckled lowly, almost sadly, "Would've been cute if it were real."

And suddenly the moment tugged in a different way, away from any direction that could have possibly been entertained. She examined it quietly, holding back whatever comment she had, choosing instead to tease him on something easy, like how she should have tricked him with a stem of glasswort.

His laugh sounded best when it was unrestrained, she decided.

Dusting themselves off once the sun had disappeared, they made their way to Maka's home, making time pass slowly by engaging in a competition to find the first star to shine that night. Truth be told, she wasn't looking too hard. Living there for as long as she had, Maka already knew which constellations would appear, what places would give her the best view. Admitting it to others was hard to do, though. Because how could she tell that boy that he shone brightest no matter the time of day?

She just didn't, choosing to lose gracefully as he smiled triumphantly, pointing at the wrong cluster of stars.

After Maka was dropped off in her backyard, she chose to remain there for a while longer. Searching the sky for the answer to her problems, twisting the ring on her finger, she wondered about how much longer she could keep up that ruse. It was true to her, as certain as the stars, that there were things that were made to only last for a while, not staying longer than they have to. Those summer stars could stand to give her another lesson in loss. And she wondered how far she would let herself fall, knowing that with the change of seasons, Star would be gone as well.

Pulling the ring off, she knelt onto the dirt ground and dropped it into a hole that she made quickly with just her fingers. It would decompose with time, Maka believed, letting nature take its course without her necessarily imposing her will onto it. She only looked back once on her way inside. Regret was becoming something that Maka didn't know she was capable of feeling. But she continued to her room, picking out the dirt under her nails.

Luckily, Star didn't ask about the ring ever again.

Instead, he asked her about other things, curious about her future and her life. They were always on the topic of him before, though she would chime in during some moments about herself whenever it was relevant. Never did he want to make an entire conversation about her though- or maybe he had, and she'd only noticed now that he was direct. Star watched her talk, nodding during moments of approval and echoed her words just to be sure during some points.

She was content with where she was, taking comfort in things that were familiar, yet strangely always craving for more and more. Like she wanted to build on her current world, she supposed. To take things and apply them, to improve and to continue to grow in the places where she decided to settle- that was her drive, maybe. Something like that.

And he was silent for a while, processing what she had to say. "So, you're pretty set on staying here, huh?"

Perhaps she was. It wasn't any of his business though.

But lately, strangely, she was starting to look at her home a little differently. How long had that tree been there, waving to her every morning? What lived in the wildflowers; when do they tend to revisit, and from where? And how long does it take for those bits of seaglass to reemerge up on the surface of the sand? Maka wondered when her curiosity evaded her, voicing it out loud to no one in particular.

Star agreed to go with her to check, just because he wanted to know too.

Though, he didn't collect much that afternoon, dropping what little seaglass he had into Maka's mason jar. Part of him seemed distracted, and a part of her knew it was different than his regular lack of focus. There was certainly something bothering him that day, she mused. But if he didn't want to tell, then she wasn't the one who was going to ask.

Maka thought that he liked these sorts of little trinkets though. He was beginning to fill his pockets with much more than just random rocks and pressed flowers. Like he wanted to take a bit of the island home with him.

Caught deep in her silence, she squealed when a familiar feel of arms wrapped her waist, hoisting her up into the air. With a loud cackle and more strength than anyone should have, Star spun on his heel around in the sand. The abrupt motion caused Maka to release the jar, and it flew somewhere she couldn't keep track of. But it was the least of her worries in that moment. Dizzy thoughts replaced the ill tension and an involuntary laugh bubbled from her throat. She tried to reach for him and instead was met with a ready mouth, peppering her face after he plopped them both onto the ground.

Those same kisses eventually grew heavier, hands roamed freely in every which way imaginable. A particular press of his lips to hers made her yearn for more, so she retracted long enough to let him know. She'll go crazy if he did that again.

And he laughed in her ear, hot breath sending chills down her neck, "Ain't that so, babe?"

It wasn't fair.

If nothing is for keeps, can't I keep you for more than a minute?

She was asking for too much now, asking to keep him for longer than the time she had. It was unfamiliar to be so selfish, like she was betraying herself in the very ways she warded against. He was to return to whence he came, she reminded herself, finding too much heartache filled the void when she tried to banish her straying thoughts.

