#it is like an itch you cannot really get rid off. it's always there

[jackredfieldwasmyjacob]

i was just now thinking how effectively this kinda is a blog now about spanish / iberian stuff, but i will never brand it as such as i've seen other blogs i follow do with their countries / cultures / regions cause due to the context here, there is no way i can do it without thinking of myself a fascist lol.

[qierxing]

Hear me out, Yandere twst isekai au, during the masquerade event. Imagine the drama with RSA and Rollo when you add the whole yandere aspect- just a random thought I had while rereading it tho

oooh that's fun, although I will say I don't really read in depth with future event spoilers, but I do have a general gist of how the event went down from hearsay. that said most of this may not be accurate bc I haven't played the story lmao (speaking of RSA, I have a WIP in the works with yandere heartslabyul & chenya in the isekai au >:3c) tw/cw: twst spoilers from jpn server, immolation/arson, graphic descriptions

As much as you wanted to see the City of Flowers, you did not want to see the student council president of Noble Bell College.

For many reasons, of course. There is the fact that being magic less and also quite literally from another world has its implications, and you don't want to subject yourself to Rollo's piercing gaze when he learns of this. And...even if he was beloved by others, you cannot say the same. His backstory is tragic of course, but there's something in his eyes that make you squirm. As if you were a sinful criminal before a judge, awaiting your verdict.

It is for these reasons that you linger in the back of the group, hoping desperately his cold sharp jaded eyes will pass over you in introductions. You don't even gaze at him directly, opting to instead focus on the mobs behind him. And yet, for all your efforts, his gaze still focuses on your face when he speaks of formalities and activities the following days will have.

So you decide to stay out of his way as much as possible. Screw what Crowley told you, you were not going to be a part of another mess that was about to go down. Instead of showing up to the group sessions that was meant to promote friendly relations between NRC and NBA, you indulge Grim's bad habits and ditch to hang around the quaint city. The cafes around here are relaxing to be in, and it's too easy to lose yourself in the calm atmosphere of sipping coffee and nibbling on madelines. You're ordering a plate of macarons when someone sits at the table you and Grim have situated yourselves in.

Your heart drops when you stare at an irritated Rollo Flamme crossing his arms across from you.

"Care to explain why you haven't showed up to to our activities, Prefect?"

The others give you confused looks when you're dragged in by Rollo's firm hand on your wrist. No matter how much you tug, it doesn't budge and he has the nerve to sit you in your chair like a child. And instead of trying to keep a modicum of discretion, he sits in the very chair right next to you, separating you from Grim. It's very obvious that he looks distastefully down on your furry companion, although if it's because he's a mage or because he's right by your side at all times, is something you've yet to discern.

It escalates, somehow. Somehow. He's always one step away no matter what you try to do to shake him off, always claiming that you must remain under supervision to make sure you weren't off causing trouble--as if Grim wasn't always left to his own devices as soon as Rollo put a hand to your back and ushers you to the hallways.

The holy fire that sweeps the place is unbearably hot. Not only that, you're separated from the others, pressed against the raging pyromaniac. Some have said being burned alive is somewhat similar to being frozen to death. With the heat, numbness takes over first; then an itching that urges the body to tear at the skin, to get rid of the terrible sensation. You would say that it was worse than that. Burnt flesh has a very particular smell, after all. These flames, which Rollo claims to be the height of purification, was like a rash that no ointment could sooth, forever branded into the very cells of your body.

Before you could take your nails and claw them down your throat in desperation, the heat is gone, replacing your skin with a low, raw ache. When you open your eyes again, it's not fire that greets you but Chenya and Neige's worried faces. "What...the hell...took you so long..." is the last thing you can get out before you straight up faint into Chenya's arms.

When you wake up again, it's pandemonium. You can barely understand who is saying what and what is going on. RSA came to the rescue of NRC? Yes yes, you already knew this, can someone explain why you weren't in a hospital bed, but instead in a shiny canopy bed that looks too expensive to be lying in?!

"My, my, they awake! Callooh, callay!" You scream at Chenya's head suddenly popping into existence directly above you. He snickers as you try to swipe at his head as it bobs just out of your reach.

"You--! Don't do that!" His eyes twinkle with mischief as the rest of his body materializes, still hovering parallel to yours on the bed.

"I think you guys should let the young'un rest, instead of burbling all this info to them, y'know?" The cheshire cat grins widely at the disgruntled NRC students. They reluctantly acknowledge his statement, leaving you to an empty room.

Well, a mostly empty room.

Chenya's face turns serious as he floats closer to you. "You should know, prefect, that the priest lad is also here."

At your confused look, he shrugs, body starting to de-materialize. "He wouldn't leave, no matter what Riddle and his crew would threaten. It's up to you on what you wanna do."

His chuckles echo in the air as his head disappears.

"If you decide to see him, that is."

[sunnywalnut]

For my tboys(and anyone else) that want to try transtape but are in way over your heads:

-get waterproof muscle tape instead. It's basically the same thing but cheaper. And you can get it in bulk on the Big Daddy Bezos Website

-depending on the size of your chest, you'll need enough to cover it and then add an extra two inches or so. The extra length is so that you don't have too much tension

-round out the corners of your tape with scissors. It's okay if it isn't perfect. All you really need is to make sure there isn't any sharp edges that are going to lift when you shower/move

-rid your skin of all oils before applying tape. You can do soap and water and wait for it to dry completely, or just wipe yourself down with rubbing alcohol. I usually do rubbing alcohol. It's faster.

-if you stretch the tape too far, it can and will rip your skin. This usually starts as your skin feeling tight or itchy. This is because your skin is stretching too far. Take the tape off. Try again. Less tension this time.

-you want around 25% of the tape to not be stretched at all. This is your anchor point. Usually somewhere underneath your armpit.

-for the love of the universe, PLEASE cover your nipples. A thin piece of gauze, bandaids, whatever. Just cover them. They're sensitive as fuck and if you get tape on them, you could possibly rip them off, rip out the hair surrounding them, or just have a really uncomfortable time. Trust me. It's not fun. Keep those bad boys safe.

-transtape/muscle tape is generally hypoallergenic, however make sure you look into it anyways. If they don't tell you what's in it, run the other way. Chemical rash is no fucking joke and makes it IMPOSSIBLE to wear your binder afterwards.

-while you can apply tape standing up(and most do) you can also apply it laying down on your back. Some people say this is for people with larger chests bc gravity or whatever, but honestly. I say anyone should do it. Less unneeded tension added, and also you don't have to angle yourself all weird just to work against gravity. Plus this is a win for those of us with back pain. Easier, faster, and much more comfortable. Wins all around.

-you can get muscle tape that is up to 4 inches wide. However. I find the regular 2 inches is fine for me. Just make sure you don't overlap the tape too much. More chance of peeling that way.

-IF YOU SHOWER WITH YOUR TAPE ON, MAKE SURE IT'S JUST WARM. I CANNOT stress this enough. Just because it's WATER proof does not mean it is HEAT proof. And also rubbing on top of the tape is not good. Instead, wash the skin around the tape and try not to rub at the edges. You can always clean the skin underneath after you take the tape off.

-try not to wear tape for longer than 2-3 days and shower/clean thoroughly afterwards. Bacteria still grows underneath, even though it is covered. Pat dry. Your skin may be sensitive from being under glue. That's normal.

-THINGS TO LOOK OUT FOR: extremely itchy skin on application site. Redness. Swelling. Tiny "pinpricks" of red(this is your skin beginning to tear). Open sores. Skin breaking open when scratched lightly(again. Tearing). While these all may LOOK like symptoms of an allergic reaction, don't freak out!! You likely just have your tape on too tight. Take it off and give your body time to heal. DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT put body tape over open wounds. It is VERY POSSIBLE that it can cause tearing, infections, and other not very good side effects. And please. If your skin itches or starts to tear, remove the tape. I still have scars from when I ignored mine, thinking it was just normal. And that was on my hands.

Sources:

And personal trial and error^^

Be safe!!

[leftycanwrite]

Death or rebirth

I've been meaning to write something about how it feels to turn 40. In French they call it "la crise de la quarantaine", the 40s crisis. Some people say it's when you reach maturity nirvana and don't give a shit what other people say anymore. For others it's a time when all the things you haven't done yet and meant to do feel too large a mountain to climb now.

Then when you feel all of those things at once, life feels insurmountable.

So what does 40 feel like?

40 feels like 30, like 20, like 10, but with more hindsight and more worry. It feels like the wind in your sails and getting the wind knocked out of your sails simultaneously. It feels old yet young, tired yet strong, disheveled but put together. 40 is a hot mess of beauty and adulting. And much of it self-inflicted.

And in between all the living moments you want to find yourself. Where did that girl go, who was she anyway, before kids, before a husband, before financial needs tied me down.

I dream of myself before. She was not perfect, oh no, she was far from it. She lied, cheated, stole a bit. She didn't kill anyone but she hurt a lot of people. On the surface, she was sweet, naive, but she learned quickly, my former self. about what the world was truly like. She conformed but she also broke rules, hearts, friendships, burned bridges and ruined many, many men.

Why do I dream of her?

She had the world ahead of her. To be reborn, which she tried to do many times, she had to kill her present self. Kill off parts of that present self that didn't help her to get where she wanted to be.

The first thing she killed was that stupid innocence. This was what got her into the most trouble. It wasn't her fault, being so trusting, but innocence left her weak, exposed to having to conform to someone else because she didn't know things for herself.

The rape did that. Once innocence was gone, however, there was a void.

Drugs, alcohol and men filled that void for a while but they were not long-term solutions. She knew this. It would require a really big change, an escape to another place....

I always liked France. I studied French, went on many exchanges all over the country, studied French cuisine, was a true francophile. I knew that if I were to overcome the unfeeling, self-abusing beast I was becoming that I would have to run far from the things that triggered her. A new language, a place where I knew no one, had nothing. This would be the way to do it.

But with this move came other things. It's like the old north wind, pushing Anouk and her mother around in "Chocolat". Sometimes you just cannot be tamed.

The old north wind has again brought that itch, right up to age 40. It tickles my mind, ruffles my feathers, makes me yearn to pick up and go again.

The one thing that trails along behind me, when I kill off part of myself and move forward, to try to be reborn, is that I can never get rid of all the memories. They remain like a stain on my life, that only my brain can go over and over again. I cannot share them with my husband, what would he do with all those stories? Am I ashamed of them or have I just lived my life?

I wonder do I really need to kill off parts of me to live? What am I running from? What am I not facing?

[aphrodite-would-be-proud]

Rivals with Cadet Erwin pt.2

{pt.1 | pt.2 | pt.3 | pt.4 | pt.5 }

"You can cut all the flowers, but you cannot keep the spring from coming" - Pablo Neruda

{ Erwin x reader (denial phase) | tw: blackmail, tw: aot spoilers tw: aot gore mentioned| fluff, romantic comedy, enemies to lovers | canonverse}

{"Frühling" by Elisabeth von Eicken, German 1862-1940}

The soft fluttering of a butterfly, its wings reflecting a deep blue that rivals the blooming colours of each of the flowers it's visiting.  

Rich yellow pollen sticks onto its fluffy body, travelling alongside it for whichever lucky flower the butterfly lands on next. 

The gentle creature lands on the closest patch of fur it finds, looking for pollen for what it thinks is a slightly different flower, only to be whisked away by a particularly offended puff of air.

Your horse shakes its head to get rid of the ticklish ghost touches of the bug from its nose, its slow trotes coming onto a pause. The mossy gravel beneath it digs deeper into the dirt as it takes on its weight.

You know better by now than to rush it, so you let your ever so particular companion have its moment.

Taking a deep breath of fresh air, you slowly exhale as your eyes wander over the forests in the horizon, tall greeny almost brushing the skies, their branches and spines so tangled you can't tell the end from the start.

In the past years you've gotten to know almost each one of those trees on a personal level, equal part from slamming into them in your first weeks and from the latch marks your air vertical manoeuvring gear has left on them.

Your saddle moves from under you as your horse announces it's ready to move again, the slight bounce of its tail indicating its relief at getting rid of that annoying itch.

Despite its grumpy attitude for being woken up so early at sunrise, you can tell it's also enjoying the glistening of fresh dew drops scattered across the fields of grass.

For today, peace prevails between the two of you. Just like how the ladybugs climbing the grass blades to have a sip, still make space for the ants trailing behind them.

Unlike your rushed trip to the nearby town market this morning, you don't mind taking it slow on the way back.

Especially since you've already secured two jars of the apricot jam that was on sale today, early bird gets the worm and all.

Plus even if you were late, none actually bothers to lecture the graduating class on their schedule as long as they're not missing the tests.

Still despite that you made sure to always be on time, keeping your spot at the top rank for so long wasn't as effortless as you made it look to your friends.

Although it has been significantly easier in the past months, since an annoying pain in your ass stopped being a threat to your perfect scores. you could still find his name on the top 10, it never really came threateningly close to yours.

The familiar red barn comes into view, the chirping of chicks following their hen mother as they cross the dirt path, the ball of black fur that's stretching under the shade of the orange tree, gleefully ignoring its duties to catch the barn mice as it licks its paws clean instead.

You don't make the mistake of tugging on your horse's leash anymore, it knows the way to its stall and it gracefully walks itself there.

Well…only after it gives you a scare by pretending to trip, so you'd take the hint and get off its back already.

You oblige, because who are you to defy a spoiled royalty? Hoping down on your own two feet, you stretch your arms above your head.

A big yawn escaping your mouth, the sleepiness of having to do your morning workout before sunrise so you could make it to town on time, is catching up to you.

You feel relaxed, the sun is warm against your skin and- You get a mouthful of horse mane. The bouncing tail smacks you square in the face just as its unaware owner moves into its stall.

Spitting it out, you tell the animal off as you stomp your way back to the cadet sleep chambers, wiping your mouth with your sleeves and cursing the fact you ever thought you'd get a peaceful day with that demon of an animal. 

You've had worse things in your mouth courtesy of the cafeteria here, you're not going to let a mammal that still walks on 4 legs ruin your day.

But you swear an oath to whatever god there is above, that if you're ever in a situation where the horse is on fire and you had a jug of water, you'd drink it instead.

-

Opening the wooden door to your shared bedroom, you feel grateful over the fact your roommates are nowhere in sight, breakfast is usually served around this time.

Walking to your own bed, you find a still warm bun of bread on top of your thin sheets, covered in a small white cloth to prevent it from drying out.

The corners of your lips turn upwards at your ever thought roommates, making a mental note to repay them with a favour later for saving you a piece.

The mattress squeaks as you land on it, Letting your leather bag fall from your shoulder as you take out one of the two jars.

You could feel salvia collecting at the back of your mouth as you unscrew the lid, the smell of freshly made jam almost making you whine. You've been saving up for a long long time just to be able to afford a single one.

Who could've known they'd have a sale on the exact day you planned to get them, a two for one special.

The kind lady that sold them to you talked about how it was in honour of an old tradition, where newly engaged couples get to share their love and blessings.

A soon to be wed couples exclusive sale.

Of course, you were quick to tell her all about your beloved fiance and how much your soon to be mother in law always adored apricots.

She seemed moved enough by your speech that she decorated each of the jars with a delicate red ribbon, winking at you to have a good time after you present them to your beloved, but not get too risky since the lord is always watching.

And now, as you tug a piece of the soft bread off to dip it into the delicious thickly sweet jam. All of the voices debating the morality of lying to an old kind lady, instantly vanish.

In your defence none ever makes a sale for broke sleep deprived soldiers, so you gotta do what you gotta do to survive.

And yes apricot jam is a very important requirement to survive.

Bringing the jam soaked piece of deliciousness close to your mouth, you part your lips as you get ready to reap the rewards of years of hard work.

It melts against your tongue, tastes so sweet it almost makes you shed tears at the contrast of it and the boiled potatoes you eat everyday. Is this what heaven feels like? 

Imagining having the luxury to eat this every day, to indulge in all the different tastes of jam, maybe it's not too late to drop out and go find a gullible aristocrat to marry?

Too busy in your bliss of sparking flavours melting in your mouth, you fail to hear the soft creek of the wooden door being pushed aside.

As a looming tall figure walks close, his blonde bangs almost covering his eyes weren't it for them being pushed behind his ears.

Swallowing down your bite from heaven, you open your eyes that you unawarely closed.

But instead of the empty bed of your roommate in front of you, you're met with the long legs of a person.

A very very familiar pair of legs.

Miche's eyes don't even glance in your direction as they land directly onto the open jar of jam in your lap.

"Zacharias." You say, "just what made you think sneaking into someone's bedroom in the military, as they are unaware, wouldn't end in you getting thrown out a window?"

No reply, only his looming height adding to the intimidation of his unreadable expression. 

"Miche!" You try again, louder this time, attempting to get his attention.

"Oh." Finally an answer, he glances at your face for a second before squatting down so you're on the same height, with you sitting on a bed. "Sorry."

No amount of death stares would work on him, as he goes back to staring at the jam jar.

You let out a sigh, loosening your protective grip around the jar as you lean it towards his direction. 

"Do you…want some?" You offer, and nothing could've prepared you for the stars bursting show glistening in his eyes at your mere suggestion.

He nods, you share your bread.

As both of you munch on the special delicacy, not having to utter a word as you share the utter euphoria by your expressions alone.

You're also reminded of how nice it is to have a meal with a friend again.

"I've been trying to get my hands on one since last month" he breaks the trance of silence first, "but each time I arrive they'd be sold out."

You smile, having been at his exact position too till you got desperate enough to bribe the store's kids into telling you when their next patch is ready in advance.

"I guess I'm just lucky they restocked them today." Having seated your apeiti enough for now, you offer the last piece of bread to Miche.

He almost happily accepts it but stops from taking it midway as he asks if you're sure.

You nod, and he pops the piece in his mouth. 

"It's relieving, you haven't changed much since i first met you." He plops down on the bed beside you, well at least his upper half while his legs dangle off the edge.

"What made you think I've even changed?" You raise an eyebrow as you slightly push him aside to make space for you to get comfortable, knowing his tendencies to hog whatever space he's in whilst unaware.

"You know, because of all of…" raising his arm, he vaguely gestures towards you in a circle with his hand, " this."

"What?" You try to connect the dots.

"You know, the whole ranking thing, you've been really" he pauses, searching for the right word to say, " passionate about it lately, maybe just a bit obsessively so."

"Oh." You don't try to deny it, you have been neglecting your friends and social life in general.

And if the always straight forward to the point Miche was sugar coating it, you can't imagine what your closer friends are feeling about it. 

"I've been an ass haven't i?" You plop down next to him.

"Yeah, you have." Okay wow, he didn't even hesitate.

But you're not the type to give up easily, you wouldn't have gotten this far otherwise.

So you sit back up, straighter this time with a determined look on your eyes.

"I'll make it up to them, and you too. I'll make it up to all of you." You state, your brain is already scrambling a list of all of your friends' names.

Looking straight at your serious experience, he lets out a snort followed by a short laugh. "Yeah, we know you will." He gets up from the bed, giving you a pat on the head.

As he makes his way to the door, he says "There's gonna be a small celebration at the town tavern tonight. The instructor will turn a blind eye since he's busy with the fresh meat recruits coming to sign up this year."

 "Sounds good, Nile's gonna be there?" Your brain has the courtesy to open the flood of all the funny and equally embarrassing memories of the Nile Dok drinking antics.

"Oh yeah, you know how we all just l o v e hearing his genius drunk declarations" Miche drags each syllable of the word love with his tongue as he says it, "and he wouldn't miss an excuse to see his fiance."

That reminds you, you still haven't congratulated him and Marie on their engagement, man you really have a lot to catch up on.

With that, Miche makes his exit, as you sink back down on the 'military budget acceptably soft enough' bed.

As you doze off, your brain starts to bargain that maybe you should enjoy your last year in the training corps and let loose a little.

-

You hear the bustling of the tavern as you make your way under the street's dim lights, its lit windows contrasting against the closed shops and empty stalls nearby.

