#i am now trying my best to learn how to approximate being Clean but i truly don't know how to do any of it

[ephemeral-winter]

since i started living alone i have had a fundamental realization about myself which is: i am Neat but i am Not Clean

[perpetual-fool]

The good there is to be had

I've gotten far enough to see a pattern start to emerge. There are small, simple things which are mildly satisfying. And if the little things align, they allow for a bigger, more abstract thing. So like, I'm playing this zombie game. The pathing on the zombies is fairly rudimentary, they essentially just try to walk towards you in a straight line. But a consequence of this is that they can get hung up on doorways. So I want to get in a room, a zombie is at the door, I don't have an angle to attack them, and the moment I go in the door they'll bite me. This is an ambush. There's no code specifically making this happen, it's just a consequence of the pathing interacting with the map design. It's a bigger thing. Then the feelings; theoretically I like the like how the zombies more, and I like how the map looks. And then seeing patterns of how the zombies are interacting with the map is exponentially more satisfying.

And I've never been satisfied because I've never had all the foundations in place. Like with the zombie ambush, as the player I don't know how I can counter that. But theoretically if I keep smoothing over the rough edges on things that bother me eventually pieces will start to fit together and actually make something. So if I finally get to the 'correct' viola or guitar that should be a transcendent experience. Though in the meantime I have no idea if what I'm doing will ultimately amount to anything or not.

But this was the last obstacle in trying to reinterpret the reasons I feel bad about myself, so following up on that:

I left off at approximately 'pursuing happiness is evil because it results in bad outcomes'. I now have close enough to a good outcome to unpack that. It comes in three flavors: One, things don't work when I try to create something myself. Two, I can't figure out how to interface with the world. Three, people get upset with me when I try to build understanding with them.

One is mainly ignorance about the process described above, but is underpinned by two and three. I feel I should have achieved something already and feel I should already know what I'm doing and how to do it, which is wrong. Two is not really about the world itself, and is more or less underpinned by three. I get along fine with physics, such as with my modified pitchers which now almost never dribble. It's the stuff people have made which I can't mesh with. For instance, a frying pan with a flared rim for clean pouring, but the handle is very uncomfortable if held sideways, such as you might be doing when pouring. Am I supposed to be able to pour with this thing or not? I feel it must be somehow correct and I'm wrong for not being able to figure it out. That's mostly because that's the only scenario congruent with how others respond, virtually never explaining or clarifying anything at all and often getting upset for my asking at all. Three, to understand any subject I have to start from the fundamental concepts and build up from there, people are not an exception, people get upset when I ask for any underpinning information.

Others are wrong, obviously. I now know that this is the way to build understanding and connection. So they are theoretically mistaken in their apparent belief that all things are perfectly understood by invoking a reference alone, and about whatever it is that makes them think asking for information is some kind of horrible offense, I have no good explanation for that. Else, what I am and what they are are so far removed from each other that no moral judgment is meaningful. If happiness and understanding are evil to them, then I have no basis to know what it means to be a good or a bad person.

Reinterpretation, 'detached from reality and offended by learning' is a pretty steep problem to explain. My best explanation remains that it's all a conspiracy meant to keep me specifically from creating a functional understanding of the world. And morally, that would be a conspiracy to prevent me from doing good or feeling good about myself. This would imply a 'Truman show' or 'brain in a vat' scenario, this remains the best explanation I have regardless. Although, since my own experiences are the only reference point I have, I don't have any legitimate grounds to say those scenarios are actually unlikely.

Replacement: since that's not right, what is?

Understanding, is an iterative process of investigation and experimentation. It is good for the person doing the understanding, either directly from the satisfaction of understanding, or indirectly by allowing them to create more favorable outcomes. Understanding is between myself and the subject, as the claims and behavior of others may have no correlation with reality. (You might just say that other people may be wrong.) The same process should apply to understanding others; asking questions, making mistakes, whatever. But it doesn't, because others actively sabotage the process. Regardless, since it doesn't work with others, I shouldn't do it with others. And I shouldn't feel bad about the problems which arise from not being about to do that. The process is necessary and good even if others don't like it.

Happiness, is a gradual process of finding little satisfactions and assembling them into bigger satisfactions. And the whole thing is done blind, since you don't know if there's anything to know until you know it. So you have to just keep chugging along doing your thing and trust that eventually this journey will have a destination. And others' claims of what you should be feeling are wrong, and others' direction about what you should do to be happy is very probably wrong.

Lastly, value.

This is sort of the culmination of everything previously mentioned. I have a number of variations on feelings of being not good enough, not wanted, and deserving of suffering. I can more or less refute any specific reason given for that. But the core concept is "deserve" and I'm not sure what that means. I think it has to be underpinned by rewarding a desired behavior. Like how a dog 'deserves' a treat because they rolled over when you told them to. So theoretically people may be nice just because they feel like it, or because they're trying to manipulate your behavior. And then a concept like 'deserve' or 'earn' is like the dog thinking that getting a treat is some kind of objective rule, and if they roll over good then you are required by the rules of the universe to give them a treat. It sounds silly phrased like that, but I'm thinking of a clip where a kid from West Point was saying that meals are 'earned and not given'. So, 'deserve' is externalizing reward/punishment? As a side effect, I feel like anything unpleasant is punishment for not doing the right thing, and that every situation has a 'right' thing which I'm supposed to do.

Reinterpreting 'value', others commonly phrase their personal feelings as objective properties of the thing they have those feelings about. It's not just clumsy semantics, I've checked. This is probably for the purpose of manipulating others. It appears to them to usually work because others think largely the same way, and because they're bad at recognizing when and how others are thinking differently. And it goes very wrong with me because I think very differently than them. What they probably wanted was for my values to conform to theirs, all they achieved was to convince me my values are wrong. Bad outcomes are a result of ignorance and unforeseen or unavoidable circumstances, and since no one can be sure exactly what will happen until after it happens, no one is fundamentally culpable for misfortune they didn't want. Everyone is a victim of circumstance. And it's normal not to know what to do yet, you can't know before you know.

Replacing 'value', value is purely a subjective assessment of whether an individual does or does not like something. For myself, when considering whether I think something 'is' or 'is not' good, I should only consider whether it makes me happy (or makes me less unhappy). When faced with pseudo-objective claims like "you're a piece of shit", they should be reinterpreted as their subjective forms "this person is unhappy about me". Bad outcomes say nothing about one's character. Not knowing what to do is the necessary first step of learning, and doing the wrong thing is a stepping stone towards doing the right thing.

Now just have to try this out for awhile and see if it works.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

A Little Bit Stabbed

Jake Gets Stabbed Miniseries: First Second Third Fourth Fifth Sixth

CW: Discussion of past child abuse/domestic violence, description of stab wound, painkillers/drugged but in a good way, brief IV needle reference, some short references to Jake’s religious trauma, some trauma response stuff

“Took four of us to get you onto the couch, you know,” Kauri says, fingers moving gently to brush Jake’s short hair back off his forehead. There’s a hint of humor to his deep voice, but Jake catches the tremor in it, too. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“Must be… pretty fucking heavy, then,” Jake manages, voice slightly thin. They gave him something - Nat’s EMT friend showed up with IV supplies while refusing to tell anyone where they’d gotten ahold of everything from, except to repeatedly reassure all of them I know someone, it’s taken care of, I probably won’t go to jail for this. Besides, I’ve been in jail before.

Jake might not have found it very reassuring if he wasn’t halfway to unconscious from the pain alone at the time.

Now, though, there’s a needle feeding a steady supply of something wonderful into his bloodstream, holding the worst of the pain at bay. All he can feel now is maybe a little bit of an itch he knows better than to scratch, and a heaviness to his limbs that keeps them limp and relaxed. 

“We had to turn the stupid thing into the pull-out bed just to make sure your feet wouldn’t be higher than your head.” Kauri smiles at him, but there’s worry in those warm blue eyes, and Jake uses every ounce of strength to lift his good hand, the one on the uninjured side, and take Kauri’s, pulling his knuckles to his lips to brush against them. 

“I’m okay,” Jake says softly. “I am, Kaur. It’s not so bad.”

“It’s not-... you got fucking stabbed in your own kitchen, Jake.” Kauri’s lips thin and he looks away, over towards the TV, playing Clue.

Funny, Jake thinks, woozy and untethered to any kind of focus. My mom used to play Clue when we were alone, after. Made her feel better for a while.

“Just a… a flesh wound,” Jake manages in a terrible approximation of a British accent.

Kauri just looks at him, expression serious, and leans over until their foreheads touch. He’s warm, and Jake’s eyes close, basking in the body heat that comes off of him, surrounds them both. “Don’t,” Kauri whispers. “Please don’t make jokes. I thought-”

“It’s okay,” Jake murmurs. 

Eventually, he should probably tell someone he can only sort of feel the hand on the injured side. But not now. 

“It’s okay. It’s not s’bad. I got the good drugs, right?”

“Antibiotics and…” Kauri squints at the label on the bag attached to the IV, then winces and shakes his head. “Sorry. Can’t read today. It, uh. It kind of comes and goes when I’m worried, and today-”

“I get it. But… you don’t have to worry about me, Kaur. It’s over, it happened… I’ll feel better pretty fast. It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Kauri says softly, but he relaxes beside Jake, keeping a hold of his hand. His fingers are slightly chilled, but they warm against Jake’s. The two of them settle into silence for a while, a woman in black on the TV with eyes blown wide in comic exaggeration of anger speaking in a blur of sound Jake knows by heart but can’t really pick apart from anything else, not just yet, not right now. 

He knows this movie by heart. He and his mom used to curl up under a blanket while she closed her eyes and prayed for things to get better and Jake prayed for his dad to die in a car accident or some other terrible way, and make it slow, and then pray with terror not to go to hell for thinking like that.

If men like his father go to heaven, Jake would rather burn in hell.

At least my favorite bands would be there, he thinks, and laughs to himself, shoulders shaking a little, sending a ripple of pain down his arm and spiking into his skull. He winces, but the thought still strikes him as too funny to quit circling woozily around his mind, and he keeps laughing a little.

Kauri turns to look at him, eyebrows raised. “What are you laughing at?”

Jake blinks over at him, those wide blue eyes. It had been hell not to be able to hold him for so long, with eyes like that. Real hell, the kind where you spend your days wishing for a connection that seems too hard to make. “Nothing, just… thinking about shit with my dad,” He says, finally. “My mom and I used to watch Clue all the time. It’s her favorite movie.”

“Yeah?” Kauri looks over his shoulder, back at the television, and Jake’s eyes move lazily over the slight bump in his nose where it was broken by someone years ago, the dip of his lips, the roundness of his chin, angling a little with age. The way his neck would feel to trace with just one fingertip, how he smiles when Jake does it, asks him what the fuck he’s looking at when there’s way more to Kauri that needs attention right now than just his face.

There’s a lazy wave of warmth in Jake, a steady thrum of something that goes much deeper than arousal, at the memory.

Adoration.

“Yeah,” He says, softly. “She’d put it on when he left the house, we’d make popcorn and watch it. Saturday night special, popcorn and a movie, Mom and Jake.”

“Where’d your dad go?” Kauri asks, then the answer catches up with him, and he winces. “Wait, sorry. I think I know where he went.”

“Church.”

That is clearly not what Kauri expected to hear. “I-... what?” He turns back to Jake, eyebrows furrowing. “I thought-”

“Nope. He went to church. Fish fry on Saturdays, he volunteered.” Jake is dimly aware that this might be more than he’s ever told Kauri about his father, at least more than he’s ever said that wasn’t laser-focused on the hurts, the bruises, the concussion, the ER visits where Jake learned to lie. “He was a magician with a deep fryer. Best fucking fish I ever ate.” He laughs, then coughs a little against the new round of ache in his shoulder. 

Kauri is quiet for a moment, his eyes searching Jake’s face, maybe looking for an idea of how to respond the right way. Jake knows that look - he’s seen it less and less over the years, but it never fully stops.

Kauri never stops looking for the safe answer, the one that won’t get him hurt. Jake never stops being ready to fight his way out if it happens again. Kauri is still ready to say what the abuser needs to hear, placate and please and keep himself alive.

Jake is still ready to pick up a weapon and use it if his father ever comes near he or his mother again. Not that he ever will. Not that he even wants to, sixteen years after Jake last saw his face. 

But he’s still built, deep within, to fight the threat. And so is Kauri, in his own way. 

“I love you so much,” Jake says softly. “I hope you didn’t pull anything dragging my ass around.”

“Mmmn, guess I’ll find out,” Kauri says softly, snuggling back up to him, then. “Should we change the movie? If it’s, like, a thing for you-”

“Nah.” Jake smiles, slightly. He feels pleasantly drunk, on whatever the painkiller slowly drip-feeding into his arm is. A little woozy, a little bit in love with it. “It’s like a comfort thing, really. I should call my mom-”

“I already did,” Kauri says, gently pushing him back down as Jake tries to make himself sit up. “She’s driving up. She said she’ll get here in the morning, she had to find someone to watch her dog.”

Jake blinks twice. “Mom has a dog?”

“I think it’s new. But, um. You can’t exactly meet her at her hotel, Jake. She’s gonna have to come here.”

Jake feels a rush of old nerves prickling along his arms, the hair of his neck trying to stand up. He closes his eyes, tries to push it back down. “I’ve never given her my address. It’s not safe for us. What if-... I don’t know. I’ve just never… I’ve always worried that if he found her, you know, that he’d… convince her to tell him where I live. He’d turn us all in just to feel like the big righteous moral hero all over again. Probably hard to feel that way when you’re hitting a teenager. Easier when you’re turning in vigilantes with stolen property.” He spits the words, and Kauri flinches a little. “Shit. Sorry, Kaur.”

“No, it’s. It’s okay. I get what you mean. But I don’t think your mom would do that. She loves you.”

“She does.” Jake exhales, closes his eyes. Inside him there is still an angry child that wants to point out that it hasn’t always been enough. But there’s a grown man, and a decade of fucking therapy, telling him there’s a whole lot more to it than that. “And she’s finally come around to understanding why I do this. Yeah… yeah, we’ll tell her where I am. It’ll be fine. Honestly, it’s not so bad. Jameson really did a great job on the stabbing.” Jake tries to laugh again. “Fucking surgeon with a butcher knife. He managed to miss every fucking bit of me that would have killed me.”

“Except for if you bled out,” Kauri points out, voice small. 

“Yeah… but I didn’t.” Jake thinks of Antoni’s face, the focus in his dark eyes, the quick movement of his hands, the blinding agony of the cloth being forced into the wound to soak up the blood, the way Antoni had leaned all his weight forwards to put enough pressure to staunch the bleeding. Jake had never felt pain like that before, and he’s not sure he could handle feeling it again. “Ant was there. It’ll be okay. Where is he?”

“In his room.” Picking at the heavy thick blanket laid over Jake, not quite looking at him now, Kauri asks, “How are you so calm about this?”

“Drugs,” Jake answers right away. “Like ninety percent drugs.” He groans as a throbbing ache travels from the stab wound, up into his skull, all the way down to his toes. “Fuck. The… whatever’s in there helps. But also…” Jake sighs, letting his eyes drift to the ceiling, over the popcorn-texture there. He’d meant to scrape it clean and smooth, when he bought the house, but other stuff kept taking priority, and he hadn’t gotten around to it yet. “This isn’t th’ first time, you know?”

Kauri frowns. “Jake, I have licked just about everything on your body, I’ve never seen a scar from-”

“Not… not stabbed. But… stuck here, on a couch-bed, tryin’... tryin’ to heal from shit. That’s not new.” Jake exhales. Above him, the blades of the ceiling fan circle lazily, and his eyes follow the movement of the shadows. 

“No, I guess not.”

“In any case… I haven’t s-seen… Jameson’s upstairs, right? Can you get him down here?”

Something passes over Kauri’s face, a shadow, a discomfort and darkness that Jake can’t quite read. “Jameson’s not in the house, Jake.”

“What? Why?” Jake starts trying to sit up again, and this time Kauri’s gentle push isn’t enough to get him back down. He grinds his teeth against the pain and forces himself upright, trying to shift his legs over the side of the bed. The room spins around him, dizzy-sick flip in his stomach, but he ignores it. He’s felt worse than this and kept moving before. “Shit, fuck, I should’ve made sure he didn’t leave-”

“He didn’t. I made him go.”

The look Jake turns on Kauri is baffled, but there’s anger, too, welling up inside him. “You what?”

“I told him he can’t stay here if he’s a danger to you and the others,” Kauri says, but he cringes back from Jake’s expression, instinctive fear. Jake hates how he looks like his dad - huge and muscular, a threat inherent in his existence that he might not give off if he were smaller. But his bulk and his strength is also the thing that makes him capable of withstanding the danger he puts himself in for them. It’s the reason he could come home and pick Chris up with a broken rib and carry him after they raided the last safehouse he’d lived in. It’s the reason he could finally fight back with his dad. It’s the reason the kids at his new schools, one after another after another as he and his mom moved constantly to try not to be found, left him alone. 

“Kauri, he can’t-... Jameson’s not. He can’t live on his own.”

“That’s a lie,” Kauri says, lips barely moving. “That’s a lie they tell us-”

“No, that’s not what I-... Jameson’s like Chris,” Jake says, softly. “Like Chris used to be. He was treated like an animal, Kauri. He didn’t get to use fucking utensils to eat in the last two places he was held, he told me himself. He can’t live on his own yet. If you kicked him out… Jesus Christ, Kauri, do you not remember how it felt when you were kicked out?”

Kauri looks like he’s been slapped. “Wait, Jake-... I didn’t mean-”

“We found you half-dead under a goddamn bush, Kauri, you can’t do that to someone else just because I got a little bit stabbed! Shit. Fuck. I gave him a burner phone, if he’s still got it on him, maybe I can call-”

“Jakob fucking Stanton!” Kauri yells so rarely, and Jake goes still, turning to look at him, seeing the anger written across Kauri’s face. Kauri angry is electric, and immensely sexy, and something Jake had gone so long thinking he would never see unless Vincent Shield showed up with a new idea for how to make up for all his failures by forcing himself around someone who hated him. “Will you fucking listen to me?!”

Jake just sits there, staring at him. He can’t even find the words. Eventually, he just nods.

“I didn’t kick him out on the street, I’m not that awful, and fuck you for thinking I am and we’re going to talk about that later when you aren’t half off your head from painkillers. I don’t want him here until you’re feeling better in case it happens again, so I-... so I sent him home with Nat. She doesn’t have anyone living with her right now, and she said okay, so he’s going to stay with her.” Kauri swallows, reaching slowly out to lay his hand on Jake’s leg. “He and I talked. He said it’s always been men, Jake. All of the ones who hurt him were men, one of them was... was really big like you, I guess. So I thought-... if he’s with Nat, maybe it won’t happen again for long enough for him to, to work it through in therapy and Dr. Berger maybe can give him, give him s-something to help. So maybe he won’t, um, hallucinate or… or w-whatever the next time.” Kauri’s eyes well up, glimmer with tears that don’t fall. “I was trying to help. I thought he’d feel safer with only a woman, maybe, and I sent him alone so that he’d know he can’t hurt Allyn, he was really scared of that, and…”

Jake’s mouth hangs open.

Kauri slumps over, his forehead slowly resting against Jake’s back where he sits slightly behind him now that Jake is nearly off the bed. “I had to make sure everyone’s safe. I didn’t know what else to do. I sent Chris to stay with Laken overnight but he’ll be back tomorrow, Antoni’s fucked up but he’s in his room and he’s safe, and all the rescues promised to stay in their rooms and Allyn tried to go with Jameson and I think they hate me now because I said no, but I didn’t-... I tried to think of what you would do, if it had been Chris or me he’d hurt. I was trying to be like you. I’m s-sorry if I fucked it up, I’m sorry, please, I thought you were going to die, please don’t be mad at me-”

“Kauri.” Jake turns, and uses his good hand to lift Kauri’s chin, meeting his eyes. 

Blue on blue, always. 

“I’m not mad,” He says, gently. “Not… not now. You’re right, I shouldn’t have… just been a shit deciding what you did without asking. I’m sorry. So, let me just… you spent the last couple of hours really fucking busy, huh?”

Kauri nods, kissing Jake’s fingertips, one by one. “I’m sorry,” He whispers. “I’m not… I’m not good at this, I’m not... not... I was so scared. I didn’t know what you would do, Jake, and Nat said she thought it was a good idea, so-”

“It is. It is a good idea.” Kauri blinks, surprised, and the tears that have been threatening finally run, clear as crystal, down his flushed cheeks. He looks like a fucking sculpture, Jake thinks to himself, like some artist’s idea of the perfect beautiful person. “Kauri, just. Now that I get what you were trying to do… Shit. That’s really smart.”

Kauri huffs a laugh, a kind of half-sobbing sound, and shakes his head. “It’s just, I was just guessing-”

“That’s all we ever do, too,” Jake says, voice soft. “We guess, at what we can do to help. Nat always says we make the hard choices when nobody else can. Kauri, that’s the smartest fucking idea. I’m… that’s some grace under fire shit. That’s amazing.”

“It… it is?”

“Yeah.” Jake kisses him, and Kauri tastes like mouthwash, like mint, kisses back with desperate intensity. “Yeah, Kaur. That’s even better than what I would have done. You’re so fucking smart. What made you decide to slum it with me?”

“You have a really good d-dick and I don’t w-w-want to lose access,” Kauri says, and he’s crying or laughing or maybe both. “You’re my eye candy.”

“You’re my Einstein.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck me yourself,” Jake says softly. 

“Heal a little first.” Kauri sighs, half-smiling, pulling Jake back into the bed to lay down again. “Everyone’s safe, Jake. At least for now. Everyone’s okay. You need to rest, and everyone’s going to be okay.”

Jake lets his head be maneuvered back onto the pillow, feels Kauri settle back down next to him, pulling the blankets back up over them both. He’s silent for a while, lets the soft sound of the end of the movie wash over him, showing the different endings.

“I love you,” He whispers. The way the adrenaline is fading makes him sleepy, drifting in a new drowsy haze, ready to dose off again. “So much.”

“Love you, too,” Kauri murmurs. 

He knows this - the couch-bed pulled out, watching movies and stand-up comedy at a low volume, a throb of pain somewhere that will heal only with time - by heart.

With Kauri’s weight and warmth beside him, it feels entirely, completely new.