It seemed too late for her now. They went further than just "attraction," moved beyond a simple "hey, I like you." Maka was beginning to grow just a touch more desperate for what little days he had left, anything that let her be closer to Star-

When did he become just Star to her?

Mortified. Embarrassed. Afraid. Words that described basic emotions held nothing to how lost she felt. She was a fool, a fool with a stubborn heart that craved for things she wasn't allowed to have. A fool who reached for things that made her powerless in spite of it being out of her own discretion.

And she just kept coming back, over and over again to the end of their days.

They agreed to break up a week before he left, giving him a bit of time to transition back into his bachelor status and for reasons that they thought made sense in the far beginnings of the summer. The ones that didn't mean anything to her now.

"Don't miss me too much, alright Maks?"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Star."

It was a good time that they had, and she swore that she made the most of it while she had him. So why does she want to keep holding onto his hand, as if parting with him would break her in some way. Even in front of the airport's security checkpoint, Maka had no intention of letting him go.

She broke every rule that she had within that last week with him, loved with every bit of her being that she could spare. It turned out that there was plenty of more room to fall for him, so much that she couldn't stand the thought of not seeing him tomorrow. But today was the last day.

Forgetting their terms and decisions, ignoring everything else that went along with it, she gave him a final kiss. Tiptoeing on her feet, breathing in the traces of summer, Maka presented him the sweetest thank you for the love, for the adventures, for his time.

"Fly safe, babe."

He left, walking to the entrance of the terminal with a tight chest and a heavy heart.

It wasn't for keeps anyway, but he wished he kept her for more than just for a minute.

[doyelikehaggis]

Rowing the Rarepair Rowboat: Ella Lopez x Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer)

Requested by @wonderdoves

Coming to Lux was a risky move. It's not exactly Vegas, but Lucifer did decide to host a casino night. Lots of gambling, lots of opportunity for Ella to dive straight back in.

She did try to refuse, in all fairness. But casino night is just a facade to lure in the murderer they're trying to catch who just so happens to have a penchant for poker. And unfortunately for her, he's already aware that Chloe's a detective, and Dan's off for the night looking after Trixie. So, bait = Ella.

It's quiet so far. Well, not quiet, she thinks, glancing around. There are people everywhere, playing, dancing, cheering when they win, roaming around and laughing. And there's the music, of course, because what is a casino night in a nightclub in LA without music?

Her gaze is drawn back around at the thought, finding Lucifer once more in his seat at the piano. There's a little crowd gathered around him. People fawning over him like they're being discreet, or just going the complete opposite way and staring right at him, half-draped across the piano.

Ella snorts, shaking her head in amusement. The things alcohol does to people.

Lucifer's managed to ignore them for the most part, now nearing the end of the song without a falter.

It's not like Ella doesn't see the appeal that they do. His voice is certainly something worth listening to. The accent, she's sure. And his playing is perfect, as expected, because it's Lucifer Morningstar, duh. He owns a nightclub, of course he knows how to play. Really, really well.

"See anything yet?" Chloe's voice asks in her ear, and Ella almost startles.

"Nope. All clear so far," she quietly replies, discreetly adjusting her earpiece under the guise of fixing the clip in her hair that's keeping it covered.

She casts another glance around, just to be sure. But she can't see any sign of the guy she's meant to be on the lookout for, and nothing especially nefarious seems to be going down from what she can gauge. Everything's just like a normal casino.

God, the poker table is tempting. A cheer goes up from the crowd around it, along with some curses and groans. She gnaws at her lip. How bad of an idea could it really be?

"Hey, so, should I maybe, you know, play a couple games? Just to blend in, not look so suspicious just standing here on my own, doing nothing?" she asks with a nervous chuckle.

"Absolutely not," Chloe says quickly. "We need you focused, not starting a fight with our guy because he wins or something."

Ella scoffs, about to say that she wouldn't do that while a little voice in the back of her head argues that she absolutely would.

"I have a better idea anyway," Lucifer says, and Ella's head snaps up and around to find him on her right.

The music's momentarily stopped, she realizes; it was hard to tell with all of the noise still filling the silence.

"Come, Miss Lopez," he says, with a flickering smirk. His hand's settling on her back as he motions his head back off to the side.