The sound of something breaking followed by the muffled laughter of several people inside, the distinct smell of alcohol, the clinking of metal cups and occasional cheers echoing.

Taking a deep breath, you step through the door as the muffled voices become crystal clear. Your eyes scan the tables for familiar faces till you make eye contact with one of your friends. they're sitting with a large group alongside your other classmates, raising their cup towards you, soon enough the whole table turns to look at you.

More than 15 pairs of eyes staring right at you, before they erupt in cheers with huge smiles.

Soon enough you're guided to your saved seat on the table, your friends expressing how they missed you, how they're glad you finally joined them.

Some faked sadness at the fact they lost the bet with Miche that you wouldn't actually show up today only to be nudged in the side by their friend.

Soon enough you're relieved to find that your friends still made a space for you after all this time, that they did wait. Although a bunch of them did express their want for you to make it up to them with mischievous expressions.

And as things quiet back down to when you arrived while people go back to their conversations and the drinks are refilled, you spot him sitting at the far end of the table, a sombre expression on his face as he nursed his drink.

Cold and slightly concerning expressions were a usual thing on Erwin's face, but a sad one? That's definitely new.

So new that you almost didn't recognize him, his usually straight back having a slight hunch to it as he leaned into his cup, his hand resting against his cheeks making his lips have the slightest part to them.

Or the way his usually focused eyes seemed sleepy and half lidded, it really made you notice how pretty his eyelashes were, the slight blush on his cheekbones and the one open button at the top of his shirt that he must have forgot-

He meets your eyes, and the vulnerable look in them instantly disappears as he looks away. 

You're snapped back to reality.

What in the actual fuck were you just thinking right now? You haven't even had a single drink yet so you can't blame it on alcohol.

The thought of you checking out Erwin pain in the ass Smith almost makes you gag as you remember him crystal clear in your brain.

You take a glance back, there's no way that's the same person, he looks so much… less annoying and obnoxious.

Maybe some air would help, you tell your friends you'll get them a refill yourself as you get up and take their cups with you.

Not to mention with how busy the tavern is tonight, you do feel bad for the understaffed waitresses here. Might as well do a good deed to balance out the whole lying to elderly thing…and bribing kids.

Two in one special yeah.

Just as you begin to walk, the sound of a chair being pushed back and heavy footsteps come from behind you.

"I'll carry half of them" Erwin states, wording it more like a command than an actual gentlemanly offer, you know like how a normal person would word it.

"Uh" you squint your eyes at him, "I'm good."

But you don't get another step before he cuts in again.

"No." He's closer now, "I insist."

He wouldn't murder you in a public place would he? No… too many witnesses and he's too smart for that. Unless the years that have gone by took a troll on his brain but you're not about to find out.

"Suit yourself" you hand over half as you make more space between the two of you, walking towards the bartender station while aware of the looming figure and heavy footsteps right behind you.

You put the cups on the counter as the bartender takes them and soon Erwin does the same.

And then like it's the most normal thing in the world, he takes a seat and looks at you with the expectation to do the same.

What's not normal about taking a seat while waiting for a refill? Well nothing. But you see when Erwin ' always has two refills of hair gel ready wherever he stays , Smith does it, then it is weird.

"Please" his surprisingly soft tone cuts off your train of thoughts, "take a seat, it won't take long. I promise."

If you were anyone else, you would've eaten it right up, especially with his melted honey voice that just sends shivers right down your body till it reaches your-

Hey! Snap out of it, you're not falling for it. You know how to read his expression better than anyone and you know behind those soft lided eyes is the murderous expression of a predetor just waiting for its prey.

…But he did sound sincere, and if this happened to be one of his new mental manipulation strategies then what better way to evade it next time than to closely observe it now?

Yes, just observe it for… future defence reasons totally.

And so you take a seat right next to him, 

"You were right," he says, "she doesn't like people who are late."

You stare at him in a confused, annoyed expression.

He clears his throat, looking away. "Marie," he whispers loud enough for you to hear, " what you told me that day, at the board."

And it all adds up now, you knew he'd probably be a little bit sad but you never thought it would be this much. You thought he'd just be too prideful to admit even missing her after the engagement news.

But the man in front of you looks anything but prideful.

"Did she…break it off" The questions slips out of you before you could rethink it.

He doesn't seem phased, as if he was expecting it.

"No, I did."

"Why?"

"Didn't you hear? Or didn't Miche tell you?" 

You shake your head.

"I'm joining the survey corps."

And suddenly a huge lump forms in the back of your throat, fleeting memories of the remains of dismembered corpses being the only survivors besides the cavalry at the end of each expedition.

You saw them in your town, you saw them when your neighbours were given a single hand as the remains of their only daughter who joined a day before.

Either you hid the look of horror on your face well, or Erwin decided not to react to it.

"Are you out of y-"

He interrupts you before you could finish, "out of my mind? Oh yeah absolutely, heard it all. It's a deathwish, I've gone crazy, I should think of my parents or I'm being selfish." He recites all the replies he's gotten so far without a twitch

You press your lips closed, looking at him with now a fully irritated expression. "Why are you telling me this?"

And he has the audacity to actually act confused as if it's just normal to tell acquaintances about your death mission.

"Why? Isn't it obvious," and just in perfect timing, the bartender finished refilling all the drinks as she passed it back to the both of you. Erwin takes two of the cups, sliding one in front of you and taking the other for himself.

"So you'd celebrate today." He finishes his sentence as he takes a long sip.

"Why would I celebrate something like this?" You slam your cup on the wood, hard enough for some of the alcohol to spill and soak your hand.

"If i recall correctly, weren't you the one who said 'I couldn't care less if you'd get stomped to death by a titan i would just point and laugh because that's so embarrassing' ?" He takes another sip,

"You mean when you snitched to the instructor about me using the training equipment after hours after I told you to get lost when you wanted to join in?" You stare back.

"Yeah, it was a reasonable reaction in retrospect." And he has already finished his drink, yet reaches for another.

"I still stand by my words," you say "I just didn't think you'd be so eager to go find that titan personally."

"Actually I've been…no nevermind." He doesn't meet your eyes as he looks towards the other people, drinking and laughing together.

Whatever, if he thinks you're going to beg him to finish he'd have a better chance convincing you that titans are actually humana, HA as if.

So you both let the awkward heavy sileness fill the air.

As you stare at him in boredom, you do notice the fact he's…in a much better state than when you first saw him today.

And just like clockwork work, you start hearing the ever so familiar booming voice of Nile dok as he begins one of his drunken lectures while your friends egg him on.

Both of you and Erwin look at them from when you're sitting, you see Marie chuckling and going to get him water.

"So you're just going to give up?" You state bluntly.

"That's the thing you never understand, you need to pick and choose your battles, you can't just fight every war in the world."

"Excuse me? I perfectly understand that."

"Hmm" he looks you up and down, "if you did, you wouldn't be in this situation right now where you owe at least 20 favours for ignoring your friends."

Ouch.

"That reminds me." He continues on, " I would like to cash in my favour right now." 

You almost choke. 

"Friends Eriwn, I owe it to my friends. Not you."

"Oh, I am perfectly sure we're great friends, after all…" he gets closer, "why would someone who's not my friend get to borrow my horse all the time without permission?"

…

"What?"

"That one you've been using for years that everyone saw you on? The one you used this morning and didn't even bother to lock the gate behind." He explains. " If it was any other horse, it would've escaped the second you turned your back."

No way, no he's just messing with you there's no way that he-

"What? You thought the stable's owner was just generous enough to give you and only you a fully trained horse?" He gets closer.

"first of all" you cut him off, "that demon is anything but trained, its barely understands simple gestures and whistles."

"this might come as a surprise for you..." He says with a serious tone, "but it's a horse, not a cow. You can't just tug it with a leash wherever you want to take it. Have you ever tried using actual voice commands?"

"of course i ha-" you stop midway through, recall each single encounter with that demon from hell. Not once did you try to tell it to stop.

Going back to the original topic, Erwin continues

"Theft is heavily punished in the military you know" he takes out a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping away the alcohol that spilled on your hand previously, "you might just lose an important limb or two."

"really? You think they'd take your words over mine? Not to mention how weak your argument is since-" before you could go off, he shushes you.

"Pick and choose your battles, soldier. What would people say about the top ranked student being a thief?"

To imagine you ever felt sorry for his stupid ass, god you never wanted to choke someone more than now.

Yet still, you begrudgingly shut your mouth, cursing Miche out for even inviting you out on this death sentence excuse of a party.

"You learn quick, that's good." He gets up, " oh and bring those cups too, you said you could handle them by yourself right? My dear friend.."

[don-quixotine]

Ladynoir July Day 15 - Forbidden

This is a gift for my beloved @sparklylovegiver because today is their birthday and I love them very much, and mom I am so sorry sketchy and I are always tormenting you with angst so here is my gift to you: I try to NOT be as angsty as usual, and offer you some warm humanitarian relief <3

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SPARK!! 💞💞💞

--

Day 15 - Forbidden

For Sparky

“Chat, are you sure everything’s alright?” Ladybug said, interrupting the silence as she and Chat Noir patrolled the streets of Paris a few days after Nino’s last akumatization. “You’ve been very quiet lately.”

Chat frowned. “I’m okay, LB,” he reassured and offered her a smile, but Ladybug saw right through it.

She stopped and placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look squarely at her. “Chat...”

“I just... I was just wondering...” He sighed. “It’s nothing. Really, don’t worry about it. You... you’ll get mad I asked.”

Ladybug searched his eyes with concern in her expression. “Chat Noir, I promise I won’t get mad. You can talk to me. What’s wrong, minou?”

He looked down, unable to deliver his question while being pinned by her piercing stare. “I was just wondering... why can’t we know each other’s identities? I mean... you are the Guardian, aren’t you? You-you're the one that makes the rules, and I was just thinking... I mean, it’s because... Well, I just... Never mind.”

“Tell me,” Ladybug encouraged.

Chat Noir shook his head. “I can’t. If I tell you more I might give myself away.”

Ladybug was warmed by the fact that despite Chat had always longed to reveal his identity and even was asking about it, he still respected her decision.

Ladybug sighed and took a step forward to him. She grabbed both his hands as she spoke. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he said immediately; a distinct discomfort settled in his stomach. That of not being able to tell whether he was telling the truth, or acting out what was expected of him.

“It’s to protect you.”

“Protect me?” he asked, puzzled. “Protect me from what?”

“From being akumatized.”

Chat frowned, itching to explain exactly where the question came from because Ladybug’s explanation made no sense. But he knew if he were to speak, he would probably unravel a gossip mill that would wound up with his identity being discovered and him losing Nino’s trust. Against his own will, he bit his tongue.

“But how--”

“Trust me, chaton.”

He let go of an exasperated breath. “Can I ask you something else, though?”

“Of course.”

“And you promise to be honest?”

“As honest as I can be.”

“Are--are there any wielders that know each other? I mean, under the mask.”

“Why do you--”

“I just... was curious. I kept thinking about Rena Rouge and Carapace. They... they seem like they know each other. I mean, I can’t possibly explain why they act like a couple when they’re not even permanent wielders like us.”

Ladybug bit her lip, feeling her stomach plunge with nervousness. She promised to be honest. And really, what could possibly happen if she told him the truth? Chat was being curious, nothing more. Right?

“Yes,” she admitted. “They know each other behind the mask.”

Chat knew what the answer was going to be and yet he found himself feeling the same searing anger that briefly overtook him when he learned the truth from Nino. He took a deep breath and reeled in.

Ladybug could see the disappointment in his reaction. She waited for him to say something, but only silence met her. Anxious that Chat was angrier than he was letting on, she disposed to explain herself.

“It was an emergency,” she said, her voice helping Chat find his footing among the whirlwind of emotions that mangled him. “It was on Hero’s Day. When Scarlet Moth attacked, remember? I sent you to get Chloe and I went for Carapace and Rena. I found them together and I didn’t have time to come up with an excuse to separate them. I had no choice but to give them their Miraculous at the same time.”

The sigh of relief that escaped Chat was almost a little too obvious. It made Ladybug wonder whether his questions were really stemming from curiosity alone.

“Ladybug,” he said. “Can I ask you something else?”

She smiled sweetly at him and teased, “You’re quite inquisitive today, aren’t you? Okay, shoot.”

Chat Noir couldn’t help the smile that spread on his lips as he rolled his eyes.

“If you didn’t have to “protect” me,” he air-quoted. “Would... would it still be forbidden for us to know each other?”

“Chat...”

He looked away, unable to hide his disappointment. “It’s okay.” His baton beeped with an alarm clock he had set. He needed to be back in the mansion in ten minutes. “That’s me,” he said. “I have to go now. See you around, LB.”

“Wait,” Ladybug said, grasping his wrist and forcing him to wait. She sighed, and then looked at him with a pleading, a longing, Chat had never seen in her before. It made his heart skip and stumble.

“I had never thought about it,” she explained and knitted her eyebrows in concentration. “But I guess... it depends. If the stakes were lower, maybe. But kitty, you have to remember, our main objective is to defeat Shadowmoth, and we cannot afford to be vulnerable.”

“But Carapace and Rena...”

“I can bench them whenever I please, even change wielders. But I can’t fight without you. You’re irreplaceable.”

Chat Noir pouted, determined to push his argument. “But--but... aren’t they stronger for it? Wouldn’t we be stronger if we knew? And if you’re scared that we may become akumatized... can’t-- can’t you just... I don’t know, make one of those charms you’ve learned to make?”

Ladybug couldn’t help but chuckle. “It’s not so simple, Chat. I’m still not exactly sure how to do that. And don’t you remember what happened with them during the Hero’s Day fight? Carapace was distracted and Rena sacrificed herself, then Queen Bee was taken off guard because Hawkmoth knew her identity and used her family against her. It’s not as easy as just Akuma-proofing.”

“But would you want to?” he insisted, desperation becoming apparent in his voice. “Would you want to know who I am if none of this were in the way?”

A painful knot forming in Ladybug’s throat prevented her from speaking more clearly. “Yes,” she muttered. “Of course I would, Chat.”

Chat Noir looked at her with hope.

“We’ve been through so much together, of course, I would like to know who you are. What you’re like when you’re not making horrible puns, what sort of movies you watch, if you play any sports, what your dream job is... I’d like to know all that. But... we can’t,” she said, sadly. “At least not yet.”

“Not yet?” Chat Noir repeated, his voice broken and evidencing the fact he was holding back tears.

She smiled with a light blush on her cheeks. “Once this is over, chaton.”

“R-really? You promise?”

Ladybug took a moment to reply, if only because she was making the conscious effort to make sure she was promising something she’d be able to deliver. “Yes,” she said softly.

Chat’s eyes glistened with tears, which he hurried to wipe off with his forearm. Then, the alarm went off again.

He hiccupped, trying to not let the menacing tears get the best of him. “Okay.”

He unclipped the baton and disposed to vault off. At the last minute, he turned back to her. “LB?”

“Yes?” she said, smirking. “Weren’t you about to leave?”

“Meowch, trying to get rid of me already?”

Ladybug rolled her eyes and chuckled. “What is it, Chat?”

“We’re good at keeping secrets, right?”

“Right.”

“Do you mind keeping one for me?”

Ladybug looked at him with amused curiosity, then nodded.

Chat gulped, trying to swallow the hammering pulse stuck in his chest. He bent down and quickly pecked her cheek, catching Ladybug by surprise and eliciting a deep, crimson blush on her face.

“Thanks for answering my questions, m’lady,” he whispered before rushing out of view.

[coepiteamare]

nine thousand, seven hundred nineteen kilometers

pairing: yoongi x female!oc  genre: mild angst, it’s not fluff but it’s not angst, thieves oc & yoongi  warnings: mild angst, oc and yoongi are thieves (think ocean’s 8/11-13, pickpockets in this drabble), lapslock word count: 1.4k

summary: you find love somewhere in between los angeles and new york and lose your heart in between paris and tokyo. (alt. maybe he’s the compulsion you can’t seem to shake, the ache that doesn’t fade even nine thousand, seven hundred and nineteen kilometers away)

paris is much quieter than the places you’re used to, but it’s not a bad thing.

you like having coffees in cafes, settling in nooks, and drinking in the scenery spread outside the window. there’s a slight soreness in your arms from the aerial act last night that you remedy with macarons and the cafe cat that comes to sit in your lap, nuzzling its nose in your turtleneck. but the itch in your fingertips refuses to subside: a dull craving that refuses to be muffled no matter how many hobbies you pick up, how many characters you adapt and abandon, how many miles you put between yourself and los angeles. 

maybe you should move to amsterdam, you think as you thank the cafe owner. you contemplate luxembourg as you give the cat one last pet and leave behind a half eaten croissant. dubai is also pretty, you tell yourself as you bump into a youngman in a peacoat. hand into his pocket. you fall over, gripping on to his sleeve, as he reaches out to stabilize you. his prada wallet in your bag. you flash him a shy smile that could make the eiffel tower crumble. his watch on your wrist. you giggle an apology--i’m so sorry, i was distracted, i should have been paying more attention--and vanish into the crowd in a haze of vanilla and rose with his gucci tie clip in the pocket of your trench coat.

old habits die hard. 

maybe it’s not a habit you’re trying to get rid of, something whispers in the back of your head, or maybe you’re not trying at all. shut up, you whisper back.

you close the door quickly when you enter your flat, letting the fall chill know it’s an unwelcome guest before it can settle in. 

the apartment you live in is small, a little out of the way from central paris, but you like the trimmings on the cabinets and the colours of the wall. it feels lived in, less sterile than white walls, and it feels like what a home should feel like. there’s scratches on the countertop and smudges of the lives of tenants before you, and, really, you could do a lot better with the money from tokyo, but it was the first place that didn’t hiss at your insecurities in the sound of his voice. all the other ones you had seen had reminded you of him--walls painted with his laughter, banisters lined with the snap of his gloves, floors tiled in his stupid, ostentatious spending habits--and you had almost given up on paris, almost decided to live in the cheap motel with shitty coffee and questionable door locks because the first hotel you checked into had him written all over it (as did the next one and the next one and the next) until you found this apartment, cozy and in need of upkeep. i’m yours, it seemed to say; better yet, it said nothing at all. yours (whatever that meant). 

“you should get better locks,” his voice rings, and you drop your purse, items clattering to the floor. 

he looks just as you remember him: soft, wispy bangs against pale skin, dark eyes taking in more information than you could ever know, jaw and mouth sharp like he’d bite if you made the wrong move. the way the sun gently brushes him with a soft golden glow makes you wonder if he’s somehow conned the sun into working for him. (he’s always had a flair for dramatics, even if he claims there’s no room for theatrics in his plans.) you wrench your gaze away from him, your ribcage suddenly two sizes too tight for the thudding contraption it holds inside.

“have you ever thought locks were meant to keep people out, yoongi? that maybe people have locks to try and keep whatever’s inside them safe?” you pick up the items off the floor, carefully placing them back into your purse, trying to keep your voice steadier than your hands. 

“i have a proposition for you,” he says, without missing a beat, like nothing happened in tokyo. 

“would you have sought me out if you didn’t?” you mutter under your breath. you don’t like the bitterness that spreads through your mouth, the hurt that lingers like a bad aftertaste. “i’m retired,” you lean against the wall. you wonder if the scuff marks on the floor have been there a while. you try to look everywhere but him, but your training kicks in and you’re hypersensitive to everything he does: the way his shoulders are loose but his eyes are constantly moving, the way he still holds the tea cup like he did the first time he took you to a cafe 3 minutes after he met you, the way his left hand is still, unnatural, like he wants to drum them against the table or pick a lock, have something to do. 

he hums and sips the tea in front of him. “i would have been a little quicker with the wallet,” your head turns to him in shock, “but other than that, it was a pretty solid job.” of course he was watching. there was nothing yoongi missed, from the stutter in your heartbeat to the thrum of your fingers against the wall. he drops his smile and his gaze bores into yours, but you feel the smug satisfaction smothering you like his cologne that still permeates your dreams, six months later and six thousand miles away.  

“awareness of surroundings has gotten sloppy though.”

