#like the Wolf's angry outburst about playing with his food

[airyairyaucontraire]

Just bitching about subtitles again, whoever does the English subtitles for Kimi ni Todoke on Netflix doesn't know how to caption non-verbal sounds. When a character makes a little thoughtful "mm?" sound or a surprised "hm!" sound (the kind these characters are constantly making because they audibly react every time they have an emotion) that is not a moan. It's a soppy teenage romantic comedy, not a porno!

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

"I'm truly sorry, but I don't think we've ever met." memory loss angst? 👉👈🥺

anon... fam, this turned into an emotional rollercoaster and totally stole my braincell.

3.8k words. angst with a happy ending. 

tw: memory loss, minor anxiety, repressed memories, idiots to lovers, whump, angst with a happy ending, angst with a fluffy ending

---

It’s been three hours, five minutes, and forty-two seconds since the frigid breeze whipped Geralt’s angry words at him, shattering his fragile, stupid heart to pieces. Every syllable rings through Jaskier’s head over and over, slamming into him from all directions and crippling him with a bone-deep pain far worse than anything he’s ever felt before. The ache ebbs and flows, lancing through him with every step. Not even Geralt’s first frustrated blow to his abdomen had been this terrible.

Geralt… That’s the problem, isn’t it? He hadn’t been smart enough to get out of the gorgeous Witcher’s long, silvery hair soon enough. He’d overstayed his welcome, fallen in love in the meantime, and is now very out of sorts (and also alone in unfamiliar territory). The bard laughs but it’s a hollow sound. Jaskier has reached the edge of hysteria, his intelligent blue eyes now vacant and unseeing. Even as he stumbles through the underbrush, all he can picture is the snarl on Geralt’s face as the Witcher yells at Destiny to take Jaskier off his hands. 

Jaskier’s own hands are covered in sap and splinters from pushing tree branches away from his face as he traverses the darkening forest. His hair is full of debris and his clothes are torn and dirty; Geralt has all of his emergency supplies, still. Jaskier is pretty sure that his lute is still strapped over his shoulder but he realizes, with no small amount of surprise, that he doesn’t actually care.

He doesn’t have the capacity anymore. 

He can’t care… caring hurts too much.

If only Destiny had taken him off Geralt’s hands. Maybe then it would be okay. Maybe then, if Geralt was well and truly free of him and his irritating presence, the Witcher could be happy. He and Yennefer will surely come back around, they always seem to, and Ciri will be joining them soon enough it seems. 

There’s no need - no room - for a humble bard anymore.

Only five hours, thirty minutes, and twelve seconds after Geralt’s outburst at the top of the mountain, Jaskier’s delicate human body succumbs to the stress of the day.

He drops to the forest floor without a sound, grateful for the darkness.

---

Yennefer finds the bard in a heap a few miles away from the previous night’s elevated campsite. When she presses the back of her hand to his forehead she yanks it away almost immediately; he’s burning up, and his skin is clammy and sticky with sweat. The feathery bangs he flicks about and preens so much are stuck to his forehead and temples. He’s on the verge of shaking apart and Yennefer tosses her head imperiously, swearing.

“Damnit, Geralt. You and your incredibly foolish need to be alone all the time so you can brood and self-flagellate. Me, an ageless sorceress from one of the greatest magic schools on the Continent? I can handle a thorough tongue lashing. Fuck, I’m older than you and I’ve seen far worse but this… oh, you great lummox. You absolute bastard…” Yennefer mutters to herself as she assesses the bard’s deteriorating state of health, ranting to an invisible Geralt all the while. “You’re absolutely going to be hearing from me about this, Wolf.”

--- Three days, one hour, and fifteen minutes after Geralt dismissed him forever, Jaskier wakes up with a loud gasp and a violent shudder. He blinks slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the bright light streaming in through a window. Whatever he’s lying on is comfortable and the sheets smell fresh and bright, like lilac and freesia. A hint of gooseberry lies beneath it all, delicate and sweet. He glances around the space and finds it to be relatively bare; a guest room, perhaps. Maybe he’s a servant at some noble house? 

Jaskier only really knows that his name is Jaskier and that he plays music. He’s also rather talented with floral arrangements. 

Shortly after he’s finished purveying his (borrowed?) chamber, the very image of grace, beauty, and terror enters the room. The woman, whose coppery skin and enchanting violet eyes practically glow in the midafternoon sun, smiles down at him in a way that toes the line between Motherly and Shark-like. 

“How are you feeling, Jaskier?”

“I’m alright. And you?”

“Just fine. Geralt really did a number on us, huh?” she asks, a playful grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. He has the feeling that something isn’t right; she shouldn’t be looking at him so kindly. 

Her expression changes from friendly to horrified to confused in an instant, as soon as Jaskier manages to ask: “Who’s Geralt? And, pardon me, but I feel as if something is rather amiss. Who are you, my Lady?”

Whoever the gorgeous and terrifying woman is, she grimaces briefly. Then, as if by magic, the comforting smile returns. “I’m Yennefer, of course. I saved your life a few years ago, remember?”

Jaskier wracks his brain but cannot call the occasion to mind. “Unfortunately no, I don’t remember your no doubt heroic deed. Although I suppose that means I’m in your debt, doesn’t it? Do I work for you? Is that why I’m here?”

The woman blinks a few times, slowly, and then nods. “You’re my gardener and personal musician.”

Jaskier brightens, happy to have found himself in a safe environment. 

“But you’ve had a nasty illness and your mind is clearly fatigued. Rest another day or two and then we can see about getting you back into the fresh air.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” Jaskier nods.

“Yen is fine.”

“Thank you, Yen. I don’t know where I’d be without you,” he grins. 

---

Yennefer turns away to hide her pained expression. You’d probably still be with your beloved Witcher. 

She makes her way to the kitchen to fix Jaskier something to eat. He must be hungry after spending three days in a deep, healing sleep. She hadn’t been expecting the amnesia, though; it was an unexpected but not unsurprising turn of events. Heartbreak had done stranger things than a little bit of fever-induced memory loss. When she’d delved briefly into his mind she hadn’t seen any sign of Geralt. His face was absent from the bard’s consciousness; she would have needed to dig to unearth those memories. Whatever the Witcher had done was grievous, especially if Jaskier’s mind compensated with something as dramatic as burying Geralt completely to save itself from further harm.

No matter, she decides, the bard can stay here as long as he likes. It’s the least I can do for all the upset Geralt and I have caused him. Where is that idiot Witcher, anyway?

The sorceress quickly clears her agenda and her mind before returning to her guest room with a large tray of food, a bottle of Toussainti red under her arm. “Jaskier, darling, let’s get your convalescence started in style!”

---

2 months later

---

Jaskier watches a strange man ride up the long path to Yennefer’s manor, the hilts of his twin swords glinting in the sun where they’re slung over his shoulder. He has long white hair and the most devastating jawline the bard/gardener (or ‘bardener’ as he says to irritate his darling employer) has ever laid eyes on. He’s clad all in black, from his plain linen shirt to his tight leather trousers; Jaskier thinks he’d also look rather lovely in dark blue or perhaps forest green.

In front of him, wrapped securely against his chest by one strong arm, sits a little girl with ashen hair and frightened eyes. Haunted eyes. Jaskier’s mind fills with ballads, some familiar and some oddly dreamlike, their lyrics half-obscured and hazy. Ciri, he thinks for no reason. Her name is Ciri. And she is a Princess.

The brunette scurries from the garden alongside the house to the kitchen, searching for the familiar cloud of Yennefer’s strong perfume. “My Lady?” 

“Darling?” the sorceress replies, coming around the corner. She raises her perfectly maintained eyebrows and her lips quirk up into a smirk. “Did you sprint all the way from the west lawn?”

“There’s a- strange man- on the- drive!” he huffs. “White hair- horse!”

“Oh,” her eyes go wide with surprise. Then, in a split second, they narrow to slits. “Oh.”

“Do you, uhm, know him?” Jaskier asks, twiddling his fingers. “He’s rather handsome, Yen. Is he a former lover?”

“Unfortunately,” she growls. “I can’t believe it’s taken him two fucking months to get here. He’d better have a damned good excuse.”

By now Jaskier can breathe normally again and he straightens up, shaking his long, shaggy hair from his eyes. “He had a child with him. She looked scared, Yen.”

“Cirilla!”

Yennefer dashes for the front door and Jaskier follows instinctually. They’re always together and he can’t bear to let her confront this man alone. He’s spent every waking moment with Yen since he awoke that first day and she has grown to be his dearest friend; he’ll protect her even unto death. “Yenna, what’s wrong? Who is he!?”

“Geralt of Rivia,” she snarls. The name seems familiar; maybe from a ballad or story? Perhaps Yen has mentioned him before? 

“What about Geralt of Rivia?” a low, rumbling bass asks from the front hallway. Jaskier and Yennefer arrive in the doorway together and the man, Geralt apparently, takes a shaky step back. He recoils a bit, as if he’s been slapped, and Yennefer’s smile grows cruel. His voice, still incredibly low but now with a slight tremor to it, stutters out; “Wha- Yen, what is he- Jaskier? I only came to ask for help with Ciri, I didn’t know- I didn’t-”

Geralt’s stammered speech tapers off into silence and Yennefer’s brow furrows a second time. When the sorceress sets eyes on the child, who cannot be more than twelve years old, her expression softens again. Jaskier watches the most imposing woman in the world kneel, taking one small, pale hand in both of her own. “My name is Yennever of Vengerberg, former Sorceress of Aretuza. I am honored to meet you, Princess Cirilla. Geralt has come seeking protection, no doubt, and it is easily granted. I will do everything I can to help you.”

“Thank you, Lady Yennefer. And, uhm… Ciri’s fine,” the girl replies. Her voice is high and reedy, shot through with anxiety. She’s so young, Jaskier frowns. And yet she seems to have weathered an incredible storm.

“Ciri,” the bard bows from the doorway, low and dramatic. He sweeps his arm out to the side and bends his knees as awkwardly as possible, “I am Jaskier, private troubadour and gardener extraordinaire, under the employ of the magnanimous and dangerous Lady Yennefer, here. It is my greatest honor to make your very mighty and very royal acquaintance.”

“You’re silly, Master Jaskier,” the child giggles, hiding her mouth behind her hands. Geralt’s eyes grow wide and dart between Jaskier and the girl. Yennefer makes meaningful eye contact before nodding toward the door. Jaskier looks down at Ciri again when she asks: “Do you grow lots of flowers in Lady Yennefer’s garden, or just herbs and things for magic?” 

“I grow lots of things all over the property,” the brunette man steps forward and offers Ciri his hand, gesturing towards the front door with the other. “Would you like to come and take a look? I know all the scientific names, you can even quiz me if you like.”

“I know some,” she smiles shyly, accepting the offered hand. “May I go take a look at the gardens, Geralt?”

“Go ahead,” the Witcher nods dumbly. “Jaskier will take good care of you.”

“That I will. Now, let’s take a look at the flowers and let these silly adults have a chat,” Jaskier grins. He winks at Yennefer and disappears out the door, exiled Princess in tow. 