Obliging, they wind through the tables and people until they're at the piano. Lucifer sits down, ignoring that his reappearance has drawn a small amount of attention back to him before he's even started playing.

He holds out a hand to Ella when she stops beside him. Her eyebrows raise at the look he gives her, and her eyes dart from him to the piano in sudden alarm.

"Wait, what? No, no, no." She shakes her head, holding her hands up in front of her with a laugh. "I don't play. I mean, not anymore. I took classes. Sort of--but I'm rusty, way too rusty to--"

"We'll play something simple then," Lucifer says simply, and makes a motion with the still outstretched hand. He grins, eyes dancing with mischief. "Come, Miss Lopez. Just one song. Please?"

Ella opens her mouth to argue again, say no way, no siree, not today and probably not ever in the near future. But then again... it wouldn't be that bad. She has missed it, and to play alongside Lucifer would be something else. And they can both still see a good majority of what's going on in the club from here.

"Only because you asked so nicely," she jokes with a roll of her eyes, but slides onto the bench with him.

He drops his hand, grinning in clear delight. Ella can't fight off a smile. They take a quick moment to decide on a song.

"You're on your own with the singing, though," she warns him, and he laughs, but agrees.

When they begin to play, Ella's definitely glad she said yes. There's just something indescribably comforting and thrilling about it. It helps that it's so easy to play alongside Lucifer, hands moving in sync.

When he starts singing, she looks at him. Their eyes briefly meet and he winks, as if some secret passes between them. Ella has no idea what it is yet it feels like she does, and she laughs softly as they continue on, drawing in people here and there.

When the song comes to an end, Ella thinks that playing might just give the same kick that poker does. Lucifer's elbow nudges her gently in the ribs.

"See? And you said you were rusty," he scoffs. "I suppose that's yet another talent to add to the never ending list of things you can do."

Ella smirks, shrugging, playing along. "I'm great, I know. It's why you love me."

"Oh, the list of reasons for that is even longer, my dear Ella," Lucifer purrs back jokingly. At least she thinks he's joking. Probably, right? Totally. His leaning a little closer while he said it meant nothing, nope.

"Finally, he learns my name," she says with a feigned gasp of shock, her hand against her chest. "And all it took was playing the piano with you. You know, if you wanted a duet before, you could have just asked."

Lucifer's smile is amused as he gazes at her with a gleam in his eyes. "I'll keep that in mind for the future. Perhaps I could even talk you into singing next time."

"Ha. Good joke," she says dryly, and pats his arm. "But never. Not even the devil could make a good enough deal."

The last part is pointed, with a sly side glance and a secretive smirk. Lucifer's expression mirrors it right back, his own smirk growing at the joke. She'll admit, it's fun knowing the truth. And even more fun to know that she can say with all honesty that she has dueted with the devil.

"As much as I'm enjoying this conversation," Chloe's voice starts up in both their ears, clearly sarcastic, "would it be possible for you two to, oh, I don't know, maybe focus a little more on the case? You know. The murderer who could be in the same room with you right now?"

Ella's eyes widen. "Oh, I totally forgot about that part. We're on it, Chloe, I promise. No more distractions."

"Well, perhaps some distractions," Lucifer drawls with a rather pointed look at Ella, a certain something in his eyes as they dart to her dress, then back up to meet her gaze.

Ella flushes, and she's failing to stop a laugh even as she hears Chloe groan.

"Professional, Lucifer. Please?"

Lucifer rolls his eyes and gives an exaggerated sigh, but nods, saying, "Fine, fine. I'll behave until we've caught our murderer."

"Thank you."

Ella's having to bite down on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing again, raising an eyebrow at Lucifer.

He just winks again, and quietly says, "But for the record, you're incredibly ravishing, Miss Lopez."

Ella grins, a little flip of joy somewhere in her chest, then she hurries to get back to the case before Chloe decides to intervene on the grounds of them not being serious enough.

[jamespeppersalt]

Frederick/Vaike C-S Support

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh my gooooooooooooooooooooooooooodddd, this is one of my favorite FEA rarepairs, like I don’t think I even did it justice, but I love these two so much.

Feat. Chrom!

Frederick/Vaike C-S Support

 C Support

 Vaike: Well, well, if it isn’t ol’ Frederick! What’s up?