-

@astrobly @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @moose-teeth @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @eatyourdamnpears @boxboysandotherwhump @whumptywhumpdump @whumpfigure @outofangband @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @thehopelessopus @butwhatifyouwrite @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @newandfiguringitout @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whumpiary @endless-whump

[bbysamu]

It Ain’t Me - Part III 

Featuring: KUROO Tetsurou x you ; AKAASHI Keiji x you

Genre: Angst, fluff

Word Count: 1,024 

Warning: mentions of alcohol and drinking

Now Playing: It Ain’t Me by Kygo & Selena Gomez

✎ Preview: A few months have passed since your breakup. Kuroo is trying to clean up his act, but news of you might just have him scrambling back to the club. 

Ch. I

Ch. II

Ch. III

Ch. IV

Ch. V

Epilogue

a/n: no underage drinking please, don’t hinder your brain growth. Sorry to my fellow Akaashi simps, this one doesn’t feature much fluff with him, but I promise the next one will. 

It’s been approximately 8 months since your breakup. “7 new voicemails” your phone reads. 

“Y/N please just listen to---” deleted. 

“babe I promis---” deleted. 

“I'm begging you please just hear---” deleted. 

“Can we please just sit down and talk about this? I can’t do this anymore Y/N. I was so fricken stupid I don’t know what I was thinking. Please come back to my life. please....” deleted. 

“I know it’s been 8 months and 2 days and 3 hours since you left my life and Y/n...I'm dying....” deleted. 

“I’ve changed...I haven't had a drop of alcohol since you left. Let me show you I've changed.” deleted 

“Do you still love me? because I will always love you.” 

You don’t love him anymore, but for some reason, you just couldn’t press the delete button. 

“You look terrible”, Kenma stated, barely sparing a glance at his best friend. 

“I feel terrible. Scratch that. I feel something worse than terrible. I’d rather she scream at me and hit me than this radio silence.” 

Kenma looks up sympathetically from his phone before shaking his head. 

“you deserve it.” 

Kuroo looks at Kenma, “I know, but couldn’t you at least sugarcoat it?” 

“Y/N is a great girl and she’s my friend too, so no. Plus I want you to learn your lesson.” 

Kuroo sighs, “I already have. I’ve been trying to call her everyday for the past eight months, leaving her at least twenty voicemails a day.” 

“stalker alert.” 

Kuroo glares at Kenma, “I don’t know what I was thinking. If I could I'd take it all back.” 

“You can’t, so you need to think about how you can move on and stop bothering Y/N. You know how she is once she’s made up her mind.” Kenma looks Kuroo straight in the eye, “she’s not coming back this time.” 

Kuroo sighs, deep down he knew Kenma was right, but he refuses to let you go so easily. 

“I’m going to find her right now.” 

Kenma widens his eyes in shock, “no Kuroo--” 

He sighs, the empty room quiet again with the absence of his best friend. 

Kuroo knew it was a bad idea but he found himself in front of your company. It was almost lunch, so he knew you’d be walking out those double doors soon. 

His breath hitches as soon as he caught sight of you. You look so beautiful in your white blouse and pencil skirt, perfectly curled waves tousled by the spring breeze. 

Kuroo stops in his track as soon as your eyes meet. HIs handsome face flinches as he sees the pain in your eyes and the scowl on your face. 

“What are you doing here.” you asked, deadpanned. 

“I just wanted to talk. Please Y/N.” Kuroo asks, looking at you shyly. 

You look at his face, the noticeable dark shadows under his eyes and kicked yourself for softening. 

“Fine. What do you want Kuroo?” you sighed.  

Kuroo lights up at the chance. “I am really really sorry. I’m a changed person Y/N. Ever since that day I’ve cleaned up my act. I haven’t had a single drop of alcohol and I haven’t been to the club since. I haven’t even been with anyone, you can ask Kenma because I’ve been staying at his.” 

He looks at you apprehensively before continuing, “Y/N, I’ve reflected a lot about our relationship these past few months. I can’t fall asleep at night knowing how much I’ve hurt you and how I've hurt us. I want nothing more than to go back in time and beat myself up. We’ve been together for almost a decade. Can you give us another chance?” 

You’ve dreamed about this moment times and times before. But things were different now that your heart has been mended by another. 

“Kuroo I don’t think that’s possible.” 

He knew this was coming, but he was still surprised by the tears pricking his eyes. 

“Please Y/N. Don’t answer so quickly. Is this really the end for us?” 

“I--” 

Your conversation was cut short by the familiar voice of someone shouting your name. 

Both you and Kuroo whipped your head around to see Akaashi running up to you. 

Kuroo didn’t miss the way your eyes softened at the sight of Akaashi and the small smile on your face. 

He suddenly understood the reason for your rejection. 

“Akaashi huh?” Kuroo hated the venom in his voice, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

You narrowed your eyes at the accusation in his voice, “What about Akaashi, Kuroo?” 

“What? Did almost ten years of relationship mean nothing to you? How are you able to move on so quickly after not even a year?” Kuroo couldn’t stop himself, “gosh Y/N. I would’ve never taken you for such a slut.” 

You stared at him and gasped, mind boggled at his response “what did you just say?” 

“I said what I said.” Kuroo looked at you in the eyes, a thousand regrets in his heart.

Akaashi was at your side, trying to pull you back as you screamed at Kuroo. 

“are you insane Kuroo?! You’re trying to blame me?! For the record who was the one who cheated and destroyed our relationship?” 

You pushed a finger into his chest, he winced, “that's right it was you!”

“I moved on fair and square. You’re the one who destroyed our relationship and don’t you dare try to come and destroy my new one too.”

You pulled your arm out of Akaashi’s grasp. 

“Stop contacting her. I’m warning you Kuroo. If I see you around her one more time, I’m calling the police on you.” 

“shut up.” 

Kuroo hated the way Akaashi was looking at him. He’d rather it be a look of hate or anger, anything other than pity. 

Akaashi chases after you, leaving Kuroo standing there, watching you being comforted by your new lover. 

“whatever. Her loss.” Kuroo turned around angrily on his heels and went back to his apartment. 

♫ Who's gonna rock you When the sun won't let you sleep? Who's waking up to drive you home When you're drunk and all alone? It ain’t me ♫

At exactly 11 pm, Kuroo Tetsurou made his grand comeback to the club, a shot of whiskey in hand, his arms around another as he pushes the image of you and Akaashi out of his mind. 

Taglist: @aonenthusiast​, @mango-smoothies​, @sukunas-lady​, @donutwithinadonut​, @akaashiwife​, @mellowknightcolorfarm​ 

Join My Taglist!

[crystalkleure]

Haha hey remember that post I made awhile back, speculating on what a bad idea it might be to fuse dead things in the godless Frankenstein fossil machine

Meet White. He is a reanimated corpse. Two of them, actually. Or more like 1.5. [And I whipped up this half-assed partial reference sheet in one night instead of sleeping, so don’t look too hard at the chickenscratch lineart and visible guidelines, and kindly ignore the total lack of shading as well as any other messy jankiness.]

White is a product of me wondering not only about what happens if you NecroFuse a human with a Pokemon, but also what happens if you make it even worse and specifically fuse that human with a Pokemon capable of mega evolution. Because canon seems to imply that mega evolving is at best deeply uncomfortable -- and at worst outright agonizing -- for whatever creature is going through it.

Character Lore under the cut. Lots of text:

White is one of actually multiple undead guys who got mashed together with bits of dead Pokemon. They’re science experiments, so they've got the dex numbers of the Pokemon they're spliced with tattooed on the backs of their necks, and those numbers were treated as their names In The Evil Science Lab.

In his Original Life, White [and some of his buddies] got gored to death by some escaped Horrible Fucking Monsters that were accidentally [...and then not-so-accidentally] created via Two Pokemon At Once In A Fossil Resurrection Machine, because hey, it is SUPER easy to think you got Just One Thing's Bones from an excavation dig but then later you realize that Some Of Those Bones were from something TOTALLY different that just died in the same place. It happens. So, some Fossil Scientist People accidentally resurrected an Abomination, realized they fucked up pretty fast...and then started wondering if they REALLY fucked up or if this is Cool, Actually. And then the team of Science People split into two Morality Factions, with one half being like “This is unethical as shit, we need to make sure this doesn't happen again because it's not natural so who knows how this poor fucked up creature is suffering” and the other, cooler half being like “WE NEED TO DO THIS AGAIN RIGHT NOW BECAUSE SCIENCE. IMAGINE THE POSSIBILITIES HOLY SHIT.”

Cooler group splits off from the Horrified Group With Morals, and they promptly use their Science Knowledge to Construct More Machines and Make More Monsters. Doesn't take too long for them to realize, however, that Abomination Pokemon are stupidly hard to control, because not only are they suffering, their masters obviously don't care for their wellbeing, so Revolt Inevitably Occurs and they escape to wreak havoc upon the nearest congregation of townspeople. They promptly maul some people to death at a nearby local rock concert, scientists chase after them to clean up the mess, realize “Oh Shit, Manslaughter Charges Impending”, and then realize...

Science Guy 1: “...Hey, what happens if you put a dead person in the fossil machine?”

Science Guy 2: “Hey, people probably listen better than Pokemon. We can, like, TALK to people.”

Science Guy 3: “Lads, I got a stellar idea just now. And we got plenty of Dead Guys to start with right here! Great way to hide the bodies too, probably.”

This goes approximately as well as you would expect, and precisely as ethically. A smashing success!

However, because they Fucking Died, the reanimated Newly-Monsterized dudes do not remember shit about who they were pre-resurrection. They're not technically even the same people, they’re more like clones. They've been remade. So, all they know now is Science Lab Life, and they have no initial attachment to eachother aside from "that other guy is also a Science Experiment Person just like me, so Same Hat @ Labrat Neighbour ig", in spite of several having been friends or even family prior to death. They also just...don’t know/remember things in general. They are fresh blank slates. And to a morally-bankrupt team of scientists, that’s perfect! They can train these guys to behave however they please!

...However, people might be People Instead Of Animals, meaning they can be Reasoned With And Manipulated And Coerced far better than animals due to their far better communication abilities with the Science People, but...there is Still A Problem in the sense that Holy Shit, A Person Can Only Take So Much. You can only treat someone as "Experiment [number]" for so long, blatantly putting no value on their life outside of The Value Of Scientific Research, in spite of literally basically needing to raise them like a normal child due to the Lack Of Memories issue. Eventually they're not gonna be able to take that anymore and they are gonna Fucking Leave, too. And they’re gonna be much harder to track down than the rampaging Pokemon were. Impossible, actually, once they’ve ripped out their tracking chips.

So then there's just these monster dudes, who don't actually know what they are because they weren't ever told anything more than necessary to get them to cooperate with Tests And Experiments, just Escaped Into Civilization and having NO idea how Anything works. Fun! Especially considering how, at first glance, these just look like Normal Dudes. Their monster bits either aren't apparent or just look like funky body modifications.

They've also got Science Things in them and they Don't Know What The Fuck Those Things Even Are. They've just got these little Devices in/on their chests, and they were never informed of the exact functions of them because there's no reason to explain to the experiment What Is Happening, just that the experiment needs to Hold Still and Cooperate and Now Do This, Now Do This, Now Do That, Good Job That's Enough For Today, etc.

Those devices contain both key stones and mega stones.

If you were a Mad Pokemon Scientist, you would most certainly be interested in the mega evolution phenomenon. What would YOU do if some of your Undead Fusion Experiments happened to be spliced with bits of Pokemon known to be capable of mega evolving? You’d kill two birds with one enigmatic set of stones, that’s what you’d do. Your Frankenstein Experiments can even TALK to you and tell you exactly what they are experiencing when you run tests on them! It’s perfect!

So, if a rock-bearing monster’s heart rate goes too high, part of the little device, which is a barrier between one type of rock and the other, opens up and Exposes One Rock To The Other Rock. Which exposes the monster to the Rock Energy Reaction. The greater the stress, the higher the dose. And I’m sure you can see the snowball effect that’s gonna create, at least the first time or two.

They were INTENDED to eventually be made to Physically Fight With Eachother to gauge the effects of The Rocks™️ when the Guys With The Rocks are under Stress and need to Do Some Self-Defense. The Science Squad was basically trying to suss out the Actual Purpose of mega evolution. Because mega evolution is weird -- it puts ENORMOUS stress on the body of whatever is undergoing it, so the hypothesis was that its true power is probably drawn out best via a perceived life-threatening situation, like it’s a type of hysterical strength, because what else would cause a need for that kind of ability. And aren’t ethics a bit overrated?

So, there’s our premise. White is just wandering around without any particular purpose outside of never ever going back to Science Hell, and he has no clue what the funny little doohickey buried in his chest does until it activates one day and absolutely fucks him up [...as well as everyone around him. Mega Absol radiate an Aura Of Sheer Terror that can literally scare people with weak hearts to death if they’re not careful.]

And now, some Miscellaneous Character Info:

The bit about Lots Of Death happening at a rock concert specifically was important. White was actually the vocalist of the band that was playing. He doesn’t remember that now, but he still loves music and has the same strong vocal cords. And THAT is important because White is partially an Absol now and Absol naturally learns Perish Song. These Fusion Monsters are absolutely capable of using Pokemon moves, though whether they’re aware of this is a different matter entirely. Imagine what happens when they end up tapping into those abilities accidentally.

That band was a relatively-unknown little local band. White was by no means anywhere near famous. Very few people even realized he was gone, and most of the ones who would have noticed also ended up Equally Unalive.

That black stuff between the belts on White’s arms is mesh. Like, stocking mesh. It gets Ripped The Fuck Apart when he goes Mega Mode and his arm fur gets Extra Spiky. Hence one stocking being a bit tattered in that reference pic. He frequently has to replace those things, they are fragile.

“How did White get his name if he doesn’t remember his original name and didn’t have a real name in the lab” I am glad you asked! Post-escape, he eventually encountered a situation where someone asked him what his name was, he bluntly told them “I don’t have one. I am #359.”, they said “Well That Is Not A Name, I need something proper to call you”, and he was just...Super Apathetic. So, the other person picked out the name “White” just based on the fact that White’s hair is white, and he just shrugged and rolled with it.

As you can see in my Incredibly Quick And Rough Sketches, the backs of White’s shirts are open to accommodate that huge amount of fur that bristles out into false wings when he goes Mega Mode. Because his Actual Normal Hair is relatively long and overlaps with that fur, it blends in with his Actual Normal Hair and doesn’t look too odd [when it’s down]. Probably mostly because nobody’s expecting it to be anything OTHER than Perfectly Normal Hair That Just Happens To Be Very Long.

White does not particularly like violence. White does not want to beat you up. He will, though, without a bit of hesitation, if there’s some logical reason he feels like it’s the most practical course of action. Being essentially raised by Cold, Emotionally-Sterile Scientists With No Care For The Wellbeing Other Living Beings uh, tends to affect a guy a little bit. White has a bit of an internal dilemma regarding “It would be efficient for me to just Harm This Other Person to defuse the current situation, because attempting nonviolence will be overall more risky somehow” vs. “Holy shit it feels bad when I hurt people. Why does it feel bad when I hurt people. Is it...SUPPOSED to feel bad when I hurt people?? No one ever felt bad for hurting me.” He Figures Out How Empathy Works Eventually. He is a good guy at heart. He is a Monotone Snarker, but not actually Cold or Malicious at all.

If an Absol can do it, White can probably do it. He has incredibly keen senses and a STRONG ability to Detect Impending Doom. He has exactly the amount of Supernatural Absol Powers you would expect. He is also stupidly physically strong, way more so than he appears to be.

White can’t punch people. Look at the fist he’s making in the pic, he’s doing it wrong. If you punch someone like that, you WILL break your own thumb. That’s not a Revving Up To Sock Someone pose, he’s just tense. He’s using his thumb as a buffer between his long-ass Sharp As Fuck claws and the flesh of his palm. If White tries to punch anybody, or just makes a proper fist at all, he will impale his own hand on his nails. Like, all the way through. He CAN slash straight through things like metal and bone with those claws, though.

White...is unsettling. Completely accidentally, and unknowingly. He just radiates an Aura Of Intimidation [...or Pressure], even when not in Mega Mode, that scales depending on his mood. Just being near him tends to put people and Pokemon on edge. Thus, he’s generally avoided.

The latter point is especially unfortunate, because White’s preferred method of Socializing and Bonding is to just kind of quietly hang out in the same room as whoever he is trying to Socialize and Bond with. He just wants to, like...chill out Near A Buddy and watch a movie and share a bag of chips or something. His social skills are predictably not good.

[midnightsnyx]

Consequences - Matthew Tkachuk: part 6

summary: you absolutely hate Matthew Tkachuk so it’s just your luck when you wind up pregnant with his child. 

a/n: well... here it is lol 2(or 3?) weeks late. sorry for the wait, this chapter was just a bitch to write and every time i thought i was done, i wasn’t happy with it & i didn’t wanna post just for the sake of posting. but i stayed up until 2 a.m. to finish this, so technically it is sunday so im posting on schedule lol

im not sure how many parts are left to this story, maybe two or three + an epilogue but i haven’t decided yet. 

also, this gif made me feel things 😂

word count: 2.1k (i wish they were longer too but im doing the best i can😩)

warnings: none other than a couple swear words

Part 6

29 weeks

“What are you doing?”

“Researching how to murder someone and get away with it.” You mutter, typing where to buy a tiger in Google.

Becca gives you a wary look and sits next to you. “Everything okay?”

“No!” You groan in frustration, tossing your phone on the coffee table. “Matthew is driving me insane.”

She frowns. “Is he being an ass?”

“He’s being nice. Too nice.” You grumble, ignoring when Becca chuckles. “It’s like he’s trying to make up for missing the doctor’s appointment even though I told him I forgive him.”

Becca raises an eyebrow at you and you try to ignore her pointed look. “Do you though?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask defensively.

“You’re different around him now and I’m sure he’s noticed. It’s like you don’t trust him.”

You start to deny her accusation but stop to think about it. Were you more cautious around Matt lately? You certainly didn’t let yourself depend on him for things that you had been before, too afraid that he would let you down. You wanted to, but there was a nagging voice in the back of your mind reminding you that he’s let you down before and there’s always a chance he will again.

It’s as if Becca can read your mind because she shrugs. “You should be honest with him.”

However, something you’ve learned recently is that too much honestly can get you in trouble.

. . .

Sending Matt a text that said we need to talk, probably wasn’t the best approach because it took him approximately fifteen minutes to show up at your apartment and his is a half hour drive away from yours.

So his windblown hair and wide eyes really weren’t a surprise when you opened your front door.

“So, I think I should have worded that text a little better.”

“You think?” He huffs, walking past you when you step aside. He doesn’t even bother to take his shoes or jacket off, walking straight to the living room and turning to look at you.

“I’m sorry. For whatever I did.” He says and you groan.

“That’s the problem! Stop being sorry for things. It’s driving me nuts.”

He frowns and looks at you in confusion. “So… you don’t want me to be sorry for things?”

“I don’t want you to not be sorry for things, I just want you to stop being sorry for everything. It’s like you’re walking on eggshells around me.”

“I’m just trying to make-”

“Make up for missing the appointment.” you say, finishing his sentence. “I know.” your hand falls to your stomach and you sigh. “We’re going to be parents in less than three months. We need to start trusting each other.”

Matt slowly walks over to you and reaches out for your hand which you let him hold. His thumb rubs across the back of it and he nods.

“You’re right.”

You grin and lightly punch his shoulder with your free hand. “Of course I am. When am I ever wrong?”

He smiles, pulling you in for a hug and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You ignore the way it makes your heart race because the last thing you need right now is your feelings for him to get even more confusing when you’re both finally on the same page.

Things are good now and you can’t risk messing it up.

. . .

31 weeks

He’s like a kid in a candy store, you’ve realized as you follow Matt around buy buy BABY. He has two carts, one already stocked full of things and the other slowly being filled. You stopped keeping count of how much everything costed an hour ago because the number started to make you queasy.

“He has enough clothes, Matty.” You whine, taking note of how Matt trips over his feet when you call him by that nickname. “and he’ll grow out of them before he even gets a chance to wear them.”

“Last one, I swear.” He says, holding up an outfit. “C’mon, how fucking cute is he going to look in this?”

“If his first word is a swear word, I’m going to kill you.” You mutter, taking the outfit from him and tossing it in the cart. Matt just grins and rests a hand on your stomach, hoping the baby will kick.

“How’s Joey?”

“Grayson is doing just fine.”

“We’re never going to come to an agreement on a name, are we?” he asks and you smile sweetly.

“Nope.”

He laughs and starts walking towards the checkouts.

“Did my mom tell you that they’re coming to visit?” He asks and you nod, recalling your conversation with Chantal. She’d called you first to make sure you were okay with the entire Tkachuk clan showing up. She knows how stressful pregnancy is and didn’t want to overwhelm you.

But you were ecstatic when she asked if it was okay for them to visit. You’ve grown to depend on her for any pregnancy questions over the past seven months and even when you needed some regular advice for everyday things, you sometimes texted her.

“Yeah, it’s Wednesday, right?”

Matt nods, smiling politely at the cashier as he starts loading every thing on the conveyor belt. You can tell that she’s a hockey fan by the way her eyes light up when she recognizes who he is.

“I’ve been meaning to ask if you can pick them up from the airport?” He asks, catching you off guard. “Their plane lands around noon and I won’t be back until later that night and I don’t really want them to have to take a cab.”

You’re a little surprised that he’s asking you to do this instead of paying someone or asking a close friend to do it instead. It’s an odd feeling, realizing that he trusts you with his family.

“Yeah, I’d love to.” You tell him and his smile warms you to the bone.

. . .

You show up to the airport forty-five minutes early because you can’t decide if you should wait in the SUV for Matt’s family, or meet them in the airport. Would it be weird to wait for them inside like you would with your own friends or family? You double check your phone to make sure that Matt did tell them it was you picking them up because how weird would it be if they were expecting him only to find you waiting.

You’re definitely over thinking it but you find yourself standing at the gates when their plane lands.

Chantal is the first person you see and her face lights up and she scurries over to you, pulling you in for a soft hug.

“Oh, look at you!” She gushes, taking your hands in hers and holding you at arms length. “You’re glowing.”