The two lively companions have toured through all the medicinal herbs and are halfway through Yennefer’s large collection of rose variations when the two other members of the party approach. Geralt looks sheepish, his eyes downcast. Yennefer looks triumphant; she is radiant in her victory as always. 

Geralt steps forward, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Jaskier, I’ve come to apologize for what happened when we parted.”

“Excuse me?” the bard chuckles, raising an eyebrow.  "I don’t know what you’re apologizing for, exactly.”

“When I yelled at you after the dragon hunt. It was only two months ago, Jaskier, surely you remember?”

Jaskier blushes, glancing anxiously between Geralt and his friend, whose violet eyes are stormy with emotion, “I'm truly sorry, but I don't think we've ever met."

Geralt gasps sharply and takes a step back, as he did in the entryway. Jaskier winces, seemingly on instinct, and shies away from the larger man. “You don’t remember me?”

“No…” Jaskier sighs. “I really don't. Should I?”

“You don’t… You don’t even remember Toss a Coin?”

“Oh, that ditty from town?” Jaskier perks up. “I know that song! It always gets stuck in my head.”

“You… You wrote that song,” Geralt’s face crumples. “About our first adventure together outside of Posada. With the elves and the sylvan...”

“I’ve never been to Posada,” Jaskier laughs, waving his hand dismissively. “They hate bards. They prefer troupes of traveling play-actors. Posada is far too serious for my tastes.”

Geralt seems to be in agony. His chest rises and falls unevenly, as if he’s on the verge of tears but unable to shed them. Can Witchers cry? 

How does he know that Geralt is a Witcher? Is it the two swords, the scars, or the strange eyes? How does he know that those are common Witcher traits?

His stomach lurches and he turns away from the group in case he needs to be sick. The ground spins and shivers in little ripples around him, unstable and impermanent beneath his feet. Yennefer is calling his name from somewhere far away and a pair of warm, strong arms are looped around his waist. Still, he can’t seem to breathe. Or focus.

There’s something missing. 

He starts to hum, trying to remember the words of that damned song.

The rest of the world fades in and out around him, finally disappearing altogether.

---

He’s gorgeous. 

Jaskier shoves another roll into his pocket. His eyes are focused on the man in the corner. He has long, snow-white hair and his shoulders are hunched forward protectively, as if he can hold the world out by sitting by himself. He’s glaring the table into submission, one fist clenched around his tankard. 

I want to write him a thousand ballads. I want to know what his hair looks like when he wakes up in the morning, before he brushes it out again. I want to know if he snores. I want… he stops himself. 

He makes his way across the room with eyes only for the stranger. “I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.”

The man looks away and Jaskier notices that his irises are gold. “I’m here to drink alone.”

Gods, his fucking voice… Velvet and gravel all at once. Melitele, does Jaskier want. “Good, yeah. Good. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance… except for you.”

The man, the Witcher, Jaskier realizes, rolls his eyes.

“Come on,” he wheedles, sitting down across from the gorgeous stranger. “You don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me, three words or less.”

The man’s face stays stoic, expressionless. “They don’t exist.”

He realizes shortly thereafter that this man is not just any Witcher but the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia. He could try to disengage himself from such a daunting character; he could easily make some kind of excuse and disappear back to the troubadour’s path, heading towards civilization, but it’s already too late. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt’s side ever again; he wants to write all those ballads he was thinking about earlier, when he glanced across the room. 

Jaskier has fallen head over heels in love. ---

Geralt cradles Jaskier against his chest and presses his nose deep into those chestnut brown waves. “Wake up, Jaskier. Come back to me, bard, it’s been too long.”

“Don’t you usually go all winter without seeing him?” Yennefer asks from the doorway. 

“It’s hell,” he replies easily. There’s no point in hiding his feelings from her. “I miss him every minute of every day.”

“Verbose this evening,” she remarks, taking a seat by the fire. “He’s dreaming, you know. He’s remembering you.”

“He’d forgotten?”

“He’d repressed it all,” she shrugs. “When I found him that day, feverish and nearly dead on the side of that godsforsaken mountain, he was barely coherent enough to open his eyes. He just kept asking for you, Geralt. Over and over he called for you, reaching his arms up, weak as they were. Gods, it was pitiful to watch.”

Geralt swallows. 

“I thought you were going to come back sooner. I was surprised when his memories didn’t resurface after two or three weeks. Short-term memory loss after a fever isn’t uncommon but repressing twenty years worth of feelings and experiences-” she whistles lowly “-it was impressive and tragic, all at once.”

“He forgot me?”

“Entirely.”

Geralt glances down, shame-faced. He adjusts Jaskier in his arms, holding him close and pillowing the bard’s head against his shoulder. “I deserve it, Yen.”

“He’s remembering now, though. He’ll probably be a little less than pleased to see you when he wakes up, but he knows who you are.”

“When will he wake?”

“Can’t say,” she shrugs again. “After I brought him back from the mountain it took three days for him to wake up. The first day was magically induced but after that it was just him… exhausted and heartbroken to the point of self-induced amnesia.”

“Fuck, Yen,” Geralt groaned, pressing his forehead into the soft warmth of Jaskier’s cheek. “How can I make it up to him?”

“Stay.”

“Hmm?”

“When he wakes up and he’s angry and upset, stay. Don’t stomp off or blow up or freak out,” she instructs. “If he asks you to leave, go, but otherwise… prove yourself, Geralt of Rivia. You wanted to be a knight once, didn’t you? Now’s your chance to play Prince Charming. Get down on your lovely knees and beg and apologize.”

“Hmm. How’s Ciri?”

“Fed, bathed, and put to bed. I’ll take care of her for as long as it takes you two morons to make nice again. Good luck, Geralt, I’m sure he’ll forgive you too easily for my tastes.”

She stands from her seat and leaves just as efficiently as she entered, carefully closing the door behind her. Geralt lays Jaskier back on the bed and takes a seat beside him on the mattress, kneeling just within touching distance, should Jaskier reach out for reassurance in his sleep. Geralt closes his eyes and slips easily into meditation. 

The Witcher is pulled from his trance a few hours later when Jaskier makes a startled sound and tries to sit up. Geralt opens his eyes and splays one warm, broad hand against Jaskier’s chest, forcing him back against the goose down pillows. “Stay still, Jaskier. You’re feverish and weak.”

“I’m still dreaming,” the bard grumbles, reaching to rub at his eyes with the heels of his hands. It’s adorable and Geralt grins widely, warmth spilling into his chest from some newly discovered fount of happiness. “You’re being too nice to me, Witcher.”

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier, for everything.”

“What’s everything, Geralt?”

“I’m sorry for pushing you away when I was angry and confused instead of communicating with you. I’m sorry for hurting you with my brash words and foolish actions; you have always deserved so much better and I’m so afraid that I can never give that to you. I take the wrong step at every turn, it seems, and yet you stay by my side. I didn’t want to risk hurting you the way I’ve already hurt Yen and Ciri, by tying us together against your will.”

“Darling Geralt,” the bard sighs. The Witcher scoots slightly closer and Jaskier lays a gentle hand atop his thigh. “It has always been my greatest pleasure to travel the Path with you and write of our adventures. I appreciate your concern for my agency and wellbeing, dear heart, but I am quite happy spending my entire human life in your presence.”

“Hmm,” the Witcher frowns. “You’re going to die someday.”

“And? So are you. So shall Yennefer, maybe.”

“Not likely,” Geralt jokes. Jaskier grins and the sight of it is so heartwarming that the Witcher wishes he could break down into tears. At least then Jaskier could see just how deeply his feelings ran. “I’m sorry, Jaskier, for blaming you for things that I brought upon myself. I love you dearly, and I hope that someday you can choose to travel with me again.”

“Excuse me?”

“I hope that you’ll-”

“No, the other bit.”

“I love you?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Oh. Yes, I-” Geralt clears his throat and looks Jaskier in the eyes, gold and blue locked together, “I love you very much, Jaskier.”

“Fuck.”

“May I kiss you, Jaskier?”

“Yes,” the bard breathes.

And then Geralt is lifting him up into his lap, one hand cradling Jaskier’s skull so so fucking carefully. Geralt’s other arm supports his waist, holding him steady. Their lips come together softly, carefully, and Jaskier’s soul spirals up to the ceiling with joy, his body abandoned. He is merely a vessel for the happiness that comes with kissing his Witcher. When they pull apart, both men are grinning like fools. “Oh, dear heart.”

“Yes, my love?”

“Never stop calling me that.”

“I swear I won’t, my love.”

From downstairs, Geralt hears Yennefer mutter, “Fucking finally.”

It takes twenty-two years, seven months, and one day, but Geralt and Jaskier manage to figure things out.

[gellavonhamster]

ghost of a lady in furs

Frontier || characters: Elizabeth Carruthers, Douglas Brown, Josephette DaCosta, Malcolm Brown, Michael Smyth; ships: Elizabeth Carruthers/Douglas Brown || AU after 2x05, rated M (?)

ao3 link eng || ao3 link rus

It’s a long way back from the dead.

At first, Elizabeth stays in bed all day – just as for weeks before, only now conscious. It hurts to speak, it’s hard to look at bright light, it’s necessary to lie down as soon as possible after each meal – liquid, as if already chewed by someone else, for her jaw still aches – because staying seated for a long time, even in a bastion of pillows, is hard too. Josephette tries to visit her as often as she can, to keep her up to date on all news pertaining to the company and not only. Sometimes she brushes Elizabeth’s hair or helps her wash herself. Sometimes Elizabeth allows herself to rest her head on her friend’s shoulder, close her eyes, and not think of anything for a while.

Not to think of what happened to her, not to try to remember how exactly it happened – all that took place after her arrival at Grant’s mansion and the arrest of Pond is covered by fog.  

Not to think of the fact that Samuel Grant presently must be sure that he’s won.

Not to think of the fact that if the one who beat her – Pond or anyone else, or Grant himself, which, however, is hard to believe – hit her harder or a couple more times, maybe just once more, he really would have won.

Douglas also spends a lot of time with her. Evenings, when he comes home from the factory, they dine together. Not in the dining room, of course – she in bed, he in an armchair beside it. Occasionally, when Elizabeth wakes up, she finds him drowsing in that very armchair. His presence in her bedroom strangely doesn’t bother her. Most of the time when they’re not discussing the affairs of Carruthers and Co. or Elizabeth’s health is spent in awkward silence; Elizabeth feels it physically that he has an urge to tell her something important, or maybe to touch her, only he doesn’t dare to. She cannot figure out if his hesitance is making her angry or, quite the opposite, glad that it gives her time to contemplate. Perhaps it is rather the second; what happened wasn’t simply not provided for in their marriage contract, it is something of the in-sickness-and-in-health kind, and so on, and so forth. She wasn’t ready for this, and she doesn’t know what to make of it.      

Besides, she has much more pressing problems now, and she’d rather ponder over them.

“I am going to destroy Samuel Grant,” she announces to Josephette and Douglas one evening when both of them come to check up on her. By that point her jaw has ceased to ache so much, which means she is able to speak in longer sentences. She’s been looking forward to this.