 Frederick: Ah, Vaike. How have you been, friend?

 Vaike: Pretty good, if I do say so myself.

 Frederick: I can see. You seemed quite pleased with yourself after the last battle.

 Vaike: Yep! Every day’s awesome when you’ve got a commander like Chrom!

 Frederick: Yes. It is with great pleasure that I take care of his family.

 Vaike: Huh…

 Vaike: You really care about Chrom a lot, huh, Frederick?

 Frederick: Of course. I consider myself his most steadfast and trusted ally. Even more so than you, I would think.

 Vaike: What?! Ha! That’s dumb! I thought you said for a minute Chrom liked YOU more than ME!

 Frederick: That is exactly what I said.

 Vaike: Huh?!

 Vaike: That’s a bunch of bologna!

 Frederick: You probably couldn’t be trusted to SPELL bologna, let alone be that close to the prince.

 Vaike: I can too spell it! B-A-L-O-N-E-WHY are you being such a jerk?!

 Frederick: That’s not even…

 Vaike: Tell ya what, Freddy— let’s have a little competition.

 Frederick: Oh? What do you propose?

 Vaike: Let’s see who can get the most complements from Chrom! Then we’ll see who he likes more.

 Frederick: What an asinine proposal.

 Frederick: Obviously I am going to win.

 Vaike: Ha! You’re on!

 (Both leave)

 Chrom: Hm. Those two look certainly determined. I wonder what that’s about?

 Chrom: I’d better watch them. This could get dangerous. For ME…

  B Support

 Vaike: So…

 Frederick: …So.

 Vaike: Ready to lose?

 Frederick: Hmph! Hardly.

 Vaike: Well, prepare yourself, then!

 Vaike: Chrom just told me that I’m his best buddy AND most esteemed rival! Top that!

 Frederick: Oh? Well, Chrom told ME that I’m his truest friend and most loyal confidant.

 Vaike: Wh-what?

 Vaike: W-Well, I just cooked him his favorite meal! He said it was the best he’d ever had!

 Frederick: Well, I knitted him the most excellent sweater emblazoned with his brand. He said it was my most excellent work yet!

 Vaike: I cleaned his room!

 Frederick: I restocked his vulneraries!

 Vaike: Stop trying to one-up me, jerk!

 Frederick: Baseless vagabond!

 Vaike: Idiot!

 Frederick: Half-brained demagogue!

 Vaike: Dumb big-word user!  I’m going to go tell him he’s the best commander we’ve ever had RIGHT NOW!

 (Vaike leaves)

 Frederick: Ha! Not if I get to him first.

 (Frederick leaves)

 (Chrom appears)

 Chrom: …Oh dear. Is that what those two have been up to?

 Chrom: I’ve got to put a stop to this before one of them gets hurt.

 Chrom: Or before I get hurt…

  A Support

 Vaike: …

 Frederick: …

 Vaike: *sigh* Well, looks like we really blew it.

 Frederick: I don’t think I’ve ever seen milord so cross.

 Vaike: We really got carried away, huh?

 Frederick: I suppose so.

 Vaike: …Gee, I’m sorry, Freddy.

 Frederick: What do you mean?

 Vaike: We were so caught up in impressing Chrom, we started fighting.

 Frederick: Ah. I’m sure you meant no harm by it.

 Frederick: But I, too, am quite sorry.

 Frederick: I’ve considered you a trusted friend since the Shepherds were formed.

 Frederick: I’d hate to see that come to an end just because of a needless competition over someone we both clearly care about.

 Vaike: Yeah. Teach’ll never let that happen again!

 Vaike: Truce?

 Frederick: Truce. We’ll call it a draw.

 Vaike: Yep! The Vaike is glad to have his old buddy back! Bring it in, Freddybear!

 Frederick: Wait, no, I—

 Frederick: Oh, blast it. Come here, Vaike!

  S Support

 Vaike: Hm…

 Frederick: Ah, if it isn’t Vaike. Thinking hard?

 Vaike: Yeah.

 Frederick: My, my. There’s a first time for everything after all.

 Frederick: Don’t think TOO hard, now; you might hurt yourself.

 Vaike: Ha, ha. Very funny.

 Frederick: Just looking out for a dear friend, Vaike.