Glowing isn’t exactly the word you would use because as much as you tried to look nice to pick them up, you’re still seven months pregnant, sweating because of the jacket you have on and most definitely are wearing odd shoes because you can no longer see your feet and Matt wasn’t here to check for you.

But you blush nonetheless, letting Keith, Taryn, and Brady hug you before starting to walk to baggage claim.

“Thank you for picking us up.” Chantal says and you smile.

“It’s nothing,” you say, brushing it off. “You’ve done a lot for me.”

“Anything I can do to help. I know how hard it is being pregnant with your man travelling a lot.”

You want to correct her when she calls Matt your man, but you don’t want to be impolite so you just nod.

“Speaking of your man,” Brady says in a teasing voice, “what time does he get in, again?”

“Around 8.” You say, ignoring the teasing tone and changing the subject to ask Taryn how school is going. You know you’ll hear more comments about the nature of your relationship with Matt from his brother but for now, you chat with Taryn and Chantal about plans for the baby.

. . .

Matt gave you a key to his apartment when you both realized that you spent more time at his these days then you did at your own so you don’t miss the knowing looks Chantal and Keith share when you use your key to unlock Matt’s apartment. You know they can tell it’s your key and not Matt’s because he painted it your favourite colour when he gave it to you.

“So do we get a sneak peak of the nursery?” Taryn asks hopefully and you nod, gesturing for her to follow you. Matt turned one of the guest rooms in to the nursery in his apartment. You haven’t done anything with yours yet because you and Matt were starting to wonder if after the baby is born, at least for a little while, the two of you should just live together. It would certainly make things much easier.

“It’s beautiful.” Chantal says, and you can see her eyes watering a little.

“We’re going to put up letters spelling his name above the crib.”

“Oh yeah, have you guys decided on a name yet?” Keith asks, testing the sturdiness of the crib by wiggling it a little.

“No.” You mutter. “We can’t agree on anything.”

“You’ll find something you both love eventually.” Chantal reassures you. “Now, please tell me my son has food in his fridge, because I’m going to cook dinner.”

You grin, realizing that she too knows how bad Matt is at keeping his fridge stocked. Before you started spending so much time here, you would be lucky if he had eggs in the fridge.

. . .

Matt arrives home just as dinner is cooked and you get to witness what a typical Tkachuk night must look like. There’s lots of chirps thrown but you can tell how close this family is and how much they care about each other. Especially when it comes to Matt and his mom and sister. He treats them like gold and it warms your heart to see it.

After dinner, you volunteer to clean up and you’re surprised when Keith offers to help. You’ve only spoken to him a few times before today and you don’t feel as close to him as you do with Chantal so it’s quiet while the two of you clear up the dishes.

Keith breaks the silence after a couple minutes, turning to look at you.

“I know Matthew can be a handful… but don’t give up on him, okay?”

You’re surprised to hear this coming from Keith because you were truthfully expecting Taryn or Brady to say something about it. Every time you and Matthew touched or spoke to each other, you noticed the knowing looks and soft smiles from the other Tkachuk family members.

It was like they knew something that neither you nor Matthew did.

You’re not sure what exactly to say so you just nod.

“I won’t.” You promise, realizing that you truly mean it.

[merakiaes]

Best Friends Headcannon - Geralt Of Rivia

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x reader (platonic)

Requested: By @by-the-primes​

Prompts: None. 

Warnings/notes: This is my first time ever writing a headcannon and it turned out more of a one-shot hahaha xD I went a bit overboard and I’m not used to this kind of post at all so sorry if it sucks. 

Wordcount: 3430

Summary: Headcannons of being best friends with Geralt. 

You had first met Geralt of Rivia when you were merely twenty-four years of age. 

Seeing as you were human and didn’t age the same way he did, you were quite a bit younger, even though he didn’t look to be a year older than thirty. 

You were of noble blood and with your parents’ consent, you had headed out into the world to “find yourself”, but in reality, you just didn’t want to be stuck at home in tight, frilly dresses listening to your mother go on about potential suitors all day, every day.

So with only a bag containing some clothes, gold and other things needed to survive, you headed out on your own. 

Having been locked up pretty much your entire life had made you quite the bratty smartass. You didn’t have a filter and rarely knew when to stop talking back to people, which was the first thing Geralt got to learn about you upon first meeting you.  

Long story short, he had to save your ass in a tavern when you had picked a fight with the wrong person, severely having underestimated the amount of backup your new enemy had. 

At this point, you had only been on your own for approximately a week and still had plenty of gold left, and offered to pay for his dinner and room as a thank you. 

He accepted, but stared at you weirdly the entire time, sitting quietly until you told him to get on with it and speak his mind.

“Do you not know who I am?” “White hair, amber eyes, Witcher pendant hanging around your inhumanly muscular neck, yeah I think I have an idea. I just don’t care. Heroes and villains, we're all somewhere in between.”

You parted ways the same night as he stayed behind to care for a monster-problem, and you headed on to the next town. 

It was already the next day that you met again. 

He had come to the town you had landed yourself in and left into town for some business, and come back to the stables to find you petting and talking to Roach, feeding him apples from your bag. 

“Hm, you again.”  “Nice to see you, too, Witcher.”

You traveled to your next destination together, and Geralt quickly realized that you were in no way a noble lady, despite being raised so. 

You were a big eater and completely terrible at singing. Your personality was gruff and grumpy, but at the same time, you never seemed to drop the sarcasm. Your humour was crude, your language vulgar, and your temper was a ticking bomb. 

The latter forced Geralt to have to step in and prevent you from digging your own grave on more than one occasion. 

“Be nice.” “I am.” “You threatened them with a knife.” “But did I stab them?”

He acted out of logic, and you acted out of your emotions. 

“Learn how to sit back and observe. Not everything needs a reaction.” “That’s easy for someone who is incapable of feeling to say.”

You set camp together later that night, Geralt leaving you in charge of the campsite while he planned to go fetch some firewood.

“What if something creeps up on me?” “Trust your gut.” “I have anxiety. My gut is always telling me to abort mission.” “How have you survived on your own so far?” “Well, I’ve only been on my own for a week as of yet.” “Hm.”

You would think he would be the one snoring but he laid as quiet as a mouse throughout the night. 

Instead, you turned out to be the one with the sinus problem, your snoring keeping him awake and leaving him aggravated to the point where he wanted to smother himself with a pillow the next morning. 

“Good morning, sunshine.” “No.” “I believe the proper response is good morning.” “No.” “Yes, but-“ “No.”

You went on with your morning, and he handed you the map to which you were quick to shake your head. 

“No, no, no. You do not want me navigating. I’ll accidentally navigate us off a cliff.” “Then we die. Now shut up and turn the map in the right direction.” “Alright, alright, I got it. I know where we’re going.”

Fast forward an hour and you’re standing at the edge of a mountain, looking out over the landscape of a town you had never before seen or intended to go to.

“I thought you said you knew where you were going.” “Yeah, I lied. But in my defense, I did tell you not to put me in charge of navigating.” “That you did.”

You were forced to turn around and go back to camp, and start the journey all over again. 

But you didn’t reach it, instead being captured by a couple of elves along the way. 

Despite barely knowing you, Geralt was instantly protective of you. 

“I’m trying my best to be polite but if you move that knife a centimeter closer to her I will tear you apart.”

Unbeknownst to him, as he was taking punches behind you and trying to talk himself out of your difficult situation, you were taking your flexible wrists to advantage, being able to snap them on command, allowing you to get out of cuffs. 

To say that he was terrified when he caught sight of your limp, deformed hands was an understatement. Luckily, however, it was enough to stun your captors and allow Geralt to knock them out. 

You found Roach right where you had left him before you had been taken, and continued heading to your original destination. 

After making it to the right town this time, you parted ways, but once again destiny brought you together the next morning and from then on you just kinda stuck together. 

Being a Witcher was work enough, but now he also had to take on the responsibility of keeping you safe. Something that proved very hard when he was the one wanting to kill you most of the times. 

You just never shut up, it was infuriating. 

But it did work in his favor sometimes, too. More often than not, you would do all the talking for him whenever he was approached about a monster-problem so that he wouldn’t have to. 

In most cases your vocabulary was cut down to “piss off”, ���we don’t care” or “leave”, but on the rare occasion, you would switch it up with a “come to mama” if they flashed a bag of cold in front of your eyes, followed by a shameless order in the likes of “Geralt, go do your thing.” 

When he would only stare at you in annoyance for selling him off, usually in the middle of his meals as most people approached you in the taverns you stayed at, you would only add “please” because you knew it would vex him further. 

But still, he would get up with a gruff rumble of his chest and stomp off to do his job.

You frequently started calling him Sunshine, the irony of it just being so good. 

He found the nickname irritating. As he did almost everything else you did. 

You were a very restless person, almost always tapping your foot or bouncing your leg whenever you sat down. 

“Stop that.” “The fact that you’re telling me to stop makes it so much more enjoyable.”

It got so annoying after a while he had to start putting his feet on top of yours underneath the table whenever you sat down in a tavern, or else he wouldn’t be able to eat in peace. 

It became a tradition for you that he ordered chicken and you ordered pork whenever you would stop to eat, and then you would give each other half of your food so that you each got a little bit of both. 

Much to his dismay, you also always switched his ale out for water if it was still light out, telling him it was unacceptable to start drinking before dark. 

How you always managed to succeed with it he didn’t know, because his eyes would purposely follow the tavern worker the entire way from your table to the bar to see to it that nothing happened on the journey. 

And still, he always received a boring mug of water. 

Before he met you he could travel for days, only sleeping in the woods. 

But you had a bad immune system, so now that you were moving together you could never move for too long at a time if the weather got bad. You needed to sleep under a proper roof in rain and storms to avoid you getting sick. 

After a while, the clothes you had brought with you from home weren’t usable anymore and had to be replaced. 

The only thing left from your original pack now was the blanket you had slept with every night for your entire life and four heavy books that you read over and over again. 

When in danger and having to get away quickly, Geralt had insisted countless of times just to leave it behind, to which you had insisted to go get it even if it meant putting your life in danger. 

After a while, he just got used to it and picked up the habit of reminding you of your bag every time you were starting to move somewhere else. 

When traveling, you would force him to stop by a lake or stream once every day to let you clean up. 

You might have left the safety of your home to travel the world but you still wanted to look decent. You had grown up noble, looking your best every day. 

You hated being filthy. 

And you hated messes, too. 

You might have constantly been on the move, not staying in one place for too long, but because of the way you were brought up you still despised messes. 

You usually stayed in the same room whenever you would seek refuge in a town for the night, and always scolded him and forced him to clean up his shit if he threw it on the floor. 

When you got the time to stay a bit longer and didn’t have any danger hot on your trails, however, you took separate rooms so that he could occupy himself with a no-strings-attached shag. 

Every morning after, you would casually burst into his room and wake him up, not caring in the slightest that he was naked with a woman, sometimes several, in bed. 

“Suit up, whore. We’re leaving,” You would say, to which the whores would always gasp and exclaim something along the lines of: “I beg your pardon?” while trying to cover up their bare chests, and failing miserably. 

Geralt would only grumble, wave them off and push himself up in bed. 

“She’s talking to me.”

You constantly insulted each other and talked shit about the other behind their back. 

“Maybe if you weren’t such a troublesome fobbing, clay-brained hugger-mugger, we could get some things done.”

But the insults didn’t stop with him.

“No one asked for your opinion you abominable shit gobbling.”

“Get out of my way you sorry excuse for a mammering, tickle-brained lewdster.”

“I fail to understand how you’ve become such a reprehensible fuck waffle.”

Those were only few of many insults you threw around at strangers every day, and although Geralt was amused by your big, unladylike mouth, it was worrying. 

“You’re one insult away from starting a war.” “How fun.” “You say that now, but you can barely even hold your own in a weaponless brawl.” “Can too!”

But you couldn’t. So he taught you how to wield a sword.

Already during your first sparring session, he accidentally stabbed you in the side, and your automatic response to feeling the steel bury itself into your flesh was a mere “rude” before passing out on the spot form the pain. 

But after that, you caught on quickly. And you started growing up quicker, too, taking after him and his antics. 

Soon enough, you had gone from mocking his constant humming and grumbling, to humming in sync with him. 

You always helped each other with tasks if needed, whether it be saddling Roach, setting up camp or gathering your stuff around the tavern rooms you would stay in every once in a while. 

You just worked well together, and didn’t need words to do so. 

You grew out of your overly spastic nature, but you still lacked a filter every time you opened your mouth so even years after first meeting, you would get into trouble. 

And if someone chose to fight one of you, they chose to fight both of you. 

Geralt always tried to avoid conflict and battle, but if someone as much as looked at you the wrong way, they better run. 

He was obviously the more rational one, trying to keep you out of trouble, to which you always seem to have a talent of stirring shit up even more.

“I had a thought…” “No. Don’t make that face.”

But he always came along anyway, and it most often ended up with a stab wound or two because you talked back to the wrong person. 

And you never got away without a scolding. 

“Get off the horse so I can explain in painstaking detail how much of a dumbass you are.” “Do I have a choice?” “No.”

There was no shame or shyness between you. 

You did things in the other’s presence that might have been considered romantic or intimate in the eyes of a spectator, but it was completely platonic. 

When the time was scarce, you sometimes had to bathe together, back to back, to get it done as quick as possible. 

You would shave his face and he would wordlessly put your hair up whenever he noticed it annoying you. 

The habit had started when you had injured your arm and was unable to do so yourself and just stuck with him after that. 

He couldn’t braid for shit, but he did do a decent bun. 

You always tied your laces too loosely, so he often had to redo them to prevent you from tripping over your feet. 

You would wear his shirts whenever you waited for yours to dry after a wash. 

You would fall asleep with your head on his shoulder. 

You would share beds and food. Rub each other’s shoulders to rid of the soreness after a beating or a fight. 

You made fun of each other always, and you found it particularly fun whenever he lost or took major damage in battle. 

“Nice blackeye, Sunshine.” “Shut your mouth.”

But still, you would always be there in his time of need to patch him up, and try to talk him into being more careful - exactly like he had been forced to do your reckless ass all those years ago. 

“Look, I’m glad you’ve saved everyone and all that but it’s time someone told you to take care of you.” “I’m fine. “No, you’re not, and furthermore, if you don’t take care of yourself, think of all the people who need you in the future who won't have you. Think of Ciri.”

It was funny, how you had been the one to be driven by emotions to a start, unable to control your anger and putting yourself in harm’s way, and now it was usually the other way around. 

You took care of him when it came to patching him up, and he took care of you in every other way. 

“Why aren’t you eating?” “Take my cloak.” “I’ll get the firewood, sit down.” “You can have my half.” “Watch your step.”

Those were only a few of the ways he told you he cared for you, along with “I hate you.”

“I hate you” became your way to say “I love you”, and you said it several times throughout the day. 

Even this long into your friendship, and countless of poems and songs later, people still got shocked when seeing you walk side by side down the streets. 

Geralt was powerful, had a serious face. You did not want to get on his bad side, let’s just leave it there.

But you. You were cute, had a kind face and a contagious laugh. You were kind, despite your big mouth and usually vulgar attitude. 

Still, he always warned people to never hurt you or else, but everyone always assumes he said this as a warning of what he would do to them, even though he was, in reality, warning them about you. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” “Why? What’s she gonna do? Woo me to death?” “Underestimate her. That will be fun.” 

Then they would approach you and find out you’re actually badass as shit, getting beaten to a bloody pulp. 

And all Geralt would say as he stepped over their body on the floor was: “I warned you.”

Six years into your friendship, you were a lot more mature than you had been at twenty-four, now thirty. But you were still a little shit, enjoying your companion’s displeasure. 

While Geralt would always open doors for you, you would always purposely slam them shut in his face, just to give him that extra work. 

You would slap him on the chest and say “language” every time he said “fuck” and then proceed to call him a cunt only minutes later.

You were an annoying piece of shit, but he got his revenge every blue moon. 

Men who were attracted to you would usually approach him first and ask for his blessing and advice, knowing you were of noble blood and pretty much impossible to impress. 

He would always play along, urge them on, encouraging them and telling them everything you didn’t like, and then stand by and await the show.

You weren’t dumb, always saw them speaking and always spotted the amused smirk on your partner’s face as he sent the men your way. 

So you followed his example and played along, standing by and listening to their pathetic attempts silently, pretending to be interested. 

Always thinking they had you hooked, they would touch you inappropriately and smirk. 

“Shall we?”

And to this, you would simply smile, before headbutting them to the floor and stepping over them. 

“Not even in your dreams.”

Walking back over to a snickering Geralt, you simply passed him, glaring into empty space. 

“I hate you.” “I know you do.”

One day Geralt left for some monster-killing-business, while you stayed behind in the town you had been in the past few nights with a broken arm. 

It was the first time in years that you split up, but you weren’t very worried. 

More so than anything, you were annoyed, when he came back with a chatterbox bard trailing behind. 

“Where are you from?” “Here and there.” “What do you do?” “This and that.” “You ever…?” “Now and then.” “Boy, you are just full of information, aren’t you?” “Or maybe your questions are just too boring to be worth an answer.” “I have NEVER been so insulted!” “You don’t listen much, do you?”

Finally, after so many years of it being only the two of you, karma had caught up to you. 

You were now forced to experience first hand what it was like being followed by someone who couldn’t stop running their mouth. 

“Come here.” “Why?” “Just come here.” “No, you’re going to hit me.” “She probably will.” “You guys realize how incredibly codependent you are, right?” “I fail to see your point, measel.” “Do you ever run out of insults?” “Only time will tell.” “She’s just a female version of you, isn’t she?” “She used to be a female version of you.” “That’s seriously hard to believe.”

It wasn’t long after that that you met Yennefer of Vengerberg. 

You didn’t like her, at all. But you learned to tolerate her for the sake of Geralt, trusting his judgment. 

But that didn’t stop you from keeping a watchful eye on her. 

Jaskier teased you endlessly for it, claiming you were jealous and in love with him, yourself. But it was nothing like that. 

You didn’t want romance. You wanted meaning and purpose and adventure and you found it all in him – a soulmate in the form of a best friend. 

Legends and rumors claimed Witchers weren’t capable of feeling human emotions but after being on the move with him for so long, you knew there was absolutely no truth to those claims. 

And if she hurt him, you would kill her yourself.

[myhauntedsalem]

19 Parents Share What Their Kid Remembered About Their ‘Last’ Life

1. He showed us his grave

When my brother was about 2 or 3 he told us his name used to be Austin. One day we were picnicking right along side a cemetery, when my brother took off running towards the gravestones, my dad and I followed him and found him touching a large headstone that simply read “Here Lies Austin” no name, no date. My brother did not learn to read until he was 6 and this headstone wasn’t even right out visible from where we were, yet he ran right to it

2. We don’t watch firefighter things

my son told me a few months ago he “used to be a firefighter, and we got called to a fire. There wasn’t any family inside the house, so we just put the fire out. Then the fire truck caught on fire and I died”. A few nights later, he elaborated he was taken to a hospital, where he died. We don’t watch firefighter things.

3. Her “other” mother’s name was Sally

I was talking to my four year old when she began to freak me out. She was telling me a story about her “other mother” and that she “died a long time ago on a Thursday.” I tried to brush it off, you know, whatever, shes a kid, they have wild imaginations… but then she started to go further into detail about the death of her “other mother,” whose name was apparently Sally. She has never met anyone named Sally, and I can’t recall any shows on TV she watches where “Sally” is a character. She told me that she was playing with her father’s gun that she found and accidentally shot and killed Sally while she was walking upstairs. It’s pretty weird. There are no guns in this house, I haven’t even really told her what guns are all about and how they can hurt or kill someone, shes only four! I think I am beginning to understand now why when I try to tell her when someone dies, they go away forever, she tells me that, that is not true. “We come back, mommy!” I’m only 23, I had my daughter very young and despite not being prepared, I don’t think I could have ever prepared for a conversation like that!

4. “When she lived before she was born”

My daughter did the same thing at the same age. She told me about her life “when she lived before she was born” and described herself as a woman with long hair who lived in an apartment with a long flight of stairs outside of it. She drove a VW Bug and wore long skirts. She then told me that she fell down the stairs and died. Her stories were startlingly vivid and always consistent. Quite spooky. She is now 19 and doesnt remember it. My advice would be write down everything your daughter tells you on the subject. Everything! Record her stories if you can.

5. Roanoke?

I would tell my older sister about my death. I told her my husband was captured and fire was everywhere. I took my young son and ran. I told her my son couldn’t run fast enough. I knew we would get killed and I had my husbands knife on me, I wanted to leave a clue. I wrote in capitals “CROATOAN” I told her we were caught and how my son was killed before I was killed. I told her how I was stabbed in the stomach with a knife. Then, I went about playing with dolls. I can still picture the scene and my son to this day.

6. “She used to come visit me”

my son says he remember his great grandmother (my grandmother) and can describe her in perfect detail (how she looks, how she acted, even what brand of cigarettes she smoked) , although she died 11 days before he was born. He says that she used to come visit him in his dreams.

7. Conchon

Apparently beginning around the time my friend could form sentences until he was little more than 2, he would go on and on about how he was a Native American named Conchon and that after his wife and son got sick and died, he moved to a mountain to live by himself with his horse. He died of a broken neck when he fell into a ravine.

8. “My real mom and dad were killed when the bad men came.”

when I was 2 or 3 I was talking to my grandmother and told her that my mom and dad weren’t my real mom and dad. My grandmother, knowing this wasn’t true, said they were. I calmly explained that no, my real mom and dad were killed when the bad men came. I had lived because my mom hid me behind a rock. I then went on to describe white men with guns and us “dark” people with long hair. When I was done, I went back to eating my ice cream.

9. Jesus

My cousin, approximately 3 years old and riding in the car with my mum and dad, pointed out a random house that they went past and declared “I died there”.

10. Included because, WHAT?

I did something sort of similar I guess. When I was about 3 my mum and I were driving over a bridge on which there’d recently been a major accident that resulted in a car bursting into flames and the driver dying. Anyway, I asked my mum who the man in the front seat was and when she told me to describe him I said, “Well he’s on fire and he keeps looking back at me.”