Her friend and her husband exchange glances.

“Elizabeth…” Douglas begins.

“Yes, I know,” she cuts him short. The day she almost died is only fragmentary in her memory, as a series of disjointed images; one of them is him by her writing desk, naked, frowning at the freshly signed confession in his hands. She’s aware that he has warned her, but she would still prefer him not to remind her of it. “I underestimated him. I hadn’t second-guessed what he might go for when scared. Every time I think a man cannot sink even lower, I am proven wrong.”

Douglas wisely chooses not to comment in any way on her pronouncement about men.

“Then what is going to stop him from trying to kill you again since he’s already crossed that line?” he asks instead.

Josephette takes her hand.

“Elizabeth,” she says carefully. “You are still in no condition to confront him.”

Elizabeth heaves an exasperated sigh.

“I can see that both of you have become too keen on fussing over me,” she says, displeased, but doesn’t take her hand away. “Well, I am grateful. But do both of you really think me as stupid as to go the same way? I am going to act behind his back. And you are going to help me.”  

Douglas looks like he’s going to object, but Josephette, who has known Elizabeth for a longer time and better – and who knows that she cannot be persuaded to step back from a desired goal – is quicker to answer.  

“Tell us what you have in mind,” she says.

 ***

 Elizabeth Carruthers becomes a ghost.

After so many weeks in bed, she can’t and she won’t make herself lie down. At night, she waits impatiently for sleep to take over, so as not to be aware that once again she is in the same bed in which she has spent more than a month. For days on end, she keeps wandering back and forth through the house, leaning on the walls, wandering and wandering until the inevitable dizziness sets in. The servants flinch reflexively now and again when she emerges towards them from a scantily lit hallway.    

Only thing she’s missing are some shackles to rattle.

Her excuse is doctor’s orders – she has to move to stir her muscles, weakened and numb due to the time spent bedridden. Yet this is just part of the truth – not even half of it, a third at best. The lion’s share of the truth is that there’s an unappeasable rage inside her, howling, growling, thrashing around, and this rage wouldn’t even let her sit at the table for a long time – she studies the company’s documents standing or perched on an armrest, she reads books as she walks around in the living room. She is a cage where a wolf is pacing in circles, and she herself is caged in that house, far from noise, meetings, deals, negotiations, life.

A couple of times, soon after she regained consciousness and became strong enough to sit in bed and even get up sometimes for a while, she let the wolf out. A couple of times were enough – she wouldn’t break down anymore. No, she couldn’t care less about the dishes, all the more about the ridiculous statuette of a shepherdess that was a gift to her and her first husband from – whom? Doesn’t matter in any case. It brought much more joy when it shattered than when it was collecting dust on the mantelpiece. Still, each such outburst is a display of weakness, which only makes Elizabeth angry at herself later. She has spent far too much time proving to the world that she is sensible, rational, and cool-headed. The world – replete with disdain, superficial, and annoyingly male – refused to believe her: she is a woman, after all, and what should one expect from women but hysterics and tears? And even if those living in this house or visiting it have seen her even weaker, they haven’t seen her pathetic – and they won’t. Not the servants, though they won’t utter a word for fear of losing their jobs, not Josephette, though she wouldn’t judge, not Douglas, who might think whatever but wouldn’t judge her openly either. If she loses her temper in front of them, it will be more difficult to keep it in check in front of the others.            

She couldn’t hold back the desire to gloat when she went to mock Grant in person, and look what came of it.  

And so she keeps her rage locked. Or rather remolds it, reforges it, and uses it wisely. Instead of wasting time and energy on yelling and breaking the china, she’d rather put more effort into planning her revenge on Grant – and to bringing these plans to fruition.  

If he isn’t afraid of ghosts, soon he will be.

 ***

 Few people know she’s awake. Many people don’t even know if she’s alive. By a fortunate coincidence, the passerby who found her used to work on Carruthers and Co. He went straight to Josephette, who paid him handsomely for his help and for keeping his mouth shut about his discovery. The onlookers never got a chance to amass, but someone must still have seen her, because rumours started spreading in Montreal that Elizabeth Carruthers was found dead in a ditch. No, not dead, but beaten up. No, not beaten up, just drunk. The latter in particular made her blood boil; even at the dreariest moments of her confinement, when the wolf inside urged her to lunge at the walls and at anyone who comes her way, she didn’t get drunk, not even once. A sip of brandy at dinner, and that’s all. The memories of what Peter was like when plastered are too fresh. He was pathetic when sober and so much the more when inebriated. She grimaces as she remembers. She doesn’t want to resemble him in any way.            

One of the few upsides of marriage to Peter was meeting Josephette, who proves herself indispensable once again.

Few people know she’s awake. Yet Josephette, who has perfect knowledge of the factory and everyone who works there, selects some trustworthy and discreet girls among the workers, girls who own some debt of gratitude to her or to Elizabeth, and lets them into this secret. These girls sometimes enlist the help of their fiancés or brothers, just as trustworthy and discreet. And so acquaintances begin to be struck up between them and the workers from Grant’s company, so begin the casual inquiries about what it’s like to work there and what the news are, and the passing mentions of how it’s pretty good to work for Widow Carruthers (she may have got married for the second time, but most of them still think of her as of Widow Carruthers). Sometimes they spice it up with a bit or two of gossip that might make one doubt just how fair Grant is with his men. Sometimes these seeds take root. Sometimes they don’t. No one is forcing anything on anyone – just offering food for thought.

All the obtained intelligence goes to Josephette, who then passes it to Elizabeth, and together they figure out how to use it. Most of it is not too valuable – one must give the devil his due, Grant’s employees don’t complain much. However, sometimes they get to learn which suppliers have voiced dissatisfaction with the terms of bargains lately, or which potential buyers have visited the factory. Those are approached by Douglas, who offers them better terms and makes them believe that Carruthers and Co. has exactly what they need. First by playing along and then by twisting their words, he convinces Grant’s partners that it is they who want what is offered to them.    

He used to be the face of the company while Elizabeth was its true head, and Josephette was the secret power unknown even to those aware that the company was run by the wife, not by the husband. Now Elizabeth herself has receded into the shadows even deeper than Josephette. Behind Douglas Brown, the figurehead of Carruthers and Co., is a Black former servant, and behind her, there is a ghost.  

Perhaps Samuel Grant’s enterprise is haunted as well, since workers and suppliers start leaving it slowly but surely.      

 ***

 “Miss Dolan came by the factory today,” Douglas tells her one evening as they’re having dinner together – not in the bedroom, now that Elizabeth, thankfully, is feeling much better, but in the dining room. It takes some time for Elizabeth to remember who he is referring to: right, the Irish girl. The little traitor. In fairness, Elizabeth can see that the girl is just trying to survive, but she still cannot think of her without dislike.  

“And what was she after? Surely she didn’t come to visit her former workmates?”  

“Well, first of all, she wanted to return the hat you gave her.”

“I hope you told her she is free to choke on it.”

“I told her you would’ve preferred her to keep it.” Douglas fumbles with his glass that still has some brandy in it. They’re sitting at the opposite sides of the table, like a king and a queen in an empty castle – a haunted one, naturally. One day, as she was lying in bed and obsessively thinking out her vengeance on Grant, it occurred to her that she was turning into a sort of Lady Macbeth, plotting and scheming and slowly going insane. The next thought amused her: how fitting of her to have married a Scotsman. “She asked after your health, for she remembers how kind you were to her…”  

Elizabeth snorts.

“…and she also asked in passing if it’s true that Deschamps and Moreau are now supplying their goods to us. Said she couldn’t help wonderin’ because she’d seen them at Grant’s before.”  

“How observant of her.”  

“You understand what that means, right? They suspect something, Elizabeth. And they won’t leave it like that.”  

Elizabeth slams her glass on the table.

“If you are going to say that it’s time to stop, save your breath,” she tells him, voice ringing with indignation. “Because it’s too late to stop. Afraid, Mr. Brown, aren’t you?”

Douglas sighs, takes off his glasses, sighs again, and puts them back. In the light of the melting candles he looks older than he is, and very tired.

“A wee bit,” he admits. “But not for myself.”

His words produce a strange feeling in her chest, as if a ruffled bird is stirring underneath her ribs.  

Elizabeth gets up and approaches him at a swift pace, and he rises too, eyes fixed on her. She rests one hand on the table – she shouldn’t have stood up so briskly, her head still spins a little at times – and tries to figure out what to say to a man who dared to care about her.  

He’s waiting, and only the cracking of the firewood disturbs the silence.

“I can take care of myself,” Elizabeth finally says. “I’ve told you before: I won’t go the same way. I won’t make myself an easy target. You won’t have to nurse me back to health again, don’t worry.”

“I would’ve done it again if I had to. I’d rather it wasn’t necessary, though.”  

For a change, Elizabeth Carruthers doesn’t know what to say, so she just kisses him.  

When Douglas pulls away, he’s looking at her with a mixture of longing and wariness.  

“I thought you didn’t remember this either,” he says quietly.

“I would’ve done it again if I didn’t,” replies Elizabeth. She doesn’t want to decipher what she means by these words. She made him marry her so that Carruthers and Co. had a representative that these small-minded pigs who don’t trust a businesswoman would agree to deal with. She slept with him, and it felt good. He took care of her while she was unconscious, and then was tactful enough during her recovery not to make her feel humiliated by his help. All of it adds up to something, but she prefers not to reflect on it. She doesn’t want to decipher what she means by these words – but she knows she’s speaking from her heart. “Otherwise I’d have to wait till doomsday for you to be done suffering in silence.”

“Frankly speaking, I… wasn’t sure that back then it didn’t happen because you wanted me to sign that bloody confession.”  

“Well, I wanted you to sign it. I also wanted you. These two were not related,” shrugs Elizabeth. She cannot blame him for the lack of trust: she did use him, and he, in turn, planned together with Malcolm to go against her – what kind of trust could there be? “If you thought I was playing you, why didn’t you leave while I was as good as dead? Why did you stay?”  

He responds by kissing her – not on the lips, but on the cheek right under the scar, very carefully. Again, a little higher. Again, moving along the outline of the scar but not touching her skin where it recently was too new and delicate. His moustache is tickling her face; the bird underneath her ribs is picking at her heart. And she’s mad at him because she’s addled and defenseless in the face of this unbearable tenderness, and she’s mad at herself because she is starting to suspect in horror that she might cry if he touches her like this again, this was not in their marriage contract, this was not in her scheme of things, and how dare he…  

She grabs him by his curls, pushes him lower, makes him press his lips to hers – makes him do something she can comprehend. The urge to tear up subsides. She pulls him closer, one hand still in his hair, the other on the lapel of his waistcoat. Then she lets go for a moment to move the dinnerware aside without even looking (one glass must have fallen – to hell with it, to hell with everything) before sitting down on the edge of the table.  

“The servants might come in,” Douglas reminds her when she runs her hand over his shoulder, his hip, his crotch, like she owns him, but his voice is husky and hot, and his hands are peeling off her dressing gown.  

“So what?” she breaths out. “They are my servants. This is my house. Everything here is mine. And if I want my husband to fuck me on my table in my dining room… I don’t see what must be stopping me.”  

