#is penance not sleeping part of her power or was she already like that?

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

"pardon me, lets not disrespect the man keeping brains in a vat"

[alexanderlightweight]

Arranged Marriage - Alec and Magnus are going to be married as part of a treaty (Shadowhunters subservient position in the treaty), and the Clave tells Alec to be their spy so they can break the treaty without penalty but finding the Downworld in violation of it.

Instead, Alec sees all the benefits that come with being Magnus' spouse and goes "nah I'm Married now."

babe fuck you!!!

stop sending me prompts that turn into chaptered fics!!!!!! (this is a joke, it's just every prompt they've given me explodes and saeth teases me about it)

<3 u and hope u like it cause you're sleeping and i'm about to wake you up for dinner

<3 lumine

-

Alec stares at the man he’s supposed to marry.

The man he’s set to betray and he realizes that this isn’t going to be as easy as the clave and his family expected this to be.

It’s certainly going to be both harder and easier than Alec had expected this to be.

Alec walked into this with the understanding that he was being married off as his parents own form of penance.

— personally Alec thinks that the downworld wants to punish those specifically involved in the Circle and honestly, he’d do the same and worse in their place, he just wishes he wasn’t paying the price for his parents actions —

But originally, Alec thought that this would be simple.

He’d be married to a woman — he’d always known he’d be forced into eventually, that she ended up being a downworlder didn’t matter, he’d hate it either way — and do his duty as efficiently as he could while also spying on his wife as much as possible.

Alec hadn’t known he’d be marrying a man.

Especially not a gorgeous man, dripping with power and embodying a lifetime of shattered hopes and pushed away dreams.

It changes everything.

He changes everything.

—

Magnus is standing on the dais of the most heavily warded floor of Pandemonium.

The shadowhunters that pass through his wards are all unarmed and with none of their runes active.

They’re not allowed to have either of them, not in this space and not during this ceremony.

Magnus’ future spouse is walked in and draped in gold and blue fabric instead of the pale gold and white suit the nephilim had tried to put him in — did they think they were being clever, adding the color of mourning when they presented the suit? — unarmed and with no runes bared but for the one that peeks up past his suit.

He’s deceptively tall and while exquisite, he has the weary and drawn look of an active duty shadowhunter. The kind who get too little rest and not enough nourishment, through no fault other than that their skills are in constant demand.

Magnus had demanded someone of sufficient training, rank and bloodline to be his partner and the demand was met.

If he’s going to bring an enemy into his life, then he’s going to make sure that he’s depriving the clave of one of their finest weapons. Even when they were still in talks and Magnus thought he would be marrying the younger Lightwood, Isabelle, she was a blade taken from the clave. She’s already known for her successes and failures seducing the enemy and hardly someone who could go toe-to-toe with Magnus in seduction.

However, despite the fact that she was well known for her dalliances across enemy lines, she had been withdrawn and the eldest son presented. It had been a surprise but one Magnus was all to willing to accept.

After all, why steal the spare when you can take the heir?

Alexander Lightwood is both everything and nothing like how Magnus’ thoughts had formed him.

He walks like a man to the gallows but with the grace and dignity of royalty.

It might be considered insulting that he’s obviously upset, but Magnus knows that those being married to downworlders are being sacrificed on the alter of their parents sins. Magnus and the other Elders hadn’t seen a different choice. While none of them enjoy punishing children for their parents sins, they need the power of holding sway over the families who once joined the Circle. They also need to ensure that the heirs don’t make the same mistake their parents do.

The Elder Lightwoods both freeze upon seeing Magnus.

Fear, fury and disgust flashes in their gaze and Magnus smirks, realizing that they thought the groom would be changed upon offering their son.

A pity for them, but it changes nothing.

Magnus will not let the shadowhunters in charge of the largest Institute on his territory go unchecked. Which means taking on this roll for himself, despite the fact that he could have delegated it.

Hazel eyes meet his and his future husband nearly trips up the steps.

He doesn’t, but it’s close.

Instead he manages to turn his stumble into a glide and suddenly he’s close. Nearly too close because Magnus can see the shadow of his long eyelashes on his cheeks. It meant that Magnus is watching with intrigue as hazel eyes meet his unglamoured ones and they go dark and wide with delight.

The ceremony is a stifled, oppressive mumble of words and vows and magic that Magnus can barely concentrate on.

How can he, when his groom is holding onto Magnus’ hand like if he lets go, he thinks Magnus will disappear.

How can he think of any of his plans when Alexander is looking at Magnus like he’s an oasis he’d been convinced was a mirage.

— The ceremony is a monotonous blur until the magical binding of it, after which there are no celebrations.

That would be a step too far — according to the nephilim — and well, Magnus doesn’t want to spend more time than he has to with them anyways. Instead, he summons a portal the moment everything is locked into place and the vows made and witnessed and then they’re both in Magnus’ lair.

His shadowhunter snorts, something like relieved amusement in his tone. Magnus is about to demand what is so funny when his husband turns and pulls a small vial out of his pocket.

Magnus blinks, recognizing what it is immediately and his newly wedded spouse just smirks and sets it on the counter.

“Guess I won’t be needing this now.” With a shrug — as if he hasn’t just blown Magnus’ mind — he turns and looks around Magnus’ lair with careful consideration and muted pleasure. It’s clear he’s cataluging the layout and seeing where he can fit himself into the spaces. It’s so far from what Magnus expected — from the horror stories that he’s been told — that he’s speechless for a good two minutes.

Enough time for Alexander to strip off his suit jacket and unbutton his cufflinks and cuffs, putting the former in his pocket.

Meanwhile, Magnus confiscates the potent aphrodisiac that Alexander apparently no longer needs.

“Why do you have this?” Magnus asks finally, because he thinks he knows but he wants facts before he endangers whats been months and years of planning.

Alexander looks at him and the moment his gaze slides to the small vial, all the weariness and defeat that had been on his face until he’d first seen Magnus returned.

“My family assumed that I’d be marrying a woman and led me to believe the same.” Alexander says and then the weariness fades, something much softer taking over. “Since I’m not, I’m not going to need that.” He waves his hand to the small bottle and he shoots it a glare with a startling amount of venom.

Magnus curls his fingers around the small vial and vanishes it to his potions vault for future study. While he knows what it is, it never hurts to experiment.

“Oh, you won’t be doing your duty for house Lightwood tonight?” Magnus teases, daring to tread no further than the question until he has more information. Alexander seems startled and then he seems pleased but not embarrassed — even if his cheeks do turn a fetching pink.

“More like, I just won’t be needing help to fulfill my duty anymore.” Alexander murmurs, no hint of shame on him as he walks forward.

Magnus stays where he is, letting Alexander approach, knowing there is no danger here in his own lair.

Alexander hesitates, but then his gaze steadies and his hands — large, cool and so very gentle on Magnus’ skin — frame Magnus’ cheeks and for a moment hazel stares in unafraid awe into gold and then Magnus is being kissed.

It’s like being given a gift.

Alexander is delicate, careful at first and then nearly wild with his eagerness the moment Magnus reciprocates.

His kisses are generous and clumsy and so very earnest that Magnus has to get a hand in Alexander’s hair and pull him away, just so that his boy can catch his own breath.

Alexander tugs at Magnus’ grip and when his fingers only tighten, Alexander whines and then does it again, seeming to enjoy the sensation.

“Alexander—” Magnus murmurs quietly, contemplation and a thousand thoughts in his words as he looks into the defiant, hungry gaze staring him down. “What am I going to do with you, hmm darling?”

The answer is kiss him.

This time taking control, devouring his shadowhunter until they’re both breathless and Magnus croons to a shaking, shuddering Alexander who is panting against him with a wild, delighted look.

Clearly, Magnus is going to need to figure this out. He’d expected and prepared for both the worst and the best, but this is beyond anything he’d considered from the realm of possibilities open to him.

-

alec: ... wow i've never been happier in my life

magnus: i am so confused by this and i want him so bad... WHERE IS THE TRAP!!! I DONT CARE THAT ITS A TRAP I JUST WANT TO KNOW SO I CAN SPRING IT, DEAL WITH THE CONSEQUENCES AND KEEP HIM

alec writing his reports to the clave in full view of magnus as magnus reads incredulously over his shoulder

magnus: alexander, why does the clave need to know that i think mismatched socks are a crime?

alec: they want new information on you. this is new information. i memorized your file. this wasn't in it

magnus: ... how? you didn't even know who you were marrying until you got there?

alec: oh. i can access clave records and files from my tablet, here. let me show you yours

magnus getting distracted by the frankly ridiculous things in his file

alec finishing his note to the clave: if we don't want this treaty broken against us, i need socks. send asap.

magnus two days later: ... why is the clave contacting my assistant about a delivery of socks?

alec: ... huh, how strange. after you make sure there isn't anything bad in them we should donate them to that werewolf hostel you were telling me about. didn't you say something about werewolves remembering to take off their shoes but never their socks?

alec internally - did i just trick the clave into helping my husband's community? yes. yes i did. i am best spouse and i'm going to prove it if i have to break the clave one firemessage at a time

magnus: ... i am going to figure out this trap one way or another!

(alec using every ounce of his political training to troll the clave while trying to learn to be the best house-husband in all the realms.

magnus just wanting to figure out how to make sure he gets to keep alec without being stabbed in the back or the heart.

alec being already his and not sure how that isn't already clear? but thats okay. he can work in some subtle treason to show magnus he's serious.

also alec is pretty much done. he was okay with going to the gallows and pretty much sacrificing himself because at least a political hostage in a marriage to a woman is still better to him than pretending to have a decent marriage and having to have sex for heirs etc. consummation is necessary for the rituals (they're pretty strict) but wouldn't have been a required part of the relationship and alec sterilized himself because he wasn't going t risk having a kid with a female fae or werewolf because he knows both sides would use any kids against him via manipulation since he'd never grow feelings for a woman.

alec after he's been given everything he's never let himself have and realizing that the clave and his family have made a big mistake, because alec doesn't care enough about the clave's political and personal agenda to give up on getting what he wants)

[rapha-reads]

IWTV rewatch

(from paper to screen, the comparative study continues... Back at it again)

Season 1 episode 4 [The Ruthless Pursuit of Blood With All a Child's Demanding] - part 1/2

- Oh, the sun! Hello, the sun. You're not a familiar presence here.

- Eyyy, we're opening with another Armandaniel scene. I mean, that Rashid guy and our Danny boy. "Mr de Pointe du Lac will be resting today" - Armand what does that meaaaaan. Armand giving Daniel Claudia's diaries. Oof. Are we ready for the paiiiiin.

- Shout out to the props department because those diaries are so pretty.

- Shout out to Bailey, I adore her voice.

- [Lestat] "'You were ready to abandon our home, and now you want a third.' [Louis] 'I just need her not to die. Please.'" - you know, there are hospitals. Yeah, skin grafts are not a thing in 1917, but the hospitals can still help her... She is not your penance.

Fascinating the way the scene completely changes tone and atmosphere in Lestat's recollection. Though, which one is the most real... Memory is a beast. But Louis remembers it as something quite romantic in a way, life blossoming out of darkness. Meanwhile, for Lestat, Claudia's rebirth is mired in desperation, anguish and Louis' loss of control. And the way Claudia writes it, well, she never had a say in it, didn't she? She was ready to die, she welcomed death. And then she was pulled back from it and thrust into a new life, and like she says, "I decided to make the best of it".

- [Louis] "'It's a special trick only folks like us have, like the nails and the teeth.' [Claudia] 'So you can hear me, but he can't? That make him the dumb one?'" - oooh, ouch. Right from the beginning, it's Louis and Claudia, and then Lestat left behind. You can hear the abandonment issues making themselves louder.

[Lestat] "'I'll teach you, just like I taught Louis here. But not if we're going to have family secrets.' [Claudia] 'We're a family?' [Louis] 'Yeah, but with no secrets.'" - points afforded for trying. Also, the different roles are already made: Lestat teaches how to be a vampire, Louis upholds humanity and family values. And Claudia is an excellent student...

Love how she immediately calls them "Daddy Lou" and "Uncle Les".

- [Louis] "Looks like she take after me" - aw, Lou, baby. You couldn't be more wrong.

That first hunt is interesting. First the way they talk about Claudia's outfit - she's a doll to them. It's all about how they can mold her, how they can make her into a reflection of themselves, and which one will have more influence, will be more represented in her. What she wants, who she is, barely even enters into consideration.

Secondly, there's the speed with which Claudia adapts to hunting. The way she lures the policeman by humming, playing the lost little girl, that's not something she was taught, that's something she's learned to do herself, naturally, instinctively.

- [Lestat] "An ominous observation, her young lady metabolism is permanent now" - nooo, you don't say? At least Lestat is aware. Welcome to eternal teenagehood. What a hell.

[Lestat] "'Histrionics.' [Louis] 'Some sleep is what she needs.' [Lestat] 'Sedation is what she needs.' [Louis] 'She'll settle.'"

Let me die of laughter first, that banter is perfect. Total old married couple vibes. Now. Looove how they're here talking about Claudia while not even paying attention to her. They're in their bubble, remodelling their family life as if their third member didn't have their own agency and free will, as if they could control and predict how she'll act, and meanwhile Claudia's like "sayonara dummies, I'm starving and I've got all the power to help myself, don't need you". And ain't that gonna be the heart of the matter, control versus freedom, life as a unit versus individual agency.

- Really love the way they show Claudia's... Is it madness? Is it the chaos of teenage hormones being brought to a hundred by vampirism? In any case, she is all over the place at the beginning. Eating human food and repainting the walls with it, playing with the sun's fire...

- [Louis] "'The sun comes up, we go down. That's never gonna change. We've got rules, Lil Miss.' [Claudia] 'Rules are for fools, Daddy Lou.' [Louis] 'Keeping you safe, little waif.'" - excellent back and forth, top notch, rhymes comprised. Nothing to say.

- [Lestat] "'She talked to the book again. Why do you talk to the book?' [Claudia] 'The book is my friend!' [Louis] 'The book is her friend.' [Lestat] 'The book is a book.'" - parent 1 being completely befuddled by their child, parent 2 being overly indulgent with that same befuddling child and patiently telling their partner "there there. She'll make sense to you one day".

- The fight in French, lmao, I'm wheezing. But aside from the humor of the scene, there's the important, deeper part too: Claudia asking questions, as all teenagers do, and Lestat refusing to answer. Lestat's refusal to tell either Louis or Claudia his history is another one of those extremely crucial point at the centre of the conflict.

- The coffin scene, how Louis gets seriously into the roleplay (I see your kinks, Lou), and when Claudia doesn't play along and the guy gets suspicious, how he knows immediately what Lestat's about to do, without even looking at him.

- "A girl vampire needs her own space if she's gonna find herself in this no-day world. And diary, you can already tell, the words come easier when you're locked in tight, wrapped in pink satin and Daddy Lou's feet ain't in your face. It's just me, my pen, my brain, my heart and the blood of the street car conductor I drained after he got off work. Thank you, street car driver. I hope they got more of you at your company to fill in for you. It's never great waiting for the car, especially when the weather gets hot."

She's just like me fr fr. Joke aside, round of applause for Bailey's narration, and another for the writers. There's something so innocent still in this Claudia, something pure and untouched - despite the great ease and joy she has in killing and feeding. Like a baby bird...

And then spying on her parents getting it on, but also, aaaaw, soft Loustat scene. What halcyon days.

- [Louis] "Sometimes, old people don't like talkin' much about the past. Sometimes, you gotta be careful where you dig, you understand." - what kills me here is Louis' understanding. He's fine with Lestat not telling him where he's from or who turned him. He's aware Lestat's already old, and may not want to revisit painful memories, just like he himself doesn't want to revisit Paul's death or his human family rejecting him.

Now the thing is, in the book, Lestat arrives in NOLA barely 30 human years old and 11 in the Blood, with his very human and very old and very sick biological father. So this Lestat and this Louis are starting more or less from an equal point, both starting this journey as vampires more or less together - yes, Lestat has 10 more years of being a vampire plus old secrets that are not his to divulge, and two other fledglings, one who goes insane and dies, the other one who wants nothing to do with humanity and prefer the wilderness. Louis is his first real companion, in a sense. The first who chose to come with him - Gabrielle he brought because she was dying, Nicki because it was the only way to protect him from Armand's coven. Louis, he brought him in because he chose him and Louis said yes, and Louis does stay with him willingly and lovingly - at least for a while. While they were both still regaining some equilibrium. Before the lack of answers, the lack of total trust, and their respective issues and trauma reared their heads, and then Claudia happened.

But here, Lestat has a century of advance on Louis. He has a whole history. And Louis is aware of this history, even if he doesn't know the details, and he doesn't feel like pushing. He wants to keep the peace. Alas they still have the same lack of trust, communication and the same issues to deal with.

- [Claudia] "'How does it work, love between two men?' [Louis] 'I don't know. Works like... It works like love.'" - I need an edit of s1 Claudia asking that and s2 Claudia going "now I know what two fat cocks etc". And character development! Louis is fully alright with his sexuality now. AND it is love, that's literally him admitting it.

- MUSLIM ARMAND YES PLEASE. Hi Rolin Jones please, pleaaaaase confirm Muslim Armand in season 3 pleaaaaaase I'm begging on my knees.

[Rashid/Armand] "'Do you have what you need, Mr Molloy?' [Daniel] 'A cure for Parkinson's?'" - careful what you wish for, Danny. He might take you up on that a bit too literally.

[Daniel] "For a killing machine, I kinda like her." - yeah, me too.

[Rashid/Armand] "Dubai is a child, Mr Molloy. No one's a native." - little nod to book Armand, that, Daniel pinpointing Kazakhstan or Crimea as his origins. And interesting little insight into the mind of a 500yo guy. He's seen empires rise and fall, ancient cities levelled down... What is Dubai for him but a mere second of existence?

- "Daddy Lou, when am I gonna grow into this? [...] Kill, spend. Kill, spend. Then the next thing you know, the leaves are turnin'." - that scene is fascinating. Not just Claudia starting to realise she'll never change and also be a little girl, but also, the visual itself. Lestat and Louis sharing a dance, lost in each other, in their own little world, and Claudia standing in the corner, isolated, alone, lost staring in the fire. That speaks for itself.

And the Lioncourt domestic family life carries on undisturbed... For now.

episode 1 | episode 2 | episode 3 | part 2 | episode 5 | episode 6 | episode 7

[raleighcarreras]

if i die young

Part 3: sink me in the river at dawn

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x black!fem!reader

Wrd Cnt: 2.5k+

Ratings: Mature (violence)

Warnings: canon typical violence, kidnapping, reader kills somebody, nat kills some bitches too

Chapter(s): Part 1, Part 2 , Part 4

Notes: debating on whether i should do a tag list or not. I probably wont idk. Song is Heaven and Back by Chase Atlantic. Not my gif. 18+ only blah blah. Once this is finished I have a wanda x black!reader fic in the works! Like it's already partially written and everything.

She was always dealing with the devil

You did your best in trying not to get yourself hurt, like Natasha said.

You really did.

But goons had come to your apartment in the middle of the night and gotten the jump on you and- God how did they even find you.

When things of this nature happened, you had hoped to rip off your clothing to reveal your suit in glorious fashion. A show of what you were dubbing "Suit Ex-Machina". But it wasn't ready yet. You had barely gotten your materials to Kamilah after your brief jail stint.

You'd have to settle for bouncing around in the back of a van with only your plaid pajamas pants and plain t-shirt. How cliche.

This was your penance for letting your gaurd down. Your tingle hadn't been powerful enough to wake you up out of your sleep before your limbs were restrained and your face was covered with a complimentary rag.

You're slightly embarrassed at how quickly they managed to overwhelm you.

But, that was 25 minutes and 42 seconds ago. You'd been counting. There wasn't much else to do other than imagine scenarios in which you got free on your own stroke of genius or Natasha came zooming in on a stolen motorcycle followed by a fiery explosion.

You're not unpacking why you want that second thing so badly.

It didn't matter in the long run. As much as you liked to tease her about it (read: liked the idea of it yourself), you had no reason to believe she actually was spying on your every move 24/7. You were at most a minor inconvenience for her. Not her entire job.

So, it would be up to you. Unfortunately, you were all geniused out.

You tugged on the cuffs for what had to be the seventh time in the last five minutes. They don't spontaneously combust, just like they didn't when you tried that the first six times.

So, they're not regular handcuffs. Great.

If you were all geniused out, maybe you could get out of this situation by being stupid. Ideas so crazy they just might work.

You can feel the van beginning to roll to a stop and now is the time to implement you're plan. Especially considering you don't have a better one.

The van lightens as the goons step out of the front. You're losing precious time.

So, with a deep breath. You do something incredibly stupid. You dislocate your thumb. Pulling your hand out of the cuff with a pained grunt. Thank fuck you heal quickly.

You bring the other arm around to your front. In hopes of frying the tech. You only stop breifly at the Stark Industries emblazoned on the side.

All those great minds at your place of work and no one thought to watch out for someone breaking their hand to get out of handcuffs.

Without the cuff around your wrist your able to use your powers to fry the tech and the metal clatters to the ground.

Just in time for the back of the van to open.

"Look Mom, no hands." You waggled your fingers (minus 1 sad thumb) in a display of particularly annoying jazz hands.

