#me feeling this numb and disinterested really isn’t normal

[hideyourautumn-milkteeth]

I have to get back into drawing and do it regularly plus practice cause my fucking god it is the only way I’m gonna stay sane cause nothing else is helping me cope and I feel all my passion slipping away. Gggod I forgot what a real depressive slum felt like. Nothing means anythiiiinggg nothing makes me feel anything :,)

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

on ao3

All his life, Jaskier has only wanted to be enough. In forty years, he’s found a lot of people he can't please no matter how hard he tries, but never any who are willing to try in return. He's too loud, too annoying, too much. There are also a startling number of people who want him only as a placeholder - a bed warmer, an entertainer - before quickly ushering him from their lives once they've had their fill. As a child, it was devastating every time he was told to be quiet or to find someone else to talk to. As an adult, he thought he'd grown numb to disinterest or fleeting interest, but then he'd met Geralt.

With Geralt, he thought he had finally found someone who might keep him. Even if it wasn't perfect, even if Jaskier still found himself longing for more, Geralt allowed him to stay. His jabs didn't hurt the way others did and after some time they even started to sound fond coming from his Witcher. And he was truly happy for the first time in a long time.

But good things are not meant to last. Not at least, for Jaskier. And on the top of a mountain north of Barefield, Geralt had proved without a doubt that Jaskier wasn't numb to heartbreak.

But that seems like a lifetime ago, now.

When their paths had crossed again, it was by complete accident. Jaskier had been in Oxenfurt over the winter to regroup after a difficult autumn and he'd headed back out into the wilderness late. It was a routine of sorts, setting out on the road after winter, and he'd followed the Pontar east, heading nowhere in particular. The last person he had been expecting to come across was his Witcher.

But there they both were; Geralt with his child surprise in tow and Jaskier with nothing but the lute on his back and a notebook overflowing with verse after verse of heartbreak. Ciri, at least, had been happy to see him, but it was plain to see Geralt didn't share her enthusiasm. She is the reason for their (somewhat forced) reconciliation, not some change of heart or some grand apology; just a lost little girl clinging to whatever sense of normalcy she can find. And an unwilling father trying to give it to her.

Lucky for him, Jaskier is a familiar face to the young princess and Geralt had agreed when Ciri had asked for him to come along with them. And it's not all bad; travelling with companions is much less lonely than travelling alone and he and Geralt have made things work between them, enough at least, for Ciri's wellbeing.

But there's a feeling Jaskier gets right before he's ousted from someone's life, a tingling sort of ache right in the pit of his stomach, and he's been feeling that for months now.

Spring has faded into summer and their little group carries on. They keep to the path most nights, camping amongst the trees or tucked away under a shelf of rock or in an abandoned cave. Jaskier doesn't know the whole story, but he knows Nilfgaard is looking for Ciri and as good a protector as Geralt is, he's unlikely to defeat an entire Nilgaardian troop should they run into one. So he keeps them away from town unless they need to replenish their supplies or the weather is too bad to allow for sleeping outside. On those occasions, they prepare in advance. Geralt will go ahead and ensure the room is ready and whatever else they need, while Jaskier will wait behind and do what he can to disguise Ciri. She's the most important thing in Geralt's life now and if he can't make amends with the man himself, he'll do what he can to help Ciri. At the very least, it gives him a sense of purpose and keeps him from feeling quite so out of place with them.

Tonight is a camping night. Geralt is asleep already and Ciri appears to be if she isn't, but the grass is damp and cool beneath them and Jaskier can't get comfortable. In the morning, their bedding will be damp at best and that means packing damp bedding and sleeping on it again tomorrow night. He's mulling over the idea of hanging his bedroll over a tree branch and lying directly on the grass - at least it will save him one night of discomfort - when Geralt stirs across from him.

Jaskier looks up, instinctively alert, but Ciri is still peacefully asleep and there doesn't appear to be any sign of danger. Geralt's face is twisted though, pinched tight in pain or fear and Jaskier recognizes the expression. For years, he'd been there to soothe Geralt’s discomfort, to curl up against him and run a hand up his chest until his breathing evened out again and the pain eased from his face. Geralt’s nightmares have never been uncommon, but since joining up with him again, Jaskier has noticed a marked increase of uneasy nights for the Witcher.

But he's no longer in a place to soothe him and so he watches regretfully as Ciri blinks awake and props herself up to look at him. She crawls from her own bedroll and in a practiced motion, slips between Geralt's arms, pressing herself up against his chest. She whispers something that Jaskier can't hear and he squeezes his eyes shut as Geralt hums sleepily against her hair.

He aches to fill that space against him once more, to be able to soothe the turmoil in Geralt’s heart, to give Geralt anything. He used to be the one who could ease his pain, but he's been replaced. And he can't blame Geralt for it; he was never a very good travel companion, but he did try and he'd like to be able to try again, but that doesn't seem to be the way things are going for him.

"Who is she?" Ciri asks, only just loud enough to Jaskier to hear her. "Who's Renfri?"

"I don't know," he breathes, low to keep his voice steady, "Geralt met her before me and he doesn't talk about it."

Ciri makes a disappointed sound and Jaskier doesn't have to be able to see her face to know she's scowling at the man wrapped around her. He would be too. Geralt does so much to protect the ones he loves and yet refuses to accept anything in return. Jaskier understands the frustration and once upon a time, he'd developed a method of tricking Geralt into doing things for himself, making it seem like it was for the good of someone else. He makes a mental note to tell Ciri about it.

Once Ciri and Geralt are settled once more, Jaskier slips from his bedroll, picking it up and hanging it in the hopes that it will dry some before morning. He's awake now, his head swimming with things unsaid and what ifs and he knows he won't sleep any time soon, so there's no point in trying.

He crosses the camp as silently as he can to where the horses are tethered and he settles himself between the thick roots of a tree, leaning back against the trunk. Roach leans down to him, nudging his shoulder and Jaskier looks up to find both of them looking at him, Jaskier's own horse with her head over Roach's back to see what he's doing. She gives a snort of confusion and Jaskier just looks up at her with a forced smile that does apparently nothing to appease her curiosity.

For some time, he just sits there, wondering where exactly he went wrong in his life until eventually, cold and emotionally exhausted, sleep overtakes him.

At first, Jaskier had hoped that this distance between them was just a side-effect of Geralt adjusting to parenthood and he tried to help in any way he could. But he can't teach Ciri to fight and Geralt knows more about herbs and how to use them than he does, and otherwise, Ciri is mostly self-sufficient. Other than her magic, which Jaskier soon learns, she's being trained in as well.

Yennefer blows back into his life in a big way on a sunny afternoon in mid-summer. She seems softer than the last time they'd seen each other and she smiles when she spots Ciri practicing with a wooden sword next to the river. Jaskier has learned well enough in the past not to disturb her, so he keeps quiet and continues with his task of gathering firewood. He hadn't understood at the time, why Geralt had wanted to make camp so early in the day, but it seems clear now that this was an arranged meeting place and he doesn't suspect they'll be leaving again before morning.

So while Geralt is busy with Yen and Ciri, Jaskier may as well make himself useful. Maybe he can't be emotionally available to Geralt the way he used to, but he can still help. So he sets off deeper into the trees, intent on finding enough wood to keep them going for the evening. But when he returns to the smell of smoke and a crackling fire, his heart sinks. As he sets his gathered firewood down, his only solace is that no one seems to have noticed him and he's able to slip away again quietly.

Yen travels with them after that. She doesn't seem concerned about Jaskier's presence and, on occasion, she'll even speak to him without sounding inconvenienced. It's more than she's ever offered in the past and considering his tenuous position with them, Jaskier's almost pleased about it.

But with Yen comes more training for Ciri, this time in magic, which means she has less time to listen to Jaskier play or tell him about her adventures with Geralt. Which is fine; she's still young and she needs to be able to understand her power as much as she needs to be able to fight with a sword. So Jaskier takes another step back.

After the mountain incident, Jaskier had hoped someday that things might go back to normal for him and Geralt. Now, despite Yennefer's improved attitude toward him, their relationship seems tenser than ever. And after a couple of weeks travelling with Yen, Jaskier starts to wonder if he really fits with them anymore.

But he can barely complain, what with Ciri having lost everyone she ever knew and loved. And Yen's history. And Geralt's inability to enter certain towns without being shouted at and called a monster. In relation, Jaskier's problems are not that bad. It doesn't stop it from hurting, but it stops him from talking about it because he doesn't really have a good enough reason to be upset. And his relationship with Geralt is already strained at best, he doesn't want to make things more complicated between them and end up losing Geralt again, maybe for good this time.

Only keeping things to himself is harder than it seems because Jaskier constantly feels unwanted and unneeded. Because Geralt has Yen and Ciri, Ciri has her training with both of them, and Yen never really much cared for him to begin with. So where is he supposed to fit in with that? What can he do for them that someone else isn't already doing? Everything he used to do for Geralt has been taken over by someone new and as the days drag on, Jaskier begins to wonder if he's not just hindering them by tagging along.

But where would he go without him?

They're all sitting around the fire one night after Ciri's gone to bed and Jaskier's writing in his notebook, trying to force the lyrics to a ballad that just doesn't want to come. He has the tune, but he can't quite get the words right, so he hums under his breath, trying to work through it as Geralt pokes at the fire.

"Jaskier," Geralt grunts and Jaskier looks up at him, surprised and a little nervous. "Be quiet, Ciri's asleep."

"Oh," he says, "right."

He shuts his notebook and measures his breathing, trying to keep from getting too upset. It makes perfect sense that Geralt would ask him to be quiet, Ciri doesn't sleep well a lot of the time and he shouldn't disturb her when she does. It still hurts, but he packs his things back up and turns in for the night.

Geralt seems unfazed but Jaskier lays out his bedroll right at the edge of their camp and settles in. He doesn't know what else to do with himself; whatever he and Geralt once has is clearly gone now, everything is about Geralt and Ciri now or just about Geralt, off on his own to provide for a child he never wanted. There’s no room in his life for Jaskier now that he has Ciri.

As he lies down, he tries to think back to before Geralt, but he doesn't remember what he did with himself back then. He was young and foolish and a very different person than he is now. And even after, when he and Geralt were separated but still friendly, Jaskier would write about him or sing about him and tell stories about their adventures together. But it was all about Geralt. For two decades of his life, everything centred around Geralt and now he's faced with the prospect of losing him completely.

Geralt is a simple man; he needs food and coin and sex - most nights he won't even blink at sleeping out in the rain. Jaskier can offer him none of those things when they're staying away from towns, so why is he still here? He wants what they used to have when he could at least keep Geralt company during the long nights. Now, he can't even offer him that. Things can't go back to the way they used to be because Geralt has Ciri now and Yen is back in his life and Jaskier just... is.

And every time he tries to think about what he did wrong, he can only picture Geralt's face on the top of that mountain, how angry he sounded when he told Jaskier he wanted him gone.

Jaskier looks at Ciri, curled under Geralt's spare blanket, and he knows Geralt blames him for this responsibility that he never wanted. And maybe it is his fault because Geralt never would have been at the banquet otherwise. And maybe Yen leaving was his fault, too because Geralt never would have met her if Jaskier had just left the damn djinn bottle alone. Maybe all of this is his own fault. Jaskier lays his head down, fighting back tears as he wonders how he could have single-handedly ruined the one good thing that life ever gave him.

Summer fades into autumn and things only get worse.

Yen joins them again when the air starts to cool and Jaskier finds the only thing left for him to do is to distract Ciri when Yen and Geralt disappear off on their own. He doesn't want to think about what they get up to and he's certain Ciri doesn't want to know. The pair of them share a tent, which Jaskier is thankful for only because it means he shares with Ciri and he would prefer that to sharing with either Geralt or Yen. Ciri trusts him and when they're alone she still likes to sit and listen to him sing, plus the one perk of travelling with a sorceress is extravagant magic tents.

When it starts to get really cold, Jaskier's thoughts turn back to Oxenfurt. If he's going to go back for the winter, he needs to leave soon before it gets too cold to travel. He knows Geralt is taking Yen and Ciri to Kaer Morhen with him and he doesn't think he could stand spending the entire winter with them, even if he was invited.

He gives it a couple days' consideration before deciding he can't bear this any longer. He'll go to Oxenfurt for the winter and come spring he'll just have to figure out how to move on with his life because all of this is too much. Ciri has both Yen and Geralt now, and if he thought being in love with Geralt was hard before, it's nothing compared to how it feels now.

He's in the middle of organizing his things for the long ride out to the coast when Ciri finds him. She comes up and plops herself next to him, peeking over to see what he's doing.

"We're not leaving yet," she says, "why are you packing?"

"I have to go."

"You aren't coming to Kaer Morhen with us?"

"No."

He doesn't elaborate because he can already feel his chest contract and he has to be able to hold it together for a little longer. Ciri huffs and as she walks away, Jakier's hands still on his pack. He doesn't want to leave her and he feels bad about it, but it will be better for all of them in the long run.

Jaskier finishes packing and getting Buttercup saddled and he's just about ready to leave when Geralt approaches him. Jaskier hasn't spoken to him about leaving, but since he and Yen rarely talk to him, he didn't think he had to. But Geralt rests a hand on his forearm and when Jaskier turns to look at him, he seems conflicted.

"Ciri wants you to come with us," is all he says and Jaskier deflates a little. He was so close to making a clean break, but Ciri has lost so much and if she wants him there, who is he to deny her a little familiarity? He doesn't say anything to Geralt, but he unslings his lute from his back and leans it up against the tree and it seems to be enough.

But they travel to Kaer Morhen and once Jaskier is over the stunning scenery, it's just more of the same only warmer. The guest room in the keep is spacious and the fireplace is more than enough to keep him warm, but he stands at the top of the stairs and as he looks around, his shoulders slump. He and Geralt have always shared a room, even when an abundance of coin would have made it easy to rent two rooms. Jaskier didn't really expect to be sharing with Geralt after everything but knowing it wasn't even a thought hurts.

He reminds himself that he's doing this because Ciri wanted it and urges his feet to move, crossing to the bed in the centre of the room. At least when he needs a place to escape to, he can come here and not want for warmth or inspiration. His balcony has a beautiful view of the valley and so long as he's willing to fill it himself, there's a large tub to one side of the room. He's stayed in much worse places all in all, and he's grown accustomed to spending a lot of time alone. Maybe it won't be so bad.

But once everyone has arrived, he realizes he was wrong. The Witchers are friendly enough, even the two from other schools who Jaskier has never heard of before. Ciri tells him one of them is Lambert's boyfriend and it was a big scandal last year when he showed up. Jaskier's heart just sinks, realizing even Ciri is included in all of this and he knows nothing of them. He's not even sure which one Lambert is because Geralt has never been a very descriptive person. It’s just another reminder of what he’s lost and he forces a smile to keep from showing his feelings.

Watching them all finally gathered together in the main hall, Jaskier realizes he's made a mistake in coming. He felt like an outsider with their little group travelling the wilderness, but it's nothing to the way he feels now. Like an intruder, an interloper who's snuck his way in when no one wanted him. Even the reminder that Ciri asked for him doesn't help now because Geralt has his old family and his new family and what could a bunch of Witchers and a sorceress possibly want with a bard?

He has enough rations left in his pack that he skips supper the first night. He can't bear to listen to Geralt talking to everyone when Jaskier can barely get a few words out of him these days. Some things just aren't destined to be. Sometimes it's better to let something die than it is to suffer meaninglessly.

Jaskier slips away up to his room and goes to sit on the balcony. The weather is still fairly decent, warm enough that the cold doesn't get to him until after dark. It's only when he returns inside that he realizes he only has one lit candle and it's too dark to look around now. So he strips out of his clothes and climbs into the cold bed, blowing out his single candle before curling in on himself and shutting his eyes.

In the morning, Geralt and Eskel set out to clear some mine or other of kikimores. Jaskier doesn't come down from his room until later that evening and the only joy he gets from it is catching the tail end of Eskel's story about the mine. But that doesn't last long, so he makes his way down the halls because if he's going to be staying here a while, he might as well get to know the place.

But barely half an hour into his exploration and just as his nerves are starting to settle, Jaskier comes upon a room with an open door. He doesn't look in, but he hears Geralt's voice, grumbling about something or other and then Yen mumbling, just get in the damn bath so I can wash this shit out of your hair and something inside him that was just barely holding on shatters.

That one hurts more than anything. It had taken him years for Geralt to be comfortable enough to let him stick around while he was in the bath. Longer, even, to let Jaskier take care of him the way Yen apparently does now. Something sticks in his throat and as soon as he rounds the corner, he slumps against the wall, choking back a sob.

All he ever wanted was to love him, in whatever way Geralt would let him, but this is almost worse than being told to leave. This time, Geralt won't even do him the service of telling him he wants him gone, this time he'll just replace him slowly but surely, finding someone new to do all the things Jaskier once did for him. This time, Jaskier doesn't need to be told to leave; he can tell when he's not wanted.

He waits three days, ensuring he has enough supplies, before seeking out Yen. She won't care enough to tell anyone right away, but she cares for Ciri, so if Ciri asks after him, she'll know. Plus, if he tells Geralt he’s leaving, he'd have to see the utter lack of emotion on his face, and he couldn't bear that.

Jaskier makes his way down through the courtyard without interruption, stopping at the stables to bid farewell to his horse. He hasn't had her long, but she's been good to him and he hopes she'll be just as good for Ciri.

For hours, Jaskier walks, recalling the path from memory, then just as it gets dark, it starts to snow. And once it starts, it doesn't stop and he's forced to take shelter in the first place he can find. It's cold and hard to trudge through the deepening snow and he didn't consider how hard it would be to find food up in the mountains. But none of that matters because the only place he can find to sleep is a cave, the entrance just barely visible to him in the dark, and when its resident comes home, he's liable to be eaten before he has to set out again.

He tries to build a fire, but the only wood he can find are the small trees just outside the mouth of the cave and they're soaked from the snow. Bitterly, he thinks that it's never this difficult for Geralt and at once, something clicks into place.

This isn't his life. The reason he doesn't fit is because he doesn’t belong. He tried to make it work and maybe for a little while he did, but he belongs in the city, not out in the wilderness. The reason he doesn't fit is because he's trying to be something that he's not. He's a bard, not an adventurer.

With a sigh, he sinks to his knees and wonders if he'll make it through the night. Maybe he should have waited at the keep until spring. He's never been out on his own like this - not so far north in unfamiliar territory -, but even now the thought of staying up there with Geralt and Yen makes his stomach turn. So he pulls his knees up against his chest and wraps his blanket around him. He tries to sleep, but the wind howls and snow blows in through the mouth of the cave and he just ends up damp and cold and miserable.

Jaskier hadn't realized he was asleep until a sound near the mouth of the cave wakes him. Assuming it's whatever lives here, he's thankful that at least the cold will no longer be a problem for him. He doesn't want to die, but being eaten by a monster is better than slowly freezing to death. But when he opens his eyes, there's a person at the mouth of the cave, not a monster. The first thing he thinks is who the hell is out in this storm? but it doesn't take long before he has an answer.

"Jaskier?" Fuck. "Jaskier, are you in there?" He wonders if he's quiet if the monster might come back and eat him after all.

"Yeah," he mumbles and it's all he can manage, but he knows Geralt will hear. And he does. And he pushes through the snowdrift, breathing heavily as he drops to his knees before Jaskier and hauls him into his arms.

"What were fucking thinking?" he growls and Jaskier winces at the anger in his voice, but then he's being pulled forward against Geralt's chest. "Idiot. You're frozen."

"Snow," Jaskier mumbles, not quite sure what to do with his arms. He doesn't know what's happening, but it ages before Geralt moves again, though he never stops telling Jaskier he's an idiot. That much, at least, feels familiar.

When he does finally pull away, Jaskier can barely see him in the dark but he knows Geralt can see him. Which means he can see his puffy eyes and he probably knows how scared and confused he is right now. And he hates it. He wants to push him away, but Geralt is warm and Jaskier is freezing and he finds himself swaying back toward his body. And after a quick once-over, Geralt lets him.

Once he's apparently satisfied that Jaskier isn't in immediate danger, he settles against the wall of the cave and pulls him into his lap.

"Why didn't you light a fire?" he asks and most of the anger has left his voice, replaced with soft concern.

"Couldn't get it lit," Jaskier shrugs, "wet wood."

For a while, Geralt is quiet again, tugging Jaskier's blanket up around him and just holding him. It doesn't occur to him until much later that Geralt is trying to get his body temperature up.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Hmm?" Jaskier had nearly drifted off, wrapped in the warmth of Geralt's body, but the question startles him awake again.

"Why did you leave without telling anyone?"

"I told Yen," he offers, but he knows it's weak.

"You told-" Geralt scoffs, exasperated and Jaskier can't figure out what the big deal is. No one wanted him there, anyway.

"Why are you here?" he counters, "why didn't you just stay in the keep?"

Geralt stills and Jaskier turns to look at him, knowing he won't be able to see much in the dark, but it feels better having this conversation face-to-face.

"Why the fuck do you think, Jaskier?" And Jaskier just looks at him because he doesn't know. He can't fathom what brought Geralt out here in the storm. Because even if he did come to retrieve him out of some kind of sense of responsibility, surely he wouldn't risk leaving Ciri without a caretaker. When he doesn't answer, Geralt gets very quiet.

"Where were you going?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Oxenfurt."

"You'd die before you got there," Geralt exclaims, the anger returning to his voice with a vengeance.

"I brought provisions. Where's Ciri?"

"With Eskel and Lambert. Why would you just leave without telling anyone?" Geralt asks and Jaskier realizes in this context, that anyone means me.

Jaskier pulls away from him, irritation winning out over the desire to be warm. "Because I didn't really think anyone would care," he says "I don't belong anymore, not since-" he sighs and readjusts so he's sitting across from Geralt. "What happened on the mountain can't be fixed, Geralt. And I told Yen, I figured she'd pass the message along."

Geralt lets out an exasperated laugh and Jaskier wants to slap him for it. He never should have come up here in the first place.

"Jaskier, if anything from that day is irreparable, it's my relationship with Yen. We only travel together because of Ciri, because it's beneficial for both of us."

"So why do you keep me around then? What good am I?" He doesn't mean for it to come out, but it does and he holds his ground, hoping he looks more determined than he feels.

"You're my friend, Jaskier. And Ciri loves you. You're the only one who feeds Roach those little sugar cubes she likes so much. You know, she gets snippy with me now if I don't have them for her. I even think Yen is beginning to enjoy your company." Geralt's voice softens and he reaches out, tentatively brushing Jaskier's hair away from his face.

"What about you?" Jaskier asks, trying to keep the unsteadiness from his voice.

"Do you really think if I didn't want you around I would have let you follow me out of Posada? Roach could easily have outrun you if I wanted to." His hand slips to cup his cheek and Jaskier barely resists shutting his eyes. It feels too close to intimacy, but he knows Geralt better than to think this is anything real. But he's forgotten what it feels like to be touched so softly and when Geralt bundles him back into his arms, Jaskier sinks into it despite his reservations.

"Jaskier," he breathes right next to his ear. "That day on the mountain, I was angry because Yen was right about me and I didn't want to face it. I had to take responsibility and then you-" he exhales deeply, tucking his head into the crook of Jaskier's neck. "I was struggling with my… feelings. I felt like I'd somehow forced you to stay with me the way I did with Yen. I couldn't bear to hear the same things from you so I-"

"Pushed me away?" Jaskier asks.

"Hmm,” Geralt says and his voice is tense with understanding. “You left tonight because of me."

"I didn't think you wanted me around anymore," he mumbles and it's not until Geralt shifts that Jaskier realizes he's got both hands fisted in his cloak. "I thought I'd save myself having to hear it from you. I didn't want anyone's pity."

Geralt hauls him up into his lap so the only way for him to sit comfortably is to wrap his legs around Geralt's waist. For a moment, that ferocity is back, but then Geralt tugs the blanket tighter around him, holds him closer.

"Why wouldn't I want you around?"

"You have Yen and Ciri and the other Witchers, what could you possibly want me for? Everything I used to do for you-" he chokes on a sob and curses himself for it before burying his face in Geralt's shoulder. "Everything I did for you, someone else does now."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just... everything. All the things I used to do for you. When you don't sleep because of your nightmares, Ciri goes to you. When I tried to get wood for the fire it was already done when I got back-" he sighs and shifts away from Geralt a little. "The other night in the bath, Yen-"

"Yen?"