“fuck you.” 

his shoulders shake as he laughs, breath catching with every inhale. it takes him a minute to collect himself, but the smile doesn’t fall. “the crew misses you.”

“more like you couldn’t find another acrobat,” you scoff. everything about this is painfully familiar: the sharp rapport, the sparks, him. it’s too easy to settle back into habit, even if you’ve been burnt before. it feels like diving back under the covers, body aching to crawl back to what it knows. the words slide out of your mouth before you have a chance to think about them, bitter and acrid. “were you even trying?” 

“were you even trying? it’s like you wanted to get caught” he had scoffed, mouth acidic even at your tear stained face. “this isn’t a fucking performance you get to put on night after night. there is no safety net waiting to catch you. that-” he gestures at the wind, at the depository miles away from you, “whatever that was almost cost us this job.”

“i’ve missed you.” he smiles, and just like that, you hear the faint click, his words cracking the pin code on your ribcage and unlocking the heart you’ve tried so desperately to cage. you should have known better: there’s never been a lock yoongi couldn’t pick, a safe he couldn’t find his way into. nothing has been able to keep him out: not the gallery treasury in newport beach with its earthquake proof alarm system, not the cartier vault in new york city with its impressive randomized laser grid, and certainly not the flimsy, fickle alarm system of your heartbeat. 

“how did you find me?” your voice is too soft, muddled under memories buried six feet under.

“have you ever seen me fail to get what i want?” he makes his way to you and doesn’t stop until you’re pressed against the wall, the tips of his shoes against yours. sandalwood tickles your throat as you take a breath. his nose brushes against yours, pink lips mere centimeters away. 

“i meant what i said, your awareness of your surroundings needs work.” his breath fogs your clarity. “besides, if they wanted to keep things safe, maybe they should try a bit harder. i’m just here to prove that all things can be found.” he taps a finger against your nose lightly, mouth stretching into a smile before he makes his way towards the door with his hands in his pocket. he doesn’t turn back to look at you. “you know how to find me.”

you stand there, dazed, until the faint tap, tap, tap of the rain against your windowpane breaks the fog, sun submerged in velvet darkness. 

maybe he’s just as potent as a habit, just as hard to kill. 

you find a plane ticket to los angeles in your backpocket, a burner phone in your coat pocket. your safe door is wide open, contents untouched, with a post it note on top. 

it’s like you’re not even trying. p.s. did you miss me?

A/N:  a BIG thank you to hana @taestybae​ for reading this and telling me she loved it. i absolutely adore you. 

i’m going to work to expand on the universe (hopefully) and introduce the rest of the crew because words cannot describe how much i love this universe and these characters. 

[pinkhairedlily]

Chapter 7 - Student Council President Sakura

SCPS AO3 | PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Sakura went to her shift a little bit giddier than usual for a variety of reasons despite the busy holiday season; it was nearing Christmas after all. The first one – having finally tied with Sasuke in their recent exams, and the second – the approval of her personal project. There was also a third reason, but she was unresolved of what to feel.

Kakashi met with her alone after their monthly council meeting. It was the usual talk, the heavy administrative concerns they do not bother other council members with, reminders about problematic behaviors among the student body or personal problems that faculty or students were plagued with that needed intervention. He said an apology just as she reached the door.

“Sakura?” Kakashi asked, turning in his chair.

She looked back at him with a neutral expression. While she knew she wasn’t overtly passive aggressive in her actions, he might have noticed a change in her cheerful disposition towards him. Her clumped fingers anxiously fidgeted with the rubber band on her wrist, his rubber band that she didn’t use anymore to tie her hair. “Yes, sensei?”

“Were you offended with what I said during the school trip?” he asked, but his expression already seemed to know the answer.

Her eyes downcast, she turned the knob of the door, knowing that she was free to leave without replying, but as the door stayed ajar, she decided to come clean. “Yes.”

“I thought as much. I’m aware that I belittled you like a child. Your money is yours to spend however you want. Please know that I only have good intentions with what I’ve done,” her sensei told her. “But isn’t it also unfair for you to shoulder that much problem? I’m a paid employee and before that, I am your adviser. I have a responsibility just as much as you do. Next time you are presented with that, learn to ask for help.”

Sakura didn’t see the expression he had on his face. She was too flustered to compose a comeback and she can only settle for a meek nod before shooting out of the room like her tail was on fire.

“Girlie!” Her coworker’s voice brought her back to reality – a reality of a long queue of customers waiting for their to-go coffees, mini-cakes, and boxes of pastries to share with loved ones in this cold night while she’ll be likely stuck in shift well past beyond midnight, tolerating the café uniform, the itch of her black weave on her scalp, and the heavy makeup she wore for tonight. She flashed an apologetic (yet charming) smile to the other person, and they gave her a thumbs up.

The queue has thinned out by eleven, to be replaced soon by stragglers hoping to catch a last dose of caffeine pump. She stretched her neck and stifled a yawn, forgetting to say Welcome to a customer that walked through their doors.

“Your sweetest drink please and a half dozen of hazelnut cookies,” the customer said. “Thanks, Sakura.”

She almost broke her already strained neck when she raised it up quickly to meet the owner of the voice. No gel blonde hair Naruto with black circles under his eyes. Rookie MVP looked shit as hell.

She barely formed an excuse in her head when he waved his hand in front of her. “You can drop the act with me. I already knew the week you got discharged from the hospital. I just passed by after dinner with the team when I saw a girl manning the cashier with the same band-aid on her nose which I gave you a day before.” Naruto grinned at her in the off chance that it would reassure her.

“Will this be to-go?” Sakura asked as she busied herself with Naruto’s order, unsettled with her carelessness. At the back of her mind, she was yet to answer herself why she was adamant to use a disguise while working.

“For here. Apartment’s kinda bare during these times.”

As what she expected, Naruto was still seated when they were about to close, and ironically, he chose the corner table with no windows, contrary to what his other friend would have chosen. Like those usual nights with Sasuke, she slid in front of him, her disguise gone.

“Let’s go see the amusement park tomorrow?” It was as if she saw sadness being lifted from his shoulders the way they transitioned from slouching to an alert stance.

She found then that Naruto was always that person that found happiness at the simplest things.

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

“A horror house!” Naruto pointed at the very moment they stepped inside the park. He somehow absorbed his captain’s fashion persona, undercut prominent with his baseball cap, loose plain black shirt, and gray cargo pants.

“All right. Treat me if we reach the other end with you clinging to my arm,” Sakura teased. She was dressed in a mauve smocked crop top with high rise flared jeans and platform white sneakers that allowed her to reach Naruto’s shoulders. She wondered if her getup was too much what with the number of heads that turned her way as she littered in the entrance earlier.

Sasuke begged off through their group chat, saying he was unavailable. He was yet to explain that group hug last time, but he was evasive every time Naruto brought it up while she simply cannot find the right timing.

She guessed she was still taken aback by how warm his hold felt like. If she was right, whatever defenses he had around them were toppled down by himself that day. But what triggered it – she’d probably never know.

Naruto placed a fist on his chest. “This is one bet I’ll never lose.”

And he lost – spectacularly. His baseball cap was long gone thanks to a zombie who panicked when he almost punched it. He was also hyperventilating and sweating out of his wits, his throat may have gone hoarse by now with all his screaming inside.

Sakura cannot get rid of the long string of laughter that bubbled. “Come on, let’s cool off for a while.”

To help calm Naruto down, they had to line up with all the other kids in the merry-go-round, then off to paddle a swan boat on a manmade lake. She went all out in the shooting range and won Naruto a frog plushie while he blitzed through the basketball hoops, sneering at the kids beside him who were waiting for their turns.

They capped off the afternoon with a ride on the ferris wheel. They sat opposite each other, and Sakura suddenly felt queasy. She remembered she was apparently acrophobic, and so she focused instead on Naruto who was still in awe of the scenery. The park had a busy crowd today – it was the holiday season after all and families, friends, and lovers were up and about. She just hoped Naruto didn’t catch on yet.

“So why are you stuck with me instead of your family, Sakura?”

Ah he caught on. “They’re busy,” she simply replied. “Besides I’ll see them later in the evening.”

Naruto smiled at her, a smile that knew she was hiding more but he chose not to prod further. Sakura silently conveyed her thanks.

“I don’t know how to thank you. I was really in a slump when we lost, but this day made me recharge my drive and gave me a newfound resolve. You, Pres, is the first to hear it!”

Sakura can only grin, urging him to go on.

“I will bring our school team to the nationals and we will win.”

Sakura clapped her hands and gave him a thumbs up. “Of course, you will. I know you’ll do it.”

“I just wish I told Captain Haru before he left town for vacation.” Naruto slid lower in his seat. “Apparently, he and Hinata broke up. You’re friends with both of them, right?”

Sakura shook her head, shock at the news. She had an inkling from her previous conversation with Haru, but she didn’t expect it would come this early. “I am, but I haven’t really heard from both parties lately.”

“Well, Hinata’s father offered an athletic scholarship to Cap, but he turned it down, saying he was undeserving, and it might just be because of Hinata’s prodding.”

If she recalled correctly, Hiashi Hyuuga was the chair of the Sports Council that spanned all districts of their state. She could see why Haru was angry and disappointed enough to break it off with Hinata. “But they were so good together. Did he ever tell you how they first met?”

Naruto rubbed his hands together and leaned forward. “Do tell please!”

“There was a student exchange of some sort and Hinata ended up in our class for a month. Of course, she was the takane no hana and this immediately gathered a bandwagon group of shallow admirers. Haru, oh Haru, he found pretty people depth-less, but he was the class representative that time – “

“And you were?”

“Of course, a student council president. But wait pay attention Naruto!”

“Okay I am paying attention! But you really are an overachiever!”

“Yeah and what about it!” Sakura almost chuckled in exasperation. “So anyway, he had to escort Hinata back and forth at the school gates because of the unreasonable crowd. He would ask her random things, but most especially on archery since he was so bad at it. And they found a common ground and the topics expanded beyond the arrow and bow. The guy had the nerve to cover it up from me at first, saying they’re fake dating and it was just an arrangement to keep creeps at bay.” She sighed, suddenly saddened by the breakup. “I thought it would last forever.”

“But Hinata never introduced him to her family, did she?” Naruto asked. “Because Cap also told me that when Hiashi called him up for the offer, he didn’t know he was the boyfriend, he was simply a person her friend referred.”

Oh Haru. You must have known what family you were entering when you loved her.

“Hey? Time to get down,” the operator said. Their turn was already finished.

As they walked to the gates, Naruto asked her. “Love is too scary. You’ll never know if you’ll end up hurt or happy despite everything. Besides, can you even say it’ll be worth fighting for?”

Sakura’s fingers immediately went to the rubber band on her wrist, “It’s always a mix of everything, all the good and the bad, and somehow it’s all convoluted into one hodgepodge of memories that will be a part of you forever. It’s your decision what you want to do with it, and in between all of those, you’ll know. Like one big realization in your head that lights up like fireworks and splayed in big capital letters.”

Her eyes met Naruto’s gaze and his eyes slightly widened at her response.

“I talk vague, don’t I?”

“Not at all,” he replied.

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

January couldn’t come fast enough, and Itachi was out of the country just as quickly as he entered his apartment unannounced on Christmas Eve. A holiday break, he said, but if he wasn’t annoyingly checking up on him in the evenings, he was otherwise holed up in his hotel. The truth was, he had a conference and a simultaneous workshop with the state hospital. Sasuke was just a side trip, an obligation that his brother didn’t want to take care of.

He could have told him about Naruto and Sakura and how he now knew all the technicalities of baseball because of the former and that he can consider calling them as friends, but their brotherly bond was too frayed to bridge all of those thoughts.

It was a week before the start of the spring term, and he found himself re-reading Naruto’s texts over and over again.

Grumpy.

So how was your date?

AHHHHH SO IT WAS A DATE. I NOW FEEL SO SHY.

Idiot.

SHE LOOKED SO BEAUTIFUL IN HER GETUP.

Yeah as if you two didn’t already spam the group chat with your pictures.

HEY AT LEAST WE EDITED YOU IN.

Why are you typing in all caps? Your phone broken?

GRUMPPPPPPYYYYY. Grumpy, I have something to tell you. I think I like Sakura – not the ‘like’ like others have for her. It just came to me, like fireworks in big capital letters. I LIKE HER.

Sasuke wasn’t able to reply. He didn’t know what to reply or what to feel, really. These recent nights, his mind only brought him to the first moment he saw her in the café, and there was an unfamiliar pang he couldn’t name.

Then, suddenly he was in front of her in the café itself, ordering an iced americano and bruschetta with tomato and basil. Her eyes lit up in recognition; today she wore her black hair in low pigtails and a light dab of tint on her cheeks and lips.

She sat across him when it was her break time, cheery and still in disguise, the winter cold making the blush even more prominent. “I’m gonna bounce some ideas to you.”

Sasuke kept mum, relishing the sacred combination of tomato and basil in his mouth, but let his stare level with hers.

“The school board approved my personal project. I proposed to set up a mental health committee since our infirmary – get this – and guidance office don’t actually have a psychiatrist. The school will be asking a medical professional to come in for monthly guidance counseling and will be an official partner for outpatient concerns.” With her face on her palm, she leaned forward, seemingly surveying Sasuke’s minute expressions.

“That’s tricky,” he remarked. “How will you encourage them though?”

“I think just the mere availability and accessibility of it is enough to encourage students.”

“Hmm.” He took a sip of his coffee.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me why I did it?”

Sasuke knew that he already broke his resolve to remain uninvolved in the remaining years of his life here in this town. He knew that sometime ago, the walls he built up since the accident broke down in the constant presence of her and the blonde idiot. But in spite of, he knew that there was another layer of wall that withstood the recent onslaught. Unfortunately, something has started to leak from its crevices. Something that made him understand the overwhelming emotions that raged behind such walls.

He missed having her all to himself, like a little secret, a safe abode he could always retreat to – her with her black hair and makeup, her with her bouts of vulnerabilities laid out in front of him in rare moments, her with her emerald eyes and tufts of rose hair that peak from the weave, her in this table in front of him and the world outside divided by a glass window.

If he could name it, it was a feeling of loss, a loss he stole and a loss he never had the privilege of feeling in the first place.

“Because you’re a good person and you always think of others,” Sasuke started, still holding her gaze. “And I think you want it because you might need it more.”

Sakura was the first to break off. She soon excused herself and resumed her shift. By the time Sasuke finished his coffee and bread, it was almost closing time. His words may have struck a chord so he decided not to wait for her. Maybe he’ll talk it through with her next time, if she allowed him to. He was almost out of the doors when the new pair of customers passed by.

A glint of silver hair.

“Oh, hello there Sakura.”

And a brunette on his arm.

Sasuke never saw color drain as quickly as the blush did from Sakura’s face.

AO3 LINK | NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER 8

[wallwriterstuff]

My Evil Twin ||Alec vs Jane||

Warnings: mentions of abuse, torture and trauma. 

A request for @ferb13​   “Can I request you a headcanon about the things that make Alec more evil than Jane?” 

You absolutely can because I love this idea!! Also, please keep an eye out for an updated Upcoming Fic List tomorrow. I have two more requests I admittedly forgot about I’d like to get out now uni is done for the semester. 

I firmly believe the trauma they faced caused both twins to turn out to be incredibly sadistic and ruthless vampires, but there is definitely a case to be made that Alec is the more dangerous of the twins.

·         Alec is not quick to anger, therefore his revenge is not as instant as his sister’s. Displease Alec and you will be left wondering when exactly he will strike back – or if he even plans to – and he will let you stew in your own anxiety for the fun of it. Why torture you if your already torturing yourself?

 ·         Whereas Jane’s anger is explosive, Alec’s simmers. He has the capacity therefore to really think about just how much you’re annoying him and respond in kind. His revenge is never as swift as the agony of Jane’s gift, he will draw it out. For every second you have made him suffer he will return the favour

 ·         His gift is incredibly potent, he can strip a person’s senses and numb them, but do you think that hasn’t come with any sort of consequence for him? The truth is he simply can’t feel emotion sometimes. It takes strong emotion to really entice him to open up and feel anything, such as finding his mate for instance, but most of the time he is just…numb, and it makes him incredibly difficult to read. As such, it’s easy to find yourself trying to please him or accidentally annoying him, but you’ll never know until he reacts – which he rarely ever does. Though he doesn’t always mean to, it can often seem like he’s stringing people along because of this, but he has been known to deliberately use people’s struggles to read him to his advantage

 ·         Both twins are sadistic but in different ways. While Jane thrives off of the pain of others, Alec feeds off of their fear. He strips the senses, but they are still very much conscious. Alec enjoys their terror as their minds turn against them, imagining horrific scenarios occurring to their physical bodies while they cannot see, feel or hear their attackers coming. In this sense, he is far more sadistic than Jane, as his version of torture leaves longer lasting scars that he has absolutely no remorse about inflicting on anyone who crosses his path

 ·         Alec and Jane were raised in this life by Aro in two very different ways. Jane has, quite frankly, been groomed by Aro and is therefore much more eager to please and maintain her position as the favourite. Alec is not. Oh for sure he is loyal to Aro and will remain so out of sheer gratitude that he was saved by him, but he is very self-assured in a way Jane is not, knowing his offensive capability will either A) keep him in favour with the Masters or B) ensure he has a way out when the Masters stop giving him the opportunity to exercise that power                + Since he has no need to play the favourite, Alec will happily act his physical age and play pranks on the secretaries. He is the main reason they go through so many of them, and his pranks are by no means childish. He is a sadist remember. Physical injuries are part and parcel of otherwise highly psychologically traumatic pranks very similar to the ones he had to endure as a child. Poor Gianna never quite got rid of the scars on her knuckles after he locked her in a room full of tarantula’s – he spent four hours listening to her beg to be released while pounding on the door

 ·         In many ways Alec is seen as the calmer and more rational twin, subduing his sister when she gets violent. Some might even go so far as to say he saved them from Jane’s wrath. They are wrong. Alec is saving you from nothing, because he is extremely protective of Jane and if you anger her, you anger him. You are simply opening yourself up to his specific brand of psychological torture, and believe me when I tell you he is ten times more ruthless when it comes to defending his sister, to the point he will gladly kill for her, even if it goes against orders

 ·         Since it takes so much to get him riled up, it takes a lot more to calm him down. Alec is far more dangerous than Jane in this regard. He is very reluctant to stop using his gift once he starts, the feeling he gets watching people suffer the effects is akin to a high or an adrenaline rush maybe. He pushes his luck a lot when Aro orders him to stop whereas his sister will stop immediately. Ultimately, not even the Masters can stop him if Alec decides to make you suffer

 ·         He wears socks when relaxing in bed, enough said

 ·         Whereas Jane is cruel for a purpose (usually Aro’s), Alec is sometimes cruel just because he’s bored. Has a trial bored him? Felix suddenly can’t see. A long day of guard duty in the throne room? The secretary is distracted packing up to go home for the night, the perfect target. Alec can and will use his gift purely for entertainment purposes for the thrill he gets watching others suffer

 ·         Alec didn’t want to rely solely on his gift after a brush with a newborn once. Felix and Demetri taught him to fight at his request, but it was Caius who taught him to torture others. If Alec is a sadist then Caius taught him everything he knows, and its him that will accompany the blonde Master to the dungeon when he needs to blow off some steam on the prisoners they keep below. He doesn’t ask nor care about the crimes they committed, but when his dark side itches to be free there’s nothing better to him than slowly cracking off a finger or two. Not even Jane knows about this side of him

 ·         Ultimately, Alec is a lethal weapon in the form of a child and the way he enjoys his gift and uses it so indiscriminately shows it. He is far more evil than Jane for the sheer enjoyment he gets from torturing others in a far more traumatic way than his sister can and unlike her, he is far more difficult to reign in

[rockthistowninsideout]

DigiWeek 2021

Day 7 - Home (Free Day)

The Story

   “Uh-oh as much as you want! Now the time is over for Digimon and all those supporting them!”, the blonde girl shouted and finally rounded the ledge. She wore a red-and-blue checked school uniform and a devilish grin on her face.