The goon stopped in his tracks with a frown so deep you hoped he would break his face in half for you, "How'd you get out of those?"

You shrugged conversationally, and scooted toward the edge of the van. The goon did little to hide his flinch.

"The same way I imagine you get out of yours everytime New York's "Finest" picks you up."

He sneered, then lunged at you. Your reflexes move you out of the way deftly, bringing you behind him.

"Behind you, My Liege."

He turned with a growl that resembled that of a pained and angry lion.

"While you're trying to intimidate me, do you mind telling me what this is about? I'm at a loss."

The goon raised the sleeves of his leather jacket without another word. You looked down at the tattoo covering his forearm.

A club.

"Ohhhh! This is about what I did to your Club Club member! That makes a lot of sense, actually. Would you believe me if I said it wasn't me?"

He only stared at you.

"Not a talker I see. That's aight. I'll do enough for the both of us as I'm sure you've gathered."

The buzzing at the back of your skull alerted you to more goons coming to assist their brother in arms.

The attempted punch thrown at the back of your head was a cheap shot if you ever seen one. You jumped straight up into the air and onto the top of the van.

The punch landed directly onto the OG's (Original Goon's) temple. Knocking him out cold.

"Damn. That one would have hurt, huh?" You said from crouched position you had landed in. You're sure it doesn't look nearly as intimidating as it could, seeing as you're in your pajamas. But hey, at least you hadn't gotten punched.

The top of the van gave you a much better vantage point. You took a brief look around you. You were surrounded.

You sighed deeply, "Fuck me."

"Does anyone ever listen to me when I speak?" Natasha mumbled angrily as she rummaged around your apartment looking for any clues as to where you might have been dragged off to.

"I know I sure don't." Yelena said from her spot on your couch. She continued to spoon your Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream into her mouth.

"Yeah, that bullet wound you're nursing made that pretty clear. Get off your ass and help." Natasha stopped ransacking the place breifly. She was missing something. She knew it. And that wasn't like her. She was a world class spy. She didn't miss things. She was never this frantic and disagreeable. Well, actually, she was always this disagreeable.

"I'll help when you tell me why this random girl matters so much." Yelena started to flit around the couch in search of the television remote.

"It's none of your business."

"And that's perfectly fine. As long as you're good doing whatever it is you're doing while I take a much needed nap."

Natasha pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. This was a stupid line of questioning in her opinion. She never questioned Yelena about her motivations whenever she was dragged out on a unsanctioned mission. Why can't she be rewarded the same courtesy?

She really needed to calm down. How much trouble could you have really gotten yourself into within the last 24 hours anyway? It's not like you were completely helpless. You had your powers. Natasha was holding your webshooters in her hands, but you had other things to keep you safe. You had to.

"This is my fault."

That caused Yelena to sit up, "How could this possibly be your fault?"

"I got her into this mess. She was trying to prove a point to me. I-She shouldn't have felt the need to-" Natasha stopped talking abruptly. Her hand reached for the 9mm on her hip almost subconsciously, "-Someone's at the door."

Yelena grabbed at her own gun and pointed toward the door. They both tensed as the doorknob turned.

The woman walked in with a grumble and a piece of clothing in her hand. She closed the door and locked it. Then she turned around and saw two guns pointed at her.

Yelena holstered her gun and quickly pulled the woman deeper into the apartment. She covered her mouth before she could scream, "Who are you and what is your business here?"

"WHO ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU IN MY BEST FRIEND'S APARTMENT?!"

Natasha holstered her gun with a eye roll and gestured for Yelena to let the woman go, "You must be Kamilah. Y/N is missing."

"How do you know my-nevermind that. What do you mean she's missing?" As if she didn't believe Natasha, Kamilah stumbled over to peer into the bedroom and the rest of the apartment.

"What did you do with her!?"

"What did I do with her? If I did something I would have killed you before you could have locked the door. "

Kamilah paused and looked at the red head deeply, " You're that one Avenger, aren't you? Y/N rants about you a lot."

Yelena raised a mischievous eyebrow at that information.

"...Yeah. You wouldn't happen to have a way of tracking her would you?"

Kamilah scoffed, "Well, considering her phone is right there and she sure as hell isn't next to it? No."

Natasha had the urge to bang her head into a wall, but she refrained. She was positive this was all her fault. If she had been quicker in her research of Club Club (fuck, now you've got her saying it) this wouldn't have happened.

"Okay, if I was an angry Russian where would I go?"

Yelena scoffed, "You are an angry Russian. What do you mean 'if'?"

Kamilah chuckled lightly despite the situation.

Natasha didn't find that nearly as amusing, "I'm going to see if there's a laptop somewhere around here and hack into the CCTV."

Kamilah pointed her in the direction of your office with an impatient huff, "How long is that going to take?"

"Done." Natasha said exactly 2 minutes and 37 seconds later.

"How the fuck..."

"Yelena, come on." Natasha said she gathered her items and anything she thought you might want.

Yelena, now happy to know the reasoning behind Natasha's panic was because she had a big ole fat crush, followed her sister toward the door dutifully.

Kamilah started to follow them, Yelena turned around with a bemused look, "What are you doing?"

Kamilah blanched, "My bestie is in trouble. I'm coming too."

Yelena raised a blonde eyebrow, "You know how to shoot a gun?"

"No."

"Then stay your cute butt here."

Kamilah did well to hide her blush, "Fine. At least take this with you. It's her suit. I finished it this morning."

Natasha grabbed the garment without anymore preamble and headed out the door.

Yelena placed a comforting hand on Kamilah's shoulder, "We'll bring her back. As you can see my dear big sister is pretty determined."

Kamilah only nodded her thanks as Yelena slipped out the door in search of her sister.

You always thought it was stupid how groups of bad guys only went after the hero one at a time in movies. Maybe if they just jumped the dude he wouldn't always win.

But apparently, this is the only method of group fighting they teach in bad guy school. You were slowly picking off the idiots in front of you, while the rest waited their turn in the metaphorical line.

Though, maybe the method did have some validity to it as you slowly start to feel yourself become more and fatigued. Sure, that Captain America guy could do this all day or whatever, but you couldn't. If only because you would need a bit more practice to build up your stamina.

Your punches are losing their...well they're losing their punch.

"Is that all you got, ..Bitch?" You rolled your eyes at his struggle to find words. Most of his teeth were missing and his mouth was overflowing with blood.

"Next time, just go with the slur. 'Bitch' doesn't have nearly the same sting to it." Before he could say anything you grabbed his head and shocked him all the strength you could muster. Which apparently was much more than you had anticipated. He dropped to ground with such a bodily thud that you couldn't fathom him still being alive.

But at the same time, you couldn't really bring yourself to care.

"Next in line, please."

The guy next in line lined up to take a swing at you. But before it connected he dropped to the ground. A bullet wound sprouting from his forehead.

You flinched as the blood splatter landed on your face. You turned around slowly. You thought you'd be excited to have her come to your rescue, but in actuality you were just annoyed.

"I could've handled that myself!" You said to the red head as her motorcycle skidded into a few goons. Knocking them over like bowling pins.

"A few pins left, Sister. Maybe go for the spare?" Yelena's voiced echoed from somewhere above you and you glared even harder at The Black Widow.

"You sure about that? You look like you're about to fall over. And you're sweating like a demon in church." Natasha said with that cocky smirk that drove you crazy in more ways than one. She tossed you your webshooters before throwing a small knife at a guy's throat who had trying to grab you from behind. You hadn't even realized he was there but Natasha didn't need to know that.

"Two things can be true at once. I'm a walking circuit board, I get overheated and sweat. But I can take care of myself." You mumbled, but you had no doubt that Natasha, and hell maybe even Yelena, heard you.

"Just let me help you, Y/N." Natasha said with such a soft voice that you knew not to fall for it.

"By all means." You gestured at the heavily dwindled crowd in front of you.

Natasha looked like she wanted to say more but she nodded anyway. You placed your webshooters on your wrists and instantly felt loads more refreshed.

It didn't take you long to figure out that if you overheated like a laptop, you could probably be charged like one too. So, you very easily figured out how to get your shooters to charge you with residual electrical energy. Maybe, you could get your suit to do that too eventually.

You swung up higher in the alley, partially to get a better angle, mainly to get away from Natasha.

The rest of the goons were wiped out within minutes with your electric webs, Natasha's various knives and handguns, and Yelena's sniper skills (you still couldn't figure out where she was).

Once the coast was clear you hopped down on the ground, "Thanks." You said absentmindedly. You finally had the time to relocate your thumb.

"Least I could do...I-um-what happened?"

"Got me in my sleep. Drove me here. Never said what they wanted. No need to pretend like you care, Natasha. I said thanks already. If I need to sign any community service documents, just let me know. You know where I live."

Yelena dropped down from her hiding spot. She whistled loudly in an attempt to show she wasn't listening to the conversation.

"Y/N. Wait. You're not a charity case..."

"Maybe not but you do feel obligated to help for some reason or another, don't you?"

Natasha didn't know how to respond to that.

"Exactly. I'll see you again I'm sure." You started to walk off.

Yelena bumped her shoulder into Natasha to get her to speak again, "Wait. At least let me give you a ride home. It's like a 35 mile walk...or swing and I just saw you put your thumb back into its fucking socket. Plus, your shooters weren't on that wierd charging pad in your room so they'll probably give out any minute."

You sighed. You really didn't think you could take a fall out of the air. And your thumb was killing you, "Fine. But I'm riding with Blondie."

Yelena laughed hysterically at the look on Natasha's face, "I like this one. Too bad it doesn't seem like you're going to be able to keep her around." Yelena murmured that last part into Natasha's ear.

Yelena gestured to her Harley with a flourish, "Your chariot awaits, Madam." You only rolled your eyes. Natasha glared at Yelena.

"Why'd insist on coming into my apartment with me, Natasha?"

"To make sure no one was waiting with a bullet with your name engraved into it. And to give you this." Natasha handed you the finished suit.

"Thanks. You can go now. There's no monsters under my bed." You took off your webshooters, placing them on their charging pad. You'd have to whip up some more webs at work sooner rather than later.

"God, can you just listen to me?!" Natasha said exasperatedly.

You turned around witha fury in your eyes Natasha hadn't seen before. If she were crazy, she'd say that there was even a crackle of lightning in the corner of your eyes.

"Listen to what, Natasha?! Listen to you lecture me on how I need to be more careful like I'm a teenager who just got into a fender bender? News flash, Romanoff, I'm not your charge."

Natasha scowled at you from her place across the room, "I know that! And if you would get off your high horse for and just listen to me explain then you would know that too! But no, you just love to hear yourself talk. Shut up and listen for once, Y/N!"

You crossed the room and poked her in the chest repeatedly, "You keep telling me to listen but you're not saying anything. You're just trying to justify your obsession with treating me like I'm an inconvenience. You don't have to come to my rescue. You can just stay away!"

"Stop poking me, Y/N." Natasha said with an almost eerie sense of calm. And any other time you probably would have heeded what was definitely a warning, but right now you were on a roll.

You poked her again, "Stop telling me what to-"

You don't really know how it happened. It happened too fast for even you to keep track of. One minute you were pushing Natasha's buttons like she had been doing to you. The next minute, she's holding the offensive finger, and you're backed against the nearest wall with her lips on yours.

"I said stop poking me."

You could only nod your acknowledgement as her lips were attacking yours again as soon as she said it.

[mythicamagic]

Sesskag Week: Day 2 ‘Black’

Title: Under the Nails

Summary: After 500 years, Sesshoumaru comes looking for the miko Kagome in her era, wondering why she never returned to the past. What he finds plunges him into bleak despair...and causes Tenseiga to stir. Sesskag Week Day 2 - Black.

Rated T

Words: 2,600

Read on: Ao3, fanfiction.net or Dokuga

AN: For Sesskag Week Day 2 - Black (Mourning & Misfortune) a lotta angst in this one so buckle up.

Under the Nails

Heaviness weighed his steps down like his pockets were laden with stones, heart steeled, eyes on the top of Higurashi Shrine's steps.

Sesshoumaru forced his hands to remain loose at his sides, fighting the urge to rip off his glamour and fly. Soar above the concrete straight to their door.

But Sesshoumaru remained polite and wretchedly slow, human in appearance only. He dutifully climbed the stairs, walking with measured, frustrating steps.

Adjusting his tie upon reaching the Higurashi's door, he knocked, shifting.

Kagome's home looked just as it had many years ago- when he'd first located her again. He'd glimpsed her 3-year-old self, before turning away, satisfied that after 500 years of waiting, he had finally reached her era.

He could finally gain the answers he'd sought for so long.

Curious though, that her scent did not reach his nose. Various stale shades of it clung to a few things outside, but it did not feel vibrant, recent.

When her mother opened the door, brown eyes glassy and vacant, deep stress lines beneath them and grief clinging to her like a second skin, Sesshoumaru knew.

He knew it as instinctively as drawing breath.

No.

"...Don't tell me," Mrs Higurashi put a hand to her mouth, gaze flickering over his face searchingly. "You're not Sesshoumaru, are you?"

The tears filling her eyes worsened the ocean roar in his ears.

He could not answer, expression cracking open.

She quickly took his hand in a tight grip, squeezing it. "I'm so sorry. She talked about you- I-I'm probably not making much sense-"

"Where is she?" the question fell softly from his lips, not a demand like he'd initially wanted. His strength fled, instincts snarling, but limping, wounded. They detested everything her mood signalled, causing his heart to shrivel.

Watery brown eyes slid away, squeezing shut. She couldn't look at him when answering. "She's dead. I-it happened two weeks ago," her words trembled. "I'm so sorry."

Why are you sorry? It is not as though you killed her, Sesshoumaru thought dazedly.

"Two weeks?" he repeated numbly, voice a pale rasp.

He'd missed her. Miscalculated.

Kagome had returned to the Feudal Era at 18. She'd tried and failed to sustain a romance with Inuyasha, living as a village miko for a while before travelling. That was how they'd come to be unlikely companions. A demon lord and his miko. By the end of the year, they'd been lovers. At the end of another- a date had been set for their wedding and subsequent mating.

With an easy smile, Kagome left down the Bone Eater's Well just one week prior until they were to be wed, wanting the reassurance of her mother's arms since her family could not join them.

And she'd never returned.

Inuyasha couldn't cross through, as the magic had seemingly run dry once more. They'd waited many, many, many years, hoping it would grant access again. Fate would not permit it.

Sesshoumaru sank to his knees in the threshold of the doorway. "I missed her by two weeks...after waiting 500 years," he chuckled without humour, the backs of his eyes stinging. A gut-punch of emotion rendered him paper-thin. The roar in his ears became a drawling howl of despair. This couldn't be.

Mrs Higurashi knelt with him, sliding her arms around his shoulders and hugging him close. The demon lord remained stiff and unyielding, reeling with bitter shock. He stared ahead sightlessly, before jerking in her arms. He suddenly gripped her tight, pulling away to look her straight in the eye.

"Mrs Higurashi, the funeral-"

"We've already had it," she said gently.

Sharp teeth flashed in a silent snarl, desperation clawing at his tongue. "Not that. Tell me-" he choked out, blunt nails elongating into claws, biting into her clothing.

"Tell me, was Kagome cremated or buried?"

---

He hadn't thought he would have cause to use it again. Kagome getting mixed up in a car accident much like her father before her had certainly changed his assumptions.

Sesshoumaru's throat burned as he walked by some lonely graves.

Approaching one headstone situated closely beside another in the graveyard, Sesshoumaru spared the second a glance.

"It is far too early for her to be joining you," he rumbled, turning away from Mr Higurashi.

Sunset highlighted sparse, lonely surroundings upon the quiet hill in a fiery orange glow, a red plume painting across the sky.

Sesshoumaru felt his black heart clenching as he knelt before the characters of Kagome Higurashi's name, elongating his fingers into talons. He thrust them into the earth, beginning to dig.

He could've transformed, it would've made the process easier, but a part of him wished for penance after failing her. He'd failed his prospective mate. She never should've died. If he'd just gotten there sooner-

A claw chipped, but Sesshoumaru continued. His hands became caked in dirt, powerful arms moving, muscles coiling to discard the clumps of earth quicker and quicker. He began to sink deeper, willingly descending into the same grave his beloved rested within.

By the time the ground loomed above Sesshoumaru's head on all sides- the sky a rectangular shape above, his clothes had become ruined with mud, brown patches covering his fine suit that he'd worn for the occasion, some dirt marring his sweat coated forehead and cheek.

'Thud!'

Sesshoumaru paused, knuckles having connected with something sturdy.

Panting, moisture stung his eyes. Wiping pebbling dirt away, Sesshoumaru unearthed the sleek brown casket.

"Thank you," he'd whispered into Mrs Higurashi's shoulder, clutching her so tight her bones protested. "Thank you for not cremating her."

Apparently her husband had been foreign, so it felt only right to leave Kagome in the earth, resting beside her Father's grave in the same manner he'd been buried.

Straddling smooth wood, Sesshoumaru flexed his dirt-laden nails, swiping at the secures. Once they were broken off, he stood, grasping one side.

Bracing himself, Sesshoumaru willed his stomach to hold. He tried to summon his old ironclad nerves. His thick skin. The warlord who had seen and smelled plenty of bodies.

Sesshoumaru cracked open the casket, immediately hit with a foul odour.

Choking, he opened it a little further, eyes burning.

The sight of her would be burned into the backs of his retinas forever, and Sesshoumaru knew he shouldn't have looked. Shouldn't have tortured himself thus, but he'd also needed to.

This was the cost of failure. Never let it happen again.

His stomach buckled, and Sesshoumaru clamped a hand over his mouth, shuddering violently. He swallowed a gag, clenching his jaw.

Yanking the casket cover from its hinges, Sesshoumaru tossed it high out of the grave, ripping Tenseiga out of its sheath at his hip while standing over her decaying body.

Letting his glamour melt from his features, golden eyes blazed, silver hair hanging limp and dishevelled. Youki burst into the blade, forcing it to awaken from its centuries-long sleep.

"Kagome," he rasped. "Revive Kagome," he commanded, the blade shining with a bright blue light.

His vision relaxed in order to see the spirits, but alarm clutched his heart.

The pallbearers were nowhere in sight. They'd long since made off with her soul, leaving behind a trail of chains.

With a deafening snarl that tore at his windpipe, Sesshoumaru thrust his free hand down, grasping a chain and pulling with all his might.

Something heavy out of sight made the chain yank taunt- filling him with hazy relief as he dared to hope he wasn't too late.

Clutching one side of Tenseiga's blade between his teeth, Sesshoumaru grasped the chains with both hands, reeling them back in toward him.

He could not see whatever it was he dragged back, the light Tenseiga cast into the spiritual plain only allowing him to see where the chains disappeared to a few feet in front of him.

A good length of slack metal chains had coiled at his feet by the time an outline was dragged into his vision. Kagome's soul still retained her body's appearance, lashes shut. It had a ghostly white glow, motionless. Chains wrapped around her midsection and torso. He quickly dragged her in closer.

Angry pallbearers yelled at Sesshoumaru, clutching onto her sides and hissing. They tried tugging her back in the opposite direction.

With a bellowing snarl, he savagely decapitated them with a swing from Tenseiga.

"I have not come this far only to be stopped by the likes of you," he sneered. Shifted down, Sesshoumaru wrapped an arm gently around her soul, only able to feel a very light sensation. His throat ignited with a harsh burn, eyes pricking, chest tight as he placed it back inside her body, pulling the chains away.

Tenseiga's blue glow faded. Kagome's body healed, the effects and smell of decomposition fading away until she lay as though asleep, flesh unblemished.

Silence deafened the grave.

Sesshoumaru panted softly, heart hammering. His entire being flared with an all-consuming buzz, an unanswered cry. His skin thrummed, hungry for her touch. He needed to hear her voice- he hadn't heard its playful, teasing lift in so long. If she wanted to sing badly or argue with him again, that was fine. He didn't care. Anything was better than this silence.

And why wasn't she opening her eyes? She'd had such lovely, captivating blue eyes.

"Miko," he gritted out, kneeling over her. "Kagome. Kagome…" her name fell from his lips like a mantra. He dropped the sword, gathering her into his arms, dipping his face into curling black hair. She felt so cold. Why was she cold?

Kagome had always been warm, glowing so bright and strong. His priestess had carried the force of a thousand suns in her palms when reiki had exploded from them. And at night… her breath had been hot and ragged on his neck as she'd careened them over the edge, moving atop his lap with fervour.

Sesshoumaru bent into her, arching her back and gripping her so tight he feared she may break.

"Please," he choked out, her hair becoming damp. He'd scarcely begged for anything before, but he prayed in that moment, the fabric of his soul screaming.

He felt it when her chest expanded.

Kagome drew a terrible, choking breath, gasping loudly like she'd been deprived of oxygen. Sesshoumaru immediately pulled away, eyes widening as she fell into a coughing fit, shuddering against him.

Her eyes squeezed shut, a hand lifting to massage the base of her throat.

"Ah… crap, what the heck? When was the last time I drank something?"

Blue eyes pried open to blink up at him, halting his breath.

Recognition softened her features. "Oh, hey you," she smiled, before blinking, gaze straying over his features. "Have you been crying? Why are you covered in dirt?"

Her attention threatened to stray to their surroundings but Sesshoumaru clamped his hands onto the sides of her face, colliding their mouths together.