"I heard you," Jaskier says, "you don't have to hide it now. I know. It doesn't matter that much I just... I don't know what I can do for you when everyone else is doing what I used to do."

"Jaskier you don't need to do anything. You're my friend. And Yen- that's not what you thought it was. "

Jaskier isn't quite sure what to do with any of that, but when Geralt tugs him close again, he lets himself be held and buries his face in his shoulder. Geralt allows it, letting one hand slip up between his shoulder blades and bringing him closer. They stay like that for some time and Jaskier's heart aches for more than he should want. This is so much more than he ever expected but now with Geralt wrapped around him, he wants more.

When Geralt finally pulls himself away, he regards Jaskier for a moment before running a hand down his arm.

"Are you warm enough," he asks and Jaskier nods because even if he wasn't, he can't take much more of this before he breaks and says or does something he'll regret. "We should get you back to the keep and into a warm bath."

The idea of a bath is tempting, but more so is the idea of staying here in Geralt's arms for as long as he's allowed. Stil, Jaskier lets himself be pulled to his feet and led toward the mouth of the cave.

Their return to the keep is quiet and Jaskier isn't sure anyone else even realized he was gone until Geralt pauses and doubles back on himself, heading toward his own room rather than the guest room.

"Eskel's got a bath ready," he says by way of explanation.

"How did he-" Jaskier starts but he realizes the answer before he can finish. They were probably keeping watch, waiting for Geralt to return.

"I told him to," Geralt says, approaching the door and stepping back so Jaskier can enter the room first. It's darker than the room he's staying in, but there's a balcony off the far wall that lets in a little light, and candles placed on every surface. The bath is at the right side of the room and Geralt guides him toward it.

"It shouldn't be too hot," he says, "so it doesn't shock your body, but there's more water boiling by the fire if you need to warm it up."

"Thank you," Jaskier whispers. Guilt curdles in his gut and he pulls the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. He's still cold and eager to get into the tub, but more than anything he's dreading having to get undressed in front of Geralt. Luckily, he's spared that embarrassment.

Geralt claps a hand on his shoulder, lingering just a moment too long. "I'll find you something to eat," he says, "try to warm up."

Jaskier nods dumbly, waiting until Geralt has left the room to let the blanket slip from his shoulders. To say he doesn't understand would be an understatement. He's never seen Geralt like this, not even with Ciri, and a part of him wonders if he didn't freeze to death in that cave and this is some sort of weird afterlife. But the water is hot against his skin, a little too hot to begin with and his skin tingles as he slips into the bath and shuts his eyes. And Geralt's hands felt real, right down to the callouses. But it all seems a bit off.

Jaskier has been hypothermic before, more than once, and it wasn't like this. He's left Geralt in much worse ways than this and it's never ended with him in a bath drawn especially for him. But Jaskier isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he warms himself up without even having to use the extra water and upon getting out of the tub, realizes all his clothes are cold and soaked.

Frowning, he looks around the room and spots Geralt's pack dumped on a chair in the corner. Surely, Geralt wouldn't mind if he just borrowed some of his clothes. Just for a little while. Jaskier is the one who washes them anyway - or he used to be. His heart sinks again, but he pushes away the feeling, crossing to pull clean clothes out of the pack.

They fit him surprisingly well and they smell like Geralt which is both comforting and nerve-wracking all at once. The blanket is wet now too, so he hangs that with his clothes where they won't drip on anything important and heads down to the kitchen.

Geralt isn't there, but he can hear him shuffling around on the opposite side of the fire, so Jaskier settles himself at one of the tables to wait patiently. He doesn't hear Eskel approach, so he must already have been there, talking to Geralt, but their conversation suddenly gets louder before something crashes to the floor.

Jaskier keeps quiet, trying not to listen in because he knows it's not his place, but they're arguing in earnest now and Geralt sounds passive and ashamed in a way that's very unlike him. Then there's a grunt from Geralt and Eskel says, "you didn't fucking tell him," like he’s only just realizing this. Jaskier focuses very hard on a knot in the tabletop.

It's an accusation, not a question and it's followed by heavy footsteps coming toward him. He tenses up, not prepared to deal with an angry Geralt, but it's Eskel who comes through the door. He pauses when he sees Jaskier, gives him a sympathetic sort of look and mumbles something that sounds like goodnight before continuing onward up the stairs.

Jaskier sits and waits and eventually, Geralt appears through the doorway with two bowls of stew and rolls. He sits next to him, pushing one of the bowls toward him and Jaskier tries not to show just how hungry he is. They sit in companionable silence, which is more than he can say for the last few weeks and Jaskier settles. When they're finished, Geralt is the one to speak first, angling his body so he's facing Jaskier but not looking directly at him.

"It's getting late," is all he says but Jaskier understands. He moves to take their bowls away but Geralt rests a hand on his wrist and takes the bowls from him. "I'll meet you upstairs."

Jaskier nods slowly, not quite understanding. He makes for his own room, climbing up as far as the staircase goes and pushing the door open. He's quite frankly exhausted and doesn't even think to get changed before climbing up onto the bed. The snow on the balcony lights the room well enough, but he fumbles with a candle for a few minutes anyway before giving up on that idea. He's alone in the dim room for a few minutes before Geralt knocks on the door and Jaskier mumbles for him to come in.

Geralt comes to sit on the side of the bed and Jaskier's heart feels like it's pounding out of his chest. He doesn't know what to say or even how to process what they've already said, but in his need to fill the silence, he blurts out, "why do you and Yen share a tent?" And it's the last thing he means to say and he does want to know, but this is not at all the time.

Only Geralt smiles. It's a small thing, barely a quirk of his lips, but it's there and for the first time in forever, Jaskier feels comfortable in his presence.

"Because Ciri asked to share with you. You're a good memory for her, one of the few she has of home."

"Oh."

"Before you came back, she shared with Yen." Geralt looks down at him and the almost-smile turns to confusion. "You're wearing my clothes."

"Mine were wet, I can change if-"

"No," Geralt interrupts and Jaskier can feel his eyes on him, taking him in, "it's fine."

"Oh. Right. I'll wash them in the morning then."

"You don't have to, they look good on you. You should sleep now, though. Goodnight, Jaskier."

Jaskier's heart thuds. He doesn't want to let Geralt go before he gets a chance to finish their conversation from earlier. "Geralt?" he asks and the Witcher turns back to him in the dark. "If it's not too much to ask, could you stay? Just for a little bit?"

Geralt doesn't say anything, but he comes back, pulling off his boots before climbing up onto the bed next to him. He lays still and Jaskier doesn't reach out and touch, as much as he wants to.

Geralt is the first to move, shifting onto his side and reaching into the space between them.

"Can I-?" he asks and Jaskier nods without hesitation, unsure of what's being requested. Seemingly pleased with his consent, Geralt's hand slips over his side and around his back, nudging him a little closer as he gets comfortable. Jaskier doesn't know what to do with himself.

It's too much and not enough all at once and he wants to pull away, but he doesn't want to break this moment of trust. So he pushes through, presses into the touch and tips his head down to keep Geralt from seeing the mess of emotions that are sure to be plain on his face. Not that he wouldn't be able to feel them anyway, but still.

"I'm sorry things have been different since you came back," he breathes. "Sorry if I made you feel..."

"Unwanted?" Jaskier offers and Geralt winces at the word, his arm pulling just a little tighter around Jaskier's back.

"Mmm."

"Are we... okay?" Jaskier asks tentatively, finally risking a glance up at Geralt's face.

"As long as you don't do that again," Geraly mumbles, "you... scared me tonight. I've been thinking so much about how to protect Ciri that I didn't consider losing you."

"You won't," Jaskier promises. "I won't." He moves closer, testing Geralt's limits, but his guard seems to be down tonight; Jaskier presses right up against him before Geralt so much as moves. And then, it's only to hold him closer.

He must have been genuinely worried, Jaskier thinks, to allow this right now. Which is the only reason he says the next thing that comes out of his mouth.

"I didn't mean to worry you," he says softly, slipping one hand up to cautiously rest against Geralt's chest. "I didn't think-" he shakes his head, pushing away the thoughts, "well, I didn't think you would come out after me. I'm sorry."

"Maybe..." Geralt starts then turns his head away like the words are difficult for him. Jaskier braces himself for something he doesn't want to hear, trying hard not to pull away defensively, but Geralt surprises him. "Maybe we both need to be better at saying what we mean."

Instead of drawing away, Jaskier slips his hand up to rest against the side of Geralt's neck. This is absolutely uncharted territory for them and he's not quite sure what to do here. What do you do when the least communicative person you know says you should talk about things more. But he's not wrong and Jaskier's touch seems to relax him a little, so armed with that information, Jaskier presses forward.

"You're right," he says. "So if we're going to... say what we mean, I should tell you that all of this with Ciri and Yen and everyone up here - it scares me, Geralt." Geralt opens his mouth to speak, but Jaskier just shakes his head. "Please just let me finish. Yen is a sorceress. Even if your relationship with her is over, she will always be a part of your life. Ciri has powers I can't even begin to comprehend. Your brothers and the others- they're Witchers, Geralt. All of them will be with you for years to come and all of them have been with you - barring, Ciri - for years. How can I live up to that? How can I possibly find a place in your life when soon I'll be gone and they'll just-" he chokes on the last word and can't bring himself to continue.

Words are his livelihood and yet when he needs them the most, they seem to fail him entirely. Luckily for him, Geralt is accustomed to non-verbal communication and understands. But in the faint light of the room, he looks like he wants to retreat, to pull away and forget everything he said before. He doesn't and Jaskier realizes this is just as difficult for Geralt as it is for him.

"Jaskier," he shuts his eyes and Jaskier holds his breath. For one awful moment, everything is silent, then Geralt speaks again, quiet and soft. "Everyone else in my life has been brought to me by forces outside of my control. I never chose to become a Witcher, to be brought here as a child as raised with dozens of other boys who would never make it to adulthood. I never intended to bind myself to Yen - Djinn are tricky and bend wishes to their own amusement. And Ciri- how was I to know Pavetta was already with child when I claimed the law of surprise?"

Jaskier wants to remind him of the multiple other occasions in which the law of surprise has gifted someone a child, but he doubts this is the place to bring up Geralt's mistakes.

"But you," Geralt continues, speaking slower like each word is pulled unwillingly from his lips. "You came to me on a whim. I could have left you in Posada, ridden away and left you in the tavern." He sighs, tips his head up so his forehead presses against Jaskier's. "But I chose not to. I chose to let you come with me. And I regretted it, in the beginning."

"I certainly hope you said nicer things to Yen when you found each other again."

Geralt huffs a laugh, just the fainted sound in the dark, but his breath is warm against Jaskier's cheek. "Let me finish."

"Do you promise you'll say nicer things about me?"

"Hmm, maybe."

"Fine then, finish your story."

"I regretted it, in the beginning, but it was still my own choice, mine to regret. Over time I grew... attached. That first time you left me was the first time I really felt lonely since undergoing the trials."

"You leave your brothers every spring," Jaskier says, an attempt to mask the hammering of his heart.

"I do, but so is the life of a Witcher. It's the way it's supposed to be. There's no room for loneliness. There were no rules attached to you and so when you left it seemed too quiet."

"Are you... are you saying you like having me around?" Jaskier asks, the hopeful tone in his voice a backdrop to the thudding in his chest.

"Yes," Geralt replies, "I dread the winters when I come up here alone."

"Then why do you? And why did you say Ciri wanted me to come?"

Geralt makes a noise that sounds something like embarrassment and Jaskier's sure if he could see properly, he would be blushing.

"I'm sorry," he says again, "I couldn't ask because if you said no I- but I knew you'd never say no to her. She told me you were leaving and I knew if I let you go I wouldn't see you again."

"You idiot, you could have just asked me. I follow you into swamps and monster dens and worse- why would I say no to spending the winter here?" He shifts to run his fingers along Geralt's jaw and sighs. "You're my-"

"Friend?" Geralt offers and the sound of that word on his lips makes something warm swell in Jaskier's chest, but he remembers his promise to speak plainly.

"More than that" he admits. He ducks his chin, unable to look at Geralt while he speaks, this time. "I tried so hard to just be a good friend to you, but it's always been more than that. I don't expect anything from you, of course, but you said we should-" He's cut off by gentle fingers tracing the line of his jaw and he shuts his eyes, waiting for the inevitable downfall. But it doesn't come.

"Jaskier," he breathes, "if you're worried about your place in my life, this is it." Geralt tips his head up and their lips brush against each other just for a second, but Jaskier is certain his heart stops beating altogether.

"Geralt?" he whispers but it comes out as an uncertain whimper. Geralt hums in response, shifting to cradle Jaskier's head in one hand, and he presses in again.

This time Jaskier knows it's intentional. The lips against his own are warm and soft, whispering silent promises and asking for the same in return. Jaskier responds tentatively, but as soon as he does, Geralt is gathering him up against him and his uncertainty vanishes.

He's seen Geralt kiss before, but this is nothing like that. Geralt kisses him with a passion that speaks of years of repression and guilt, begging for forgiveness for something Jaskier hadn't realized he was even doing. And Jaskier forgives, tangling his fingers in Geralt's hair and submitting readily when Geralt rolls him onto his back.

Geralt gets a knee between his thighs and Jaskier's breath catches as Geralt's hand slips under the hem of his borrowed shirt. He'd be more than happy to lay here and let Geralt kiss him senseless, but when Geralt's teeth graze against his lip, Jaskier groans, effectively shattering the moment.

Geralt draws back, looking down on him and Jaskier slips his hands around the back of his neck. "Do you mean that?" Jaskier asks, “about me belonging with you?” Geralt nods.

"Of course, if you want to leave, I'll take you back to Oxenfurt, but I'd prefer if you stayed here."

"Right here?" Jaskier asks, sprawling under him against the mattress.

"Right here," Geralt confirms with a soft smile. "With me."

[kewltie]

thinking of bkdk in their late 40s when all their friends have already settled down with a family, izuku muses a lil forlornly how he would like to have someone to come home and katsuki just stares him dead in the eyes and says, "marry me then. i wont let you be lonely in that empty apartment."

the thing is bkdk are super successful heroes, they're the ranking no.1 and 2 and everyone knows their name but because izuku put so much effort into his career he never give himself the chance to meet someone and fall in love because the next things he know he's already 48 yrs old and still very single. as soon as he got right out of UA he had put himself right to work and hasn't truly stop since so izuku feels like he misses out on his youth, the flutter of first love, and now he feels like it's too late to grasp that chance again because he's too old to be stumbling around at love BUT here is katsuki suddenly telling izuku to marry him as though that would solve everything, solve izuku's worries and fears that he'll never experience love the way his friends had or knows what it feels to come home to a waiting arms that will comfort him after a hard day at work.

izuku first tries to laugh it off because katsuki cant be serious right?? but katsuki doesn't crack a single smile. "Do i look like im the type to joke about this kind shit to you?" he asks, voice steady and true. it is then that izuku realizes katsuki had meant every word he said.

but izuku still cant wrap his head around why would katsuki want to marry him of all things?? it is because they're both bachelor and wretchedly alone standing at the very top of their career where nobody can touch or hope to nobody can understand them like they do to each other?? izuku thinks that's a very dry reason to marry someone for the sake of convenience and not love at all because even though he'd devoted all his time to saving the world and helping ppl and HE'S OLD NOW but he still earnestly yearn to fall in love the ways all his friends had.

"If you needed company, we don't have to marry each other. I'm here for you always, you know that," izuku offers instead. "We're partners."

katsuki is silent briefly, then, he says, "You think i want to marry because you're convenience?"

Izuku blinks. "is that not it?"

"No," he says, all grave and serious, and for a moment izuku is breathless with realization.

"Oh," izuku replies, looking down at the table like it has all the answer in the world. "how long?"

"Since our third year at UA."

izuku jerks his head up, eyes wide with shock.

"what—I, wait, you can't mean that right?" he shakes his head as he flounders for the right words. they're both almost hitting their 50s now, so if it started in their third year then it would be 30 years of katsuki waiting for him, of pining over izuku and all that time was lost because of it.

katsuki press his lips into a thin line. "I have never lie to you."

"I—I'm not—" izuku flushes, because this wasn't anything he had plan for. who would anyway? no one would ever believe that katsuki has been in love with him for almost 30 years and izuku only found out about it now. even though katsuki has revealed the secret he has been hiding for 3 decades, izuku has no answer for him. he didn't notice katsuki's feelings for this long not because he chose to willfully ignore it but because he has never thought of katsuki in that light and that is the sad truth of it all. katsuki must have realizes that too because he doesn't press for more from izuku.

"i'm sorry," izuku says, mind racing to come up with a proper reply to katsuki's feelings because he deserves that much. "it's not you—"

Katsuki scowls. "shut the fuck up, don't even start that with me."

izuku quickly shuts his mouth, floundering for another reply that with save both of their feelings.

"Six months," katsuki says instead, eyes firm and never once dull since izuku has known him. "give me six months to convince you and if it doesn't work out we can get divorce then."

"you still want to marry me?!" izuku asks in disbelief. "shouldn't we like date first at least? isn't that how normal relationship work?!"

katsuki roll his eyes. "we co-own an agency, you have your toothbrush at my house, and we spent 18hrs out of 24 together almost everyday. our friends joke about us being a married to each other as much as to our work, we're each other's first emergency contact if something were to happen," he continues, straightforward like he's listing their grocery for today, "and i cant ever imagine wanting anyone more than i ever want you."

throughout this strange turn in their conversation, izuku realizes not once has he ever heard katsuki said he loves him but the way katsuki had revealed his unwavering devotion that lasts 3 decades and the dry, bluntness in which he spoken of wanting izuku, it's heavy. this hefty thing that katsuki has carried with him for nearly 3 decades, and in those years what izuku thought katsuki was just disinterest in any romantic connection because not once had izuku seen him look at another person, but it's because he has eyes only for izuku and nobody else.

izuku should have known never to expect anything less then 120% with katsuki because if there's anything that means something to katsuki, he would give it all and then some. it's humbling really, to be loved so fiercely and with such devotion that 3 decades is worth every second of it but izuku doesn't know if he's worth it especially when he's hesitant about his own murky feelings. he loves katsuki undoubtedly. they're partners in more way then one, but he doesn't know if he can love katsuki the way he deserves to be love in return, to return that same level of intensity.

"and what if the six months went by and there's nothing show for it?" izuku mumbles, hands clasp together under the table. i dont want to ruin this friendship of ours, he doesn't say. "what if you get bored with me and realized this isn't something you want now. what happen then?"

"you're stuck with me for life even if we get a divorce. i won't let you ever get rid of me either way," katsuki says, lips twitching with the slightest hint of amusement. "and if you're worry about me getting bored of you, don't. i fucking wont." It’s firm, assured, and completely sincere.

izuku thinks anybody with a half a brain at all would see this admirable man right in front of them with his unwavering affection and devotion that he had nurtured for 3 decades would be half way in love already, but izuku neither race or skip a beat; it remains dull and unmoved. maybe he's really too old to love like this. maybe, it's not that he's too busy to ever search for it like everyone else but because he has all the love for everyone but none ever hold a special place in his heart. for all of katsuki's sharp edges, his feelings burn ever so brightly while izuku has since been numb to his own emotions. to give too much to the world, to his job that he has never let himself fall freely and unconditionally. it's terrifying.

"what if i hurt you instead?" he says, quiet and severe. "what if in the end i couldn't return what you've given me?"

katsuki doesn't answer right away. the air around them tenses, threatening to suffocate them in the waiting silence. then a hand grab his and draws it toward katsuki's chest. "don't fucking underestimate me, idiot. i can and will make you fall in love with me in 6 months. 6 months is more than enough to make you realize what a fucking dumbass you have been the entire time for not taking notice of me while i have been looking at you for almost half of our life," he says with the cocky assurance that propelled him to the no. 2 position and beyond.

for the first time since this exchange had started and taken a strange, strange turn that left him his world shaken to its core, izuku's heart feels lighten. He stifles a giggle. "i still think we should date at least. marriage is maybe jumping the gun a little too soon."

"No." Katsuki's eyes narrow, and he squeezes izuku's hand firmly. "i'm not giving you any chance to escape from this. we can do all the dumb dating things you could ever want but we're getting marry first."

izuku tries to draw his hand back but katsuki remains undeterred. "Kacchan, please," he says. half begging for his hand back and half pleading against his insane idea. who in their right mind would ever marry first then date each other?! That's just not how it work! yet, katsuki is an unmovable fortress against increasing izuku's distress.

"deku," he says, thumb running across izuku's knuckles in a soothing circle, "give me this chance. let me prove it to you that i can do it. take this leap of faith with me and i won't disappoint you. trust me with your heart like you trust me with your life and i promise i will keep it safe."

izuku draws out a long, lingering breath that leaves his head heady with a dawning realization. "o-okay," he finally acquiesces, shaken with the knowledge that his heart suddenly doesn't feel safe at all for the first time in a long time in the hands of the man in front of him. bakugou katsuki is dangerous, but to the tender beat of his heart.

Katsuki's lips stretch upward into a small, precious smile that rarely see the light of day, leaving izuku breathless just for a moment. "we'll go get the marriage license tomorrow."

"tomorrow?!" izuku shrieks.

maybe he has been wrong all along, maybe you're never too old fall in love and experience it for the first time and that sometimes the things that matter the most to you are always worth the wait even if take 3 decades and katsuki always been more patient then people give him credits for.

[whattheheehaw]

Hi! I’m sorry you’re getting shitty anons about this and you’re probably sick of it so I apologise for asking this but I’m genuinely curious what made you start actively disliking zutara? Like, considering how much excellent and insightful content/meta you yourself used to make/write? I get that interests change over time and you’re totally valid!! the anons sending you hate over it are really dumb, but if you’d be ok with sharing, I’d be really interested in hearing why you’ve done almost a complete 180 on the ship? Was is just burnout/end of a hyper-obsession? Or was it some of us in the rest of the fandom that turned you off? Or was it even something about the ship/characters themselves that you changed your mind about? xx

In short, it was a combination of burnout, dissatisfaction with fandom, and disappointment in myself that caused my disinterest for Zvtara.

I got asks similar to this one a couple of times before, but I never gave a comprehensive answer, mainly because I didn't know how to articulate my reasons why I don't like it anymore. But now that I've been out of ZK fandom for a month and have had some time to reflect, I think I can give a much more thorough response. Beware, this is long and I heavily critique the Zvtara fandom, so if you're a ZK shipper, keep reading at your own risk.

My first minor annoyance with Zvtara is that the fandom has a tendency to idolize certain fics and creators. And while there’s certainly nothing inherently wrong about that, I feel like the Zvtara fandom does it to such an extent that it influences the type of content that content creators make in order to get recognition. And to illustrate my point, I’m going to talk about one of the most famous Zvtara fics of all time: Once Around The Sun by eleventy7.

Don’t get me wrong, I love OATS. I think it’s a great fanfic and I think the author devoted a lot of time and effort to make it such an excellent fic. The plot, the development of the characters and their relationships to one other, and the messages about family and love were all brilliantly written. I mean, there is a reason why it’s regarded as the “Zvtara Bible”. This one fanfic had such a profound impact upon the ZK fandom, and I think the biggest impact that came from it is the dramatic influx of post-war Zvtara AU fanfiction. 

Because so many people kept reading OATS and recommending it to others, I think there was an overall interest in ZK fics that take place in a post-war setting. And I think that all of the high praise towards OATS made more fic writers start to write post-war fanfics because of this demand for post-war AU.* I normally wouldn't complain about it because more content is more content, but in my opinion, 99% of ZK post-war fics are the same fic but in different fonts.

Like, there's at least 3 of these elements in every ZK post-war fanfic:

Ambassador Katara

An assassination attempt (usually on Zuko's life)

A healing scene between Zuko and Katara (usually Katara heals Zuko)

Aang and/or Mai is pushed to the side or vilified to some extent in order to make ZK happen

A private journey between Zuko and Katara to facilitate #6

S L O W B U R N (that's not really slowburn and more like "I love you and I very much want to be vocal about my feelings but #7 is in this fic" but the love story takes up like 30 chapters so I guess it's a slowburn?)

Zuko's advisers don't want him to get married to Katara because ✨racism✨

Ursa is found

Azula is in the fic because a) she's going to get a healing arc ft. Zuko and Katara and thereby helps them get together or b) she's the villain and thereby helps them get together

ZK wedding happens in the FN

After reading multiple post-war fics back to back, I could tell that the format was pretty much the same across the board, which isn't very interesting for me to read. My only other fic options in the Zvtara tag on AO3 are canon divergence fics which almost always take place during The Crossroads of Destiny or after The Southern Raiders. And to some extent, those stories are pretty much the same too. There's nothing really new or creative going on in the ZK fandom fic-wise, and because of that, my interest in ZK fandom started to dwindle.