   “Why would you want to end the Digimon?”, Kamemon cried out.

   “Because they are destructive and cannot be trusted!”

   “Then why do you have a Digimon partner?”, Ryudamon asked.

   The girl, who still hadn’t introduced herself, laughed menacingly. _“_There’s no such thing as Digimon partner. Humans can never live in peace with them. Grizzlymon is merely a tool because it was stupid enough to think the same as you. Wanted to become my partner – Instead I made it my slave. It’s what Digimon deserve to be so mindlessly wrecking.”

   “You tested your black spikes on it, didn’t you?” I asked as I caught a glimpse of a sharp tip protruding from its fur.

   She eyed me with a gaze that swung between annoyance and approval. “Oh yes! It was really eager to be my guinea pig and I have to admit it’s doing an excellent job as my assassin. But then again Digimon are nothing but war machines.”

   “That’s not true!”, Kamemon cried out. It seemed to feel deeply offended by the girl’s sermon.

   And I understood that. Kamemon and Ryudamon had been nothing but kind and helpful, and Frezamon had only attacked us because the black spike had corrupted it. Something truly dire had probably happened in her life. To buy time, I asked “What’s your name?”

   Her eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. She positioned herself straddle-legged before us, hands on her hips, and declared “I am Tamina and you will soon praise me as the Extinguisher of Digimon!”

   Taki leaned into me “She’s got a serious screw loose. White people and their megalomaniac ideas.”

   While I wholeheartedly agreed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that some serious trauma bubbled close beneath the surface. Before I could elaborate on that note, she cried “Grizzlymon, attack!”

   Her Digimon, or better say, her brainwashed minion, unleashed a Heavy Attack. We could duck down and escape to the right, but the attack was so strong that it shattered the stony ledge we’d been hiding under. The shards were blown in all directions and we only stayed safe because Ryudamon threw itself before us and blocked the shrapnel with its armour.

   I looked to Kamemon. “Are you ready?” It nodded. I gripped my DigiVice tightly and as Kamemon started to glow, it vibrated in my hand. When the evolution was done, it identified the new Digimon in our ranks as Gwappamon. Gwappamon was roughly a head or two shorter than what I remembered DexDorugamon to be. Instead of Kamemon’s helmet it had brown dreadlock-like hair that was crowned by a CD. Around its neck a pair of headphones was slung and its belly was stitched and patched up. It parried Grizzlymon’s attack with a Gwappa Punch.

   “See, you’re also only using the Digimon as fighters”, Tamina yelled in triumph.

   “Well, we don’t want to get ourselves killed by you poor Digimon!”, Taki shouted. “I can only pity it, both of you, actually.”

   “Why do you pity me? Pity yourself for being led to believe that Digimon are good!”

   We jumped apart when Grizzlymon launched its next attack. I ran towards the rocks where the ice sheet was wedged when an idea struck me. We were four and they were only a pair. We should have an advantage here.

   Tamina was concentrated on directing Grizzlymon against Gwappamon who was sparring exceptionally. So I had the chance to communicate with Taki and Ryudamon, at least non-verbally. Taki agreed with my plan: I wanted to lure Grizzlymon away by letting myself be reflected in the ice mirror. That was suppposed to irritate Grizzlymon enough to let its focus slip. Hopefully that gave Ryudamon enough time to jump on Grizzlymon’s back. Then Gwappamon could join forces with Ryudamon and we could pin down Tamina.

   I bent down and started forming snow balls. When I had a small battery of them at my feet, I threw them at Grizzlymon with force. After the third, it turned around annoyed. To be on the safe side, I threw a couple more, one hit it straight between the eyes. With a roar, it charged at me. Well, what it supposed was me, but it actually was my reflection it ran towards. Before Tamina could order it to stop it had hit the ice with a sickening crash, the impact was enough to let the ice splitter into a million pieces.

   Immediately, Ryudamon was on its back, clawing into its think fur. Grizzlymon roared in agony but before it could shake Ryudamon off, Gwappamon had thrown it into the snow. Tamina was shouting, she tore at her hair, until we were at her sides and gripped her arms tightly. “Let. Me. Go!” she yelled repeatedly, though her voice grew smaller and smaller until she was mere wax in our hands. Uncontrolled sobs were shaking her body. Taki and I looked at each other, we both simply felt sympathy now. We led Tamina towards the yurt where she collapsed in front of the entrance.

   I wanted to enter but the darkness that had risen from the chimney had now filled the entire hut so I quickly drew the curtain back and told Taki and Tamina that we had to evacuate right now. Tamina was unable to walk, it seemed that only her rage and misguided mission had been holding her up, so I scooped her up bridal-style and hurried down the mountain as fast as I could.

   In passing Taki shouted towards the Digimon to destroy the yurt – Grizzlymon had now been freed from the spike and was looking around confused. Gwappamon sent the CD on its head spinning which tore open a slit in the fabric of the yurt and Ryudamon set the hut ablaze with its Tera Burst. The yurt exploded and the shockwave pushed me several metres down the slope.

   We took shelter behind a particularly sturdy looking ledge. I sat Tamina down who was sobbing. “Shh” I said. “You are okay now.”

   “Yeah, it’s alright”, Taki seconded. After a brief pause she said “And whenever you’re ready, you can tell us why you hate Digimon so much.”

   Tamina was quiet for a few moments, only furiously wiping away the tears from her eyes. I gave her a handkerchief from my school bag. She took it with a grateful expression but she wasn’t smiling yet. Finally she whispered “My mom.” She hiccuped before she could continue “My mom died when Parrotmon and Greymon fought in Hikarigaoka. She was the only victim when she got hit by fallen debris that’s been, well, I don’t know if it came from a bridge, or an apartment building, of it it was a car. It also doesn’t really matter. I wasn’t afraid to see these two creatures fight when I watched them but when I learned that they were responsible for Mommy’s death, I swore revenge. And over the years, my anger only grew whenever I saw Digimon running rampant in the city and all across the globe. They caused malfunctions and destroyed everything. But as far as I know my mom was the only fatality in all those year. I always felt that the government wasn’t doing enough so I itched for a chance to right it myself.”

   She paused to inhale deeply. “And some time ago, I don’t if it’s been hours, or days, or weeks – time works different in the Digital World – I walked home from school when someone called me down a stairwell between two streets. The voice came from behind a gate between two houses, and when I stepped through it, I was in the Digital World, right in front of the yurt, with Bearmon waiting beside it. The voice told me that it understood my sorrow and wanted to help me with my revenge.”

   A few minutes ago, the girl had wanted to dominate the world but now I could feel nothing but sorry for her. Out of an instinct, I hugged her tightly, and Taki on the other side did the same. Our Digimon came back from their battle, they had evolved to their previous levels.

   When Tamina spotted her former slave she called “Oh Bearmon, I’m so sorry!”, and teared up again.

   Bearmon came towards her to hug her, saying “It’s alright now.”

   Kamemon walked over to me and said “We told Bearmon what happened. It was very understanding.”

   “Thank you for tel-”. Before I could finish the sentence, there was a blast that shook the earth. We flinched, then I peaked over the ledge to discover a huge crater where the hut used to be.

   “That wasn’t us!” Kamemon declared.

   From the crater rose smoke that transformed into tentacles halfway through. “Ah shucks!”, I muttered.

   “Did you really think it was over? What you defeated was merely a puppet, a disposable I would have gotten rid of anytime if the time had come. And the time has come!”

   “That’s it! That’s the voice that called me here. Oh my God!” Tamina wailed, shaking vigorously.

  “Stop it!”, I said firmly. “We need your help now. If we want to win against – well, whatever that is, we need to stand united.”

   Tamina looked frightened at me. “I don’t think I can.”

   I lifted her head gently at the chin to look directly into her eyes. “Listen to me. I’m really sorry what happened to your mom. But the Digimon are not to blame for her death. And neither your vendetta nor your indecision will bring her back. What we need to focus on right now is to save the Digital World, and probably our human world too. I don’t know who’s behind the voice but I’m pretty sure they don’t want to spare us. What Ryudamon over there told me was that the Dark Forces had always aimed for the human world too. It’s the rest of your family who’s in danger now. This is your chance to save them!”

   She stared at me like a hare. Her shaking stopped, she swallowed hard before she nodded. “Okay.”

   “Wonderful.” I briefly hugged her, then pulled her up on her feet.

   We gathered together, back to back, gazing up to the sky. It darkened by the second, the clouds spun faster and faster until some sort of vent had formed. “Prepare for doom!”, the voice thundered.

   Taki grabbed my hand on the left side, Kamemon on the right. “Ready?”, she asked.

   I nodded. “Let’s do this

Gwappamon

Also:

HAPPY ODAIBA DAY!!

Thank you so much for organizing the event @earlgreymon​ and @tangledupblue! It was wonderful to see us Digimon fans reunited again and to share our love for an anime that’s been with us for more than 20 years. 

[mfingenius]

The ‘Accio’ miracle

Trigger Warnings: very brief mention of self harm and addiction

Draco keeps secrets.

He’s always prided himself in it, knows there’s no one who’s better at it than him; he kept his father’s secrets, first, thirteen and feeling like he was being let into the world of the elite, where people knew things other witches and wizards didn’t. Then, he kept his mother’s secrets; the quiet contempt no one seemed to see, the anxiousness that ate at her day by day because of things Draco didn’t quite understand, things he wasn’t told, not yet, not even though his father had called him a man.

Third, he kept the Dark Lord’s secrets; he remembers the day they came into his home, the Dark Lord and his cult of followers, each crueler and more heartless than the last, and Draco had been fifteen and terrified, and he didn’t feel like a man, not at all, he’d felt like a child. He’d heard the things they planned, seen the things they did, and he’d kept his mouth shut. He thinks he’d died a little, then; the first time he’d heard someone scream under a Crucio was the first time he realized he knew nothing at all, that the glory and the knowledge he thought were his, what he thought the cause he was fighting for entailed, was all wrong.  

He was all wrong.

He still said nothing.

Fourth, he keeps his own secrets; or he tries to, at least. When he’s sixteen and the name Harry James Potter appears across his ribcage in horrible handwriting, he stays locked in his bathroom for three hours, the world crashing down around him; it is the summer before sixth year, and he just – he just needs to make it to September first without anyone noticing, and that’s all. He’s off to Hogwarts, and he can fuck off and never come back. For now, however – for now, well, he’s trapped in a place that used to be his childhood home but is now unrecognizable, filled with people who will not hesitate to kill him – or worse, and Draco knows what they’re capable of, he does, he’s seen them – if they find out who his soulmate is.

In that moment, Draco hates Potter, truly and overwhelmingly hates him, because he’s not going to get out of here, he’s not going to survive this if anyone finds out. The older Death Eaters already hurt him for fun, and he’s done nothing. After this, they’re going to kill him.  

So he does what he has to; he draws a Difindo across the name, over and over until it is unrecognizable, and the pain of it is agonizing, but he shoves a towel between his teeth and bears his way through it; it gives him time, an excuse not to come out of his rooms if anyone comes looking for him – they don’t - but when the skin heals, the name is right there, readable over the scars, and Draco has to sit and just breathe, because this can’t be happening.

After that, he does the next best thing; he wears layers upon layers, skin-tight shirts underneath loose robes so no one will notice, keeps the mark hidden, knows he only needs to get through the summer.

And he almost succeeds. The last day of July – Potter's birthday, Draco knows – the Dark Lord tells him he’s taking the Mark; it’s supposed to be an honor, Draco knows, he can see the pride in his father’s eyes, but the only thing he feels is dread.

He doesn’t want the Dark Mark.

“Shirt off,” the Dark Lord hisses, and Draco’s blood runs cold; he knows it is usual for people to take the Dark Mark shirtless; it’s a metaphor, he thinks, something about his mind and body belonging to the Dark Lord, but for him it’ll be his doom.

Slowly, very slowly, he begins unbuttoning his robes.

                                               Seven years later

“Anything yet?” Ron asks, stepping into their office when two bags of Chinese food; there’s a muggle place two blocks away from the ministry that makes the best spring rolls in the world, and they always eat from there when they’re working on a tough case.  

“No,” Harry says, gratefully taking the box that Ron offers him. “Fuck, this smells delicious.”

Ron nods. “Got extra spring rolls for you.”

Harry groans a muffled ‘thank you’, already devouring the fried rice; he hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and he’s starving. He welcomes the taste of salty, fried food, and then looks back to the surveillance footage they’re watching. They’ve been investigating the death of a muggle military general, because he had no apparent cause of death to muggles – an Avada Kedavra - and because traces of magic were found at the scene.

“There he is, look at that.” Harry and Ron lean forward at the same time, eyes narrowing at the grainy footage; they'd ‘confiscated’ it from the Muggle Police – better to avoid unwanted questions when they saw it – but they’re used to how well one can see surveillance charms, so this is undoubtably a step down.

“What is he doing?” Harry asks, frowning; Edward Thomas can be seen drinking alone in the hotel bar; he’d be found in his hotel room, but they’ve already scanned the elevator and hall tapes and nothing has come up, so they’re working their way back.

He’s speaking to the man beside him, whose face they can’t see because his back is to the camera. Harry, however, can see Thomas’s face, and he looks – evidently interested. Harry thinks he might be flirting. The other man is evidently not interested, because he turns away, but Thomas reaches out to harshly grab the other man by the arm; the man steps back, and they struggle for a moment before he manages to break himself free, finally turning towards the camera to leave.

“Holy fucking shit,” Ron says, pausing the footage and placing his takeout box on the table, moving closer. “Is that Malfoy?”

Harry nods numbly.

“Holy shit,” he echoes, and continues to stare at the furious, cool face of his soulmate.

*

“I can stay on the case,” Harry insists. As a policy, the Ministry doesn’t allow an Auror to work any case where their soulmate is involved, but Harry thinks these are special circumstances.

No one’s seen Malfoy in years, for one. He went missing before their sixth year – two years of being a prisoner at the manor, Harry knows – and though he appeared briefly, it was only long enough for the healers at St. Mungo’s to take a look at him. He disappeared again afterwards, as soon as he was discharged, and hasn’t been seen or heard from in five years.

Secondly, they’d finished watching the surveillance footage, and Thomas had left for his room after talking to Malfoy, which means he was most likely the last person to see their murder victim alive.

“You cannot be objective about your soulmate, Potter,” Robards says.  

Harry would’ve loved not to tell him about this new development in the case, but he’d walked in while Ron and Harry were discussing it, so they’d had to.

“Sir, Malfoy and I are hardly soulmates,” Harry argues. “We haven’t spoken in five years!”

Robards looks at him calculatingly; Harry is his best Auror, and him and Ron work best together. Taking him off the case is a bad decision and he knows it, but if he doesn’t and something goes wrong because of Harry being stupid about Malfoy, it’ll be on him.

“Fine,” he says, finally. “You can stay on the case. Find me Malfoy, find me our murderer, and you do not stay alone with him at any point. If I hear you’ve messed something up because you’ve gone and done something more reckless than usual, I swear I'll fire you, Potter, even if the Minister himself tells me not to.”

Harry nods.

*

Malfoy opens the door, takes a look at them, and tries to close it again. Harry slaps his hand against the door to stop him, and Malfoy sighs, rolling his eyes and opening the door again, resigned.

“Potter, Weasley. What are you doing here?”

“Edward Thomas was murdered three nights ago,” Harry says; he thinks one of them should have something more to say; they are soulmates, after all. He expected Malfoy to ask how they had found him, five years after leaving the Wizarding World without a trace. Harry sort of wants to know where Malfoy has been, wonders if he’s been here, in muggle St. Rémy de Provence, the entire time, but he is trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care about Malfoy. It's not working; he’s looking at him and there’s an itch just under his skin that he can’t quite get rid of. “And you were the last person to see him alive.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Malfoy says.

Ron shows him a picture of Thomas, and Malfoy’s eyebrow raises marginally.

“Oh,” Malfoy says. “Him.”

“Yes, him,” Ron says, unimpressed. “You are a witness in our murder investigation, Malfoy, and we’d like you to come into the Ministry for an interview.”

“No, thank you,” Malfoy says politely. “We’re in France, which means you have no jurisdiction. You can’t make me.”

“You’re an English wizard,” Harry says, irritated. Malfoy hasn’t changed one bit. “We could bring you in under-”

“Subsection 1359?” Malfoy finishes for him smugly. “That law only applies to active suspects, Potter, and, as you’ve told it, I’m not one.”

“We could make you one,” Harry says. It’s less than moral, and not something Harry would do, not really, but the arrogant look Malfoy keeps giving him is pissing him off. “We know you left the bar before he did, but you could’ve hired someone to kill him.”

Malfoy cocks an eyebrow. “Oh? With what money?”

“The Malfoy fortunes weren’t seized after the war,” Harry says.

“Right.” Malfoy nods. “Except I’m not a Malfoy anymore.”

Harry opens his mouth to argue, and then shuts it again. “What?”

Malfoy – or, well, not Malfoy – opens his hands in a wide gesture. “Emancipated myself from my parents as soon as my trial was over, Potter, and I haven’t done magic in years. I’m officially a muggle. I have a muggle birth certificate, a passport – I'm Monéguasque, by the way, and yes, I chose it just because I like the way it sounds – and even social security and a job. I’m a muggle.”

“What?” Harry demands, because he can’t quite wrap his head around it; Malfoy as a – as a non Malfoy? Malfoy as a muggle?

“Yes,” Malfoy says. “So you can leave me alone.”

And he closes the door on their face.

“Well,” Ron says, awkwardly. “That was – not good.”

*

“You don’t seem very surprised,” Harry says, mildly, when he and Ron – mostly Harry – have finished their rant about Malfoy.

“Well,” Hermione says, shifting on the sofa. “I knew all of this.”

“What?” Harry and Ron ask.

Hermione sighs and puts down the box of Greek takeout she’d been eating.  

“He asked for my help, when the war ended,” she confesses. “I got him the muggle birth certificate, the passport, the school records, all of it. I had help, obviously. Luna was very helpful, unexpectedly. Turns out her father used to be a barrister, and she-”

“Why would you help him?” Harry asks. Then, “Why would he need help?”

“You’ve made him practically untouchable, I hope you know,” Ron says to his wife, kissing her cheek and reaching for another box of takeout. “It’s made our case a thousand times harder.”

“Thank you,” Hermione says, smugly. “That was the point.” She turns to Harry. “Harry, I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but Draco spent two years as Voldemort’s prisoner because he is your soulmate. He lied for us in the manor. He – understandably, I might add – wanted a break from the wizarding world, he asked for my help, and I said yes. It was decent.”

Harry knows, logically, that she is right; that he shouldn’t be as angry as he is about finding out Malfoy has made a successful life for himself in France, and, if he’s honest, he’s not entirely sure why he’s angry.

Maybe – well, a tiny bit of Harry had been excited about knowing who his soulmate was since he was told about them when he was eleven, and, after getting through the initial shock of having Malfoy’s name on his ribcage, he’d hoped they could be – normal, for once.  

He should’ve known better; nothing between them is ever simple.

After Malfoy had lied for him in the manor – and Harry knows Malfoy knows it was him, because they could’ve recognized each other blindfolded and with their hands tied simply by the feeling of it – Harry had been stupid enough to think that, since the war was over, now came the easy part.

The part he deserved.

And then Malfoy had disappeared without another word, and Harry had been left without a soulmate and with the entirety of the Wizarding World expecting him to know why his soulmate had left, where he’d gone to, and when he and Harry would get together.

It had been stressful.

“Why did you never mention it?” he asks, finally, and Hermione gives him a knowing look that Harry doesn’t quite understand.

“You would’ve looked for him.”

“I wouldn’t have!”

“Harry,” Hermione says sensibly. “The first year after the war – you were a mess.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not that it’s wrong! Or that it wasn’t understandable, or anything, it’s just-” she exhales, shaking her head, and continues quietly, sorrowful. “We all were. All of us, we were all – Malfoy was, too. You did not see him - I spent only a week visiting him in St. Mungo’s, and it was like he was still trapped in that house. I cannot imagine what it must’ve taken for him to move forward. If you’d gotten together then, you would’ve broken up.”