He poured five hundred years of repressed feeling into that kiss, hand curling in dark hair to cradle the back of her neck. Kagome squeaked but accepted the feverish kisses, tongue meeting his and brushing.

"Wait-" she managed out between kisses. "I- how are you here?" her hands smoothed over his shoulders, touching his shirt. "Did you come through the well?"

Sesshoumaru gathered her close, standing from the casket. Kagome grew stiff in his arms.

"That's a...casket. This is a-" she broke off, breathing becoming thin. "Oh God- oh fuck- what the fuck?!"

Leaping out from the grave, Sesshoumaru landed on soft grass, collapsing to his knees and cradling Kagome on his lap, rocking slightly. He wasn't certain if the motion was to comfort her or himself. She made awful, wailing noises, choking on broken sobs. However after a little while, she swallowed the cries enough to cup his face.

"What- what happened?" she choked out. "You're here."

"I'm here."

He tried his best to explain everything- her departure and subsequent lack of return to the past. The rest were things Mrs Higurashi told him, such as her collision with another vehicle and few hours spent in the hospital unconscious before damaged organs finally failed her.

"I-I remember coming home and driving but nothing else," Kagome gripped him tight. "The Bone Eaters Well...is shut? I can't go through it to see my friends again?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"And you waited all this time," she mumbled, shuddering. "Alone."

"The kit and Inuyasha still live," Sesshoumaru felt her stiffen, stroking her head. "Inuyasha mated a full demon, extending his lifespan, while the kit is enjoying his bachelorhood right now."

Kagome closed her eyes, letting out a shuddering exhale. "That's something at least. I'm glad they're alive."

Too much to absorb all at once. Sesshoumaru no longer wished to discuss such things while beside her grave. He stood while lifting her in his arms, leaving the grave. Kagome glanced over his shoulder, panic and deep, static despair roaming around her scent.

"I was...buried. In there," she said softly, resting her clammy forehead against his neck. "T-thank you," she quivered, "thank you for coming to get me. I'm nowhere near ready to die yet."

"It was this one's failure that resulted in your death in the first place, miko. Do not thank me for attempting to right a wrong that should never have happened."

"What are you talking about?" Kagome's thumb brushed the shell of his pointed ear, reminding him to don the glamour before they left the graveyard. "It was no one's fault, Sesshoumaru. So you got the time wrong- big deal. Calendars change and it would've been hard to take different leap years into account. Besides, I should've been a more careful driver if we're gonna start laying blame," she offered a weak smile, which dropped when he did not respond.

Kagome leaned up within his arms, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. "Hey," she gently gained his attention, pressing another there, and then another.

Sesshoumaru returned her kisses softly, before tightening his grip, crushing her body against his. His mouth became an urgent pressure against hers, stealing her breath with ardent brushes of his tongue. He cradled her close possessively, trembling.

When they finally pulled away, a little breathless, Kagome rested her forehead against his. "After we see my family, let's go to your place. I don't want to wait any longer than I have to."

He blinked, tilting his head slightly. "For what?"

"To mate you, duh," she smiled, running a reverent thumb beneath his eye, lingering over the tired lines there. "You've waited 500 years after all."

"Kagome, you just awoke from death, and yet you are already planning on dragging me into the bedroom?" surprised exasperation lightened his worn expression, a film covering his eyes. Fondness. Love. Relief to be talking with her again. His strange, painfully unique human woman.

Kagome peppered butterfly kisses over his face, running them down his neck and feeling him purr against her in a way that belied how truly touch starved he was. But she could sense it. See it, from how he leaned slightly into the brush of her lips.

"Let's just say, I could really use a warm body against mine right now," she murmured, everything she didn't want to say left lingering in the air.

The phantom sensation of being locked beneath the ground would remain for a while; long after Sesshoumaru washed the dirt from Kagome's grave out from under his nails.

As they left the gravesite behind, they clung viciously tight to each other, never once looking back.

End

[zalrb]

What’s your opinion on Elizabeth Swann? Personally I feel like her titles were completely undeserved. Her becoming captain was only because Sao Feng thought she was Calypso, & her becoming king was only because Jack voted for her. He could have voted for anyone. She’s been a captain for 5 minutes & now she’s the king, why would anyone listen to her? According to some lazy research done by yours truly, the third movie is only like 2 months after the second. When did she learn to fight?

OK! So. Elizabeth being named captain annoyed me because I didn’t like how it was done, specifically I thought it was super tacky that this white woman comes aboard and becomes captain basically because she’s a white woman he’s attracted to -- like when Barbossa tells Sao Feng that they have Calypso, Tia Dalma is right there but Sao Feng doesn’t even consider her a possibility because he’s not attracted to her. Added to that, when he does have Elizabeth in his quarters and she says she isn’t going to sleep with him he basically says that he’ll just rape her and he’s killed right before he’s about to attack her and gives her captaincy as, like, penance. So I always had a lot of issues around that in AWE. 

But for the rest of it, I wasn’t really bothered by it, because really, what does it take to earn being Pirate King? Like is it matter of time? Because otherwise, Elizabeth has proven herself a pirate throughout the first two movies.

Firstly, Will taught Elizabeth how to fight, she tells Jack that in DMC, it’s just loaded in innuendo about penises

In COTBP, we see that Elizabeth is actually quite resourceful 

Jack disappoints her and kind of gives up when they’re on the island

so she manipulates him into passing out drunk so she can take matters into her own hands

She’s quick on her feet when the pirates invade, ready to fight, and we see her strategize when she stabs Barbossa, the fact that neither of those things work actually isn’t her fault, the sword she tries to wield is decorative so it’s useless and Barbossa is undead.

She also knows the pirate code

She also knows the power of leverage

these are makings of a good pirate and then in DMC she’s not constrained by civility anymore, she’s becoming realized and builds upon what we’ve already seen in COTBP

it should also be noted that she stands up and faces danger when others run, which also starts in COTBP

she becomes fully realized when she strikes a balance between saving the crew and doing something selfish for her own interests by leaving Jack to the Kraken 

which is why we get

and when we get to Shipwreck Cove and the Brethren Court in AWE it’s made clear that the pirates are a mess, they’re broke, they’re fighting, nothing gets done and that’s part of the joke since it sounds so esteemed and in reality, it’s just chaos

so her becoming king is like well ... yeah, particularly since she’s king for a very pirate reason which is that Jack agrees with her and so put his vote with her to get what he wants.

So I think it works personally, except the captain part, which just has me like, it could’ve been ANYTHING else.

[aquietwritingcorner]

Embers of Revelation

Author: RealityBreakGirl/aquietlearningcorner Word Count: 1585 Rating: T Prompt: FMA Big Bang 2021 Warnings: Child abuse/neglect Characters: Riza Hawkeye, Roy Mustang, Jean Havoc, Heymans Breda, Vato Falman, Kain Fuery, Black Hayate Pairing: Royai Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family Chapter: Epilogue of 7 Summary: Tasked by Fuhrer Grumman to investigate a suspected alchemic incident, General Mustang’s team finds themselves stranded in Hawkeye’s hometown. Needing a place to stay, they find themselves taking shelter in her childhood home. However, her past can’t stay buried there, and as revelations come to light, they also bring embers of danger with them. Sequel to Embers in a Wounded Heart AO3 || ff.net

_______________________________

 Epilogue

Riza looked out the window of her apartment, her arms wrapped around herself. Her pink sweater was draped over her shoulders. Rebecca kept offering to replace it, saying it was out of style at this point, but she refused. Riza took good care of it. She made sure to. It had been one of the first things she had bought for herself, after she left home. It was comforting, and she wasn’t ready to give it up. It was her choice to buy it, and that was a reminder that she was someone beyond the choices that others had made for her.

She heard soft footsteps behind her, but she didn’t turn around. She knew who it was, and she knew that he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. He didn’t even want to startle her right now with the state she was in and the way she was armed.

“Riza?” Roy called out her voice softly. “Are… Can I get you anything?”

She was quiet for a bit and didn’t turn around. After a moment, she glanced over her shoulder, back at Roy. He was worried about her, that much was clear, and honestly? He had reason to be. She was worried about her too.

“Part of me keeps wondering—what if I just got you to burn the rest of it off.”

She saw the horror enter his eyes, which was mutely reflected in his expression. “Riza—no! No, I won’t do that to you!”

She sighed and looked down. “I know,” she said. “I know you won’t. And—” she looked back up, sharpness in her words. “Just so you know, no, I am not contemplating ways to do it myself.”

She had told him that the first time around. She had told him that she would find a way to remove the tattoo herself if he didn’t burn it off. They had both known that any attempts alone would likely kill her. He had been horrified. At the time, she honestly hadn’t minded, feeling that, if she died, then that was her penance for her sins.

Looking back, she could clearly see that she had not been in a good frame of mind. But then again, few of them coming back from the war had been. Even Hughes, for all of his jovial behavior, had his problems as well. The three of them had helped teach other through enough hard nights that they couldn’t go to anyone else about. Bless Gracia for never begrudging them that.

“What are you going to do, then?” Roy asked her, moving to stand right in front of her. He wasn’t demanding of her, but questioning, allowing her to take the lead, which she appreciated.

“…I don’t know,” she said. “Be paranoid.” It was half a joke, but it was also true. She was already double checking her door and windows constantly and was armed all of the time. She had taken to hiding a few more guns around, and anytime she went out she was hyper aware.

Roy frowned. “You can’t keep living like that.”

“I know,” she said. “But I also can’t not. Roy, a man tried to kidnap me to get to my father’s research. He was going to take me somewhere, to someone, some group, and have them try to learn the secrets of flame alchemy from it—from me. From me, Roy! It’s the thing I’ve fought against since it was put on my back.” She let her head drop to his shoulder, and he was immediately wrapping his arms around her. “I can’t escape, Roy. I try and try, but I can’t escape my father’s grasp.”

He held her tightly, holding her as closely as he could, and she leaned into it, her hands grasping him back.

“…I can’t let it happen,” she said, half whispering it out as he held her. “I can’t—Roy, I can’t let that happen. I—”

“Shh,” Roy held her tightly, and even rocked her a little. “Come here,” he pulled her with him, over to the kitchen chairs, and sat her down, staying close to her. “Listen, Riza… I’m not going to let that happen, alright? I’m not going to let anyone put their hands on you, I’m not going to let anyone use your father’s knowledge against your wishes. Not even me.”

She looked up at him, tears shining in her eyes. “But how? Roy, how are you going to prevent it.”

He paused, thinking a moment. “We won’t leave you alone. You go somewhere, one of use will go with you. See if maybe Catalina can stay with you a while,” he paused, and lifted a hand to her cheek. “I’d love to stay with you. But…”

She leaned into his hand. “I know,” she said.

“And I promise you, we’ll find these people he was connected to. We’ll find them, and we’ll make sure they can’t do anything with you or with anyone else ever again. We’ll stop them.” He vowed. “But we’ll make sure you stay protected. And I’ll be trying to find a way to remove that tattoo that won’t hurt you, that won’t cause you problems.” He tilted her head up to look him in the eyes. “I promise you, Riza Hawkeye, that I will do everything in my power to make sure you and the secret of flame alchemy are protected.”

“Thank you,” she said, and closed her eyes as he gathered her in his arms again.

A large part of her still wanted to panic about this. It was hard not to. She was scared, so scared, and it was a deep seeded, old fear, one that her father had put on her as a young woman. It was one that had rested with her most of her life. She had thought herself fairly safe, but now? Now she wasn’t sure.

“…I think that I might can spare one night with you,” Roy said. “I mean, it’s late. If I just happen to fall asleep here, well, we have just gotten back from a long trip, and you were injured during it. I think it would be excusable.”

She gave him a brief smile, although it didn’t quite have the power it usually did. “We’ll have to make up the couch for you,” she said. He looked mildly disappointed, at least until she continued. “After all, if someone comes calling, we’ll need it to look right.”

“It’ll need to look slept in,” he pointed out.

“We’ll let Hayate take care of that,” she said. Her smiled dropped a bit. “Roy…” her fingers intertwined with his. “Just hold me tonight.”

He put a kiss on her forehead. “Of course, Riza,” he said. “I planned on it.”

He stood up then, and gently tugged her up and out of the chair. They went, together, and made up the couch, made it look as if it had been slept in, and deposited Hayate there before they retired to her room. The little pup didn’t seem to mind so much. He seemed to be glad that they would be spending the night together, actually.

They changed, turned down her bed, and then crawled under the blankets. They were thick and warm, and it had a protective feeling to Riza, as if nothing could get her while she was buried under them. The weight of them was comforting. They weren’t something that would just be thrown or flung back without it being noticed.

Roy snuggled up to her, a hand going around her waist as he tugged her closer, holding onto her from behind. He fit himself snuggly against her back, holding her to him. It felt good, it felt right, it felt like this was the way that it was supposed to be. It reminded Riza of nights as children, looking up at the stars and falling asleep together. It reminded her of nights at her childhood home, just the two of them, when he would pull up to her like this after a night of studying her back, wanting to pamper her after all that she was letting him do. It reminded her of nights in Ishval when all either of them wanted was a reminder that they had been something more than the killing machines they now were. It reminded her of midnight visits to the Hughes’s home, accidently going on the same night, and sleeping there, together, knowing that neither of their friends would say a word.

It reminded her of safety, and of a steadfast, unshakable love that she had never dreamed had existed all those years ago, let alone for someone like her. For some who’s own father didn’t even want her, didn’t even think of her as more then something to be used.

It reminded her that she wasn’t alone.

She had Roy. She had Becca. She had Havoc. She had Breda. She had Falman. She had Fuery. She had Hayate. She was far from alone in this situation.

And so Riza Hawkeye breathed in, breathed out, and settled down, letting the warmth of Roy hold and protect her.

“I’ve got your back,” he said, half in a whisper, and a smile touched her lips.

“I wouldn’t trust it to anyone else,” she said, and while there was a double meaning in that, she knew that he would also hear her words of love in it.

And so, with his reassurance, Riza Hawkeye fell asleep, hoping for a new day to bring hope.

[funkzpiel]

Another consideration (sorry) is if Jaskier did lose his voice permanently from the Jinn and Geralt feels guilty and doesnt stop trying to find a cure even though he knows there isnt one (or lies to Jaskier that he's trying to find one til Jaskier finds out)

He doesn’t sing again. That prickly part of Geralt that’s been traveling alone for most of his life gruffly thought he’d enjoy that result. After all, he did his level best to have the issue resolved. It wasn’t his fault that the bard got involved. He hadn’t invited him along – he had just wanted to fucking sleep for fucking once in his life, damn it. It had been his wish though, however unintentional, that brought the bard into this new life, this silent existence. A world without Jaskier’s singing.

It is like biting into a pie only to find it has no filling.

Those words haunt him in the lingering silence of Jaskier’s presence. They hang between him and the bard as heavily as any wraith might – leeching him just as much as actual conversations exhausted him. Jaskier, like the birds of the woods, was born to sing and talk and fill the world with the litany of his voice and his perspective and his life; and Geralt had taken part in shattering him.

Yennefer had, in her way, tried to heal him. They had released the Djinn – much to the mage’s dismay – and that should have been the end of it. Jaskier’s swelling went down, his bleeding stopped.

But when he opened his mouth to greet Geralt when finally he woke, nothing more than a wheeze passed his lips. In that moment, the witcher watched a part of Jaskier die. He saw it in the bard’s eyes – a small bit of the light that constantly filled him fading away like a cloud passing over the sun.

Jaskier stayed with him. Geralt doesn’t understand why. It was his fault, his words, his hasty and ill thought out wish that had crushed the bard’s vocal cords to dust. Jaskier should hate him, and yet he stayed. Geralt thought pragmatically that it was because alone, Jaskier would struggle. He was a man who had independently crafted a life and a career for himself off his voice, and now that was gone. He had his fingers, his lute, of course – but drunken pub-goers relished the bard’s songs, his lyrics, and with nothing to sing along to, it left Jaskier’s lute playing, while lovely, pale and hollow by comparison to what patrons expected to hear when they recognized who he was.

Geralt did that to him. So it was the least he could do to keep Jaskier by his side. To provide a safe place for the bard to sleep, coin for him to eat. And that must be why he stayed, he reasoned. Why else?

As they passed through villages, he asked for healers, for mages – anyone who might have insight into the bard’s situation. He even began to direct their travels in the direction of famous herbalists or sorcerers (or sometimes even creatures), all without ever making it plain, just in case they might stumble upon someone who might have a cure.

‘Sorry’ hung heavy on his heart, weighing it down between his ribs, pressing in on his lungs, strangling him. He spent his nights, already so prone to sleeplessness, on his back and staring up at the sky as though the stars might suddenly align and spell out the answers he sought. His eyes drifted to Jaskier, curled by the fire. Small and quiet. So fucking quiet.

Geralt was really beginning to fucking detest the quiet.

It made him admire Jaskier’s penchant for conjuring a conversation seemingly out of nowhere; particularly when he began to try and solve this problem of too much fucking quiet by doing what Jaskier could not: talking.

“Pleasant day,” he growled one morning, eyes on the meal he stoked above the fire as Jaskier silently worked on lacing up his clothing. Blue eyes sought him out over the fire. He could feel the weight of them, the surprise. But what else was there to say? His words had been efficient. The day was pleasant. What should he say next? Describe the color of the sky? Foolish.

He grit his teeth, hating himself for his blatant inability to provide even so much comfort as this. But he keeps trying. He practices. Only because when he does, Jaskier’s gaze falls to him – keen in a way those blue eyes had not been in some time since the silence started – and for a moment he feels as though his bard has returned again.

Jaskier, for his part, does not simply melt back into the stone of a garden wall like a shrinking violet. His voice was not what made him so lively, so vibrant; it was a side effect of all the life and sunlight and existence that the gods had seen fight to cram into a body as lithe as Jaskier. He learned how to speak with his hands and Geralt, a man who had only spoken through body language for so long, found it easy to listen. It was an act of communication that drew no end of curious looks when they went to villages. How could two men speak so silently? Some even began to suspect Jaskier was a familiar of Geralt’s – which made the bard wheeze silently, laughing.

Geralt couldn’t even be annoyed by that. It was good to see the bard laugh.

Jaskier’s hands grew more and more fluent as they travelled until he learned how to fill the silence in an entirely new way. And if Geralt’s attention were distracted, his eyes not on the bard, Jaskier found ways to grab his attention. A pebble to the shoulder, if annoyed. A hand to his side, to the small of his back, to his bicep if not.

But still, Geralt looked for a cure. He did not ask for forgiveness. He didn’t deserve it – not while Jaskier was still unable to say the words to pardon him for his wish. Wishes. How Geralt hated them, hated the word. His wish had driven Yennefer away. His wish had bound Jaskier to a life in which he could not do what he loved. Geralt didn’t deserve forgiveness. So he did not ask.

And then came the contract about the witches of the bog.

Ancient hags. Magical ladies. So old that Geralt wasn’t even sure if the word ‘witch’ truly befitted them anymore. He didn’t even know what to call them, what to research in his bestiary. Three witches of the bog. Complicated and powerful, hand in hand. Some of the village worshipped them. They kept the forest rich with game. They protected birthing mothers. They warded off those from foreign lands that might colonize their home, change it, urbanize it. It left the area like a capsule from another time; perfectly preserved.

Others hated them. Virgins tended to disappear now and then. Children too. Livestock would die, men would suddenly fall dead. Believers called it penance, divine and unknowable justice for deeds the public might never see or fathom. Nonbelievers called it terrorism at the hands of monsters. Geralt found himself stuck in the middle.

He insisted Jaskier stay in the village. This was beyond even his expertise. Even with normal monsters there was always the chance that he might fail, not protect Jaskier, however slim. Now? He would not tell Jaskier that he had a healthy fear for what laid ahead, but he made it known that for no reason should the bard follow him this time.

He approached the bog with his swords on his back but his hands nowhere near their hilts. Women as old as these, there was a chance he might be able to reason with them. Negotiate.

There was just as big as chance that he might offend them by trying.

His heart thumped in his chest as he kneeled in a dry spot in the bog. He set out the offerings the believers told him would attract the witches to him. He rested his hands on his thighs. Closed his eyes.

“Bog women,” he said, calling to them in a hushed, croaking voice, “Ladies of the North, Winter Women… I have no request but to parlay with you. I humble myself, I kneel, knowing I don’t deserve an audience. Would you speak with me?”

At first there was nothing. He wondered if the believers had lied, if the nonbelievers were far more stable by comparison. He was just about to stand, to leave, when a wind brushed the faint hairs not held back by his hair tie to wisp about his face. The willows around him swirled and sang a sorrowful tune. The fine hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms rose.

“What is a boy’s name?” A witch sung to him. A boy. Despite his years, he felt very much like a boy kneeling at the feet of those women.

He nearly responded. Nearly. But there was power in a name for folk such as them.

“You may call me witcher,” he said instead, careful in his wording. Another witch laughed, delighted.