My second issue with Zvtara is that it's a very old ship from a very old show. Because there's been 10+ years since the end of A:TLA, every nuanced point about shipping and the show itself have been talked to death.** There's just nothing new to say. It's the same arguments being rehashed over and over again in the tag because there's no other interpretation one can come up with.

For example, there's so many people who talk about why Zvtara as depicted in The Southern Raiders is not toxic and that's great and all, but I (and most likely many others) have read those same points about five times already. And for some reason, each time this happens, people act like someone just discovered the lost city of Atlantis when they bring up their new-but-not-new argument in defense of Zvtara. Honestly, I'm ashamed to say that I'm not exempt from being part of the group of people that reiterate old arguments. I've done it with one of my posts about The Southern Raiders and I've done it again with my Zutara/Omashu parallels post.

There's no new content to really dissect and analyze (especially considering Zuko and Katara are rarely in the same panel in any of the post-war comics), and because of this, people are just restating points that someone else made several years ago.*** And even if someone did have a different interpretation of an episode, their ideas would most likely be shut down because for the past several years, the same interpretation has been recycled through the fandom repeatedly and people are resistant to new perspectives.

This brings me to the third thing that I dislike about Zvtara: the insistence that there can only be one way to interpret The Southern Raiders. For the longest time, I've read take after take that said if Katara decided to kill Yon Rha, it would be ok because that's her grief to deal with and if she thinks that's the best way to mete out justice, then good for her. And again, I'm ashamed to say that I perpetuated that idea in a few of my own posts. I have always thought that "Katara killing Yon Rha is ok" is just a bad take in general, but I didn't want to vocalize that opinion when so many people—so many of the nice mutuals that I made—all shared that same opinion. Taking down a popular opinion of your own ship is completely different from taking down a popular opinion of a ship that you dislike. The Zvtara fandom is the first fandom that I was actually active in and I wanted to fit in so badly with everyone else that I just parroted whatever other people said, even if I didn't agree with those sentiments.

This leads me to my final reason why I don't want to be a part of ZK fandom anymore. I think I established myself as a "meta" person pretty early on and because of that, I constantly felt pressured to come up with new takes on the ship. And when people started flooding my ask box with stuff like "Can you write a meta about your thoughts on the idea that 'Zuko only took Katara on that field trip in TSR because he wanted her to forgive him'?" and "What are your thoughts about antis saying Zuko and Katara are toxic because of TSR?", I realized that I don't need to come up with new takes. People just want me to paraphrase something that 10 other people said about the same exact topic, because if I said what I actually thought about the subject (i.e. there is some truth in what antis say about TSR and it's not as much of a "Zvtara episode" that most people make it out to be), I'd probably get ZK shippers in the replies telling me that I'm wrong because x, y, and z or "you shouldn't tag this as Zvtara".

And that was pretty much how my love for ZK turned into disinterest. I was and still am disappointed that I didn't stick to my personal opinions. For as much as I talk about herd mentality on Twitter, I certainly don't practice what I preach. In all honesty, the only reason why I held on so long to ZK fandom was because I had so many nice mutuals there and we all shared this collective distaste for antis. I think I started to become more anti-Zvkka and anti-Kataang than pro-Zvtara, which isn't what I wanted to do when I made this Tumblr blog.

The thing that made me joke about becoming anti-Zvtara was the fact that some ZK shippers just like to send shitty anons to people whom they've reblogged countless different metas from. Sending shitty anons to people in the first place is wrong, but sending them to people who tagged their posts correctly and did nothing wrong is just disgusting.

*I'm not a fic writer and can't speak for fic writers, but it definitely feels like a lot of ZK fic authors are pushing themselves to write the next OATS, and by doing so, they are proliferating the tag with post-war fics that have very similar aspects to OATS.

**I think that as more people point out the same nuanced points about Zvtara, it diminishes the actual significance of those points. Like, it's hard to explain but the more people talk about the subtleties of the ship, the more those parts become glaringly obvious and I become numb to their actual impact on the characters and the show.

***At this point, if someone wanted to make a new argument about Zvtara, I think they would have to look very closely at every little detail in every single one of their scenes together to find a crumb of new meta material. And speaking from experience, it's not very fun trying to make a mountain out of a molehill. Whenever I post a "meta" like that, I feel like I'm reaching to make a point that doesn't exist.

[kuroos-moon]

with all that’s left, kenjirou

pairing: med student shirabu x hospital patient reader

summary: apparently, you’ve got limited time left. with that in mind, you don’t see a point to living through everyday, but changes in hospital rotations occur and a cold med student wounds up in your hospital room.

warning/s: hospital setting, terminal reader, pessimistic/apathetic thoughts

a/n: i might do a part two idk i lowkey could see this as a series just for the fun of it

wc: 3.4k 

Slowly blinking away the sleep from your eyes, you instantly recognize the absence of sunlight that’d normally leave you huffing and groaning by now. Your room was gloomy and dark, you realize, but it had to be daytime, as confirmed by the bland mechanical clock across from where you lay on your bed; you’ve grown accustomed to looking at it as soon as you woke up.

7:30 am, it read. 

Normally, you’d be up by seven sharp in courtesy of that psychotic nurse of a friend of yours, the room would be bright and sunny too unlike now. 

Plain white curtains were still over the window to your left, a few steps from your bed—it wasn’t wide, in fact, it was stupidly small considering that it was the only window in the room—but you’ve long ascertained that two people could stand together close enough and see through it comfortably.

Your days were uniformed. Your nurse would wake you up too damn early in the morning, try to radiate some happiness into you—not that you’re depressed—and then she’ll proceed with giving you your medication even though you could do it yourself, then she injects that stinging, numbing liquid in the tube that always made you feel sleepy, and lastly, she checks your vitals—your current state, your response to the treatment. 

You always loathe that part the most, although you appreciate her trying to ease it away with chitter chatter. She wouldn’t pass as an actress though even if her life depended on it, she couldn’t contain what she truly felt. It was painfully easy to tell you’re getting worse by the look on her face and her frightened, disappointed eyes—and it made you feel bitter, what else did you expect, Yui?

But of course you loved her too much to actually voice that out, she’s the only one who stuck around; and even if she denies it every single time, you know she gave up her dreams to live abroad to keep you company until your last breath. 

It’s neither a pro nor a con, but considering the lack of life in the room, you succumb to the emptiness, idly laying on your bed and getting stuck in a daze of nonentity as you stare up at the ceiling. It’s neither peaceful nor lonely either, it’s just reality. 

Hearing fast approaching footsteps getting closer, you know it could only be Yui, and for a split second you consider locking your door, her personality would only brighten up your room which was dark and gloomy for a change, and you wanted to leave it as it is.

Maybe she’ll let you keep the curtains closed if you begged enough. Maybe.

The door, which was to your right, slides open and you sigh—here we go. 

“Good morning y/n-chan!”

“Morning Yui,” you try to sound cheerful without looking at her. 

“Sorry I’m late! Had to take care of some things and I have sad news for you!”

You jokingly glare at her, “what do you mean you’re late? You don’t need to be here at all every 7 in the morning like a living alarm clock. I’m still a patient y’know, need sleep and all that.”

She only chuckles at you, heading for the windows to tie your curtains. 

“Can you leave them like that? I actually like it this way,” you mutter.

“Nope, let’s live in a vibrant environment shall we,” she muses, proceeding to open the curtains much to your distaste. Fortunately, even when she had them opened, the sky was covered with thick dark clouds—it would rain later on, but more importantly, your room remains bleak and lifeless.

“Why do you look so pleased?” She scowls at you and you grin. “My room reflects my withering life for a change.” It’s far too late the moment you realize you’ve said those words out loud. 

You don’t even need to sit up or turn your head to look at her to know she’s crying right now. Keeping your eyes closed, you listen to her mutter curses at you and how you should cherish the time you have left. 

It’s not that you’re depressed or bitter about how your life’s apparently fading away. But you’re much too realistic and you’ve long accepted that your life is fading away. There’s nothing you could do about it. You couldn’t bring yourself to be someone who appreciates every single second left or one who starts crashing out things from their bucket list either (you’re not even sure if you have one).

To you, your life is as good as gone. If it ends, it ends—it’s no big deal. And the fact that your mindset is so dull, your life painfully as monotonous, it’s not too much for you to ask for that your room should be the same. This sunless, dreary environment is greatly to your taste. Having it lit up so brightly, to add to that, Yui’s cheerful attitude, leaves you feeling like there should be more to your life than what it actually is: short and numbered.

“Said I was sorry,” you mutter, still lying on your back with closed eyes. She only sniffles, “try to lighten up the mood, will you? As I said I even have sad news.”

“Which is?”

“I’m not assigned to check on you anymore. There’s been a change in rotations with the increasing med students around.”

While it isn’t exactly sad news to you, it’s not pleasant either. It means that someone completely unknown to you would check your condition twice every single day.

“Who gets lucky enough to take care of me in your place then?”

She huffs and you could already tell she despises the person.  

“A fifth-year med student. He’s such a stuck-up, smart-mouth imbecile just because he gets stupidly good grades.”

“What? Don’t tell me you fought with him already or something,” you joke.

“Duh! Why else do you think I wasn’t here early? Like he’s apparently really smart, he undermined even his previous seniors that’s why they hated him and doctors here favor him too.”

“Thank you, though I don’t really think my wits and brains are as extraordinary as you make it out to be,” eloquently says a smooth, soothing yet distant voice to your right.

Your heads turn to the tall guy who stood by your doorframe. His disinterested eyes were on Yui and you could assume she was glaring back at him because that’s just the way she is—you’re simply too preoccupied with taking in the sight of him to confirm what Yui’s facial expression is right now.

His eyes are an even shade of brown, and brown was too warm a color for them to look so cold. The absence of any apparent emotion on his facial features made him appear so unapproachable and intimidating—not that you’re intimidated—and there was something in the way he carried himself and stood so upright that makes him seem so authoritative and composed.

“You!” Yui hisses, you slowly sit up, reminded of the awkward situation you’ve been put in all because she had to talk bad about someone without closing the door first. “Nurse Sato, was it? It’s a pleasure to be of your acquaintance again. Do you mind leaving so I could tend to the patient?”

Similar to his eyes, his hair was a coper brown, and you could tell he took good care of his hair from the way it seemed so well-combed and soft. How could one even look so good and smart in a white coat? And here you thought you’ve seen enough doctors in this lifetime to be at awe from the sight of someone with the same attire, holding a similar clipboard.

“You’re an annoying little br-

“I’m older than you, Nurse Sato. And professionally, you shouldn’t be losing composure in front of a patient, let alone be raising your voice.” He is simply so blunt and cold; you’re torn between snickering at Yui for getting dissed or remaining silent because he might have something to scold you for too.

Before Yui could say anything else, you intervene. “Hey, you still have your rounds to do, okay? I’ll be fine, go do your job or something,” you chuckle a bit as she grits her teeth, glaring at Mr. Icy Med Student by the door then at you.

“Are you taking his side?”

“If that means you’ll leave, then yes, I’m taking his side,” you grin at her. She leaves with a huff, attempting to bump his shoulder but he dodges with an unamused look pointed at her.

Now that you’re alone with him, you suddenly want Yui back. Why are you feeling so awkward anyway? You’ve met tons of doctors and hospital personnel. 

He closes the door behind him the moment Yui disappears, your eyes remaining focused on your hands at your lap as you hear the slow clicking of his shoes making its way to your bedside. The footsteps come to a halt, and you couldn’t tell if you were nervous because you haven’t seen much new faces for so long or because he himself just made you nervous like a natural law. 

“Good Morning, I’m Shirabu Kenjirou, a fifth-year medical student and I’ll be the one to monitor and tend to you on weekdays,” he says, and as you’ve observed, he had such a soothing voice, it could only be because he was training to be a doctor and patients had to be comfortable around him.

Right, why would you not look at him? He’s just another one of many whose job is to look after you until your last day. He isn’t special. Like it was some easy feat, you finally look up at him, a part of you wishing you hadn’t as you feel your breath getting caught up in your throat upon meeting such far-off yet captivating brown eyes. 

He looks at you expectantly, and you get that it was because he’s waiting for you to introduce yourself. “You already know my name,” you mutter, looking away from him. He slightly raises his brows in surprise, in fact, he does know your name already, but that was an unusual response said with an undoubtedly lifeless accent—not that he cares—he’s just observant and sharp-witted.

“Y/n L/n, is that correct?” He momentarily looks down on his clipboard although he memorized your name the first time he heard it; he’s gifted with ridiculously sharp memory too. You nod, looking outside the window, surprised that it was raining. 

“Then if you don’t mind,” he says under his breath, putting down his clipboard on the table beside you before grabbing an injection and some bottled stuff you still don’t know the name of from the metallic cart by the foot of your bed. Your eyes are locked on him, injecting that stuff from the bottle seemed like a small thing to do but he still looked so focused.

The same goes for when he injects it to the tube connected to the needle in your left hand and the liquid-containing bag that serves as your daily needed life savers so that you could still walk and move around. You wince a bit, feeling the all-too familiar sting of the process.

Normally, doctors or nurses would ask you if you were okay and if it hurt when you winced like that. Not him though, and you narrow your eyes at him in curiosity. “You’re not gonna ask it?”

“Ask what?” It’s crazy how his voice does things to you you can’t quite explain, and you reason that it’s maybe because he doesn’t speak much.

“If it hurts,” you shrug. “Don’t move,” he snaps, sharp eyes finding yours before they look down on his busy hands again. Even his hands were pretty, and for a moment you wonder if they feel as nice as they look.

There’s a moment of silence before he walks away from you, checking your vitals and scribbling who knows what on his clipboard. You eye the two extra pens in his pocket, and you reckon he really is uptight with himself as he looks and acts so disciplined. Why would he need that many extra pens? 

and why should you care? an inner voice asks.

He may be fixated on what he’s doing, but he could tell how intently you stared at him. Perhaps you were waiting for him to answer your question? He doesn’t want to. He’s not one to engage on conversations that are trivial—he knows better than to actually know more than what’s necessary of someone dying. 

Shirabu certainly gets the vibe off you that you cared about nothing anymore, and he’s not exactly empathetic enough to actually feel sorry about your limited time alive. 

Still, it was slightly getting to him how your eyes never left his figure though he never pegged himself to be easily self-conscious. “Why didn’t I ask if it hurt,” he mutters and you look at him in surprise. “I know that it hurts, and if I were to ask and you were to say yes, I wouldn’t know what to say other than meaningless encouragements. I don’t like saying things I don’t mean and I assume you don’t want to hear them either.”

“You’re right.” He looks at you from the corner of his eye for a while, you’re just staring out the window. “Do you want me to close the curtains?” He asks, but you decline and he doesn’t talk anymore after that.

“That’s it for now, thank you for your cooperation, Ms. L/n. If you ever need anything else, tell me now.” When you don’t say anything, he doesn’t spare you a second glance before he turns on his heel, about to make a leave.

“Wait,” you call, and he stops, turning around to look at you. “I’d prefer if you don’t call me miss.”

“Shall I call you mister then?”

You blink. “Is that what you call a joke?” 

You could make out the slight knitting of his brows. “I was being sarcastic. It’s only professional to address you formally as you are a patient,” he strictly says, a small frown on his lips.

So you do know how to make faces, that’s the only thing on your mind as you both look at each other in silence for a mere short seconds before you speak again.

“Then is it professional to be sarcastic, Kenjirou-san?” You don’t notice the small smile on your lips but he does. Are you having a kick out of prolonging his stay in your private hospital room? He somehow dislikes it here, it made him uneasy and deep down he knows it wasn’t because of the room itself and more so because of you.

“It isn’t. My apologies, Miss L/n.”

“I said not to call me that,” you unintentionally snap. There’s no reason behind not wanting to be called that really, it just doesn’t sound right. “If you say so, y/n-san. Anything else you need?”

A grin accidentally slips out, he sounded casual and that, plus his voice, was the most pleasant thing ever. You can’t explain why you’re feeling something other than emptiness, nor are you aware that you’re somewhat giddy—you’ve far long thrown away feelings in order to survive daily with your sanity intact.

“Could I borrow a pen?” You ask him. 

He sighs, stepping close to your bed and grabbing a pen from the pocket of his coat before handing it to you. You look at it for a few seconds before taking it in your own hand, your skins barely untouching but somehow, at the back of Shirabu’s mind, he ponders if your fingertips were cold to touch considering how cold your room is.

“Thanks, I’ll return it to you later.”

He nods, putting his hands in his pockets, only realizing how cold they were when he looked at yours and wondered the same. Upon much deliberation, he looks sideways, much too prideful to look at you. “Are you feeling cold?”

You could only smile, unconsciously that is, but it surprised him still. “Now that you say it, yeah, it is quite cold.”

Before you know it, he’s walked out the door and you scoff loud enough for him to hear before he closes it. “What was the point of asking me then?” You mutter under your breath, already feeling drowsy from the injected thingy. 

The moment he was out of your sight, he stands still, his back leaning to your door. You confused him somehow, because he did hear your conversation with Yui. You totally struck him as someone who’s come to terms with their fate however ill, you’re not exactly depressed but you’re not what he considers a living person either. 

He shakes his head, what am I saying? He’s training to be a doctor yet he thinks someone breathing isn’t living—it just doesn’t make sense. But except for the fact that it does make sense. He’s heard of your name a couple times before, nurses and med students like him preferred to be the ones in charge of you because you were neither depressed or too friendly—you didn’t take a toll on their energy, they say.

That’s entirely untrue for his case. Sure, you weren’t a talker nor were you especially gloomy for someone ill, but there’s something completely and inexplicably unusual going on from the moment you evaded his mind more than necessary. He should think about what he does after he finishes with one thing, he should think about what you need—what a patient needs. 

Instead, he secretly wondered why you smiled at him so genuinely when you seemed so disconnected and disinterested with everything. Deep down, he wanted to know what was on your mind when you were staring at the rain through that small window of yours. 

What’s more to that is he doesn’t know why he wasn’t as focused on the task on hand as much as he liked, was it because of your conversation? If so, at which point did he feel so compelled to ask you more—to ask you why you needed his pen? 

Looking at his watch, he grits his teeth, disappointed in himself. It took him way much more time than it should for him to be done with you, and to think he prided himself for being someone efficient.

The moment you wake up, your eyes land immediately on the clock. It’s a quarter past noon, and it was still raining outside, the rain only getting heavier and louder. Your room still looked as dark and bland as when you first woke up this morning and you’re thankful that the icky bright sunlight didn’t creep in while you were dozed off. 

Sitting up, you finally notice the thin blanket you slept in folded neatly at the foot of your bed yet you feel so warm—at peace and relaxed even. You clutch the thick blanket over your frame, looking at it in surprise and a long forgotten feeling—happiness.  

It feels weird but unknowingly, you had the urge to go out of your way and thank him for it. It is his job to do so after all, still, if you’re grateful, you’re grateful. 

In honor of the thick blanket, maybe you should eat on time. You’ve been far too rebellious and uncaring, at least for today, you should be good. As you were about to pick up your tray from your bedside table, something caught your eye. There were pieces of paper beside it, the pen you borrowed atop the papers.

You tilt your head in wonder. There was surely not a single paper in sight earlier, it’s the reason why you haven’t started writing yet. It’s not like the lady assigned to give you meals suddenly decided to give you papers as well as if she knew what you were up to.

Could it be Kenjirou? Just the thought of that possibility has your lips curled up in a smile all day—as you finish your meal, as you took a bath, changed clothes, and watched television on your bed.  

“Geez, you seem so happy today of all days when the weather’s bad,” Yui gives you a look, sitting on the small couch beside your bed because she was apparently on break. 

“Hmm?”

“Nothing. I’m saying you’ve been so dead lately—and I meant that figuratively—despite my best efforts to lighten the mood and let some sunlight in your room. Now that the weather’s bad, your room’s dark, and that annoying Shirabu replaced me I…”

“What?” You mindlessly glance back up at the clock at the mention of his name, the fuzzy feeling back at the pit of your stomach all over again. At 7 pm, that distant smart-mouth brown-eyed medical student would walk right in again. 

“I’ve never seen you look so alive, y/n.”

General Taglist [Open]: @noyasbitchh @dinablossom @haru-the-secret @strayczennies @lalisbitch @tinymidgetsstuff @animebs @astrealia @kittykitkatstrawberry @hajimesbbygrl @kellesvt @24hr7dysdizzy @arnxldss @elianetsantana @vicassa @floraraine @beanst0ck @leinnah @kageyamasgirl @deafeningart @minibobabottle   @franko-pop @moonlightaangel @throughtheinterstices @micasaessakusa @dixonsbugaboo @thevillagehiddenintheinternet @ultzuko @yappychan 

[wlw-lovestruck-fiction]

Can we get angsty fic of Yvette and Vuz-ass make a deal for curse removal? Yvette isn’t aware of the catch. Vuz took MC’s humanity away at the same time as Yvette’s curse removal. Mc joins Vuz and make deal with demons for powers.

Written by @an-awkward-ghost

“It is always a pleasure to see you, my child.” The greeting was raspy, amusement coating it like honey. Vuzgamad never felt truly threatened by Yvette, no matter what she did or what she said. It was all a game to her, like an owner who didn’t expect their dog to bite them, and only watched fondly as it growled and whimpered and barked.

But Yvette did know how to bite, and she would draw blood when she did. It was only a matter of time.

“You said you wanted to make a deal.”

Years of experiences had taught Yvette everything she needed to know about deals. It was similar to a battlefield, where each party needed to plan their movements and proposals to the full extent. They couldn’t allow their opponent to have an unfair advantage. Quite ironically, however, they were willing to go to any lengths to cheat the other party to gain said unfair advantage – so long as they weren’t caught, anyway. Yvette wasn’t planning on letting anything slip past her, because there was no doubt Vuzgamad wanted to cheat her.

The day the demon did one thing even the slightest bit truthfully, would be the day hell froze over.

“Straight to the point,” She hummed, making a small tsk sound right afterwards. “That impatience will do you no good, girl. Don’t you want to chat a little?”

Yvette gave her a fulminating glare, blue eyes glinting dangerously. “If it doesn’t regard whatever deal it is that you want to make, I have nothing to say to you.”

“So ferocious. So brash. Well, it is to be expected, I suppose…” Vuzgamad finally, finally turned to look at her, a small smirk playing at the edge of her lips. She got the gesture and movement right; if Yvette hadn’t known she was a demon, if she hadn’t been able to see marks and the hollow eyes, she would have thought it was just another human, if a little awkward.

Vuzgamad had learnt too much about human behavior recently. It set Yvette on edge.

“Simply put, your curse has reached its peak. It’s about time to remove it.”

“…Excuse me?”

She must have heard the demon wrong. She fought to keep her breathing steady, to avoid giving Vuzgamad the reaction she wanted, but she could feel excitement bubbling inside her all the same. She schooled her expression – no, no, she couldn’t dare to hope. She couldn’t dare to believe her, not when she had been the one to curse her in the first place.

She couldn’t let her emotions override her logic. She needed to keep her yearning in check. She needed to. She needed to. The disappointment would crush her otherwise.

For a second, Vuzgamad’s eyes flickered from her expression to her hands, scanning for the slightest twitch. Her smirk stretched.

Then the demon feigned disinterest, turning to whatever she was writing. Yvette felt eerily like a child that had stumbled into their parent’s office and interrupted their work. The sensation made her shudder with disgust.

This demon was not her mother. She would never be, because Yvette had left her real mother – and any chance she had at a normal life – behind when she had decided to run away from home.

“The power your curse provides can be harvested, so that’s what I will do. Take it away.”

Her heart leaped. Yvette worried for a second that Vuzgamad could hear it. She cleared her throat, trying to crush her rising hope. Focus. She had to focus. “There must be a catch of some sort.”

“Isn’t there always, dear?” Then, silence. She was enjoying this – perhaps she wanted to see Yvette fidget? She wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. She wouldn’t – couldn’t – play right into her hands.

“I do not trust you, Vuzgamad. I will not accept your deal.” She intended to say this with conviction, but her voice wavered. Vuzgamad huffed, rolling her eyes.

“I have not finished speaking, child.”

“Could have fooled me…”

“Oh please, it was a dramatic pause. You know all about those, don’t you?”