11. I drowned

My mother told me about a story I told her when I was 2 or 3. I told her she was the best mommy I ever had, to which she replied, “I’m the only mommy you’ve ever had.” “nu-uh, I had another mommy.” I said that my older sister and I went out to a pond in the woods behind my house. Around the pond, all of the trees were the same type: skinny with white paper-like bark. (I had never seen a poplar tree before in this life.) We put some logs together to make a raft, and put it into the water to play boat captain and climbed aboard. The raft fell apart, and I didn’t know how to swim. I tried to grab a log, but my hand slipped off. I could see my sister freaking out from underwater. I drowned.

12. My war memories

one of 6 hopping out of a helicopter into a field, it’s hot as shit, humid, daytime, two house/buildings smoking and heavily burning straight in front of me (to the side of the chopper), and there’s firing from the woods and field to my right. It’s chaotic a noisy, lots of firing and helicopters, my guys are firing back crouched next to the back building, one guy runs out of the other building with a kid he pushes forward and yells at to run, the kid gets shot from out of nowhere, and drops. I see a few of my guys advancing from another chopper behind me duck down in the grass as their chopper leaves, I crouch in tall grass about 10 feet from my chopper, fire my rifle twice from just above the grass line, and my chopper starts to take off, and is taking fire. I get up to move forward, panicky, and am shot dead – I feel a hard thunk, see part my chest explode, fall forward go black, and zoom out above my body. I also drew this later (still have pics, mom saved them). To me, it’s clear as day, still. Mom said some of my first chatter was about “heavy fire” “zip em boys” (don’t know what that means) and I would ask “Where are the hueys?” I was born in the early 70s, and my family was NOT military (very anti, actually). I err on the side of thinking it’s media (news footage?) I absorbed at some point from the Viet Nam war, but I also wonder if it’s not a past-life dream.

13. “That’s why I don’t like water now”

When my kid was 4, we were watching a docu on the Titanic. The scene was a picture of the schematics of the boiler room and the camera panned from left to right over the plans. He pointed at the tv and said, “That’s wrong. The boilers were on the Other side. And I was right here.” And he pointed to a small space in the boiler room. “That’s where I was. And that’s why I don’t like water now.”

14. My family’s farm, burning

When I was younger I would have dreams of living in colonial american. I remember bits very vividly and only when I was older did I realize what they were about and how accurate they were. Most of the dreams consisted of me being in my late teen years and centered around my family’s farm being set on fire during the night. I never dreamed past that night, nothing about the aftermath of the fire, and I haven’t had one in years.

15. “Nobody scroofs me there”

Getting my two and a half year old daughter out of the bath one night, my wife and I were briefing her on how important it was she kept her privates clean. She casually replied “Oh, nobody ‘scroofs’ me there. They tried one night. They kicked the door in and tried but I fought back. I died and now I’m here.” She said this like it was nothing. My wife and I were catatonic.

16. Nope

“Before I was born here, I had a sister, right? Her and my other Mom are so old now. They were ok when the car was on fire, but I sure wasn’t!”

17. “Their screams are keeping me up”

I was in my room on the computer at about 11, which is late for my sister to be awake even now. I was thinking about bed, but then my sister knocks on the door. She was maybe 10 at the time, so not so young that she doesn’t know when she’s dreaming. She wanted to sleep in my room because she was sad and scared. I asked her why, and she said, “I watched your sons burn up in the fire. Their screams are keeping me up.”

18. Role reversal

My three year old said, “Remember when I was the grown-up and you were the little boy?” to his Dad.

19. When he was a grown up

My father used to hate policemen when he was a kid, he used to tell my grandmother that they came to his house and shot him when he was a grown up.

19 Parents Share What Their Kid Remembered About Their ‘Last’ Life paranormal ghost and hauntings

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May 26th, 2019

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19 Parents Share What Their Kid Remembered About Their ‘Last’ Life1. He showed us his grave

When my brother was about 2 or 3 he told us his name used to be Austin. One day we were picnicking right along side a cemetery, when my brother took off...

19 Parents Share What Their Kid Remembered About Their ‘Last’ Life

1. He showed us his grave

When my brother was about 2 or 3 he told us his name used to be Austin. One day we were picnicking right along side a cemetery, when my brother took off running towards the gravestones, my dad and I followed him and found him touching a large headstone that simply read “Here Lies Austin” no name, no date. My brother did not learn to read until he was 6 and this headstone wasn’t even right out visible from where we were, yet he ran right to it

2. We don’t watch firefighter things

my son told me a few months ago he “used to be a firefighter, and we got called to a fire. There wasn’t any family inside the house, so we just put the fire out. Then the fire truck caught on fire and I died”. A few nights later, he elaborated he was taken to a hospital, where he died. We don’t watch firefighter things.

3. Her “other” mother’s name was Sally

I was talking to my four year old when she began to freak me out. She was telling me a story about her “other mother” and that she “died a long time ago on a Thursday.” I tried to brush it off, you know, whatever, shes a kid, they have wild imaginations… but then she started to go further into detail about the death of her “other mother,” whose name was apparently Sally. She has never met anyone named Sally, and I can’t recall any shows on TV she watches where “Sally” is a character. She told me that she was playing with her father’s gun that she found and accidentally shot and killed Sally while she was walking upstairs. It’s pretty weird. There are no guns in this house, I haven’t even really told her what guns are all about and how they can hurt or kill someone, shes only four! I think I am beginning to understand now why when I try to tell her when someone dies, they go away forever, she tells me that, that is not true. “We come back, mommy!” I’m only 23, I had my daughter very young and despite not being prepared, I don’t think I could have ever prepared for a conversation like that!

4. “When she lived before she was born”

My daughter did the same thing at the same age. She told me about her life “when she lived before she was born” and described herself as a woman with long hair who lived in an apartment with a long flight of stairs outside of it. She drove a VW Bug and wore long skirts. She then told me that she fell down the stairs and died. Her stories were startlingly vivid and always consistent. Quite spooky. She is now 19 and doesnt remember it. My advice would be write down everything your daughter tells you on the subject. Everything! Record her stories if you can.

5. Roanoke?

I would tell my older sister about my death. I told her my husband was captured and fire was everywhere. I took my young son and ran. I told her my son couldn’t run fast enough. I knew we would get killed and I had my husbands knife on me, I wanted to leave a clue. I wrote in capitals “CROATOAN” I told her we were caught and how my son was killed before I was killed. I told her how I was stabbed in the stomach with a knife. Then, I went about playing with dolls. I can still picture the scene and my son to this day.

6. “She used to come visit me”

my son says he remember his great grandmother (my grandmother) and can describe her in perfect detail (how she looks, how she acted, even what brand of cigarettes she smoked) , although she died 11 days before he was born. He says that she used to come visit him in his dreams.

7. Conchon

Apparently beginning around the time my friend could form sentences until he was little more than 2, he would go on and on about how he was a Native American named Conchon and that after his wife and son got sick and died, he moved to a mountain to live by himself with his horse. He died of a broken neck when he fell into a ravine.

8. “My real mom and dad were killed when the bad men came.”

when I was 2 or 3 I was talking to my grandmother and told her that my mom and dad weren’t my real mom and dad. My grandmother, knowing this wasn’t true, said they were. I calmly explained that no, my real mom and dad were killed when the bad men came. I had lived because my mom hid me behind a rock. I then went on to describe white men with guns and us “dark” people with long hair. When I was done, I went back to eating my ice cream.

9. Jesus

My cousin, approximately 3 years old and riding in the car with my mum and dad, pointed out a random house that they went past and declared “I died there”.

10. Included because, WHAT?

I did something sort of similar I guess. When I was about 3 my mum and I were driving over a bridge on which there’d recently been a major accident that resulted in a car bursting into flames and the driver dying. Anyway, I asked my mum who the man in the front seat was and when she told me to describe him I said, “Well he’s on fire and he keeps looking back at me.”

11. I drowned

My mother told me about a story I told her when I was 2 or 3. I told her she was the best mommy I ever had, to which she replied, “I’m the only mommy you’ve ever had.” “nu-uh, I had another mommy.” I said that my older sister and I went out to a pond in the woods behind my house. Around the pond, all of the trees were the same type: skinny with white paper-like bark. (I had never seen a poplar tree before in this life.) We put some logs together to make a raft, and put it into the water to play boat captain and climbed aboard. The raft fell apart, and I didn’t know how to swim. I tried to grab a log, but my hand slipped off. I could see my sister freaking out from underwater. I drowned.

12. My war memories

one of 6 hopping out of a helicopter into a field, it’s hot as shit, humid, daytime, two house/buildings smoking and heavily burning straight in front of me (to the side of the chopper), and there’s firing from the woods and field to my right. It’s chaotic a noisy, lots of firing and helicopters, my guys are firing back crouched next to the back building, one guy runs out of the other building with a kid he pushes forward and yells at to run, the kid gets shot from out of nowhere, and drops. I see a few of my guys advancing from another chopper behind me duck down in the grass as their chopper leaves, I crouch in tall grass about 10 feet from my chopper, fire my rifle twice from just above the grass line, and my chopper starts to take off, and is taking fire. I get up to move forward, panicky, and am shot dead – I feel a hard thunk, see part my chest explode, fall forward go black, and zoom out above my body. I also drew this later (still have pics, mom saved them). To me, it’s clear as day, still. Mom said some of my first chatter was about “heavy fire” “zip em boys” (don’t know what that means) and I would ask “Where are the hueys?” I was born in the early 70s, and my family was NOT military (very anti, actually). I err on the side of thinking it’s media (news footage?) I absorbed at some point from the Viet Nam war, but I also wonder if it’s not a past-life dream.

13. “That’s why I don’t like water now”

When my kid was 4, we were watching a docu on the Titanic. The scene was a picture of the schematics of the boiler room and the camera panned from left to right over the plans. He pointed at the tv and said, “That’s wrong. The boilers were on the Other side. And I was right here.” And he pointed to a small space in the boiler room. “That’s where I was. And that’s why I don’t like water now.”

14. My family’s farm, burning

When I was younger I would have dreams of living in colonial american. I remember bits very vividly and only when I was older did I realize what they were about and how accurate they were. Most of the dreams consisted of me being in my late teen years and centered around my family’s farm being set on fire during the night. I never dreamed past that night, nothing about the aftermath of the fire, and I haven’t had one in years.

15. “Nobody scroofs me there”

Getting my two and a half year old daughter out of the bath one night, my wife and I were briefing her on how important it was she kept her privates clean. She casually replied “Oh, nobody ‘scroofs’ me there. They tried one night. They kicked the door in and tried but I fought back. I died and now I’m here.” She said this like it was nothing. My wife and I were catatonic.

16. Nope

“Before I was born here, I had a sister, right? Her and my other Mom are so old now. They were ok when the car was on fire, but I sure wasn’t!”

17. “Their screams are keeping me up”

I was in my room on the computer at about 11, which is late for my sister to be awake even now. I was thinking about bed, but then my sister knocks on the door. She was maybe 10 at the time, so not so young that she doesn’t know when she’s dreaming. She wanted to sleep in my room because she was sad and scared. I asked her why, and she said, “I watched your sons burn up in the fire. Their screams are keeping me up.”

18. Role reversal

My three year old said, “Remember when I was the grown-up and you were the little boy?” to his Dad.

19. When he was a grown up

My father used to hate policemen when he was a kid, he used to tell my grandmother that they came to his house and shot him when he was a grown up.

[voltrontranscript]

VLD S8E7: Day Forty-Seven

Season 8 Episode 7: Day Forty-Seven

Transcript by @dragonofyang

Summary: Kinkade and Rizavi film a vlog that follows a relatively normal day on the IGF-Atlas with its humorous moments and the stress of battle.

[Google Doc]

Kinkade: Hello. This is Lieutenant Ryan Kinkade, MFE pilot. The time is 0600 hours. It’s day forty-seven. And this is a glimpse at day-to-day life aboard the IGF-Atlas.

[Cut to Kinkade brushing his teeth as the camera floats over his shoulder.]

Kinkade: Last night, I unpacked my video gear and decided to document the crew. I know it seems strange, but before Earth was attacked, I didn’t go anywhere without my camera.

[Cut to Kinkade running on a treadmill.]

Kinkade: Back home, people asked me why I liked recording things. They also asked me why I didn’t talk that much. To both of those things, I’d always say… [grunts]

[Cut to Kinkade doing pull-ups.]

Kinkade: Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

Romelle: You’re recording? Why?

Griffin: Kinkade has always been, uh… an individual who’s most comfortable observing and reflecting on life. Being a fighter pilot was actually his backup plan.

[Cut to Kinkade wearing a blindfold as he works on his blaster rifle.]

Kinkade: It’s true. I learned how to shoot with a camera before I learned how to shoot with a rifle. I guess filming is just a small piece of the larger puzzle that makes up the picture of who I am. Hm.

[Cut to Kinkade turning the camera on once more and walking to a fighter jet.]

Rizavi: So you’re really shooting another documentary? Please tell me this is going to be more exciting than that project you did for Mr. Pollard’s biology class about yeast.

Kinkade: That was actually about the process of fermentation. Yeast converts carbohydrates into carbon diox--

Rizavi: Boring! Okay, look, if this little documentary is how history will remember us, I’m gonna help you spruce it up! How many cameras do you have? What’s your visual effects budget? Do you have any smoke bombs?

[Cut to Keith and Pidge facing the camera as it focuses on Pidge directly.]

Kinkade: Okay. We’re set.

Rizavi: So, uh, catch us up on what’s going on.

Pidge: Right. Well, the Atlas is headed to the Grei-Aye system where we’ve identified the remains of a disabled robeast.

Rizavi: Oh! Those things are pretty dangerous, right?

Pidge: Do I need to explain that the robeast was one of the ones used in Honerva’s intergalactic ritual?

Rizavi: No, it’s fine.

Pidge: Okay. Um, so, once the Atlas arrives in orbit around the planet, the other Paladins and I will head down to the surface to secure the robeast and hopefully find its Altean pilot.

Rizavi: Ugh, okay. Keith! Why don’t you tell us about the dangers of this mission?

Keith: Well, every mission has some inherent dangers. For this one, we have to be especially diligent about the robeast. Even if it’s not fully functional, it can still pose an extreme threat. Combine that with the hostile Altean that’s probably still in the vicinity, and you’ve potentially got threats on multiple fronts.

Hunk: Hey, guys. What’s up? You making a movie? Cool. Can I be in it? Now, wait, if this is an action movie… is it? I don’t wanna be in it.

Rizavi: Hunk, we’re trying to do an interview here.

Hunk: Oh, sorry. Yeah, my bad. I just came by to see if you wanted to try this new recipe I’ve been experimenting with. This is just the first pass. The final version of it will be coming soon. No, Bae Bae! Not for you! I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’ll make you some doggy treats later.

Kinkade: What’s the recipe? Can we watch you work?

Hunk: Well, yeah! Yeah, this’ll be great! I’ve secretly always wanted my own cooking show.

Rizavi: What? No! Keith was just telling us about the mission and all the dangers! We’re not losing that to document cooking.

Kinkade: But, I like cooking.

Rizavi: It’s like you’re trying to make this boring.

Hunk: Whoa, first of all, cooking is not boring, okay? And it can bring people together. Some of the best times of my life were spent breaking bread with loved ones.

Keith: So, is this interview over?

Rizavi: No! Great, now the talent’s getting restless!

Iverson: Everyone, report to your battle stations immediately! I repeat… battle stations immediately! This is not a drill!

Rizavi: The camera!

Kinkade: Leave it! We need to go!

Rizavi: But this is gold!

Kinkade: Come o--

Iverson: MFE pilots, report to hangars alpha-bravo! Scrambling fighters in five! Paladins, stand by for launch.

[Scene change as Bae Bae finds the fallen camera and carries it around.]

Shiro: Where did it come from? Veronica, get me eyes on it!

Coran: That thing just appeared out of nowhere!

Shiro: Iverson, fire when ready!

Iverson: Target acquired! We’ve got lock! Wait. No… we lost it! Target has gone dark!

Veronica: Electromagnetic radiation from that planet is overloading our radars.

Shiro: Voltron, do you have a visual? I repeat, Voltron, do you have a visual?

Keith: Not yet. We’re going in now! Stand by! We can’t see a thing in here!

Griffin: Copy that. We have zero visibility as well. We need a visual.

Curtis: Roger. Trying another avenue. Scanning for biometrics. Visual acquired!

Coran: Incoming!

Iverson: Recharging all starboard cannons!

Curtis: Sensors are offline!

Iverson: What is that thing?

Coran: It’s massive!

Shiro: Iverson, open fire!

Coran: Direct hit! It’s coming back around for another shot!

Shiro: Veronica, prep shields!

[Scene change as the camera falls down a vent into Sam and Slav’s workstation.]

Sam: Whatever hit us just knocked loose the gravity generator! Grab the flaxum assembly!

Slav: I can’t do that! It’s red!

Sam: Is this one of your crazy probability, reality things?

[Scene change to a hallway as soldiers float through to their stations.]

Shiro: All crew, report to stations and prepare for Atlas transformation--

Atlas Crewmember: Go, go, go!

Shiro: --in T-minus thirty seconds!

[Scene change as Bae Bae finds the camera again and carries it.]

Colleen: Bae Bae, what are you doing out here? And what’s this in your mouth? A camera? Come on, girl.

Shiro: All crew, prepare for Atlas transformation sequence in five… four… three… two… one!

[Scene change as the camera dies, then powers on again facing Kinkade once more.]

Kinkade: Camera’s fully charged. We’re good to go. The time is now 0900 hours. We just experienced a minor mishap aboard the IGF-Atlas, but we’re back on track. In the future, we’ll hopefully be avoiding creature-occupied gas planets.

[Cut to Kinkade floating through a hallway.]

Kinkade: Hey, Seok Jin, where you headed?

Seok Jin: I’m transporting these samples back to Earth. Commander Holt thinks it can help with the recovery efforts there.

Kinkade: Well, they couldn’t have picked a better man for the job. Take care, man. Hey, Seok Jin… we’ll miss you, buddy.

[Scene change to the camera looking into the mess hall, where Vrepit Sal is cleaning tables and then rotates to face the hallway.]

Rizavi: There you are! Tell me this thing was recording during the attack! That was so intense! Oh, this documentary’s gonna be awesome!

[Cut to Kolivan sitting in a small office facing the camera.]

Kolivan: I believe our heading readout en route was 92254739.275. Wait, no. It was 9.265. Yes. That was our heading per our readout just prior to our deployment.

Rizavi: [mock snoring]

Kolivan: Our teams vary in size. Often we use the three-person unit, but it’s not unusual to have a four- or a five- or perhaps even a six-person unit. Seven seems rare, but... it could happen.

Rizavi: Okay, I like everything you’re telling me, but let’s just try it a little less like you’re reporting the facts to your commanding officer and a little more like you’re telling your friend an exciting story in the gym. You understand?

Kolivan: Yes, understood.

Rizavi: Okay, good. Why don’t you tell us about your last mission?

Kolivan: Our last mission took place on planet K-V Exus. The Blades divided into three four-person teams and we escorted approximately twelve rescue crafts to the surface. I believe our heading readout was 359.222--

Rizavi: Thank! Thank you! Okay, I think we got it!

Kolivan: But I wasn’t done.

Rizavi: Yeah, you nailed it. Yeah. We need to get someone more exciting in here.

[Cut to Coran leaning into the camera as it slowly attempts to focus on him.]

Coran: Then the Atlas started firing with everything it had! And don’t forget the white hole is swirling right next to us the entire time! Oh, no, it’s about to close! Meanwhile, not one, but two, yes, two, robeasts are attacking! Shiro’s shouting out orders. “Coran, get closer! Iverson, open fire!” Beams of quintessence energy are converging from all over the galaxy! Ah! You know, you could just imagine it.

[Scene change to Rizavi turning the camera on in Slav and Sam’s workspace.]

Sam: Welcome to the engine room. What you see here is just a tiny part of what keeps the ship functioning.

Rizavi: Slav, you’ve created some incredible technology. What do you think of the Atlas?

Slav: I can respect any engineering that extrapolates for transmutation, but I wish the writing was in Altean.

Sam: He’s mentioned that a few times.

Rizavi: So what are you doing now?

Slav: Right now we’re about to adjust the gravity generator, which was fractionally increased during our last battle.

Sam: Yes, our gravity generator is actually a fluid system, ever-changing depending on the specific needs of the location, so it requires recalibrating from time to time. Okay, adjust gravity generator back down to .12.

Slav: Copy. Adjusting now.

Sam: What did you press?

Slav: I don’t know! Which one is the two again? I can’t read these weird symbols you call numbers! Hey, big guy, toss me over! Oh, no. Directly on a crack!

Kinkade: Weird.

[Cut to the camera focusing on some juniberry shoots in a pot.]

Colleen: Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s an Altean juniberry. The first one to bloom in nearly ten thousand years. I managed to get it to grow by resequencing the genetic code of a similar plant. I wanna give it to Allura. These are our fertilizers. We have fish emulsion, worm castings, Kaltenecker manure. Just so much great recycled poop! And this is our lighting station. I like to say our lighting array is literally out of this world! You know, because we’re, you know, on a space ship.

Rizavi: Can I take a shot at this?

[Cut to the camera panning across the crops in the grow room.]

Rizavi: Welcome to extreme space harvesting! Where we have plants and crops and super fertilizers all under one roof! Meet Colleen Holt, the botanical genius behind it all.

[Cut to Colleen sitting in a chair in the grow room.]

Colleen: I guess I just liked plants all my life. I’ve done a lot of research, but I know I have much to learn. I guess… I like… the challenge. I’m sorry, where am I supposed to be looking?

Rizavi: Without Colleen, all life aboard the ship could perish. One bad crop, the introduction of one foreign pest, and it’s all over.

Colleen: I just like plants.

Hunk: Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting something again? I just--I just came in to see if Colleen had a very specific type of yeast.

Kinkade: Yeast? What for?

Rizavi: Oh, no.

Hunk: It’s that recipe I’ve been working on. I think I got the topping down, but I’m still trying to figure out the sweet bread.

Colleen: Well, I have so many strains of yeast, it’ll make your head spin. I got AB972, S288C. I even have O unilateralis. Don’t mess with that one.

Kinkade: Are you getting this?

Rizavi: Unfortunately, yes.

[Camera cuts to Kinkade and Rizavi floating through a hallway.]

Rizavi: The time is 1200 hours. We just got word that we are in the Grei-Aye star system. The Paladins will be heading down to the surface of the planet any second now.