When he lifts her nightdress and kneels between her spread legs, she doesn’t feel like a ghost.  

***

 One of the factory girls who were being friendly with Grant’s workers on Josephette’s orders is found with her throat cut. There is no purse with earnings on her, so it might have been just a robbery. A coincidence. Or maybe not.  

That night Elizabeth sees Grant’s face hanging over her, his eyes wide with terror as he keeps delivering blow after blow to her head with something heavy.

“I’m a good man,” she hears his frantic voice. “I’m a good man.”  

Upon another blow she wakes, and sits up in bed with a jerk. Something that is neither a sob nor a cry escapes her throat – a shrill animal sound. She cannot catch her breath. She cannot believe she can breathe.

“Elizabeth,” Douglas says worriedly, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Some part of her mind that has either already calmed down or never had time to get scared tells her that she must have elbowed him in the face when she jerked up. “Elizabeth, what’s the matter?”  

“It was Grant,” she whispers. She’s shaking, and even Douglas’s comforting warmth by her side doesn’t help. Pathetic, she’s so pathetic now. “It was Grant who beat me up. I remembered.”  

“Elizabeth, it might’ve been just a dream…”

“And I am telling you I remembered!” snaps Elizabeth. She put her hand to her forehead and wipes off the sweat. “I take it you know better than I what’s happening in my head, don’t you?”  

“I mean, it is quite possible that after the news about that poor lass…”

“No. No, no, no,” she frees herself from his embrace and climbs off the bed. It is his bedroom, not hers, and the unusual surroundings are disorienting: the window is too small, the door is on the wrong side. Perhaps she’d calm down sooner if she lay down again, but presently she doesn’t want to have anything in common with the unmoving body on the floor of Samuel Grant’s mansion.  

She tenses up when Douglas approaches her, but he doesn’t try to persuade her to go back to bed, just throws a shawl over her shoulders.  

She closes her eyes and thinks. And thinks, and thinks, and thinks.

“You know,” she finally says, “I cannot believe I am proposing this myself, but I’m going to need to chat with your brother.”

 ***

 This time, instead of Declan Harp, Malcolm brings her some disheveled boy.

“Michael Smyth of the Black Wolf Company… ma’am,” he announces, indicating the guest with a nod. “Michael, let me introduce you to Mrs. Elizabeth Carruthers.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” says Smyth. The beard and the overall rough-hewn appearance of a seasoned hunter are unable to conceal how young he is. He reminds Elizabeth of a small animal – a ferret or a raccoon – that has somehow managed to sneak into her house from the forest.  

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Smyth,” Elizabeth replies coldly, not bothering to stand up and offer her hand to him. “Although, in truth, I would’ve been much more pleased if Mr. Brown did what I asked and organized me a meeting with Mr. Harp, not with his errand boy. Who is also to blame, as far as I know, for the supply that I’ve arranged with Mr. Harp going down the drain.”  

Malcolm opens his mouth, but Michael Smyth beats him to it.

“Declan Harp is in Scotland now,” he says calmer than could be expected after her remark; well done. “As to the supply, I had no other choice. Your people didn’t come to collect the pelts. Cobbs Pond told me you’re…”  

“Dead? As you can see, it is unwise to believe everything Cobbs Pond says,” even the name of that man seems to taste rotten. Elizabeth cannot help screwing up her face as she pronounces it. “But I admit: my people didn’t come indeed – they were too busy keeping me alive.”  

“Well, I was busy keeping my people alive,” retorts Smyth. “We had to dispose of the pelts before the redcoats caught up with us. Pond was there, and he had the silver. I am sure, Mrs. Carruthers, that you would’ve done the same if you were in my place.”

“Sureness is a fine thing. The trick is not to overdo it. Trust me, Mr. Smyth, I am speaking from my own bitter experience,” Elizabeth replies with a sweet smile. The boy is staring hard at her, waiting for what she’s going to say next. Malcolm, hands in pockets, is observing their one-on-one leaning against the door frame. “Anyway, enough of the past. This is not why I asked my most kind brother-in-law,” she makes a pause, which Malcolm fills with a loud sneering chuckle, “to bring me a representative of the Black Wolf Company.”  

“Then why, Mrs. Carruthers?”

Elizabeth leans back in her chair. Today, for the first time after a month and a half in nightdresses and dressing gowns, she is wearing a proper dress – one of her best – which makes her feel splendid. As if nothing had changed. As if Michael Smyth, her first visitor in a long time who isn’t one of her household, doctors, or family (regrettably, the latter technically includes Malcolm), isn’t currently making every effort not to look inadvertently at the right side of her face – the ugly prominent scars, the greenish yellow of her bruises. And he’s making it; she can feel it.  

“Your company has already stolen for me once, Mr. Smyth,” she says. “I didn’t get to have the results, but still. I need you to do it again.”

“You want us to steal the furs of the HBC?”

Elizabeth cannot hold back a vicious smile.

“I want you to steal the furs of Samuel Grant”.

 ***

 “All right, that was not quite what I required of you, Mr. Brown,” she tells Malcolm after Smyth leaves, “but thank you just the same.”

Malcolm makes a helpless gesture dramatically.

“Well, sorry for not havin’ enough damn time to dart off to Scotland and back.”  

“What business does Harp even have in Scotland?”

“Michael didn’t go into detail, so I guess it must be either something really important or something really personal.”

“Or both,” Elizabeth says thoughtfully. It wouldn’t hurt to learn what it is all about: you never know what information may turn out useful. “Let’s hope this… young man can be trusted.”

“He’s a thief. You need a thief. I don’t see why not,” shrugs Malcolm. “Besides, I warned him that you’re a witch, so if anything goes wrong, you’ll turn him into a mouse and eat him like it’s nothing.”

“Why a mouse, Mr. Brown? That’s not much to eat. Why not into a nice, fat goose, for example?”  

“Not enough meat for a goose in that one,” Malcolm grins, and Elizabeth cannot help grinning back. This nonsense must be the first time in history when something resembling a friendly conversation is happening between them.  

So, she used to be a ghost, and now she’s become a witch.

Or has always been one, as many people certainly wouldn’t fail to point out.

 ***

Josephette makes her a patch that covers half her face. The broad band of black velvet is covered in tiny embroidery – leaves, stems, bees. It looks unusual, but it matches most of Elizabeth’s dresses, and looks a little bit like a carnival mask. Someone uninitiated, upon seeing her wearing this strange accessory, might well conclude she’s going to attend a masked ball.  

“If it’s too tight, it can be fastened by another hook. Or altered altogether,” says Josephette. Elizabeth looks at Josephette’s face in the mirror behind her shoulder, and shakes her head.  

“It’s perfect. Really, you didn’t have to…”

Josephette gestures her to stop.

“I did,” she says. Her face, always so reserved, lights up. “Consider it a gift on the occasion of your return to the world of the living.”

Elizabeth turns around and takes Josephette’s hands in hers.

‘Thank you,” she tells her, meaning much more than just the patch, and she can read it in her friend’s gaze that she understands.

Together they descend the stairs – the queen and her éminence grise. Douglas is waiting for them below, by the door.  

“Very… elegant,” he remarks, taking a look at his wife’s half-concealed face.

“Oh, I intend to bring it into fashion. Soon all ladies in Montreal will be wearing this. I’d love to look at Miss Dolan in it,” Elizabeth says with a sinister smile, and passes her arm through his. “Shall we?”

She can’t wait to return to the factory. To check personally if everything is in order, to examine the equipment, to hear how things are going in the workers’ own words. But first she has to visit the market, the very beating heart of the town. Let people see that she is back. As she passes the stalls of vendors and craftsmen, she can feel the prying eyes on her. Some start whispering as soon as they see her, some elbow their companions to draw their attention, some greet her awkwardly – those she honours with a regal nod.  

She hopes to run into a certain man – and she does.

Samuel Grant is alone today, without the loyal Pond at his side. He’s talking to a couple of trappers whom Elizabeth hasn’t met before, and when he catches sight of her, he almost drops the beaver pelt he was inspecting.

Elizabeth stops and meets his gaze.

The whole market – possibly the whole world – seems to have stopped with them.

She feels ill at ease in his presence. She would never admit that – not even to Josephette, not even to Douglas – but the sight of the man who almost smashed her skull makes some sort of a cold well open inside her. But when he looks at her, he’s dumbfounded too, even scared. She is the witness of his crime. The witness of him being far from “a good man”, as he kept saying back then, trying in vain to make himself believe it.  

Yet another blow, just after a large parcel of furs he was to receive was dragged into the night by black wolves.

Elizabeth forces a smile.

“Mr. Grant,” she says loudly and cordially. She is the first to break the silence, and it feels like a victory. Which is silly, of course: the real victory is a long way off. The real war has just begun. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

It’s a long way back from the dead, but she’s made it.

[marshmallow-phd]

Memories Past

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Supernatural, Wolf Au

Pairing: Kris x Reader

Summary: The last thing Kris wanted was to move on. He was perfectly content wallowing in his misery while pretending everything was okay. But when you come walking into his shop with a broken down car, he realizes the thing he’d been avoiding the most just might be the cure he always needed. He just couldn’t believe that it’d been you all along. Kris had been your best friend when you were kids before he’d moved away without a word of goodbye. Now nearly fifteen years later, you run into him again by pure coincidence. The memories come rushing back to you, stirring something inside. A childhood crush shouldn’t upend your picture perfect life, but sometimes, destiny has other things in mind…

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11 I 12 I 13 I Final

**

You braced yourself for the fallout, the yelling, for everything that you deserved. Any harsh word that came your way, you would take it. You’d let him get it out, anything he needed to say, you would let him.

But that’s not what came.

Instead, what you received was a pair of arms pulling you into Kris’ chest. He didn’t say anything, just held you as if you would disappear were he to let you go. How could he just take you in like this?

Wrapping your arms around his waist, you buried your face in his shoulder. All the pent up emotion that you’d been holding back for the last couple of weeks flowed out through the tears that now soaked Kris’ shirt. Sobs plagued your throat and your knees were shaking.

You were the one killing him and yet he was comforting you, shushing you in your ear as he rubbed your back. “Home” had never been so tangible than in this moment. That empty feeling that kept you awake at night was now filled, and yet guilt was drowning it out. As your tears began to fade out, Kris pulled back, taking your hand in his. There was nothing but love shining through his eyes. You didn’t understand how he could still look at you like that.  

“Come on,” he tugged you down the steps with no resistance and you allowed him to lead you to the detached garage. You were grateful for the privacy. As calm as the beginning of this reunion was, you were still preparing yourself for the lash out to come.

Quietly shutting the side door, he turned back to you. Once you were sat down on a stool, he leaned up against the familiar white car you hadn’t seen for so long.

“Kris, I-”

“Have you-”

Both you closed your mouths when you heard the other speak. For a moment, you each waited for the other to start up again, but neither of you did. You felt that - since he had something he wanted to say - Kris should be allowed to begin, so you stayed silent, your heart pounding in your ears with anxious anticipation.

Exhaling a lung full of air, Kris ran a hand through his hair. “How did you get here?”