Harry clenches his jaw and looks away, but he knows she’s right; he barely remembers the year after the war, drowned in a haze of alcohol and sex and potions and clubs and anything that could make him feel even a little better for a second.  

Hermione, though looking better from the outside, had been just as bad; she’d thrown herself into her work in a way that had meant she’d needed potions to keep up, and had had a brief addiction to a wizarding version of Adderall, five times as potent. She had spent almost an entire year struggling to stop after Ron and Harry had found out. There’s too much to fix, she’d said, frustrated. I can’t do it any other way.

Ron had been, surprisingly, the least self-destructive of them; he’d spent the first three months in bed, without moving at all, barely eating, and without speaking to anyone. He’d begun getting better after that – he’d seen a mind healer, and had later dragged Hermione and Harry with him, too – and now, thankfully, they’re all successful, functional people.

None of them forget, though.

Harry was surrounded by people who’d gone through what he did, by people who somewhat understood.  

He couldn't imagine Malfoy having to live through it in the muggle world, with no one who could understand why he couldn’t sleep at night, why he got lost in his own head.

“I’m going to talk to him again,” he says stubbornly.

Hermione’s smile is wry. “I know you are.”

*

“Holy shit,” Malfoy jumps when he walks out of his apartment and finds Harry standing there, leaning against the wall. “Don’t you know how to knock, Potter?”

“Would you have opened the door?” Harry asks with a raised eyebrow.

Malfoy glares at him. “If someone won’t open the door for you, the polite thing to do is leave.”

Harry ignores him. “Are you a doctor?”

Malfoy is wearing lavender scrubs, with a navy blue Henley underneath thick white shoes.

“Nurse,” Malfoy corrects, and then seems surprised at himself for having answered. He crosses his arms across his chest defensively. “I’m a neonatal nurse at the hospital.”

“Is it far?”

Malfoy shakes his head mutely.

“I’ll walk you,” Harry offers. Malfoy looks surprised and more than a little bit suspicious, but he chews on his lower lip and nods. Harry lets Malfoy lead the way, and, together, silently, they walk towards the hospital where Malfoy works.

St. Remy de Provence is unexpectedly beautiful; it’s small, and much quieter than Harry’s used to – magical London is busy and loud on the best of days – but it’s cozy, and Malfoy looks truly peaceful.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” Malfoy asks finally, quietly. “I’m not going to help you with your case.”

“I don’t have a case anymore.” Harry shrugs. “I was transferred.”

He’d gone to Robards after he’d seen Malfoy, and had admitted he couldn’t work the case. Robards had already another team waiting.

Malfoy gives a humorless smile. “Should I be expecting another Auror at my door soon, then?”

Harry shakes his head. “I told them you didn’t know anything.”

Malfoy blinks, stunned for a second, and then mutters a quiet ‘thank you’.

They continue walking in silence, and then Harry decides to simply say it.  

“I want you to come back.” Malfoy immediately stiffens, and Harry can see he is going to refuse outright, which is why he continues quickly. “It doesn’t have to be right now. I don’t mean to pressure you, and I know you - I know you’ve been dealing with – well, everything, like the rest of us, but – it's not the same without you.”

He wishes he were lying, but he’s not; he’d been unable to sleep the night before, and had, very slowly, very painfully, realized that he’s actually missed Malfoy, all this time. Sixth year without him was worse than ever, and through being on the run, Harry had, secretly, wondered where he was, all the time. He'd checked every day, nearly every hour, his soulmark with Draco’s name in his handwriting, only to make sure that it was still inked black and not a faded grey, to know he wasn’t dead.

Seeing him at the manor – and that is not a memory Harry will ever forget. Seeing Bellatrix dragging him forward with a chain wrapped around his neck had sent blinding fury through Harry – had been a breath of fresh air and relief where there was none, if only for a few seconds. Losing him again so shortly after, when he’d disappeared after being discharged, had been unbearable, even on top of everything else.

“I can’t,” Malfoy whispers.

“What?”

“I can’t.” Malfoy clears his throat, looks away. “I meant it when I said I was a muggle, Potter. I – we're soulmates, and I’ve missed you for some – some reason-” he lets out a disbelieving laugh and shakes his head. “I can’t do magic.”

Harry cannot speak. Then, “What?”

“I can’t do magic anymore,” Malfoy says, louder. “When I was – there - my wand was taken away, and I spent - I spent two years without being able to even touch a wand, let alone do any magic, and – afterwards, I was so – so terrified of them I couldn’t bring myself to grab one.”

“Have you tried?”

Malfoy gives him a look. “Obviously. My therapist – she's a muggle, so I had to come up with some pretty creative metaphors, and I think she knows I'm lying to her – she suggested I try to get more comfortable to eventually start doing it again. I worked on it, and I’m not – afraid anymore, not really, I can be around wands, but - I can’t do magic. I’ve tried, even with the simplest of spells, and I can’t. She says – it's just trauma, I know that, but I can’t.”

Harry stays quiet; he cannot imagine not being able to do magic. It had been one of the few things that got him through everything after the war, and having it taken away – well, fuck.

“I’m sorry,” he says uselessly.

Malfoy gives a tense shrug. “I’ve gotten used to it. But I can’t go back.”

“I-”

“I have to go in.” Malfoy gestures to the big hospital on their right. “I’ll... see you later?”

Harry nods, and watches as Malfoy walks away.

*

“This is crossing so many lines,” Hermione had said, when Harry had told her of his plan.

Harry is aware he is crossing many, many lines, but he is now outside of Malfoy’s door, so he cannot back down.

He knocks, and, a few seconds later, the door opens; Malfoy seems to have just woken up – and it’s nearly four in the afternoon, but Harry doesn’t know what kind of shifts he works at the hospital, so he’s not judging him too much – and blinks owlishly at him for a few seconds before sliding his gaze to the person standing next to Harry.

“Potter,” he says, very slowly. “What have you done?”

“This is Healer Bo,” Harry says, placing his hand on Malfoy’s door to stop him from – predictably – slamming the door on their faces. Healer Bo is a little old man with dark, greying hair, shorter than both of them but also probably smarter than them combined. “I know you’ve said your therapist thinks it’s trauma, but what if it’s something different?”

“Potter.” And oh, okay, Malfoy is furious, as is evident by the quickly blooming color on his face. “I am not some victim you can focus your – your hero complex on. I told you those things to explain, not to have you turn me into some pet project!”

“That’s not what I'm doing!” Harry defends. “I’m only trying to help you-”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“Well, deal with it, you git, because we are soulmates and I want to help you, and I want you to come back, and I want you to be able to do magic because you deserve it!”

“So you just want me to uproot my entire life for you?” Malfoy demands. “Why don’t you come to the muggle world instead of setting me up with a healer appointment I didn’t ask for? He’s not going to be able to do anything!”

“How do you know that?” Harry pushes. “Your therapist is muggle, Malfoy-”

“Don’t call me that, I’m not-”

“Draco, you can’t have told her everything, so her diagnosis can’t be reliable-”

“Well, too bad! I’m not letting some random healer you’ve brought to my door run tests on me-”

“I’ve already run them,” Healer Bo says calmly. “Your magical core is damaged.”

Silence.  

“What?” Draco asks, fragile.

“It could be trauma, as well, but it’s not only that,” Healer Bo explains. “Your magical core is damaged. I need you to come into my office so I can run some more tests.”

Harry spreads his hands in an ‘I told you so’ gesture, and Draco throws balled socks at him.

*

“What did he say?” Harry asks anxiously, standing up as soon as Malfoy comes out the door, Healer Bo following close behind him. “What did you say? What’s wrong?”

Healer Bo and Draco share a look.

“I told you he frets,” Draco tells him.

“You were right,” Healer Bo agrees solemnly, and before Harry can be properly offended, he continues. “Draco's magical core is damaged because of Crucio.”

“That can happen?” Harry asks, frowning.

“That’s what Crucio does,” Healer Bo says. “It cracks one’s magical core. It’s why it feels like everything is burning. If it’s done enough, the magical core can be damaged irreparably.”

Harry holds his breath. “Is - Draco’s-”

“No,” Healer Bo says; Draco can complain all he likes, but he’s beaming beside Healer Bo. “It’s not irreparably damaged. It will be a long process, however. You’ll both need to be patient.”

They both nod, quickly, and Harry asks, “Do I – should I do something?”

“Support your soulmate,” Healer Bo says simply. Draco’s cheeks turn red, but Harry nods seriously. He’ll do anything he can. “I’ve already given Draco the Potions he’ll need to be taking, and we will have to perform Healing spells once every two days. You can either come in here, or I can send one of my interns-”

“We’ll come in,” Harry says immediately; he assumes Bo’s interns are good – Bo is, after all, one of the highest praised healers in the world – but he wants Bo to do it. He won’t trust anyone else with his soulmate.

“Alright,” Bo says. “I’ll see you in two days.”

*

“What are you thinking about?” Harry had taken Draco out for a late lunch; they’re at the only restaurant reporters never find Harry, a tiny Indian takeout place. The lady who runs it loves Harry, so she never calls the reporters, and doesn’t allow anyone else to call them, either. He’d figured Draco wouldn’t want to be in a Prophet article on his first day back.

“A lot of things,” Draco admits. “The possibility of getting my magic back. The fact that I didn’t quit the hospital before we left, which means that technically I have a shift in twenty minutes, which I figure I’m not going to make. The fact that I have nowhere to live and no money to get a place to live-”

“Come live with me,” Harry blurts. He’s never had the best brain-to-mouth filter.

“What?”

“Live with me,” he repeats. “I’ve - a flat. I moved out of Grimmauld place, it was too – too many memories, but – we can live together, and – if you want to leave, later, I’ll let you, but – well, I'd like it if you stayed.”

Draco stares at him for a moment, and then looks away, a pink flush spreading across his cheeks. “Alright.”

Harry can’t help but grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

*

The recovery of Draco’s magical core is, as the healer had said, slow. Healer Bo tells them that it really helps that they’re together, because being far from one’s soulmate can be greatly stressful, and Harry is glad to be doing what he can. Apart from that, they settle into Harry’s flat quite nicely.

Harry refuses to sleep on the couch – he was about to offer, but then Draco demanded it, so Harry would be damned before he gave up his bed – and Draco refuses to not sleep in the biggest bed available, so they share Harry’s bed, which Harry thinks should feel weird, but it doesn’t.

It feels... right. Like home, sort of.

Time passes much quicker than it used to, without Draco; Harry takes a year leave from the Aurors so he can dedicate, fully, to his soulmate. Draco gets reintegrated to the magical world slowly, and though he cannot do magic, he’s evidently glad to be back.

They even get pets – a fat kneazle that they call Morgana and a huge black crup that they call Godric – and pretty much build their life together. Draco opens a bakery – and really, of all things Harry imagined Draco doing, this was not one of them – and it turns out that Muggle treats are not widely known in the wizarding world, and they are widely liked, once Draco starts selling them. Because he runs the place, he only works during the morning, which means they get to spend their afternoons lounging together in their flat, watching the telly or teasing each other.

“Potter, I swear to Merlin,” Draco growls, glaring tightly at Harry, who’s holding his favorite mug as high as he can reach.

“I’ll give it to you,” Harry tells him. “As soon as you admit that you’re the one who got our reservation wrong.”

“I did not! You said seven!”

“I told you, a thousand times, that our reservation was at six!”

“No, you didn’t!”  

Turns out, being soulmates didn’t really stop their fighting, but it’s different now. Harry is rarely truly angry while they argue, unlike before, and Draco is the same way.  

“Yes, I did!”

“No you bloody didn’t!” Draco snaps. “Give me my mug back right now, or I’ll - I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Harry asks smugly. “What will you do to me, Draco?”

Draco glares at him, ears red in his anger, and then grabs Harry’s wand off the counter and yells, ‘Accio’.

The mug flies straight from Harry’s hand into Draco’s. They’re both so surprised it slips from his hands, shattering on the floor.

Neither of them care.

“Did I just-”

“Did you just-”  

They look at each other for a moment, before they both break into the biggest grins imaginable. Harry laughs and pulls him in for a tight hug, lifting him and spinning around in their kitchen, miraculously not stepping on any shards of ceramic.  

“You just did magic, Draco!” Harry practically yells, not putting him down. “Magic!”

“I did!” Draco’s ecstatic, over the moon, grin wider than Harry’s ever seen. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

And he grabs Harry’s face roughly and pulls him in for a deep kiss.

They both freeze momentarily, and Harry puts him down.

“I’m sorry,” Draco begins immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - I didn’t - I shouldn’t have-”

Harry pulls him in for another kiss, deeper this time, and pulls him closer, grabbing his hips.  

“Don’t apologize,” he pleads. “I’ve been wanting to do that for ages.”

“You have?” Draco sounds surprised.

“Yes,” Harry says, and he kisses him again. Draco wraps his arms around his neck, and Harry lifts him again, sitting him in their kitchen counter, and he can’t get enough, he can’t stop, he can’t.

When they both pull away to breathe – a long, long time later – Harry cannot stop grinning at him.

“I love you,” he says. “Soulmate.”

Draco’s grin is the only thing Harry wants to see for the rest of his life.  

“I love you, too,” he says, rubbing their noses together sweetly. “Soulmate.”

And Harry kisses him again, and he thinks that if everything he had to go through was leading to this moment, he’d do it all again, a thousand times, however many times it was necessary, because this? This is everything.

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

Soulmate AU commissioned by @chinike

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[flowercrown-bard]

Birds Still Sing When They Fall From The Sky

part 1 /  part 2 /  part 3  /  part 4  / part 5  / part 6  / part 7/  part 8 /  part 9 /  part 10 /  part 11  /  part 12  / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 /  part 16 / part 17 belongs to this

Content waring: memory loss, Alzheimer, use of the name Julian, minor allusions to future character death. Probably counts as hurt/no comfort

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“I need to talk to you,” Geralt said, his hands twitching at his sides.

“I like it when you talk,” Jaskier said with a bittersweet smile, beautiful in its earnestness but lacking the teasing tone Jaskier would have used before.

Despite his words, Jaskier didn’t push Geralt to keep talking. He just kept on looking at him expectantly, while Geralt’s jaw worked as if grinding his teeth would make the words smaller and easier to come out.

“It’s almost winter,” he said finally. Small words. One sentence at the time. It wasn’t easier. “It’s going to get cold.”

Jaskier didn’t react. Whether because he had nothing to say, not noticing the truth in Geralt’s words or because he wanted to be attentive to Geralt and let him say his piece, Geralt couldn’t tell.

Somehow the lack of response made it even harder to form the words.

“Do you remember Eskel?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier’s lips twitched. It was only a miniscule shift, the movement of a single muscle, but it brightened Jaskier’s entire face.

“I miss him.” Geralt’s admission was quiet. Unplanned. He hadn’t wanted to talk about this, hadn’t wanted to make it personal. It would be easier if he could keep his own emotion out of it. “We won’t see him again this year.”

Something unspoken clung to the words like an echo one couldn’t hear clearly enough to understand. Geralt didn’t want to understand.

“Kaer Morhen is colder than here. Too far away from any healer and –“ and there were ghosts, memories haunting the walls that Geralt had been able to ignore for most of his life. He didn’t think he would be able to ever return if another ghost would walk the halls because Geralt in his selfishness had brought Jaskier to Kaer Morhen, where there would be no help for him if anything happened.

Geralt became still, unnaturally so, until with an unknown force, his hands started shaking. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Jaskier.

“We can’t go to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt pressed forth, intending to make his voice sound stronger than before and failing miserable.

Jaskier’s face showed no change, as if the words Geralt had said were meaningless. But he did reach out a hand, brushing it against Geralt’s and let it linger there, not yet taking it but giving Geralt the option to.

He took it wihtout hesitaion. Geralt clung to Jaskier’s hand as though it was the only thing keeping him from drowning. As though Jaskier wasn’t already sunk deeper than Geralt ever would.

--

Jaskier didn’t seem to mind staying at the coast. That, at least was a relief, even though last year’s memory of Jaskier’s excitement at the prospect of seeing their family again played over and over in Geralt’s mind. A family Jaskier might not even know existed anymore, even if their mention still brought a smile to his face without fail.

At least he didn’t get to miss them.

Not like he used to. Not like they missed Jaskier.

Geralt tried to distract himself from the ache such thoughts brought with them. As long as he worked with his hands, his mind didn’t have time to go down that line of thought until its end.

So instead of thinking about what he was missing – too much, everything, nothing he could bring back again – he tended to what he had.

Jaskier sat on a bench, watching Geralt cut back the withered flowers. Geralt was so focussed on his work that for the longest time, he didn’t see the sour look on Jaskier’s face, barely concealed by a cracked mask of aloofness.

Geralt furrowed his brow, one of his hands still holding onto the rose bush he was in the middle of cutting down, when his eyes had fallen on Jaskier’s disapproving frown.

Geralt opened his mouth, but before he could ask Jaskier what was wrong, Jaskier spoke up.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

Geralt closed his moth again, dumbfounded. After a moment he asked “Do what? Cut the roses?” he looked back at the pitiful bush. “They have wilted. It’s better to cut them now so that new ones can come next spring.”

“Why?” Jaskier said, something sharp blazing in his eyes. “Are they not pretty enough anymore? Do you have no use for them anymore?”

“Well, no. I don’t. We can’t sell them like this and –“

“Don’t punish them for being flowers! You watered them and made them pretty. You are the reason they are like that. You can’t just get rid of them just because they cannot be what you want them to be any longer.”

Geralt didn’t know how to respond, so instead of saying words that would surely be the wrong ones, he just let go of the roses.

Immediately, Jaskier’s shoulders relaxed and he slumped forward a bit.

Wiping his hands on his trousers, Geralt moved over to him. For a moment, Jaskier tensed, but when Geralt sat down next to him, he sagged again.

“That’s why they have thorns.” Jaskier’s hands clenched and unclenched. “Because they are pretty. And they know that once they don’t have that anymore, they have to protect themselves. No one will want them anymore.”

“You thought about that a lot, haven’t you?” Geralt asked, studying Jaskier closely. As if he would even know if he had thought about it before of if he was even making sense.

“Of course I have thought about what I am,” Jaskier said, clearly aiming for sounding irritated, but something in his tone made it seem like admitting defeat.

“You don’t have thorns.”

“It would be better if I did. I can’t choose to be a weed. Should make the best of what I am.”

“You are the best.” The words were rough like grating stones, but they left Geralt’s lips light as feathers.

Jaskier huffed, frustration coming off of him in waves. “Always the best. Until one day I’m not and I will get discarded for the next in line. The next perfect flower.” Jaskier’s eyes slid from the withered flowers to the dandelions still fighting for their lives, stubbornly refusing to back down despite the frost coating them. A strange smile quirked Jaskier’s lips. “You didn’t pull the weeds.”

Geralt’s frown smoothed out. “It would be no use.”

“No use,” Jaskier repeated slowly, as if tasting the words on his tongue. “They are better than useful.”

“How so?”

“Because they don’t wilt. Flowers die slowly and become ugly until they get cut away, no matter how many thorns they have.” He paused, tilting his head to the side looking on in contemplation. “Dandelion’s don’t fester. They become more beautiful even when their time to bloom is over. And then, when they do finally go, they are breathtaking. No one notices a dandelion while it’s in full bloom. But have you ever seen a child that didn’t watch gleefully as the seeds flew off?”

Geralt scooted over, until his thigh brushed Jaskier’s. “People have always noticed you.”

Jaskier scoffed. “For being a perfect rose.”

“I noticed you,” Geralt said. Maybe it would make a difference to Jaskier. “I don’t get rid of weeds.”

Jaskier’s eyes lingered on the dandelions a moment longer, until they turned back to Geralt, searching him for something. Geralt hoped he would find it, whatever it was.

“Have you ever made a wish on a dandelion?”

Apparently Geralt’s expression was answer enough. He felt a pang at the disappointed smile Jaskier gave him. “I will make one next year.”