 Frederick: I know injury via thinking is exceedingly unlikely, but should anything ever happen to you…

 Frederick: Well, I don’t know what I’d do with myself.

 Vaike: Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?

 Frederick: Well, I suppose our little spat over milord got me thinking.

 Frederick: Despite your… antics, you’ve been a good friend to me since the Shepherds came to be.

 Frederick: I wouldn’t be able to bear it if I lost your friendship to something as trivial as a petty squabble.

 Vaike: My friendship really means that much to you?

 Frederick: Of course

 Frederick: I may poke fun at you from time to time, and be hard on you at others, but you are truly my closest friend.

 Vaike: Wow… the Vaike is touched! I don’t think anyone’s ever said anything like that to me before!

 Vaike: But I feel the exact same way about you!

 Vaike: That’s why I want to give you this!

 Frederick: What’s this? A ring?

 Vaike: Yeah! I went into town and bought us a matching set!

 Vaike: Frederick, you make me happier than anyone ever has before.

 Vaike: Will you marry me?

 Frederick: …!!

 Vaike: I know it’s probably a long shot, but I love you, Frederick!

 Vaike: Would you please make me the happiest man in the world and do me the honor of being Mr. the Vaike?

 Frederick: While I can’t say this is the most… normal of proposals…

 Frederick: I love you, too, Vaike. And nothing would make me happier.

 Vaike: Woohoo! I was so afraid you were gonna say no!

 Vaike: Well, now we have to tell Chrom! How excited do you think he’ll be that his two best friends are getting hitched?!

 Frederick: I’m sure he’ll be just delighted. Who wouldn’t be happy for us?

 From that day on, Chrom made sure that Frederick and Vaike would never breed, for you see, their offspring would surely bring about the end of the halidom of Ylisse. And probably Chrom’s life

[keysoflight]

DigiOTP Week 2017 - Profession AU

Prompt: Profession AU (Tattoo artist) Pairing - Takuya/Takato Rating: Teens and up audience Digimon Frontier, Digimon Tamers

This is a rarepair but it’s one of top Digimon OTPs, they have such good chemistry and I thought this AU would be a perfect setting for them. Expect the one of the future prompts to be another Takuya/Takato fic, but anyway enjoy. 

Takato was sitting in a tattoo parlor, he noticed extremely nervous, a small pink box on his lap, he gulped as he glanced around setting, the walls covered in menacing posters, skull displays, gothic-like aesthetics, he was sitting between two bulky guys, covered in tattoos and ink. One of them caught his glance as the small brunet saw the old man’s glaring at him as he awkwardly smiled.

“I l-like your tattoo... T-The skulls a-and fires...” He quietly said pointing at the tattoo on his arm as the man looked at his arm and then back at Takato.

“Thanks.” He answered in a deep tone before returning view ahead of him as Takato cleared his throat, he felt really uncomfortable, as he just looked at the floor.

‘Hey, Takato.” Takato looked up as the receptionist was calling him as he stood up.

“Alright, he should be in his station, you where to go.” He said to the teen as he nodded.

“Thank you.” He said as he hurried off to the room as the man looked at him, and shaking his head chuckling to himself.

Takato walked down the hallway, he heard the artist working on clients, heavy metal style music, he reached the door as he stood there. Before he gently knocking the door expecting to hear a familiar voice welcome him in, but no one answered. He knocked again, and still nothing, maybe there wasn't in the room, or maybe he was wearing headphones. Knocking the door once more as he heard movement in the room.

On the other side of the door, in the room, a more muscular youth was napping on his chair, his baseball cap over his head, only dressed in beige pants, his upper body exposed, the left side of his body including his shoulder, arm, chest had a few detailed ink drawings. He was quietly snoring as he heard the door knocking, grumbling as he began awakened, sitting up slowly, yawning as he was in a daze for a moment, hearing another knock.

“It’s open...” His tone was groggy as Takato heard his voice as he opened it, entering the room as he stood in the doorway, smiling.

“H-Hey there.” The brown hair male greeted the artist as he then remembered that Takato was coming to see during his break.

“Ah. Hey, Takato. Sorry, I dozed off for a bit.” He chuckled as he got to his feet, stretching a little, whilst the shy boy started to blush as his eyes just staring at the other’s chest.