You shrugged. “I just remembered… from last time. I went in reverse.”

He nodded. Actually, it was more of a front to back bob then an up and down nod. “And… what are you doing here?”

“I-” You swallowed thickly. “I needed to see you.”

The slight upturn in the corner of his mouth had your heart flutter and you straightened up just a little bit.

“Why did you need to see me?” he whispered, looking at you with a quizzical look.

Not bothering to express it in words, you jumped up to wrap your arms around his waist once more, burying your face in his chest. A pair of lips gently pressed against the top of your head. That gave you enough courage to let out those two little words you’d been biting on for so long.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Kris murmured, squeezing you closer to him. “Don’t ever be sorry.”

You shook your head. “I pushed you away.”

“For a good reason,” Kris argued. Tilting your chin up, he had you look up at him. “Can I explain everything now?”

You nodded and he slowly untangled you from him, holding on to your hands. His smile was hesitant and unsure, crooked from not being brave enough to really shine in the moment.

“I know you think that what you feel for me was forced,” he started, “but I swear to you that it’s real. What I feel for you is real. I love you. And I know that’s me - not the mate bond. Because I’ve loved you since we were kids.”

While nothing but truth rang in his eyes, you couldn’t help but scoff. “You were always teasing me.”

“And doing things for you,” he whined. “I always gave in to you, no matter how ridiculous. Even playing house.”

Memories of Kris giving you the last bite of ice cream cake, handing over his jacket when you were cold, and, of course, playing house in your parents’ living room danced through your mind. Every once in a while, you’d see a strange sparkle in his eye when his gaze was directed at you, but your still developing mind could never decipher what that glimmer was.

But Kris had said that he’d been a wolf his whole life.

“So,” you squeezed his hand to ground yourself in the reality that you were in, “even as kids, the whole ‘mate bond’ thing was there?”

Kris shook his head ardently. “No. No, it doesn’t manifest itself until after the first shift and that doesn’t happen until about puberty. I was thirteen when I changed into a wolf for the first time. So, back then, it was purely us.”

That, right there, was exactly what you needed to hear. Because back when you were kids, you looked at him as if he out shined the stars in the sky. When he disappeared, it haunted you for years, always lingering and never letting you go. Now that you had most of the answers, you not only accepted your fate of being tied to Kris - you were relishing in it. Who else could say that their childhood best friend turned out to be their soulmate?

“I believe you,” you smiled shyly up at him. “And even if it was present back then, I can’t say that I care too much anymore.” The upturn of your mouth faded. “I could never let you die.”

“Die?” Kris tilted his head. “What do you mean? Who told you that?”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “Ji Yeon did. She explained to me what happens when a mate rejects their wolf.”

Kris cringed. “You never should have found out about that. It never would have happened.”

“Why do you say that?” you snapped.

Eyes glimmering down at you, he ran the back of his knuckles down your cheek. “I knew you’d come back to me.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes half heartedly. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he teased. Like an exclamation point to emphasis it, he kissed your nose, making you giggle.

However, as happy as you were, there was still one mystery to you that needed to be solved.

“Will you tell me who Jiyoon was now?” you asked softly.

Instead of answering, Kris closed his eyes, breathing out through his nose as he leaned his forehead against yours.

You reached up to his face and traced his hairline with your fingers. “Kris, what happened to her?”

The way Kris muttered her name and woke in such a frightening way still haunted you. He pulled you in so closely to him after he’d realized he was awake that you knew something terrible was refusing to let him go.

Kris took your own face in his hands, caressing your cheek once with his fingertips, then twice, before sighing, “Several years back, I made a terrible mistake. Many, actually. I thought I was invincible. And I’d push all thoughts of you away.”

You shook your head. “I don’t-”

“I fell for a girl named Jiyoon,” he said quickly, as if he needed to get it out now or else he’d never be able to. “I always knew that my mate would come along, but I didn’t care. Even with you in the back of my mind, I still held her close.”

“I don’t blame you,” you said honestly. How could you judge when you were engaged just a few weeks ago?

“I loved her.” Kris’ eyes drifted from your face to the floor, staring at nothing as the memories played back in his mind. “Not like how I love you, but I did. And-” he closed his eyes, swallowing back what you suspected were tears. “And I got her killed.”

Your hands jumped up to Kris’ that were still cradling your face, your fingers wrapping around his wrists. “Kris, what are you talking about?”

When he opened his eyes again, little tears on the verge of falling were resting in the corners. His hands drifted down from your face to your upper arms. “I got into a fight with another pack. An extremely powerful pack. They were hitting on Jiyoon while she was working. It was this run down place with terrible food. But it was her job. I was there that night, watching them say disgusting things to her. So I threw the first punch. We got into a fight after she was fired. She screamed at me, said that she wanted to break up and that she never should have gotten involved with a wolf in the first place.”

“She knew?” Jealousy stabbed at you. Did he trust her with his secret where he never trusted you?

“Yes,” Kris nodded. “She was Junmyeon’s cousin. She grew up knowing about wolves.”

Oh. That eased the jealousy a tiny bit. “What happened after the fight?”

“I ran,” he admitted. “I could feel myself getting angry and knew I was going to shift any second, so I ran away. We were still in town, so when I calmed down enough, I bought some beer and went to our lake, our secret hide away. Drank myself into a stupor. When I woke up, it was the next day and I went home, hoping that I could get Jiyoon to change her mind. But…,” he paused, breathing in deeply to keep himself level, “but I was too late. I don’t know what she was doing in the woods - Junmyeon thinks she was trying to find me - but the pack from before came across her. Those sick bastards-”

Letting you go, Kris turned swiftly and slammed his fist down on on the metal work bench. You flinched instinctively at the sudden outburst. Kris’ shoulders heaved up and down shakily as he gripped the bench hard enough to create little indentions in the side.

“They killed her,” he whispered. “Tore her up and left her to bleed out. And it was all my fault. If I hadn’t confronted the pack, if I hadn’t gotten into a fight, then Jiyoon never would have gotten fired and we never would have gotten into an argument. I would have been there to protect her instead of drunk on a beach.”

You ran to him, sticking yourself to his back. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Slowly, he turned back around, shifting in your arms and whispering into your hair. “I can’t lose you like that, like her. That’s what I was dreaming about that night at your place. You in her place. If that ever were to happen, it would kill me.”

“It won’t happen,” you promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Whether surged by your declaration or by the emotions building up inside, Kris yanked you up and set you down on the bench before crashing his lips into yours. Acting on their own, your legs locked around Kris’ waist, giving him no choice but to carry on. You leaned back until your shoulders hit a tool box, bringing Kris with you as your fists clenched his shirt.

A couple of fingers found their way under the hem of your shirt, resting on your hip just above the waistband of your jeans. Kris nipped at your bottom lip, a rumbling growl vibrating his chest. One of your hands snaked up to his neck, running your fingers through his hair. You bit back, feeling Kris smile against your lips.

It was getting heated in that cool garage when suddenly the side door clicked open. Kris growled with a snarled lip as he whipped his head to find the intruder. A boy that you’d never seen before poked his head in shyly.

“Um, Kris,” he gulped. “I’m really sorry, but Junmyeon needs to talk to all of us. Didn’t say why.”

Relaxing his face, Kris sighed, “Thanks, Jongin. We’ll be right there.”

Nodding, the boy quickly shut the door and disappeared.

Kris traced the skin under your eye with his thumb. “Come on. If Junmyeon’s called a meeting then it’s probably serious.”

You cringed at the thought of having to go back into that house.

“What’s wrong?” Kris asked.

“I, um, don’t think some of your… brothers like me.” That was probably an understatement. You’d initially been thrown off by how welcoming Luhan was, but you still believed that you deserved the rougher treatment. And one was certainly ready to give it to you. 

Kris frowned. “What do you mean?” Leveling with you, he pulled his eyebrows together, searching for any avoidance in your eyes. “(y/n), you ran out of that house fairly quickly. By the surprise on your face, I don’t think it was because you knew I was outside. What happened? Did someone say something to you?”

You swallowed, feeling like a tattle tale if you spoke up.

Narrowing his eyes, Kris placed a hand on either side of you, trapping you in. “(y/n)….”

There was no way out. You were pretty sure that Kris would just stay there in that position, even risk missing the meeting, until you finally gave him what he wanted.

You sighed, mumbling, “Tao didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

The muscles in Kris’ face and jaw visibly tightened. “What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

A growl rumbled in his throat.

“Okay, okay.” You knew he would never hurt you, but you didn’t think Tao would be afforded the same luxury. “He… he said that you deserved a better mate.”

The ear shattering roar that erupted from Kris shook you to the core. Storming out of the garage, Kris had that look in his eye that told you he was on a mission and the end result would not be pretty.

“No, wait!” You jumped off of the bench, following him outside. You barely reached him before he’d hit the porch. Pulling on his arm, you begged for him to stop. “Don’t do something you’d regret!”

Kris turned on you, gripping your shoulders. “Don’t ever think that way about yourself. And Tao should never let those words leave his mouth. He needs to know that is unacceptable.”

“He’s just… protective of you.”

Rolling his eyes, a smile tugged at his lips. Good. He was calming down.

“It’s because I’m his alpha,” Kris grumbled. “It’s his instinct.”

Your eyes widened. “His alpha? Do you mean-”

“Shh.” Kris smirked a smile full of cockiness. “Later. We should get to this meeting before Junmyeon has a cow.”

“But-”

He shut you up with a kiss. “Later. I promise.”

You had no choice but wait, letting him lead you into the house where a living room full of wolves and mates were already gathered. This couldn’t be good.

[aced0g]

Be Your Worst Self

I was tagged by @loveydoveypiperwright​ , so thank you! I’m sorry I haven’t done a tagging game in a while but I’m getting there :DD

Rules: Take this quiz for your character(s) and post the results!

I’m gonna tag @fallout-and-dragon-age​ & @ace-amatus​ but thats only if y'all want too. Have fun if you do!

So for my ocs its going to just be easier to go by the personality type rather than list each oc out individually cause there would be a lot of overlap, that being said, here we go~

You Are an Emotionally Volatile Nightmare:

Your heart guides you and sometimes that’s not as dreamy or romantic as it might sound. It’s true that your feelings often inspire you to heal and create, and as long as those feelings don’t steer you wrong, you’re capable of truly visionary accomplishments in the name of empathy and love. Feelings, though, aren’t always gentle and sweet. You know that better than anyone because your own emotions -the same overwhelming forces that inspire you to make the world a better place - can take you to very dark places, especially if you believe that the subject of your ire has shown unwarranted cruelty toward you or something you hold dear. You know that your feelings aren’t necessarily rational, but that doesn’t stop you from dramatically blaming other people for causing you pain. Of course, you might not even stop at crying; that notoriously brilliant creativity might even spur you to express your wrath artistically - nothing says “emotional stability” like a morose, vengeful poem.