“You were doing an excellent job at getting straight to the point.”

“Ah, so you are the only one who can have a dramatic flair?”

Yvette’s scowl deepened. “Stop. Wasting. My. Time.”

“So brash! Where did your manners go, child?” Another tsk sound. Vuzgamad turned the paper over so she could continue writing. “Yes, yes, there is a catch. The energy I harvest from you – your curse with it – will be used to bring about the end of the world. You must have known that already.”

“I hardly doubt you could destroy the world with-”

“Do you honestly think I’d have wasted years for a plan I wasn’t quite sure would work?”

Yvette bristled. With a quick movement of her hand, her cane snapped into existence. She twirled it artfully, a warning. “I do not accept.”

“Really.” The demon’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Do keep in mind there is no other way for you to get rid of that curse, save for that girl’s ability to love. We both know you won’t choose that option,” another brief, amused look, “or you could kill me, but I hardly doubt you’ll have much luck this time.”

There it was, that overwhelming desire. To be free. To be normal. To have the one thing she’d wanted almost all of her life. And it was locked behind a word and a sense of duty to her Assassin Title. If Yvette accepted, then…

Then… what?

Vuzgamad was sure her plan would work. Yvette knew it would fail.

Whatever it was that Vuzgamad believed, her curse didn’t feel powerful enough for the feat she was suggesting. Yvette was quite used to keeping the energy in check, after all. She would know better than anyone if her curse was truly at its peak.

Now this was the perfect opportunity to cheat her opponent. Yvette put on an act, refusing at first, to keep Vuzgamad from realizing what she was trying to do, before she finally agreed.

She could shoot two birds with one stone.

…

“Sounds like quite the big catch, though. Are you sure about this, Yvette?”

“I’m aware of the danger. Vuzgamad doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Vinca gives her a sidelong glance, wary. “Is it tonight?”

“It is.”

“And I probably won’t be able to talk you out of this.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Does the pipsqueak have a better chance?”

The corners of Yvette’s lips quirk upwards at the mention. “Not any better that yours.”

Vinca moves to touch her gloved hand again, giving the interaction with Vuzgamad a few days ago another look. “I guess it’s worth a try. If she does anything, we can just gut her.”

“Assuming we’ll manage this time,” Lazareth mumbles, looking just as uneasy as Vinca is. Yvette ignores them both, fiddling with her phone to get in contact with MC. She can’t wait to share the news.

…

“You brought company,” Vuzgamad notes, drily.

“What is it that you always tell me…? The more the merrier, was it?”

Vuzgamad laughs. It’s an awful sound, like a claw scrapping metal, inhumane and atrocious. Yvette winces. Vinca glares daggers at the demon, hands twitching towards the tiny knives on her dress, though she grits her teeth and makes no other movement. Lazareth casts the room a quizzical look, obviously on the hunt for a hint regarding whatever ritual Vuzgamad was going to use.

MC stood beside them, the very definition of calm. Yvette smiled to herself, knowing MC had taken her lessons about how to school her expression to heart. Having everyone by her side meant the world to her, emboldening her, giving her the strength she needs to face Vuzgamad and emerge victorious.

The thing is… nothing went as planned.

The curse removal was less painful than she expected it to be. Energy swirled out of her and into a device Vuzgamad had prepared, a small gray stone which quickly turned into a bright, pulsing orange. It was an odd sensation, not having to subconsciously keep the curse in check. Yvette felt almost hollow, but she quickly shrugged the feeling away.

She felt cold. For the first time in ages, she felt cold.

The chill of the wind bit into her skin like tiny knives laced with a numbing substance. Vinca moved to her side, watching her worriedly, her hand hovering over Yvette’s elbow and sending a shock of warmth through her system.

The curse had been blindingly hot, never warm. Yvette half-expected it to be scalding, but this warmth was soothing. Yvette found herself unconsciously leaning into it.

Smiling, Yvette looked up to meet MC’s eyes. And her whole world shattered when she saw none of the loving support MC had always given her, just stony indifference.

MC then walked towards Vuzgamad, who gave her the stone without a word.

Lazareth bristled at the sight. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

They glare at each other, the tension skyrocketing by the second. Yvette blinks. Blinks again. Blinks once more, trying to comprehend what’s happening, trying to understand why MC is standing beside Vuzgamad and not her. It doesn’t make sense. It is unexpected, and for a second Yvette feels a different kind of cold – it descends on her with a rush of panic

Vinca steps in front of her like some sort of human shield. Yvette can’t see the blonde’s expression but she can easily imagine it, all furrowed eyebrows and stormy blue eyes.

"You have one minute to explain before I gut you out. Both of you."

Vuzgamad chuckles. She turns in MC's direction with a maniac grin. "Yes MC, do explain to my child and her friends your decision." The glint in her eye reminds Yvette of the day she has first meet the demon, when she had ruined her life with the curse. She looks at it now and immediately understands her life will be ruined yet again.

MC shrugs. "Helping you was kind of pathetic. I decided to join the winning side."

"Pathetic?" Vinca repeats, her voice like acid. "I don't know if you hit your head or something, pipsqueak, but the only pathetic thing around here is your existence. Are you trying to shy await from that fact? Or are you just too delusional to-"

"MC." Her voice wavers, but it still rings sharply through the room. Vinca stops talking, choosing to seethe in anger while Lazareth gives them both one long, worried look. Yvette ignores everything - Vuzgamad's amused stare, MC's own disgusted one - and focuses on the woman she remembers MC to be. The woman she fell in love. The bike mechanic in front of her is a stranger, an illusion. "It's a lie. S-some sort of joke in very poor sense. It must be."

MC smiles. "The only joke around here is you."

Everything she is feeling is replaced by anger. Anger at Vuzgamad, anger at herself, anger at the world. The thing she desires the most slips through her fingers once more, as it seems destined to do.

The person she trusted above everything else. The person she can't believe is turning her back on her like this. The person she had given everything for, standing before her, letting all those precious, precious memories rot at the edge of her consciousness, not showing any remorse at all.

Yvette's first thought is that she is possessed. One look into her eyes confirms she is not.

The cold is but a distant memory, her pure being enveloped by the heat of her frustration.

Vinca gasps, taking a few steps back. "Yvette, your eyes!" Her eyes open wide, "your curse!"

Lazareth brandishes his weapon, bewildered. "The ritual was a hoax."

Vuzgamad bats his words away with a hand, still chuckling. "Hardly. I merely gathered enough energy for the curse to weaken, not to break. Yvette's conflicting feelings have strengthened it beyond comprehension." She pauses to bark a small laugh when Yvette's eyes snap towards her, blazing. "Child! What did you take me for? Did you think I didn't know your curse wasn't ready for harvest yet? It would have taken another decade, probably, but this little event speed the process up. Isn't it glorious?"

Yvette took a deep, calming breath. She could feel the curse's energy replenishing, fueled by her anger. It wasn't close to its usual amount, but Yvette could feel it nonetheless. The curse was stronger. One slip and everything would burn.

 "Where are the tears, Yvette?" MC asked. "I was expecting some serious waterworks from you! Too bad."

“Oh, that is it!”

Vinca’s knives flash. The realization MC has turned into an enemy – an enemy she will have to fight – locks Yvette in place. She can only watch as the knives soar through the air, directly towards MC’s shoulder. Ah, Vinca wants to paralyze her. Maybe so they can focus on Vuzgamad first. Yvette can get behind that plan, she wants to interrogate MC further.

But her thoughts quickly dissipate when the knives stop in mid-air. MC smirks, tapping the side of her head with a lazy, confident motion.

Lazareth grunts. “Telekinesis?”

“Isn’t it cool?” She asks. A flicker of her wrist, and the knives turn.

Yvette summons her sword with a trembling hand. Its weight offers some semblance of comfort, of control, but a quick look around reveals they are at a disadvantage. Eyeless demons are pouring out of the shadows in one big, crazed mass of bodies. They could probably take them on with little to no problem, but Yvette doesn’t think she’s in a good emotional place to endure the fight.

Her concentration spills into reality, turning it into a distraction that won’t last more than a couple of seconds.

It’s enough time to escape.

And so, she meets Vinca and Lazareth’s questioning gaze and orders a retreat, gritting her teeth, wondering how and why everything turned out the way it did.

She should have never assumed she could cheat Vuzgamad.

[anystalker707]

Hey, sugar

Pairing: Gerard Way x Reader Genre: Fluff Word count: 2 782 Summary: Pastel goth reader has a summer love

Coming to the beach during vacation this time was some good idea I came up with. I mean, it's not any beach, it's one far from home so I could really get away from all the problems and get a real break.

It's a relief seeing my room's door - after all the traveling hours, I'll finally be able to get some rest. While unlocking it, something catches my attention by the corner of my eye and I turn to see two guys standing by the doorway of a room two doors ahead of mine, talking with someone who isn't visible to me. One of them has bright red hair, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest - and let me say, he's extremely handsome -, while the other's hair tips are bleached. The thing is that the latter seems to feel my stare even if it's not directed to him, then pokes the other, muttering something that makes the red haired look at me. What really brings me back to reality is the smirk showing up over his lips as both of them watch me, seeming entertained.

Fuck, what the hell am I doing? Realizing it makes a blush show up over my cheeks, so I don't think twice before walking in my room.

Some hours later I decide I've got enough energies to explore the place - or at least the hotel - and throw some dark clothes on, not forgetting to pull on my kandi cuffs and wrap the colorful band-aids around my fingers to leave. It's not like my fingers are hurt or something similar, but the aesthetic is damn awesome. I check if I've got my cigarettes with me before walking out of the room, walking down the stairs calmly.

Honestly, it's weird. I'm not used to being pulled away from my everyday life like this, being in a place almost completely unknown to me... It makes me feel somewhat numb, in a weirdly good way.

The back part of the hotel has a small restaurant and a really wide garden with tables well distributed around it. It's beautiful, may I say - worth all the money I spent, so far. Some people already crowd the place when I get there, but I prefer to stay away from them, in my own corner as I appreciate the view. Even if it's not long past the lunch, the trip seems to have messed with my appetite.

How is it possible to not notice bright red hair under the afternoon sun? Answer: it's not. My eyes glue over the guy from earlier once I spot him sitting in one of the tables with other three guys. Apparently, I make the same mistake from earlier because, when I realize it, all the four are looking back at me with entertainment and even certain amusement. I click my tongue, annoyed, and turn away, blushing as cursing under my breathe.

Maybe a cigarette will solve it all - I conclude, noticing I'm pretty lightheaded, probably because of the trip. My box of cigarettes and my cigarettes are the best thing ever; the box is pastel pink with some old styled, colorful stickers I glued to it while the sticks themselves have the print of roses on them, in an even lighter pink tone. Yes, they're custom and costed a lot, but it was worth it. The lighter matches them.

"Don't you think you shouldn't do those? Didn't you know they can kill you?" An unfamiliar voice asks from my side, without me noticing any approach. My heart stops for a moment when seeing the red haired standing right there beside me, having a flirty grin on and hazel eyes observing me intently. Thankfully, my surprise isn't reflected physically, so I keep the cool and return the smirk, letting the cigarette hang in the corner of my mouth while I pocket the box and lighter.

"Maybe, but I don't really care." I answer lazily, taking a drag of the cigarette. As the smoke escapes through between my teeth, we just gaze at each other in a silence that's more challenging than uncomfortable. "And who do you think you are to opine about my life like this?"

"I'm sure I'm Gerard Way," He moves his head so the red strands aren't falling over his face anymore, increasing the smug vibe he gives off. "and you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen." A wink is sent in my direction, completing the shameless flirting - I crack a laugh.

"Sorry, but mom didn't decide to name me like this." I joke, watching him carefully - he got my full attention with that attitude. "I'm (y/n) (l/n) and do you want me to call the firefighters now?" Raising my eyebrows questioningly, I resist the urge of letting out another chuckle - but he does do it, releasing a breathy one.

"Of course, you're so hot you're putting us all in risk." Gerard's matter-of-factly voice plus the matching expression almost make me lose it, so I need to bite down on my bottom lip to not overreact while looking away, shaking my head to myself. "So, you're here all by yourself?" Even with it being a normal question, he maintains the flirty tone.

"No." I prefer to lie - like, I don't even know him properly, God knows what he'll do if knowing I'm somewhere I barely know. "Who are your friends?"

"Why the question if your interest is clearly just me?" His smug tone makes me want to punch him hard; I make sure of not showing any sign of that wish.

"To entertain you, dear, of course." Pretending disinterest is an attempt of teasing him and finding out how far will that go - to make it more believable, I winkle my nose lightly, averting my look from again.

"That's kinda incoherent to the fact you've been staring at me since the first time you saw me, hm...?" He hums like if he'd just won our undeclared battle.

"Nah, like," I don't lose the posture. "with that red hair, you let it clear you're the kind of person that begs for attention from everyone." Tables have turned, I think, copying his cocky tone.

"Maybe I did beg for everyone's attention, but just until I saw you. Now I just want yours." His cheerful grin is a mocking contrast to the whole mood, what makes me scoff. "Want to join me for a drink?" Gerard blinks in a false sweetness.

It's difficult to refuse his proposal, so I don't and we're soon sitting on a couple of stools by the bar - after I safely discarded my cigarette - with cold nonalcoholic drinks in hands. "How long have you been here for?" I ask, trying to continue the conversation.

"Arrived yesterday night." He smiles, "Don't worry, sugar, we're going to spend enough time together!" Gerard winks once again and I internally question how the fuck did I manage to get in a situation like this just into almost four hours in a new place.

We spend a good time talking, until he needs to leave with his friends, then I decide to eat before I faint or something. The rest of the day goes by nicely; I get to take a look at the street and memorize the way until the beach, which's unfortunately full of people, so I prefer to head back to the hotel to come back in one of the times recommended by a friend of mine some days ago - he's been here enough times to know when the beach's calmer.

The sun in the early hours of the day is practically harmless, creating the still not so hot weather that doesn't attract most of the people makes it a perfect atmosphere for me. Smiling, I lean back on the chair as watching the waves coming undone when meeting the sand while the sky slowly changes from a light orange, pinkish tone in a dull background, to a bright blue color with now white clouds. Watching it all happening is almost hypnotizing.

Suddenly noticing a guy jumping in the water startles me, but what surprises me mostly is how he doesn't even flinch at the temperature. It earns a few loud laughs and appreciative shouted words coming from who seem to be his friends. Everything is alright until I notice the familiar red hair coming into the scene, almost falling when the first guy throws himself on him, probably to get Gerard in the water since he was just standing there at first - once it happens, Gerard lets out a loud high pitched yell that's impossible to not laugh at.

I keep watching them running around until they're not much far from me - the whole time, they're where the water reaches after the waves break while I'm sitting on my chair, under an umbrella, some good meters away from there - and it's in that exact moment that Gerard notices me there. There's an obvious grin over his lips as he changes his route, now running towards me. His friends don't take long to understand what's happening and start to whistle or say suggestive things.

Gerard doesn't say anything at first once standing next to me, just looking at me while my eyes scan his body. "Y'know," He's got that flirty posture back on. "you're staring."

"It's exposed, of course I'm going to." I shrug, moving my eyes to finally meet his. "Seriously, can't I have a single moment of peace with you around?"

"Wanna figure out, sugar?" He wriggles his eyebrows, transferring his weight to a single leg. A giggle leaves his lips as I roll my eyes. "I'll take that as a yes." And, not even giving me a chance to reply, he continues. "Why don't you come with us? You don't seem to be having any fun, all alone here." I melt inside at the sight of him pressing his lips together in a way both are sticking out, in the cuter way possible - the motherfucker knows really well the effects of this expression, that's exactly why he's using it. "What do you say?" He extends a hand towards me, winking.

Even with me trying to ignore him, Gerard shows no sign of giving up so soon. "Okay, sugar." A breathe leaves my lips and I'm the one to give up, refusing to take his help and rising to my feet by myself; I check if all my things are safe under the chair then walk with him towards where the others seem to resist to the shorter one pulling them towards the water.

"Hey, guys," Gerard gets their attention and I immediately feel uncomfortable under their knowing gazes, but make sure of not letting them know it. "this is (y/n)." He's got kind of a proud tone on, making me roll my eyes.

"All in pastel and black tones..." The one with long hair is the first to speak up, checking me up from head to toes then cracking a side grin. "A softie, how cute!"

"I'm not sure if you'll think the same if you continue talking to me like this." I force a smile watching him raise his eyebrows lightly.

"Don't mind him, he's usually annoying like this." The taller says, slapping the back of the other's head playfully - he receives a sulky face in return. "I'm Ray, that's Mikey," He says extending an arm to the guy who told Gerard I was staring at him yesterday, moving to the short guy right after. "and the annoying one is Frank."

Alright, I admit it that spending the day with them is damn nice. We headed back to the hotel not long after lunch, when the quantity of people in the beach started being far too much, but we didn't spent much time there and went to explore the city. I love how there's never an awkward silence between us and we're most of the time laughing, like if I knew them for a long time already.

My night, on the other hand, isn't so nice since frantic knocks on my door wake me up. My eyes hurt when I turn the lights on, but I soon get used to it. The red glowing numbers show 4:27, another reason for me to look at Gerard like if he was crazy once I open the door. "What the fuck do you want?"

"You're pastel and punk the whole time, how cute!" He says teasingly while his eyes scan my pajamas - I just roll my eyes, rushing him into saying what he wants already. "I was wondering if you don't want to watch the sunrise with me." And, for the first time, he fucking shows me a true smile and his voice doesn't carry any sarcastic or mocking tone.

Biting down on my bottom lip, I sigh, tilting my head. "Just give me a moment." A couple of minutes later, I walk out of the room and shoot him a playfully suspicious glance as linking my arm to his; we proceed to leave the building then walk through the still dark streets, making the short way until the beach.

The waves are rather calm while the water sounds louder now that the city is silent, not to mention the breeze feels colder, lifting our strands of hair now and then. I don't say anything when Gerard drops his hand to hold mine, just continue to admire the view - maybe I'll never admit, but as soon as his fingers and mine intertwine, it feels... awesome; I don't really know how to explain, it's like everything is supposed to be this way.

We don't walk for long, just doing it until he pulls me to sit down on the sand with him in a place that looks like the one I was sitting on yesterday. I don't know how to explain, but it's like calmness takes over me and nothing else in the universe matters, apart from us and the sea.

No way I'm having a summer love - the thought makes me laugh, getting Gerard's attention. He raises an eyebrow at me, "What's so funny, sugar?" It tickles lightly when he nuzzles the side of my face, still, I limit myself to just smiling in response, muttering it's nothing. "It better not be at my attempt of doing something romantic and all." His eyes narrow in playful anger.

"Of course not, it's amazing, sugar." I crack a side grin, winking back at him. "Probably the best thing I've ever been to. Dates and friendly hanging out included." Raising my eyebrows, I nod approvingly at him, receiving a sweet smile in response. "You just put on that smug posture when you're around other people or what?" I wrinkle my nose lightly as leaning closer to him, pressing my forehead to his. Gerard seems to appreciate my gesture.

"It was kind of a test." He says obviously teasingly, "If you can endure my annoying self, you deserve my sweet, true one." His cocky mode is back on as he lazily says the words, almost almost imperceptibly leaning in to the point our lips are brushing against each other. All the comes from me in response is a hum, seconds before I close the gap between us, finally getting to know what's it to have his soft lips against mine.

The kiss is... well, probably one of the best ones I've ever experienced, like if it reached my soul, as stupid as it sounds. There's nothing similar to lust, anger or any fake love involved, just us at our rawness - it's not like we know each other enough to keep up to some stupid reputation or whatever. It's just us. Gerard, (y/n), the coincidence of coming to the same place to spend our vacations in and the fortune of feeling something for each other. Maybe it was the fate getting us together? We'll never know, at least for now.

I'd describe what's happening between us exactly like the sunrise - just natural. It's all darkness, a sky full of stars, when another one comes up and it's enough to make the shine of the others insignificant. While it's coming up, everything seems magical, with the sky and clouds gaining intense colors that quickly give place to the usual blue and white. Or not; we don't really know what'll happen during the day. Will the clouds cover the sun or will it shine to the point it's boring and annoying? Perhaps, none of it. We need to live and find out.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

baby, you’re like lightning in a bottle (chapter four)

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4

Huge thanks to my beta readers, @spiky-lesbian and @minky-for-short! And a massive thanks for all your patience in me getting this chapter up, turns out teaching during a pandemic is uh time consuming

Please reblog and leave a comment on Ao3 if you’d like to support me!

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Peter sat and looked at the cursor blinking on the comms screen. It’s incessant, rapid blinking seemed to line up with his own guilty heartbeat.

His report had been due for half an hour. Another hour and Mag would terminate the entire mission, assuming he’d been compromised and their goal, their planet’s freedom, would be set back who knew how long. Peter knew that and still, he was sitting here, with no idea what to write.

He even came back to the apartment five minutes after the report should have been sent off though he hadn’t even realised until he was sitting on his cot, looking at the screen. Five minutes, five whole minutes, more time than he’d ever allowed himself to make such a mistake in his entire life. Five minutes that, a day ago, would have had him cursing himself for a failure. Not fit to walk in his father’s footsteps.

But tonight, he had just sat there and stared at the blinking display, feeling nothing. And now, with more precious seconds ticking away, he still hadn’t the first clue how he was going to explain himself. He just sat cross legged, feeling numb in the fingertips as the realisation sunk in that he’d left part of himself behind without even knowing it.

It would be so easy to blame Juno Steel. After school, he’d invited Peter to come along with them to the park, just to hang out, that was all, but the fact that it had been him doing the inviting rather than his brother had pulled the yes out of Peter’s mouth before any more sensible part of his brain could interject. It would be easy to blame him for how long he’d stayed too, far past what he’d originally intended. Because every time Peter had thought he should be making excuses, Juno had seemed to choose that moment to smile at him, or challenge him to climb the next tree, or take a drag on his cigarette and exhale long and low in that way that fascinated Peter so much. There had always been the way his eyes looked in the quickly gathering sunset, the way he leaned back against the tree trunks when they’d all made camp in the field that sat at the centre of Halcyon Park, his rasping, barking laugh when Ben would do or say something funny or Mick would be oblivious about something obvious. There had always been another reason to stay, another thing that had led to this hole in who he’d thought he’d been. A hole that was five minutes wide and had rendered him numb.

It would be so easy to blame Juno for tonight and every other day where Peter had been feeling this way, forgetting why he was here and forgetting his mission. But he knew the blame was on him.

Because he was the one who was falling in love.

Those words didn’t sit easily in his mind but there was no denying the truth of them now they were there. With changing his face, his name, his life so often, Peter always tried to know himself completely, mostly out of fear that he’d eventually lose what was really Peter Nureyev if he didn’t. And he knew that he was in love with Juno Steel.

As inconvenient as that was.

He would choose Brahma. Of course he would. He’d worked far too hard, suffered and lost far too much to let something like this derail him. What was this compared to what his father had died for, what Mag had been sacrificing?

What has his own silly heart compared to all that?

With that decided, Peter tapped out his report, going into a kind of autopilot as he gripped the guilty feeling with both hands and made himself feel it’s low, shameful burn, like grabbing barbed wire. Mission proceeding. Target will be accessible beginning next week. Holding steady until then. Apologies for the delay.

As if to hammer home how foolish he’d been, Mag’s reply came almost instantly, barely a minute after his own had disappeared from the screen to be scrambled, broken, reassembled hundreds of times over in the expanse of space so it couldn’t be traced.

Don’t scare me like that again. Look after yourself.

Peter winced and stuffed the comms back into his bag, turning onto his side to face the wall. Two more days. Then he could do his job, go back to Brahma with his broken heart in his chest and remember who he was.

And hopefully he would have at least learned something.

Peter tried to keep himself at a distance over the next two days which smacked of far too little far too late but at least he could tell his guilty heart that he was doing something. He didn’t participate in conversation as much as he had, he professed to having a lot of homework when they asked him to hang out with them after school, he told himself that the disappointment he saw hidden behind their expressions didn’t bother him.

But it was the change in Juno that made it almost too difficult to bear. Peter had never really felt anything like this before, let alone having it reciprocated so he didn’t know how much he was just flattering himself or letting his brain run away with its own fantasies. But there did seem to be something different in how Juno was when Peter was around.