[Cut to the camera facing Allura, Lance, and Keith in the hangar for Black Lion.]

Rizavi: Lance, how are you feeling about the mission you’re about to go on?

Lance: Oh, hey. I’m feeling good, I guess. Maybe a little tense. Maybe a lot tense. I don’t know. Why’d you have to ask me that question?

Allura: I think what Lance is trying to say is he’ll be fine. We all will.

Keith: Let’s move out.

[Camera cuts to Kinkade and Rizavi standing a ways away from Blue Lion as it launches.]

Rizavi: Right now, we’re headed to the situation room where we’ll be monitoring the Paladins in real-time.

Kinkade: By the way, you know we’re not gonna be able to bring our camera into that meeting, right?

Rizavi: Says who?

[Scene change to the situation room where Veronica, Coran, Sam, and Shiro are all facing a screen showing a no-signal symbol.]

Sam: Come in, Pidge. Are you reading us?

Pidge: Okay, we’ve just touched down on the surface.

Keith: We’re at the crash site now.

Pidge: That’s the robeast. It looks disabled, just like our intel reported. The Altean should be nearby.

Shiro: Paladins, brace for incoming!

Hunk: I didn’t know it could do that!

Keith: Take cover!

Shiro: Paladins, report! We’ve lost visual. Bridge, lock onto that ship now!

Curtis: Yes, Captain. Adjusting to long-range parameters. Locked on!

Shiro: Light it up!

Curtis: Direct hit!

Lance: Nice shot, Atlas!

Hunk: Yeah, thanks for the cover!

Shiro: Bridge, stay on alert.

[Cut to the Altean viewscreen of Pidge’s point of view through her helmet.]

Allura: Stand by, Atlas. We’re approaching the ship.

Hunk: Guys, there doesn’t seem to be a pilot inside.

Keith: Hey, guys. Over here.

Pidge: Keith’s found something. Let’s go! Give me a second. Just reconfiguring to this barrier’s isometric frequency. There! That should do it.

Keith: Atlas, our target is acquired.

Overlapping voices: Yippee! Alright! Yeah!

Shiro: Great job, everyone!

[Cut to Kinkade and Rizavi floating through another hallway.]

Rizavi: We just got word that the Paladins have returned from their mission. Maybe we can catch a glimpse of this new Altean.

Kinkade: This’ll be the sixth Altean pilot we’ve recovered from the powered-down robeasts left behind after Honerva escaped Oriande. Allura keeps trying, but she hasn’t been able to get any information from them as of yet.

[Camera cuts to Rizavi standing outside a room marked “Authorized Personnel Only”.]

Rizavi: Commander Shirogane said you two were needed on the bridge. We’ll cover your station.

Woman: Yes, Lieutenant.

Rizavi: There! Oh, man, I think we missed the beginning.

Romelle: Tavo, please. You and I grew up alongside one another. You must trust me. We’re here to help.

Tavo: We were told you are a traitor, and I can see now that it is true.

Allura: I’m done talking with him. I’m done with all of them.

Kinkade: Uh, what are you doing?

Rizavi: Sh! I got an idea.

Lance: Anything?

Allura: No. He was just like the others. A true believer in Honerva, and there’s nothing I can say that would make him think otherwise.

Lance: I’m sorry.

Allura: No, I am. These Alteans are the key to unlocking Honerva’s plan. They’re my people, but they won’t speak with me. You have no idea what it’s like to find out after ten thousand years that you’re not the last of your kind… only to be rejected by them.

Lance: I don’t. But I wish every day there were something I could do to change it all for you. You’ve suffered more than anyone should in a thousand lifetimes. But still you persist. Through the pain, you inspire. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you.

Kinkade: No, that’s private.

Rizavi: Kinkade, what are you doing? That was our love angle!

[Camera cuts out, then focuses in on Romelle’s face.]

Kinkade: Please don’t touch that.

Romelle: Oh, sorry.

Rizavi: So, Romelle, you know these Alteans from your time on the colony?

Romelle: Yes, I lived alongside them for many decaphoebs. They are good people.

Kinkade: What do you think would make them join forces with Honerva?

Romelle: I don’t know. But you must understand, my people were hunted nearly to extinction. They’re afraid. And this Honerva… she’s turned that fear to aggression. If there was just some way to get through to them.

[Cut to the mess hall.]

Griffin: I’ve never seen anything like it. All those tentacles… so nasty.

[Cut to the kitchen where Hunk is stirring something purple in a pan.]

Hunk: Oh, hey. You’re just in time. I was just about to add the yeast Colleen gave me. No, Bae Bae! Bad dog!

[Cut to Kinkade and Rizavi sitting at a table with Allura.]

Kinkade: First off, thanks for doing this, Allura.

Allura: You’re welcome.

Rizavi: Maybe we can start with the Alteans we have aboard.

Allura: What about them? They’re on the wrong side of this war and they refuse to speak with me. There’s nothing else to say.

Rizavi: So, you’re frustrated?

Allura: Yes, I am. Oriande was destroyed, Lotor is back, and we aren’t any closer to tracking down Honerva. She’s out there, right now, planning something, preparing, and growing stronger. And we’re here flying around in circles, searching for Fraunhofer lines that don’t appear and scanning for wormhole signatures that don’t exist!

Rizavi: Do you think we’ll ever find Honerva?

Allura: No. I think she’ll find us.

[Camera cuts back to Hunk in the kitchen, this time wearing oven mitts.]

Hunk: Okay, it’s been a long day, but I’m finally done.

Kinkade: What is it?

Hunk: It’s an authentic Altean dessert! I’m gonna give it to the Alteans. Coran helped me with the recipe, but I think his memory was, like, a little bit fuzzy, so, you know, I did some improvising. No big whoop.

Kinkade: You did this for them? Why?

Hunk: Well, I don’t know. Because food has a way of reminding people of moments in time. That’s why I made a dessert. Usually, when you eat dessert, you’re pretty happy, right? Who knows? Maybe this’ll help those Alteans remember some moment that made them smile. Something before all this madness. That could go a long way in building a relationship. Well, that’s just what I think.

[Cut to the Alteans in a holding cell as the camera zooms out and pans to face Hunk.]

Hunk: Please, eat. Look, it’s good! Mm, really!

Tavo: You made this? It reminds me of home.

Hunk: Well, I had a little help from someone born and raised on Altea. A-and I know you don’t wanna talk with them, but Allura and Coran know more about your homeland than anyone alive. They were on Altea until its final day. They both would’ve stayed and died to protect it if Alfor hadn’t sent them away. That’s how much they loved it.

Tavo: I heard Altea was one of the most beautiful places in the universe. Did your Alteans ever tell you about the zyo crystal springs outside of the capital? The stories say those cliffs were more beautiful than all of the stars combined.

Hunk: They never told me about them. But I’m sure they’d love to tell you themselves.

[Scene change to Kinkade sitting in casual clothes facing the camera.]

Kinkade: This is Lieutenant Ryan Kinkade, MFE pilot. The time is 2300 hours. Day forty-seven aboard the IGF-Atlas is officially done.

End.

[vorta-whore]

Transition of Power, ch. 2

You receive an invitation you can’t refuse.

Weyoun 5 x female reader

Chapter 1: An Introduction | Chapter 2: A First Date | Chapter 3: A Walk Together | Chapter 4: A Night on Bajor

—

Very little changes for you over the next week – with one alarming exception. As you watch for the Vorta’s daily trek across the Promenade, it appears he also watches for you. Every afternoon, without fail, those violet eyes dart up to meet yours at your usual table on the upper deck. He holds the glance but briefly; just enough time to smile and nod to you. And, breathless, you nod back.

You begin to sit with your back to the wall each time you dine out for lunch. So far, there have been no further interruptions by uninvited guests, but all the same you fear being caught off-guard again.

After two weeks, you begin to relax, thinking perhaps it was an empty platitude after all. Vorta have so many other more important things to worry about than going on dates, you rationalize; he was probably just entertaining himself by playing with you during a moment of free time. It seems the type of thing Weyoun would do, if he noticed someone taking a special interest in him. Stealthy as you thought you were being, dealing in furtive glances and sidelong stares, you really aren’t that surprised to know he saw right through you. Or maybe, with those unique ears of his, he simply heard you making your judgmental comments to yourself as he strode by. Really a terrible habit. You wonder, uselessly, what he’s heard you say.

The chime of an incoming transmission interrupts your contemplation. Curious, you set down your raktajino and tell the computer to put the audio through.

Your blood runs cold when you hear the velvety voice on the line.

“Ahh, Y/N! How lovely to speak with you again. I trust I did not wake you?”

“I – ah, no. I was just about to have breakfast, actually.”

“Well then, please excuse my interruption. I don’t intend to take up much of your time; I was simply wondering if you’d do me the honor of sharing dinner with me tonight. I do seem to recall some promises being made about your famous hasperat souffle?”

You’re grateful there is no visual feed to capture your wide-eyed expression. Your first instinct is to search for excuses, and a moment of silence passes as you reach for one –

“It doesn’t have to be tonight, of course,” soothes the Vorta at your hesitation. “I did take the liberty of contacting your employer, I hope that’s alright,” – it isn’t – “and he informed me that you have two days off each week, so I’m certain we can work something out if you aren’t free this particular evening.”

Damnit.

You have no choice but to relent: “No, no…this evening is fine, actually.”

“Wonderful! Then I’ll be over, oh, say, nineteen hundred hours?”

“Sure.”

“I look forward to it,” he concludes, the smile audible in his voice, and with a dismissive chime the call cuts out.

You lean forward and hold your head in your hands. This is not the kind of day off you were hoping for. You had reading to catch up on, friends to chat with, shop windows to peruse.

Now you have a souffle to bake.

—

At half past eighteen hundred hours, your quarters were clean, the table was set, and the souffle was in the oven. You’d dug out an acceptably refined cocktail dress from your closet, not having expected to be donning it at any point during this occupation, and sat yourself down in front of a mirror to apply makeup with a trembling hand.

Nineteen-hundred comes and goes. Weyoun strikes you as a very punctual man; is he late on purpose? You fiddle nervously with the hem of your dress, watching the door, your anxiety growing by the minute; your hand is halfway to the bottle of springwine you’ve set out when the sound of the door-chime nearly causes you to jump out of your skin.

“Come in!” you blurt, rising and smoothing out your dress.

The door slides open and in steps one dashing Vorta – who, upon entry, stops to take in his surroundings. He surveys your elegantly-decorated quarters with quiet amusement before settling his gaze on you, and, smiling, he steps forward.

“Your quarters are nearly as lovely as you are. I truly am grateful for the privilege of dining here with you tonight.”

As though he didn’t invite himself, you think. But as he speaks, he takes one of your hands in his and presses the back of it to his lips, and quite quickly your head empties of all thought. He holds on just a moment or two longer than necessary before releasing it as well as the gaze with which he had affixed you, which you notice is quite effective at keeping you rooted to the spot.

“Ah! Springwine,” he notes suddenly, breaking the tension. You turn your attention to the coffee table where you’d prepared a bottle and two glasses. “How thoughtful of you.”

He guides you to the sofa with a hand on your elbow and you both take a seat. Your anxiety begins to bubble over.

“I, uh. Hope you like springwine. I wasn’t really sure what you’d prefer – springwine can be so sweet, sometimes it’s a little overpowering – but it goes well with hasperat, tempers the spice a bit, you know, and I had a couple bottles lying around anyway, so I figured…”

You trail off, your babbling ceasing as Weyoun clasps a hand over the one you had just set on the bottle. You glance up to him, uncertain, but the kindness behind his smile is reassuring and you relax just an iota.

“It will be just fine. But truly, my dear, you’ve done enough already – at least allow me to do this.”

You nod, and he softens his grip enough for you to slip your hand out of it. As he pops the cork and begins to fill the glasses, you find your thoughts drifting to worry again, to fear; the phrase “comfort woman” swirls in your mind. You wonder with increasing panic what exactly this man expects of you tonight.

Weyoun hands you your wine glass and raises his into the air, waiting for you to do the same. “A toast,” he says, “to the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

You smile. You tap your glass against his. You take a sip.

The Vorta leans back in his seat and regards you pensively. “You seem…uneasy,” he points out, crossing his legs. “Not at all like you were at that Klingon cafe. Is everything alright?”

You stare into your wine as if trying to find an answer there. None comes.

“…My dear.”

There is a soft clink as Weyoun sets his glass down. You startle as his fingers brush just beneath your chin, guiding you to look away from your drink and into his eyes. Behind them resides – to your confusion – genuine concern.

“Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean to pressure you into anything that would make you uncomfortable. Perhaps I was too forward – but I was certain I detected a hint of interest from you over the course of these last few weeks. Forgive me.”

He bows his head in apology.

You realize you’re at a crossroads. He’s offering you an out – something you very desperately wanted a moment ago. However, now that the option is available to you, it seems entirely the wrong choice. Why, after all, would you have spent the entire day making sure that souffle would be the best you’ve ever baked? Why would you have dolled yourself up, broken out the springwine?

These are not the actions of a woman under duress.

Suddenly feeling very foolish, you scramble over yourself to correct him: “No! No, I… I am… interested.”

His head jolts back up. You shrink a bit under his intense stare, but as he leans forward and takes your hands in his, his excitement begins to usurp your fear.

“I’m very glad to hear it.”

A smile twitches at your lips. “I’d just… like to take things slow, you know?”

“Perfectly understandable,” he accedes, and releasing your hands, he returns to his glass of wine. “From this moment forward I promise not to do anything that might jeopardize your comfort.”

For the first time that night, you truly relax.

—

The souffle is ready in short time and the two of you while away the night chatting about this and that. You learn Weyoun cannot stand the fizziness of Bajoran ale, but – being unable to taste most things – he quite enjoys the smoothness of springwine, even if its sweetness fails to register at all. Likewise, his affection for hasperat souffle stems from its airy, delicate texture, and the strong level of spice approximates something close to taste for him.

You’re convinced you’ve thoroughly bored him with your menial tales of day-to-day life, the rants about your annoying coworkers and your anecdotes surrounding family recipes. But Weyoun attends it all with rapt attention, even after the two of you have polished off the entire bottle of springwine.

You’re quite surprised when the computer interrupts a moment of shared laughter to announce the initialization of your nightly bedtime routine. The lights fade to sunset-orange and a short chime indicates you’ve entered do-not-disturb mode.

“Oh,” you sigh, disappointed. “Is it that late? I didn’t realize…”

“It’s my fault,” interjects Weyoun, standing and straightening his clothes. “I’ve stolen your entire night away. How rude of me!”

He offers you his hands. You take them, relishing how cold they feel against your warm skin, and allow him to lead you to the door.

“Please accept my apologies.”

Staring into those smoldering amethyst eyes, you flush suddenly, realizing the vulnerable position you’re in.

The kiss.

He’s going to go for it. He’s going to expect it, after the wonderful night you’ve shared – and you don’t want to insult him, don’t want to disappoint him, even, but you’re not sure if you’re ready, you haven’t thought about it –

He brings your hands up to his lips. On the knuckles of each hand he plants a kiss, firm, poignant. You shudder at the contrast between his cold hands and warm breath. At his unbroken eye contact.

“…Apology accepted,” you exhale.

He smiles in return. Bows his head, releases you.

“I look forward very much to our next meeting.”

And then he’s gone.

You sink into the sofa, suddenly drained. The background hum of the station is the only sound in your quarters now and the relative silence presses in on you like a physical presence. The empty wine glasses cast your reflection back on you – and you feel judged.

You close your eyes.

Prophets have mercy.

[urfavfandomles]

more modern au!!!!! chief of neurosurgery! valdemar x resident! reader

months pass without a single encounter with the horrific doctor you had been forced to wake up

you were still disgusted by them, how little they seemed to care

you had muled over so many different reasons they must have become a doctor, for surely helping others was not one of them

wealth, prestige, honor? pressure from family?

this must be the reason Dr. Valdemar must have put out so many research papers and done so many controlled experiments— simply because they wanted their name on an important article

you were livid yet still find yourself rereading their research papers over and over, entranced by their words and findings

however, you were still positive of one thing—

you would take over their position one day.

you had got into the grind of working in this hospital as a resident, getting positive feedback from all your mentors and each department head, with the exception of one

The Chief of Neurosurgery, Dr. Valdemar

you have yet to help perform any sort surgery with them, even though you had been making your rounds and had eagerly written that you were most interested in neurosurgery when asked, back in your university days

you stand next to the nurse's station, reading over the files of all the patients you should visit today when your pager goes off

surprised, you quickly look down to see if any message had arrived

your heart stopped

the message was clear

"head to conference room 216 immediately."

you quickly excuse yourself, and head to the room.

you open the door, expecting to see the doctor who was your mentor in the room. you close the door behind you, speaking before you even notice who was in the room.

"i apologize for being late, i arrived as quickly as i could—"

and then you look up

your blood runs cold

at the end of the long conference table sat Dr. Valdemar, their long fingers interlaced and head rest in the curve of their hands.

"Dr. (l/n), I do not appreciate tardiness of any sort. Have you never been told that when your pager rings you must run, not walk, to the destination to which you were called to?"

fury fills you at these words, and yet you can find no reply for once.

you stand there, scowling, and the Chief of Neurosurgery gestures for you to sit.

"Now, we must get to business. My collaleagues have spoken highly of you, Dr. (l/n). You have made rounds with them, successfully performed mediocre surgeries with them, and made a name for yourself as, well— quite a talented, if not cold-hearted machine."

you bristle at these words, opening your mouth to respond, when they raise a hand to stop you.

"It has come to my attention that you originally entered this residency program with the intent to become a neurosurgeon. Is this correct?"

"Yes, Dr. Valdemar," you answer cooly. "As you can see from my papers, I expected to be placed in your clinical rounds and have yet to do so."

"Which is why you are here."

you still.

"Excuse me, Doctor?"

"You will be scrubbing in on my next surgery. Here is the duplicate of the files I have made for my research on the subject—ah, sorry, patient—and what I expect you to learn helping from such a procedure. As you have been positively boasted about, I expect excellence."

you suck in a breath. this is the defining moment. you had the right to turn it down, but there was no way in hell you could. it was like a the forbidden fruit.

and so, you stalk up to the table and pick up the folder filled with copies of Dr. Valdemar's case study.

"Thank you for the opportunity, Dr. Valdemar," you try to say as evenly as possible, hiding both your excitement at scrubbing in on neurosurgery and apprehension at being in such close quarters with this moraless doctor.

they smile softly, though it reminded you much of a cobra's mouth. ready to strike at any second.

"Now, that is all for now, Dr. (l/n). Read up on the documents and be prepared for surgery tomorrow at approximately 3:00PM on the dot. And do try to not be late, or show up in such a disheveled state."

you nod your head once, though you stare Valdemar in the eyes, refusing to back down. yes, you may be a resident, but you were still a doctor. you may not have the prestigious position they possess as of the moment, but soon that would come tumbling underneath them.

it was determined the second you agreed to perform surgery with Dr. Valdemar. you were going to be the best damn resident there was in this hospital, and get offered a position that rivaled Valdemar's, even if it killed you.

the next day, you were quite literally shaking from nerves and caffeine. you had spent a good portion of the night reading their notes on the surgery. it was simple, but it was obvious by their notes they left no corner untouched. you begrudgingly had to accept that this must be why they have earned their position. hard work. effort.

you take one last look behind you at the hospital corridor, before heading up the short stairs leading to the operating rooms floor. you could practically feel the hospital mocking you, a voice whispering, "oh, you silly mortal, what have you gotten yourself into?"

you quickly sign in to the surgery, writing your name and position on the OR board next to Valdemar's. it felt odd, seeing your name next to theirs.

you grab your supplies: your gloves, your gown, and the mask you would be wearing.

setting it to the side, you walk inside the room with endless lines of sinks. idle chatter was held between fellow surgeons who were working on different surgeries, but this did little to settle your nerves.

you grab your own soap, and activate the sink. just as you begin scrubbing underneath your fingernails, you hear a voice from behind you.

"How adorable," the voice mocks. you refuse to look at them, simply continuing to stroke your nails clean.

you hear movement and the sink directly next to you turn on.

you felt a towering presence next to you. your heart was admittedly beating very fast from nerves, but now you felt boiling hot rage enter your veins.

the audacity that Dr. Valdemar had was unlike any other's. you knew this was a game for them. it was best to ignore them, you decide, and not engage.

"Good afternoon, Dr. (L/n). I suspect you slept well last night after reading over my notes for the surgery?"

you grit your teeth and start scrubbing your fingers with the soap and counting each scrub.

"I do quite adore cases like this. So simple of an issue, yet so much could go wrong. The fondness I have for neurosurgery revolves around its precision. One wrong move and your patient could become a vegetable. Don't you agree?"

30 scrubs. best to move on to the next hand.

"Why, are you nervous? Don't be, you're in safe hands with the fact you're with me. I am the best at my job, as you know."

it was time for the wrists. you had walked through the steps of washing your hands properly since the very beginning of medical school, had it ingrained in your mind as easily as remembering anatomy.

you finish washing your hands and forearms before valdemar, and quickly leave the room, hands held above your waist and below your shoulders. you press your back against the operating room door as to not touch your hands to anything, and quickly head in.

you make quick work of your time, buzzing over your surgical gown. you open it, as you had done for countless surgeries, gently putting on the scrub gown.

just as you hike it up, you hear a noise and see Dr. Valdemar has entered the pre-op room.

they smile fondly at you, as one night a child.

you turn your back quickly, trying to hide your angry red cheeks, and begin to fasten the ties at the back of your gown when you feel as soft touch.

"Allow me," comes the purr of the Chief's voice.

you still as their hands make quick work, tying each knot no doubt perfectly and tightly.

"Thank you," you manage.

They simply hum in response, putting on their own gown. You put on the gloves, and await for the Chief to finish.

"Are you ready, young resident?" asks the Chief.

You bite your lip to keep from snapping. "Yes, Doctor, I'm ready."

A light chuckle fills the air as they walks backwards, pressing their body against the door that lead to the operating room.

"Rumors have flown around saying you wish to be the Chief of Neurosurgery. So let's put you to the test."

their grin is anything but kind.

but damn it all, you think as you walk into the brightly lit OR, I'm either gonna marry or kill this doctor.

[aminiatureworld]

Connection

Ship: Geralt x Jaskier

Warnings: None

Premise:  Jaskier calls Geralt out for his reticence on hand holding. Geralt is quick to deny this, but even quicker to prove the bard right, as well as prove to himself how much it matters.