-Evander Virani: Does it match up? Yeah I’d say so. He’s experienced a lot of trauma and while most of the time he pushes his emotions down or tries to act like a positive “everything’s going to be okay!” person he’s about one bad thing away from having a breakdown. When he’s truly happy its one of the few times he can just forget about his problems and enjoy the moment. Most of the time he’s in this in between stage of pure terror and extreme sadness. It makes him appear like he has a level head. When he’s angry though it tends to lash out as a literal burning rage. He loses control of his magic and sort of engulfs his arms in flame and takes his ire out on whoever pissed him off (he hates being angry because it scares him. He doesn’t like losing control). His creative outlet is forging knives and swords. He does want to heal though, he’s tired of being the cause of destruction. He wants to help and heal, not only others but also himself.

-Aspen Lavellan: Does it match up? Kinda? I wouldn’t call him volatile. Aspen’s got a pretty level head on his shoulders. He has learned how to act diplomatic. When he is presenting himself as Inquisitor to the public imagine a Raymond Holt type of personality. When he’s with friends though he likes to pull pranks and just have a good time. He doesn’t want to be serious all the time because it makes the situation feel bleak. He wants there to be positivity in his life. Though, I would say that when he is truly angry it’s a type of silent wrath that’s terrifying. You can see the burning hatred in his eyes and he has the skill to hit his target with three arrows before they even know whats going on. When he’s truly angry he will keep fighting until he’s completed his goal or he dies trying. He does carve dalish patterns into his bow so that could be considered creative? Aspen is a protector. He wants to help others, keep them safe and that could translate into healing. He does what needs to be done to keep people safe, and sometimes that means making the hard decisions that others can’t.

-Arthur Cousland: Does it match up? Yeah. Arthur’s usually able to stay in a good mood. He’s an optimist and doesn’t like to bring people down. He’s gentle and wants to help heal and create. It’s why he enjoys playing his lute and singing. Songs can inspire people, or at the very least cheer them up. He may be a noble but what he does with that sort of money and power is give it away to others. He gives his coin to those on the street who need food, or he’s been known to give his blanket away as well saying he’ll just buy another when they reach the next town. He’s got a big heart and he wears it on his sleeve. The only way he can hide when he’s sad is if it’s raining so that the rain can hide his tears, or if he goes off on his own for a little while (he hates burdening others with his problems and often leaves for an hour or two to just climb a tree and have a good cry, though Alistair catches on and works with Arthur to realize its okay to let others help him when he is sad). When he’s angry it’s hard to think logically. He listens to his heart and when he feels betrayed or that someone is going to bring harm to his friends or the people he’s protecting he will fight tooth and nail to protect them and kill whoever is provoking them.

You are a Narcissistic Monster: 

You’re the best - right? Wherever you go, the spotlight finds you, and you’re hardly complaining. you can’t imagine your friends care, since, after all, you’re so generous. Well, that’s what you like to think about yourself. You’re generous, enthusiastic, and fun, so if you compulsively steal the spotlight, it doesn’t really matter. If you fuel drama just to feed your thirst for a dramatic life, is it really that bad? Is it really so wrong for you to be the center of attention? Does it really matter how other people feel about it in the long run? Of course, you’d never say no. You’re the generous friend, and you’d never hurt anyone on purpose just to keep all eyes on you... right? Every now and then, you imagine your funeral and how all of your friends will go on and on about how wonderful, magnetic, charming, and generous you were. 

-Sorian Surana: Does it match up? No, not really. He’s cocky, headstrong, and a bit of an asshole sometimes but I wouldn’t call him narcissistic. He’s proud of himself, and yeah he’s proud of himself and takes pride in his looks but not because that’s all he cares about. Sorian is a trans-man elf mage who was mistreated in the circle and then joined up with the wardens and transitioned. He went from thinking he would have no future to being one of the legendary Grey Wardens, and then he actually looks the way he’s always wanted to! So of course he’s going to seem a little vain or narcissistic sometimes, but it’s only because he never thought he’d make it this far. And, if he’s being honest, he fucking hates the spotlight. He’d much rather be just one of the Wardens instead of The Hero of Ferelden, Arl of Amaranthine, and all those other titles. He’ll be in the spotlight, but it doesn’t mean he enjoys it. Besides, he should be allowed a little bit of cockiness (mages in The Awakening DLC are so OP by the end of it, literally Sorian knows so many spells and can conjure the dead turn into a bear, wield a great ax while shooting fire storms at people, and at the same time have a constant aura of changing elemental magic that deals damage to his enemies.)

You are Shockingly Violent:

There’s no getting around this: you desperately need to attend anger management. You’re just as headstrong and opinionated, and your energy and enthusiasm can turn into explosive violence at the drop of a hat. You’re a walking time bomb of seething rage, and the more you try to hide it, the more it escapes in unpredictable, volatile mood swings. Do yourself a favor and invest in a stress ball or gym membership before you do something you really regret

-Kyra Lavellan: Does it fit? Yeah. She chose the Reaver specialization for a reason. Kyra is a very energetic and enthusiastic person. She does what she feels is right and gets upset when people don’t see that she’s doing the right thing even if it might not morally line up with their beliefs. As a kid she’d often get into fights with the other kids of her clan and was always sporting some sort of bandage because of it. She has a better control on her outbursts as an adult, but she still lashes out especially when she’s in pain or very annoyed. Her anger is great in battle though. She fights with the ferocity of a dragon and won’t admit it out loud but she does enjoy having the power to physically shred her enemies with her hands. Before she knew how to control the reaver power she would keep attacking, sacrificing her own health to get the job done and make sure the others were safe. Once she learned how to keep conscious and keep fighting things went a lot smoother. 

-Alrik Hawke: Does it fit? Kinda? Hawke’s in denial really. He wants to protect people and make them happy, it’s why he chose to be a spirit healer, why he’s always cracking jokes and trying to get others to smile. He does have a lot of anger though. It’s just under the surface, though its quite hard to really bring out. See Alrik is a werewolf and his anger is tied very closely to the wolf, so for him getting angry isn’t just an outburst of words it means he could lose control and shift. He doesn’t want that. He keeps a tight lid on his anger and it only really comes out in moments of extreme stress, like the deep roads or when slaver’s are trying to recapture his best friend, or when people keep calling Merril a monster, or when Templars get too close to Anders. Okay so maybe he does have a lot of anger. Like I said he’s in denial. 

You are a Two-Faced Liar:

Your friends know you talk behind their backs. Not that you’re a bad person - you just can’t help letting other people know how you really feel about some of the crazy stuff your loved ones have told you. Unfortunately, you’ve talked and talked and talked, and now, they all know you’ll talk if they confide in you. You know it, too, and you still can’t help it. No matter how hard you try, you simply can’t force yourself to be as loyal or honest as you want to be. At least you’re charming enough to keep making new friends and replacing the ones who felt too hurt or betrayed to trust you again.

-Zachariah Hawke: Does it fit? Yes and no. Zach has a big heart, but as a rogue he knows sometimes it’s better to lie and be dishonest. I think this would have been more of a problem back in Lothering, unable to keep friends because he keeps telling his parents about them and over sharing, not out of malice but because he gets so excited that he just needed to tell them. I think over time he would become the one with no friends and as an adult he knows how to keep his mouth shut. The only person he really overshares with now is Varric, and later Fenris when they’re in their relationship together. Zach isn’t trying to hurt anyone by talking about them he just... can’t keep all of their problems locked up with his because it’s too much. Zach’s the type of guy that smiles to hide what he’s going through and he wants to help his friends so much, but to keep it all inside would cause him to fall apart. 

[adoringdo]

EXO Theory Pt.10 - Chanyeol’s Eyes

So I finally got around to fully watching through the Ely’XiOn VCRs and noticed some interesting lines in D.O’s monologue at the beginning. One line in particular really made me go ‘whoa’ though:

Blinded by the reality of dreams, words could not find its meanings anymore.

And I just got to thinking this has to relate to EXO’s storyline - half of their MVs have a real dreamlike vibe going on, and it’s a pretty well loved theory that EXO are actually trapped in a dream. So, what could it mean to be blinded by the reality of dreams?

<<– First Part  |  <- Previous Part  |   * Theory Masterpost

Sequence of MVs:

MAMA/History/What Is Love  -  Miracles in December  -  Romantic Universe  - KoKoBop  -  MAMA 2016 VCR  -  (Parallel Universe)  -  Lucky One  -  Overdose  -  Love Me Right  -  Wolf/Growl  -  Lotto  -  Coming Over  -  Pathcodes/Call Me Baby  -  Monster  -  Electric Kiss  -  Sing For You  -  For Life  -  (Parallel Universe)  -  Lightsaber  -  RF_05  -  Power - The Eclipse  -  MAMA 2016 Performance

Well, in the Ely’XiOn clips we see images of a lot of the members running towards a door where they meet Kai in that hallway right? Well, a few members act a little differently - most prominently, Chanyeol.

We see Chanyeol in a room on fire, just sitting there. In fact, Kai has to actually enter Chanyeol’s space in order to save him.

This is the only time we see Kai actually enter one of the member’s rooms (IIRC). And what I think to be the most important thing is what happens before this sequence.

Chanyeol is dreaming of fire.

And then he wakes up to find him room set on fire. His dream became his reality.

I then decided I had to look more into Chanyeol in particular, and by doing so come to realise some pretty odd characteristics of him throughout a lot of MVs and teasers.

The most obvious question about Chanyeol that I’ve never seen answered, or really come up with an answer for myself, is his curious red eye in the Power MV.

Now this is not the only time we’ve seen an EXO member with red eyes. Both Kris and Luhan in the Wolf/Growl drama MV and teaser have red eyes at different points:

And if we count Lay’s solo, he has a red eye in Lose Control:

But what’s different about Chanyeol’s red eye in Power is that it’s consistent. The others appear to transition into getting red eyes when they’re angry, or showing great emotion. And it’s always linked to using their power as well - not in Power. Chanyeol just has a red eye.

We see other moments where Chanyeol’s eyes are pointed out as a thing of significance. One major moment is in the teaser for Electric Kiss.

This moment is followed by a pretty intense sequence where Chanyeol is screaming, sparks are flying, and he suddenly spout wings. Not the first time chaos erupts around him.

Another interesting thing about Chanyeol is his tendency to cover just one eye. This is very evident in the Monster/Lucky One promo pics;

And also in Coming Over.

Which I think is a really interesting point because it’s showing the camera in place of his eye. This could be interpreted as him being the infamous spy, but I don’t think so. I think it’s showing how he’s being controlled and blinded by the Red Forces into believing these dreams are really reality. Another thing we see often with Chanyeol is him sleeping and subsequently waking up...

Showing he’s always in a dream - even when he wakes up he’s still in a dream. Other members are shown dreaming, and waking up sometimes, but none with the same frequency as Chanyeol. And I think it’s somehow connected to Lotto, and Baekhyun.

Chanyeol for some reason plays a pivotal role in Lotto. Even though he’s not in the MV as much as you might want, every scene with him is crucial. The biggest part he plays is the girl’s rescuer.

I think this is important, because this role ultimately leads to Chanyeol’s capture by the police.

Now, although the other members fight with the police in ths MV we only see Chanyeol ending up in custody at the end of the video. I think this is symbolic of him becoming entrapped by the dream like realities that the members are relentlessly put under.