“Clever witcher-boy,” the laughing witch chirped, stepping out of the fog. She was lovely. Her red hair hung down to her bottom. Her face was round like a peach, her cheeks pink like one too. She wore a gown unlike one he had ever seen before. She looked kind, her smile pleasant, but her eyes – if he looked too long, he could see the predatory glint in those eyes. Her glamor blurred around the edges and if he peered too closely, he could almost see—

His pupils dilated, huge and blown out as he tried to make sense of what he saw. Limbs, so many limbs. A body distorted with tumors; or what he thought might be tumors, but perhaps just did not know the right word for them. Too many mouths, eyes, faces. The punishing visage of those warped by black magic or simply the form of a god not meant to be seen or understood by mortal men? He didn’t know, but he did register something wet beneath his nose. Hot and dripping. His heart thundered. He wondered if it might burst when finally another woman came up behind him, bent over him, and gently rested a hand over his eyes.

“A strong boy with keen eyes,” the woman behind him hummed, “Few have seen past our glamor. Fewer still remained sane enough to tell the tale.”

The first witch cackled, having appeared from the fog as well, and sneered, “You steal our fun,” then said a name that made Geralt’s lashes flutter sickly. The name sounded more like the mad tumble of rocks down a mountain side that any human word. His stomach lurched. He was so fucked. “I wished to see how far a witcher-boy’s mind might bend.”

“A boy came to us in good faith,” the witch whose name sounded like falling rocks said. Her voice sounded like the voice of many women, but also, one woman. His mother. He wondered if that was part of the glamor as well. If that magic was seeping into his mind, collecting fragments and details that might sooth him, lure him into a false sense of security.

Too bad it was the voice of the woman who had abandoned him. It only served to wake him up.

He decided to call that woman Earth Mother. The name pinged something familiar in the far recesses of his mind.

“Laws of matronhood,” said the second to the first, naming her as well. He gritted his teeth against the sound of it – glass shattering, wolves howling. It made his muscles tense, ready to flee the jaws of a wolf. When the feeling passed, a human name appeared in his mind seemingly from nowhere: Beast Mother.

“Aye, I know the laws,” said the Beast Mother, then a final name. Geralt’s stomach dropped sickly like missing a step on a staircase. This name sounded like the wind – both tame as the first warmth of spring thaws the fields, and wild like the storm that punishes a village. Sky Mother, his mind supplied.

Geralt bowed his head as those final, hind-brain instincts washed over him and eventually dulled. He felt suddenly exhausted. Word thin by the mere presence of these women.

“What does a witcher-boy call to women such as we for?” Asked the Sky Mother.

“Does a witcher-boy come to kill us?” Laughed the Beast Mother cruelly, and even with the third woman’s hand over his eyes – cool and soothing and dark – Geralt knew the Beast Mother was grinning with too many predatory teeth. More teeth than any human mouth should have. Teeth and teeth and teeth—

“The village placed a contract on you,” Geralt forced himself to say. “But I’m quickly realizing this is no monster hunt.”

He was in the presence of gods, or at least as close to gods as reality might ever get. Every story, every religion, stemmed from something after all. These land spirits, these witches, these women – they were so much more than a contract to be hunted. They owned the land, the wood, the swamp, and all inside it. Fuck.

“If you know this, then why come?” The Earth Mother asked gently.

“Some of the villagers are suffering,” Geralt explained, “I’m here to help. To parlay.”

“Life is to suffer,” laughed the Beast Mother cruelly.

The Sky Mother said instead, “And what can a witcher-boy offer us? How can a witcher-boy help?”

The Earth Mother was against his back, matronly and kind. He felt like a boy hiding behind a mother’s skirts – or more accurately Vesemir’s legs. It felt both nostalgic and sickening at the same time, his mind peeled apart like an onion so easily in their presence.

“I am nothing and no one to you Mothers,” Geralt acknowledged, “But I cannot turn my back on suffering. If I do so here, I have no right to my namesake.”

“A witcher-boy wanted to be a hero,” cackled the Beast Mother, fangs gleaming in his mind’s eyes, pearly and wet with hungry spittle.

“A witcher-boy is kind,” whispered the Mother blinding him with her mercy, her hand.

“A witcher-boy is doomed,” offered the Sky Mother clinically, but not dispassionately.

“What did the village ask?” The Beast Mother spat, “Did they whine about their lost babes? Their disappeared virgins? Their dead men? Their cows?”

“The milk had spoiled in their udders, so we killed them,” the Sky Mother said simply.

“The men had raped and stolen and marred the virtue of our lands, so we removed them from the grace of our hospitality,” the Beast Mother growled.

“The virgins sought escape from abusive homes, sought freedom and peace, so we guided them to happier places,” the Earth Mother hummed.

“And the babes would have died a painful death from winter, from illness, from genetic deficiencies – so we lured them to that better place in peace instead,” the Sky Mother finished.

“Life is cruel,” the Beast Mother growled like the sound of hooves on earth, pounding in chase after the fox, “But we are not. A witcher-boy cannot fathom our motives, so we pardon him once, but question our intentions again and a witcher-boy will understand punishment for himself.”

Geralt bowed his head intentionally this time, hands in tight, humbled fists on his knees.

“Apologies, Mothers, I knew not what to expect.”

“As we said, a witcher-boy is pardoned,” the Sky Mother said simply.

“We know a witcher-boy,” the Earth Mother sang behind him, her voice the laughter of a babe’s first smile, the song of a mother kneading dough in the morning. “A witcher-boy withholds his name, but we know him.”

“White. Wolf.” The Beast Mother is grinning with too many hungry teeth again. Geralt shivered.

“You helped a Godling not far from here,” says one.

“Spared a group of trolls in the eastern mountains,” says another.

“Helped a succubus escape the fires of the cities and the purge of daft men who put their faith in nonsense,” says the last.

“The list is long,” the Earth Mother says, her other hand stroking through his hair now. She’s untied it, let it fall loose around his ears. She tsks and says, “At least a witcher-boy tried to bathe for us. You need fine oils for hair such as this.”

He feels disoriented, exposed. Unsure of his footing.

“I will explain to the village—” he begins, but clicks his jaw shut audibly when the Beast Mother howls, “We were not done, witcher-boy!”

He swallows dryly. His very bones shiver. The Earth Mother shushes his fears and continues to pet him like a dumb, beloved dog warming her feet. It feels… nice. He has to shake his mind awake not to fall for that glamor, that lulling sense of safety. There is no safety. Safe is an illusion.

“Clever witcher-boy,” the Earth Mother says proudly, fondly.

“You’ve helped people and creature alike on our land,” the Sky Mother said.

“But you’ve also taken justice into your hands, as if we were not suitable to maintain it,” snarled the Beast Mother.

“What are three Mothers to do with their witcher-boy, their kind hearted wolf, their man of stone?”

They might kill him. They were not wrong, he had taken their affairs into his own hands unknowingly when fulfilling contracts in these lands. If their territory extended as far as he thought it did, he had only done so twice perhaps. Maybe thrice. A werewolf that had gone mad, slaughter their family. A cockatrice that had been spoiling the hunt for another township, killing the best of their providers. A wraith left behind by a widow spurned.

“We would have gotten to them in our own time,” the Beast Mother said, answering his unspoken question of why, if they protected these lands, had they not handled it?

“Or perhaps we did handle it in our own right,” the Earth Mother offered with a chuckle. Working through him, he realized. A pawn in their ways just as he was a pawn to fate. He shuddered helplessly, a little flame of offense rising in his gut as it always did at the concept of ‘fate’. She brushed his hair back in apology, stroked his cheek. “You need a shave.”

Disoriented didn’t begin to cover it.

“Spoil sport,” the Beast Mother snorted. So that had been it, then. He had acted as unwitting representative for them and their will.

“You are a trustworthy wolf,” the Sky Mother said, “Good in intention, civil in mercy.”

“You will go to the village,” the Earth Mother continued. “You will explain the way of things. Those who cannot abide by those ways can flee freely or be dealt with accordingly… They will not pay you, witcher-boy. Their hearts are selfish and easy to see reason why they should keep their coin despite your bravery, despite how you put yourself between we women and their cowardly souls.”

“For this, for the works you’ve already done unintentionally in our name and for the works you will later do intentionally in our name, we women shall pay you instead.”

He stiffened. Every bone locked in his body like rusted hinges on a door, painful and tight. That was a dangerous offer. He could not deny it and live. But one wrong word would spell a world of pain unending. He swallowed.

“You are too kind to someone as undeserving as me,” he managed to croak.

The Beast Mother laughed cruel and amused, high like a harpy’s screech and low like a bear’s roar. He shuddered visibly. The Earth Mother smoothed down the hackles that rose on the back of his neck like a master calming a spooked dog.

“Correct, we are too kind. Wise of you to notice,” the Beast Mother said.

“What does a witcher-boy want?” The Sky Mother asked.

Geralt clenched his jaw, feeling more like a mouse caught between a cat’s paws than a witcher. It was an uncomfortable, greasy feeling, and he hated it.

“I require nothing –”

“—Ha! A man says he requires nothing from gods!” The Beast Mother howled like a pack of wolves.

“You would spit in our eye and refuse our gift?” The Sky Mother asked diplomatically.

“Do not let them frighten you, witcher-boy,” the Earth Mother hummed, stroking his hair again. “We Mothers are unused to debt.”

He could ask for a token from them; small enough so as not to ask too much, but enough to appease their debt. He could ask for some tidbit of knowledge; the location of a cache in their lands, perhaps. He could ask for hospitality in their woods; safety and peace whenever he visited. But as their champion, which he was quickly coming to find that he was unknowingly, he inherently knew he need not ask for any of this. They had always provided for him, had always shown him the way. He never went hungry or thirsty in these woods. The birds called when anything deigned attack him, warning him. He slept here. To ask for what they already provided would be turning a blind eye onto their gifts – a dangerous thing.

He should find something else – something small, something humble. And yet…

“My friend… what would it cost for you to heal him?” Geralt finally asked.

“Aaah,” the Beast Mother crooned, “A witcher-boy does not love silence after all.”

“A witcher-boy did not know what he had until it was gone,” the Earth Mother said, her voice if possible even more fond.

“Witcher-boys tend to be clever, and yet dumb as rock trolls,” the Sky Mother said blandly.

“Please,” Geralt said, leaning into the cradle of the Earth Mother’s hand which blinded him, protected him. She hummed soothingly behind him.

“We women are powerful and old. We saw the mountains form and the rivers fill. We were there for the first storm, the first wind that graced the ground, the first sprig of grass, the birth of the first land beast,” said the Sky Mother.

“But alas, this boon you ask for is not as simple as you think,” the Earth Mother said sadly.

He nearly asked ‘so you can’t help’ before he caught his tongue. What a stupid way to die, offending gods. The Beast Mother cackled. She knew what he had almost asked.

“It is not that we are not capable. You ask for something more than what we owe,” the Beast Mother said, fangs glinting, her words the framework of a hungry maw in his mind’s eye, waiting for an excuse to eat him. A merry chase, a dangerous game. It thrilled her to chase him like a rabbit through their laws and customs and loopholes, waiting for him to trip and yet hoping he might not so the game would continue. “And you cannot afford a cure outright.”

“What is the cost of an outright cure?” He asked. He had to know. Maybe he could—

“Souls. Innocent souls. Blood. Flesh. Creation and death. You request to overwrite a Djinn’s will, witcher-boy. That sort of magic by human means, by the means in which you could pay us, would change you fundamentally. You’d no longer be worthy as champion of our will. We have no intention of warping a witcher-boy and losing a pawn such as yourself. Too dull, too boring. Too simple. A witcher-boy offends.”

He hung his head again. His debt to his friend was more expensive than his morality, the makeup of his being, than his use to the world and to these witches, these gods. His stomach became a stone inside him. There was no outright cure…

His head rose a little.

“What cost for his voice?” He asked. Not a cure. A voice. The Earth Mother stroked him approvingly. The Beast Mother smiled with impressed fangs. The Sky Mother considered him.

“A steep price,” the Sky Mother said, like spring rain.

“A generous price,” snorted the Beast Mother, like boars stomping in the brush.

“A fair price,” hummed the Earth Mother, like the sound of a gentle hands guiding a plant into fresh soil.

“Name it,” Geralt said, something unidentifiable to his knowledge of himself in the edges of the words, though he recognized it in others. Pleading.

They named it.

He agreed.

“But first,” said the women with too many voices, “What is a witcher-boy’s name?”

They already knew it. Geralt knew that they did. But he hadn’t given it to them. There was power in giving a name.

Geralt paid.

–

He returned to town feeling exhausted, hollowed out and reed-thin, and yet he held the light of dawn in his chest, weightless and hopeful. He carried it with him over the hall and down the path that led to the village, leaving behind him his Ladies and the offerings he had placed on their humble altar.

He followed their instructions precisely.

He went first to the village alderman – a believer – and the man who had posted the notice – a nonbeliever. He explained that this village was not in fact their home, but the home of the women, and it was by their mercy that their crops flourished and their lives went by in relative peace. When the nonbeliever questioned him, cheeks red with rage that Geralt had not done as he was tasked, Geralt merely offered precisely what the women had told him to say.

“If you do not like living in the lands of the Ladies, you are free to relocate somewhere with no matronage. But if you stay and presume to keep calling the lands your own, and living outside the laws of matron and guest, there’s nothing I can do to spare you from them. This was their land first. They’ve upheld every law, provided every mercy. Live by their terms, live somewhere else, or find out for yourself why men have disappeared from among you by becoming another face on a flier.”

They had bid him not over explain. There was no faith to be had otherwise, no trust, and the Ladies asked for little more than that from their guests. To explain would be to condemn these villages to eviction. So he left the nonbelievers’ fate to themselves. Heed, flee or perish.

They didn’t pay him, just as the women had warned. The nonbelievers accused him of solving nothing. They called him a charlatan and a cheat. The believers claimed that they had not asked for help in the first place – and honestly, that was fair.

He didn’t need their payment anyways, not now. He would not go hungry or thirsty while in their wood. They’d tide him over until he left their lands in pursuit of his next contract. That was more than enough.

He brushed off their accusations, their thanklessness, like kicking dirt from his shoes. He wondered if that was what endeared him to the Ladies, or at least part of it – for both he and the god women understood thanklessness despite service.

He went to the inn, carried himself up to the room he had left Jaskier in. He could hear his lute from halfway up the stairs. It was a pleasing sound, something cheerful to wake to – it’d have to be, not to received complaints from other patrons also guesting at the inn.

The moment he walked in, he found Jaskier seated on the window sill, face to the early morning sun like a plant soaking in daylight as he played with mindlessly fluent fingers. Geralt leaned against the doorframe and enjoyed watching the dance of those fingers over the strings, plucking, always searching for the next note. He let himself bask in that moment, in the portrait of his bard in peaceful domesticity. Then, knowing the Ladies would not wait forever, rapped two knuckles against the doorframe, drawing Jaskier’s attention.

The bard let his song lull to a stop, his face lighting up at the sight of him returned unharmed. There was relief there, plain and naked as Jaskier was in most ways; unabashed and quick to feel, to express. He set his lute aside with the same sort of care that Geralt might give one of his swords and immediately his hands went into action, his whole body speaking to Geralt as easily as he once did with words.

Well, what happened, don’t keep me waiting? Were they in fact witches or something more nefarious? Well? Come on, Geralt, these stories don’t write themselves!

He smiled. There was a weight in his chest he hadn’t realized he had been carrying until now as it slowly lifted, so close to resolution as he was. He stepped forward without a word, amber eyes locked on his bard, his traveling companion, his friend, his partner. It drew Jaskier’s hand to a stuttering motion not unlike ‘um’ or ‘uh’ or ‘what’s going on?’.

“Months ago, I stole your voice from you,” Geralt finally said, standing in front of the bard, close enough to touch him – but not yet. A puzzled look spread across Jaskier’s face.

I don’t understand.

“I wished for peace not knowing I already had something better. Already had peace in my hands. I was just to blind to comfort, to kindness, to know that I had it.”

Jaskier gave him a baffled look that both said ‘well aren’t you chatty today?’ and ‘who are you and what did you do with my witcher?’

Geralt did not know this language, this new tongue he was trying to learn: intimacy, apology, love. He reached to cup Jaskier’s jaw and paused nearly there feeling foolish, blushing, because words and intimate touches had never been a language of his. It felt foreign. Like a crude imitation, rusty and weak for what he was trying to convey. But Jaskier just watched him patiently, brows drawn into a curious frown as he met him halfway and nestled his jaw into his calloused hand.

‘Geralt?’

He brushed a thumb over Jaskier’s smooth jaw, freshly shaven and smelling of sweet oil. Memorized the lines of Jaskier’s face, the soundless paragraphs of his expression, and tucked it away in his mind for later.

“I am sorry knowing me left you silent,” he finally said, croaked, hushed, admitted.

Jaskier’s brows drew tight, his mouth a strange line. He shook his head.

“I understand if you cannot forgive me,” Geralt looked away. “I should have apologized the morning you first could not speak, but it felt wrong to ask when you could not answer. But now… Do you trust me, Jaskier?”

There was still that expression – anger, grief, confusion, all deserved. He’d leave him after this, no doubt. Geralt had pushed too far, presumed too much. But he pressed on. He had to see this through. Then he’d let Jaskier return to his normal life. Let him make his choice. Set him free.

He thought he heard a womanly sigh.

Jaskier’s hand came up to cradle Geralt’s on his jaw. In his touch and in his face, Geralt heard him: Of course I trust you, you daft excuse for a witcher.

Do or die.

He leaned down. Watched as Jaskier’s eyes widened. Watched until he was too close to see anymore. Got closer until their lips brushed – his so chapped against the bard’s meticulously cared for lips, soft and pleasant. The bard felt like a canary in his hands, all fluttering energy; fragile with hollow bones, more melody than flesh. He pressed, then swiped a tongue across trembling lips to ask permission.

Jaskier let him in. He sealed their lips together. Let his hand move from the man’s jaw to cup the back of his neck, crush him close without actually crushing him. Then he felt it. It began in his throat, behind his Adam’s Apple, and slowly crawled up – warm, not unpleasant but certainly not normal. It rose. When it met his tongue it tasted of night and bestiaries; earthy and deep. His voice. It passed by his teeth, slipped through their lips, then felt Jaskier jump in his hands. He leapt as though stung, or perhaps shocked like walking with socked feet and touching a door knob – surprising, sharp and fleeting. Then settled in his hands.

Geralt pulled away to mumble three words against Jaskier’s slack mouth, his own stomach twisting when no words actually bloomed despite his tongue and mouth doing what needed to be done to make words. He was mute. It had worked. The price had been paid.

He should have said it before he lost the chance to, and yet, there was a pathetic sort of comfort in murmuring the words soundlessly against Jaskier’s lips instead – like hiding behind a mask, bold because he could do so secretly.

Jaskier pulled away, speaking on instinct out of shock, “Geralt, what’s wrong with you—” then he stilled, eyes owlish. His hands shot to his throat. Patted and fluttered and searched for something that might give away what was going on.

Geralt smiled. His throat vibrated as it would if he had chuckled, but no sound followed.

“My voice,” Jaskier croaked, pale from shock and relief and all manner of emotions he wore as plainly on his face as he did his clothes. “How?”

Geralt felt relief bloom in his own belly: that weight lifting fully now that he had made amends, had fixed his wrongs. Relief that Jaskier’s voice was his own and not Geralt’s because that was a level of weird even the witcher couldn’t handle. He tapped his own throat with his fingers and looked at Jaskier pointedly.

Color leeched from the bard’s skin.

“You gave me yours?”

Geralt nodded, then blinked – confused – when Jaskier suddenly sprung to his feet, all pent-up nervous energy, and slapped faintly at Geralt’s chest with a sharp, “Take it back!”

Geralt’s brows drew tight, his lips pursed, utterly baffled.

“You lummox! Don’t you give me that look! You can’t—I can’t—this is too much!”

Geralt shook his head.

‘I had to make it right’ he said, using his hands, with his face, with his body; a pale imitation of Jaskier’s fluency.

“It wasn’t yours to make right! The Djinn did it, not you!”

‘My wish—’

“Was an accident! You thought the Djinn was under my control anyhow, it hadn’t been intentional. I honestly don’t recall if you even wished for it or said ‘I just want some damn peace!’ – you had warned me it was dangerous! If I had just listened—”

Wait. Wait.

Geralt shook his head. How had this spun away from him so quickly?

‘This wasn’t your fault.’

“It was no more yours than mine or mine than yours!” Jaskier pointed out, as if that had been his intention all along. He threw his hands out to his sides, pacing quietly – quiet, he hadn’t expected that, as if it had become a habit. He watched as the bard fluttered nimble fingers against his lips, eyes darting to Geralt distractedly, and mumbled, “Lovely kiss, by the way,” and when Geralt smirked he continued haughtily, “Which we will further discuss later, you oaf!”

Geralt chuckled without chuckling.

“You are,” Jaskier said slowly, finally stopping his pacing, “Insufferable. Your hero complex will see you into the ground one day, I swear, and no one will even know now because you can’t talk.”

Geralt gave him an obvious, deadpanned look. This? This felt right. Natural. Things had always been this way. Jaskier just hadn’t realized that yet.

‘You have always been my words.’

Jaskier stilled. In the lines of his body Geralt saw the quiet sway of wind through a garden well cared for; buzzing with bees, home to all manner of flowers, beautiful and soothing to its guests. So alive, so open. Jaskier was a garden. Geralt had merely returned the birds that had lost their way.