He was still grumpy and surly, apparently that was his natural state of being, but he certainly wasn’t outwardly hostile since Peter had broken a nose for him. They were certainly friends now; he was part of The Oldtown Gang, as Mick seemed determined to dub them despite everyone in said gang refusing to go along with him. Juno sat next to him when they spent lunchtimes at their camp, he’d ask him if he needed any help in the classes that were supposed to be new to Ransom. Sometimes it felt like he didn’t really need to be sitting quite so close to Peter as they’d sit in their circle and trade jokes and insults back and forth. Sometimes Peter felt like Juno’s eyes were on him, like he was studying his face for something, but when Peter would look, Juno would just be staring at his class notes. Some smiles that Peter caught felt like maybe they’d been meant just for him.

But Peter told himself he was being a fool. Well, even more of a fool than he already was being by falling for Juno in the first place. But to imagine that he could actually be feeling anything similar was just a form of self torture. Even if there was a chance anything more than one sided could grow between them, wouldn’t he rather not know? It was already going to hurt enough as it was.

So Peter retreated inside himself a little, going through the motions of a normal day, barely paying attention as they lazed around in their makeshift hammocks and Ben talked excitedly about the overnight field trip they were apparently going on to Olympus City. At least until he felt everyone else’s eyes on him.

“Sorry, what?” he blinked, blushing a little under the look Ben was giving him, something knowing in it putting him on guard.

“I said it’s just going to be you and Juno over the weekend,” Benten hummed, swinging his legs, outwardly innocent but the teasing note was still in his voice, “You’ll have to promise to keep my brother out of trouble.”

“You’re not going?” Peter looked to Juno, who was giving his twin a warning look.

“Didn’t feel like spending more time than I had to with the assholes we call classmates,” he answered shortly, in the kind of way that suggested there had been another reason that he certainly wasn’t about to give up.

Peter didn’t need too much of his observation skills, after so long being friends with the Steel twins and knowing enough about the average situation of Hyperion High students, to guess that there had only been enough in their family’s funds to send one of them on the trip and that Juno had feigned disinterest so Benten could have it. He wondered how many times it had come down to that, how much Juno pretended not to care so his brother could afford to.

“Maybe you two could go to the movies or something,” Sasha said placidly, earning herself a scandalised ‘whose side are you on?’ glare from Juno, “Peter’s hardly seen any of Hyperion. And what he has seen isn’t exactly a glowing endorsement of the place.”

“If you can find me something that is, I’d love to hear it,” Juno scowled.

“Aw but sneaking into the movies is so fun! And Peter would be so good at it, they’d never catch him,” Mick agreed, prompting Ben to rest his head against his shoulder and regard Juno with a poorly concealed smugness.

“I’ve never been to the movies…” Peter said quietly, before mentally kicking himself. Do you want to be crying your way back to Brahma on Monday night?

Juno’s scowl deepened and his cheeks flushed, voice rising more than it needed to, “Look, I have plans with someone, alright? I’m busy. So maybe stop sticking your noses in for five seconds?”

There was an awkward silence as he sank back in his seat. Mick and Sasha sent quick pitying looks in Peter's direction, who pretended he didn’t see them as he stared at his hands like all of this wasn’t happening around him. He didn’t care. Why should he care? Benzaiten shrugged like that was the end of it but he was giving Juno a look that was impossible to read.

And Juno just looked everywhere but at Peter.

“Anyone catch the game last night?” Mick put in after a few agonising moments, his affable obliviousness always good for bulling past awkward situations, “‘Cos I didn’t, I realised ten minutes before the end that I was watching football rather than baseball, I was hoping one of you guys got the score…”

“Mick, it’s a completely different shape of ball, how the hell did you manage that…”

“Leave him alone, it’s hard to tell from a distance, right babe?”

First rule of thieving, Peter thought miserably, sinking deeper into himself while his friends continued on around him, bad decisions will always come back and bite you in the ass. So when one does, know you deserve it.

Peter sat in the middle of the bare, empty apartment and organised his roll of lock picking tools. Doing that always calmed him down and it had been a dull, frustrating Saturday otherwise. Just hours and hours of going through the same plans and schematics he’d memorised months ago, showing his path from the fence to one of the first story windows to the principal’s office to the server room to an entirely different window. In and out inside of fifteen minutes, enter with a flash drive full of malware, leave with it full of proof that New Kinshasa and a number of other corrupt outer world governments were laundering money through Martian construction contracts just like the one that had built this school. He’d done far more complex heists than this but with such lower stakes.

And with his back up slightly closer than across the galaxy.

First rule of thieving, there is no room for nervousness, if you can find some room then you should fill it with more planning.

With the outside world grey, cold and full of thin SimRain, there was little else to do. His takeout dinner arriving had been the only highlight in his day and now an equally dull night had settled in.

So he took out the thin silver lockpicks from their sewn in pockets and cleaned them fastidiously, one by one, making sure each type was in it’s exact place. They were a little bit of a novelty, in this age of bioprinting and retina scanners, but they were still called for on occasion and Mag had drilled it into him that no self respecting thief would be caught without the classics on hand. And besides, their comfortable, familiar weight strapped to his chest was reassuring. Like he could never fail as long as he had them close, precisely placed and polished until they shone.

The knock at the door was so unexpected, so sudden, that he slopped his cup of tea on the carpet, a few dark brown stains soaking in. Good thing he wouldn’t be trying to collect any security deposit.

He slid the plasma knife out of its sheath, pressing himself against the door with a cold, almost serene focus. He wasn’t expecting any visitors, his food had arrived hours ago. Which meant either the person outside his apartment right now was an innocent, mistaken bystander and would go after a few minutes of silence.

Or they weren’t. And more than tea would be getting spilled.

The knock came again and Peter tensed, his grip on the knife tightening. Had he made a mistake? Had one of his reports been traced despite their precautions? Had they found a flaw in his fake records? Either way, his breathing stayed shallow and steady as the seconds ticked by.

Another knock. And then a voice, rough and tired and very familiar.

“Ransom? You in there? Damn it, I was sure this was the right number…”

The knife disappeared quickly, “Juno?”

“Oh! Hi...um, hi Ransom...sorry, Ben gave me your address. Can I come in?”

Peter looked around his apartment, wincing. Explaining its state was going to be uncomfortable, it couldn’t look more like the hideout of a sleeper agent than if he’d hung a sign to that effect. But Juno sounded so lost…

He did what he could in the space of two seconds, emptying out his neatly packed suitcase and spreading the clothes around like he imagined most teenage boys did, hiding the papers under a half heartedly done homework sheet. The pile of unwashed mugs in the sink and takeout containers he hadn’t gotten around to throwing away yet helped.

“Yeah,” he called then, only just remembering to kick his tool roll out of sight, “Come in.”

Juno had a face to match his tone of voice. There were dark shadows under his eyes that had nothing to do with any eyeshadow, in fact he wasn’t wearing a smudge of makeup on him for the first time Peter had known. He wasn’t dressed in his usual way either, in an oversized t-shirt and pyjama pants with a loud cartoon pattern, the same little robot figure from the first shirt he’d seen him in. He just looked exhausted, wrung out and worn down, his lips turned down at the ends. He looked like someone who needed some comfort.

“Is...is everything okay?” Peter tried not to make Juno’s distress sound as obvious as it was.

It hadn’t been enough, Juno’s eyes were dark with shame as he stared down at his own sneakered feet and Peter’s slippered ones, “Look, I’m sorry I’m showing up like this. It’s not okay, especially since I...um...anyway, I’m sorry.”

Peter swallowed, “It’s okay. What’s wrong?”

“I had a big fight with Ma,” Juno admitted, a tremor running through his voice, “She...she kicked me out. And with everyone out of town, I don’t have anywhere else to go. You’ve got every right to tell me to fuck off but...can I stay here?”

Juno and Benten had never said much about their mother. All Peter had been able to surmise, from his observations, was that she was their only parent and there was a huge weight around both twin’s necks because of her. He hadn’t pressed on the nature of it, he had no right to, and it wasn’t going to be any different than it was for so many kids in Oldtown. And more than a fair few on Brahma.

“Of course, Juno,” Peter said gently, stepping to one side, “Of course, stay as long as you need to.”

Juno mumbled a thanks as he stepped past him. If he found the lack of couch, stream screen, any kitchen appliances aside from a kettle or sign that this place was lived in at all strange, then clearly he felt he owed Peter enough not to say anything.

“Want some tea?” Peter asked, relocking the door, “I already ate but we could go get you something…”

“No, it’s okay,” Juno said quickly, “I’m asking enough of you as it is.”

Peter sat on his cot and sighed, “Juno, you’re my friend. I’m not going to hold every nicety over your head and present you with a receipt when you leave. I want to help you so just...let me?”

After a pause, Juno chuckled, the sound rough and raw in his throat but it was real. He slumped down on the floor next to the cot, leaning back against it so his head rested close to Peter’s knee, and sighed heavily.

“You know, there’s three people on the whole planet who don’t take my bullshit. My ma, my brother and you. But you’re the only person I like hearing it from.”

Peter smiled, though the pace of his heartbeat had increased a little. Juno was so close he could smell the shampoo in his curls from the shower he must have been having that evening.

“Benzaiten did ask me to keep you out of trouble. Checking your bullshit falls under that, I think.”

Something in Juno’s expression grew thin and the exhaustion showed through from underneath. There was enough of a pause that Peter wasn’t sure he was going to speak but then he did.

“It’s never as bad when Ben’s there. Me and her, I mean. It’s like he’s a buffer, stops things getting so nasty. He shouldn’t have to do it, I hate that he’s had to, but… it’s damn effective. With him gone, things just...they got out of hand so fast.”

Peter nodded slowly. He and Mag had their fair share of blow out arguments too, not that it had ever escalated to him being kicked out. Mag would never do that, he knew what having no roof over his head would mean to his protege, but he certainly knew what it was like to have said things you didn’t know could come from your mouth in the heat of the moment.

“Has she done this before? Put you out?”

“Yeah...sometimes with a reason. Sometimes not.”

“There’s never a good reason to do that,” Peter’s voice was more leaden than he’d intended but it was the voice of someone who’d been a child, promised protection by the world, but left out in the cold, “She’s an adult and you aren’t.”

Juno looked at him, clearly curious but he let it go after a moment, picking at his own wound instead, “If I’m not back in her good books by Monday, it’ll be a whole thing with Ben, he’ll feel bad about going…”

“You do this a lot for him, don’t you?” Peter asked softly, “Protect him. Pretend to not care about things so he can afford to.”

Juno shrugged heavily, gnawing on one fingernail covered in chipped polish, “What else am I good for?”

There was so much Peter could have said in that moment, answers that came rushing up to the tip of his tongue, some that surprised even him. But they’d start a conversation he really didn’t want to have, with Juno and with himself. So instead he just murmured, “Lots of things.”

Juno looked at him, something genuinely fearful in his eyes, like he knew exactly what Peter was holding back.

“Um...I think I will have some tea. If it’s still alright with you. Damn cold outside.”

“Of course!” Peter scrambled up and practically fled to the kitchen. It was hard to say which boy was the more relieved.

Peter could cope without a lot of amenities when he went out on jobs. First rule of thieving, never care about more than what you can carry in your pockets. But the first thing he’d bought when he’d gone on one of his short, necessity driven runs to the grocery store (a different one every time of course and dodging the cameras so he couldn’t be traced) was a box of good, high quality tea. He didn’t like coffee much, hated the tremble it put in his hands that could cost him his life in some circumstances, but he’d gotten a taste for tea very early on in his time with Mag. In fact, it had been the first thing his mentor had done, when he’d brought the scrawny, skittish, terrified young boy back to his home. He’d put a steaming, sugar laced mug in his hands that it had made it so much easier to believe him when he’d said everything was going to be alright.

He couldn’t give Juno much to ease his pain right now but there was some pride to be found in gladly giving him one of his few little parcels of sweet smelling, caffeine laced comfort. That much he could do.

Juno thanked him, hugging the mug close to his chest and pulling his knees in. Nureyev sat back on the cot, folding his legs underneath him and pulling the blanket over his knees. It was getting cold, he’d been right about that.

After a few moments and a few sips, Juno sighed and said without much surprise, “You don’t have a dad, do you, Ransom?”

Immediately, his shoulders tensed, well aware that he had absolutely no evidence to refute that accusation. And absolutely no back up explanation to speak of.

“Well…” he began awkwardly, very unused to having no way out of a situation.

“It’s okay,” Juno chuckled dryly, taking another drink, “I pretty much figured you were taking care of yourself over here.”

Peter swallowed hard, hand itching around the knuckles. The plasma knife he’d hurriedly shoved back in the holster suddenly felt very heavy, not that he was even going to consider that. He was also not going to think about what Mag would do, what he would urge Peter to do, what rules he would use to make Juno’s life seem a small price to pay for the mission. The same rules he’d saved himself with.

“Honestly, it’s impressive.”

Peter froze, “I...what?”

Juno’s cheeks seemed to colour a little and he could have been smiling into his cup as he sipped, “You’re here trying to make something of yourself. Trying to get an education and switch up the shitty hand you got dealt. Granted, you picked a terrible place to do it but...you’re trying. And that’s more than I’ve ever seen anyone do.”

“Trying…” Peter tried to keep his voice steady, “Yes. I’ve often thought that’s all a person can do.”

Juno nodded slowly, leaning back. His head was now leaning against Peter’s knee, enough that he could feel the damp of his hair, the comforting weight of him. He seemed so relaxed, so casual about it all, but Peter felt as if electrical shocks were sparking between them. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so close to someone, had someone touch him in such a friendly way, such simple, easy contact. Only since he’d come to Mars. Only since he’d met Juno.

For some reason, he felt absurdly guilty. He should be relieved, his disguise had survived even under Juno’s scrutiny who, Peter was beginning to think, was one of the most annoyingly observant people he’d ever met. But in his stomach was just a yawning hollow, a sad kind of emptiness. Like he’d have actually been relieved if Juno had looked him straight in the eye and seen who he really was.

Like he was tired of lying to him.

“Hey,” Juno grunted, his voice sounding further away than it had, “There’s another party on Monday night when everyone’s back. You’re coming, right?”

Peter’s throat tightened. On Monday night, he’d be going back to Brahma, back under the glare of the lasers, back in the fight. Ransom would be gone, a few lines of information that winked out of existence as if they had never been, more than dead. That was the plan.

“Yeah,” he nodded, hand moving over to lightly stroke through Juno’s curls. He’d seen Ben do that on a few occasions and it seemed to comfort him, “That sounds good.”

Juno seemed to tense a little under the touch though only for an instant, as if he hadn’t expected it. But then it was gone and he was leaning into Peter’s hand gratefully, like it was everything he’d needed in that moment. His hair was so soft, winding through his fingers in tight curls that opened for him, parted like waves. The world shrank down to just the points where Peter’s skin met Juno’s, like that simple contact was all that held the universe in one piece. He didn’t feel the weight of a planet’s survival on his shoulders, he didn’t feel like a revolutionary before he’d even had the chance to feel like a person, he didn’t feel the questions he couldn’t ask like bitter metal resting on his tongue.

In that moment, this was all he had to do. He had to be there for someone else, just one other scared, sad kid like him.

“Thanks for letting me in, Ransom,” Juno murmured softly, his voice a contented rumble in his chest.

“I’d rather you call me Peter,” he replied, after a pause where he begged himself not to.

“Hm? Oh, sure. No problem, Peter.”

It wasn’t the name he wanted to hear from Juno’s lips but it was close enough. It wasn’t a lie, at least.

“You should sleep now,” he murmured, before his throat closed too tight to mask, “It’s late and you��ve had a long night.”

“Oh I can just stay down here,” Juno said quickly, opening one golden brown eye. Clearly he was seeing that there weren’t many other options. No couch, no chair, not even so much as a rug.

Just Peter’s cot, the one he was currently sat on. Well, if I’m destroying myself, I may as well do a thorough job.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he rolled his eyes like it was no big deal, holding out a hand to him, “Climb up.”

Juno blinked then shrugged, allowing himself to be tugged onto the hellishly uncomfortable little camping bed. It took a lot of awkward maneuvering to get both of them settled, there was barely enough room for one person, let alone two. By the time it was all done, they were nose to nose, limbs in a tangle.

Juno was the first to break, snorting, “God, I’m sorry, I feel like I’ve skipped about seven friendship levels…”

“Well, I did break someone’s nose for you,” Peter grunted, trying to shift so Juno’s knee was no longer pressing against his stomach, “Surely that grants me some higher access. Just pretend I’m one of the people you’re courting…”

Juno stared at him for a moment before breaking into helpless barks of laughter that threatened to upend their precarious little arrangement.

“What?” Peter demanded, flushing pink.

“Sorry, sorry, it's just...god, courting. I don’t think I’ve ever courted anyone in my damn life. Probably no one has since, like,  the 1800s or whatever…” Juno cackled.

“I’ve changed my mind. You can go back on the floor.”

“Nuh uh!” Juno suddenly wrapped both his arms around Peter’s middle, holding them fast, “No take backs now!”

Peter was so glad he had something to blame the colour of his cheeks on, especially when Juno managed to get a hold of himself and chuckled, “God, you’re so cute…”

“Shut up and go to sleep,” he muttered quickly, trying to sound annoyed.

Juno did, apparently thinking it more comfortable to just stay with his arms around Peter, resting his head on his stomach. They were still for a few moments as their breath slowed and evened out, as the exhaustion clearly caught up with Juno as he realised he truly did have somewhere he could rest and know he was safe.

With whatever consciousness he had left, he mumbled, “I mean it, Peter. I really needed a friend tonight and you came through. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Peter whispered back but Juno was asleep before he was halfway through, his body getting heavier as his muscles relaxed and he gave himself over.

All we can do is try.

It wasn’t a rule but in that moment, as he lay in the darkness and listened to Juno Steel snore softly, it made more sense to Peter than anything he’d ever been told.

Before he could think, before he could realise what he was doing, he dug his comms out of his pocket and tapped out a message to the only number he’d ever used on this thing.

Plans have to be delayed. Security concerns. Tuesday instead. Apologies.

He sent it quickly, watching the text disappear, leaving him with a dark reflection of his own face on the empty screen. What have you done?

Before any reply could come through, he tossed the comms to the floor, rolling over as much as he could, enough to bury his face in Juno’s hair. He smelled of damp and clean shampoo, coconut and clean towels and night air. A honest, planetside scent.

He knew the guilt was coming, building up in his chest, ready to burn him from the inside out. But there was a whole night in between then, to cling to Juno and imagine a future he could never have, a morning where he would open his eyes and the first thing he’d see would be Juno Steel and remember that he’d done a good thing. He’d been there for someone when they’d needed him.

Like he said, if he was going to torture himself, Peter Nureyev was going to do it thoroughly. After all, what was he if he wasn’t good at his job?

[fandom-necromancer]

1024. You seem… lost. Is there anything I can do to help?

Okay this is actually an idea for a big story I condensed into a 4-parter of shorts. I mean at my pace I could start writing this full length in 25 years, so... Yeah, better condense it XD

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Reed900 [Part 2]   [Part 3]   [Part 4]   [part5]   [part6]

‘Reed!’ ‘Ugh, what is it, Chris?’ Gavin demonstrated his disinterest by leaning back and propping up his legs on the desk. ‘New android joining our team. You gonna pick it up tomorrow morning from Cyberlife.’ ‘Yeah like hell I will.’ ‘Reed, don’t do this to me’, Chris sighed. ‘It’s Fowler’s order.’ ‘I don’t care, I’ll not end up like Hank and partner up with some plastic prick. Doesn’t matter they are persons now, they are still phcking artificial goddamn robots.’ ‘You don’t need to partner up with one. Fowler doesn’t want some HR-fiasco if he can avoid it. As far as I know that’s some bot for Lewis. You just have to pick it up because you are the one living closest to that damn tower. Just play nice for one car ride, that’s all.’ ‘Fine. Still can’t believe we get more of these phcking things…’ ‘At least the new one isn’t replacing someone. They talked about needing more android officers to avoid some racist issues.’ ‘Yeah, okay, doesn’t matter anyways. Lewis’ desk is far enough away from mine.’ ‘Good.’

Gavin didn’t like the decision to add new android officers to the force. But he also knew there was no way to stop the world from changing and now that androids had rights, there sure were people who would have fun breaking them. He knew of the old days when there had been injustice and corruption plagued the force and hell, they had all been human back then. No, as long as the damn plastics kept out of his business and didn’t pester him with friendly talking about nothing, he would manage. Just a little detour from his home to the tower and back to work. Roughly fifteen minutes added to his work commute not taking into account he would most likely have to wait in some neat lobby. Meaning he would have to get up a bit earlier than normal. The things he did for money…

He sat in his car, coffee cup in hand, while waiting at the red light of the crossroads that would lead him to the bridge over to belle isle. The light turned green and he began driving again, setting down his cup in fluid, automatic motions. The bridge was devoid of cars, he remembered the vans passing endlessly before the revolution. The gigantic corporation was struggling to adapt to the new situation. They couldn’t produce new androids and sell them to the highest bidder, because that was considered slavery nowadays. They couldn’t produce androids that were immune to deviancy, because that would cause a massive shitstorm from the robot population. But well, people would always find something to make money with and then exploit it just enough to make people rich but not to make headlines.

Still Cyberlife was just delaying the inevitable. It was dying. It was producing spares and upgrades for androids and changed their image to something caring. Androids could get repaired at their centres and could get in contact with them to apply for jobs and find homes. But when New Jericho was still there to make sure android rights were taken seriously and basically supplied the same service, it was hard to compete. Even Gavin couldn’t blame an android to confide into their own over some corporation that took you for an object.

But well, they tried. New slogans all over the roads, telling androids in bright colours they were welcome and Cyberlife was there for them. And someone must had believed them, because at least one android had just gotten a job at the police. How lucky, others would have to work for it. Gavin grit his teeth as he parked his car and walked up the stairs to enter a lobby that spoke of the money made from selling the very robots they now treated as equal. Well, he couldn’t care less as he walked up to the reception and told the pretty woman behind the counter why he was here. Of course, he was told to sit and wait for the android to arrive. Gavin thanked her and didn’t do as told. Instead he wandered through the huge lobby, looking the enormous statues up and down, touching the plants to see if they were real - they were to his surprise - and wandering some more. At this time, he would be late. Damn Fowler if he dared to not pay him full time for this bullsh-

‘You seem… lost. Is there anything I can do to help?’

By now Gavin was far into the area behind the reception not knowing if access was restricted and not really caring about it either. If no one had stopped him, it was their fault, not his. He turned around to look into Connor’s face. Or was it? The tin-can wore a different uniform, wore one at all that was and his face looked different too, although Gavin couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was different. ‘Another RK800 unit?’, he asked and the bot grinned in surprise. ‘RK900, actually. But very close, I am impressed! Do you know any RK800s by chance?’ ‘Yeah, got two of these nagging assholes in my precinct’, he muttered to himself, looking around for a way out. The android in front of him looked every bit the sort of person who wouldn’t shut up talking, because all cues from Gavin’s abrasive body-language went way over his head. ‘Precinct? Are you a police officer?’ ‘Detective, actually.’ God, could this new android please appear anytime in the next century? He would do anything to get away from this baby droid?

‘Oh, that is fascinating! How is being a detective like? My predecessor, the RK800 was designed to be one! I always wondered how it would be.’ Gavin groaned. ‘Well, how about you ask them then, tin-can? I’m sure they would be glad to talk your damn ears off about it.’ ‘Oh.’ The android let his head fall and as Gavin looked at him, he smiled apologetically. He was bigger than Connor, he realised now. And what was different about his face were his eyes. Weren’t Connors brown and not blue? ‘I… Err… I never met a RK800.’ ‘Yeah, I think Connor told me something about being a prototype or something.’ He was still looking for a way out of this conversation but figured the universe wouldn’t be so generous to him. ‘You met Connor? The Connor? The one that helped Markus?’ ‘Yep’, Gavin sighed. ‘That very super nice, definitely not manipulative at all, asshole puppy.’ ‘He must me very friendly. I heard he is very famous. The deviant hunter that turned to help androidkind. I hope to be like him some day.’ ‘Nah, he isn’t that shining star in the sky. Believe me, he knocked me out cold once. I would try searching for some other android idol.’ ‘Do you know anyone else?’ ‘Hey, you are the android, you tell me.’ ‘I don’t know anyone.’