Jaskier’s smile widened and the gentle pressure against Geralt’s leg increased for a split second before Jaskier pulled away.

Jaskier straightened his jacket and put that broken mask back on. Geralt’s heart cracked at the sight.

“You should probably get back to your work,” Jaskier said in a tone that sounded so unlike him, distant and almost cold, that Geralt’s insides clenched painfully. “I shouldn’t keep you from it.” When Geralt didn’t make a move to get up, Jaskier added “Don’t you have roses to cut?”

Geralt shrugged. “Not if you don’t want me to. They are your roses.” He pressed his lips together tightly. “And just so you know. You don’t need thorns. Not with me.”

Even if you don’t know who I am.

--

Jaskier changed. It didn’t really come as a surprise, not anymore. Not after all the changes Jaskier had gone through already.

But something seemed different about this time, something that gave Geralt pause and made him look closer at Jaskier in hopes of finding the itch that came with not knowing.

Then, one day while they were sitting at the table drinking tea, it hit him. This change was happening backwards. Somehow, Jaskier was getting better.

Geralt couldn’t help but stare at him, his heart racing in his chest with a burning hope that almost couldn’t be contained, taking in every detail he could about Jaskier’s change.

The cup in Jaskier’s hand still shook, but a blind man could see that Jaskier was putting all his focus on keeping it as steady as possible, not even letting himself get distracted by the light snowfall that could be seen through the window.

Jaskier also seemed taller somehow. He sat straighter than he had in years – in fact, Geralt couldn’t think of a time when Jaskier had ever paid attention to his posture while not surrounded by nobles he needed to impress – until his aching back made him hunch over into a more comfortable position again. Even then, he often endured the prim and proper posture with a grimace, until it got too much or Geralt gave him some of Yennefer’s medicine against his aches.

When Jaskier wasn’t stubbornly refusing to hunch over, he had a strange look on his face, his body tense despite the relaxed posture and his eyes darting left and right as if expecting to get scolded any minute.

And lastly – at least as far as Geralt was aware – Jaskier never slept in any more. No matter how often Geralt mentioned the dark circles under his eyes or reminded Jaskier that he didn’t have to get up in time for anything, Jaskier continued to wake early and hide his yawns behind a façade of unneeded discipline he had never shown during their time on the road.

So yes, Jaskier was getting better, but Geralt noted with a sense of dawning dread that he was also getting so much worse. Haunted, tense, constantly looking over his shoulder as though he thought someone was looking at him, judging him, ready to cut him down once he showed signs of withering.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said quietly, so as not to startle him. Jaskier didn’t seem to hear him, too focussed on his cup to take note of anything around him. “Jaskier!”

At Geralt’s raised voice Jaskier flinched.

Ripped out of his concentration so suddenly, Jaskier lost control over the cup in his hands, the tea sloshing over before Geralt could jump in to steady the cup again.

“No,” Jaskier breathed, suddenly rigid, his widened eyes darting to the door. Mortified, he stared back at the wet spot on his shirt where the thankfully cooled down tea had landed.

He frantically started rubbing at it, only looking up when Geralt gently took his hands in his, stilling his motion.

“It’s alright,” Geralt said softly. “Nothing happened.”

“I can’t let them see it.” Jaskier’s shaky voice broke Geralt’s heart.

“There’s no one here. Just us.”

Jaskier didn’t look convinced. His tongue nervously licked his lips and his eyes flickered over to the door again, before nodding faintly.

Minutes seemed to pass, in which Geralt just watched Jaskier relax and tense over and over again.

“You are safe here,” Geralt said finally, the constant anxiety in Jaskier getting too much to bear. “Whatever you are afraid of, it can’t reach you, Jaskier.”

At the last word confusion overwrote the hunted look in Jaskier’s eyes.

“What?”

“You are safe,” Geralt repeated with all the conviction he could muster, doing his best to emulate the tone Jaskier used to use on him whenever he came back from a hunt, pumped up with potions and pacing like a caged animal.

“No, I mean…Jaskier?” He said his own name as though it sounded foreign to him. “I…Sorry to disappoint you, but I believe you have me confused with someone else.”

Geralt sighed inwardly, while his face remained stoically blank. One would think a few months would be enough to get used to the idea that the man he loved didn’t remember him, but Geralt knew not even an immortal’s lifetime wouldn’t ever be enough for that.

Brazing himself for the unavoidable blank stare he would receive, he said “I am Geralt.”

Not even a twitch on Jaskier’s face. His name was completely erased from his mind.

At the very least, Jaskier didn’t draw back as he had done a few times before. He also didn’t lean forward eagerly trying to befriend the man whose heart he unwittingly held in his hand.

This time, Jaskier held out his hand to Geralt in a clear invitation.

Briefly, Geralt hesitated. The gesture looked almost like he was supposed to kiss his knuckles. As he lifted Jaskier’s hand to his lips, he risked a glance at his face, stopping shortly before his lips could touch his skin. Jaskier’s face didn’t show any rejection.

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat, as he pressed his lips against Jaskier’s knuckles, not breaking eye contact for fear that he had misunderstood.

But Jaskier only nodded slightly and said “Pleased to meet you. I am Julian.”

It was as if a rug was pulled out from under Geralt. He froze, his light grip on Jaskier’s hand tightening just like Geralt’s chest.

“What?” Though his mind was racing with questions and fears, this one word was the only thing he managed to force out of his mouth.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

“No. No, you’re not. You’re Jaskier.” Even while Geralt said it, he could taste the bitter lie in his own words. The truth was Geralt had no idea who Jaskier was right now. All he had was Jaskier’s word and the way he carried himself that looked so painfully unlike Jaskier.

The slight narrowing of Jaskier’s eyes was the only indication of any reaction to Geralt’s words. Apart from that, he was all the viscount he seemed to be in his own mind.

Before his eyes, Geralt had watched Jaskier become a stranger to him and he hadn’t even realised it until now. How long had this been going on? How long had Jaskier thought himself trapped in this life he had spent so long escaping from?

His eyes were drawn to the wet spot on Jaskier’s shirt. Such a minor inconvenience that had Jaskier tense up in anxious anticipation of who knows what.

“Come on,” Geralt said, holding his hand out, hoping that Jaskier wouldn’t reject it. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” After a brief pause, Geralt added with forced casualness that couldn’t hide the tightness in his throat “Julian.”

The name was heavy like rocks, cutting like shards of glass grazing his throat. But it coaxed Jaskier into reacting, into taking Geralt’s hand and letting himself be guided to the bedroom, where he sat down on the bed and let Geralt change his shirt without protest.

They were quiet while Geralt put the new shirt on Jaskier.

Jaskier endured Geralt’s care with little to no reaction, only the slightest press into his touches, as if he was afraid of them being noticed. Geralt pretended not to, as he knelt down in front of Jaskier to tighten the fastenings, wishing with every fibre of his being that Jaskier would grant him more of his brief touch.

It was Jaskier, who finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

“Who is Jaskier?”

Geralt had expected the question to come, but nothing had prepared him for the way it was said. He froze, looking up at the stranger sitting before him, cold and aloof and distant.

And with such longing in his voice that even the most even tone couldn’t hide it.

Every part of Geralt yearned to give him what he was longing for. If only he knew how.

Jaskier didn’t repeat his question. Geralt half-hoped that he had already forgotten about it, had moved on in his mind to places that hurt less. But Jaskier was looking at him with hopeless, starving desperation and Geralt felt his mouth moving without his permission.

But despite his inadequate and rough words, Jaskier looked mesmerised.

“Jaskier is the best bard the continent ever knew. The best man I ever knew.” His throat became dry.  “Stubborn and stupid and unable to shut up.” His wet laugh faded into a soft tone. “He is brilliant.”

He didn’t know what other words he spoke. Too many, it seemed. Too few. Never enough to encompass everything Jaskier was.

“Where is he now?”

A sound escaped Geralt that might have been a sob. “I don’t know. Gone.”

“For how long?”

Geralt had to close his eyes. He couldn’t bear looking into Jaskier’s face, slowly revealed by the fallen pieces of the mask that broke off with every word Geralt said.

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “I don’t even know when he started leaving. I don’t think he will come back.”

Jaskier tilted his head to the side. He was quiet for a long time and Geralt didn’t dare breathe while Jaskier assessed him, silently begging the blue eyes to pierce his skull and read his thoughts.

Please come back. Come back to me!

He didn’t. Jaskier stayed hidden in his realm of shadow, leaving only Julian behind.

“And yet you love him still?”

The words came unexpected. They were enough to dissipate the tightness in his chest, replacing it with something light and burning.

“I don’t think it would be possible not to love him.”

Jaskier smiled at that, the mask finally coming off completely. “Sounds lovely.”

“It is.” Lovely and painful and hurting him more than anything else in his life. And it was worth every bit of it.

“Do you think I’ll ever know what it feels like?” He sounded frail, like a touch that was only slightly too harsh would make him crumble.

Geralt reached out to touch. Jaskier stayed solid, though his shoulders slumped. His posture clashing horribly and beautifully with the name of viscount he still claimed.

“I know you do.” Rarely had Geralt ever been so sure of anything in his life.

Jaskier must have felt it, for he leaned in after eying the door suspiciously for a moment.

“I wish I were a bard.” His voice was but a whisper, but his confession was loud as the roaring thunder. “So I could write a song about what you and he have.”

Something unfurled in Geralt’s chest and he traced the places where lute calluses used to be with his thumb.

“He named himself after a weed.” He didn’t know why he said it, but the words seemed fitting somehow. The discomfort of saying something so mundane was worth it, when Jaskier’s face lit up as it hadn’t in days, with no trace of decorum or tension.

“And is he still making you happy even after he had served his time?”

He was making Geralt miserable. He made him lose sleep and ache for what they used to have and he made him want to scream in his helplessness, but he still smiled at him and reached out to hold his hand sometimes.

“Yes,” Geralt said without a trace of hesitation. “Even now.”

“And later?”

Geralt’s blood turned to ice. “Later he will hurt me enough to make me wish that I hadn’t ever met him. But it will have been worth every moment we had together.”

Jaskier twisted his hand in Geralt’s until he could weave their fingers together.

“He must be truly lucky then.”

An involuntary laugh escaped Geralt. “I hope so or else we have collected all those seashells for nothing.”

Jaskier knitted his brows together. “What?”

Geralt’s eyes trailed down Jaskier’s neck where the broken piece of seashell still hung around his neck; not a day having passed on which Jaskier hadn’t worn it.

The warmth spread from Geralt’s chest, melting the ice in his limps. “I’ll tell you about it later. It’s a long story about a siren and a prince.”

Jaskier’s chin trembled and Geralt could almost see him biting his own cheek. “Father says a viscount shouldn’t listen to such nonsense stories.”

Geralt shrugged. “Perhaps not. But bards are surrounded by such ‘nonsense stories’. It’s up to you which path you want to be yours, really.”

Jaskier hesitated for all of one heartbeat, before the helpless longing in his eyes was replaced by giddy determination.

--

To say that it was easy having this man who didn’t even know who Jaskier was around him would be a lie. It was, however, like a small wonder; sometimes hurting, sometimes cursed, always beautiful.

After that first day when Geralt met ‘Julian’, Jaskier had become both more open and more closed off in a way.

His smiles came easier, when he woke up early he let himself get coaxed back to bed and he sometimes sat down closer to Geralt than he had allowed himself to before whenever Geralt told him a story, wishing he had Jaskier’s ability to colour the words with his voice in a way Jaskier deserved to hear.

But he was also less and less responsive. He followed Geralt around, let himself be guided and protected, but he rarely talked anymore. It was too quiet. Too empty.

As the snow fell, pilling up on their windowsill, Geralt found himself picking up the lute more and more often. It still felt strange to hold the treasured instrument in his arms. It was too small for him, too breakable.

But on some days it felt like the lute was all he had left. Whenever Geralt took it in hand, Jaskier relaxed a bit, even though he didn’t always seem to truly hear it.

It hadn’t taken long for Geralt to get frustrated and bring the lute into town for someone to tweak the pegs until the instrument didn’t sound like a yowling cat anymore.

The first time hearing the strings being in tune had made his chest ache with an unbearable heaviness. Geralt had lifted his hands off the strings as if they had cut him. But he remained sitting with the instrument in his lap, the fading notes still drifting through the air.

He still wasn’t good at playing it by any means. If Jaskier hadn’t been somewhere in his mind or far away, he might have teased Geralt about being a brute with no sense of rhythm and the natural flow of music.

His heart clenched at the mental image that would never come to pass in real life.

Straining his mind, Geralt did his best to imitate the finger placement he had seen Jaskier use so often. It was possibly the most basic chord that even children easily mastered, but to Geralt it was an accomplishment when he was finally able to play a real, albeit simple song for Jaskier. Weeks upon weeks of Geralt watching Jaskier teach Sera how to pluck the strings to make them sing finally payed off, even if it was just in such a small way. He remembered Jaskier’s patience with his student and the memory of the gentle but firm encouragement he gave the new bard until she had the confidence to match the skill, was enough to push Geralt through his awkward attempts at playing.

Jaskier didn’t stir much when Geralt played for him. Geralt felt foolish. Here he was playing a children’s lullaby for a master bard who had serenaded him with ballads beyond compare.

But Jaskier leaned in close, a smile on his lips that stretched the wrinkles around his mouth, though his eyes were still distant.

Every once in a while when Geralt messed up even this simplest of songs and silently cursed his own clumsiness at playing, Jaskier reached out and corrected Geralt’s finger placement. It didn’t even seem like a conscious action and when Geralt looked Jaskier in the eye, he saw little passion, but the fact that Jaskier still somehow knew how the chords were meant to be played even when he wasn’t the one playing made Geralt’s chest want to burst.

He held the lute out for Jaskier, offering it to its rightful owner. Jaskier stared at it with a mixture of longing and the false dispassion that had slipped onto his face every once in a while.

He didn’t reach out to take the lute, but he didn’t push it away either when Geralt put it in Jaskier’s lap.

“Viscounts don’t play around with frivolous things like music.” The clipped words sounded foreign coming from Jaskier’s mouth, like lines in a play or the repetition of someone else’s words.

Of all the things for Jaskier to remember, this shouldn’t be it.

Geralt shrugged, a vain attempt at casualness that he probably missed by a mile. “Neither do witchers.”

Geralt’s heart sped up in restless anticipation when Jaskier lifted his arms seemingly automatically and rested his fingers where they belonged. He didn’t play, but the sight of him like this – like himself – was radiant enough.

An almost shy and hesitant smile graced Jaskier’s lips. “And yet here we are.”

Geralt’s heart clenched and he felt something in him come loose.

“And yet here we are,” he said in agreement.

The moment they shared was brittle but charged with unspoken emotion. Geralt couldn’t begin to guess at what this moment meant for Jaskier; he could barely make sense of all the feelings rushing through himself. He knew this meant something entirely different for Jaskier than it did for him, but that didn’t make it mean any less.

“Play for me?” He asked quietly, afraid to break what they had between them.

No reply left Jaskier’s lips, but his hands answered for him. While Jaskier’s eyes lost focus again, watching shapes and images only he could see, he strummed the lute like Geralt had done often times before. No chords, no rhythm. Just Jaskier.

---

The flames danced high into the night sky as if they were trying to reach the stars.

It was surreal, sitting in the same spot they had sat in half a year ago. With everything that had happened – everything Geralt had lost and done his best to rebuilt – the winter months had raced past him until they once again found themselves apart from the solstice festivities in town.

“The nights will be shorter from now on,” he said, just to fill the silence.

Jaskier didn’t answer, just stared into the bonfire. It was almost the same as during the summer solstice. Back then, Geralt hadn’t known just how little time he had had left with Jaskier. He hadn’t known Jaskier would disappear and leave Julian in his stead, who then left as well, leaving nothing but a shell behind.

Ambers flew into the sand, pushed away from the fire by a gust of wind.

Geralt felt rather than saw Jaskier shiver next to him. Instinctively, Geralt laid an arm around him and pulled him closer, trying to shield him from the wind that tugged Jaskier’s scarf loose. Geralt’s lips quirked into a broken smile when he saw Jaskier’s nose scrunch up in disgust at the scarf as if it was the ugliest piece of clothing he had ever worn, which in all honesty seemed quite likely.

“Don’t be so critical,” Geralt said, though he knew better than to expect an answer. “I loved the scarf when you gifted it to me. It was our first winter we spend here together, remember?” He left a pause for a reply that wouldn’t come. “You were so frustrated while knitting, but you didn’t stop, because apparently ‘knitting is what old people do’.”

Jaskier’s fingers trailed over the frayed ends, and odd little smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes didn’t waver.  

Geralt could have said more, could have talked about how after a week of Geralt constantly wearing the scarf just to tease him, Jaskier had declared it was too ugly to be worn and had told Geralt to get rid of it. He could have told Jaskier about how even as he nodded, he had known he would never throw it away, instead putting it in a box where Jaskier wouldn’t look. He could have told him how occasionally he still took the scarf out of that box when Jaskier was too preoccupied or too far gone to notice how Geralt smiled at the feel of the scratchy but warm wool.

Taking the scarf out of the box and laying it around Jaskier’s neck had almost choked Geralt. He had wished with every part of him that Jaskier would scoff indignantly that he still had the scarf or make a joke about Geralt being sentimental.

Instead he had gotten no reaction at all, until now. The small displeased frown on Jaskier’s face was more than he had dared to hope for.

Geralt couldn’t supress the shudder than ran down his spine. He needed more. He needed so much more from Jaskier, but nothing he had any right to ask for and nothing Jaskier would be able to give.

An arm found its place around Geralt’s middle. He startled, when Jaskier pulled him slightly closer, rubbing his arm as if wanting to warm him, his free hand tracing a pattern on Geralt’s thigh. It took Geralt a moment to realise what it was. The shape of igni.

Geralt felt something break inside of him, though he couldn’t tell whether it was his heart of glass or a dam that had held back everything he hadn’t allowed himself to feel. Either way, he felt warmth spread through his chest all the way down to his fingertips and to where Jaskier was touching him.

“Thank you,” Geralt said tightly, almost choking on his words. “I- thank you. I didn’t get to tell you during the summer. No, that’s not true. I had my chance. I missed it. I won’t miss it again.”

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You said we should tell each other what we were thankful for to have that be a light for us. The thing is – I don’t know how. The memory of what I’m grateful for can’t be enough. It can’t replace you.”

He hesitated for the briefest of moments, dreading that he wouldn’t find the right words again. All that Jaskier was couldn’t be contained in mere words. He was laughter and dances and songs in the night and dandelion seeds flying off with the wind.

And yet, Geralt’s mouth was able to form the words that hadn’t left his throat in summer when the birds had sung and the flowers had bloomed. It was easier to find them now that the bitter wind bit into his skin and the thought of home and family made him ache. It was easier when the only beautiful thing he had left was the man curled into his side.

“It can’t replace you,” he said again, firmer this time. “Because the Path is a cold and lonely road and it is unbearably dark. And then you had to find me and smile at me as if you were the sun, making it your mission to single-handedly light up the Path. And you did.” A laugh that might just as well have been a sob escaped him. “You fucking did. And you continue to do it. Every time I think I am alone in the dark again you pluck a single lute string or you listen to me or you smile at me the way you do, even when you don’t know who I am, as if I was good and worth your smiles.”

Geralt’s voice broke off. He ran a hand down his face, though no tears came. Maybe he did it because of the lack of tears, because he should be crying but for some godsforsaken reason he was unable to.

“A memory of you can’t replace you. I don’t want it to replace you. But…” the words didn’t want to come, but they needed to. Jaskier deserved to hear them. He would have wanted to, even if they might not reach him now. He needed to know that he had done enough for Geralt. “but I am thankful, more than anything, that I you gifted these memories to me. They won’t be enough, but at least they will be there, when…when you aren’t anymore.”

The last words were spoken so softly, Geralt wasn’t even sure they had ever left his tongue at all.