He waited. Waited for the inevitable. He had taken Jaskier’s voice, then made parlay for it without his permission. Surely the bard would leave him. He no longer needed the witcher, after all, and in his silent days had seen more than enough journeys to sing about for the rest of his life. Geralt waited.

“You bloody imbecile,” Jaskier breathed, his face going slack with subdued outrage and realization. “You daft man, you uncommunicative bastard!”

Geralt looked away. He didn’t need his voice. It was better suited in the bard. He didn’t need Jaskier. He had been on the road alone for years before him, and he could do it again.

But there was something in his chest – heavy, prickly and unfamiliar. Want.

He swallowed. He didn’t approach him, but also did not shy away when Jaskier stomped forward and reached for his face. He waited for the slap, for the slam of a door.

Jaskier guided his gaze back down to him.

“Don’t belittle my affections by presuming I stayed because you were convenient. I do not need my voice to live a comfortable or enjoyable life. I need you.”

He felt like shattered glass in a repair man’s palms, all his broken edges grinding together in wrong ways.

“What’s done is done,” Jaskier finally said, his hand reaching back to cup the back of Geralt’s neck as he had done to him not long ago. “And… you’re right. We’ve never needed words to speak and they have never been a tool you enjoyed using. I shall be your words. I’ve been with you long enough to know how to explain your creatures to townsfolk and gods above know I am a better haggler than you – you let that bastard swindle you into this contract for 250 crowns, for gods sake, Geralt! I was dying – ahh,” he shook his head, refocusing, “Nevermind. Point is, we’ve always made it work. We’ll make this work too. But for the record, I wasn’t broken, Geralt. Not with you.”

He pressed a chaste kiss to the witcher’s mouth, smiling and soft at the sight of Geralt’s baffled look, his inability to collect himself to react in the face of such an unexpected confession. Jaskier was the one to whisper into his lips this time between kisses, “Not that I don’t appreciate your sacrifice. The songs I’ll sing about the gift you’ve given me, Geralt – gods above, I’ve missed singing.”

‘I’ve missed it too,’ Geralt thought, perhaps said with his touch and the way he leaned into every peck Jaskier gave him, every breath against his lips.

“Fucking knew it,” Jaskier said, grinning against his mouth, “Filling-less pie, you emotionally constipated dog. And don’t think for one moment I didn’t hear you. We’ve been talking without talking for too long for me to have missed it, you know.”

Geralt felt heat rush to his cheeks and crawl up his neck, making a home in the tips of his ears. He turned away to hide it as Jaskier pulled back, but it was too late. The bard chuckled fondly and when Geralt finally chanced looking back at him, he grumbled embarrassedly – silently.

“It’s not the first time you’ve said you love me, Geralt,” Jaskier said, smiling with all his teeth, skin aglow like dawn breaking the night. “You’ve been saying it for ages.”

Jaskier drew his face back to him when Geralt tried once more to look away, bristly and unsure of himself and self-conscious that all this time he hadn’t been half as secretive – or aware himself – as he thought.

Jaskier took his time looking him over. Memorizing his face, Geralt realized, as he had memorized the bard’s when he found him on the windowsill. He felt exposed as he had at the Mothers’ feet. Known.

He leaned into Jaskier’s hand. Enjoyed the brush of a thumb over a sore scar on his cheekbone.

“I don’t need words,” Jaskier said gently, “But I am grateful to have them. Thank you, Geralt. I’ll use your voice wisely.”

The witcher leaned in, loose like a puppet with his strings cut now that it was finally done, and pressed his forehead to the bard’s. Power thrummed between them, the magic of being known and kept.

Silently, love spoke for them

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Geralt and the Minotaur

Y’all can thank @bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher for encouraging me to do this, I defs would have just thought about it for a couple months then forgot 😂

Pairing: None for this part

Warning: talk of violence and murder, retelling of Theseus and The Minotaur myth, talk of human sacrifice, if theres more plz let me know!

Summary/Notes: Myth background in case you didn’t go past the PJO books with your mythology obsession like I did. In ancient Greek mythology they believed in ‘joint fatherhood’ so basically the kid would have attributes from both fathers (bc philosophy was the tits back then not necessarily biology) King Aegeus (Vessimir) couldn’t produce an heir with his wife so he went to the Oracle of Delphi and she told him to ‘open his wine sack’ (helpful right?) long story short he bangs a princess and then Athena (patron goddess of Athens) tells the princess to go down to the sea with an offering where she bangs Posiden (co-patron god of Athens) hence Theseus (Geralt) is not only a demigod but a bastard prince.  I think this is all the background yall are gonna need if you don’t already know the myth

__________

Geralt knew the story well. For as long as he could remember, his mother would comb his stark white hair before bed and he would ask, “Tell me about my fathers?” She would smile fondly and begin to braid his hair in a pattern much like her own. 

“My little hero, your fathers are powerful, fair, righteous men. You have not only the blessing and favor of Poseidon, but the right to the throne of Athens.”

When he was younger he would squirm and protest, “I know mumma, but who were they?”

Vissena would sigh and change the subject until he was older, at which point she began letting the crumbs fall from her words. Crumbs Geralt followed to the truth of his heritage, piecing together stories his grandfather had told him about a sword and sandals pinned beneath a stone. 

When he was twelve, his mother told him the truth.

“You are destined to free the city of Athens from a terrible fate. When you can lift the stone and retrieve your father’s sword you may travel to his palace and claim your place as prince…” Her voice came to a strangled end before she coughed and continued “But you mustn't think about that now. You’ve rope to braid and cattle to feed.”

When he finally told her he was ready to try, her eyes welled with tears. She merely nodded, continuing to run the comb through her baby’s hair like she always had. He understood as he grew older why she was so reluctant to let him go. What mother can willingly send her child away in only destiny’s hands, regardless of his exceptional strength?

At 16, he succeeded in his first task, retrieving his father’s things, and set off to Athens. He went by land, wanting to rely on himself, not his grandfather’s wealth and power. He fought Perophes, disarming the practiced warrior with surprising little effort, to complete his second task. Fighting Coercion sent chills down his spine, with the man’s reputation for killing every opponent he faced he was certainly formidable, but he bested him nonetheless. His third task was complete. However, his name only became synonymous with ‘hero’ after slaying the wild boar. 

His first kill was at 17, still on the road to Athens. He could have let Procrustes live, could have delivered him to the nearest king for imprisonment, but his gut had twisted at the thought of the consequences of his failure. He tied Procrustes to the same small table he tied all his victims before slicing clean through the giant man’s limbs that hung off the edge. Leaving him to bleed out like he’d done to the skeletons littering the floor. It only seemed fitting, though the memory still made him queasy on nights when he couldn't sleep.

Even upon arrival at his father’s home, there was danger staring back at him in those beautiful amethyst eyes. The prophetess Yennefer would stop at nothing to keep the life of luxury and power she’d gained. She whispered false prophecies in King Vessimir’s ear, convincing him this boy who claimed to be his son was nothing but an imposter. Geralt should have expected such a welcome. 

As he lifted a cup of poisoned wine to his lips, Vessimir glimpsed the sword at his side, recognizing it in time to knock the ceramic out of his hand. 

The vessel had yet to shatter on the floor before Vessimir had rounded on the violet eyed woman with fury in his eyes like none Geralt had ever seen. 

The whole of the dining hall was holding their breath, waiting for the explosion to come.

King Vessimir whispered but one word, “Disappear.”

The woman glared daggers at Geralt as she waved her hand, stepping through a portal into nothing. He stared after her for a long time, having never witnessed manipulated magic up close and if he were honest with himself, he was a bit dazed.

As his father explained and apologized Geralt simply tilted his head in confusion, slowly putting the pieces together in his shock.

“Your sword, it was mine. You must forgive me, I believed a lie. I beg you.”

Geralt nodded, “You have a state to protect.”

Vessimir grasped him by his shoulders, “No, I have to protect you.”

Geralt smiled, endeared by the old king’s sudden saccharine sentiments, “I’m no boy anymore, you shouldn’t worry.”

As the rest of the guests at the banquet began to resume conversation Vessimir guided Geralt to a window overlooking the beautiful city that he would now be calling home, “So I’ve heard.  I would have thought your mother would raise you to be more merciful.”

Geralt eyed the ground, “Mercy for one who has killed so many and would kill again isn’t really mercy.” His voice was smaller than he would like, but after all these years of imagining his father, well he hadn’t expected a criticism of his ethics. 

“Good.” Vessimir nodded, leaning against the edge of the window, “We can work on your tone, but that’s a good start.”

A tentative smile took over Geralt’s face, “Work on my tone?”

“If you’re going to rule Athens and defeat Crete, you’ll need to be more assertive. But none of that now,” Vessimir waved a hand and a servant brought two more goblets of wine, “Now, I want to get to know my son.”

-

The following months were filled with lessons, from Vessimir’s top generals in battle strategy and formal combat, from a matronly maid in etiquette and the cultural customs of the port city, and from Vessimir himself in diplomacy. Geralt was thrilled at first, ready to prove himself worthy, but the routine slowly lost its shine. Eskel and Lambert were no doubt excellent fighters and leaders, but there were only so many ways to disarm someone with every weapon in the royal arsenal, and they were running out of challenges for the boy. If that’s what you could call him anymore. With regular meals, unlike during his travels, and the way his trainers pushed him he was starting to look more worthy of his Olympian heritage and place at the throne. 

He stood by his father’s side and paid careful attention to all of his meetings, every last one. Even the ones at dawn after a night of drinking with Eskel and Lambert. 

He sat on a stool, a step down from the platform where his father’s throne was carved out of stone as he observed the nobles bringing their worries, reports, and complaints to the king from the outskirts of the territory. The large amphitheater was teeming with men ready to share their opinion. Geralt found that rarely did anyone bring something that really needed fixing, just listening was usually enough to soothe their egos. It was all rather mundane now, Geralt could mouth the words his father would say before they filled the air, until the last representative. 

"My king, the spring is approaching, will we allow Crete to take our children yet again?”

Geralt’s brows knit together, eyes darting between the man and his father as they spoke.

Vessimir wiped a hand over his face, looking ten years older in an instant, “We don't have a navy that could even begin to challenge Crete’s. We have no choice.”

The gathered crowd erupted in shouts of outrage, only silenced when Vessimir stood, “It is the life of fourteen, or the life of the nation. Which will you surrender?”

There was more yelling, this time between a select few delegates, but Geralt ignored it and leaned to his right, lowering his voice so only Eskel could hear him. 

“What does he mean ‘the life of fourteen’?”

Eskel frowned, “He hasn’t told you?”

Geralt glared at him, waiting for an explanation.

“King Minos’ son was killed at the games a good twenty or so years back, so as penance he takes fourteen virgins from us every nine years. Seven men, seven women, and feeds them to his bastard Minotaur.” Eskel glanced over Geralt’s shoulder at the king, a look of worry clear on his face. 

“I thought the Minotaur was just a story, a parable of Crete’s barbaric nature.”

Eskel raised an eyebrow, not impressed by Geralt's literary analysis, “It’s no tale. It's as real as the ground under your feet, and it plays with its food.”

Geralt whipped his head back around to his father in time to catch his words, “There is no voting on war because of the brashness of your grandfather Letus, tread lightly. Until we have a reasonable plan of action all we can do is submit!"

Before he knew what his legs were doing Geralt was standing and shouting, "I'll go! Send me father! I'll kill the beast and return!" 

Cheers erupted from the crowd but Geralt only cared about his father's reaction and Vessimir was still as stone. For a moment Geralt worried for his heart, then Vessimir gripped his arm and leaned in with a panicked look on his face, "You are my only son, I will not send you to your death." He growled. 

Geralt felt a fire rising in his chest, "Your people are forced to send their children unwillingly yet when yours volunteers you're exempt? Does that seem fair to you?"

Vessimir’s grip tightened, nails digging into Geralt's arm, "Doesn't matter. You are the only heir. I can't risk the stability of the government."

Geralt stepped closer, making sure to stand at his full height, "Then you do not believe in me? In the power and blessings of Posiden that courses through me?" 

Vessimir snarled but said nothing. Surely not used to being challenged, especially not so publicly, about his devotion to the gods. 

Geralt lowered his voice, "I will go. I will free Athens as is my destiny, and I will come back to you unharmed." Geralt gripped his father's arm, and nearly pleaded, "I cannot sit idly by, you know I can't." 

Vessimir's eyes softened ever so slightly as he released his grip, "I should have known your mother would raise a stubborn man." 

Geralt grinned, "She said I got that from you." 

The amphitheater had gone quiet, all eyes on the king and this strange new prince. 

"Geralt will go." Vessimir sighed, clapping a hand on his son's shoulder. The crowd cheered in earnest this time and Geralt soaked it all in, their hope and elation. Vessimir raised a hand for silence and continued, "Now tell me, scholars and strategists, how will we bring him back alive?"

__________

part 2 here!

[mattzerella-sticks]

Checkmate (Castiel-centric, Chuck & Cas, Castiel/Dean Winchester coda to 15x17 “Unity” and 15x18 “Despair, 1.9k)

ao3 link

Billie saves Jack from suffering a fatal end from her plan, and knowing Jack was safe gave Cas space to focus on his own troubles. Nearly losing his son again... revelations from Chuck... choices Dean made, were set on, until Sam broke through at the last minute - too close - they all were...

It was too much. Cas needed to digest these roiling experiences away from faces it hurt to look at. Except he stumbles exactly where Chuck wants him. After countless times praying for guidance, Chuck finally decides now is perfect for a long-awaited heart-to-heart.

           Cas abandoned the others once Billie disappeared, not even waiting for her form to fade before striding away. Stomps up each step, ignoring Dean’s calls as he races from their home. Into fresher air aboveground. Being an angel, Cas was inexperienced with breathing. Yet, instinctually, Cas gasps for breath once he breaks free.

           Hunched over the outdoor railing, Cas’s vision blurs. Darkness encroaching at a pace that makes him shiver. “That’s not…” he hisses, sinking lower, crouching. “It’s not real. It can’t… there’s a deal. They were very clear –“

           “C’mon Castiel, you should know by now…” A familiar voice breaks through static, Cas’s grip tightening on the rusted rail. “This close to the end, anything goes.”

           Cas turns his head, meeting Chuck’s deriding glare. “You’re still here?”

           “I’m everywhere Castiel,” he mocks, arms spread wide and head tilted backwards. Laughing, “I’m God.”

           Briefly, Cas considers shouting. Alerting the others that Chuck hadn’t gone far, nearer than they figured. Except Chuck’s head lolls around once more, clearly expecting Cas to do exactly that. His jaw tenses, Cas rising on shaky legs. “What do you want?”

           “Loaded question. I want a lot of things… Amara’s power – but I got that.” His eyes flicker, blue and black, before fading into their regular hazel. “This world to end… close. I could wait fifty more years but let’s speed it up, honestly. You and your family to suffer…” He grins, advancing towards him. “How is Jack doing?”

           “He’s fine,” Cas tells Chuck, “but you already know that. Don’t you?”

           “Guilty.”

           “Then why ask?” Cas glares at his creator, mustering enough fury that he trembles from an entirely new reason. “Did you stick around only to gloat? Is that what it takes to get you to show up?”

           “Oh Castiel…” Chuck grabs his chin, pinching it. Sparks jumping off his finger pads and searing his skin, Cas wincing when Chuck doesn’t let go. “You’re not bitter that I never returned your calls, right?”

           Chest aching, Cas tamps down that hurt. Accustomed to doing so. “But you received them?”

           “I hear each and everyone.”

           “And you do nothing.”

           “I only help those that deserve it.” He shoves Cas away, spinning on his heel. Gestures around them, “No one on this Earth – in this universe – deserves it. Ungrateful sacks of filth and – and mud. Imperfect, flawed…”

           “Beautiful.” Cas defends them on instinct, stepping forward. “Humanity might be all of that, but it doesn’t make them any less deserving of life. Of a second chance.”

           “Humanity…” He laughs again, to a joke Cas must have missed. Wiping a false tear, Chuck leers at him, “Really? Does humanity deserve a second chance? Is it even a second chance anymore?” Then, with a disturbing amount of severity laced through his voice. “How many more chances are you going to give Dean?”

           Chuck’s hand rests over his heart, closing the distance between blinks. Claws at Cas’s chest, clutching onto him. Cas stares above his creator’s head, resolutely not giving Chuck what he wants. Hiding sadness and longing they both can feel rippling across their bodies, warmth abnormal given this cooler climate.

           “You’re always giving so much of yourself to him,” Chuck whispers, prodding. Breath felt as he rasped in his ear. “Isn’t it tiring? Disappointing he doesn’t do the same?”

           Cas swallows the immediate thoughts that emerge. Those traitorous voices expressing similar sentiment, nasally and grating like them. His shadowed future. He answers, instead, with, “I will always do whatever it takes to keep my family safe.”

           Groaning, Chuck knocks his head against Cas’s shoulder. Repeatedly, harder and harder. Each swing whacking at his cool façade. “Love!” he bemoans, “Your love for humans, your love for him. How I hate – why does it all come down to Dean.” His hand trails upwards, snaking over Cas’s tie. Chuck steps backwards, dragging Cas along. Forcing him onto his knees. “Sam, I get. They’re brothers… sentimentality. They’ve been through the wringer longer than every other Earth, of course it’d be harder breaking that. Too mature, set in their routines… And Amara, she was finding herself. Dean was a passing fancy – entertainment, nothing more. But you…” Bending, Chuck presses his face onto Cas’s. Close enough he sees lightning flashing within his pupils. “Your little defect, your crush… this is all your fault.”

           “I…” Chuck’s eyes glow, his throat seizing as this greater being chokes him. Cas fights past it, coughing. “It’s… yours.”

           “No, it’s not. Really.” He stops, dropping him. Cas scrabbles into a crouch, warily observing Chuck circle. Arm raised defensively; angel blade prepped in case of another attack. Useless, given the comparison of power, but he refuses to sit and accept his death. Not like this. Luckily rather than smite Cas, Chuck wastes time prattling. “I tied everything up in a neat, little bow. Sure… took longer to get there, edits and rewrites of course, but the story was done. Brothers battle, one dies, close the book and move on. Raphael was supposed to raze this stage for the next show… until someone called for an encore.”

           Cas startles, guard slipping momentarily. “Wait… you wanted Raphael to restart the apocalypse?”

           “Yes!” Chuck yells, thunder booming in the distance. “It should have been Michael! But what do I find when I check in? Sam back, Dean hunting again, and you balancing an angelic civil war while pining for a man who was better off without you.”

           Those reminders threaten Cas, like tentacles rising from dark ocean waters ready to drag him under. Deeper into his past mistakes. Cas grounds himself, scraping the dirt. Feels it. “My part was done,” he challenges, “Over. Lucifer blew me into tiny particles. Untraceable. You brought me back.”

           “Because how else would I have gotten Dean out of that damned cemetery!” Chuck kicks a rock. It rockets through the sky. “If I’d left him there alone, he’d be as good as dead. Where’s the satisfaction in that? All you had to do was dust Dean off and send him on his way. Couldn’t even do something simple without screwing it up!”

           Cas glares at his creator, shouldering the burden of his disappointment, straining under its massive weight. He does not fall, however. “And all the other times?” he asks. He’s not sure if he wants to hear his answer. Worse, that indecision is a damned lie.

           Chuck grins. His simple act knocking Cas onto his rear, overwhelmed by its cruelty. “And let you off the hook for beating this dead horse? Not a chance. If the Leviathans blew you up, you’d never suffer through the fallout from betraying Dean – the man you did everything for. A hero’s sacrifice, staying behind in Purgatory? For penance? You don’t decide your fate – I do! And it was perfect. Hope, Castiel. All that hope you had… for Jack, a better world, a chance to raise a kid alongside the others. Experience those wonders, find a new purpose – dashed with a simple knife through your chest. The last thing you saw being Dean as his heart shattered, and he broke. That playing on a loop while you slumber for infinity in the Empty – now that was an ending!”

           As an angel, Cas doesn’t sleep. Can’t dream and cannot have nightmares. In moments of peace, sitting alone in his room at night. Bathed in darkness… that memory strikes. Quick, cutting in its ruthless appearance. Sets him to his feet, light on and blade drawn. Watching shadows shrink in their retreat.

           Chuck continues, angrier by the second. “You would have stayed there too, this time. Dean, Dean prayed. Every night that I would bring you back. Instant voicemail.” Cas frowns, distracted from past trauma by this new information. Dean never sharing this. “Except I was too focused on your demise I wrote myself into another problem – again, because of you!”

           “Jack.”

           “You just… you make me so mad! Castiel, you gotta – you gotta understand, I mean…” Chuck wipes at his cheek, palm lingering there while their gazes meet. “You’re an angel. A – uh… a simple worker bee. A drone. I’m the queen! You shouldn’t be able to do this, it’s – what is it about you? Was it this world – did I… help me make it make sense!”

           Righteous fury seizing, oozing out the cracks of his very being, Cas stands. “You want to know what happened?” he says, seething, “I finally saw what was important. Grand battles, ultimate power… they’re all meaningless if you are alone. Unloved. My time here has taught me…” Those words feel awkward on his tongue, incorrect. He switches, answering honestly. “Dean showed me that.”

           “He sure did show that…” Chuck huffs, rocking on his heels. Smugly enjoying Cas’s defiance. “It sure didn’t include you.”