Author’s Note: Sorry for the horrendous summary, but I actually quite like this fic. Also two thirds of it was written at midnight, so forgive me for any typos or odd shifts in tone, scene, etc. I realize most of my fanfiction is written between midnight and three am. Maybe I should fix that.

Ao3 link in reblog

“Tell me Geralt, what are your thoughts on hand holding?” Geralt’s head snapped up in confusion as he stared incredulously at his companion. Jaskier was perched on top of the room’s dresser, feet propped up on the windowsill. It seemed a particularly stupid way to sit to Geralt, but he’d long ago learned that the bard didn’t really care what Geralt saw as stupid, or perhaps Jakier did care and then made a concerted effort to do everyone one of those things, Geralt still hadn’t quite decided, having instead accepted that his companion was of a particularly odd, if vaguely endearing, nature. Now though Geralt was very sure the bard must be pulling his leg, perhaps in an effort to spark some new lyric to try on the disgruntled inn patrons, or perhaps out of sheer boredom. Shifting his weight slightly Geralt hoped that this conversation would be as short as possible, for sometimes it felt like a sprint to keep up with the odd, twisted conversational logic that Jaskier often took. Even the opening statement gave the Witcher pause, for who on the Continent thought actively of such things? Grunting he shrugged his shoulders.

           “Oh c’mon!” Jaskier prodded, plinking a particularly pretty chord, though Geralt could tell one of strings was becoming a bit shredded; which one he had no idea of course, picking up on subtle things like off strings wasn’t the same as retaining a shred of musical knowledge that Jaskier, seemingly daily, tried to impart on Geralt. Now Jaskier almost looked the same way he did during his teaching attempts, slightly bemused, ready to whip out the chalkboard and textbooks. It was a bit unnerving, and Geralt looked down, not particularly looking forward to where this was going. He could hear the bard swing down and hit the floor, and looked up in time to see Jaskier sit crisscross on the small pile of boards that passed as a trunk-made-table, honestly did the bard know how to sit normally?

           “Why,” Geralt stared at Jakier. “do you think of such odd things?”

           “Why don’t you think of such normal things!” Jaskier cried out in return, beaming like a child who’d just proved himself right. “Honestly Geralt, who doesn’t think of such things? For someone so grouchy about any close contact, you don’t actually have any rules set out about it. Or any logic. I think I’ve washed your lovely body more often than our two palms have touched. Don’t you think that’s even a little odd.”

           “Tch.” Geralt wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this, realizing that the bard was indeed right, Jaskier probably had touched Geralt’s hair more than his hands, but wasn’t quite willing to admit it, for doing so felt oddly like defeat, or perhaps it was just that Jaskier, when proven right, seemed never to shut up about it. Deciding that he’d rather just humor the bard than have this conversation, Geralt sighed and gestured for Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier needed no encouragement, quickly slapping his hand into the Witcher’s. It stung a bit, Geralt had realized that musician hands were quite calloused, and that Jaskier was unnervingly strong, about the second time they’d met, and even now he marveled at it. He squeezed the bard’s hand, thinking it was dry and warm, and oddly comfortable, before letting go. “Happy?” The bard shook his head.

           “That won’t prove me wrong Geralt, and you know it. Anyone who has to do something to try to prove they’re right is only admitting failure. Nevertheless,” he patted Geralt on the shoulder, a familiar action, which originally caused Geralt exasperation, but now brought only a sense of fondness for their ritualistic banter, not that he’d admit that, not on his dying breath. Just as he’d never admit that, now that Jaskier brought it up, he realized he’d rather like to hold the bard’s hand more, well, he’d like to do a great deal more than that if he allowed himself to drift down that particular vein of thought, but he was buried approximately one hundred levels too deep in denial to cross that bridge. He could only imagine the months of gloating that would cause, or maybe there wouldn’t be gloating, but rather, a closer relationship, which scared Geralt even more, those close to him had bad track records for fate being kind on them after all. It was better just not to try and approach that bridge, much less cross it. With that thought in mind Geralt stood up.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier exclaimed, flopping onto the bed where Geralt had been sitting moments ago.

           “To get information, I want to know what exactly we’re looking for.”

           “Wasn’t that it’s a kikimora well established?” Jaskier asked, laughter in his eyes. “Look Geralt, you don’t have to run away from this, I full believe in your ability to hold my hand, give it seven years and I’m sure you’ll have mastered it.”

           “Tch.” Geralt grunted, rolling his eyes. Jaskier looked even more pleased, evidently the Witcher would have to say something or cede the board, not that this wasn’t already doing that. He looked for some sort of excuse. “This is for your sake, not mine. I don’t want to hear you complaining the whole way back if you accidentally stumble on it and get your doublet dirty or whatever.”

           “Aww, you care.” Jaskier smiled, a smile which flipped something in Geralt’s stomach and made him want to return the gesture, every. damn. time. “Well, this is the price you pay for never revealing your big dark secrets to me, best of luck to you then, and remember you wouldn’t have to do this if you let me go with you.” Geralt barked out a half laugh, half snort.

           “Never.” And with that he strode out and slammed the door. Standing for a moment he could hear the bard chuckling inside, he had a nice laugh that one, before focusing on his music. The familiar pizzing and strumming, a melody picked up here and dropped there, random words, some louder than others, escaping the bard’s mind into sound, it made Geralt feel some sort of happiness, to see someone so in their element and so happy. He was glad that Jaskier was happy. Wished he could share in the effusive sunlight of his companion. But to do would be to go down that path in his mind, and a second moon would appear in the sky before that happened.

             Geralt came back from his expedition covered in black blood, and buzzed enough off of potions to feel completely overwhelmed by the bustling tavern, filled with sounds and smells and colors which seemed to knock into him like a wave. He stumbled his way towards a seat in the corner, head pounding in a myriad of different ways, as if being both smashed by a hammer and stabbed by a million needles. He felt too nauseous to ask for food or drink, worried he might cause a scene in the middle of high hours. Instead he leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing and get the steel he’d need to make his way upstairs and, hopefully, into a bath.

           Slowly he managed to pick his way through the wave of sound, trying to find some sort of lifeline. It was the busiest hours of the night, and Jaskier was in the middle of a performance, singing some sort of song about a highwayman leaving his lover with the promise of gold and riches. Right now the lover was despairing over his disappearance, and Geralt, having listened to this song many times before, reflected on the silliness of the song, for never in real life would a highwayman suddenly save his fair love, declaring that they’d be together in life and death. Still the song was mysterious and repetitive and softer than the usual fare, and Geralt found himself lifted up by it, by Jaskier’s voice, and the slight scratch the strings made when he lifted his hand from them, and for a moment the pain was beaten back by comfort and routine, and by a beautiful voice belonging to a beautiful bard, and, as if by magic, all seemed not overwhelming and gross and dirty, but pure and beautiful and calm.

           The spell, of course, lasted not one second when Geralt made to move, and the nausea, pounding, and overwhelmed sensation slammed back into him like a wall. The Witcher gritted his teeth as he lurched up, determined to make it upstairs. His steps were sluggish and slow, and he marveled that if a monster were to come upon him now he’d probably be useless, for the potions were a double edge sword, and when the adrenaline left so did his focus, and the outside came crashing in, blocking out everything that made him good to fight. A feeling of frustration and uselessness came over him, and Geralt nearly slammed into one of the wooden beams. Immediately he could feel the noise shift, and cursed himself. Jaskier’s music had stopped, and Geralt looked up through his haze of discomfort to see the bard rushing to collect his coin, before hurtling towards Geralt. Looking at his companion, Jaskier called to the innkeeper behind the bar, asking for a tub to be brought up along with hot water, before draping Geralt over his shoulder. Geralt grunted, feeling slightly self-conscious, but now wasn’t truly the time to be batting away the bard’s help, and thus the Witcher leaned onto his companion’s shoulder, and allowed himself to be brought up to their room.

           “Don’t sit on the bed.” Jaskier said, dumping the Witcher onto the trunk. “I don’t know if we’d be able to get clean sheets by tonight.” Taking off his now bloodied doublet, Jaskier placed his lute, which had been slung onto the front of his chest to keep it from being broken or dirtied, on the windowsill, before sitting down on the trunk next to Geralt. “Now, we wait. Bad round this time?” Geralt grunted in assent, and Jaskier nodded. “How you witchers manage it without companions I don’t know.”

Geralt, who was barely keeping upright, wanting nothing more than to sleep and blackout the truly horrendous head pain and waves of discomfort, dragged his hand towards Jaskier. The bard looked slightly confused, and Geralt grunted once more. “What, do you want something?” Jaskier laughed softly, it came out in a huffed, confused way. Slowly he entangled his fingers into his Witcher’s. “Is this it?” Geralt closed his eyes and hummed, not feeling altogether comfortable to confirm, both in fear of being sick and due to the small voice in his mind jeering him this was very foolish indeed. They kept like this for some time, until a knock on the door notified the pair that a bath was finally ready. Everything was brought in, and nothing was said as Jaskier stripped Geralt, shoved him into the tub, and helped the poor Witcher clean off, as well as preventing a drowning, for Geralt was truly bound and determined to sleep, come hell or high water, in this case the latter being more likely. Still, it was accomplished, and as Geralt stumbled onto the bed, he felt a tugging sense of gratitude and comfort, and something else. “Jaskier?” he called out.

“Yes Geralt?” Came the immediate reply, and Geralt smiled slightly to himself, comforted by the familiar reply, the constant presence.

“I ruined your doublet.” He could here a burst of laughter coming from the bard, all in a heap, a lovely soft sound, amplified by the after effects of the Witcher’s potions.

“That you did.” He heard the reply, heard the bard approach, surprisingly quiet and soft. A hand reached out and Geralt took it. It was warm and strong, calloused in the best way, a symbol of talent and tenacity and beauty. “Well. Perhaps it was Fate.” came a soft reply. Geralt smiled, and as he drifted to sleep, he considered that, though the night had been in many ways a debacle, he was glad that he had an anchor to keep him steady, a hand to guide him through the noise and lights and disorder, and if that remained the case, maybe the world wasn’t so great a cesspit as he thought it to be.

             The squat village seemed even squatter from the main path, and as it disappeared into the distance Geralt looked back one last time, not because it was noteworthy in any way, but because it’d become some sort of habit after his leaving of Blaviken, you never knew when someone was going to turn an entire village on you, might as well enjoy an easy parting. It wasn’t something he told anyone, to bring it up was also to bring up a past he’d rather forget, but he still kept onto the tradition. Looking down he noticed Jaskier was smiling slightly, and for a moment Geralt wondered if he was going to bring it up, but instead the bard simply sighed and, kicking in a rock off the path, began to speak.

           “So, I see that you didn’t shake hands with your business partner after claiming your sum.” A rush of relief and irritation accompanied the statement, and Geralt huffed, turning so his gaze went straight ahead. They’d not brought up the night of his job, a source of great relief and consternation for Geralt, and now, faced with the idea of talking about it, he realized that it was easier to theoretically be nonchalant and aloof than actually feign disinterest in a topic or event. “Geralttt.” Jaskier was evidently plunging straight ahead into this topic, “We need to talk about it someday. You need closeness! Contact! A friendly handshake every once in a while!”

           “Why?” Geralt grumbled.

           “Well because it’s not normal for a one night stand to be easier than a handshake. Besides,” he added, grinning mischievously, “I think you’d quite like holding hands, at least every once in a while.” Geralt shifted his weight and looked once more at the bard. Jaskier was looking quite smug, as always, but there seemed to be something behind it, some genuine worry or care, Geralt could tell in the slight way his shoulders were pushed back, the quiver in his smile and in his hands, which were being wrung together. It struck him as odd that anyone should care so much, but evidently Jaskier was one such person. And, though he didn’t like to admit it to himself or anyone else, Geralt did care about Jaskier being happy and content, even if it seemed like a silly reason to be so upset over. If Geralt didn’t care about it, why did Jaskier? Still, the bard could be persistent, and might as well humor him even if he wasn’t, after all, it was just hand holding. Even if it was something that Geralt rather not think about, or talk about. Even if it was easier to pretend he didn’t care.

           Swinging off Roach, Geralt gripped the reins with one hand. The other reached out, and slow disentangled Jaskier’s right hand from his left. Looking straightforward again, Geralt grumbled; “There. Happy?”

           “Mhmm.” The bard hummed in reply, and gave Geralt’s hand a squeeze. Geralt huffed slightly, but he had to admit, it was nice to hold hands, as if a small, quiet part inside of him was suddenly glad to be connected to someone, to be able to share such a mundane and human connection with another. It passed a spell over him, seemingly, and for a moment he was incredibly content.

           “So, what about a kiss?” Jaskier’s playful voice broke through the reverie and Geralt’s stomach took a flip. He went to remove his hand, but Jaskier had a strong grip, and held on. “I’m kidding!” He assured, and laughed slightly. Geralt simply grunted, and tried to ignore the slight burning beneath his cheeks. Still he made no attempt to separate himself from Jaskier again, and, as they walked towards whatever new adventure was awaiting the pair, Geralt reflected that he was quite content where he was, and was grateful for the bard, and for whatever strange humor Fate had been in when linking the two together.

[lo-55]

Shattered Chains of Fate Ch. 3

The Rift

 Ichigo wonders, more often than not, why it is that even though he can see ghosts, he never sees the ones he wants to. His mother, and now his friends from Chaldea. He can’t see them anymore. The singularities are gone, and humanity has returned to the way it always was. But it’s missing so many people, from his own point of view. Olga Marie isn’t bound to him anymore. She’s moved on.  And the rest…

 Ichigo sits in front of his mother's grave with his dad at his side. Karin and Yuzu have gone for drinks, leaving them alone for the time being. Rukia, and Kon too, sit on a hill, watching over them and waiting for trouble. He doesn’t want to admit it. He’s carried the guilt in his heart for so long, but now… it’s possible that Rukia is right. That the reason his mother is dead is because…

   “Hey, old man,” Ichigo looks towards his dad, who’s been acting weird since he’s come back. More than once he’s caught him just staring. Like he’s trying to figure out what changed his kid so much. As if they were ever that close in the first place. Ichigo let’s him. There’s no way for him to understand what’s changed Ichigo into the person he is now. It’s not something that can be easily explained, and in any case the Mage's Association was pretty clear. No one is supposed to know that magic exists. Including his own family. Anyone who finds out must be killed.

 “Yeah?” Isshin looks his way, away from the grave that reads his mother's name.

 “About mom. Could she ever see ghosts, do you know?” he looked right at him. Testing Isshin, watching his eyes. He’d never noticed before…

 That his dad was hiding behind a dozen walls. And they all started to come up when Ichigo asked his question. Ichigo has spent years with master assassins and traitorous knights. He can see clearly now, for the first time ever. His dad isn’t such a colossal goof off after all.

 “Why are you asking this all of a sudden?” he asks and it      hurts    . It hurts more than Ichigo thought, to know that he was keeping this secret for so long. To know that he could have told him, that both of them could have told him when he was young and he couldn't tell who was alive and who was dead, that he wasn’t alone in it. Karin had always had him, and they’d learned together after their mom had died, who was real and who was not.

 Why? Why had they hid these things from him? And could he trust their dad to tell them the truth now?

 “... No reason. I was just thinking about her.”

 No, he decides, looking back at the headstone. He can’t trust his old man to tell him the truth. So, he’ll have to learn it some other way.

 *

 Sometimes, Isshin looks as his son and he sees a complete stranger.

 He’s still brash and angry, and he would die for Yuzu and Karin, might have while Isshin wasn’t looking, but he’s not himself. He isn’t the same son that had climbed onto a plane for what should have been a simple job months ago. He’d only been gone for a week. How could he have changed so much?

 He was taller, for one thing, and yeah teenagers have growth spurts but they don’t grow three inches in seven days. Their hair doesn’t grow out in a week either, and they don’t get so strong or so self assured that fast.

 More than that, his son has this look in his eyes…

 A terrible age, even though he’s only fifteen. He looks at them like he’s afraid they’ll disappear. He looks like he’s always waiting for something. For something to go wrong, for the other shoe to drop.

 Even before Rukia had shown up and given her powers over to him, and then started living in his son’s closet of all places, he’d been the same. On edge. And the way he’d greeted them…

 Ichigo did a lot of things when Isshin attacked him. Hugging him wasn’t one of them.

 On top of all that, he’d gone to see Kisuke, to ask what was going on in the spirit world, where he could no longer see, and it turns out that Kisuke agrees. There’s something strange about Ichigo. He’s stronger than he should be, and stronger than he ever was, even without Rukia. And he doesn’t know what exactly happened between Kisuke and Ichigo, but it’s enough that now the old captain is interested in him.

 It’s not nearly as comforting as Isshin wishes it was. When Kisuke got involved, things rarely went well. No matter how good his intentions were.

 Then he asked about Masaki, and Isshin had faltered.

 It was time, it was the perfect time for him to tell him the truth. To sit him down and explain what had happened all those years ago, and tell him about the kind of heritage he had, and what it might mean. He’s wondered, whose power did he get? Isshin, or Masaki. Shinigami, or Quincy? Or both? Or hollow? It’s hard to tell.

 But he chickened out. The words got stuck and the world closed off and Ichigo turned away from him. The moment was lost, and now Isshin doesn’t know what to do. It’s so much easier raising daughters than sons.

 * *

 By the time his ridiculous duel with Uryu is over, Ichigo is willing to bet money that his mother was a Quincy.

 Ichigo ends up sitting on a bench, breathing fast but he’s not so exhausted nor so beat up as Ishida, who sits patiently while Ichigo carefully stitches up his arm. It’s easy enough to pass this particular skill off as one he learned from his father and not knee deep in a war, trying to help Roman with the dozens of injured Chaldea staff.

 “Isn’t your dad a doctor? Wouldn’t it be better to have him do than let me?” Ichigo finds himself asking They’re lucky Uryu had a needle and thread on his person, even if they did have to bend the needle in an awkward, sloppy approximation of the ones used for real stitches.

 It’ll do for now.

 “It’s best if my father doesn’t know about this,” he says simply.

 “Oh yeah?” Ichigo grins at him. “I take it that means he doesn’t want you doing this kind of stuff then.”

 “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Uryu sniffed at him stubbornly. Ichigo glowers at him, and pulls the next stitch harder until Uryu yelps. “Hey! Watch it!”

 “Of      course    it’s my business. This whole stunt that you pulled was insanely dangerous.”

 “Are you admitting that you’re weaker than I am,” Uryu lifts his chin, his nose in the air, and Ichigo has to stop himself from karate chopping him in his throat.

 “It doesn’t matter if I’m weaker or not! What matters is that we’re not the only people in town that you could have gotten killed with this stunt! Didn’t you notice? There’s hollows that disappeared that neither one of us took out.”

 He snaps the thread and grabs Uryu by the front of his shirt, watching his blue eyes go wide and realization dawn for what is apparently the first time. “That means other people are fighting. Other people might be dying. My sister has high spirit levels too you know?! When you pull shit like this you’re putting the lives of everyone around you into the same danger, without even telling them about it! How can someone with top grades be so damn stupid?!”

 Ichigo forces himself to lean back, anger still bubbling under his skin. All this trouble because Uryu hates shinigami, and Ichigo isn’t even a real one.

 “      Listen    ,” he leans in , forcing Uryu to bend backwards over the back of the bench, “I’ll fight you one on one any time you want. But this hollow fighting isn’t a game. And if you ever put other people in danger unnecessarily again, I’ll beat your goddamn face in.”

 “Y-you!” Uryu pushes against his chest but Ichigo is immobile, stone and still.

 “Do you understand, Uryu Ishida?”

 “I. Yes,” he says at last, looking down and away. Only then does Ichigo let him go, leaning back and letting out a grunt when it pulls at his shoulders. He’d over strained himself, just a little bit.

 “Hey, Kon!” Ichigo waves his body snatcher over to the pair. “Gimme my body back already, huh?”

 “Ah, you’re no fun,” Kon whines, but he sits on the bench and lets Ichigo slide back in without a fuss. Ichigo pulls Uryu up off of the bench and gives him a shove.

 “C’mon. I’ll walk you home.”

 “I don’t need you to do that!”

 “Well I’m doing it anyways. You’re injured, what if there’s still a few more hollows lingering around, huh? Just shut up and start walking.”

 Uryu scowls, but starts walking forwards anyhow, with Ichigo in his shadow. During his whole trauma speech and background story Ichigo’s mind had been turning over and over. His dad was a quincy too, even if he didn’t want to admit it, and if Uryu was to be believed, they were the last of them.

 Goat-face isn’t going to answer his questions, so Ichigo follows Uryu home, to a house that far too big for just two men alone. He feels old, walking into it. It’s fanciful, but he’s seen the theatres of Rome and the courts of King Arthur.

 Ichigo will never be a sensor, but he’s gotten used to trusting the sense inside him that says when someone else is around, and even though it took him a while he’s good enough to be able to follow it if he has to. He didn’t know about the spirit ribbons. Ichigo is used to being clueless, but he’s not stupid. He files the information away for later, and quietly memorizes that feeling of Uryu. It’s more like a taste, clean and sharp, and vaguely like citrus.  

 His father is much the same. And he is utterly unimpressed by Ichigo arriving on his doorstep with his son in tow.

 His eyes are colder than ice, not exactly something Ichigo would want in any doctor he has.

 “Hey, old man,” Ichigo raised a hand and, with his usual level of tact, asked ever-so-discreetly, “Did you know my mom?”

 * * *

 “Do you know where you are?”

 The scent of roses and daffodils and the feeling of soft worn wool brushing against his cheek. A ribbon made of magic brushing his nose.

 Ichigo opens his eyes and looks into a pale blue sky, wisps of cotton candy clouds stretching across from one horizon to the next.

 “I am in a dream,” he says dutifully.

 “Very good Dolores.”

 Ichigo punches him in the stomach, sending the mage doubled over in a fit of coughing and laughing together. A smile that’s far too mischevious to be soft is aimed at him.

 “You have an amazon prime subscription out here?” Ichigo asked, sitting up slowly. The tower still floats, through the sky at the end of the world.

 “Well yes. I do run a blog, you know?” though it’s said with a straight face he can see a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, where even eternal youth hasn’t been able to curb laugh lines. He’s good humor, and a good company.