But why Chanyeol? Why out of everybody would he be blinded by the reality of dreams? I think this is because of Baekhyun. Baekhyun’s power is light; light blinds. In Part 4 (x) I went over the idea that I had that Chanyeol was kind of shielding Baekhyun’s power from the Red Forces, and that’s why we get things like this:

And this could too explain why Chanyeol has these weird outbursts where his power seems to overwhelm him - it’s becoming confused within himself what his true power is and so it’s just erupting from him in these manic ways.

So this red eye in Power could be showing the long term effects of covering for Baekhyun, and showing how he’s been blinded by the dreams forced upon by the Red Forces...

Anyways just food for thought! ^^ 

Next Part ->

[come-with-me-and-imagine]

Love Everlasting Chapter 2

Three days, that was how long Tove remained in that room. Aslaug had visited her over the course of her stay in that room. Often changing her bandages and making sure she was eating as well as comfortable. She wanted to make sure that her furture daughter in law had everything she could ever need. 

Tove had slept for the greater part of the time she spent in that room. She slept better than she had in years. Her body craved the sleep so she could heal.  

Meanwhile, Ubbe was growing more and more impatient with his mother. She had not told his brothers about Tove. At their morning meal on the fourth day Ubbe was reaching the breaking point of his impatience. He was going to snap and tell them himself. “Why the sour face brother?” Hvitserk spoke up with a laugh. Looked up at his brother, his frown deepened as he slowly turned his head to face his mother. She had not been looking at them. Her eyes were locked onto the gilded plate that held her food. 

“Are you going to tell them or should I?” He asked in a bitter voice causing the heads of his brothers to snap up. Aslaug glared at her first born but kept silent. “Well mother? You’ve kept them waiting long enough.” 

“Kept who waiting?” Sigurd spoke up next now looking between the two. His curiosity was now piqued.

“Well, mother?” 

“Ubbe enough.” she said in a growl like voice towards her son. 

“Why are you both being so cryptic?” Hvitserk exclaimed “For the love of God’s tell us!” 

“Tove” Ubbe stated before looking at Sigurd and Ivar who were now frozen in their chairs. Hvitserk’s knife dropped to his plate causing a loud clang to echo in the dinning hall. Aslaug sighed and laid her head in her hand. The room had fallen eerily silent. 

Ivar’s hand tightened around the knife he had a hold of. His knuckles began to turn white against the strain he was putting on the handle. “What about her?” Ivar finally asked as he looked from his mother to his brother and then back to Aslaug. When neither responded fast enough he asked them again. “What. About. Her?” This time his voice was more demanding and forceful. 

“She is here Ivar.” Ubbe finally spoke in a blunt manner just as before. “Mother has been keeping her secret--’ 

“Ubbe enough!” Aslaug raised her voice as her frustration level increased. This outburst caused Sigurd to jump up and kick back his chair. He stared pacing back and forth behind Ivar’s chair. “I did not tell you because she needs to heal--” 

“Heal?” Sigurd and Ivar exclaimed together in shock and anger. Why did their soulmate need to heal? Had she been harmed? If she had the person who dealt her harm would be met with a grim demise. 

“Who has harmed her?” Ivar demanded as his jaw locked tight and he spoke through gritted teeth. His eyes hardened like an raging wolf. The knife he held now lodged into the wood of the table as he tried to keep himself from lashing out. But his anger knew no bounds and the only think that would calm him was Tove. 

Aslaug sighed as she looked at her two youngest sons. “She came to Kattegat four days ago--” 

“Four days?!” 

“Sigurd please,” she begged “She was a captured slave.” A slave...Sigurd leaned against the back of Ivar’s chair as his mother’s words sunk in as Ivar only got angrier. “She was badly treated. I wanted her health to improve before I made her known to you.” 

“What room.”

“Ivar she is resting.” 

“What. Room.” He growled to his mother. 

“Down the east hall...” Ubbe said prompting Ivar to get down from his chair and crawl away. He was determined to find her. His arms carried his body as fast as they could as the sound of his boots dragging on the floor caused Sigurd to follow. He knew Ivar was angry for he was as well. Their soulmate had been kept from them for days! She had been here and they never even knew it. They checked every room that was down the east hall. One by one and she was in none of them. Had Ubbe been playing a sick joke? 

Finally at the last room Sigurd opened the door slowly and froze. Laying in the bed curled up beneath the blankets...was a woman. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His feet carried him closer to the bed and then he saw what his mother spoke of. Her wrists were bandaged and held remnants of a salve. Her hair had been cut short  and she was thin...so thin he thought she might be dead. 

Slowly and carefully he sat on the bed beside her. “She’s so thin...” he heard Ivar’s voice once his younger brother had gotten up onto the bed. His brother looked as if he would cry. His brow was scrunched and his eyes were glossy as his chin trembled. An emotion Sigurd had never seen in Ivar before. 

Ivar gently laid down beside her. His hand slowly lay upon her own. The mere fact that he could touch her caused tears to escape his eyes. Sigurd laid down as well. His own hand laying upon her. Both brothers laid there in silence. Neither judging the other over the tears they shed that day. 

They stayed that way for hours. Ivar, being the lightest sleeper, awoke immediately when he felt her move. He saw her shifting in her sleep as her face scrunched up. Soft whimpers could be heard as she shifted more. Was she having a nightmare? Gently he rolled her over onto her side. This allowed her to bury herself into his chest. “I’m here...” he whispered. “Ivar’s here...” He kissed her hair as she started calming her down. Ivar looked up and saw that Sigurd had awakened. They shared a look of concern. 

What had happened to her?  

@hildeerpdottir @lovelynerdytraveler@crazyandanonymous4u @cutiepiepotatoes@thinemineours @filippazm @nistaposebno @britt-janssens @readsalot73 @pandainfinitely @peachykenn, @angel-852@whorriblemindset

@bish-its-me @thats-so-rhyan @destroy-society @shutter-bug124 @readallday24-7 @fawnbrrry @tori-parrish@valiantxhearts @cutiedaij 

@a-daydreamers-day @daddyssweetpeaches @missrandomista  @demonhunter1616 @fuckthatfeeling 

[cupcakecoterie]

Sessions to Date: the Chasm

SESSION 14

Party: Nora Bailey (human paladin), Hazel Hearthheart (half-elf cleric), Darvin Taylor (human bard), Clarity Meloreth (tiefling rogue), Froseth (dragonborn monk)

Session begins at Hearthhome, to collect Clarity and get some supplies from Twilly and Miranda. Also giving most of the gold they made on selling a bunch of gems to Twilly and Miranda to pay taxes on the property. It more or less paid for the health potions, rations and Scroll of Teleportation expended in getting them within a few hours’ travel of the Chasm, where they were seeking the sword Pelor’s Beacon.

Party woke early, said their goodbyes, and teleported to the Chasm, courtesy Twilly.

Party appeared in a forest clearing and were immediately set upon by centaurs. Nora had to fight a duel with one as a sort of trial; they were deemed reasonable enough and told to respect the forest before the centaurs went away.

Party then walked into a collection of vine blights and twig blights. They were less reasonable than the centaurs. Darvin did significant damage to two party members with injudiciously-placed Thunderwave, eventually leading to the deaths of Hazel and Clarity. Thankfully for them, Lira’s blessing on their pendants included a Death Ward, and both were revived. They eventually triumphed over the vine blights and twig blights but were too exhausted, shaken or angry to continue so they made camp for the night, Nora settling herself far away from the rest of the party to try to pray away some of the anger.

SESSION 15

Party: Hazel Hearthheart (half-elf cleric), Darvin Taylor (human bard), Clarity Meloreth (tiefling rogue), Froseth (dragonborn monk)

With Nora still fuming in her prayer-corner, the other four remained to talk things out. Clarity was more shaken by the idea of a god bringing her back than she was about dying, and Darvin was in throes of self-flagellating remorse.

Party discovered that Flitty, the little blue faerie dragon, had stowed away to ‘keep an eye on them’. Mostly they just shrugged this off but seemed glad enough for the company.

Flitty was useful when a series of subtle and largely harmless pranks were played, calling the party’s attention to a young pixie. Said young pixie said that someone needed help, so the party followed the pixie to see if they could be of any aid. Also located pixie ‘village’ of sorts in the trees.

Pixie led the party to a young tiefling boy (Candor) who was ill, badly injured and caught in a bear trap. They got him free of the bear trap and after a great deal of conversation, convinced him to join them at the fire for food and medical care. Candor informed them that he was a runaway slave, fleeing from people in robes who had bought him as some kind of sacrifice.

Party members went to sleep for the night, but Froseth was woken fairly early by centaurs sending them a robe, apparently belonging to one of the cultists who had purchased Candor for sacrificial murder. The symbol on the robe appeared to be a bastardised symbol of Pelor, and the robe itself let out a poisonous gas when burned. Froseth, now attuned to air, blew the poison away before it could harm people too much.

SESSION 16

Party: Nora Bailey (human paladin), Hazel Hearthheart (half-elf cleric), Darvin Taylor (human bard), Clarity Meloreth (tiefling rogue)

Nora returned to the party, apologised to Darvin for her outburst and was brought up to speed on their new arrival. They decided they could leave Candor in the antechamber of the Chasm while they went to seek Pelor’s Beacon. First, however, they decided to ask the pixies about the cultists, leaving Candor in the care of Froseth and Norman the very tenacious Bag of Tricks-generated badger.

Pixies were of moderate help despite Hazel’s broken Sylvan. Pixies gave Hazel a scroll they said would help her Sylvan, but Hazel did not look at it straight away. The matriarch of the tiny clan became angry when she learned that these ‘biggers’ had named her granddaughter ‘Meep’. Matriarch pixie asked who had done such a thing. Hazel blamed Darvin. Matriarch retaliated by using Polymorph to turn Darvin into a rabbit.

Hazel read the scroll, discovered that it was enchanted to have her as fluent in Sylvan as Hazel gets in any language. Swearing ensued. Clarity attempted to get the pixies’ attention so that Hazel could apologise in now unbroken Sylvan. First they dispelled her Mage Hand. Then they cast Confusion on the party. Hazel attacked Clarity, Clarity ran away, Hazel followed suit; Nora, meanwhile, threw Darvin at a tree, leaving the bard confused and stunned and making this ... noise.

Eventually the Confusion wore off and Clarity found herself in the camp of the few cultists the centaurs managed to miss. Combat ensued, two rounds of which was four cultists vs Clarity, Brandon the Dire Wolf and Ernesto the Panther. When Nora and Darvin arrived, battle got a bit easier to manage. Hazel helped largely by healing. Two of the cultists were turned to ash by radiant damage. The largest of them was turned into a rabbit by the friendly young pixie (who gave Geloe as a name they could pronounce). The last, unfortunately, cast Confusion on the party and escaped.

Party decided to camp and recover another night.

SESSION 17

Party: Nora Bailey (human paladin), Hazel Hearthheart (half-elf cleric), Darvin Taylor (human bard), Clarity Meloreth (tiefling rogue)

Party woke to discover the pixie village had been burned, probably by the surviving cultist. Young Geloe was the only survivor, and her only barely. Party decided to take Geloe home with them, same as Candor.