           Chuck twists his hand in the wound. The very reason Cas fled, Dean’s statement ringing in his head. ‘I’d trade all of them for the chance to kill Chuck.’ Their heated, silent exchange during that brief pause. Communicating as best they could. Still, Dean gave into his fears. Chomped at the bit Chuck dangled. Choosing what Cas prayed he’d never.

           All for nothing.

           “Is that why you’re here?” Cas asks, “kill me one last time? Take me off the board because I’m not important to the story?”

           “How I wish that were true, Castiel. How I wish that were true.” He steeples his fingers, drifting into the surrounding forest. “You’ve got a part to play in this. Something big. A set up for the final battle… that’ll bring all the pieces I need onto the board.”

           “Except for me?”

           “I’ve learned from my first draft,” he says, “not to let surprises derail the story I want to write. You, you… you are nothing but surprising.”

           Cas scowls, fists balled at his sides. “And you being here? Sharing this with me? Is that part of your story?”

           Chuckling, Chuck wags his finger from side to side. “Let’s just say I’m… making things up as I go along.” Cas stiffens, hearing his own words used against him. “Wanted one last chat with you before you drown back in that slimehole.”

           “So it’s soon?” Chuck’s lips thin, stretched closed. Restraint crumbles, Cas leaping forward. “Tell me what you’ve planned -!”

           He’s thrown onto his back, a hand around his neck. Chuck expressionless while he struggles, looking almost bored. “Nothing, Castiel,” he says, “I have nothing planned.”

           “Liar!” he hisses, “You said that I –“

           Chuck talks over him, “It’s the truth! I didn’t plan anything… the only one to blame is you, Castiel. Like always, you are the architect of your own misery.” Cas freezes, body rebelling. Flames of hatred snuffed with a cold breeze. “Not like anything I could’ve written would have sticked anyway, we both know this. But your deal… I didn’t make you do that. You have no one to blame for your doom but yourself.” He releases Cas, wiping his hands on his pants. Sneering at Cas like he was garbage, but smaller. Gum Chuck wiped off his shirt, but worse. A bug under a magnifying glass while the sun shone brightly above, except more pitiful. “It’ll be nice to sit back and enjoy for once… so put on a good show, Cas. Really push Dean into doing something dumb and suicidal when you’re gone. Sell it! Make it count – it’ll be your last.”

           Chuck vanishes, leaving Cas there. On the ground, physically. Mentally, spiritually, he’s adrift in the unknown. Floating towards an ending he always knew waited for him. An ending that he chose.

           Or did he? If every other option was stolen from him, was it truly his choice? Cas certainly wouldn’t pick this. Years from now, after his loved ones have shuffled off, at peace with a life well lived – that’s the ending he would write. Being welcomed into his perfect heaven with gentle green eyes, freckles, and a dimpled smile.

           He stays like that for longer than he realized. Sam finds him, asks if he’s okay.

           Cas lies because, like with the Empty, it’s the only choice he has.

[mattchase82]

Cry of a Lost Soul

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This unusual narrative recounts the revelations of a lost soul to a former acquaintance. It is a powerful record of the steps which led a young woman to lose her soul in Hell for all eternity.

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Although it has several times been printed with imprimatur, this in itself does not guarantee the authenticity of the story.

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An imprimatur merely indicates that the subject matter is free from error in faith and morals.

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Is it true?

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Obviously, it cannot be "guaranteed" because the only evidence is that of the girl herself.

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It certainly may be true and its instructional qualities would pertain even if the story itself were not true.

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In the July apparition at Fatima a vision of a Hell of fire was given to the three little children, and significantly, its existence was confirmed by the great public miracle on October 13th.

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Yet Hell is little spoken of in the pulpits. Because of this, the special intervention of Heaven, may, as at Fatima, be necessary to restore this sobering doctrine to its important place in Christian dogma.

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It is well to remember that the Hell spoken of here is the Hell which has a significant place in Catholic doctrine, the Hell described vividly by Christ Himself, the Hell seen in all its livid horror by the children at Fatima on July 13th, 1917.

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The names of persons and places are omitted because of the nature of the Article.

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Clara and Annette, both single Catholics in their early twenties, worked adjacent to each other as employees of a commercial firm in Germany. Although they were never very close friends, they shared a courteous mutual regard which led to an exchange of ideas and, eventually, of confidences. Clara professed herself openly religious, and felt it her duty to instruct and admonish Annette when the latter appeared excessively casual or superficial in religious matters.

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In due course, Annette married and left the firm. The year was 1937. Clara spent the autumn of that year on holiday at Lake Garda. About the middle of September she received a letter from her mother. "Annette . . . is dead. She was the victim of an auto accident and was buried yesterday at Wald-Friedhof."

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Clara was frightened since she knew her friend was not very religious. Was she prepared to appear before God? Dying suddenly, what had happened to her?

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The next day she attended Mass, received Holy Communion, and prayed fervently for her friend. The following night, at ten minutes after midnight, the vision took place. . .

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"Clara, do not pray for me! I am in hell. If I tell you this and speak at length about it, do not think it is because of our friendship. We here do not love anyone. I do this as under constraint. In truth, I should like to see you to come to this state where I must remain forever."

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"Perhaps that angers you, but here we all think that way. Our wills are hardened in evil - in what you call evil. Even when we do something 'good', as I do now, opening your eyes about hell, it is not because of a good intention."

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"Do you still remember our first meeting four years ago at. . .? You were then 23 and had been there already half a year. Because I was a beginner, you gave me some helpful advice. Then I praised your love of your neighbor. Ridiculous! Your help was mere coquetry. Here we do not acknowledge any good - in anybody."

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"Do you remember what I told you about my youth? Now I am painfully compelled to fill in some of the gaps."

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"According to the plan of my parents, I should not have existed. A misfortune brought about my conception. My two sisters were 14 and 15 when I was born."

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"Would that I had never existed! Would that I could now annihilate myself! Escape these tortures! No pleasure would equal that with which I would abandon my existence, as a garment of ashes which is lost in nothingness. But I must continue to exist as I chose to make myself - as a ruined person."

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"When father and mother, still young, left the country for the city, they had lost touch with the Church and were keeping company with irreligious people. They had met at a dance, and after a year and a half of companionship they 'had' to get married."

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"As a result of the nuptial ceremony, so much holy water remained on them that my mother attended Sunday Mass a couple of times a year. But she never taught me to pray. Instead, she was completely taken up with the daily cares of life, although our situation was not bad."

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"I refer to prayer, Mass, religious instruction, holy water, church with a very strong repugnance. I hate all that, as I hate those who go to church, and in general every human being and everything."

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"From a great many things do we receive torture. Every knowledge received at the hour of death, every remembrance of things lived or known is for us, a piercing flame. In each remembrance, good and bad, we see the way in which was present - the grace we despised or ignored. What a torture is this! We do not eat, we do not sleep, we do not walk. Chained, with howling and gnashing of teeth, we look appalled at our ruined life, hating and suffering. Do you hear? We here drink hatred like water. Above all we hate God. With reluctance do I force myself to make you understand."

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"The blessed in heaven must love God because they see Him without veil, in all His dazzling beauty. That makes their bliss indescribable. We know this and the knowledge makes us furious. Men on earth, who know God from nature and from revelation, can love Him, but they are not compelled to do so. The believer - I say this with gnashing of teeth - who contemplates Christ on the cross, with arms extended, will end by loving Him."

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"But he whom God approaches only in the final storm, as punisher, as just avenger, because he was rejected by Him, such a person cannot but hate Him with all the strength of his wicked will. We died with willful resolve to be separated from God. Do you now understand why hell lasts forever! It is because our wills were fixed for eternity at the moment of death. We had made our final choice. Our obstinacy will never leave us. Under compulsion, I must add that God is merciful even towards us. I affirm many things against my will and must choke the torrent of abuses I should like to vomit out."

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"God was merciful to us by not allowing our wicked wills to exhaust themselves on earth, as we should have been prepared to do. This would have increased our faults and our pains. He caused us to die before our time, as in my case, or had other mitigating circumstances intervene. Now He shows Himself merciful towards us by not compelling a closer approach than that afforded in this remote inferno. Every step bringing us closer to God would cause us a greater pain than that which a step closer to a burning furnace would cause you."

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"You were scared when once, during a walk, I told you that my father, a few days before my first Communion, had told me: 'My little Annette, the main thing is your beautiful white dress, all the rest is just make-believe.' Because of your concern, I was almost ashamed. Now I sneer at it."

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"The important thing is that we were not allowed to receive Communion until the age of 12. By then I was already absorbed in worldly amusements and found it easy to set aside, without scruple, the things of religion. Thus, I attached no great importance to my first Communion. We are furious that many children go to Communion at the age of seven. We do all we can to make people believe that children have insufficient knowledge at that age. They must first commit some mortal sins. Then the white Particle will not do so much damage to our cause as when faith, hope, and charity - oh, these things! - received in Baptism, are still alive in their hearts."

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"Marta K - and you induced me to enter "The Association of the Young Ladies." The games were amusing. As you know, I immediately took a directive part. I liked it. I also like the picnics. I even let myself be induced to go to confession and communion sometimes."

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"Once you warned me, 'Anne, if you do not pray, you go to perdition.' I used to pray very little indeed, and even this unwillingly. You were then only too right. All those who burn in hell did not pray or did not pray enough."

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"Prayer is the first step towards God. And it is the decisive step. Especially prayer to her who is the Mother of Christ, whose name we never pronounce. Devotion to her rescues from the devil numberless souls whom sin would infallibly give to him."

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"I continue my story, consumed with rage and only because I have to. To pray is the easiest thing man can do on earth. And God has tied up the salvation of each one exactly to this very easy thing."

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"To him who prays with perseverance little by little God gives so much light, so much strength, that even the most debased sinner will at the end come back to salvation. During the last years of my life I did not pray any more, so I lacked those graces without which nobody can be saved. Here we no longer receive graces. Moreover, should we receive them we would cynically refuse them. All the fluctuations of earthly existence have ceased in the other life. For years I was living far away from God. For, in the last call of grace I decided against God."

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"I never believed in the influence of the devil. And now I affirm that he has strong influence on the persons who are in the condition in which I was then. Only many prayers, others and mine own, united with sacrifices and penances, could have snatched me from his grip. And even this only little by little. If there are only few externally obsessed, there are very many internally possessed. The devil cannot steal the free will from those who give themselves to his influence. But in punishment of their, so to speak, methodical apostasy from God, He allows the devil to nest in them."

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"I hate the devil too. And yet I am pleased about him, because he tries to ruin all of you; he and his satellites, the fallen with him at the beginning of time. There are millions of them. They roam around the earth, as thick as a swarm of flies, and you do not even notice it. It is not reserved to us damned to tempt you; but to the fallen spirits. In truth every time they drag down here to hell a human soul their own torture is increased. But what does one not do for hatred?"

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"Deep down I was rebelling against God. You did not understand it; you thought me still a Catholic. I wanted, in fact, to be called one; I even used to pay my ecclesiastical dues. Maybe your answers were right sometimes. On me they made no impression, since you must not be right. Because of these counterfeited relationships between the two of us, our separation on the occasion of my marriage was of no consequence to me. Before the wedding I went to confession and communion once more. It was a precept. My husband and I thought alike on this point. Why not comply with this formality? So we complied with this, as with the other formalities."

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"Our married life, in general, was spent in great harmony. We were of the same idea in everything. In this too, that we did not want the burden of children. In truth, my husband would have like to have one; no more, of course. In the end I succeeded in dissuading him even from this desire. Dresses, luxurious furniture, places of entertainment, picnics and trips by car and similar things were more important for me... It was a year of pleasure on earth, the one that passed from my marriage to my sudden death. Internally, of course, I was never happy, although externally at ease. There was always something indeterminate inside that gnawed at me."

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"Unexpectedly I had an inheritance from my Aunt, Lotte. My husband succeeded in increasing his wages to a considerable figure. And so I was able to furnish our new home in an attractive way. Religion did not show its light but from afar off, pale, feeble and uncertain."

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"I used to give free vent to my ill humor about some mediaeval representations of hell in cemeteries or elsewhere, in which the devil is roasting souls in red burning coals, while his companions with long tails drag new victims to him. Clara! One can be mistaken in depicting hell, but never can one exaggerate."

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"I tell you: the fire of which the Bible speaks, does not mean the torment of the conscience. Fire is fire! What He said: 'Away from Me, you accursed one, into eternal fire', is to be understood literally. Literally! How can the spirit be touched by material fire, you will ask. How can your soul suffer on earth when you put your finger on the flame? In fact the soul does not burn; and yet what torture all the individual feels!"

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"Our greatest torture consists in the certain knowledge that we shall never see God. How can this torture us so much, since on earth we are so indifferent? As long as the knife lies on the table, it leaves you cold. You see how keen it is, but you do not feel it. Plunge the knife into the flesh and you will start screaming for pain. Now we feel the loss of God. The lost Catholics suffer more than those of other religions, because they, mostly, received and despised more graces and more light. He who knew more suffers more cruelly than he who knew less. He who sinned out of malice suffers more keenly than he who sinned out of weakness. But nobody suffers more than he deserves. Oh, if that were not true, I should have a motive to hate!"

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"My death happened this way . . ."

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"A week ago - I am speaking according to your reckoning, because according to pain, I could very well say that it is already ten years that I am burning in hell - a week ago, then, my husband and I, on a Sunday went on a picnic, the last one for me. The day was glorious. I felt very well. A sinister sense of pleasure that was with me all the day long, invaded me. When lo, suddenly, during the return, my husband was dazzled by a car that was coming full speed. He lost control."

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"Jesus, used frequently by some people of German language - escaped from my lips with a shivering. Not as a prayer, but as a shout. A lacerating pain took hold of the whole of me. (In comparison with the present only a trifle). Then I lost consciousness. Strange! That morning this thought had come to me in an inexplicable way: 'You could go to Mass once more', It seemed like the last call of Love."

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"Clear and resolute, my 'NO' cut off that train of thought. You will know already what happened after my death. The lot of my husband and that of my mother, what happened to my corpse and the proceedings of my funeral are known to me through some natural knowledge we have here. What happens on earth we know only obscurely. But we know what touches us closely. I see also where you are living."

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"I myself awoke from the darkness suddenly, in the instant of my passing. I saw myself as flooded by a dazzling light. It was in the same place where my dead body was lying. It was like a theater, when suddenly the lights in the hall are put out, the curtains are rent aside and an unexpected scene, horrible illuminated, appears. The scene of my life."

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"My soul showed herself to me as in a mirror; all the graces despised from my youth until my last NO to God. I felt myself like an assassin, to whom his dead victim is shown during his trial at court - Should I repent? Never! - Should I feel ashamed? Never!"

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"However, I could not even stand before the eyes of God, rejected by me. There was only one thing for me: flight! As Cain fled from the dead body of Abel, so my soul rushed from the sight of horror."

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"This was the particular judgment: the invisible Judge said: 'Away from Me'. Then my soul, as a yellow brimstone shadow, fell headlong into the place of eternal torture."

YOU CAN READ THE WHOLE UNEDITED VERSION HERE

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http://sicutincaelo.org/b08_hell.html

[mindingmyownbusiness]

Rescue (2/?)

Pairing - Bucky x Reader Soulmate AU Summary - You’ve always believed your soulmate was out there somewhere, Bucky not so much. What happens when he finally takes a leap of faith and reaches out to you? Warnings - some canon-typical violence in later chapters, the occasional curse word, but I promise to make up for it with loads of fluffiness Chapter Word Count - 1224 Notes - I’m hoping to post new chapters about once a week so wish me luck (and any encouragement you can offer is always welcome!). Inspired by Rescue by Lauren Daigle and by a lot of the concepts in Sense8.

Series Masterlist - Part 1

Your POV

It was all you could do to keep your tears at bay. Just a few more steps, almost there… Your normally positive persona was cracking, breaking apart at the seams with each agonizing step up to your fourth floor apartment. Everybody has bad days, you knew that, but today you couldn’t help but feel like the entire world was out to get you. Last night’s power outage meant your phone died, which meant no alarm, which meant..?  You guessed it, you being ridiculously late for work. Which wouldn’t normally have been so bad except for the surprise performance review that you found waiting on you when you finally arrived at the office. Embarrassment notwithstanding you survived the review slash ambush and decided to pay penance by working through lunch, promising to make it up to yourself by ordering from your favorite take-out place for dinner. Except that plan blew up in your face when you arrived to find it unexpectedly closed for renovations and you had to settle for the last sad and lonely turkey sandwich from the corner deli. “Sums up my life right about now,” you grumbled under your breath as you paid and headed the last few blocks home. Just when the thought of well at least it can’t get any worse had entered your head the overcast sky turned and the heavens opened so suddenly that you were soaked to the bone before you could even make it to your building. Pair that with a broken heel from a crooked subway grate plus an out-of-service elevator and you almost gave up right there in the lobby.

Finally at your destination you fumbled through unlocking your door, slamming it behind you with more force than necessary. Leaning back against the cold and unforgiving wood you slumped down to the floor, your belongings dropping haphazardly around you. You were wet, cold, mentally and physically exhausted, and the only thing left in your head was the feeling of being completely and utterly alone. “Where are you…?” your voice wavered slightly, the tears you’d been holding off now overflowing and streaming down your cheeks. “Why aren’t you here now, taking care of me? Picking me up and holding me close? Drying me off and telling me everything is going to be okay?” Your words bounced around your empty apartment, mocking you and your hope and faith in your soulmate. “Are you even there? Do you even exist…?” you whispered into the darkness. “I… I don’t know why I even bother… either you aren’t there, or… or you are, a-and you just don’t want anything to do with m-me…” Sobs now wracking your body, you curled up in a ball and cried till there were no tears left. Minutes, could’ve been hours later you drug yourself off the floor, your movements listless and robotic as you stripped off your wet clothing, leaving it and everything else in a heap on your floor as you collapsed into bed, falling into a fitful, dreamless sleep.

His POV

Head pounding Bucky stumbles towards the kitchen in the compound letting the smell of coffee guide his way. Saying he was a sight for sore eyes was generous at best. His clothes were damp with sweat, his new short hair sticking up in several places, and who knew that supersoldiers could get dark circles under their eyes anyway? The first mug he attempts to grab shatters as it falls onto the counter. Swearing under his breath he sweeps the pieces into the trash with his metal hand and pushes thoughts of murder and destruction from the front of his brain. His mission for coffee still needed to be accomplished.

“Hey there, Mr. Grumpy Gills,” Sam chirps from his seat at the table.

“Shut it, Birdbrain,” he growls out as he grabs a new mug from the cabinet and pours himself a cup.

“No offense Barnes but you look like shit. Rough night?”

“You could say that.” His thoughts flicker back to the disturbing images his mind conjured up from the night before. The despair on her face, her cries for him to help her, save her… 

“Nightmares?” Bucky startles out of his daze to find Sam right beside him, a hand on his shoulder to ground him, bring him back to reality. Bucky takes a slow sip of coffee, knowing that his face is telling his partner a lot more that his words are ready to. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah but, this one… this one was different.” He scrubs a hand down his face, murmurs of the dream still lingering, still persistently poking at him.

Sam looks at him knowingly. “Wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head, takes another sip. “You’ll think I’m losing my mind... nothing about it makes sense.”

“Hey man, try me.” Sam leans back against the counter across from Bucky and crosses his arms. “I used to be pretty good at helping guys down at the VA deal with stuff that went bump in the night ya know.” 

Bucky sighs, staring into his mug as if he might find some answers in there. After a long moment he begins to speak. “Things have been good since Wakanda, really good. Mostly a dreamless sleep, but when I do dream there’s always this… girl.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam can’t help his signature smirk which is quickly countered with Bucky’s own signature murder face.

“Don’t be an ass Wilson, it’s not like that she’s… she’s not always at the center of my dreams but she’s always there… it’s like…” He closes his eyes, easily picturing her in his mind. “She is so damn beautiful, with soft features and the most captivating smile. Her laugh is just infectious and her voice… her voice feels like coming home.” Seeing and hearing her in his dreams always filled him with a sense of belonging, a warmth in his chest that he was certain he’d never felt anywhere else. He smiled softly to himself, all trace of worry and burden erased from his features.

“Dude... that’s your soulmate!” Bucky’s eyes flew open at Sam’s declaration, the look of shock and awe on Sam’s face almost comical.

“Come off it man, soulmates are a myth.” Bucky brushed off Sam’s reaction, finishing his coffee in one gulp and discarding it in the sink.

“I’m serious, man! They say the bond is no joke. Some are able to hear, or see, sometimes even physically interact with each other over huge distances.”

“Well then tell me this, what does it mean that after months of seeing her in my dreams that last night she was the star of my nightmares, huh? What kind of messed up soulmate crap is that?”

“I’m not sure, man. Dreams are weird like that, unpredictable. Maybe something happened to her? Have you tried contacting her at all?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “How do I even do that? I didn’t even know soulmates were a thing until two minutes ago.”

“It’s all about consent man, you have to agree to it, decide it’s what you want before it can happen. I bet that she agreed to it already if you’re seeing and hearing her in your dreams.”

“I still think you’re messing with me Wilson... but I’d try just about anything to never have a nightmare like that again.”

Part 3

[komahinasecretexchange]

Title: Delicate Cycle

Author: @cellophanerose

For: @akito666us

Rating/Warnings: G/No warnings apply!