A gentle touch on his arm had him lifting his head again. Jaskier still wasn’t looking at him, but his face was sombre. He was so heartbreakingly beautiful like this; wrinkles and thin hair and eyes that often didn’t see him anymore, all basked in the soft glow of the fire that held his attention while Geralt was baring his soul.

Geralt released a shuddering breath and waited. Jaskier didn’t say anything, but he did lean his head against Geralt’s shoulder, once again tracing igni into his skin.

Jaskier’s silence for once was something precious. Geralt relished in it, closing his eyes to better hear all it left unsaid.

The wind dimmed down and the bonfire started to crumble, when Geralt began to hum one of the traditional songs Jaskier would always sing for the solstices.

His voice was bad, wrecked from the dry sobs and unable to carry the tune, regardless of how often he had heard Jaskier sing it. The melody didn’t come right to him, and yet, Jaskier recognised it or at the very least recognised the intention behind it, for after the first verse, he joined in.

Jaskier’s voice, too, was bad, rough from disuse and the cold air and unable to carry the tune, regardless of how often he had sung it as if he had been the one to write it.

As the festivities in the distant town died down, two voices on the edge of the sea drifted into the night like flames, reaching towards the stars. They went unheard by anyone except maybe the few seagulls who weren’t yet asleep and who to anyone but themselves might sound like they were croaking, when to themselves the seabirds’ cries made music sweeter than any nightingale.

Maybe not even the seabirds heard them, their voices drowned out in the wind, cracking of the fire and sounds of the sea.

They sang nonetheless.

The people of their village still knew that they were there. People all over the continent might spent the night and any day to come telling each other tales about the witcher and the bard who had found their happiness in each other.

Geralt didn’t care about such tales. He didn’t care if his name would live on in tales and songs, for he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Jaskier’s name would live on in him. All he cared about in this moment was the man in his arms, leaning against him despite everything and singing as he had always done.

Jaskier had sung while Geralt had fallen for him and while Jaskier had fallen for him in return. He had been a lark, soaring into the sky belting his songs into all corners of the continent. Now, as Jaskier was falling slowly from the sky, tumbling down with Geralt at the bottom ready to catch him, he still sang, broken and out of tune and his voice mingling with Geralt, more beautifully than he had ever sung before.

[keepswingin]

So I'm really interested in the psyche being Addisons hair, you know, just how all the years of covering it up and trying to get rid of it would have totally scarred her somehow right? And she can't be 100% positive all the time, I wonder if you could write something using that? I know it's not much but yeah :)

She's ugly.

She's not ugly, but she truly believes she is, deep inside, and that's the worst kind of ugly there is.

It festers in the dark, latching ahold of her insides, and pulls, and pulls, and pulls until she feels like there is nothing but that horrible, sinister feeling bubbling within her, rotting like fruit past its due date, decaying like mushrooms against bark.

She is ugly, and she is rotten, and sometimes it feels like that darkness inside of her will swallow her whole before she wakes up again, leaving her to flail in the abyss, trapped with only her thoughts and that gaping chasm in her chest that only seems to grow larger, and when it doesn't scare her awake, well.

That's when she worries the most.

--

Her wig moves when they're at dinner, one time.

Anybody and everybody of importance is there, her mother explaining the needs of their town, her father sipping quietly on wine, and she reaches up to brush her hair back. The wig slips, but Addison, young and naive and far from understanding just how perfect she is expected to be, doesn't notice. It's only when the man across from her, balding and grey, glances up, and slows, fingers hovering over silverware. His eyes slide over to her mother - nothing less than perfection, not a wrinkle or crumb in sight - and he clears his throat, loud enough to catch her attention. Addison looks up from her plate at the same time her mother looks over, and there's a long heartbeat of a moment where nothing happens.

Then her mother smiles sweetly and leans close to her daughter, reaching for her arm as her lips lower to Addison's ear.

She pinches her skin hard enough to bleed as she hisses words quietly, and when her daughter stands, excusing herself to the restroom, it feels as though a million eyes are staring as she hurries to leave, wiping blood from pale skin.

--

The chemicals burn.

Dye doesn't work, the wigs never perfect enough, and one night her mother decides to throw care to the wayside. Addison, older now, barbed by spiteful words and sharp looks, wonders if there was any there to begin with.

It's almost a relief to her when they don't work, when all is said and done and her skin is red and her head itches and her white hair remains, shining despite the poison it's been drenched in.

The relief is an...odd feeling, and she thinks she's supposed to be ashamed of it, confused and silent as her mother stares at her in the mirror, jaw clenched, eyes burning, like oceans aflame. Addison doesn't dare move, frozen stiff, emotions clouding over one another until it's all barely a haze.

Her mother huffs angrily, and mutters something Addison is never able to forget. She walks away and leaves her daughter sitting there, rotting from the inside out.

--

It's drilled into her.

The excitement, the cheerful dementor. It's years of practice, years of picking herself up, years of perfection-perfection-perfection. If she isn't perfect, then she does not have a home, and if she is not cheer captain, then she is not a leader, and if she cannot smile, then she is barely a human being.

"It's your great-grandfather's fault," her mother tells her one night while scraping imperfect pieces of steak from her fork.

(Not perfect, too red on the inside, too well on the outside, too chewy - Addison lists the imperfections off in her head without even realizing she's doing it.)

Her father doesn't bother looking up, engrossed in his own meal, stacking green beans onto carrots onto meat. Her mother doesn't scold him for it.

"He was always out doing things he wasn't supposed to. Things that put our family to shame." She shakes her head, disgusted as she drops her silverware to her plate. Her father still doesn't look over. "Got his ear bitten off, and still didn't learn a damn thing," she adds, sounding angry as she wipes her mouth and then adds her napkin to the pile. "It's his fault you're like this." She says, looking up with a sigh. "He would've loved you. He was always enraptured by the unusual."

Her mother says nothing more as she begins to clean the table, ignorant to a daughter unfinished and a husband silent, and Addison finds herself wishing her great-grandfather was still alive.

Maybe his love would make up for all of this.

--

She's ugly.

She's not ugly, but she truly believes she is, deep inside, and that's the worst kind of ugly there is. It grows, and grows, and grows, and she worries it will swallow her whole.

She's anxious for her first day of school.

She sees the zombies for the first time, excited and proud and glowing under the sun, despite the imperfections, despite the circumstances, and Addison wonders how they do it, how they survive the wrath of being imperfect.

--

She meets Zed.

She's ugly.

He's ugly.

Together, maybe they could be something imperfect.

[spasmsofthought]

knife to the chest (modern spy!zuko au) [i]

Here it is! Bear in mind that this is, hopefully, only the first part. If you feel like you’ve jumped into the middle of the story, I want it to feel like that. I hope it isn’t too confusing! 

This OC/reader’s character will definitely be more explained as we go along, I just didn’t want to give everything off the bat. 

I’m sorry if any of this feels OOC but I wanted to adjust to the world setting, especially a modern spy one. I tried to keep Zuko in character, but writing him as a spy was a tad bit difficult for me, so I apologize if he seems totally not like he should be. 

I hope you all enjoy this! I really wanted to get it out there asap, so excuse any spelling or grammar mistakes! I will try to really go over it in-depth soon! 

Please let me know what you think - I’m worried this isn’t that great because this is an entirely new world to me. 

Keep your eyes peeled for new chapters! 

Next Chapter 

--- 

There are snippets you remember of your childhood: the feeling of laying among the grass, jumping into puddles as it rains, and blowing dandelion wishes into the sky as a breeze ruffles your hair. Every once and a while you see the flashes in your mind when you can escape to the time when everything was normal. You miss those days. 

You miss mundane life. You miss when weeks and months would go by like the snap of a finger and there was no reason to alter your life in any way, shape, or form. 

Having a father go into politics changes those unvaried, innocent childhood days in an instant. Your days can no longer be filled learning at an academy with the other children your age in your village, setting dates to play on the playground, and filling your stomach. 

Having a father, then, remain in politics for over a decade reshapes the entire vision of your life. It means the finest tutors available to educate you in your own home, isolated away from any of your other peers besides those of the same social status. It means you learn etiquette and how to have proper conversation. It means every move you make, every word you say, is scrutinized because your father has been part of the governance of the Earth Kingdom for over a decade. 

Sometimes, it feels like even your thoughts are being monitored by those that surround you. 

It is isolating to have your family be in such a position of power with no way to escape it. You are separated from those of a lower class simply because you have more wealth, and you are distinct at your own level because you are not a family with old money but a family with political power. 

“Are you listening to me?” Your eyes refocus on the face of your father. His face is scrunched up and his shoulders turned inward toward himself, a sign that he is a kind of tense you cannot undo with the sweet words of an obedient daughter. 

Even if people call him the “second most powerful man” in the Earth Kingdom, you can’t believe this. There is no logic. 

“I just don’t understand why it’s necessary,” Calm, like a river, you remind yourself. Stay calm. 

“It’s necessary because I say it is.” Your father has never been authoritarian now, so it’s only confusing to hear him use a tone with you he only uses as a politician wielding an iron fist trying to get his way. He’s never been a politician with you; always a father. He knows better. 

He’s not the right-hand to the King at home. At least, not to you. 

“I just don’t understand how I’m in danger here. I’ve never needed a detail like this in your decade of previous political service!” Calm, and quiet, and obedient daughter, but even your father can’t deny the facts laid at his feet. 

You’re not stupid, even if you hide your intellect behind a veneer of dutiful obedience. 

“Are you alright?” A masculine voice tears you away from your memories. He’s seated beside you in the vehicle, earpiece in and eyes constantly darting across the scenery flashing by him through the window. He’s always assessing, always listening. It’s like he’s always ready. You can’t imagine how exhausted he must feel. 

But then again, he never tells you how he feels. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, Lee,” You shrug, leaning your forehead against the window. It’s uncomfortable but cool and it gives you a brief reprieve. “I just want to get out of this dress.” 

He snorts and rolls his eyes at your words, like you really are the privileged daughter of a high-ranking politician. 

You want to joke about it more, but it’s true: this dress is making you miserable. Your arms have been itching since you put them in the fabric, and everything feels stuffy and hot. 

Ever since being assigned to you a few months ago by your father for further protection, Lee has stuck to your side like glue. You can’t do anything to get rid of him (you’ve tried) outside of the times your bedroom door is shut or you are sleeping. 

He’s there when you’re eating breakfast and he’s in the shadows during your classes and when you eat lunch with your friends. He’s there when you’re getting coffee and when you try to go to the gym and just end up wandering around for 10 minutes before leaving. He’s there standing against a wall as you silently eat dinner with your mother, the two of you seated at a twelve-person dining room table. Your father is absent at almost every meal, no matter the time or day, and you learned when you were younger to stop asking your mother where he was or if he was coming.  

Lee may be competent at his job of protecting and keeping track of you, but he’s not exactly the most personable guard you’ve had. 

Maybe that’s the reason why it’s so easy to tell him the truth. Maybe it’s the reason why you’ve felt like you don’t have to wear the “politician's daughter” mask around him. 

His demeanor is so icy that it can feel like talking to a brick wall; a brick wall that won’t tell anybody else. A brick wall that won’t tell your father, for certain. He may report security findings to your father, but he’s not obligated to say anything else. The things you blurt out when you and Lee are alone stay right between the both of you.

He may not offer any advice or speak at all, but Lee has become a confidant of sorts.

In  a world of shifting political alliances and opinions and shifting ideologies, he’s become one of the only people you trust implicitly. Solid and stoic, he’s a dependable presence in a world that is submerged in secrets and double meanings.

You sometimes think if he were normal, you might be able to love him.

“I don’t even know why I have to be there tonight, it’s just another speech.” Politicians are all the same, and you know this because you have lived ten years with one inside your house (that is, whenever he decides to have a family again). Your father’s words tonight will be no different than anyone else on that stage: promising things he know will get him support and trying to appease ears with intricate thoughts that actually pave a road to doing nothing.

Lee turns his head a little in your direction, crossing his arms. You can’t tell if it’s because he’s trying to make sure he says what he has to or if he’s trying to keep himself from bursting at the seams for some reason. Out of everyone else, you think, he’s the person least likely to spontaneously combust.

“It’s important that you attend,” Lee has never squirmed, but now he does. You wonder what’s going on to make him like this.

He’s never physically shown signs of having nerves before. By all accounts, he’s like steel.

Your furrow your eyebrows at him, at his strange behavior, but he doesn’t do anything else but stare out at the window again.

The rest of the ride is dead silent, the kind of silence you haven’t been used to since he was fired hired by your father. You try to pick apart Lee’s words but, as always, he has given you nothing to pick apart.

The stadium parking lot is already being packed with cars, suburban moms with children, men in their 40s still wearing their suits from their jobs. You miss all the inconvenience of traffic and parking out at the edge because, as being the person you are, there is already an entrance and exit marked out for you. One that must have been cleared days before you were even forced to come. It’s easy to go through the routine of letting Lee unbuckle his seatbelt and climb out of the car first, circling around to where you are. The door swings out all the way when he opens it, but one of his hands gently grabs your elbow as you bring your feet to the ground.

He’s never done this before.

Lee has never touched you like this ever, softly and affectionately. It makes you feel like you could sink into a puddle on the concrete as he brushes his hand up your arm to your shoulder and then down to the small of your back. It feels like he’s caressing, not handling or protecting.

He’s never done this before.

You feel like you’re in a different world as the car door closes and Lee walks with you inside the stadium. You feel like you’re sleepwalking as you enter a hallway simply lit with fluorescent lights spanning the ceiling.

Lee’s lips come to brush against your ear and your breath hitches as your body is tempted to stop moving altogether. But you continue walking.

“You trust me, right?”

What an unbelievable question, you think as you pull back. You almost feel like laughing.

“Of course I do, Lee.” His left eye winces slightly, like you’ve said something painful. It draws attention to the scar he’s had on his face since you met him that first time at the end of first conversation with your father.

“You have to do whatever I tell you tonight.” You nod, furrowing your eyebrows and exhaling with amusement. He’s definitely acting weird tonight. You know that it should make you feel apprehensive, but you’ve always felt safe with him. Always, since the first moment, though you’ve never really been able to understand why.

It’s an easy walk to where you’re supposed to be seated inside the auditorium, silent and like a prop until you are given your cue to smile and wave. You take a glance around at the space that has been transformed into a political rally. The colors are gaudy and there are lights and cameras everywhere. It’s almost like it’s meant for reality television and not an event meant to highlight people who want to serve this kingdom’s government. You don’t understand the reason why you need to look your best, your hair and make-up done to perfection, when all you will ever do for these people is smile and wave at them. You are a useless figurine, a pawn on a chessboard who will be sacrificed at some point for the sake of making a better and more strategic move elsewhere. Lee stands to the side, back to normal as your silent guard.

You try not to dwell over the sensation of his touch from earlier, but remembering it gives you a slight shiver. You have always been off-limits to everyone but those of your own class, and the boys that do run in your same social girlfriends either already have popular, wealthy girlfriends or have no desire to date someone whose status relies solely on political relevance and position. Lee is the only one you’ve never had to hide any part of yourself with before. He listens to your droning and your rambling, and though he never laughs, his eyes light up when you unleash your sense of humor. He’s perfectly happy to sit in silence or listen to your favorite music on a car ride home. He isn’t ashamed to go on late-night Oreo or ice cream runs. He doesn’t scold you for having political opinions of your own, even if they are ones in complete opposition to what your father says he believes.

The stadium fills with people, murmuring and holding signs, and a timer shows on the jumbo screen, altering many that it’s almost time to begin. You continue to sit in silence, even when the clock counts down to zero. You don’t cheer or applaud as your father steps onto the stage, all smiles and jolly laughter. His façade is easy to see through if you look hard enough. He’s not that hard to read once you’ve been around enough politicians.

“–my daughter came to join us today. She loves being able to participate in what her father fights for – ”

Like the obedient daughter you are, you stand up to smile and wave for a few seconds before you sit back down. And just like it always does, the focus lands back on your father. You show up for 5 seconds to give a boost to his appearance and you are discarded routinely like the old childhood you find in the back of the closet. Before he can really get going, though, you hear doors open and the noise of people talking escalates.

The sight of Earth Kingdom Dai Lee is a startling sight to see, mostly because there is no reason for them to be here.

Lee forcibly grabs you for your seat and forces you to move with him to a covered spot nearby, where you are both out of sight.

“You have to leave.” He says as he discards his earpiece to the ground and begins to loosen his tie. You have no idea what’s going on, so you stare, bewildered, at him for a moment.

“I’m not leaving,” You frown at him as your father speaks loudly into the microphone. The Dai Lee are steadily making their way to the front, occupying the four aisles that people could otherwise escape through. You can feel the tension in the air, wringed with worry and a bit of foreboding.

You stare at Lee and realize he isn’t surprised by this.

“If you don’t leave, I don’t know what will happen to you.” He’s taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. If this were happening in any other situation, you would take some time to appreciate him without a stiff uniform to cover him up anymore.

“I’m not leaving,” You step closer, trying to keep calm as you can hear panic escalate in the stadium around you. “Just tell me what’s going on!”

“If this is about the war,” Your father shouts as the Dai Lee make their way up the stage to him, “we can talk. This isn’t nece-” The mic cuts off and the Dai Lee haul your father away from the podium and start to make their way down a set of side stairs.

“What is his talking about?” You exclaim at Lee as you try to rush forward. He doesn’t let you get very far away, but you’re close enough for people to start noticing you, including some sporadic Dai Lee agents. There is no reason that Dai Lee agents should be taking your father away; they both work for the government! “What war? There’s a war?!”

There is no war your father would always say to you. There are conflicts outside of Ba Sing Se, but there is no war.

He lied.

You glance at Lee, but his face is impassive, set like stone. There are so many things going on that you don’t know what to feel. Your stomach tenses and your heart squeezes, like they both know what he says next won’t be good.

“Lee, tell me some-”

There are screams from the crowd, people throwing things and trying to escape from their seats. There are some climbing over each other. Babies are crying.

“My name isn’t Lee,” He’s so blasé that it takes a minute for you to digest his words. He starts to distance himself, walking away from you as Dai Lee agents approach you too. “And I told you, you should have left.”

The Dai Lee restrain you as they pull your arms behind your back with a tight grip. You try to wriggle free, but one Dai Lee agent holds your left arm, and another holds your right. Their hands grip you so hard, you know you’ll have bruises whenever they let you go.

“What?” Your breathing becomes shallow and you look around, trying to locate your father. You can’t find him, but based on the noise level in the room, which has erupted into complete chaos, he’s still here. You feel the panic seep into your bloodstream, and you try to buck against the restraining grip holding you back. “What is going on?”

Some other Dai Lee agents try to make a move for him, but he puts his hands up. “My name is Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation.” They nod and step backwards, like the words hold weight and you become even more confused. Dread coils and squeezes tight around your heart. You can’t breathe.

Prince Zuko?

The Fire Nation?

“I was just spying on your father.” His eyes lock with yours as you gasp and then begin to physically struggle again. 

He was just spying on your father? 

For what purpose? 

There’s too much going on: screaming in every direction, there are people trying to flee but being trapped by officers. You can’t find your father. Despite your relationship with him, losing him would devastate you. You try to rise to your toes but the agents that hold you force you back down onto your heels.

All you can think is: There is no war.

The Fire Nation.

Prince Zuko.

He’s a spy. 

There is no war. 

Who you knew formerly as Lee turns his back to you and walks towards the stage. It’s like he’s a completely different person. 

He’s a spy. 

Spy. Spy. Spy. 

He was spying. 

He greets a smaller girl with a hug, and you can briefly see the word “brother” form on her lips as she greets him back. She directs some of the Dai Lee to follow her and Le- Prince Zuko and betrayal sinks like a stone in you, weighing you down.

He doesn’t look back once.

You can’t catch your breath. 

You try to wrestle out of the grip the two agents holding you have your body in, but you fail yet again. A black hood comes down over your face as you struggle further. The agents begin to drag you somewhere, your orientation and senses shrouded by black fabric.

The last thing you hear before you are too far away is the sound of gunfire.