“D-Don’t mention it.” He said just standing there for a moment. Takuya then noticed the pink box in Takato’s hand, as his face lit up.

“Ooh, snacks!” He rushed over to him, a sweet aroma coming from the box. 

“Yeah, I brought you some pastries I made for you earlier.” He said handing the box to Takuya as he expression was a happy one.

“Thanks, babe.” Takuya winked at him as he leaned in close kissing his cheek.

“You’re welcome, honestly it gives me more practice to try new recipes.” He answered as Takuya placed the box on the counter, as the artist placed his hands firmly on Takato’s hips, pampering his kisses all over his cheek.

“Hehe. That tickles.” He giggled as he rested his hands on Takuya’s shoulder, as all his shyness faded in that instance. Turning his head so that their lips would meet as they started making out, shutting his eyes as he melted into the kiss.

Takato Matsuki, 20-years-old, a graphics student, and a pastry chef living in Shibuya with boyfriend Takuya Kanbara, 22 years old, a highly skilled tattoo artist. They had been together for just over a year, and but had known each other for two years ever since Takato first step into the shop after he turned 18, and had been partying with his friends, and decided to try and get a tattoo.

Of course, Takuya could see he wasn’t in the right state of mind at the time and would’ve regretted waking the next day with a tattoo on his body. So he got him sobered up, asked him for his address and brought him home, and then the following day he came back, thanking the other for helping him out, bringing him some thank you pastries.

This then led to a routine between from that day, they shared their common interests, Takato would share some his graphics with the other, along with bringing him sweet treats when he was free or on a break, and Takuya would give him advice, let him draw some designs for him, the other artists, and customers. 

Takuya gave Takato a big confidence boost in his cooking and art, he felt a warm sensation just being around the guy, and he felt the same way. His feelings then blossomed as he then went for the plunge on Takuya’s 21st, by kissing him, with the other happily returning his feelings, and the rest was history.

Some time had passed as Takato was sitting on the salon chair, he stripped down to his pants, as his jacket and shirt were thrown over the back of Takuya’s chair as he was getting his equipment set up. After they had finished making out, eating some pastries, talking about their days, Takato wanted his boyfriend to finally give the tattoo he originally came in here for. 

In a few days, it would be the anniversary that the two met, and he wanted to get a tattoo from him. Takato had made the decision to get one on his back around his shoulder blade. Takuya had put some rubbing alcohol on the area he was gonna inking, he could see that brunette was nervous, as he affectionately massaged his shoulder.

“You sure you wanna? You don’t have to you know?” Takuya said as Takato looked back at him, as he then smiled.

“I know, but I want too, I trust you.” He said as Takuya blushed faintly, starting to grin sweetly, as he then got the needle set up, pushing the switch as it was on now.

“Okay then, I’m gonna start with the outline first.” The artist said, taking his free hand, and placing on Takato’s back to get a grip as he slowly brought the needle to his skin, Takato took a deep breath as he braced himself.

It was a sharp prick from the needle which then followed by the vibration as it moved along his skin. He gritted his teeth, with a few grunts and groan every few minutes, with Takuya gently rubbing his back, and shushing him as he continued. About ten minutes later, the pain was bearable as the two just went back to talking while Takuya worked on him. They were gonna go out with their friends after Takuya was all done for the day as he had two more clients to do after he finished on his partner.

About two hours later, Takuya was finishing up the tattoo, it was drawing of a knight surrounded by a ring of flames, and in the center was a symbol of three triangles in a circle. He looked at it closely checking it out before he was satisfied with it, covering it up as he then turned off his stencil putting aside. “Alright, all done now kiddo.” He said as Takato glanced back trying to see it, as Takuya then brought over a mirror so he could get a better look at it.

“Whoa... It’s perfect, oh wow... You got the colors perfectly and the knight  has such detail too.” Takato was happy with the outcome too, with the art of one of his favorite characters from a trading card game.

“Thank you very much.” Takato said as he still felt sore around that area but he was overjoyed with the tattoo that he ignored it as he turned around to hug his boyfriend tightly.

“No problem, glad you liked it, it was a great drawing too.” Takuya said picking up a notebook that Takato brought in with which he used for sketches and designs including the one that was done for him.