Prompt: Hinata helps Komaeda to recover from PTSD

Author’s notes: Hello!  It’s my first time writing fic, but I still hope you enjoy!  It’s more of “Hinata helps Komaeda recover” in general - I hope that’s ok!  Thanks for reading!

Hinata had already known that his past was indelible, even if he couldn’t remember it.  This was something that class 77-B all had in common – their lives in despair seemed like a hazy memory of a story someone once told, not the painful truth of how responsible they all were for the effective end of the world.  Ironically, most of the class more clearly remembered what had happened in the simulation, even though only the “survivors” left with their memories completely intact. Still, it wasn’t something easily brought up – asking a murder victim if they remembered how they died, or the blackened if they could still feel the phantom pains from their executions.  Because that was the thing – although no physical harm was carried over, the mental scars cut deeper than any murder weapon.

Despite all their attempts to move forward and forgive each other, Koizumi still flinched when she ran into Pekoyama alone, and Sainoji surreptitiously rubbed her throat when she thought no one was looking.   Hanamura froze up when his batter splashed onto him, and Tanaka clutched his fists hard enough to draw blood when loud stampeding sounded. Truly, even a fictional past was inescapable, but they all silently agreed that this would be their penance.

However, Hinata noted, Komaeda remained virtually unaffected.  No panic attacks when walking by the warehouse, no nervous sweating at the sight of ropes or fire, not even the spears they used for fishing or bright red containers..

“It was something I did to myself, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda once tried to explain.  “I knew exactly what to expect and prepared myself for that. Besides, I’ve been in plenty of other terrible accidents and trauma-inducing situations!” Komaeda tried laughing it off, but Hinata still felt he wasn’t getting the whole truth.  But, since he had nothing to go on save for a gut feeling, Hinata decided to let it go for now. Plenty of his classmates vocally asked for his guidance, so he wasn’t going to pull teeth trying to get Komaeda to reach out for help. He wouldn’t even worry about it!  At all!

Or so Hinata had told himself.  Until, one night, his mind was screaming at him that he wasn’t doing enough – that he would never be enough – that offering his entire being to the sacrificial altar of Hope’s Peak Academy for a chance to mean something still wasn’t enough – kept him awake.  (Between visions of a talentless reserve, a bored god, and a dead digital girl, he hardly ever slept through the night, but none of his friends needed to know this.) Tonight, however, instead of futilely chasing sleep that was never coming for him, Hinata slipped his sneakers on and stepped outside.  He figured he could do some preliminary work for the day ahead, namely making rounds and noting any malfunctioning equipment or depleted supplies, but truthfully he just felt the need to move.

Hinata left his cottage and headed towards the communal washing machines when he noticed the light was already on.  Not an odd thing, per se – several of his peers also had trouble sleeping, but the quiet music did pique his curiosity.  It was definitely a familiar song, but he didn’t connect the dots until he opened the door and found Komaeda kneeling on the ground, looking like a marionette whose strings had been cut.  It was then it all came together in Hinata’s mind – the heat from the fire, the smoke causing his eyes to tear, the pounding of feet and the shattering of bottles, and finally the sprinklers turning on, leaving only the overwhelming feeling of dread and anxiety for reasons he was too afraid to confront.  So many sensations had led up to that point, but when they pulled back the curtain, all Hinata could remember was ((despair)). The smell of blood, the look of terror permanently affixed to his face, the spear grotesquely impaling his stomach, every nauseating detail came giftwrapped in a single thought, a single moment, a single truth – Komaeda was dead.

Hinata snapped back into the present.

Komaeda was alive, and he needed Hinata’s help.  Hinata instinctually dashed to the radio and slammed the power button, then immediately pivoted and fell onto the floor beside Komaeda.  Komaeda’s usually crisp and clear eyes were faded and swirling with a slight darkness, and his façade was distressingly blank.

“Komaeda,” Hinata was shaking, but he still placed both of his hands on Komaeda’s shoulders in an effort to ground him.  His grip tightened when he received no answer.

“Komaeda!” he raised his voice, panic bubbling inside him, “It’s okay!  I’m here with you.” He couldn’t eloquently string words of comfort together, but he tried his best.  “You’re safe, you aren’t alone, you’re going to be fine, just please listen to me!”  Komaeda offered no reassurance that the words were reaching him and continued staring blankly through Hinata, to a place only he could see.

Hinata’s hands were still trembling when he wrapped his arms around Komaeda.  They had never been physically intimate like this, but at that moment, Hinata needed to feel Komaeda’s warmth just as much as Komaeda needed Hinata.  “I’m here,” Hinata mumbled, surprising himself when the words, “I’ll always be here,” slipped out. The most shocking part, Hinata found, was that he wanted it to be true.

Hinata had lost many of his friends during the killing game, and he cared about each one of them, but he would be lying if he said Komaeda’s death didn’t leave an especially strong impact on him.  Even after it was revealed that Komaeda had orchestrated his own death, Hinata felt a sadness and regret that he didn’t want to name at the time. Nanami paid the ultimate price for Komaeda’s actions when she didn’t get the choice, so it was easy to bury those earlier feelings under anger and frustration.  After everything had settled, and Hinata was reunited with their digital classmate in a moment of great distress, he couldn’t ignore those buried feelings.

Hinata didn’t want Komaeda to be alone.  Luck had constantly torn those who cared about Komaeda away from him, leaving him with no one who loved him.  Komaeda had told Hinata once that he was afraid of dying alone, and though Hinata at the time fell for Komaeda’s lie of “it was something I read in a book!” it wasn’t because Hinata truly believed it, but rather because it was easier to do so.  Komaeda had given him an out in the form of a flimsy lie, and Hinata had taken it.  Of course Komaeda was afraid of dying alone – after spending as much time as he had with Komaeda, it was an obvious conclusion for Hinata to reach.  And yet, Komaeda manufactured a situation where he would not only die alone, but also in such a horrific manner. He chose to die alone, and that was something Hinata could never accept.

So when Komaeda finally raised his arms to return Hinata’s embrace, Hinata felt such a wave of relief and calm that it nearly brought tears to his eyes.  

~

When Komaeda came to, he admonished himself for being so weak, and started brainstorming ways to explain his reaction away.  Telling Hinata he wasn’t having problems with his death, and yet here he was, putting on such an unsightly display. …Actually, what was Hinata doing here in the first place?  Embracing Komaeda, of all people? Maybe it had something to do with why Hinata was shaking, he thought. He might as well venture a guess (and buy himself some more time in the process.)

“Hinata-kun, why are you shaking so much?  Are you getting sick, maybe?” The question was asked in earnest, but Hinata reacted with anger.

“Don’t make light of this!  Do you really think I would be so heartless as to not react?” Hinata was still trembling, but he let his arms fall from Komaeda and balled his hands into fists.  Komaeda felt a flash of disappointment before curiosity returned. Maybe he was thinking of this the wrong way?

“…Are you angry with me, Hinata-kun?”  Komaeda felt a little silly trying to have a conversation while kneeling on the floor, but he wasn’t going to complain.

“Is it really that hard for you to imagine that I was worried about you, Komaeda?  That I feel things other than anger and boredom?” Hinata stood up, and Komaeda quickly followed.  Hinata looked directly into Komaeda’s eyes, but whatever he was searching for, he must not have been able to find.  “…Sorry,” Hinata continued, “this isn’t… I just was scared, all right? Hearing that music, and seeing you like that, I… Actually, it doesn’t matter.”  Komaeda was ready to refute that ‘No, it actually matters a great deal,’ but Hinata still continued.

“Are you ok, Komaeda?  Does that happen often?”  Hinata looked painfully earnest, so Komaeda held back his self-deprecating comments for now.

“Thank you for worrying about me, Hinata-kun, but I’m all right.   That song simply caught me off-guard. Up until today, I had completely forgotten it was part of my plan.  Only somebody totally useless like me would let such an insignificant thing shut them down!” Komaeda hoped Hinata would let his ‘useless’ slide for now.  Hinata sighed and placed his hand on Komaeda’s shoulder.

“It’s ok to not be all right, you know?  I know you don’t think you’re worth it, but we’re all here to support each other.  You went through something terrible. And don’t say it doesn’t count ‘cause you did it to yourself!  You wouldn’t be collapsed in front of a washing machine at 3 AM if you weren’t hurting. Maybe you don’t even realize it, but even if that pain isn’t on the surface, I want to remove it from you.”  Hinata held Komaeda’s robotic hand with both of his own. “I won’t let you get lost in despair again.”

Komaeda was deeply shaken by those words, and even if he wanted so badly to believe them, he just couldn’t bring himself to do so.  He ached to open up, to lay everything out to Hinata that he couldn’t even tell himself, but he knew he wasn’t brave enough to do so.  Instead, he fell back into his failsafe: being contentious.

“Haha…Tell me, Hinata-kun, what makes you think you have the power to do such a thing?  What could a failure of a reserve course guinea pig do to help someone like me?” He was on a dangerous line, he knew - already he had slipped up and admitted that he needed help.  But the faster he hurt Hinata and pushed him far enough away, the better. “I never asked for your pity.”

The words stung both of them, Komaeda realized.  He was so used to pushing away people he cared about, but hurting Hinata felt especially vile.  However, Hinata surprised him by doing the exact opposite of what he’d planned - instead of getting angry and storming off, he agreed.

“I guess I am pretty useless,” Hinata started.  “I’ve always known I was a failure, and you’ve never hidden your contempt for that part of me.  But I won’t let that stop me. Because I know you, and I know you want this,” Hinata laced his fingers with Komaeda’s, “And so do I.  You can’t push me away this time, Komaeda.”

Komaeda’s heart was pounding so loudly that he was afraid the roof would collapse from the sound.  He looked up into Hinata’s eyes and saw all stubborn determination and kindness and hope.  Komaeda’s lips trembled.

How long had he wanted this?  Someone to talk to him, someone to comfort him?  Someone to take his hand and make silly, irresponsible promises?

“…I guess if you’re going to be that stubborn, I won’t be able to stop you,” Komaeda tried saying nonchalantly, but a genuine smile was sneaking its way onto his face.  He still couldn’t bring himself to fully believe it, but looking at Hinata’s expression, he couldn’t not believe it either. Hinata relaxed in understanding of Komaeda’s thinly veiled acceptance.  He squeezed Komaeda’s hand once more before letting it drop. Suddenly, it was like the force that was keeping Hinata steady had vanished and his visage changed to one of pure exhaustion. He swayed towards Komaeda, who held him upright.

“Hey, Hinata-kun?  Have you been sleeping poorly lately, perhaps?”   He paused for a second before deciding to take it a step further.   “I’ve also had problems sleeping recently. Do you want to talk about it?”  Hinata looked like he wanted to object, but realized the hypocrisy of such and decided to answer honestly.

“A little bit.  Nightmares, y’know?  Sometimes I can’t get my brain to shut off,” Hinata admitted. “ A lot of the times I can’t remember if what I see in my dreams is real or not.”  Komaeda had a hunch on what Hinata was referring to, but didn’t interrupt. “…Sometimes, I dream about you.” Komaeda jolted to attention.

“Ah, my features are quite haunting, I suppose-” before Komaeda could spit any more vitriol, Hinata cut him off.

“About your death,” Hinata clarified.  Komaeda’s vision briefly flashed to visions of fire and blood and pain, but a quick squeeze of Hinata’s arm brought him back to reality.  Well, that was surprising. Komeada chalked it up to sleep deprivation that Hinata was admitting this, because the thought that he wanted Komaeda to know how much it affected him was too much to handle.  

“…Do you want to tell me?” Komaeda didn’t know how far he could push his boundaries.

“No- I mean - yes, but… I do want to talk with you eventually, but I’m not sure if I have enough energy for it right now.”  Was his death truly something that haunted Hinata to such a point? Komaeda had no reason to believe he was lying, but still…

“Let’s try getting some sleep, then,” Komaeda suggested instead.  “We can always talk more at a later time!” Komaeda gave Hinata a tired, but bright, smile.  He was elated when Hinata returned one in kind.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Hinata grinned.  Hinata was so bright, like a beacon of hope for Komaeda, but he was still so human and flawed.  He had felt a kinship with Hinata from the very first time they met, but through all the trials and tribulations they went through, Komaeda had found himself drawn to something more than a feeling of similarity.  He listened to Komaeda’s ramblings, and while he didn’t always agree, he always engaged. It felt like someone was finally seeing him, and that prickly kindness Hinata offered was ‘hope’ in his eyes.

Yes, to say Hinata was Komaeda’s hope wasn’t an exaggeration.  Every version of Hinata was dear to him, and the man standing before him despite all odds was the man he grew to love.

~

Hinata was dizzy with exhaustion and giddiness (at being heard, at finally reaching out and being honest with Komaeda, at Komaeda reaching back) that when Komaeda gave a small wave and turned to leave, he called out to him.

“Komaeda!”  Maybe Hinata didn’t want this bubble to pop because he was afraid that, even after tonight, nothing would change, or maybe he could blame sleep deprivation.  But when Komaeda turned around in response and Hinata pulled him into a hug and whispered, “thanks,” Hinata realized there wasn’t a reason - he just wanted to hold Komaeda. Hinata was treated to the sight of a slightly red-faced Komaeda, awkwardly deciding how to react.

“Nnnh…No problem?” Komaeda asked, clearly looking for an explanation from Hinata.  However, when Hinata dropped his arms and walked away, he left Komaeda with nothing but a ‘good night.’  If Hinata’s ears were burning by the time he got back to his cabin, Komaeda didn’t need to know.  

That night, he dreamt of soft touches and interlocking fingers, of white hair and pale eyes.

Hinata wasn’t naive enough to believe that this was the end of nightmares or breakdowns for either of them, but when Komaeda invited him to stargaze and air some more things out before they fell asleep, he had hope that both of them were healing.  Even when Komaeda’s luck inevitably brought a storm that covered the stars and drenched them both to the bone, Hinata had never felt as calm as he did when Komaeda dozed off while leaning his head against his shoulder. He spent a long time listening to the soft sound of Komaeda’s breathing and feeling the slight movements beside him before following Komaeda into sleep.

While it was still true that they couldn’t erase their pasts, they can still move towards a brighter future together.

[etherealwaifgoddess]

A Good Night’s Sleep, Pt.1

Main Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky has been plagued with nightmares since he left HYDRA and the Avengers all have been trying to help him overcome them. Bucky meets you by chance on a coffee run and finds that the solution he was avoiding might be exactly what he needs.

Warnings/ Content: brief mention of PTSD

Word Count: 3.6k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! So this little 3 part series came from an idea that @marinaaniseed had a few weeks ago. I absolutely couldn’t get the idea out of my head and so, while I should have been working on my many WIPs, this little fic was born. Parts two and three are going up immediately after this, it’s all done and I don’t feel like dragging it out. Hope you all enjoy it as much as I have. Especially you @marinaaniseed, thank you so much for the idea!!! XOXO- Ash

A Good Night’s Sleep, Part One

“Come on, Buck.” Steve calls out while banging on Bucky’s door, “You gotta wake up, pal.”

Bucky wakes with a jolt, his body rigid and his throat sore from screaming. He’s panting hard, trying to adjust to the world around him. He pulls himself out of bed on shaky legs, wobbling down the hall to open the door right as Steve goes to knock again. “Sorry. Again.” he rasps. 

“Want to come get a cup of tea with me?” Steve offers with sympathetic eyes.

“Nah, I’m gonna grab a shower. Go back to sleep, Stevie.” 

“You know you can talk to me about it if you want to.” 

“I know. I’ll be okay.” Bucky insists, closing the door to end the discussion. 

Under the burning hot spray of the shower Bucky lets himself breakdown. 

After Wakanda Steve had convinced Tony to let him live at the tower with the rest of the team and everyone had been leery of the former assassin joining their ranks. As they slowly came to know him though, he became a welcome addition to their little family of Avengers. The only issue was the nightmares that woke not only Bucky, but everyone else on their floor. Bucky hadn’t slept through the night since he escaped HYDRA, plagued with visions of the destruction he’d wrought as the Winter Soldier. It was an endless stream of death and terror every night when he closed his eyes. When he was on his own in Romania he’d accepted it as his penance for what he’d done. After Shuri and her team pulled him out of Cryo in Wakanda he hadn’t been hopeful the nightmares were gone along with the trigger words. And he had been right - they persisted. 

Bucky warned Steve when he invited him to live at the tower with the team. He told him he had nightmares and was prone to have low days where he just needed solitude to work through his own mind. Steve had promised he’d have his own living quarters and the team would understand. They all had their demons, afterall. The team was very understanding the first days but after that the concerned glances turned to long, worried looks and the team started speaking up.

Bruce had been the first to speak up, suggesting therapy to help him work through what was causing his nightmares. Bucky went and as much as he liked his therapist, nothing they tried stopped the nightmares. Even the meds blew through his system too fast to be of any use. She did give him some good tips for managing his PTSD and depression during the day though, so Bucky considered it a win and still went to see her once a week. 

Nat gave him a spicy Russian tea she swore would knock him out enough that no dreams would come. Nat was wrong, all Bucky got out of the tea was heartburn. She grumbled something under her breath in Russian that sounded a lot like “cursed’ the next morning over breakfast. 

Steve took him for a long run before bed one night, thinking the endorphin high and exhaustion would help Bucky sleep soundly. It helped Steve sometimes with his own dreams of war. It didn’t help with the nightmares, it only made him more exhausted the next day after getting little sleep. 

Tony offered to get him drunk but it would take entirely too much alcohol to overcome the serum in his veins so he declined the offer. 

Wanda suggested she try popping in his mind while he was having a nightmare to see if she could reshape it and try to correct whatever in his mind was causing him to have the dreams. Bucky threw up at the idea of someone meddling in his mind again.

The care and suggestions from the team were sweet, and Bucky knows they have the best intentions at heart, but it’s all still a little overwhelming. Bucky wants to stop having nightmares, he would do anything to sleep for more than three or four hours a night. A small part of him still thinks it’s punishment from some higher power for everything he’s done, but rationally he understands it’s just his PTSD. 

After his shower, Bucky trudges out to the team kitchen for coffee. If he isn’t going to sleep he might as well start on his caffeine routine. Sam is already in the kitchen whipping up a smoothie for himself while Natasha stares at him over a cup of tea, the human embodiment of heart eyes on her face. 

“Mornin’.” he rumbles as he crosses the kitchen, rummaging for his favorite cup in the dishwasher. 

“Another bad one, huh.” Nat asks, but it really isn’t a question.

“Yeah, sorry.” 

“You’ve got to figure these out, James.” 

“I know it.” 

“I know what you need.” Sam interjects causing both Bucky and Nat to whip around to stare at him. Sam just shrugs, “You need to get laid, man.” 

Bucky chokes on his coffee. “What?” 

“You. Need. To. Get. Laid.” Sam repeats slowly. “Seriously, man. Find yourself a nice girl, or a guy, and get some. You’ll be all happy and cosy and you’ll nod right off. No nightmares if you’re wrapped up in the arms of a good woman, or man.” 

Bucky shakes his head, the last thing he needs is to terrorize some poor person trying to spend the night.

“It’s not a bad idea.” Nat agrees.

“Not happening.” Bucky says with a warning tone. He fills his cup and retreats to his bedroom, unwilling to continue the conversation. Adding another person to his mess of a life is not the solution. 

Sam’s suggestion spreads through the team like wildfire. Everyone seems to have a friend they could set him up with. Tony even hacks into his smartphone and adds apps for Tinder, Grindr, and Match.com. Bucky deletes them quickly before chewing Tony out about privacy rights. It becomes a bit of a running joke within the group and Bucky is less than thrilled about it. Bucky hasn’t had a date since 1941 and he isn’t sure how to navigate dating in the 21st century. He knows the times have changed, people are more free with their sexualities and casual relationships are normal instead of taboo. Eventually, he thinks, eventually he’ll get back out there. But certainly not just for the sake of random sex. 

Bucky has another particularly rough night. One where he doesn’t dare sleep because the second his eyes close the images start up like a motion picture. He’d spends the night alternating between pacing and reading, trying to not be disruptive while everyone else sleeps. Sam and Steve get up for their run just before dawn and find him pacing in the common room. 

“Did you sleep at all?” Steve asks him.

“I will later. Probably.” Bucky grumbles. 

Sam shakes his head, “Let’s go get coffee. You look like hell.”

Bucky can’t argue with that and instead goes to grab his shoes with a nod.

The city is bustling despite the early hour and the line at their favorite coffee shop is almost to the door. It’s worth the wait though and Bucky likes the thrumming energy of the shop, the blur of muted sounds around him oddly comforting. The woman in front of them is fidgeting with her leather bag, it must have something heavy in it the way she keeps adjusting the strap on her shoulder. Bucky tries not to let his gaze linger too long but the way her long hair falls in soft waves all the way down to the small of her back is distracting. The even softer looking rounded curves of her body are even more distracting, he admits to himself. She reminds him of the women in Renaissance paintings, when lush curves were still revered, before these modern stick thin bodies became the ideal. Bucky wishes the Winter Soldier could go back and pay a visit to whoever started the “thigh gap” craze. 