Party finally reached the Chasm, and were set to trials. First, a jumping puzzle - spelling out the name of a long-lost and largely forgotten god in floor tiles. Second: a banshee. Combat party: Nora, Hazel, Darvin, Clarity, Froseth ... and Norman the Undaunted (who could not reach the banshee to hurt it). Killing blow: Darvin (rapier through the eye).

SESSION 18

Party: Nora Bailey (human paladin), Hazel Hearthheart (half-elf cleric), Darvin Taylor (human bard), Clarity Meloreth (tiefling rogue)

Nora faces Nessor the Androsphinx guarding the Chasm. Nessor sets Nora one last test - endure what her friends have endured, to see what it is to truly rise (above one’s circumstances and scars, presumably). Nora takes significant psychic damage in the process, but gains insight into her comrades.

Nora wins Pelor’s Beacon. It is revealed that Pelor’s Beacon is a sentient weapon, with very interesting properties, largely to do with protection. It (although it turns out ‘she’) was apparently once a paladin, who agreed to have her soul tethered to the weapon on her death, choosing ‘a life of extended service’.

Nessor offers ‘insight’ to the party - for Hazel, an image of the Hearth, a clan of halflings set to guard Star Coast from things like the fog tragedy (all Miranda’s family, most having disowned her for daring to leave her ‘duty’); for Darvin, an image of what became of his mother after the fog; for Clarity, an image of her lost foster brother, alive but lost and hurt and trapped; for Froseth, his parents’ final moments as they sent his infant self with a dwarven comrade to whatever safe haven the dwarf could find. Nessor also offers to teleport them back to Hearthhome. Very shaken party collects their gear and their badger and their pixie and their Candor and go home.

Arrival at Hearthhome reveals renovations. Over the several days the party has been absent, Twilly and Miranda made alterations to turn the ‘guest cottage’ from a rather functional bunking place to a home for their ‘new children’, so each has a room of their own, decorates as much to their tastes as a simple country place could manage. Geloe is offered the dollhouse to live in. Party kind of gets made of happy-meebles.

Party has late dinner and hugs the new adoptive mothers a lot. Also discusses what next - largely, the plan seems to be gear up again and travel to the Hearth to gain what information they can before going to somehow cleanse Star Coast of the corruption.

Next up: more travel planning and the road to Star Coast.

[nananaptime]

Neighbors

Masterlist Rules

Not requested

Genre: Fluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuufffffffffff

Word count: 1 985

Summary: Your new neighbor is as cute and squishy as ever......

I struggled with the last box as I heaved it up the stairs. Why did I say yes to the apartment on the third floor in a building with no elevator now again? Oh, yeah, there were no other options. With a grunt I put the box down in the middle of my new living room and stretched my sore back. A sigh left my lips as I realized that my work wasn’t near finished yet; I still had to unpack all of these boxes and make myself some food. I was contemplating some pizza as a reward for my hard work. Oh, who am I kidding, I would’ve ordered pizza anyways. I decided I didn’t have time for breaks and that I should keep going. It was time I put a stop to my procrastinating ways.

The reason as to why I am being thrown to the wolfs by my parents is because I am starting college and my parents considered the thought of living at home a ridiculous one, so here I am, trying live life as best as I could. I said no to a dorm room from the start, I’m too much of a perfectionist to handle living with another foul creature so we found a nice small apartment near the school where I could spend my free hours. My father had been nice enough to ask some of his friends for assistance when he moved my furniture, which consists of a nice little couch, a dinner table, a bed, a bookshelf and a television with surround sound. The last being a necessity my dad considered vital. My mother arrived with the last of my packing and I stood to bid farewell. When I approached her I noticed her eyes, it seemed she was on the verge of tears.

“How did you grow up so fast? You were five years old just yesterday.” The tears started streaming down her cheeks and I engulfed her in a hug, feeling my own tears welling up in my eyes. My mothers buried her face in the crook of my neck as he sniffled and soaked my shirt. I realized I would have to be the strong one in this situation so I took a deep breath and started patting my mom’s hair.

“It’s going to be okay mom, we can always call each other. Skype exists too. I won’t disappear from the face of the earth.” She pulled back slightly and wiped away the traces of her tears with the back of her hands.

“I know, but you might as well; you will be busy with school and your social life and that’s okay. It’s supposed to be like this, you’re supposed to leave the nest at some point and I just have to get used to it. You know you can call me for anything, even if it’s in the middle of the night.” I nodded. “Do you need any help? I can stay and help you unpack if you want me too.”

“No mom, you should go. Dad is probably waiting in the car and don’t you have reservations at that place in like 15 minutes?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I need to let go and stop being so protective, you’re smart and I know you can handle yourself. Oh, my baby, I love you so much.” That’s when she pulled me into her embrace and placed a big kiss on my cheek.

“Yeah, mom, I love you too but I think I have to continue now.” She nodded, waved at me and left, her sobs echoed through the stairwell. Just as she rounded the corner to continue her journey down she passed a boy walking up the stairs. He gave her a look of concern but didn’t have the time to ask what the matter was before my mother was out of sight. He looked up and met my eyes and realized then and there what was going on. He walked up the last couple of steps until he stood before me.

“You must be the new neighbor.” I nodded “Then I’m guessing that was your mom crying her way downstairs because you’re moving away from home.”

“Right you are.” I laughed, glad that my neighbour was such a talkative one. Then I presented my hand. “I’m Y/N” he grabbed hold of it and shook it.

“Dongyeol.” We smiled at each other. He had dark straight hair and a fringe that almost went into his eyes which were dark brown, almost black, a smile pasted across his full lips. “I would love to offer my assistance but school is a pain in the ass at the moment and I have to get in there and study.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything else. What do you study?” He was by the

door opposite mine now. “Music. What about you?”

“Literature.”

“Cool, I’ll have to read something you’ve written sometime.” And with that he disappeared into his apartment. Just before the door closed I could hear another voice greeting him cheerfully. It seems like he has a roommate. Instead of just standing in the stairwell like a dork I entered my own apartment with the sole reason to get started on unpacking. I slipped my phone out of my back pocket and connected it to the television in order to play some music on my surround system. Soon enough I was dancing around the small space of  my apartment to Got7’s Never Ever. Singing along to the song I started with the bióx containing my many books such as the Harry Potter series, some books by Rick Riordan, I’m planning on buying the rest of them once I’ve got the money, and all of the books written by Rainbow Rowell and John Green. The song changed from Got7 to SF9’s Fanfare, getting me even more excited. I could barely hear the furious knocks on my door over the loud music. Confused I paused the song and opened the door only to be met by a pair of brown eyes. The boy in front of me seemed kind of annoyed but at the same time he didn’t give off that vibe at all.

“Can I help you?” I asked, not knowing what to expect.

“Yes, you could turn down the loud music so I could get some sleep.” My eyebrows knotted together as I glanced down at my wristwatch.

“Sleep? At five in the afternoon?” His cheeks turned a light shade of pink as he stuttered out his answer.

“Yes, you see, I’ve had a long day and needed a nap.” I raised an eyebrow. It was after all Saturday, not many people occupied themselves with something that draining on a Saturday.

“Aren’t Saturdays supposed to be relaxing and not draining? What did you do that made you so tired?” His cheeks became even redder.

“I uh, I….”

“You’re not good at being angry, are you?” That’s when his mask fell and he started laughing, at both my comment and himself.

“No, no I really am not.” I giggled at the cute boy who tried awakening his negative feelings.

“Yeah, you don’t look like a guy with a lot of anger inside of you.” He shook his head no.

“But anyways, I would be thankful if you turned down the volume a bit. It’s shaking in the walls and as you know, Dongyeol is trying to study.” I hadn’t even realised the music was that loud so I agreed.

“So you’re Dongyeol’s roommate.”

“Yup, he mentioned me?”

“No, I heard you when he entered your apartment.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“Well, I have to continue unpacking now though, otherwise I won’t get anything done until midnight.” His face lit up as an idéa entered his head.

“Hey, I could help you if you’d like. Dongyeol isn’t that fun to hang with now anyways.”

“Yeah, sure. The more the merrier.” Oh, God, did I just say that? That’s so old, why did I say that? Nevertheless he laughed and entered my apartment with a bright smile. “You can just start unpacking whatever box you want and….. Not that one!” He had advanced towards my bags of clothes, which also contained my underwear. My outburst caused him to jump from the scare it gave him. “There are things in there that you do not need to see this early on in our friendship.” he laughed at that, understanding, and approached another box. This one containing my drawing equipment.  

“You draw?” He asked as he picked up one of my sketchbooks.

“I do.” I laughed at his face as it became awestruck while he looked at my sketched. He had opened the one filled with portraits and was now stuck on the one I drew of my best friend from back home. It was the last one in the sketchbook and therefore the best one too. He turned around and I jumped back once I realised how close we were. I had crouched behind him to observe his reactions.

“You have to draw me sometime!” He exclaimed, a big smile covering his features. I laughed at his childlike expression and agreed. After that we really got down to business and, two hours later, we had unpacked everything and were left with empty boxes. We both collapsed on the couch and groaned. Unpacking was exhausting.

“Now I’m even more tired than I was before.” He complained. I laughed at him and shifted so I was lying down on my side.

“Well, I’ve been doing this since this morning, now I need a nap.”

“Well, then I’m going to nap with you.” And before I could protest he had laid down behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I was shocked to say the least but it was cozy so I let him cuddle me as much as he liked. Friends do this too, right? After deciding to just relax I fell into a deep sleep and woke up two hours later, feeling refreshed and ready to take on the world. I was about to stand up but someone’s arms were restricting me from doing just that. I turned around to be met by the snoring boy behind me. Yep, he was snoring, loud.

“Come on dude, wake up, I’m hungry.” Only a whine escaped his lips and he tightened his hold on me. “Come on, release me please.”

“But you’re so soft and cuddly.”

“I’ll order pizza.” Those were the magic words because he let me go in an instant. Fifteen minutes later we were both chewing some on a pizza slice each and getting to know each other.

“..... So Dongyeol was dangling from the top of the stairs, refusing to let go even though I had put multiple mattresses on the floor for him to land on.” I was laughing my head of at his story.

“Did he let go eventually?” I asked, drinking some of my soda.

“Yes, he missed the mattresses though and broke his leg, had to stay at the hospital for five days because he refused crutches.” I laughed even louder, feeling my stomach clench. It was not a good idea to eat while laughing. All of a sudden someone grabbed hold of his arm, I looked up to see Dongyeol.

“I can’t believe you’re eating pizza without me, and that you told Y/N that story of all stories.” I laughed even more.

“How did you get in?” I asked.

“The door was unlocked and you didn’t hear me knocking. I am now stealing my best friend because I’m feeling extremely lonely in there. He will not bother you anymore.” He then proceeded in dragging the boy towards their own apartment.

“Wait, I didn’t get your name.” Dongyeol answered for him while pushing him into their apartment. The cute boy was mouthing “Help me” while laughing.

“It’s Hwanhee.”