 “Seriously?!”

 That gets a laugh out of the mage of all mages. He lays back in the flowers that climb and bloom, thriving in his very presence. He is life and light and mischief, a watcher and a strange sort of guardian.

 “Well yes. I can’t spend all of my time merely      watching     people. The internet made things much more fun! Humans are such innovative creatures, even without magic to help them along.”

 Ichigo nodded along with him. “Does that mean that you can email me instead of hijacking my beauty sleep?”

 “Oh, you mean you don’t enjoy my company, oh great Master of Humanity?”

 Ichigo scowls at him, but there’s a smile trying to pull at his mouth. He struggles to squash it, and he can tell from the glint in his companions eyes that he fails.

 “Stop calling me that,” he says for a millionth time.

 A firm hand pushes him back into the flowers, under the warmth of the sun in the soft crush of fragrant petals. There’s no perfume that could ever compare. This is a strange place, a beautiful cage, and Ichigo doesn’t fully understand how he can be here and home at the same time. Not that that’s new. He’s been in two places at once more times than he cares to count, and he still only vaguely understands how it’s possible.

 “I understand that your life is interesting once more.” The mage stretches out beside him, taller than he and cloaked elegantly in his same old robes. He’s showy and modest at once and it hurts Ichigo’s eyes to look at him for long.

 Ichigo groans. “If you mean my entire existence is one giant clusterfuck then yeah. It’s real ‘interesting’ again. But I’m not time travelling again yet so…”

 “Poor little master. Your life is so very hard…”

 “I’ll hit you,” Ichigo threatened. “Master mage, but a shit fighter. I can take you.”

 The laugh that he is granted is bells on the wind.

 “True, true. But I believe that things will get worse before they get better. Perhaps you should begin your mage craft training once more.”

 “You know I always sucked at that. I could only use real magic if I had a mystic code. Every other time, it exploded in my face. I’m a secondrate mage, that’s how it’s always been,” he says it all simply.

 “That is true… Isn’t it funny how that works out? A boy who cannot cast a single spell without assistance ends up defeating the most powerful mage in history. You really are a remarkable human, Ichigo.”

 “And you’re trying to get me to do something for you, aren’t you?”

 “Aha! You do know me! Yes, I need you to mail something very important to me…”

 “You get mail here?!”  

 * * * *

 It’s the tenth time he’s been thrown into the dirt today.

 A normal person would have given up and packed it in. A normal person would have humbly accepted that the strength of these titans was beyond their abilities to keep up with.

 Instead, Ichigo stands again.

 He picks up his borrowed practice sword, dulled so no one can get hurt, and faces his opponent once more.

 Mash, Cu, and Medusa, his constant companions, watch him narrow his eyes and plant his feet again.

 “One more time, Nero!”

 “He’s stubborn, if nothing else,” Medusa mused, not quite out of his earshot. Cu nods his agreement, his eyes never wavering.

 “Tha’ll help him,” he said simply. Ichigo didn’t know why but his accent seemed to change just a little each time he opened his mouth. Sometimes he was barely understandable. Sometimes it is perfect english. Or whatever language the magic was auto-translating it to. Japanese for Ichigo, english for Mash, and probably latin for Nero and the surrounding soldiers.

 “ ‘He’ can still hear you!” He glared halfheartedly at the pair of Servants, who looked perfectly innocent. The longer he was around them, the more familiar he was with the small changes in disposition and expression, their likes and dislikes. And, to his eternal surprise, the      feeling    of them.

 Cu Cullain felt like trees. Like thick moss on a stone, and early morning mist rolling through thick, ageless trees. His presence was as familiar as an old, trusted hound. They’d only been together for a few months, but his spellwork and the steady draw of his mana felt as natural as breathing to him.

 Medusa was the deep ocean, power beneath every surface but beautiful to behold. A crash of waves against the stony shore, her every touch fleeting and feather light while her chains lashed with horror and the chthonic strength born in the age of gods. She was the smooth brush of scales against his wrist, the flash of teeth behind a sweet smile, and gold eyes in the darkness that Ichigo alone did not flinch from.

 Theirs was a tenuous relationship. She kept looking for him to stab her back, to cut her head and use it as his weapon. Ichigo was still half expecting to wake up as a statue one day. They only had the barest trust between them but…

 She hasn’t let him down yet, and Ichigo endeavours to repay that much if he can.

 He raises his sword and barely blocks a vicious strike from Nero. She was shorter than him by far, but he had no chance matching her for raw strength. Or speed. Or her damn near perfect swordplay.

 “Focus on the performance at hand,” she orders, her mouth curved in a strange smile. Ichigo didn’t totally understand her. They’d been travelling with her for over a month now, on the way to reach what would one day be london.

 “Right,” Ichigo lunges for her, his strikes quick and hard. He’s not worried about hurting her since he can’t even      hit    her.

 It’s graceful, elegant, and nearly effortless for her to knock him flat on his ass again, smacking the flat of her blade against his chest so hard he sees spots. He’s left sucking desperately. His nails bite into the dirt and his grip on his sword tightens until the leather wrapped around the hilt creaks.

 “That’s enough for today, I think,” Nero decides. Ichigo wants to argue, but he doesn’t have any breath for it. So he groans like a dying whale and lays in the dirt, his hands shaking, his body refusing to move at all.

 Nero lowers herself to the ground, on her knees beside him and how strange is that? A goddamn emperor kneeling with him in the dirt. A demi-goddess, and a druid, and a demi-servant. And Ichigo, just human. But Nero is human too. She’s as alive as he is and she is wiping the fucking floor with him.

 “You’re a - fuck,” he wheezes and finally gets his elbows under him so he can sit up.

 “Now that’s very rude to say, considering that I’ve been training you out of the goodness of my own heart,” Nero sniffs at him, tilting her chin to the sky.

 Why did Ichigo always get stuck with these kinds of bewildering people? Everyone he knew was so weird…

 “Yeah, I guess. Thanks, Nero.” A perfectionist and slave driver, but Ichigo was getting better every day. By the time they reached their destination, maybe he’d even be able to land a single blow per bout. Ichigo had never expected to get along with a roman emperor of all people, but even outside of fighting Ichigo has always been, if only mildly, interested in the arts, and Nero only stokes those embers.

 Nero smiles beatifically at him. “You have the makings of a fine performer. Even without an Imperial Privilege. I enjoy teaching you.”

 Her smile is interrupted by a pinch of her brows and purse of her lips.

 Ah, another headache.

 It’s very strange, trying to reconcile the young woman in front of Ichigo with the tyrant from history. She’s put her people ahead of her at every turn, and helped Ichigo and his friends. She’s under no obligation to teach Ichigo swordplay but she does, even after long days on the march.

 At the same time, there’s a reason Boudica is only her reluctant ally. Nero cared for her people but she was, in another word, a merciless bitch when she put her mind to it. But she was on their side, for now, and Ichigo is learning not to look gift horses in the mouth. So he gets up and goes to her side, and shows her how to press her fingers into pressure points on the back of her neck, and hold it for a few seconds until the headache goes away.

 He’s made an archduke for that one.

 * * * * *

 A rift forms in the Kurosaki household.

 It’s always been there, a cut stitches tenuously together by blood and loyalty, and reinforced by love, but now it’s split.

 A gaping chasm, and Ichigo doesn’t know what to do with it.

 It feels like it’s not something he can bridge. Like this is one obstacle that even he cannot conquer. Master of Chaldea, Final Beacon for Humanity. Commander of Heroes, Beloved, the First Guardian.

 He is a hundred things but at the end of the day he is still.

 A teenager.

 Fifteen and eighteen and four thousand at once.

 His dad had lied to him. If not directly, then by omission. For years, for so very long he’d let Ichigo hold the responsibility of Masaki’s life in his hands, had kept quiet when he grew frightened and dark and closed off from the living, so preoccupied was he with the dead.

 Never once did he offer reason. Never once did he show his care or cradle his son, or tell him that the monsters were real and it      wasn’t his fault    .

 Not once, in six, seven, eight, nine years did he tell Ichigo that he was not alone. That he and Karin were merely Masaki’s children. That they were born of quincy blood, even if that never put a bow in their hands.

     Half the blood means half the power,”     That was what Ryuuken had said. And how sad is it that Ichigo had had to hunt down a veritable stranger, once who’s son had spent the entire day bickering and competing and hating his guts, to get answers from?

 “      Does my old man know all of this?”    Ichigo had asked.

 Ryuuken was honest, even if he didn’t want to get into the tangled web of family drama.      “Yes,”    He’d said, “      But it’s more complicated than that. Isshin has the entire story.”  

 And he wouldn’t tell Ichigo.

 He didn’t tell him on the bloody banks of the river, when a child wandered in desperate hope of finding a phantom of his mother.

 He did not tell a ten year old at the foot of a grave marker. He kept silent at eleven, at twelve, thirteen, fourteen.

 Fifteen. Under the watching grave of his mother Ichigo had asked. And Isshin had not told.

 The house is tense like it hasn’t been since Ichigo got back. It’s tense like a storm, cracking along the edges of the walls and windows. Tense like there’s no coming back from this and Ichigo cannot take the building static in his veins or the hissing of betrayal in his ears, like snakes.

 He misses Medusa, suddenly. She would take his pound of flesh for him and then some.

 Ichigo go knows, for certain, that if he stays in this house he’ll go mad. Yuzu and Karin, they know something is up. Ichigo’s pretty sure Karin saw the hollow, Grand Fisher, at the grave site. Dead now by his blade, but the vengeance tastes like ash on his tongue. His mother is still dead. His father is still a liar.

 His sisters still love them both.

 Ichigo loves them, too. More than anything in the world, he fought gods and demons for their sake. For them to be born for them to have a future.

 But he can’t spend all of his time at home, and Chad is starting to ask questions that Ichigo has a difficult time answering.

 Not ‘was that a demon ghost you just punched in the face’ hard. That answer is ease. ‘Yes’.

 But ‘is everything alright at home’ hard. Chad had asked the first time he saw Isshin launch himself at his son in a surprise attack and he’s about to ask it again, Ichigo can feel it in his bones.

 So he makes a phone call.

 The rest of the world will never know what they did.

 The world will not know about him or Mash or Roman or Olga Marie, or the countless others that built Chealdea and kept her running. They’ll never know how much they fought, how much they bled, how much they sacrificed for the sake of the future.

 It’s fine with him.

 But there are some who know. The Mage's Association, and the United Nations. And a select few people from the Clock Tower in London, where Ichigo has already been offered schooling and job. They know that he stopped the incineration of humanity.

 And they      owe    him.

 Three years of pay for working in Chaldeas, and even more for everything else he’d done.

 He finds a backpack while he waits for a familiar voice to answer.

 “Do you have any idea what time it is?” There's a shuffle of sheets and a groan in the background and Ichigo barely pays it any mind as he stuffs a hoodie into his bag and goes looking for his running shoes.

 “Not a clue,” he said blandly. “But listen, Waver. I need a favor.”

 * * * * * *

[babedur]

Max has a nightmare. Maisie couldn’t sleep in the first place. 

Spoilers for Peril on Gorgon, up to the HIA building.

Tartarus was always cold. He was in a suit, a suit of armor, he was trying to follow his orders but he was doing something wrong, he was shooting the targets and running their courses but he was doing something so wrong that they brought him to the conveyor belt and shoved him into the machine, a machine that silently but finally forced him into shape, compressing his insides and snapping bones that would not bend-

Suddenly, it was bright, and Max shoved at the machine- but he wasn’t in a trash compactor. He was in Maisie’s room, on the Unreliable, shoving away the blankets. His whole body ached, and he was cold where he’d sweat though his nightshirt. 

“Max,” Maisie said, from the foot of the bunk- a place she’d learned to wake him from, the hard way. Too far away by far. When he reached for her, she shuffled up, and the squeeze of her embrace and the warm glow of the MSI lanterns were reminders that he was alive and in one piece, not… not there. 

He shuddered. 

“ADA,” Maisie said, “Lights to twenty percent?” 

The lights dimmed without sass. Odd, that. ADA was never one to pass up an opportunity to crack wise at Max’s expense. 

“Did I wake you?” Max asked. 

He’d intended it to be a rhetorical question, except Maisie answered, “No, I was already up. Couldn’t really fall asleep.”

“Gorgon?” 

She nodded, snuggling into his embrace so that she could rest her forehead on his shoulder. It was hardly surprising. 

Max knew, in vague terms, that prisoners from Tartarus getting loaned out to companies for experiments were not precisely getting the gainful employment that they were promised. But there was a difference in turning down a contract with Auntie Cleo, and experiencing the brutal horror of the HIA building. 

Someone had designed those tests- fire on command, run for hours on end, and weed out anyone who voiced a word of complaint. Others still had run the prisoners through them. And even more had studied the results and attempted to make meaningful spreadsheets and graphics of the results. 

And, somewhere, there had been a maintenance team, keeping the facilities as clean as they could, keeping the doors and lights and trash compactors running as smoothly as they could. How much had they seen? One had to wonder, when one cleaned up liters of blood every single day, where it was all coming from. Did they have to work extra shifts? (And if you’re working extra shifts, what better way to keep alert and active…)

“I keep wondering,” Max said, “if one of the contracts I had been offered during my penitentiary visit had been offered by Spacer’s Choice.”

Maisie’s embrace tightened. “Don’t even suggest that.”

“I never once thought of actually accepting a contract,” Max said truthfully. “On the surface it was all very saccharine- another chance to serve your colony, doing tasks that no one else has the grit and mettle to do, but… It doesn’t take years of studying the Law to realize that a promise to cut a sentence years long to a few months is probably a bad bet. Even so…”

“This is going to sound silly,” Maisie said, “considering I’m sure everyone on this ship knows better now. But never take Adrena-time?” 

“Never,” Max said, and the vehemence in his voice startled a laugh out of Maisie. “Laws, never.”

“Good,” Maisie said. “And promise not to laugh at me when I track everyone down tomorrow and make them promise, too.” 

Max opened his mouth to say, Of course no one would, no one on this ship is a moron. There’s no need for that, but Maisie knew that already. And she couldn’t sleep, either.

“I promise,” Max said. “ADA, how long did Maisie spend trying to fall asleep?”

“Approximately three hours and eight minutes,” ADA recited dutifully. “After that, she got up to write in her journal and do some bookkeeping.” 

“Traitor,” Maisie muttered. 

Max looked to the clock- he’d gotten about four hours of sleep before his nightmare got bad enough for Maisie to wake him, and he still felt exhausted and drained. Maisie hadn’t even gotten that.

“You should get some rest,” Max murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Maisie readjusted their embrace, but didn’t reply. He would have to carefully word his next thoughts- he, of all people, knew how pride could make a fool out of someone. “And we should probably take the day off, tomorrow. Make sure our equipment is in order for whatever awaits us in the CHEM labs. It’ll give the crew some time to process what we saw there, as well.”

“You mean, give me some time to process.”

“Would you allow me to try to continue on as normal if I insisted on going out on a ‘hard-and-loud’ mission tomorrow? After the day we just had, and missing an entire night’s rest?”

He could feel Maisie making a face into his shoulder. 

“Exactly,” Max said. “On a practical level, it would do no one any favors to have our tactician and leader far from her best. Not to mention that you and I are not the only people being hit by this. Our crew acts tough, but ADA could probably confirm we are not the only ones losing sleep tonight. Someone’s liable to get hurt- imagine how you’d feel if it wasn’t even you.

“On a personal level… you shoulder a lot on your own. And I understand that- I prefer to keep my own counsel, as well. There are things I tell my journal that I don’t tell you, and I’m certain the reverse is true, as well. But the process of, er, processing,  is still… a process.” 

“That one got away from you,” Maisie observed.

He scowled. There must be a better way to have phrased that, and he knew it would come to him at a time where it would be absolutely useless and he wouldn’t even be able to write it down. “You’re making fun of my bumbling attempts to comfort you because you don’t have a better argument.”

“…Yeah, I am.” Maisie sighed. “You’re right. You’re right on every point. But… I don’t even want to try to sleep, right now.”

“Tough. We’re going to change the sheets since I already did us the disservice of sweating through them, and then we’re both going to try and get some rest.”

Sometimes, it was all in the voice. Maisie pulled away and glared at him through sleep-beaten eyes, but she didn’t protest. She even got him new sleep clothes to wear and told ADA, “If anyone asks tomorrow, we’re all sleeping in. I don’t expect anyone to be ready to do anything until noon.”

“I’ll keep watch,” ADA promised. “I mean, I always do. But humans like to have the obvious re-stated when they are out of sorts.”

“Thank you,” Maisie said, to the sassy computer program that of which she was so fond. And when she climbed into bed beside Max, she kissed his cheek and said, again, “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, captain, to contribute to the continued well-being of this crew and the longevity of it’s operations-“

She attempted to smother him with a pillow. It felt good, to laugh. 

[tenglows]

in the name of the old days

summary: it’s the last day of the year and you’re feeling nostalgic. you come across the twitter of the boy who used to be your best friend a few years ago, and decide to message him.

category: fluff, a bit of angst? maybe??, internet friend!mark

it was currently december 31, at half past one am, and you were scrolling on twitter

some chuckles here and there while reading your friend’s posts about timothee chalamet

you were about to close the app to go brush your teeth and prepare for bed

when your eyes wandered off and focused on another tweet

“almost 2020 and still no flying cars” read the tweet

from @/markly_

this made you sit straight in your mattress

you clicked on his profile

you two still followed each other

there weren’t a lot of recents tweets, so that’s why you figured you hadn’t come across the boy’s twitter sooner

plus; lately you weren’t the type to be so active on social media either

you mentally counted the years since you first met mark lee

it was 2019 (almost 2020) now and you guys had met in 2015

you had gotten involved in a drama with a one direction stan, you being part of 5sos stan twitter

and mark, little mix stan, had defended you

it was in the middle of the zayn and perrie scandal, so he assured both of your teams had to stick together to defeat one direction’s fans

you became mutuals after that

and you soon realized that mark had the tendency to initiate lots of twitter fights

often with the people that would bash perrie and her group

your friendship rose as the two of you took turns defending the other one on those enfrentations

you don’t know how but all of the sudden there was no day you wouldn’t talk to mark

you were both 16 at the time, you being older just by a few months

you guys would talk about everything and anything

and basically grew up together

you were there for him when school got hard and future scared him

he was there for you when you faced a pretty bad relationship

and you honestly considered him your best friend

sleepless nights with him on facetime were one of the things you looked forward to the most

hearing him talk about his day

him showing you a new song he learned on the guitar, or him playing some melodies and lyrics he composed himself every now and then

watching the same movie or show at the same time on your respective screens

struggling to press play together to match the exact second

“i totally knew he was gonna die”

“shut up you’re way ahead!!!!”

you had other friends at school, too

but mark was just mark

and you two had such a loving bond, you were so close you took him with you to everywhere you went

you just wished you had him closer

at least you were both from canada

him being from vancouver and you from quebec

you had made lots of plans about meeting in real life, and you genuinely believed they would come about

but it is true that time passes and people drift apart

you were about to begin college and made new friends

mark moved out to toronto

and gradually, the responses took longer

and the calls had kinda been left aside

until one of you just stopped replying

you honestly don’t remember who it was

but there isn’t really a reason, either

you just parted ways

and it’s fine, it’s human and natural and normal

but now looking at his profile picture: a polaroid of him hugging another boy

you felt as if a bucket of cold and frostbound nostalgia had been dumped over your head

you recognized his moles, and how he had the same smile

his header picture was a guitar

and it wasn’t the same he used to have, but something about him still liking music made you feel warm

it’s always astonishing to see how the life of a person who is no longer in yours just,,,

goes on

and you aren’t aware of a thing about their existence

or even think about them

so it’s almost as they don’t exist

but now you know mark still exists

and it’s so weird to think about how your lives had been so overlapped, so united

and now you didn’t know anything about him

the mix of reminiscence about this and the year ending

resulted in your impulsive fingers pressing the envelope icon in mark’s profile

you stayed like that for a few minutes, writing and deleting messages. the sentences you thought about never feeling enough

you sighed as you told yourself this would be the last attempt

“hi mark, i’m not sure if you remember me but i saw you on my tl and it made me want to check on you! maybe this message will disappear into thin air but i just wanted to try. i hope you’re doing well <3”

you stared at the blue bubble of text almost without blinking for a moment

maybe he didn’t want to talk to you, and it was okay. you stopped talking in 2017, almost three years had passed

you thought looking at yourself in the mirror while you brushed your teeth

you came back to your room and turned off your lights, ready to go to sleep

but when you grabbed your phone with the intention to charge it, you saw you had a twitter notification

“y/n! how could i forget about you? haha it’s been so long two years without talking. how are you? how’s life? tell me something”

an instant smile started growing upon your face

the way he texted was the same as before

and you missed his haha

two and a half hours into the night you felt as if you were stuck in 2015 all over again

you had always had this fluidity at the time of talking with mark

the conversation just,, bloomed

he told you he still lived in new york, but he was actually gonna move back to toronto in a couple of months

he was majoring in music and owned a soundcloud rap account, and he had gotten quite popular as well

you mentioned how you had changed majors

what started as you being a marketing management major ended up on you leaning towards philosophy

something that no one had seen coming

so you expected the same reaction from mark

“i can totally see it, you always liked to think and question everything a little too much”

and that comment made you feel thrilled in your stomach, to say the least

even after all these years

mark was probably the person who knew you the most

days passed

weeks, even

and what you thought was just a conversation remembering the old days and filling the other in on your life

just,,, never stopped

mark and you went back to talking every day

everything felt the same as it did before

because after all, it was the same mark. it was always mark

still, the day you had agreed on facetiming for the first time again you felt kinda nervous

what if you ran out of what to talk about? what if it was suddenly weird?

and when you picked up the call and found yourself face to face with a flustered mark you knew he felt the same

you both hesitated as to who would speak first

him being the one to break the ice

“hey y/n” he giggled

“wow, your voice has gotten deeper”

he laughed loudly at your honesty, making you laugh back

“your hair is shorter”

“i know right? it was so long, i just got fed up of it reaching my waist”

“i like it, it looks pretty” he paused “you look pretty”

and in that moment you wondered how your heart could be beating this hard at a blurry screen with poor connection

comments like that kept making an appearance as time went by, sometimes from mark and eventually from your part

and that was the only thing that differed from the relationship you used to have with the one you had now

was it flirting? you didn’t know

but you had never thought of mark the way you think about him now

“so? what do you think?”

you set the phone on your desk as you walked away and showed mark your white dress. you were on your way to a costume party one of your friend’s brother was throwing, and even though it was cliché, you couldn’t be bothered to think of a more ingenious costume than a traditional angel

mark took his time fixing his gaze on you, his eyes getting closer to concentrate on what the vague wifi let him

“i can’t recognize the costume”

“what do you mean? i’m literally wearing wings and a halo”

“could it be because you always look like an angel?”