The woman adjusts the leather strap again and a small white card flutters out onto the floor behind her. Bucky reaches down to pick it up, noticing the card has business information on it. Sam and Steve are chatting and distracted when Bucky taps the woman on the shoulder, “I think you dropped your business card.” he says hesitantly. 

You’re cursing yourself for lugging everything along with you in your enormous bag when you feel a tap on your shoulder followed by a warm masculine voice. You absolutely do not have business cards, you’re a freelance writer and market yourself entirely online. It has to be another pick up line, probably from some smarmy Wall Street asshole who wants to slum it with an artsy girl for a change. You’ve been burned by that type enough times and won’t let yourself do it again, no matter how long it’s been since you’ve had a date. “Does that line work a lot for you?” you reply, turning around with an unamused expression. 

Bucky’s face falls, upset he’s offended you when all he was trying to do was return what you’d dropped. “I wasn’t. I don’t. You. Um, you dropped this. It fell out of your bag.” Bucky fumbles for words, blushing brightly and drawing the attention of Sam and Steve who wear twin smirks of amusement watching him flounder. 

Your irritation dissipates when you see the gorgeous, stuttering man in front of you. He’s tall, though not quite as tall as his companions, his dark hair falls around his shoulders in a way that is either true bedhead or carefully crafted styling to mimic it. His grey blue eyes are wide and honest, clearly not some smarmy pick up artist like you’d assumed. He’s wearing a black hoodie and dark grey sweatpants so it’s unlikely he was the business card type either. You force yourself to stop ogling the poor man and look at the tiny card in his outstretched hand. Recognizing it immediately, you realize you’re the asshole in this scenario. “Shit, that is mine.” you curse, “I’m so sorry. I don’t usually have business cards but my friend gave me this one yesterday for a new bakery that went in over on 2nd Avenue.” 

Bucky looks at the card for a second before you take it from him. “So you’re not Beth Yardley?” 

You raise an eyebrow at him, wondering if that’s now a ploy to get your name. You really need to be less suspicious but after living in the city for five years you’ve become jaded. He’s cute though. “Nope, Y/N. Nice to meet you…?”

“Bucky.” he offers quickly.

The name doesn’t ring a bell, but he looks familiar for some reason. “Nice you meet you, Bucky. Thanks for saving that card for me. I’m dying to try these cinnamon buns my friend keeps raving about.”

Bucky is smiling again, hoping his face doesn’t betray how eager he is to keep the conversation going. He wasn’t trying to hit on you a few minutes ago but now that he’s seen your face and heard your voice, he sure as hell is. “I love cinnamon buns.” 

You stifle your laugh at the way his cheeks burn bright pink after his admission. He has to be flirting at this point. And he really is cute. Damnit. “We should go try them, then.” you decide, giving him a chance to make a move. 

Bucky feels like he’s swallowed his tongue, “As in, together?” 

“Yeah, sorry if I wasn’t clear. This is me hitting on you now.” you smirk at him as his blush spreads.

Sam is leaning on Steve as they fight for composure, trying not to erupt in laughter and ruin their friends moment. Bucky glares at their backs for a moment before realizing he still hasn’t answered, “Yeah. Yes. Let’s do that.” 

Getting a better look at his companions you realize why he looks so familiar. Of all the people to meet in a coffee shop, you muse. You’re still interested though. “Are you free after this? I was going to get my coffee to go and then head straight there for breakfast.” 

“I’m free. These idiots can find their own way home.” 

“Great. Now, the deciding factor is: icing or no icing? Think hard Bucky, there are two camps of people and if you fall into the wrong one I’ll be forced to shame you for all eternity.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen, worried he’s going to mess up two seconds into what could potentially be a date. “Icing?” he tries.

“Right answer!” you announce him happily. Then, in a conspiratorial tone, you whisper, “It wasn’t really a deal breaker but it’s good to know you’re not some sugar hating monster.” 

Bucky’s grin widens, “No, I have a serious sweet tooth.”

“We’re gonna get along just fine.” you assure him. 

After you order your coffee, quad shot latte with whole milk don’t judge me, and Bucky orders his, the biggest white mocha frapp you have please, you swipe your card before he has a chance to get his wallet out. Bucky balks at you paying but you tell him he can get it next time with a flirty smile that has his brain shutting off, unable to continue complaining. 

Steve and Sam give Bucky small waves and thumbs up, not interfering when Bucky leaves with you. “Your friends seem nice.” you say kindly as you step out onto the busy city sidewalk.

“They’re the best.” Bucky agrees with a nod. 

You make idle chit chat on your way to the bakery, keeping the topics light and superficial. Bucky tells you he grew up in Brooklyn, moved away for a bit, and recently moved to Manhattan with his friends. He seems hesitant as he explains it and you realize he’s trying to not be obvious about who he is. Like you couldn’t have already guessed.

You snort a laugh into your latte. “So what was Brooklyn like in the 30s?” you ask bluntly.

Bucky’s eyes practically bug out of his head, “How did you...?” 

You give him a half smile and shrug, “The hand is a good clue, plus your face was everywhere for a while. It doesn’t help that your best friends are Captain America and the Falcon.” 

Cringing, Bucky figures this will be the end of his almost date. “We don’t have to go get breakfast. I’ll understand if you don’t want to be seen with me.” 

You stop in the middle of the sidewalk, shocked by his response. “Whoa, hold on. I knew who you were before I asked you to join me. I don’t care what other people think about you or your past. You seem like a nice guy and I want to get to know you. The real you.” 

Bucky takes a moment to process your words, finding it hard to believe someone is willing to look beyond his past. He can't find a shred of deceit in your expression though, so he answers your question. “Well, there were less cars and it smelled worse if you can believe it.” 

You huff out a laugh, resuming your walk to the bakery. “I can’t. Tell me more.” 

Bucky tells you stories of the Brooklyn of his youth as you make your way across town. You aren’t in a hurry and Bucky is happy to spend extra time out in the warm sun with a beautiful woman. 

The bakery is a little glass fronted shop sandwiched between two larger brick buildings. You would have walked right past it if you hadn’t been looking for it. Bucky opens the door for you and you smirk, amused by the old fashioned gesture. The scent of vanilla and caramelized sugar hit you the second you’re inside. “Oh my god.” you groan the amazing smell. 

Bucky’s steps falter at the sound you made, trying desperately not to let his mind go where it was headed. “This place smells amazing.” he says, inhaling deeply.

“It had better taste as good as it smells or I’ll riot.” you joke. 

The line is short and before you know it, Bucky is ordering two iced cinnamon buns plus an assortment of other pastries he picks at random out of the display case. 

“Are we feeding an army?” you question as the tray piles higher and higher with plates of baked goods.

“Sorry,” he blushes, handing over his card to the waiting cashier, “Um, my metabolism is pretty high and I have to keep up with it or I get cranky.” 

“Ah, okay. No hangry super soldiers on my watch.” 

Bucky chuckles and nods. 

There’s a sunny spot in the window of the bakery with an unoccupied cafe table, Bucky motions towards it and it’s your turn to nod, following him over to it. The tray takes up most of the table and you perch your coffees on your respective sides, eager to dig into the spread in front of you. You go for the cinnamon bun first, knowing one of them is yours and not wanting to presume you’ll be trying any of the other treats. 

The taste of caramelized sugar and cinnamon explode on your tongue, eliciting yet another moan that makes Bucky fidget in his seat. “Okay, that’s it. I can die happy now.” you announce dramatically. 

Bucky takes a swipe of the icing off the top of his cinnamon bun and his eyes widen slightly. “Oh wow.” he lifts the entire bun up to take a large bite and closes his eyes happily as he chews. “This is incredible.” he says once he’s swallowed, quickly taking another large bite. His cheeks puff out adorably and you grin around your own bite of cinnamon bun. 

“I can’t believe you just bite it like that.” you tease. 

“Well, what else am I supposed to do with it?” 

You demonstrate the way you’ve been peeling yours apart from the outside in, “You uncoil it, like a normal human being.” 

“Takes too long.” Bucky scoffs, “My way is faster.” 

“But then it’s gone. My way you can enjoy it more.” 

“Pfft. I enjoy it plenty, and I would have time for two of them while you eat just one.” 

“Not all of us have super soldier metabolisms, one bun is enough.” 

Bucky looks at the four other plates on the tray and shakes his head, “Then I guess it’s good to be me.” 

You laugh at his antics as he takes another big bite, smiling while his cheeks chipmunk out again. The look you’re giving him almost makes him swallow wrong. He knows this look, he remembers it from the dance hall girls in the 30s. Attraction. Desire. You’re flirting with him in your own, unique, modern way. And Bucky is shocked to realize he’s been flirting back. He didn’t intend to get back out there so soon but here he is, enjoying breakfast with a beautiful woman. He wonders if you’re the type who would appreciate being asked out on a date, or if you’d rather exchange numbers and call him up when the mood strikes. A booty call, Sam had called it. Bucky still doesn’t get how there’s such a big difference between a booty call and a butt dial but thankfully Sam had corrected him when he got the reference wrong. 

Bucky finishes his cinnamon bun and starts in on a vanilla bean scone, enjoying the way the light glaze crackles as it gives way to the soft, buttery dough. You’re still enjoying your bun, about half way through, so Bucky tears the other pointed corner of the scone off and deposits it on your plate. “It’s really good.” he insists, not wanting you to miss out.

You glance from the bite of scone up to Bucky who’s looking at you hesitantly like he’s waiting to see if he’s done something right or wrong. You pop the bite of scone into your mouth, chewing slowly before nodding, “Yeah it is. Thanks.” 

Bucky practically beams. Maybe he can figure out 21st century flirting. He’s not sure if flirting via baked goods is a thing or not, but it absolutely should be. Bucky methodically works through all of the plates on the tray, offering you bits of each different item. You snag two bites of the cream puff but decline when he offers to buy you your own. The conversation shifts to the best meals you’ve had in the city. Food is an easy common ground for you both. You explain to Bucky that the small town you grew up in was pretty limited restaurant-wise and you’ve tried a lot of different places since moving to the city. You’re great in the kitchen but some days, after spending hours alone working at home, you like to get out and around other people for a while. 

“There’s an Italian place, Sapori, near the tower you would love.” Bucky tells you, “I don’t know what the big deal about the place is but Stark always gets reservations when we’re celebrating something. They make everything from scratch and it’s damn good. There’s these little pillowy pasta things. Starts with a g but you don’t pronounce it. I don’t know, but they’re amazing.”

“Gnocchi,” you say, stifling a laugh. 

“Yeah! Those. Best meal I’ve had in the city by far.” 

“That’s only because you haven’t had the food at Xián Tián.” 

“Well, you should let me take you to Sapori and then you’ll understand.” 

“Did you just ask me out?” you raise your eyebrows at him in surprise.

Bucky blushes and nods, suddenly feeling more shy. “Yeah. I did. This is me hitting on you now.” he says, paroting your words from earlier. 

“Well done, Barnes. When are we going?” 

Read part two HERE!

[pettyelves]

genesis; reprisal

[ terminus I  terminus II ]

“The only thing left... is ascending to godhood.” 

Time was moving around her, backwards.

Her hand was wrapped around a long blade, Kurel’s back rested against her chest. It was a lover’s embrace, somewhere deep in the belly of the maze. Under earth. Under water. At the center of some universe. 

Simultaneously, she was terrified and the most whole she’d ever felt. Out of body, looking down upon her fleshy shell about to free Kurel from his. Show him. Mark him. The first plunge of the blade when deep on his left side and he caught a sharp breath in his chest. Some small piece of her wanted to wake up, but she was too long detached. Control was already surrendered. This is his penance. You will bring him back to us.  Visions of the Dreameater’s gate ran like electricity through her veins, she felt the sand under her feet, the warmth of the sun at her back, the darkness just beyond the thick doors You are my servants. My will is your own. Seven times she stabbed him, a hole in Kurel for each of the keys to unlock the gate. A reminder not to forget their task, not to defy again. When her work was done on Kurel, she aimed the dagger over her own heart.  Finish it. 

The final stab kicked her into deep water, she was awake and in her own body. Eilithe knew she’d stumbled into control, into her own body, because of the immense pain from the wound on the right side of her chest. She got all of ten seconds to stare around at Dead Sun’s faces, who all looked as shocked as she was. Her lips parted and she thought to ask ‘How? How did I get here?’

By then the water was already rushing out of the room. 

The Sleeper stood in the center of an empty chamber. On one side, Reveria looked to be eviscerated. On the other, Kurel sat against the wall with seven stab wound. Despite being face down and soaking wet on the ground, she could feel the warmth of his back against her chest. Like she’d only just been behind Kurel, a cushion between him and the wall.

The rest of them were littered throughout the chamber, hacking and coughing. In pain and alive. “Finish it,” Eilithe choked out, tasting water and blood. This time, when her body moved on its own it was in concert with whatever rang in her head. 

A piece of you must be left here. A price for power. Part of you must die again. 

The light in her right eye dimmed as Saakes prediction circled around. Another bit of the light inside her, given over to the feast. When another piece of her soul was taken, the offering accepted, she heard the tear in the already thinning veil. Starving souls, clawing back to the world of the living.  The Sleeper was sundered in a hail of Dead Sun's final attacks, ripped, shot, shredded, burned, and looping in infinite pain. His very being began to unravel--unfurling and undoing until  he was practically the size of a man reaching for the darkness above him. "...Father.. of sleep...Son.. of time...I ..have failed." He burst a final time. It rained ash. 

His end is only the beginning.

Searing pain tore through her right arm, her eyes opened and were dim on the night’s sky. The only thing that beat a sunset in Dead Sun, was the sky on a New Moon. Air wheezed from her lips. 

“Eilithe? Eilithe can you hear me?” The Doctor’s voice sounded like it was in water, her visage just as unclear. She was moving, carried. “Eilithe do you know where you are?” She asked before another chimed in. “She’s loosing a lot of blood..from a lot of places. At least four of them need surgery.” Odellise had her hands pressed into Eilithe’s chest, yet she was slowly loosing feeling. Her eyes flickered shut. “I need you to stay awake. Eyes on me. Eilithe. Eyes on me.” 

Gaps in memory were filled with flashes. The repeated stabbing of her husband, the chains. The water. Mairdrin. What had she done to Mairdrin. 

A spew of swallowed blood spat up from her chest and she breathed in. Her eyes lulled open and she tried to move but could only manage her head. The medical facility in Dead Sun hadn’t been this packed since the last war. Through the spaces between bodies of surgeons, she caught the blurred images of Reveria first.  “Clamp that. Clamp it...Fuck! Get a shadow priestess. Now. Go!” Odellise’s fingers were cold inside of Eilithe’s body. She inhaled and choked out when her head turned the other way. There lie Kurel, out cold and being treated. She knew he was alive merely because she still breathed within him. 

Another stretch of unconsciousness, another flash of what she had done. The inability to discern what had happened and what yet would. 

The next time she stirred, Eilithe was propped against a pillow with heaviness to her. On her right, Reveria --guarded by a sleeping An’Set. On her left, Kurel sleeping as close to peaceful as he got. With only her eyes, she looked around to account for every single one of them. Against the odds, they had lived.

If not for the overwhelming sense they had traded one evil for another, Eilithe might have let herself feel just a little bit lighter. 

@deadsunharbor @revthepunchbear @kurel-andiel @xavier-sunshadow @velerodra-valesinger @liora-tarinval​ @peterwayland​

[daemoninfluff]

(really bad) Her Sweet Kiss analysis

So, I really wanted to analyze Her Sweet Kiss but since the last time I needed to analyze anything is like five (5) years ago I ask you to bear my bad takes. I also have to say I read the song text and listened to it so often I sometimes forgot it’s from The Witcher and I just hope y’all can put yourself in that position cause for this bad analysis here y’all need to.

“The fairer sex, they often call it

but her love’s as unfair as a crook”

At the beginning I thought this first sentence would be the most easiest one of the whole text, but I assure you, I was wrong. “The fairer sex” clearly refers to woman in general and “they” are the people at large. “[H]er love’s as unfair” - at this point I wanna point out I love the fair-unfair relation used here – with this the author or also the protagonist wants to show us how, different to how women are normally shown as, this woman’s love is, how this specific’s woman’s feelings aren’t in good intentions. “[U]nfair as a crook”, a rouge one, a thief – that information is more one for me, since I haven’t heard the word “crook” before all this, okay? It seems to hind on this woman’s love being something she took from someone else, as if it wasn’t her own.

“It steals all my reason

Commits any treason

of logic, with naught but a look”

Here the protagonist firstly appears, possibly the self-inserted author in our case. “It” probably refers to “her love”, so the love is it that takes away all their “reason”. It betrays their “logic”, their thinking and decision making, with simply a gaze. In this moment we can only assume the protagonist is in love with the woman but she plays with their feelings, maybe comes near just to move away when the protagonist is finally sure she would stay.

“A storm is breaking on the horizon

of longing and heartbreak and lust”

“A storm” clearly refers to feelings, in this case “longing”, “heartbreak and lust”. Not too complicated to understand, right? Here we can still assume the protagonist is talking about their feelings for the woman and how their feelings for her will never be acknowledged in the way they want to. “[L]onging and heartbreak” in this case shows us how the feelings the protagonist has aren’t just in a sexual sense, how they want more out of this, but “lust” shows they also feel a want for something sensual, sexual. Since it is “breaking on the horizon” we can assume it just started, maybe isn’t even there yet. So maybe the feelings are already there and the protagonist only realizes them now, or they are new.

“She’s always bad news

it’s always lose lose”

This shows more how the protagonist feels about the woman. She is “bad news” and everything that’s connected to her seems to end poorly for the protagonist. There is no good outcome when it relates to her, in no possible context, “always lose lose”. Here we can assume the protagonist’s feelings for the woman aren’t really that lovely, aren’t as we assume in the parts that came before this.

“So tell me love, tell me love

how is that just”

Here we realize the woman isn’t the love interest, or is the protagonist speaking to love itself? I rather don’t think so. The protagonist speaks to someone they call “love”, asking them how it is “just”, fair, for the woman to act like that, to love in an “unfair” way. We may get in more depths with this here in a later part.

“But the story is this

She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss”

Let’s come to the refrain (we will only discuss this once since it isn’t changing). The woman’s kiss is “sweet”, but she “destroy[s]” with it. As we by now know the protagonist probably isn’t the one getting kissed, so we can assume it is the love who is. Since these kisses do “destroy” - we can’t be sure about what exactly – we at least know they aren’t wanted from at least one of these three persons, are maybe even feared or at least rejected. “[T]he story” is, that through whoever she is kissing she is destroying something else with it, possibly a relationship, probably the one between the protagonist and whom they call “love”.

“Her current is pulling you closer

and charging the hot, humid night”

Sure, you could assume the “you” is referring to anyone in general but I like to think it is about the protagonist’s love (maybe here my The Witcher wants come through lol). So, the woman’s power, maybe meaning her beauty, her confidence, the wanting she streams out is meant by that, is taking the love in. “[C]harging the hot, humid night”,,, I don’t think I needa say any more about that part? The love is pulled in by the woman’s ,,, how do you say that in english, someone needa help me out here, I would call it the feeling of the moment of Geralt leaving the swamp in ep. 1. Yea.

“The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool

better stay out of sight”

This part really depends. In my opinion, if you read this together it seems as if the protagonist is talking to himself, the moment someone calls themself a fool for what they’re feeling even though they know – or should know – it isn’t worth it. But if it were two parts I would say the first one is told to the love and the second is what the protagonist is recommending for themself, to “better stay out of sight”, to not come between the woman and the love. The “red sky” could refer to love, but at least for sexual feelings, or maybe also hate, depending on who the message is meant for. Either it means the love is getting attached to the woman, or maybe that the protagonist’s feelings for the love are making things problematic for them.

“I’m weak my love and I am wanting

If this is the path I must trudge

I welcome my sentence

give to you my penance

Garroter, jury and judge”

Here I thing it’s the moment to clearly understand the woman isn’t the protagonist’s love interest and love is a person in itself. The protagonist is “weak” and “wanting” for their love, but they seem to know that it can never be. They say if their love can never be they will live with it, will “welcome [their] sentence”, let their fine be determined by their love. “Garroter, jury and judge” shows how their love is all three, what kills him, what judges over his sentence and what is choosing his punishment.

As we now found out the song’s story is about someone who is in love, but who’s love is together – or at least likes someone – who’s love doesn’t seem to be good for them – or maybe also bad for both of them.

Now we come to the context of the song to the series. At first I thought there might be two possible takes, it either being about Jask’s feelings towards Geralt and Yenn or the elf’s feelings towards them. Meanwhile I realized the second doesn’t make any sense, since Jask has no feelings for the elf and if it was about the elf’s feelings it wouldn’t refer to Yenn as the one with “unfair” love. Unless we wouldn’t take love as a person, in that case it could work, but as much as we know Jask doesn’t even know the elf loves/loved Yenn.

(Gods, I hate writing analysis, why do I do this again? Also it’s nearly 5 am and I need to work later lol.)

In conclusion, there is no other explanation but the text being about Jaskier’s love to Geralt, unless Jas has fallen in love with someone else on their way and that person fell for someone else – and let’s be serious, the only person Jask has deep contact with, as much as we know, is Geralt. Everyone else he meets, maybe sleeps with, and let’s go afterwards.

I would write more but I realized it would be intelligent of me to go to bed now, before Mica is k*lling me.