That made Gavin stop his search for a way out for a few beats. ‘Wait a minute. What do you mean you don’t know anyone?’ ‘I was told I am dangerous. I can’t be let near another android because they fear me acting on my programming regardless of me being deviant or not. I live here in this lobby. Security is strongest here in case I try something, and I can stay active like this.’ ‘Wait, wait, wait! You are telling me you never set a foot outside this lobby?’ ‘No. I mean, I spend my days in an underground lab before. But seeing your shocked expression that doesn’t seem to be better.’ ‘No, of course not! You are a damn prisoner here!’ ‘I don’t understand. I am free to go where I want as long as that’s inside here.’ ‘And what do you do all day?’ ‘I watch the people passing by. Sometimes it’s androids coming in and leaving again, sometimes it’s humans leaving with another android. I like to imagine what they do once they left.’ ‘And that is enough for you?’, Gavin asked disbelievingly. ‘I know that this is all I can do without hurting someone. So, I am content with what I have.’ ‘Really? Aren’t you bored? Don’t you want more?’ Gavin couldn’t believe someone to be content with wasting their life away, regardless of human or android. ‘Of course I want more’, the RK900 said, face distorted in a pained expression. ‘I would love to meet new people and see the world. But I can’t. I would hurt people. And I can’t let that happen.’ ‘How do you know you would hurt people? Did that ever happen?’ ‘No. But would you take the risk just to have some nice moments outside? I couldn’t forgive myself if I caused harm.’

‘But-‘ ‘Reed? Detective Reed to the reception please.’ Gavin looked back to the entrance of the lobby, then back to the android. ‘Guess I’ll have to go then’, he muttered and pointed behind himself. ‘Y-Yeah! I guess so, too. It was very nice talking to you!’ Gavin was heading back to the reception as the android called after him: ‘Good luck with your work and stay safe!’

Everything after that felt weirdly numb: The android, a woman named Rita, introducing herself to him with a firm handshake, the ride to work with light conversation Gavin half-heartedly played along to, him arriving at work and getting a coffee on autopilot. All that was overshadowed by a foggy feeling in his guts at the thought of the android being confined to the small lobby because something could go wrong probably. At the rate that humans snapped at others, was that really so much of a risk? He ended up with the conclusion that he didn’t know enough to judge and that it wasn’t his business.

But still that feeling didn’t go anywhere.

[> Next part]

[kathuichithouda-archives]

idk man but i want a gundham lore dump, yours are always really good. like what happened to gundham after his mom died. where did he go, how did he cope.

Alright soGundham has always been a reserved kid. He’s always been a loner. A “don’t get too to me” kinda kid. His mother was really the only person he could trust with things like affection, or even common decency. His family, not being the most accepting of him due to the “complications” of why he was born (which he could not help) he learned from a very young age not to really trust big groups of people regardless of how much they truly care about him or not. In his mind, everyone always has something bad to say about him. Everyone will eventually neglect him. Everyone will make shifty eyes at him, and whisper things about him, and he would have to deal with it. During school, this was only amplified. Being a child of a single mother, with family complications, he was already looking for minor ways to cope with it even without realizing it. He was reserved because, well, no one was his mother. Not the students, fellow classmates, not the teachers. No one was as nurturing or caring as her, no one ever could be. He didn’t seek out any affection or relationships with others because he didn’t relate to “humans” for a lack of a better way to put it.In his mind, he was a stray cat. Neglected, forgotten, trying his best to survive in a world that can be so cruel to him but everyday people pass by because it’s become normal. No one questions seeing a lonely, hungry cat on the street. It’s just a cat.Just a random cat.Gundham was oddly comfortable with being just another face in the crowd. Just a nobody in a sea of somebody. He took comfort in being disinteresting to people. He learned at a young age to not care for people’s opinions, good or bad, learned to tune them out. He was a nobody. And that’s how he wanted it to stay. Until people did start to be interested... for some reason...People knew him as the quiet kid, the kid eating sunflower seeds in the back of the class, the kid seen sneaking hamsters into school within his mother’s scarf she gifted him, the quirky kid that probably has bird poop in his hair-- more and more people saw him stand out.He hated standing out... he hated being noticed... He didn’t like the attention.Soon kids were actually nice, they asked him to play and hold hands and do all sorts of things together. But he would always repent. He would always flinch an arm away, hating being forced into these groups to be friends... He was supposed to be the weird kid... the one no one wanted to hang out with...But people mistook his drastic lengths to hide from others as severe shyness, something to aww.He eventually started to lie to people to get them to stop touching him. “My skin is toxic, if you touch me you’ll burst into to flames!” He’d tell them, “You’re drop dead in an instant and turn into ash!”The teachers obviously weren’t pleased with talk like that...As he got older, he started attracting the worst sort of attention; bullies.If there were any a time to hate being touched, being noticed and called out, any time to hate having all eyes on you it was now.Gundham was never humiliated by their words. I never cared about what they said, just the fact they went out of their way to harass him. It was nothing he hadn’t expected. He learned then that he wasn’t scared of conflict, of standing up for himself. If they wanted to fight him, he would stand there boldly and accept it. Even if he would ultimately lose the battle...As time went on, getting a little older, he would win those fights. He would win the war overall...His mother kept getting devastated by how aggressive he was becoming. Boasting about how he isn’t afraid of anyone anymore. Priding himself for being a loner, but being a brave one. She often worried about him. He felt as if she was the only one to worry... her being worried upset him. Her opinions, her expressions, and efforts she’d put in, the time she would put in just for him, was the only thing that matters to Gundham. Only hers.So, Gundham tried his best to avoid things like that for her sake.Gundham’s mother meant a lot to him. She was the only person to ever love him.When she left, Gundham wasn’t exactly the same... he had no one to seek comfort in anymore. He had no one that was capable of holding him when he’s upset, no one to calm him when he was angry, no one to laugh with him when he was being silly... that was gone. But growing up witnessing his mother, she was a very depressed woman. She had given up her dreams and everything for a man who hadn’t truly loved her, and yet she still chose to love what they created together. Gundham became her new dream, her soulmate, someone she would try her absolute best to care for. But she would have many down days. With no help from her family members, they slowly pulled away from her. They refused to help, only criticize. But she saw the good intentions behind the spit of their “helpful” comments. She was a young mom, alone and not knowing what to do... she really had no other choice but to deal with it.She would hit her lowest, sometimes in front of Gundham. And it would shake him, even when he was very young he wanted to do whatever he could to fix it. He watched her, in a sense, throw her life away... for him. Everything she ever did, she did for him. He watched her sulk and cry and become a numb void over and over, some days worse than others. He spent a lifetime watching her weep over someone who didn’t give a damn about her.So the lesson he learned, was not to care. Not to care about people’s opinions, not let them affect you and to be whoever the hell you want to be with no regrets or filters. The lesson he learned was to be happy. Whatever you do, do not waste your life away being saddened by things you cannot fix or you cannot control. He watched his mother wither away from sadness and from feeling weak, and he would not do the same. He would live, and he would live for her.Even when defeated, his mother didn’t give up on life. She stuck through it with a smile on her face until the very end.Although Gundham’s mentality was reshaped after losing his mother, he stayed true to a silent promise. He would live.I would mention when all the overlord stuff kicked in and his interest in the “occult” started but like that’s a whole other thing and this is already too long.

[where-the-wind-is]

A Little Birdy Told me

The Arcana

Masterpost

Chapter 1

You wake to the sound of ringing. 

In the Quaestors facility, the relentless clang of the heavy metal mallet on the iron bell is the only mark to distinguish the morning from the evening. Every sleeping medic rises immediately to begin their shift. Every working medic trudges to their cots the moment the first bell tolls. The people, the gears of the underground facility, turn flawlessly and robotically every morning and every evening for the shift change. They are more a machine than a workforce.

To be late to bed is to miss precious hours of rest for their weary bodies, to be late to rise is to forfeit rest hours for the following three days. Such is the penalty for impeding progress, or so the Quaestor decreed. 

Doctors had the mercy of independent research time, two hours a day where they could stay in their offices and escape the nightmare of the facility. They were the important ones, the rest of the medical staff the castle held captive were not so graced.

You aren't given the privacy of an office, you sleep in dormitories of 30 people to a room. The jobs are gruellingly repetitive at best, and stomach-twistingly vile at worst. Charting the patients symptoms, sorting and cataloging human remains. You aren't qualified to do the skilled work of the nurses. You are just an apprentice, there to lend a helping hand.

You were training to be a doctor, once upon a time. You were an apprentice under the well known Doctor Devorak, but that was...months ago.

You trudge on without him, going numbly from shift to sleep. Repeating the cycle each day without fail. You aren't upset, no matter how demeaning the lifestyle or soul-crushing the work, in the end you chose this. You stay so that your contribution might help end the plague destroying the city you were born in. 

Vesuvia, your home, was dying around you.

Shove

You’re almost knocked to the floor with the force of the others pushing past you. In your thoughts you’d stopped walking, eyes glued to the ground. The seemingly endless line of peers push past, unseeing, to continue their clockwork march. You stare in complete loss at the stream of marching shoes and beaked faces.

What...what do you do now?

You’d marched the exact same steps to do the exact same job every single day for months, there's a terrifying moment where you can't move. You freeze, completely incapable of deciding where to go or how to get back in line. Your attention is drawn by a small cry behind you.

Turning slowly, you readjust your mask to peer into the small cage, just barely large enough to house one person.

“Where am I supposed to go..?” the small voice is hardly above a whisper. Your gaze fixes on a small boy, eyes dyed the familiar red of the plague. His thin frame is crouched on the floor of his cage and he points a frail finger to an inconsequential spot on the tiled floor. You stare at the spot on the floor where he points for a moment before looking back to him. 

“You stay there” you respond dully.

“I don’t know where I’m supposed to go…” He repeats wearily. You're desensitised by this point to the late-stage delirium of the patients, still the unseeing desperation in the boys eyes makes you falter. Kneeling to the floor you use the softest, most sincere voice you can muster.

“We’re here to help you little friend, is there anything I can do for you?” 

“Can...I need the…” The child makes a ‘c’ with his hand and closes his eyes, fighting through his confusion to put words to his wants. “The...cold in that bucket…” He finally decides. You smile sweetly as the boy gestures again to something that isn’t there.

“Would you like some water, sweetheart?” You translate the cryptic request with practiced ease. The boy's scarlet eyes focus momentarily, seemingly relieved you know the words he can't remember. With a nod you move to fetch a cup for the patient.

He drinks the water happily and in a scratchy voice says.

“You...thank you...you’re a good one here” before weakly tapping the end of your beak-like mask and curling back up. You smile softly before taking the cup with gloved hands and looking for a place to rejoin the line.

You do the same work in the same line every day. No weekends, no downtime, you hadn’t even seen the sky, but you're choosing to do this. You chose this. If your contribution can stop the plague one death earlier than if you hadn't helped, then it will be more than worth it.

So when you hear the bell you rise, and when the others march you march, and when they tell you to work you work until your mind goes numb and you forget your own name. You work until you can no longer tell the difference between yourself and the hundred other people working alongside you. Marching in the same line.

Because you chose to suffer this, so others may not have to.

The draw? 

Today is simply determined to pull you from your forced routine. Perhaps only a few hours into the work shift you are pulled away and put in a group of other medical staff. Before you stands an impatient looking doctor, in his hand is a tin can that rattles as he shakes it.

Months ago Dr. Julian Devorak abandoned the facility, leaving his most important patient without a primary physician. Vesuvia’s "beloved" Count Lucio demanded to be seen daily by a doctor to assess the progression of the plague within his system. With the absence of his regular Doctor, Quaestor Valdimar had attend to the Count each day. 

That was only a temporary arrangement, the Quaestor had more important things to do, so a draw had been set up to determine who would be the counts physician going forward.

Needless to say no one wanted to draw the black stone from the can.

But that's for doctors, there must be some mistake. You're only an apprentice, you have no place in the draw. Looking around wildly you notice you are not alone, a few other apprentices and helpers stand among the doctors in the group. All of which are looking around in similar confusion, all of which also began training around the same time you did.

Another sharp rattle from the can draws your attention back to the matter at hand. You'll draw a regular stone, you think to yourself, willing it into existence. You'll draw a normal, uninked stone and you'll go back to your unassuming work. The can passes slowly around the room, each person present drawing a stone and holding it in their closed fist. Unaware of the color.

With a breath you close your eyes and summon the magic you remember. Your body practically sighs at the familiar thrum of power in your veins, a power you hadn't had the need or permission to use in a long time. Holding out your hand, eyes still closed, you feel the cool tin of the can settle in your grasp. Passed on by the shivering CNA to your right. Reaching into the can you feel around the small, round shapes. Feeling the energy through the magical currents in your fingertips.

You focus hard on the feeling of comfort, a draw such as this leads fate down diverging paths. You focus on the future you want and find the stone that will give it to you, gently closing your hand around it. Pulling your hand out you open your eyes and pass the can on, releasing the breath you were holding.

You listen dully to the rattle of the can as the rest of those present pick their stones. The one clasped in your hand is almost perfectly round like a marble. It's hard to feel texture through your thick, protective gloves. None the less you're certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you'd drawn the right one.

After the can is returned, people immediately begin looking at their stones. Sighs of relief fill the room as people look upon their ordinary grey lumps. A sinking feeling bubbles in your throat like overboiled stew as you stare at your closed fingers. You begin to think you may have played yourself. Prying your fingers open you try to feel surprised at the sight of the ink black stone in your palm.

In the end you're not too shocked, after everything else this might as well happen.

Shaking your head you advance through the crowd to the impatient doctor holding the empty can.

"Excuse me?" Your voice is smaller than you want it to be, broken from disuse. The doctor eyes you with disinterest, noticing the black stone you brandish.

"Oh so it's you."

"Yes but I'm not a doctor." You insist as they try to walk away.

"Due to short staffing the requirement has been waived" they wave their hand lazily as they speak. "You trained under 069, a routine check should be a walk in the park for you. Apprentice or otherwise."

Opening your mouth to speak you quickly think better of it. Controversy is harshly punished in a place like this, instead you nod and move to gather your equipment. You'd heard many a horror story about the demanding Count, but none of them first hand and you'd definitely never met the man in person.

Standing before the one person elevator to the upper castle floors you can no longer imagine why someone wouldn't want the black stone. You were leaving. Just for a few hours a day, a few precious moments outside the prison of a workplace was happily worth having to interact with Count Lucio. A wide grin hurts your cheeks as you ride the rising contraption.

Stepping out you feel the oppressive air of the facility lift off you like a weighted blanket. You breathe no fresh air through your beaked mask and you feel no sun or breeze through your heavy smock and gloves. But just knowing the facility is beneath your feet, practically forgotten, is euphoric.

No one speaks to you as you make your way through the halls. Many servants abruptly change paths to avoid you. That's fair enough, you suppose, your uniform can be a bit unsettling. The dried asters in the break of your mask were severely withered by now, you wonder idly if you'd be able to find fresh ones.

The Counts wing of the palace didn't just seem empty, it seemed abandoned, avoided even. Was this man really that obnoxious? Opening the door with a small creak you step inside.

[writing-radionoises]

the three times komaeda got izuru to feel something

ship: kamukoma

for: me bitch

genre: fluff with slight suggestive content

prompt: the three times Komaeda got Izuru to show emotion 

notes: this is literally the most self indulgent thing I've ever written I'm sorry

ao3 link

laughter

Izuru is quiet person, but he's very experimental. He liked to tease Komaeda and take notes of how he reacted.

However, it was now Komaeda's turn to mess with Izuru. The dark haired boy always had the same strange expression, the expression of bored and disinterest. 

All Nagito ever wanted to do was see him smile. 

Plan A was to pounce up on him and tickle him. Though, that likely wouldn't work if Izuru was correct when he said most of his nerve endings had been numbed out. But it was worth a shot. 

Currently, the two were standing side by side on top of a hill, watching the sun go down as the chain on Komaeda's collar clicked with the wind, and Izuru's incredibly long hair flew away from Nagito.

Now was his chance.

"Hey, Kamukura," Nagito started, and the red eyed male turned to face him with the same disinterested face he always had.

"Are you, perhaps... Ticklish?" Nagito asked, and before Izuru could even respond, he had pounced. 

Except... Not pounced as planned.

Komaeda had met to just hope on towards Izuru, but apparently, he slipped and fell on top of the other, and together they went rolling down the muddy hill.

"Shit!" Servant yelled, desperately clinging to the other as he desperately tried to get both his chain and Izuru's fucking hair out of his face.

They both stopped at the end of the hill, Komaeda's screaming of swear words stopping shortly afterwards.

When he finally moved his hair away from his face, Komaeda catches glimpse of a definitely unusual look on Izuru's face.

Pure shock. 

His red eyes are wide as an owl's, and mud has splattered his face.

His hair was now all clumped together with mud, a piece of dark brown hair plastered with his face with mud.

Now on top of Izuru, Komaeda smiled and moved the piece of hair aside.

"Ah, just my luck..." He said with a sigh, glancing to the side with a sheepish grin, trying to think of some sort of apology before his thought process was interrupted by a giggle.

He glanced back at Izuru to see his as much as giggling his ass off, hand covering his mouth.

Komaeda couldn't help but laugh too.

Maybe his luck does work in his favor sometimes.

embarrassed 

Of all the emotions Komaeda could think of, apparently embarrassed was one of the only semi positive ones he could think of.

He definitely didn't want to see Izuru sad or crying or worried.

How despairing it would be to see the ultimate hope sad...

Embarrassing Komaeda was like one of Izuru's hobbies, he liked to compliment Nagito endlessly until Komaeda was a blushing mess.

Seeing a blushing Izuru... Oh, what a wonderful image that is in Komaeda's head. 

Oh, is he drooling? Perhaps.

Anyways, wiping off the drool from Nagito's face, he lifted his head up from the kitchen table as he watched Izuru began to wheel Monaca out of the house.

Plan B, here we go.

"Hey Izuru!" Servant called, watching his lover turn his head to face Nagito, pausing his current task and tilting his head to the side.

"What?" He questioned, letting go of Monaca's wheelchair as he turned his whole body to face towards him.

The little green head of hair in the wheelchair turned to see Nagito too, confused by what was happening.

"Hey, hey, I'm glad I remembered my library card, cause' I am totally checking you out!" Nagito called with a smile.

Nailed it. 

He absolutely did not call every girl he knew for that one.

Izuru made a sound that was a mixture of confusion and shock, glancing between Servant and Monaca for some sort of confirmation that this just happened.

Monaca only giggled as Komaeda continued.

"Wow, Izuru, you must be exhausted from running through my mind all day," he continued, a cheeky smile on his face.

There was a tint of red now on the other's face among his many freckles, he was clearly at a loss for words, trying to find something to say back before Komaeda to continue.

Unlucky for him, he is not quite quick enough.

"Iiiiiizuru~ Do you want to see if you can add "has a great gag reflex" to your list of talents?"

And with that, his face turned a bright red, and Komaeda had never seen him walk out of the house so fast. Monaca in tow, laughing so hard Komaeda feared she might choke.

He is going to regret that later.

attraction

There's an audible bang against the wall as Komaeda somehow manages to pin Izuru against it.

How, you say?

Komaeda has no idea. Maybe it has something to do with Izuru being shorter than him or Izuru desperately trying to dodge his chain, but God knows.

What's the plan?

There isn't one. He didn't think he'd get this far.

His only goal is to get Izuru to show some sort of attraction to Komaeda.

Or perhaps... Komaeda is looking for something more lewd?

He'll take what he'll get.

"Oh, how unfortunate that trash like he has the ultimate hope pinned against a wall, hahaha..." Komaeda mused, and Izuru rose a brow.

GOD FUCKING DAMMIT THE BOTTOM IN ME IS NEVER SATISFIED WHY DID I THINK I COULD TOP H-

"Is there something you need?" Izuru asked

"Is there something you need?" Komaeda fired back.

Thank god for Google teaching him how to at least try to top.

Izuru is beyond confused at this point, having no idea what the other wants to get out of him.

The white haired male leans in a little bit, chain clinking against the other as Izuru takes a hold of his to stop it's noise.

This thing will be a pain.

"Seeing you embarrassed was pretty cute yesterday," Nagito started, "But... I'd like to see more. Such a shameful thing from someone like me, but seeing you express emotions brings... Such happiness to me."

"I think you want to see less of me and hear me more," Izuru comments.

"What?"

Apparently Izuru knows what Nagito wants before Nagito even does. Cold hands move gently into Komaeda's fluffy and tangled hair as Izuru uses his free hand to losen his tie and unbutton his shirt a little.

"You are as useless as ever when it comes to action, allow me to help you."

Komaeda gets at what Izuru is hinting at from here, leaning in and pressing his lips against Izuru's, gently. 

He was never really the one to lean into more passionate kisses, or really take the lead.

At least Izuru helps him a little bit.

He feels the other gently press the back of his head, urging for more as Komaeda tilts his head to the life, his free hand going up Izuru's top and gently tracing around his spine. The other shivers within his grip from the cold of Komaeda's hands.

I wonder how it feels to be making out with someone who is practically a corpse, Komaeda wonders.

Servant pulls away from the kiss, staring at Izuru's wide red eyes for a moment before pressing a kiss to his jaw, and moving down to his lower neck.

It takes a few moments and guidance from Izuru before Komaeda eventually finds a spot on his neck that does still have some nerve endings that react like a normal human's.

Izuru squirms from the touch, and Komaeda feels a light tug at his hair. 

He has forgotten that Izuru isn't quite used to being touched with good intentions. 

Had it been anyone else but Komaeda, Izuru probably would've killed him already.

Though, it does make Komaeda sad to think about just how many people have done this to Izuru when was helpless.

A squirming Izuru is no fun unless he's enjoying himself, too.

It takes a few minutes before Komaeda finally gets what he wants.

A moan.

Unmuffled and clear.

"Komaeda.... Komaeda..... Komaeda...."

It's like music to his ears, perfect in everyway, just l-

"Hey! What the fuck are you guys doing in the hall?" Calls out a familiar voice. It's Akane's

Fuck.

[7deadlycinderellas]

The first of spring

Ao3 Link

Sansa will tell a single small lie to everyone after. She realized something was up with Arya very early.

They really should have all suspected something when Arya didn’t object to returning to King’s Landing. Sansa even did. The first visit had been exciting, even if it had ended poorly. Their return to Winterfell had felt to Sansa like waking up from a lovely dream, but there was no way they could have stayed with the horse cough sweeping through the city.

So many people died. And it didn’t discriminate. Peasants, merchants, the king’s very household. The king had been spared, but his wife and oldest son hadn’t been so lucky. Sansa had been inconsolable when she’d heard. Her perfect story, ruined. She ignored the relieved look on her father’s face. When they’d returned, their mother had hugged the both of them tightly and gave thanks to every god she knew for returning them to her.

It was recognized, eventually, as the start of winter.

Winterfell gets blanketed in snow. Northerners know how to deal with the cold, they always have. Sansa sits closer to the fire during needlepoint, and Arya scampers through the halls instead of the fields and stable. Sansa begrudges her this less now. She’s had her own experience with seeing something beautiful and it now being forever out of reach.

When the first blizzards of winter clear, they are called back to King’s Landing. Sansa is disquieted, not sure what to expect, but to her surprise, Arya doesn’t object at all. She’s nearly passive, packing her things, then repacking them when Mother criticizes her technique.

They’re all together this time, travelling more slowly for the weather. Mother comes with them this time as well, telling them that she’s not comfortable with them leaving her sight. Robb and Bran look lonely, but certain, behind them as they leave Winterfell.

One night, Sansa finds Arya standing outside the ramshackle inn staring off into the woods. She opens her mouth to tell her to get back inside, but stops when she sees the look in her eye.

“I keep thinking that if I stare out into the trees long enough Nymeria will be there again”.

It hits Sansa like a ton of bricks. This is the same area, probably the same inn, where it had happened. Honestly, most of the road looks the same to Sansa. The anger swells up in her chest again. It’s been over a year, but the injustice still eats at her. Her and Arya haven’t spoken about it, even when they see Bran with Summer or Shaggydog by himself betraying Rickon somewhere unseen.

“If she came back, I would share her.” Arya looks inexplicably childish now. “It wasn’t fair, any of it. Lady wasn’t even there, Cersei had no right.”

And suddenly, Sansa feels just as childish as Arya looks. Deep down, her gut still cries out that it was all Arya’s fault, even though her mind has slowly come to accept that it really wasn’t. When the plague came, suddenly the fairy story Sansa had built up about their time there just melted away.

“The Queen is dead now,” is all she can say. And she didn’t even have it in her to curse her properly for what she had done until she was. She had somehow managed to twist it in her mind that it was somehow alright for her to have done it even.