“ayee mark that was cheesy”

“i know, i’m sorry” you both laughed

“but really, you look amazing. go and have fun babe”

then pet names came into play

you weren’t sure what you were doing, but flirting with mark was sweet and fun and innocent

you always found yourself wanting for more

you were yearning for mark, you wanted to see him, listen to him, touch him

and you didn’t know what to do with yourself

until one day he called you out of the blue, which startled you, since he always asked before calling

“hey! were you busy?”

“no no i’m just doing the dishes, what’s up?”

“okay, so you know how i’m moving to toronto in two weeks, right?” you nodded “well, i just managed to change my flight so i would go to quebec for some days before properly settling in toronto, you know since it’s not that far”

“you’re kidding”

“i’m going to visit you!!!!!!!”

he squealed in your ear and you squealed back, scaring your poor cat who was sleeping soundly

after some more yelling, the excitement died out a bit and you stayed in silence for just a few seconds

“i don’t really have a place to stay though” he snorted, embarrassed

“you can always stay with me, mark”

after some long and never-ending hours and days (you had seriously convinced yourself some wrinkles had appeared on your forehead from all the waiting)

it was finally the day you would see mark

it was currently 11 am, mark’s flight was at 1 pm and he would arrive at quebec at approximately a bit less than 3 pm

now, he was at new york’s airport taking care of all the travelling procedures

and you were cleaning up the same spots in your aparment for the fourth time in a row

to say you were nervous was an understanding

you felt like you were going insane

you barely had gotten any sleep the night before, not being able to defeat the crowding thoughts about finally meeting your long-time friend

(who now you wanted to be more than a friend and seeing him physically could totally help with that)

you arranged some lunch for you and your cat (magnus) and sat in front of the tv, wanting to find literally anything that would keep your mind occupied

luckily, it worked, and you let yourself lose track of time

until your phone beeped, indicating you had received a text

“i’m boarding now!! i’ll text you when i get there, can’t wait to see you”

“have a safe flight love”

you sighed dramatically and rested your arm against your forehead

magnus stared at you in confusion and boredom

“magnus, i think i’m going to die”

as promised, mark texted you as soon as the plane landed

you offered to go pick him up at the airport, but he denied, saying he had already scheduled a taxi

so now you were ready and dressed, going all over your apartment non stop

mark was texting you through all the taxi drive and updating you on his location, you growing more and more anxious as you knew he was getting closer

you went to the bathroom and as soon as you stepped out, a knock was heard on your door

it was soft and steady, and you opened your eyes widely when the realization of who the owner of the hand was hit you

you panicked, one last time

you even eyed your room window to check if you had any chance of jumping out and running away

but you took a deep breath and walked decidedly towards your door

you just had to remind yourself it was the same mark as always, and nothing could go wrong if there was him

thus, you opened the door

and the facetime pixels and instagram pictures could have never prepared you for how dreamy mark looked

you two stayed like that for a bit

just watching the other with shy eyes and smiles

you eventually snapped out of your trance and helped mark get his luggage inside

"it's a bit small but i hope you can make yourself comfortable"

"oh please it's perfect, don't worry" he gave you a reassuring smile before getting totally distracted by the fluffy ball of hair in your couch

"oh my god is that magnus!!!!"

after letting mark get comfortable and installed, you guys decided to take a walk and go over your apartment zone, showing mark all your favorite places and memories you had there

it was a bit cold and you were both tightened around your coats

eventually, it was getting late and more chilly

so you opted for going back to your place

as you walked there in a bit of silence, you could feel mark's body getting more close in proximity

you looked at him, his gaze fixed upon the path with a small grin on his lips

you got closer too

and you liked it

it was cold outside but when mark brushed against your body

canada has never felt more like summer

you guys were really close now

as you took step after step, your jackets made static sounds, rubbing against the other

you looked at mark and delicately touched one of his fingers with your pinky, as if asking for permission

he finally looked up from the way and focused on your eyes instead, breaking into a smile once again

he took a peek at your close hands and softly intertwined your fingers

both of your faces reddening, from the low temperature and the feelings that were growing in your stomach

when you got to your apartment you guys were still holding hands, but you realized you had to open the door with that one, and couldn't find the keys in your pocket

"y/n, you will have to let go of my hand to get the keys"

"that's the point. i don't want to"

"y/n, i'm freezing. please open the door i can still hold your hand when we're inside"

and yeah,,

he did

you changed into comfortable and warm clothes and prepared some hot chocolate while mark chose a movie in your laptop

when you entered the room, two mugs in hand

mark was lying on his stomach on your bed, his hand on his chin with his mouth a bit open while concentrating on the variation of movies netflix offered

you felt a shiver down your spine

he really was here

after taking a while to decide on a movie, or at least its genre, you just selected a random title

you turned off the lights and went back to your bed, getting under the covers

and you just felt warm

and whole

maybe more because of mark than the actual sheets that were meant to keep you heated

(he also held your hand the entire time, rubbing his thumb against your palm and drawing invisible figures on it)

your head rested on his shoulder and you went up as the same time his chest did with every breath he took

in some moment you stopped paying attention to the movie

your mind wandered off to thoughts about the boy, about how you have never felt this close to him. you felt like you were really inside his ribcage

still from his shoulder, you moved a bit so you could look at him

his face was glowing

yeah, the images and lights of the computer were reflecting on him

but you meant this boy glowed in the dark

he just had something in him

it was either rays of sunshine or neon paint

but he, in this frosty and amusing night within your bedroom walls, glowed on his own

he turned his gaze towards you too, and tightened the grip on your hand

you felt mark’s arm on your waist and he rearranged the position so you would be on his chest

hearing his heartbeat, it was music

mark always did music. and he himself was music too, his heart creating your new favorite beat

“markie”

“hm?”

“i’m falling asleep” you confessed with a drowsy voice, making him laugh

“let’s turn off the movie, shall we? we can continue it tomorrow”

he shut the laptop closed and placed it on your desk, quickly making his way back to the bed so he would hold you

you had prepared him another bed next to you, a mattress already covered

but he was showing no intentions of moving a muscle

“are you going to sleep here?”

“that was the plan, yeah” he giggled on your neck. you shuddered

“i made the bed just in case”

“i can go there if you prefer”

“no” pause “i want you here”

and he smiled proudly as he hid his face in the crook of your neck

you smelled nice, like coconut and vainilla and all his sweetest dreams combined

and with his arms around your waist he felt strong, like he could defeat anything that the world aimed at him

“do you think it was meant to be that we’re here after all this years? would you consider it destiny?” he thought out loud, gazing at you

“i can’t give you an answer right now”

“fine, philosophy major” he mocked, making you both laugh

“as a philosophy major, i don’t know. destiny is always a tricky thing to discuss”

“but as y/n, yeah, i believe it was meant to be”

he stared at you in awe

“i really want to kiss you right now”

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: Towers of Midnight ch 8

Mat goes bar-hopping and contemplates obligations

Chapter 8: The Seven-Striped Lass

Oh it’s Mat. Well, enough people have told me Mat is better in this book than last, so if nothing else, confirmation bias alone should see me through.

(Though my indifference towards Mat extends further back than just last book, so… who knows).

He’s in a tavern, which should surprise absolutely no one, and thinking about how Aes Sedai are the bane of his existence, which… also should surprise absolutely no one.

Hey, now he and Thom can fidget with their Aes Sedai letters together. Safer than juggling knives in a world that doesn’t seem to have invented stress balls yet.

‘Master Crimson’? What is this, Cluedo?

And of course he’s not looking at women any more, definitely not noticing any of their, ahem, assets or anything, at least not for himself, you know, just keeping an eye out for his friends of course.

He’s also asking tavernkeepers for advice, because sometimes you just need a sounding board to convince yourself of what you already know. In this case, what to do about Verin’s letter and the conditions set on it. Which, to be fair, is a rather infuriating dilemma. When Verin plays games, she doesn’t fuck around.

“I could open it,” she continued to Mat, “and could tell you what’s inside.”

Bloody ashes! If she did that, he would have to do what it said. Whatever it bloody said. All he had to do was wait a few weeks, and he would be free. He could wait that long. Really, he could.

“It wouldn’t do,” Mat said

Aw, but wouldn’t it? I mean, Verin of all people would appreciate that kind of loophole.

“The woman who gave it to me was Aes Sedai, Melli. You don’t want to anger an Aes Sedai, do you?”

“Aes Sedai?” Melli suddenly looked eager. “I’ve always fancied going to Tar Valon, to see if they’ll let me join them.” She looked at the letter, as if more curious about its contents.

Light! The woman was daft.

Nah, she’s one of the rare sensible ones! Seriously, if I lived in a world with magic, in which there was a chance I could learn to do it, I would give approximately zero fucks about the reputation of the organisation that would enable me to learn it. (Yes, I know, it makes sense in this world that people are wary of Aes Sedai, but to me it’s one of those things like… oh, I don’t know, characters who decide they’re not actually interested in immortality because it would mean outliving their loved ones. Like okay, yeah, there’s a price, but magic. Immortality. I will never understand some fictional characters. Or maybe this just says something about me and which side I’d be on in these fictional worlds… but then, are we really surprised?)

“Can I trust you to keep your word?”

He gave her an exasperated look. “What was this whole bloody conversation about, Melli?”

‘Can I trust you to keep your word’ is kind of a… tautological question, though. And one that always amuses me, along with variations like ‘how can I trust you’ ‘I give you my word’. Because ultimately you’re still just left with the decision of whether or not you trust that person’s word. And no real way of knowing whether or not you should. Once again, I am perhaps exposing myself as not ideal hero material here.

I will say I’m impressed by Mat’s ability to not open the letter. Though I hope at some point we get to see what it says; Verin’s so good at this kind of thing it would be a shame not to see what game she set up here.

The bouncer doesn’t like Mat, which is kind of not surprising given that a bouncer’s job is to stop shit and the purpose of Mat’s entire existence is to start shit.

The paving stones were damp from a recent shower, though those clouds had passed by and—remarkably—left the sky open to the air.

I see what you did there.

Also I’m now trying to place this against everyone else’s timeline and it’s hurting my brain a little. The weather would suggest this is post-Dragonmount but I feel like Mat still had a bit of catch-up to do… ah well, I’m sure we’ll find out. For whatever reason timelines are something of an exception to my usual ability to retain details, probably because, weirdly enough, I often just… don’t care that much? In the sense that usually, when you actually need to know (or when it would be interesting or add something to the story to know), you’ll know.

Mat was not about any specific task tonight

Oh, wandering about at random are we? Which, if you’re Mat, means that regardless of how you started the night, you’ll almost certainly be about a certain task before you finish it. The Pattern has plans, after all.

Getting a feel for Caemlyn. A lot had changed since he had been here last.

Wow, okay, yeah, as the reader we’ve been in Caemlyn plenty over the past several books, but Mat was last here in book three. Damn.

A lot has changed since then. In Caemlyn, yes, but also Mat has changed quite a lot since then. It’s interesting, even in real life, going back to a place you either visited or knew well in the past. The sense of familiarity but at a slight distance, along with the memory of when you were there last, which can then serve to highlight how you’ve changed. And then all the things that aren’t familiar, though you can’t always be certain if that’s just because you’re seeing them differently…

Light, he had heard of paving stones attacking people.

What is this, the French Revolution?

Mat’s found a better tavern, by which I mean a worse tavern, but it’s all a matter of perspective and perspective is a funny thing at the tail end of a pub crawl, so let’s just not think too hard about it.

I’m suddenly very interested in the story of this woman with breeches and short hair dicing in a dodgy tavern with three dudes and not responding to any of Mat’s smiles, ahem. Yes I’m being pandered to, no I don’t care.

But Mat did not smile at girls that way anymore. Besides, she had not responded to any of his smiles anyway.

Alright, that’s much closer to Jordan’s Mat. The absolute lack of self-awareness in being able to think those sentences side-by-side, because hey, Mat, if you don’t smile at girls that way anymore, how do you know she’s not responding to them? (Plus the fact that Mat’s ‘best smile’ has, I’m pretty sure, not actually worked once this series when he’s actually thought about it).

From these first few pages in general, Mat does sound somewhat more how I would expect him to—the way his thoughts and actions contradict themselves, his tendency towards an absolute lack of self-awareness, the running joke of his ‘best smile’… though it also feels like it’s being laid on a little thick? Almost as if Sanderson has picked out a handful of things that work, or that have appeared elsewhere, and is studiously applying them and avoiding adding in too much else or deviating too much from those narrow bounds.

But that’s almost certainly me nitpicking and also looking specifically for this; it’s not really a complaint and at first glance this does seem better than the writing of Mat last book, so… fair enough. Point is, this is definitely not as jarring to read as that first chapter last book was. Still different, sure, but more within the parameters of the rest of the differences.

Mat’s more interested in the local gossip, which—ah.

“They found him dead this morning. Throat ripped clean out. Body was drained of blood, like a wineskin full of holes.”

The gholam’s back in town, then.

Well, in town, anyway; I suppose it hasn’t actually been to Caemlyn before, that we’ve seen. Hey, Elayne? Maybe listen to Birgitte and your bodyguards for a bit and actually take a break from your errands and adventures into the city alone for a bit.

Dice are landing on their corners and also starting up in Mat’s head, so looks like your night of aimless fun and tourism is coming to an end, Mat. Don’t forget to sign the guestbook on your way out.

It seemed impossible that [the gholam] could have gotten here this quickly. Of course, Mat had seen it squeeze through a hole not two handspans wide. The thing did not seem to have a right sense of what was possible and what was not possible.

Oh, well, in that case you two have something in common! Good, you won’t run out of things to say on your next date encounter.

Though on a less flippant note, I’m pretty sure I’ve talked about this before, but I like how Mat gets paired against or linked with opponents or entities who fall into the larger umbrella archetype of ‘trickster figure’ but in different or darker ways: the gholam, the Eelfinn and Aelfinn, arguably Fain/Mordeth… and then there’s Perrin, who is set against Trollocs (the darker side of a mix between animal and human) and Whitecloaks (who exist to force questions of morality). As if they’re both sometimes set against those who reflect a darker or warped version of some aspect of who they are.

It’s not a perfect like-to-like matching; they have other opponents who don’t fit that kind of classification quite as well (though I would still argue that just about any enemy they—and quite a few other characters—face highlight some aspect of themselves via contrast or by presenting a warped kind of mirror), but it’s just a little… random thing I quite like. Particularly Mat set against other types of trickster, because it fits with the very definition or idea of what a trickster figure is in the first place. This idea of looking into a kaleidoscope of mirrors and seeing theme and variation until they flicker at the edges.

He had sent word to [Elayne], but had not gotten a reply. How was that for gratitude? By his count, he had saved her life twice.

Sigh. I sort of thought they had reached an understanding as far as the accounting between them last time they spoke, but I guess we’re still doing this. Which, okay, before everyone comes for me on this, yes he has saved her life multiple times, and no she has not always responded immediately with gratitude, but specifically in the last instance she very much did, and it was a rather lovely moment where they both saw more in each other than they had before. Where they each realised that their previous (first) impressions were not necessarily the full truth, and that there was someone to like beneath that. A friend, even.

And I liked that; I absolutely have a soft spot for the friendship between Mat and Elayne, in part because they’re actually quite similar in a lot of ways. And so for both of them to start to see beneath the surface, to see more than just what they expect to see, was a nice moment of character growth for both of them.

Anyway, leaving the gratitude thing aside, it’s a shame Elayne hasn’t replied, if only because I wouldn’t mind seeing those two interact again. I just like their weird relationship. I like weird friendships between characters in general, really; it’s a good way to get to see a character from an ever-so-slightly different angle, or throw them into a slightly different kind of light. (In all honesty there’s a small part of me that would have been very open to an Elayne/Mat relationship rather than Elayne/Rand and Mat/Tuon, but mostly I just like them as friends who sort of… force each other to take a second look at things, and in doing so to realise some things about themselves).

For once, there had been a battle and he had missed it. Remembering that lightened his mood somewhat. An entire war had been fought over the Lion Throne, and not one arrow, blade, or spear had entered the conflict seeking Matrim Cauthon’s heart.

Yeah, well, don’t jinx it.

Also Mat you were sort of in the middle of some of your own battles and while you’re pretty good, you’re not quite good enough to be in two places at once. Still, can’t fault him for looking on the bright side, I suppose. Especially because there’s a rather large battle headed his way any day now.

Three inns in one night. Making a proper pub crawl of it, I see.

Though Thom’s more in the mood to play sad flute music, presumably over Moiraine. I mean fair; I, too, would probably play several laments for her sake. Bring her back already.

Caemlyn was seen as one of the few places where one could be safe from both the Seanchan and the Dragon.

Oh no doubt it’ll stay that way. What could possibly go wrong in this beautiful Camelot that’s been held up since Book 1 as an example of beauty and (relative) stability?

I’m pretty sure one of the first things I said upon seeing Caemlyn back in EotW was ‘that’s a nice city you have there. It’d be a shame if something happened to it’ and, twelve books later, I stand by that.

Mat tries to get Thom’s attention by snagging his coins, and Thom just tosses a knife through his sleeve without interrupting his playing. Respect.

***

Oh hey a mid-chapter break without a POV change. That’s unusual.

It’s something of a location change, though, because Mat’s back at the Band’s camp now, considering the pros and cons of horse meat. Well, mostly cons in his opinion but I would like to state for the record that horse is actually quite tasty. No of course I don’t know this from experience what are you talking about.

The gholam of course has an even less discriminating palate—or I suppose technically more discriminating, just less socially acceptable.

But Mat and Thom have moved on to planning for their fieldtrip to the Tower of Ghenjei, because, you know, these characters have it easy: just one thing at a time, all easily dealt with, no piling on of way too many problems and decisions and things or people out to kill them…

“Maybe Verin will come back and release me from this bloody oath.”

Unfortunately she had to take some rather drastic measures to release herself from a different bloody oath, so uh… sorry, Mat, you’re out of luck on that one.

“Best that one stays away,” Thom said. “I don’t trust her. There’s something off about that one.”

I mean, you’re not wrong. But you’re also not exactly right. Man, I’m going to miss Verin. She’s one I very much look forward to seeing on a reread: there was always something about her and it was great fun to speculate and try to work out exactly what her deal was, but it’s different when you know. And we got so very little time with her once that was revealed—it was a hell of a way to go out, of course, but I’m definitely excited to see how she reads when you know from the beginning.

“Either way,” Thom said, “we should probably start sending guards with you when you visit the city.”

“Guards won’t help against the gholam.”

“No, but what of the thugs who jumped you on your way back to camp three nights back?”

You know what this reminds me of? Birgitte scolding Elayne when Elayne tries to go out on her own. It’s far from the only thing Elayne and Mat have in common, but it does amuse me.

Talking to that clerk meant Elayne knew Mat was here. She had to. But she had sent no greetings, no acknowledgement that she owed Mat her skin.

Maybe because she acknowledged it last time the two of you spoke? Or have you forgotten? I think that’s what irks me here: they’ve already had that conversation. It made sense (more or less) for Mat to be annoyed about Tear, before Elayne and Nynaeve gave him their thanks and apologies, but after that fight with the gholam in the Rahad, Elayne and Mat seemed to clear the air between them, so it’s just… kind of weird and a bit annoying to have this dragged out again. It seems like it would make more sense at this stage for him to just be annoyed at her for ignoring him, rather than for not thanking him for… something she’s already thanked him for.

He does shift after that to wondering how to get her to set all her foundries to making Aludra’s dragons, which is a much more pertinent question. I now kind of want Elayne and Aludra to meet. I feel like that could be entertaining.

Teslyn Baradon was not a pretty woman, though she might have made a passable paperbark tree

This should sound insulting but for whatever reason I find it hilarious. Why is this so funny.

Maybe this is why we were getting Mat’s grumbling about Elayne not thanking him (again) for saving her life: because thanks are the first thing Teslyn, an Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah, offers Mat unprompted. That would more or less fit with how these things are usually set up in Mat’s narrative, I suppose.

Though Sanderson doesn’t quite seem to have the hang of the Illian dialect; it’s close but some of the phrasing is just a bit off. But that’s me nitpicking again.

“It do be important to maintain some illusions with yourself, would you not say?”

Wiser words than you may even realise, Teslyn, given who you’re talking to. Though I think she does realise this; she’s quite perceptive, and she’s spent a fair bit of time with Mat now, and I think she very likely does see his tendency towards… perhaps not quite denial anymore, at least not as strong as it once was, but a degree of self-deception (and total lack of self-awareness, of course).

She nodded to him. A respectful nod. Almost a bow. Mat released her hand, feeling as unsettled as if someone had kicked his legs out from underneath him.

Yeah, this is what you’d expect from Mat. This is what he does: grumbles to himself about lack of gratitude, or Aes Sedai causing problems and having no respect… but then as soon as that gratitude or respect is shown, he doesn’t quite know how to deal with it. Because he’s not actually arrogant enough to accept it with haughty disdain, but nor is he self-effacing enough to truly not care about getting praise and credit. So you end up in this awkward in-between state that is, I think, actually quite common amongst people in general. It’s definitely something I see play out in the workplace, at least.

And so he offers her the horses that, last book, he refused Joline. Because she’s shown him respect and so he will return the favour. Because they’re treating each other as people, and Mat may push for what he feels is his due, but he won’t just take it without giving something in return. He’s better than he likes to think he is, as Thom once pointed out.

“I did not come to you tonight to manipulate you into giving me horses,” Teslyn said. “I do be sincere.”

“So I figured,” Mat said, turning and lifting up the flap to his tent. “That’s why I made the offer.”

And that’s it, really. It’s amazing what open and honest communication can get you, sometimes. It’s almost like that’s a running thing in this series.

There, he froze. That scent…

Blood.

Mmmm, dinner.

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