“Now you’re gonna stay shirtless for a while and let the inflammation cool down before you can clean it and then get dressed.”  The older male instructed Takato as he didn’t want the art to get ruined or for the other to get an infection.

“I’ve got two more people coming so you just sit over there, and when I’m done we’ll get that cleaned and then we can head out.” Takuya smiled as he gently wrapped his arms around Takato’s waist.

“Sounds good.” The brunette answered as locked his arms around Takuya’s neck, pressing himself against the other, the tingly sensation their skin touch made him grin as he nuzzled softly against the Auburn male’s chest.

“Come on now, you’re tempting me right now. Keep that up and I’m gonna have to lock the door and then those clients away.” He half-joked as Takato’s cuteness was a weakness for him.

“Now you sit there, relax for a bit, I’m gonna go and let them I’ll be ready in a bit.” Takuya kissed his forehead before placing down the chair. Takato grinned watching his partner leave as he sweetly sighed, content that he was someone as amazing at that as he looked at his back admiring his new ink.

[doyelikehaggis]

Rowing the Rarepair Rowboat: Kendra Saunders x Zari Tomaz (Legends of Tomorrow)

Requested by anonymous

"What is it about this year?" Sara finally asks with genuine curiosity and confusion. It's only taken a few weeks for her to ask, "Why now, out of literally any year? What is it that keeps bringing you back here?"

But Zari doesn't answer. She doesn't really have one that doesn't make her sound like a total idiot, so opting out of giving one entirely seems like the smart compromise.

She just shrugs, slipping a hand out of her jacket pocket to push the doors of the coffee shop open.

They walk in, and Zari's almost surprised that Sara follows. She never has before. This is also the first time that Sara's ever actually come with her, though; usually she just takes the jumpship on her own or they just drop her off when they're not on a mission and she feels like taking a small break.

But it's not a big deal. They settle at a small table by the wall somewhere near the middle of the room.

"Oh, come on." Sara crosses her arms on the table, leaning forward with that secretive smirk. "You've been obsessed with 2039 since we did that mission here three weeks ago. There's a reason."

"There isn't a reason," Zari insists. "I just like the year. It's nice, and it's peaceful. And sometimes I just want a break from the ship. Is that really so hard to believe?"

Sara stares at her, gaze never wavering, not even blinking as her eyes narrow slowly. It's like a super weird, analytical staring contest, and Zari's feeling like she isn't winning.

"Nope. Not buying it," Sara decides after a beat. "The team is a nightmare at times but that's why you hide out in your room, not why you take weird trips to Central City in some random year almost every day."

Zari scoffs. "It's not every day. Just the occasional one."

"This is your fourth time this week," Sara states flatly. Raising an eyebrow, she makes a motion towards herself. "So, try again. And really try and convince me this time. Because I am not believing that you--"

"Hey, hope I'm not interrupting."

Zari's eyes widen, and she barely notices Sara immediately tense up in her seat, or her face losing a few shades of colour.

They both look up at the source of the voice, one of the baristas, as she sets a plate down in front of Zari. On it sits a particularly colourful donut, dripping with chocolate and icing and what looks like peanut butter.

Zari smiles at Ciara and receives a slightly nervous, heart-fluttering one in return.

"You usually ask for whatever's new on the specials for the donuts, so..." she bites her lip, her eyes darting to Sara, then back to Zari. "I should let you two get back to it. I'll be... over there. In case you wanna order anything else."

Sara doesn't speak, even when Ciara hesitates a moment longer with a slight raise of her eyebrows. Zari pushes out a chuckle, drawing her attention back to her.

"Thanks. We'll just be a few minutes."

Ciara nods, her eyes soft and lingering on hers, and Zari is a mess on the inside. Thankfully, she has far more composure on the outside or she'd just melt into a puddle on the floor and never come back to 2039.

She can't help but let her own eyes linger on her as she turns and leaves, heading back behind the counter with her colleague.

Doing her best not to act out of the ordinary, she turns back, going to pick up the donut to take a very casual bite.

"Do you know who she is?" Sara hisses out under her breath before Zari can make a move, freezing her to the spot with wide eyes once more.

"No?" Zari ventures uncertainly. "I mean, I've seen her around here whenever I stop by, and she--"

"That's Kendra," Sara cuts her off, a sense of disbelief and urgency to her voice, doing all but pointing over in her direction. "Our Kendra! Hawkgirl! Remember? I told you about her!"