“I wouldn’t want her, “ she says, a bit haughtily, “She was your wolf, and she rolled in the mud even more than you.”

The retribution for this slight is the realization when they step back inside the inn, that both her and Arya have mud on their shoes. Sansa returning to her usual fastidious self and lambasting Arya for it.

King’s Landing is different. It had been hot before, this time while it can’t hold a candle to Winterfell, there’s a dusting of snow over the grounds, though the days are usually cold and clear.

The hall of the castle feel cold and clear too. The illness wiped out a good deal of the household staff, and they are clamoring to find replacements and keep up with the workload.

Myrcella walks the halls, looking like a ghost. Tommen is usually right behind her. He had been seriously ill but had miraculously pulled through, and the stress has robbed his cheeks of much of their plumpness.

Sansa minds her manners, gives her condolences, and doesn’t say another word.

“I wonder how the king’s doing?” Arya wonders.

“He lost his wife and his eldest son. I can’t imagine well.” True, neither of them had ever seen Robert spend any real time with Joffrey or Cersei. They hardly see Robert at all during their visit, Father saying he spent most of his days drunk, though now he seems to be trying to numb himself rather than give himself life.

“If Mother and Robb died, I don’t know what Father would do. I don’t know what I would either.”

The thought pinches at Sansa’s heart. The idea of seeing her father in such a state is horrific.

It’s a weighty thought. Though, in winter, there are still some pleasures to enjoy here in the south. One day, after a particularly heavy snow, Myrcella invites them to come on a sleigh ride outside the castle grounds. Arya, of course, doesn’t show up.

“What does your sister do all day? I never see her,” Myrcella comments, leaning on the edge of the sleigh as the groom hitches up the horses.

Sansa shrugs. It’s not her job to keep track of Arya’s movements, and Septa Mordane seems to have nearly given up. Mother’s been spending her days trying to assist Father with bringing Robert around, and barely notices Arya as long as she’s back for meal times.

“Probably with her dancing master, or bothering someone in the stables.” she pauses. The first one doesn’t work, Syrio Forel having returned to Winterfell with them the first time, and still there as of now.  “I think she might even sneak out and go into King’s Landing some days”.

“Oh, that probably explains why her breeches were muddy yesterday, “ Myrcella comments idly, “She brought me an apricot tart, so I didn’t tell anyone.”

Sansa’s shocked that Arya would so do something so dangerous and flagrantly against the rules, but when she confronts her later, Arya just shrugs.

“There’s lots of ways out of the castle, there’s tons of secret passages. Besides, the city is much quieter now, there’s more room it seems. The baker I bought the tart from said more people are trickling in.”

And so, despite her admonitions, Arya continues to sneak out and spend every few days in the city. Sometimes she comes back even dirtier than usual, but she’s always unharmed, and manages to return on time, though Septa Mordane scolds her repeatedly for missing lessons.

But, a few weeks pass, and Father and Mother say they will return to Winterfell. They’ve convinced Robert to name his brother Stannis as Hand, and feel like it’s a good time to go home. Arya isn’t around to be told, but Sansa promises she will prepare her sister for it.

When she finds Arya, she’s in one of the large hallways. When she notices Sansa, she nods, before running past her.

“Gotcha!” she yells, jumping onto the edge of one of the staircase bannisters and grabbing onto a small cat.

“What in the world are you doing?” Sansa demands befuddled.

“Catching Ser Pounce,” Arya says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “He got out yesterday and I brought him back, so Tommen said I could use him to practice.”

She hoists the cat higher in her arms and pets his head.

“But let’s get you back to your prince now.”

Tommen doesn’t seem perturbed at all by his pet’s condition, and accepts him back happily.

Suddenly Sansa recalls what she was supposed to be finding Arya for.

“Father says we’re returning to Winterfell at the end of the week.”

She’s not sure what surprises her more, Arya’s look of disappointment, or Tommen’s words.

“Oh, I’m going to miss you. It’s nice having other people here.”

Sansa’s suddenly at a loss, and so reverts to her courtesies. “I’m sorry, you must miss your brother terribly-”

Before she can even mentioned the Queen, Tommen cuts her off.

“Not really. Sorry, I know you wanted to marry him, but Joffrey was the meanest person I’ve ever met”.

Arya gives her a look that makes Sansa think she wants to say ‘I told you so’, and Sansa feels the urge to yell at her, but it seems they’ve both become better at controlling themselves.

“Once took my cat and shot it for fun. It was going to have babies, he didn’t care.”

When Sansa and Arya leave the hallway, Sansa has her hand over her mouth.

“I’m sad we have to leave, “ Arya comments, “I’ve got friends here.”

“We’ve got friends back home”

Arya pauses a long time before agreeing.

And so, they return again, to the North and the blizzards and the glowing hearth fires like nothing’s changed. Sansa’s as devoted to her lessons as ever, though her fantasies have been spoiled. Arya’s as disinterested as ever, but she’s not as hostile.

It’s as though seeing the world around her gave her confidence that she could free her restraints.

But for all the girl’s lives seem to go back to normal, their father seems preoccupied. He spends much time having hushed conversations with Maester Luwin and eyeing the sky waiting for ravens. Sansa’s not sure what’s up, and hopes it’s nothing dangerous.

It’s apparently stressful enough that one night during supper he groans and rests his face in his hands. Sansa and Arya both sit up straighter. They’d quarrelled earlier about Arya borrowing one of Sansa’s furs without asking so she could go riding in the cold (“You don’t even wear it anymore, it’s got a hole!”) and worried now that Mother had burdened him with it.

“Maybe I should have stayed. Mediating Robert and Stannis...it’s like dealing full time with you two,” he gestures to Arya and Sansa, “Only you’re both grown men who have an army.”

“Robert and Stannis aren’t your worry anymore,” Mother assures him.

“But I do. Robert’s never been in the greatest of health, and Stannis is clearly still feeling slighted.”

“And the winter is cold and should give them time to reflect.”

Sansa’s brain wanders off at this point. Sometimes she wonders if she should pay more attention. Septa Mordane may tell her that her duty is to be a Lord’s wife and mother to his children, but from what she saw in King’s Landing, there is clearly more to it, and her lack of knowing could be dangerous.

That night, she hears a noise outside of her chambers. Sticking her head out, she sees Arya sitting in the window between their rooms that looks out over the forest. She’s got her furs wrapped around her over her night dress, and though the night is freezing, it’s clear and she doesn’t appear troubled.

“Arya you should be in bed”.

Arya’s voice is oddly quiet.

“I know, I won’t be long.”

Sansa pulls herself up onto the ledge. She gazes out the window. It’s a beautiful night, clear, with a huge full moon and bright stars. If it weren’t so cold, it would be the kind of the night for a stroll.

“Do you think we’ll still fight when we’re grown up?”

Sansa’s taken aback.

“Mother always seems to tell me that we’ll grow up, but we already are, and it doesn’t feel like we’re getting more alike. And she never sees her sister at all.”

Sansa finally finds her words,

“We’ve gotten better at avoiding each other when it matters. This morning aside, we don’t fight much anymore, you haven’t thrown food at me in forever.”

“I didn’t mean that to be personal, I was just mad you were fawning over Joffrey like an idiot.”

Sansa chooses to ignore that.

“You’re right thought, we should try and get along. We’re both going to be ladies after all.”

Arya snorts.

“Everyone can say that, but I’ll never be a lady. Even if I get married off to some drunk old lord twice my age, I’ll never be able to be what they want me to be. Even if I did want to be, I’m not good at any of it. That’s you.”

Arya jumps down from the window.

“But I don’t want to end up like Robert either. He’s the king of the Seven Kingdoms and still squabbling with his brother like a child.”

And with that, Arya stands up and returns to her chambers. Sansa stays for a moment n her spot, gazing out into the winter night.

The winter days are feel long, and the weeks and months longer. Clearer days have snow fights and winter rides. Days heavy with snow bring thick stews and roaring fires, and songs and stories to try and hold off the raging of the winter wind. During those days of blizzard, Arya finds the only reprieve in the handful of letters Jon has sent from the wall.

Six moons or so after Arya’s fourteenth naming day, Winterfell has a series of clear days that seem to go on forever. Old Nan calls it a “little summer”, and tells everyone to make the best of it.

During the first days of this little summer, a stranger comes to Winter Town, and Father says all the children should come to greet her.

The stranger is a girl Robb’s age with dark hair and blue eyes, who comes up the Kingsroad on a mule, leading a team.

She introduces herself at Mya Stone. Sansa bristles at the name, recognizing it as a bastard’s name, like Snow.

“Why’d you come up here during the winter?” Arya wants to know, petting one of the beasts on its face.

“I’m from the Vale. My team and I lead people up to the Eyrie, but in the winter there’s not too much call- too treacherous even for us. Your father wrote and requested my team come to Winterfell to help with transporting goods from White Harbour.”

She feeds her mount a carrot as a treat while she unsaddles him.,

“You might like riding one,” Arya tells Sansa. “They’re more solid than horses and won’t even try to do anything dangerous”.

The beast is a bit smaller than the rest of the steeds in the stable, so Sansa agrees, and the two sisters help Mya bring her team to the stables. It’s true, she does feel more sure in the saddle than usual. Sansa would be the first to admit she was a poor rider.

“Mules aren’t generally good for beginners,” Mya tells her as they dismount. “They are hard to train. If they think something is unsafe, they straight up won’t do it, and if you try to make them, they will remember.”

“Well, “ Sansa says, her feet a bit wobbly. She’s never like the smell of the stables, but in the winter it’s not so strong. “Good thing I wouldn’t ask them that.”

Mya’s not the only stranger who comes to Winterfell that season. Soon, there’s a new kitchen maid with a young daughter. Rickon takes a liking to the girl and seems very confused as to why she can’t chase after Shaggydog when she’s barely toddling.

When Father takes them out to greet the next, a blacksmith, Arya hangs back a bit from the rest, to Sansa’s confusion. Shy is one thing Arya has never been. Even when they all enter the smithy, she stands close to the door.

Though when they meet Gendry, Sansa understands why she might be. He’s tall, and broad in the chest with dark hair. He’s fairly soft spoken with the group, not seeming entirely sure why he’s there. Father shakes his hand, then moves to start returning to the keep.

Arya hangs back again. Intrigued, Sansa hangs at the door. She sees Gendry hand Arya something wrapped in a cloth. She can’t see what it is, but it makes Arya smile and laugh.

“What is that?” Sansa butts in when they get back to the castle and are close to alone.

Arya unwraps it and shows it to her. It’s a hair pin, made of curling scrap iron, beaten and shaped to resemble a wolf’s head. It’s not the greatest bit of smithing Sansa’s ever seen, but since Arya immediately separates the two parts and slips it into her hair, it must have meaning to her.

“Why did-” is all Sansa can say.

“He was one of the friends I made in King’s Landing. He was an apprentice in Flea’s Bottom then. I think he used to think I was annoying, always hanging around when he was working. Then one day someone on the street stole his bundle, and I chased and got it back for him. He didn’t complain much after that. He said he’d make something for me out of scrap, so I could see how good he’d gotten, but we left before I even got to say goodbye.”

“You chased a thief!” Sansa says, horrified. “You could have gotten hurt!”

Arya shrugs.

“It was just a child, no older than Rickon is now. I just grabbed and carried him back like that. He was crying though, until I told him I wouldn’t tell the guards. I think someone older must have made him to do it.”

Sansa stands back alone to watch her sister. She’s gotten taller, and her hair longer, though in the leather’s she’s pilfered from Bran (though honestly, he’s too tall for them now anyhow) she still looks like a wild child to Sansa.

But to someone else?

“Did he knew who you were?”

Arya shrugs again.

“Father apparently came to speak to him once before, though he didn’t know why. He also said it wasn’t hard to pick out a highborn girl from a crowd, so I guess he put two and two together”.

She looks oddly pensieve.

“He told me now that Father actually asked him if he’d ever wanted to learn how to swing a sword.”

That shocks Sansa.

“But why?”

Arya shrugs again, “Can’t say, He wasn’t interested though.”

Gendry’s the last newcomer for a while. The little summer ends and the snowfall start back up.

On the days when the snow isn’t too heavy, Sansa often finds herself with Mya in the stables. Her other siblings don’t care about the snow as long as they can see, and brave the whole grounds, but Sansa finds the comparative warmth of the stables inviting.

And Mya’s nice to have around, when she is. Her trips to White Harbor happen during the clear days, though she tells her about the once her and the other grooms got stuck in the woods when it began snowing heavily. They’d been forced to shelter under a thick tree, with their animals forming a wall to keep the warmth in.

“We were lucky it stopped that night, otherwise we might not have been able to get back”.

Even though her stories make Sansa shudder, it’s nice having a friend close again. The past year, Jeyne Poole had wed a young knight who had just earned his spurs, and she had hardly seen a bit of her since.

One day, when they’re in the stables grooming the mules, she asks Mya if she’s always wanted to work where she is.

“Didn’t you ever want to find true love and get married?” Is how she puts it.

Mya laughs.

“I thought I had true love once.”

“What was his name?”

Mya stares at the ground. “Mychel, of House Redfort.”

Redfort. Sansa doesn’t quite known the names of all the noble houses, but she does know this one, and suddenly she knows where this story is going.

“He said we would marry, when he became a true knight. I believed him, and I think he did too. But then his father ordered him to marry Ysilla Royce, so the houses could be joined.”

Just as Sansa thought. It wasn’t fair. Even though she was a bastard, Mya was very nice and deserved to have been happy.

Mya laughs to herself. “I’ve always known I was a bastard, it never bothered me.” She finishes up brushing the mule she was working on, and pats it on the ears. “I remember my father coming to see me when I was young, though I don’t really remember him. Then he didn’t, and it was just me and Mother. I love the mules, and I love leading them, and helping people. I guess I just dreamed too highly.”

She looks at Sansa, who’s holding her bucket of grooming tools.

“Doesn’t it ever bother you? That you’re getting married is treated like means to an end?”

Sansa doesn’t have an answer to that. Despite her love of the old songs, she’s not given any more thought to getting married herself since King’s Landing. No one wants to marry in winter anyhow, so the topic hasn’t really come up, but deep in her mind is the niggling fear that anyone who she became betrothed to might end up being another Joffrey.

As the winter goes on, Sansa turns eight and ten, and Arya six and ten. On her naming day, Arya surprises them by asking for her gift that year if she could keep and raise one of the ravens from Maester Luwin’s newly hatched flock.

Mother and Father agree, but seem as confused as Sansa is.

“Sometimes I wish I knew exactly what was going on inside your sisters head,” Mother confides in her one day. She does seem a bit pleased that Arya’s desire was something more ladylike this year. Truly, Sansa has no more insight than her into Arya. She’s taken to disappearing from the grounds as often as she used to in King’s Landing.

And Arya loves the bird, training it to sit on her arm like a hawk. She’s named it Lyanna, after their deceased aunt.

“You know ravens can’t hunts like hawks and falcons can right?” Sansa asks her one day.

“I know, but raven’s are really clever, “ Arya says, feeding Lyanna a bit of corn. “Maester Luwin’s trying to train this flock to fly between two points, not just back to Winterfell. I wanted to help him.”

And so Sansa continues not understanding her sister.

Near on a year later, while they break their fast, Rickon and little Barra rush in, being trailed by Shaggydog. They’re both clutching handfuls of the blue-purple crocus flowers that grow in the Godswood. Everyone at the table murmurs excitedly.

The crocus flowers blooming is the first sign, Old Nan tells them, of the coming spring.

That day, another stranger comes to Winterfell. Edric Storm is a tall, handsome young man who travels under the banner of Renly Baratheon of Storm’s End. Because of the coincidence, and because this guest will not be staying long, Mother and Father suggest a festival in the town over the next two nights, weather permitting.

There is rejoicing in both the castle and the town. This winter had been long, and the North has little enough of the celebration as the rest of the Seven Kingdoms as it is.

Food sellers set up stands, craftsmen set to sell their wares. There will be games and competitions that Robb and Bran are excited about. There’s a singer traveling with Edric who invites any musicians in the town to join him. Sansa’s overcome by the thought of being able to play her harp for the crowd.

Even Mother and Father seem happy to have some merriment in Winterfell, at last as winter comes to an end. Everyone dresses in their best, even Arya (though when Sansa looks closely, she realizes she’s wearing thick leathers under her dress).

The festival may be small compared to anything in King’s Landing, but to Sansa it feels far grander. She eats honey biscuits from one of the bakers, and cheers when Rickon wins the under-12’s pony race.

She laughs when she walks outside the smithy, and finds Arya and Bran, both in boiled leathers, going back and forth with swords in front of a crowd. Gendry’s speaking to a few of them, while his master works the forge behind, extolling “fine craftsmanship, good enough even for a Lord’s children.” She hopes they won’t get hurt, but it doesn’t look like a true fight. In fact, it almost looks practiced, like a dance. Maybe that’s where the two of them have been doing when they disappeared together.

When night falls, and the lanterns are lit, Sansa joins the musicians, and they go through so many of the classics, “The Roadside Rose”, “Flowers of Spring”, and “Six Maids in a Pool”. By the time they stop, she feels more aglow than she has in years.

While packing up her harp, Father approaches and asks if she can track down Arya before coming back.

“She was with Bran last I saw,” she says, unsure if Father and Mother knew what the two of them were getting up to, “Does he know where she might be?”

“He says that last he saw her, she was by the smiths”.

Everyone on the grounds is pretty much packing up to leave. It’s quite late, and Sansa’s not really sure where she even expects to find Arya.

But the last place she expects her is tucked on the far side of the smith, locked with Gendry in a loving embrace, seemingly oblivious to the world.

Gendry’s seated on the chair beside the emptied exhibition table, Arya half on top of him. Their faces are turned away from her, but are so close together they might as well be one. Arya has the fingers of one hand wrapped in his hair. Gendry has one slung over her shoulder and the thumb of the other touching the side of her face. Softly.

She doesn’t really mean to, but Sansa lets out a squeak of shock that apparently is enough to break their trance. Arya, whose face is pretty flushed at this point (flushed? Arya?) goes white when she sees her.

“Mother and Father want us to head back,” Sansa manages to get out. Arya nods wordlessly and Sansa turns to start back without looking either of them in the eye.

The walk back is completely silent. When they return, neither of them say a word to anyone, merely head into their own chambers to go to bed.

When they reach the hallway, Sansa manages an “Arya…”

Her sister opens the door, and gestures with her head for Sansa to follow her.

As soon as Arya closes the door, Sansa explodes.

“Seven hells Arya, what are you thinking? What if Mother and Father find out!” There’s a bunch more she wants to say too, about irresponsibility mostly, and station, and how Mother and Father were going to have a hard enough time with her as it was, but Arya cuts her off.

“Well they haven’t found out so far”.

So far? How long has this been going on?

Arya takes a deep breath.

“Can you keep a secret Sansa?”

Sansa is once again befuddled, and doesn’t remember saying “aye” but apparently she does, because Arya reaches under her bed and unrolls a bundle to show her.

“Oh”.

It’s simple, made of cheap linen that wouldn’t even be warm in spring. The wolf sigil rather more resembles a blob made of lines and points. The shoddy stitching is definitely Arya’s handiwork though, no one else’s. And it is without a doubt, a maiden’s cloak. And she’s clearly worked on it a while.

“I had to hide it,” Arya tells her. She’s sat down on her bed and clutches the cloak on her lap. “Me sewing anything of my own volition would have alerted every single person in this castle.”

Sansa is genuinely speechless. When she finally finds her words, all she can manage is,

“I thought you never wanted to get married?”

Arya laughs.

“Being a wife and being a lady aren’t the same thing.”

She sounds so certain.

“So I take it you haven’t told Mother and Father.”

“I thought it would be better to ask forgiveness than permission. No matter how hard they must think it will be to marry me off, they would never let me marry a baseborn blacksmith, even if he was a king’s bastard.”

Sansa’s words are stolen again. “What?”

Arya goes a bit pale again. “You, you never realized?” Sansa shakes her head.

“Not just Gendry, all of them. Mya, little Barra. Even Edric, but his mother was noble so he’s always been treated better. King Robert was never apparently a faithful husband.”

They…

Well, they do certainly all look alike. Thick black hair and startling blue eyes. Even Barra had tufts of thick black hair despite her mother’s tawny curls.

“How did you-:”

Arya ducks her head into her chest.

“I heard Mother and Father talking. They said something about...about people wondering if Myrcella and Tommen were really the king’s children.”

Oh. That.

It’s all too much.

Arya tugs at one of the strings on the embroidered sigil. It really is awful. All these years, why did Sansa never offer to help her with her sewing? Truly, Arya probably wouldn’t have accepted. But still, she ought have offered at least.  

“Gendry says all he’s ever wanted is a family. His mother died when he was little. Back in King’s Landing I told him to come up north and we would be his family.”

“What did he say to that?” Back in King’s Landing Arya had just been a girl, and Gendry’s older than the both of them.

She laughs, and kicks her feet. “He told me that if he did that all I would ever be was ‘Milady’. That made me so mad you wouldn’t even believe.”

Sansa can believe, completely and truly.

Arya reaches back and touches her hair. Sansa notices she’s wearing the hair pin Gendry gave her those years ago when he first came to Wintefell. Gods above, even then?

“Do you...do you two have a plan?” is all Sansa can say.

Arya nods.

“Edric’s leaving in five days. We’ll go with him, Mya too. Barra’s mother didn’t want to go, she’s still too little, but the rest of us are going to Storm’s End. Edric says Renly Baratheon wants them there, that he considers them all family.”

“You’re going to elope?”

“Is it really eloping if you don’t leave first? There’s a Godswood here at Winterfell.”

The Godswood, so they’re….

“Just the way of the Old Gods?”

Arya nods. “I don’t really know much about the old and the new and all of that, but the Old Gods are Father’s Gods, the Gods of the North, so that feels right. Gendry says he doesn’t mind one way or another, but we might want to go in front of a Sept in Storm’s End just to be sure no one can say otherwise.”

Arya’s quiet for a long moment after that.

“WIll you stand in for Father Sansa? I was going to ask Mya...but I want it to be you, if you will.”

Sansa feels herself go red. Everything inside of her is telling her to say no, to tell Father and Mother, that Arya could be throwing her life away.

But…

She remembers how Arya looked earlier tonight, in Gendry’s arms. Happy. And she remembers how Gendry had been looking at her. And suddenly, Sansa feels a tugging deep in her stomach, that she recognizes as envy.

“Do you love him?”

Arya’s eyes go wide.

“Seven hells, Sansa, do you think I would do this if I didn’t? I’ve spent my whole life being told that no one would ever want me how I am, and here I am, not only have I, but he’s managed to find me again through and through?”

Her voice quiets.

“He asked me after my naming day. I wasn’t in a dress, my hair was a mess, and I had spent much of my day throwing snowballs at the outside of the forge. And he asked me after all that.”

The envy in Sansa’s gut is heavier than ever. It takes even more time for her to find her voice again.

“Tell me what you need,” Is what she says. She tugs at the cloak on Arya’s lap.

“And let me have at this, but I can’t make any promises.”

Over the next five days, Sansa pulls out the worst offending of Arya’s stitches and renders the sigil as something more recognizably a direwolf.

If it weren’t for Mya telling all the others that she was leaving with Edric, everything might have seemed normal.

“It’s been the best, but there’s not much call for me here come the spring. Storm’s End is near the Red Mountains, I should be able to find good work there.”

Arya’s face is cool, unknowing. In another life, she ought to have been an actress.

She occasionally has attacks of doubt. But Arya is right, Mother and Father had long bemoaned how difficult she would be to marry her off. And really, it is terribly romantic.

The night before, there’s drinks in the Great Hall to see Edric’s group off. They say they wish to leave before first light, to make the best time. Sansa thinks, that that will make it easier to Arya to slip among them unnoticed.

She fidgets the whole night. She doesn’t understand how Arya can not be. Gods above, she’s even talking about helping Bran with his archery the next morning!

But late night still comes, and no one else is any the wiser.

The castle is so still this late, Sansa thinks, as she stands outside Arya’s door. Not even any servants, they won’t come down here until it’s time to wake them in the morning. Arya soon emerges, holding her pack, and Lyanna’s cage, where the bird sleeps.

The pack seems so small.

“Do you have everything you need?” Sansa whispers.

Arya nods. “Clothes, Lyanna, Needle. A couple things to sell if we need to. Edric’s been told, so there’s enough provisions for someone extra.”

She gestures.