---

(I never said he would be a good spy. xo) 

[bloody-bee-tea]

For the meme - Wangxian, 23?

23. “Just once.”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian yells over the courtyard and Lan Wangji braces himself for when Wei Wuxian will inevitably crash into his side. 

It’s barely a minute before he does, his arm around Lan Wangji’s middle and Lan Wangji carries his momentum by neatly taking a step to the side.

He’s long since grown used to Wei Wuxian’s antics.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji greets him and gently pushes him away.

He can’t handle prolongued contact with Wei Wuxian. It makes his self-control weak.

“Lan Zhan, I passed my test!” Wei Wuxian almost yells and then he laughs, so happy and bright, that Lan Wangji can do nothing but stop and stare.

If he could protect one thing in the whole world, it would be this.

“Congratulations,” Lan Wangji tells him and he can’t help the small smile. 

He is proud of Wei Wuxian.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, I have to thank you! Without you I would have failed, I know it.”

“Not necessary,” Lan Wangji denies, because he knows Wei Wuxian.

Business is not his strong suit, but he would have managed the course without Lan Wangji’s help as well. Wei Wuxian is stubborn like that, Lan Wangji knows.

“Totally necessary,” Wei Wuxian disagrees. “Let me treat you to something. Dinner? Coffee? What would you like?” Wei Wuxian wants to know, but Lan Wangji shakes his head.

“You don’t have to repay me,” he tells Wei Wuxian, because it was hardly a pain for Lan Wangji to study with Wei Wuxian.

Sure, it was hell on his feelings, because Wei Wuxian is brilliant and clever, and he likes to play with his pen–twirl it around with his fingers–and it’s all very bad for Lan Wangji’s mental health, but Wei Wuxian is a quick study, and despite his insistence that he will never learn that, he contained the information rather quickly, and even made some amazing intuitive leaps.

It was a joy, teaching him.

“Come on, Lan Zhan, something you like. Anything you would like, as a favor. I owe you, you know. Madame Yu gave me a court nod when she saw my grade. I owe you so much.”

Lan Wangji’s brain goes empty with the possibilities that offer contains. Anything. He could ask for anything, and Wei Wuxian would probably do it, because Lan Wangji asked for it, and Wei Wuxian doesn’t go back on his word.

“It’s okay,” Lan Wangji tells him again, and starts to walk away from Wei Wuxian, but he simply follows him and even attaches himself to Lan Wangji’s arm.

“Lan Zhan,” he whines. “Will you leave me hanging? There must be something you want? Something I can do for you? Anything, come on, Lan Zhan, just tell me.”

Lan Wangji stays quiet, but it seems like Wei Wuxian has only started, because he sends a mischieveous smile at Lan Wangji.

“I’ll just stay like this until I get what I want, you know. Good luck explaining this to your uncle. Just one thing. It can’t be that hard to ask for something. Lan Zhan, just ask!”

“A kiss,” Lan Wangji blurts out and the surprise at his words is so strong, even to himself, that they come to an abrupt stop in the middle of the path.

“What?” Wei Wuxian asks, and he’s staring at Lan Wangji, with big eyes, and Lan Wangji wants to run away and never think of this again.

“What did you say, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian asks, voice small and unsure and Lan Wangji cannot leave him hanging like that.

“A kiss,” he repeats and then, because he knows Wei Wuxian doesn’t feel that way about him–never could with how bright and amazing and good he is–he tacks on: “Just once.”

And Lan Wangji is looking for it; the disgust and disapointment on Wei Wuxian’s face, but it’s still a surprise to see how Wei Wuxian’s face instantly falls.

There’s a pain in his eyes Lan Wangji never wishes him to experience, and he wants to take it back immediately, laugh it off as a joke, tease Wei Wuxian like he is always teasing Lan Wangji.

The words are already on his tongue–don’t, stop, I’ll think of something else, I didn’t mean it–but then Wei Wuxian steps even closer and Lan Wangji loses all coherent thought.

Wei Wuxian is warm as he leans in, and Lan Wangji is helpless against him, is always so helpless in the face of everything Wei Wuxian, so he bends down, just slightly, and brushes their lips together.

It’s unlike everything Lan Wangji has ever experienced and he never wants it to stop. His hands itch to pull Wei Wuxian closer, but he knows he doesn’t have the right–can never forget it even in a situation like this–and so instead he curls them into his pants.

Wei Wuxian sighs against his lips, opening his mouth just barely, before he presses in for real, and oh–this. This is even better.

It’s hot and ground-shattering like a breath of fresh air all at once and then it’s already over

The kiss lasts maybe five seconds, before Wei Wuxian shoves him away, hard, and slaps his hand over his mouth.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” he says, voice muffled through his palm but Lan Wangji can still hear the desperate edge to his voice, and then he flees.

Lan Wangji can do nothing but stare after him and wonder if he ruined the one good thing in his life with a selfish wish that clearly hurt Wei Wuxian.

He turns around and goes home.

~*~*~

When there’s an insistent pounding on his door, Lan Wangji shoves his head under his pillow. He doesn’t want to see anyone, and he doesn’t want to speak to anyone, either.

But the pounding doesn’t stop and eventually Lan Wangji drags himself out of bed.

He did not expect to find Jiang Cheng on the other side, fist still raised and his knuckles are already red.

“What?” Lan Wangji snaps out, because he is in no condition to deal with Jiang Cheng right now.

“You kissed my brother,” Jiang Cheng says. “You kissed my brother because he owed you, and he’s in our room, crying ever since he came home.”

Lan Wangji blinks against the pain that statement causes and he shrinks in on himself.

“I never meant to hurt him,” he whispers but Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes at that.

“He’s not crying because you took advantage of him,” Jiang Cheng tells him and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s crying because he’s been in love with you for years, and he thinks this meant nothing to you.”

“Oh,” Lan Wangji breathes out. “It didn’t. Mean nothing to me,” Lan Wangji clarifies and then clears his throat. “I love him. It meant everything to me.”

“Maybe you should tell him that,” Jiang Cheng says with a shrug and a small smile and Lan Wangji narrows his eyes at Jiang Cheng, because really, he’s the last person he should take love advice from.

“Like you told my brother yet?” Lan Wangji asks, and Jiang Cheng bristles at the words.

“It’s not the same,” he mutters back. “Wei Wuxian feels the same for you. It’s not the same with Lan Xichen.”

“Stupid,” Lan Wangji tells him and then forces himself to go a little bit softer. “He does. It’s the same,” he promises, because Lan Xichen has been talking about Jiang Cheng for almost as long as Lan Wangji has been pining for Wei Wuxian, and maybe they all deserve to be happy.

“Oh,” Jiang Cheng breathes out. “Then maybe I should–you know, do that. Tell him,” Jiang Cheng mutters but then he fixes Lan Wangji with a look again. “But only if you do the same!”

“I will,” Lan Wangji promises, because just the thought of Wei Wuxian reciprocating his feelings has his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“Good,” Jiang Cheng says, and then immediately rushes off.

Lan Wangji gets his phone out of his pants and opens the conversation to his brother.

Put on some pants and put away the self-pity ice cream, you’re getting a visitor.

Rude, is the immediate answer to his message, and then Who’s coming?

Thank me later, Lan Wangji writes back, before he puts the phone away and goes off to get his own happy end.

~*~*~

When Wei Wuxian opens the door, it’s clear that he has been crying, still, even after Jiang Cheng left.

Wei Wuxian blinks a few times at him, before he scrubs a hand over his face, trying to get rid of the tear tracks. 

“I’m just–,” he starts, voice cracking halfway through, and Lan Wangji’s heart wants to crack right along with it.

He never meant to do that to Wei Wuxian.

“It meant something to me,” Lan Wangji blurts out, because if what Jiang Cheng said is true, then Wei Wuxian needs to know that immediately. “It meant everything to me.”

There’s a beat of silence before Wei Wuxian whispers “You said just once.”

“Because I thought you didn’t want it. It was already selfish of me to ask, and you looked so shocked, I tried to save it somehow,” Lan Wangji explains, feels horrible wrong-footed with this many words, but it’s important that Wei Wuxian understands. “I love you. If Wei Ying would allow, I’d do it every day. Every hour, even,” Lan Wangji promises, and holds his breath when Wei Wuxian simply stares at him.

“Say it again,” he demands, but his eyes are lighting up, and Lan Wangji instantly feels more at ease.

“I love you. I’d kiss you every day, every hour, if you want,” Lan Wangji repeats and as always, he expects it when Wei Wuxian throws himself at him.

“Lan Zhan, I love you, too. Yes, every day, you have to kiss me every day!” Wei Wuxian calls out with laughter and Lan Wangji solemnly agrees.

It will make both of them happy. It’s not a hardship on him.

“Have to start now,” he then decisively says and lowers Wei Wuxian back on the ground so he can capture his lips in a kiss again.

This one is different; they are both sure of what they want and it shows. It leaves them breathless and with flushed faces and Lan Wangji faintly thinks that maybe they should take this inside.

But then Wei Wuxian leans in again, and all thought leaves Lan Wangji’s head.

Now with a Xicheng continuation

[Prompt taken from this list, but please don’t send in more]

[mementomori-demimonde]

Hidden Scars

I - II - III - IV - V

Chapter 6

You decided to take a shower.

Miranda’s words, as always, swirl in your head - you kept hearing them throughout the whole night - and you just want to get some rest and get rid of the sensation of her hands on you, in your hair, her insistent touch, the bittersweet taste of her kisses on your lips. Sometimes, you feel like there’s something toxic on your skin that itches: a shower seems the best option to get rid of it… to get rid of her.

You hate that you let her get under your skin. You hate that she affects you so much even when she shouldn’t. You hate her that despite how badly she’s able to treat you, you still miss her at night, that you know, in a couple of days, you’ll be back at asking to join you to bed.

You hate it all, but you hate the sadness and the hurt that follows the most.

Because you know, somehow, she can shout and bite, and you also know that her threats are basically empty, but you can’t also pretend those words don’t hurt you at all.

Miranda is there, yet she’s far away; always around but so out of reach. Once upon a time, you thought something would come out of there, you thought that one day things would be clearer, but none of that is happening and you’re beginning to feel stuck.

When she’s in a good mood, being with Miranda is great, but when she’s in a foul one, well, it’s a whole different story - and after she’s made clear that nothing will ever come out from whatever is going on between you two - merely a kitten toy for her to play with when she feels like it - you don’t even see a future. What’s going to happen in a month, or in a week? Will you still be here, following orders, satisfying her request, without knowing why, nor if you’ll ever do something else in your life, besides existing and entertain your kidnapper in every way she sees fit?

Bowing your head low until your chin touches your chest, you exhale loudly and let the scalding hot water cascade above your head, rinsing the soap and some of your thoughts away. You imagine your hope for something more and your dream to walk out of that building with her, spiraling down in the drain and you laugh at yourself, not entirely sure if it’s just water streaming down your cheeks.

Perhaps if you’d paid more attention you would have noticed, beyond the steamed, blurry glass of the shower, the bathroom door opening; perhaps, if you hadn’t tried so hard to cover your pitiful sobs, you’d heard the ruffling noise of buttons opening, of zips pulled, of shoes dropped on the floor with the piles of discarded clothes already there; perhaps if you could’ve just owned up and act normal - and be normal in the first place - you wouldn’t be in this situation at all, simply living and taking what she gives you, no question asked, as Miranda said.

But you’re not: your eyes sting for the soap, your ears are too focused on registering your own whimpers over the water running, and you don’t acknowledge any of those things happening until you feel the cold air on your back as Miranda slides the shower door open.

You tense up immediately, furiously rubbing at your eyes to get rid of the soap and be able to look at her with some composure. Surely you don’t want to look weak and broken when you’ll tell her to leave or reply to one of her questions or complain about one of the challenges she’s planning to give you.

You’re expecting some vicious grips on your arm, you expect Miranda to pull you out, suddenly deciding your unnegotiated five minutes of hot water are over, you expect her to be her normal self, harsh and smug and unpredictable, yet none of that happens.

She is unpredictable, but not in her usual feral way. Because, instead of the expected violence, you feel her arms circling your waist, looping around your middle. You feel her body press against yours, her breasts flushed onto your back, and her skin is a different kind of warm compared to the water running over you both, now. You feel her lips resting almost purposelessly on your marked shoulder, then her cheek nuzzles in between your shoulder blades.

You’re taken off guards but that uncalled and unexpected show of affection, especially after you thought about your next encounter would’ve been a full display of the power she has over you, and so your arms drop slowly at your sides, hands balling up into two loose fists.

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs.

You wish you had the promptness to reach out and turn off the tap to hear her better, but those words are even more surprising than the rest.

“What?” You mumble, not even bothering to conceal your disbelief.

“I said that I’m sorry,” Miranda repeats with a sigh, and you helplessly follow her movement when, behind you, she begins to sway, “I get it: it’s my fault.”

You wish you also had the promptness to turn your head back and look into her eyes as she says so. Instead, you keep staring at the steam-coated tiles in front of you, unconsciously memorizing patterns that don’t really exist.

“Your fault?” You echo dumbly.

Miranda nods against your back.

“You can’t understand something you don’t know.” She whispers, you feel the tip of her nose drawing small circles on your dewed skin.

“You’re going to tell me what’s this all about?”

You almost believe her, for a moment. Then, when you dare to breathe, dare to let the thought of her actually apologizing and gathering the courage to make that longed-for promise of her trying to act better, vanish. The grip on your waist tightens, you can hear her breathing sharper into your wet hair.

“Of course not.” She replies with the familiar saccharine tone, but you can feel that her intentions are not as sweet as anybody else would think. “I’ll just be more patient with you.”

“What?” You blink in dismay, her elbows digging painfully into the hollow space of your waist for a moment before she untangles her arms from your, her hands settling on your hips, her fingers grasping with a bruising force.

On your back, you feel the pricking of her teeth over the smooth ridges of your scars. It stings a bit, but it only serves as a reminder.

“I’ll show you what will happen to you if you don’t listen to me and keep questioning what we’re doing and I’ll try to be very patient with you when you’ll start to complain.”

She spins you effortlessly, and now that your face is inches from hers, you can see yourself in the reflection of her eyes. Teeth bare, she’s grinning innocently when she lets you go, trapping you between the shower wall and her own body even without touching either - her presence is enough to discourage you from trying anything. She reaches behind you with both hands, presses her body against your own and you release a shuddering breath at the closeness, well knowing that, from there, only ugly things will happen.

You have very little time to react before she fists your hair, tugging once and with force, making you yelp, blinking rapidly as your face stands now under the direct scalding water, the ceiling blurred and cloudy beyond the showerhead.

You don’t know what she is doing with her other hand, but everything becomes clear when the water turns cold in a second - icy cold - and she keeps you under the stream with unfaltering strength when your stomach begins to spasm and your mouth open on its own volition. You shut your eyes tight, illegible complaints falling from your lips as you pant and splutter water.

You’re barely aware of the jerky movements of your hands and arms as you cling to her shoulders for balance - and to have something firm to hold on to while you feel like choking, dying in the cold, in the most horrible of ways.

Her other hand settles on the small of your back, keeping you flushed against her, keeping you upright and still.

“Relax.” Her voice is calm but easily reaches your ears above the cascade of water over your face. “It’s just the shock reaction, don’t fight it.”

You’re left there gasping for air like a goldfish, but her voice is anchoring and you focus on that, on the steady rise and fall of her chest against your own, spasming one, on the gentle rubs of her fingers on your loins. Slowly, you blink your eyes open, shivering due to the cold stream but able to bear it on your skin. You tilt your head to the side, wincing when you feel her tug tighten, and try to breathe through your nose, water and spit trailing down your chin as you empty your mouth.

“That’s it, clear your mind.” Miranda praises, her hot breath on your neck making you shiver even more. “You need to get used to cold temperatures. One can never know.”

The muscles in your neck protesting for the angle, you try to wiggle your head free, wincing at her fingers still entangled between your wet hair. The water still runs over your face and you’re still trying not to drown in it, your lungs burning painfully, begging for oxygen. You feel your stomach spasm one last time before she releases her fist and you stumble about, sure you would have fallen to your knees if Miranda hadn’t been there, squeezing you tight.

And what did she try to prove? Teaching how to control your body reaction in case you fall into a frozen lake? Or is it some torture she’s experimented on herself, inflicted by one of those enemies she fears? The next thing she’ll do, you can imagine, will be training your ability to hold your breath underwater, preferably at freezing temperatures - or boiling ones. Yes, but for what?

You cough up water from the back of your throat, but you cannot expand your chest fully, like you so desperately desire, because Miranda’s arms are crawling on your back, rubbing messy circles as she shushes you, suddenly all protective and indulgent.

“You dropped your guard.” She murmurs. Her head is tilted, her face is buried into your neck and wet hair and you desperately trying to breathe, eyes burning and tears streaming freely down your face, mixing with the water.

“What?” You manage to croak out, your throat stinging for all the useless spasming of your muscles in search of air. What does she mean? On what particular occasion? Right now? Three days ago when you let her jump on your back and pin you to the floor on your way to the kitchen? Two months ago when she kidnapped you in a dark alley?

“You knew I was coming for you, and yet you let me get close.” She says, her voice low and firm, but it doesn’t have any bite in it. She almost sounds… apologetic, but you know she’s not.

She’s talking about right now. When you were showering and thinking about her, and you noticed something was off and perceived Miranda’s presence and feared the outcome and yet did little or nothing to stop her.

“It was you, Miranda-” You blink, clearing your throat, and you sigh in relief when you notice you can breathe normally, without aching too much. “I guess I still want to talk about it." You sigh sharply. "I’m not scared. Whatever it is, I know you would never-”

“But I did hurt you in the past,” Miranda interjects, her ability to anticipate your thoughts leaving you once again speechless. Yes, you were about to say you're not fearing her because she would never really hurt you; you were about to blatantly lie. She knew and she stopped you, “I did hurt you already and I keep hurting you.” She doesn’t sound sorry as she says that, merely stating the truth. You can even hear her say that she’s doing all this for your own good, in your head.

Miranda turns off the water. You shiver against her.

“I'm aware.” Despite yourself, you relax in her hold, you slide your arms around her slender body when she starts to sway again, gently, the heat radiating from her body a welcome distraction from the freezing air hitting your back. “But it’s too late to be scared of you. I’m past that.”

Miranda sighs heavily in your hair. She swallows. You feel her hand crawling up your back, on the nape of your neck, her fingers grabbing your hair into her fist - she doesn’t tug, nor pull, but it’s possessive nonetheless.

“You mustn’t lower your guard, did you hear me?” She mumbles. “ You’ve learned a lot, but this might be my biggest failure.”

“What?” You almost sob, the word coming out squeezed as you rest your chin on top of her shoulder. Why are you so slow in getting the meaning of her words today? Has the cold water frozen your brain?

When she pushes you away, you hardly contain a whimper. You gather your arms close to your body, curling up on yourself as you try to cover as much skin as possible in the extreme attempt to stop shivering.

Miranda’s hands are on your face in an instant. She cups your head firmly, her fingers are cold against your cheeks. Her blue eyes are shimmering, boring into you with intent.

If you didn’t know better, you would say she was on the verge of crying.

“You mustn’t trust anybody.” She states, stressing every word.

You swallow, blinking rapidly but sustaining her gaze.

“You already know I trust you.”

In your head, you’ve just said something Miranda would be proud of. You imagined she would smile, praise you because that was exactly what she wanted to hear, that the world outside was a dangerous, vile place full of villains and threats while she is the only exception, the one who had saved you from a lame life, the only one who gives you a purpose.

Instead, Miranda frowns, her fingers pressing at either side of your head almost painfully. She clenches her jaw, and trembles with the effort.

“You mustn’t trust anybody.” She insists.

“Miranda, but it’s you-”

Her lips collide against yours and, just like the cold water, they steal your breath. Something within you, however, thaws out.

“Nobody.” She murmurs. “Especially me.”

Miranda leaves the room. Shivering, alone in the shower, you can’t do anything but listen to the water dripping by your feet.