For a second, Zari thinks she's kidding for some insane reason. But there's no trace of a joke on her face.

It's kicking in now. The reason why Sara was so quiet, didn't do her usual flirting thing.

"That's Kendra?" she hisses, leaning across the table. "But you said she died! I thought--"

"Reincarnation, remember?"

Zari shakes her head. Her mouth's open but nothing's coming out. Of all the baristas, of all the random women.

"We didn't know if or when she would come back. I didn't realize that she already had."

Sara turns her head, looking over in Ciara's--or Kendra's--direction, and Zari does the same. Only Kendra's already beat them to it. When their eyes meet, hers widen, and she ducks her head, turning to hide her face from sight.

Something flips in Zari's stomach. Hunger. Definitely hunger.

"Oh my god," Sara breathes out.

"What?" Zari asks in alarm, urgent, just waiting for the next bombshell to drop.

But Sara's smirking, and paired with that narrow-eyed, knowing stare she's giving her is a look that Zari knows all too well.

"You like her," she says. "And she--" She glances at the donut and her expression is beyond disbelief. "She likes you."

"What?" Zari repeats with far more alarm now. "No. No! I don't--what? I don't--she doesn't--"

"You do and she does," Sara insists, both delighted and bewildered. "This is why you keep coming back to this year, isn't it? For Kendra?"

Zari's shaking her head too frantically, too firm, she can feel it only having the opposite affect she wants. She feigns a scoff.

"That would be totally ridiculous." She pauses, hand hovering by the donut. "Right?"

Sara's gaze softens, and her teasing stops. She shakes her head. "No. I get it. If I had known Kendra was here, I'd probably be doing the same."

"So... what do we do now?" Zari asks.

"Well," Sara takes in a deep breath, glancing over at Kendra again, now busy with a customer, "we have to trigger her memories. Remind her who she is. Or was, I suppose."

Zari nods slowly. "Okay. That should be... easy, right?"

Sara makes a face at that. "It did take pushing her off a building and then letting her jump off of the same building to do it last time, but it can't be that hard to make someone remember that they're actually over four-thousand years old."

Just staring is the only response Zari can find in herself. This is great. She gets a crush on a random girl and she turns out to be the Hawkgirl, and technically totally off-limits from what she's heard.

"Wonderful," Zari mutters, as much sarcasm coating her words as there is chocolate on her donut.

Sara clears her throat, eyes wide, and Zari manages to grasp the meaning behind the subtle motion of her head before Kendra fully reaches them again.

"I'm headed out on a break," she says. "But Dora's covering, so if you want anything... you can talk to her."

Zari nods, smiling to keep the fluttering in her chest and out of her throat. "Thanks. Again. We, uh--"

"She does want something else, actually," Sara jumps in, confidence apparently restored now that she knows what she's doing, smirk and all. "And I have a feeling that Dora won't be able to give her your number."

Zari's eyes snap to her, Kendra's eyebrows shooting up in surprise. She really hopes that her silent threat of murder gets across.

But Sara just leans back in her seat, all casual-like, and waves a hand lazily at Zari.

"My friend here is really shy, but she would love to go out with you some time if you're interested," she says.

So this is what dying of embarrassment feels like then.

She expected to experience it because of Nate, or maybe Ray, even Charlie can say some things that border on making her want to disappear, but she trusted Sara!

To her surprise, when she chances a look at Kendra while consciously choosing not to deny what Sara's saying (for the sake of the plan, for Kendra's memories, obviously), she finds a smile curving her lips.

Her gaze locks with hers as Kendra says, "I'd love to."

She just watches in shock as Kendra then pulls her phone out and writes her number down on a napkin that Sara very enthusiastically offers to her.

"I guess I'll see you soon then," Kendra says, her smile bright as she tucks her phone back into her pocket once she's done.

"Yeah. See you later," Zari agrees, almost feeling completely disconnected from her body, like she's running on autopilot.

As soon as she's out if the door, Sara's leaning right back across the table, saying, "Okay, grab that donut and that napkin and let's get back to the waverider. We have a date."

"We?" Zari repeats.

Sara shrugs. "You know what I mean. But we need to get you ready, so, come on."