“Lets stop at the stable and see Mya first. I want to give her my things so nothing gets forgotten.”

It hits Sansa when they exit the castle (with near shocking ease) and creep their way to the quiet stables, that she’s losing her sister. For real. This has always been in the back of her head, that one day all of the children would marry and go their separate ways, but suddenly it’s real, and it hurts, and whispering to Mya makes tears run down her face.

Mya hugs both of them, and then takes Arya’s bundle and Lyanna’s cage.

“Meet me with Edric’s entourage when you’re done. Everyone’s outside the hunter’s gate so they won’t have to go through town. The bridges are down now so we can leave on time. I’ll keep you to the middle, so you won’t be seen.”

And with that, Arya and Sansa leave her behind.

Passing by the guest house is easy. Even if most of the guests hadn’t been sleeping or preparing to leave, the group is privy to their secret. The kennels is a bit tougher, they must be quiet so as not to wake any of the hounds.

They enter the Godswood, and it is silent. The moon that night is full, and huge, but the canopy of trees is so thick it is nearly blocked.

“Does Gendry know how to get here?”

“I gave him directions the other night, and Mya led him in earlier when everyone was joining in the Great Hall. I hope he didn’t fall asleep.”

Sansa looks her sister up and down. She is wearing a dress, but layered over her leathers and a thick lambs-wool pullover. She said it was one less thing to pack, and they might not let her in the Sept in the south without it. Now that they can’t be seen, she’s pulled on the rough-sewn maiden’s cloak.

Sansa reaches out to touch it.

“You won’t have a gown….”

Arya fixes her with a look like she wants to call her a mean name. That’s silly of course, they haven’t called each other names in years. Out loud anyway.

“That was you. Besides, I won’t ever wear this again after tonight.”

She does reach into a pocket and pulls out several rolls of paper, labelled to each of their family members.

“Make sure we’re all gone before you give everyone these tomorrow. I hope I explained myself well. “

Sansa looks at them. Mother and Father, Robb, Jon, Bran.

“You didn’t write one for me?”

Arya gazes at her.

“I figured I would be able to convince you to help me pretty easily...you’re…”

“What?” Sansa asks, trying not to sound too cross.

“A hopeless romantic.”

When they reach the black pool in front of the weirwood, and Arya spots Gendry sitting still beneath it, Sansa spots the smile that sprouts itself on her sister’s face. And admits to herself, that she’s probably right.

Arya turns and suddenly hugs her fiercely.

“I’ll write as soon as I can. Lyanna should be able to get back here no problem. And if me and Luwin’s training takes, she should be able to find her way back to me and the perch I made her.” Then Gendry notices them and stands, and Sansa suddenly feels as if she needn’t even be here at all. When she watches the way Gendry looks at her sister, a lump swells up in her throat and she feels as if she might not be able to do her part.

But eventually she finds her words, and the three of them all manage to proper ceremonial words without stumbling too much (though Gendry nearly does forget his own name). Sansa asks Arya if she accepts Gendry, and she agrees, and the two of them grasp hands and kneel and Sansa can’t stop herself from crying at all. The tears blur her vision as the two stand and Gendry removes the rough cloak and replaces it with his own, thick and lined with fur, and Arya looks so much more like herself in it, that Sansa can hardly stand it.

The two turn to her now, and Arya quietly reassures Gendry.

“We’re family for real now, all three of us.”

And she reaches out to hug Sansa again.

“You should start back now, or you might get caught.”

Sansa nods, still tearing uncontrollably. She can’t stop her next whispered question though.

“You haven’t already…”

“Gods no, I could barely convince him to kiss me. He was so sure somehow would pop out of nowhere behind him and geld him for it.”

That gets her to laugh.

Sansa lets her go and goes to embrace Gendry as well.

“Be good to her or we’ll all set the wolves on you.”

Gendry laughs at that, but also looks suitably warned. Taking one long, last look at the two of them, Sansa finally makes herself turn and return to the castle, Arya’s notes clutched in her hands.

When she’s nearer to the end of the clearing, she hears Arya let out a playful shriek.

“Told you I could still pick you up like this.”

“I said that you shouldn’t, not that you couldn’t!”

And Sansa continues her walk back with a huge smile on her face. Old Nan was right, this winter was truly at its end.

And spring was coming.

[juupajaa]

🥀Suffering phase:

Ah man this is gonna suck. I hate this. Just feck everything about this stage. This is where it just turns so dark and brutal that there’s nothing that can make it work. I hope it’s at least informative and reaffirming. This might get heavy so read when you feel you’re ready.

So one day you wake up and go to engage in your disordered behaviour, but for some reason it didn’t really make you feel any special way. You don’t think too much of it yet. You try again later, but still you don’t get that good feeling from it. You do it again, and again, but it’s just not doing it for you anymore. I’m sorry to say this, but honeymoon is over.

Ok so here’s where eds and de split. I’m gonna go through de route first, since this is pretty much where de stops. 

Some with disordered eating might recover right now. If your quality of life has improved, seeing your coping mechanism not work anymore can turn you back and make you run back to real life. For example, let’s say you started to use de to cope with pressure from school/work/hobbies. The pressure has now eased up and you don’t need to deal with it anymore. Your disordered eating isn’t needed and you can phase out of it in a short period of time and best case scenario, you never go back.

For other’s the situation hasn’t improved, they’re still at a bad place and can’t deal with the shit that’s going on in their life, so the disordered eating stays, despite it not helping anymore. Some might wallow in a state of not really getting worse or better, which can be extremely distressing since there is never any improvement or relief. Other’s might get into a cycle where their disordered eating perks up every now and then when they feel negative emotions, and sometimes is backs off and leaves when things get a bit easier for a while. 

The thing about disordered eating is that it doesn’t solve your problem, so there might be pressure to try harder to engage in disordered behaviour, which can lead to your de turning into an ed. I’d like to point out that de is getting more and more common in western/modern society. Some things that probably have contributed to this are sugar addiction, high accessibility of already prepared food, and snacking instead of eating regular meals, but I didn’t check any of that so don’t take that as anything but my own ramblings. Here are some examples of what disordered eating is like and how to differentiate it from a full blown ed:

experiencing anxiety about food/nutrition/your body on the daily basis (eds have this too)

disordered behaviour, for example, restricting, purging, binging, obsessing over nutrition, other abnormal eating habits (eds have this too)

 being able to take part in meals with others and act out normal behaviour most of the time, despite the extreme discomfort from the disordered thoughts (in eds, this ability is fading or completely removed)

being able to do things that go against your disordered thoughts most of the time, despite feeling extremely terrible about it (in eds, going against the disorder becomes near impossible)

being able to “switch it off” when needed, for example in order to keep it secret or to “take it easier for a bit” (in eds, there is no off switch, the disordered thoughts are constant and there’s no way around them)

being able to go on for long periods of time without really having that many disordered thoughts or without letting them bother you and hinder whatever you’re doing at the time (in eds, the disordered thoughts are intrusive, overwhelming, and they prevent you from doing unrelated things constantly)

I know this can be hard to hear for some, since the need and desire to get a full blown ed can be extremely strong. There’s no shame in that and I’ll tell you why. Your de isn’t helping you cope anymore and your life is overwhelming. Thanks to that bitch honeymoon phase, you know for a fact that this can help you feel better. The problem is however that it won’t help you, but you don’t have a lot of options, since you don’t know how to cope with your situation. The assumption is that you need to get even “better” at your thing in order to cope better again. It makes perfect sense, so don’t feel stupid for wanting for it to get even worse. For some it does, for other’s it don’t and we don’t know what exactly is that thing that makes the difference, but we all need help and new, better coping mechanisms, no matter if it’s de or a full blown ed we deal with. Disordered eating can be dangerous too and the discomfort alone is enough to start affecting you negatively. Further down I have written a list of stuff that you might experience from having disordered thoughts and engaging in disordered behaviour and a lot of what I will write about eds can ring familiar to you too. I’m not gonna talk more about disordered eating, but if you feel like you have it, I recommend looking more into it in order to understand it better.

So now let’s talk about eds. Ok so let’s say one day you get up to do something you were planning on doing, but suddenly you realize, you can’t do it. Your de prohibits you from doing something you wanted to do. And then it happens again. And again.

And AgAiN anD aGaiN. 

You’re out of the honeymoon and your ed has fully formed. The difference between an ed and de is the frequency and intensity of your obsession with food/your body. It’s starting to take up hours upon hours of your day to do everything that your ed asks you to do and the pain, sacrifices, shame and guilt, are just barely worth the tiny bit of relief you get when you perform your disordered behaviour. 

So by now some of you are getting malnourished. Now, being malnourished doesn’t mean you’re underweight, nor does it mean you haven’t eaten in two days. Being malnourished means you haven’t been getting proper nutrition in months. This can be because you don’t get enough calories in, you purge too much of your intake, or you are eating foods that don’t provide you with enough nutrition, such as eating only one or few things or not eating enough of something specific. You can be malnourished at any weight and you can be malnourished even if you eat multiple times a day or have some “good days” in between. Here’s what being malnourished might feel like:

You’re in a whole another world. It feels like other people aren’t even in the same universe as you

It can feel like everything’s a bit slow, even if days go by quickly, colours aren’t quite as bright as they used to be and sounds seem muted

Your work memory is so minimal that you’re having trouble getting through basic tasks without stopping to think about what you’re doing

You feel exhausted all the time, there’s no point in talking or doing anything, you just want to go lie down and even then you don’t feel like you’re resting

You’re either irritable or apathetic, rarely anything else

Even something as small as reaching for something feels like a task

You’re having trouble communicating your point to others and your point seems lost on yourself too

You’re having trouble following conversations and sometimes it feels like people are speaking gibberish and not real words at all.

Being malnourished is not fun, that I can tell you. It can sound similar to depression and those two usually go hand in hand. A lot of people with eds also have anxiety or depression and as we have already established earlier, other mental disorders play a part in your ed as well and equally, your ed might be making your other disorders worse.

Getting malnourished isn’t a requirement for an ed (or de) by no means and even if you aren’t malnourished, there are several physical symptoms you might get from the mere strain of having an ed (or de). Eds (and de) cause a lot of physical instability in your body, since your eating is disordered and you experience anxiety and stress over food/your body. Here are some physical symptoms you might experience from the continued stress alone (but trust me you probably are also malnourished):

digestive problems (constipation, diarrhea, bloating)

headaches, clenched teeth/tight jaw, neck and shoulder pains

hair loss, brittle nails, dry or irritated skin, dry mouth, bad breath despite dental hygiene

heart palpitations, a sudden sinking feeling in your chest

numbness in your limbs/shoulders, pain or weakness in your joints

excessive sweating, cold sweats, shaking/shivering for no apparent reason

irritability, fatigue, exhaustion, difficult to focus

insomnia or other sleep problems (too much, too little, not waking up feeling rested despite getting a good amount of hours in)

weakened immune system

So let’s talk about this stage itself, since we’ve been rambling about pretty much everything else. Suffering phase is pretty much what it sounds like. You’re just suffering. You’re not getting worse and worse and everything just kind of rots around you. You might be losing friends or hobbies, since your ed is making you avoid a lot of situations. You’re becoming isolated and you can’t really talk to anyone out of the fear they might intervene with your behaviour. Most of your day, if not every minute of it, is consumed by your ed and you have to keep on doing what you do, just to feel little less horrible. Here are some thoughts and feelings you might experience:

apathy over the loss of your other hobbies/interests/friends

increasing loneliness and isolation, yet you don’t want anyone to get close either

feelings of worthlessness, shame and guilt about yourself

disinterest in others, such as your friends, family, significant other

overwhelming and all-consuming disordered thoughts that get mixed into every situation, no matter if food is involved or not, making it impossible to focus on anything else most of the time

difficulty do handle anything unexpected or just mildly inconvenient without having to resort to your disordered behaviour for comfort

increasing fear, anxiety and discomfort

Suffering phase doesn’t have a time limit. It can go on forever. Some people die here, some keep coming back over and over again on endless repeat. Those with chronic eds stay here for years upon years. This is such a dark and miserable stage and while you’re in it, you might be so lost you don’t even realize to feel sadness for it. It can feel like there is no way out, there’s no way for you to ever recover, you don’t even want to recover, let alone try. I know it can feel like this is what you deserve and this is just how things are, but trust me, there is more stages to eds. It doesn’t have to end here. 

The next stage is just around the corner, you just gotta start eyeing it. It is so hard to shake anyone out of this phase and we all know by now that the will to recover has to come from the inside. You’ve got to start hoping for something better. I know for a fact that you can still get a new start and there’s a reset button a little further down the road. Just please, start thinking about things you’d like to do. Places you’d like to go. People you’d like to meet and the person you want to be. Whatever these things are, think about them and try to get that spark of hope going.

[kinglazrus]

DannyMay Day 1: Crossing

This is a chapter a day story for DannyMay 2019, each chapter will be based on a daily prompt to create a 31 chapter story. Full chapters are posted on FFN and Ao3, teasers will be posted on Tumblr. Special thanks to @faeroseghost for giving me some feedback on the first chapter!

Permanence

Description: Something's up with Danny. Blackouts, strange behaviour, and a growing emptiness that he can't explain. At least not to Tucker or Sam, but there may be one other person who can understand, as much as Danny hates it. But with the Observants on his tail, Freakshow on the run, and a mentor whose powers seem to be failing, Danny has much bigger things to worry about.

Chapter 1: Crossing

Danny feels empty. Not his normal kind of empty, from those nights when he looks up at the stars and that spark of excitement is missing, and in its place is something that isn't quite disinterest and is hardly hatred but is more like the stars don't matter because, well, what does?

He isn't sure if this is a bad empty or a good one. Is there even a good empty? Either way, this is a different kind. It’s the kind of empty you might feel walking through a school after hours, once everyone has gone home and all the lights are off. Except instead of walking through a hallway you're lying on the ground, and it's very cold, and it's raining, and you're pretty sure there's mud in your hair and is that blood under your fingernails or just more mud? You hope it's mud.

That's how Danny feels.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, wrinkling his nose. Underneath the smell of the rain—he thinks Sam called it petrichor once—there's something sharp. It stings his nose and throat when he breathes in and makes his headache flare.

Danny tries to sit up, but the whole world rebels against him as it tilts and spins, and he ends up face down in the mud. Slowly, he pushes himself up to his hands and knees and tries to get a good look at his surroundings. Everything is blurry and dark and his head is pounding, making it hard for him to focus. Looking around just makes him dizzier so he looks down instead, at his hands. He's not wearing gloves, his skin is human. Pale, but lacking the bluish tint of his ghost form.

His knuckles are bruised, the skin split. It's a minor injury he's intimately familiar with. He pats his chest, arms, legs. No other injuries. His clothes are rumpled, not torn, but his jacket is gone.

Damn. He really liked that jacket.

Focusing his gaze on one spot on the ground, Danny tries to lurch to his feet. Tries. He's about halfway up when his stomach twists and then he's on his knees again, vomiting. Nothing but bile and stomach acid comes out. After what feels like a solid ten minutes of dry heaving Danny gives up and collapses onto his side.

If he squints and focuses really hard, pushing through his headache and all the blurriness, he can see something tall, or at least taller than him when he's lying on the ground, and yellow. There's a lot of it, like a wall, but it's bending under the rain and wind. A field of... something. He struggles for a minute to remember what is tall, and yellow, and comes in a field, doing his best to ignore the throbbing headache.

Wheat. It's a wheat field. There aren't any wheat fields near Amity Park.

Danny groans. The cold must have been numbing the pain while he was unconscious, but now that his awareness is returning, he can feel every bruise across his aching body. He won't be surprised if, when he strips down to get changed later, his skin is painted blue and purple and that ugly yellow-brown from fresh bruises.

Curling up against the cold, Danny furrows his brow as he tries to remember what the hell just happened, but it keeps slipping through his fingers.

He blows on his hands, trying to warm them up, rubbing them together and tucking them under his arms. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to remember something vital.

Cryokinesis. Duh.

Danny's breath hitches, his headache flaring as he activates his ice powers. His vision sharpens and gets colder. That's really the only way he can describe it, as if he's staring through a thin veil of ice that almost looks like it isn't there, but it is, and everything is just a little bit bluer. If things could look cold, this would be it.

With his cryokinesis on the cold rain doesn't bother him as much, but it's a bit of a double-edged sword. It protects him, for now, but if he uses it too long then he'll really start freezing. But it gives him a couple hours, just long enough to rest his eyes. Maybe his headache will go away by then. Yeah, sleep sounds good. He can figure everything out afterward.

[marionetteblues]

the becoming of sirius black

i meant to post this yesterday in honour of a certain birthday, but the day got away for me so this is a day light and not beta-ed because it’s just a quick lil thing. enjoy! 

The large brim of the hat flaps over his eyes and Sirius goes blind. There is no breath left in him; he tries to gulp in some air, but his lungs fail to cooperate. The hat weighs a whole world on his head. He squeezes his eyes shut, fingers gripping the edge of the stool so tight they go numb. And he remembers.

Andy has always been his favourite.

This is his last chance to look at the family tree until he comes home for Christmas. His mother bustles around the kitchen, happier than Sirius has seen her in years. Or maybe happy isn’t the right word. She is alive.

She doesn’t grumble, nor does she use her eyes or her hands instead of her words to communicate. She speaks fluidly and clearly, telling him about the dormitory and his classes, asking him did he remember to bring his wand. When he comes downstairs for breakfast, woken up early by Kreacher, she even pinches his cheek with pride. He recoils a little, unaccustomed to such a gesture. But it makes his heart light and his stomach swoops a little. His mother smiles so rarely. Every one feels like he’s done something right.

She’s had Kreacher pack him some turkish delight for the train ride, and she tells him that they’ll be leaving for King’s Cross in a few minutes. So he takes the chance, and he runs to the portrait in the spare few minutes, this last opportunity she’s given him. And he stares.

There’s nothing but scorch marks where Andy’s face used to be, a big ugly mark where his mother had taken her wand to the tapestry. All that’s left of her is the tail end of her name in fine calligraphy, meda, the only proof in the house that she ever existed at all.

But she did. She does, Sirius corrects himself. She’s still Andy. She’s still softer around the edges than her older sister, warmer than her younger sister. She is calm and stillness in a family full of hurricanes. She used to tell Sirius jokes when she babysat him and Regulus, and she played games with him, and her smile was natural and came easily, and Sirius felt like he wasn’t so different from her. That if she was a part of this family, that was enough for Sirius to feel like he was the same as his family.

And now she’s gone. Married to a Mudblood, and what’s even more daunting to Sirius is the letter that Andy sent him. He has no clue how she got it to him, but she tells him she’s happy. And she tells him he deserves to be happy too. He’d never be able to reply to her, since his mother watches him write his letters over his shoulders, but he keeps it pressed into the bottom of his top drawer and he thinks and he thinks and he thinks and he feels like she’s reminding him that she’s like her but he doesn’t know what that means for him, for his future.

Because if Andy doesn’t belong, then what does that say about him? Of course, he always knew that Andy didn’t belong. Was she just telling him she believed the same about him?

But of course you belong in Slytherin, the hat croons, a tiny wry voice in his ear that makes his heart pound. It’s where your whole family is.

No, it’s not, Sirius thinks with conviction. Andy is still family. Even if he’s the only one he thinks so. Even if he can’t say her name in his own home. Even if everyone - including him - pretends that she isn’t.

He swallows, taking in a shaky breath.

The hat doesn’t stop.

You don’t want to lose your family, do you? it asks him, and Sirius shudders. Images flash through his mind - his mother’s cruel hand raised, his father’s disinterested, passive expression. His parents’ proud smile when they introduced him to other people. The lavish Christmas presents fit for a young man, not a boy. His father’s eye sparkling when his Hogwarts letter comes. His mother determination to pack him something special for his train ride. He ate every last piece of turkish delight. That means something, doesn’t it?

I don’t know, says the hat. Does it?

Sirius bites his lip, grateful that the hat covers most of his face, melting with relief that he doesn’t have to look out into the sea of faces watching him, the people he’ll spend seven years with. Who does he want them to be?

So, do you want to lose your family? the hat asks him again, and Sirius balls his fist at the tone of amusement. It’s a bloody hat, it shouldn’t be affecting him so much. He’s trembling.

No, he doesn’t want to lose his family. But he also doesn’t want his family to be the family he has. He doesn’t want to be alone. But with his family, he feels that way anyway.

But Regulus. The thought strikes him like a blow to the chest, and he reels backwards on the chair. He feels a gentle hand press to his shoulder, just for a short moment, Professor McGonagall keeping him steady on the chair.

Every time he’s been over this in the past weeks, he’s come back, again and again, to Regulus. Regulus is even quieter than Sirius is, but he’s gentle in a way. They both nod fervently when their parents start to spew about being in Slytherin or being pure of blood, hissing toujours purs at their young sons. But Sirius always thinks that maybe Regulus just nods because it’s easiest, the same way Sirius does. Maybe he doesn’t really feel what he’s agreeing to.

Maybe Sirius could go somewhere else, and endure, if not for Regulus.

You love your family, the hat remarks. You want to be loyal, even when you don’t feel it. Perhaps you are a Slytherin.

Sirius makes his mind blank, as best he can. Grips the stool, stares straight ahead into the black of the inside of the hat, and resolutely thinks nothing.

And then another voice enters his head. I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?

James Potter. He’s heard the name Potter thrown around once or twice - stricken from the Sacred Twenty-Eight because of their “obsession with Muggles”, as his mother puts it.

Sirius isn’t sure he would have sat with that boy if he’d known it was James Potter - or any Potter for that matter. But Sirius was tired of looking for a compartment, and there he was, sitting alone in his own compartment with an untroubled expression on his face, tucking into his own packed treats.

And when Sirius asked to sit down, he seemed so delighted. Leaned forward and started a conversation, asked Sirius was he excited to go, if he had Exploding Snap or if he wanted to play Chess. Said, “I’m James,” and held out his hand, and didn’t bat an eyelid when Sirius replied with his own name.

He just talked to him like he’d known him for years, and seemed so excited to do that - it was infectious, and within a couple of hours, Sirius was so relieved that he chose that compartment, that they were joined by two other boys, and for the first time he wasn’t marred with the notion that he didn’t fit in here. He just felt normal. And he liked it, more than he could say.

I thought you were alright, James remarked, although he didn’t look angry or turned off. He looked amused.

And Sirius heard himself say, “Maybe I’ll break the tradition,” and he couldn’t stop the smile that had split across his face, his muscles unfamiliar with the strength of it.

James Potter smiled a lot, so sure of himself, swinging around an invisible sword excitedly. It was absolutely contagious. Sirius never had that. James told him that he grew up mostly alone with his broomstick, so he was excited to finally have a friend.

The word rattled around his ribcage for a few moments. Friend. It sounded foreign to him. But it also sounded like a word he’d been waiting to hear James Potter say.

He sighs, and he realizes the hat has gone quiet, watching him play out his most recent memories, watching him think about the fierce protectiveness he’d felt when that slimy-haired boy had lashed out. Sirius isn’t even sure if he meant to insult James or Gryffindor, or both, but he knows he wasn’t able to stop himself from responding.

That boy will be in Slytherin. The girl, he’s not sure about, because she looked feisty and fierce and she had life in her eyes that the boy hadn’t. But the boy - Snivellus, the name makes him laugh - he’s going to be a Slytherin, he thinks, and his stomach lurches and twists and he almost keels over again because he felt such an intense dislike for that boy the moment he’d started talking back, and the idea of sharing a dorm with him and becoming his friend, it rubs Sirius the wrong way.

He tilts his head up, maybe trying to get a peek at his captive audience. He spots James Potter’s face, his eyebrows furrowed together as the silence drags on and on and finally breaks apart into hushed whispers, and Sirius sits there and thinks and remembers and wonders if maybe the hat will just tell him to go home if he can’t even figure out what he wants, but he’s so sure that he doesn’t belong at home, he’s so sure and he wasn’t until he sat down and put the bloody thing on his head, but he knows now, he knows, he knows, he knows it deep down and this is something he doesn’t just want, he needs it, needs to forget everyone else and do this for himself. Needs to be brave. And there’s really only one choice, especially when he catches Potter’s eye and thinks the word friend.

No, my boy, says the hat eventually. There’s no choice at all.

And then he shouts “GRYFFINDOR” and the last thing Sirius sees before he collapses into his seat, with a heavy sigh and his heart lighter than it’s ever been before, is James Potter’s elated face as he shouts and claps along with everyone else.