#nothing gets me cleaning like impotent rage

[angelswing236]

"Well, that worked out great."

Fictober 24 challenge

Fandom: Downton Abbey

Fanfiction

Seething with impotent rage, Tom kicked the small pile of spare tyres stacked at the back of the garage, almost welcoming the bone-shaking jolt that reverberated through his body.

‘Well, that worked out great,’ a familiar Mancunian voice drawled and he turned to see the tall figure of Thomas Barrow at the garage door, a cigarette clamped between his fingers.

‘What do you know about it?’ Tom growled, in no mood to deal with Thomas’s smartarse remarks.

‘Your big plan to humiliate the general? I know that you cocked it up royally and that it was a stupid plan in the first place.’

‘Why? It would have made a point, wouldn’t it?’

‘What point?’

‘That he and people like him can’t just waltz around ordering people about and expecting them to just do what they say,’ Branson spat.

Thomas laughed, amused by the naivety of Branson’s statement. ‘Of course, he can. That’s exactly what people like him and his lordship have been doing all their lives.’

‘It would have humiliated the British Army!’

‘You think the British Army cares about one mad Irishman throwing oil, ink, cow pat and – what else was it?’

‘Sour milk,’ Branson muttered, mutinously.

‘Ugh. Bet that stank,’ Thomas said, wrinkling his nose.

‘It was supposed to stink.’

‘Did you really think it would make a difference? The British Army has bigger fish to fry than you, Branson. I tell you what would have happened, shall I? They’d have charged you with aggravated bodily harm or something and slung you in prison. All you’d have achieved was to piss off a few people, including the poor sods who would have had to clean his uniform, the tablecloth, the carpet and the chairs. And for what? Nothing.’

‘At least it would have made the papers!’ Branson argued, hotly.

‘Made the papers? You’re off your head if you think your antics would have made the papers. You’d have been whisked away and banged up without so much as a peep of it getting into the papers. Bad for morale, you see. Same as telling people here just how awful it is out there is. Can’t have the truth about it all getting out, can we? Can’t be spoiling the great British public’s rose-tinted view of how bloody glorious it is to sit in inches of mud and water, your bowels turning to liquid when the guns start, wondering if this is the day you finally cop it.’

Branson stared at Thomas, thrown off balance by this sudden, unexpected glimpse into the last two years of his life.

‘Do you…’

‘What?’  Thomas snapped, embarrassed that he’d shared more than he’d intended.

‘Want to talk about it?’ Branson offered, awkwardly.

‘With you?’ Thomas sneered, looking down his nose at the chauffeur. ‘What would you know about any of it? Sitting pretty here on your arse in the sticks, safe as houses. No, I don’t want to talk about it.’

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, neither man knowing quite what to say.

‘Why did you want to throw slop over him anyway? What’s he ever done to you?’ Thomas eventually asked, sucking on his fag again.

‘He’s a symbol,’ Branson said, hesitating before adding, ‘The British Army killed my cousin. In the Rising in Dublin.’

Thomas cocked his head. ‘Hmmph. Well, they’ve killed a lot of people in this war. I scraped what felt like half of them up onto my stretcher for long enough.’

‘I wish I’d done it.’

‘Then you’re a silly bugger. You should have had a much better plan. I mean, for a start, why did you write a letter saying you were going to do something? That’s just stupid.’

‘I didn’t know Anna was going to read it, did I?’ Branson said, indignantly.

‘She couldn’t have read it if you hadn’t written it, though, could she?’ Thomas pointed out. ‘And why were you writing a letter to Lady Sybil anyway? Why do you think she’d care if you got carted off to prison?’

‘I didn’t want her to think badly of me,’ Branson said, flushing pink.

‘Sweet on her, are you?’

‘None of your bloody business!’

‘No, and she’s none of yours if you know what’s good for you. Carson will give you the old heave-ho if he thinks you’re fawning over one of the young ladies.’

‘I’m not fawning over her,’ Branson said, somewhat sulkily.

‘So, just out of interest, did you think this plan of yours up in two seconds flat while you were sitting on the lavvy?’ Thomas asked, curious to know how Branson came up with such a spectacularly stupid plan to humiliate the general.

‘No. I was polishing headlamps.’

‘Christ, I hope that’s not a euphemism,’ Thomas said with feeling.

‘I suppose you would have come up with something better, would you?’ Branson said, tetchily.

‘Too right, I would have. I would definitely have come up with something that didn’t immediately end up with me losing my job and getting banged up.’

‘What would you have done?’

‘Well, off the top of my head, given him something to give him the trots. Nobody respects a man who shits his britches in their dining room,’ Thomas replied, taking another drag on his cigarette. 'So, you’re not sacked, then?’

‘No. Mr Carson doesn’t want a fuss.’

‘Course, he doesn’t. A fuss is the worst thing Mr Carson can imagine. But you’ve had to promise not to play at silly buggers again, have you?’

‘Yes. And I’m not to let on to his lordship.’

Thomas snorted. ‘No, let’s not disturb his lordship’s peace. Heaven forbid. What about Lady Sybil?’

‘What about her?’ Branson asked, suspiciously.

‘Has he asked you why you chose to confess your dastardly deeds to her?’

‘No.’

‘Well, he still might, so make sure you have a reason that won’t set him frothing at the mouth.’

‘I will. Don’t worry about that.’

‘Hmmm. She’s all right, is Lady Sybil. Don’t you go causing trouble for her.’

‘I wouldn’t!’

‘Make sure you don’t. Or it won’t just be Mr Carson you have to worry about.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning keep your mitts and your lustful thoughts to yourself, Branson. She’s one of my nurses now, so stay away.’

Tom bristled, kicking himself for writing that note to Sybil. If he’d jeopardised their fledgling relationship, he’d never forgive himself.

Thomas took a final drag of his cigarette before crushing it beneath his boot heel. ‘Right. I’m off. Try not to do anything stupid between now and breakfast.’

‘Get lost, Thomas,’ Tom said, irritably.

Thomas smirked and headed back to his small kingdom.

[alta1r1an]

Commander Sid (Altair did a write!)

So, I asked a bit ago what to write about. And people mentioned the part where you figure out it was Rytlock that let out the big bad! and so I did!

So I present: a thoughtful night (my doc for this was called 'mr Tribune's Fucky wucky"

‘We lost Vlast for nothing’ 

That was the thought on Sid’s mind as he walked back into Dragon's Watch temporary campsite. Night had settled in a while ago. He had been busy scouring the Highlands for Vlast's crystals. To try and figure out something about Vlast. Answer questions like: “What was he like? What did he want? Could he have helped us?” 

None of the answers mattered now. Vlast's life was snuffed out before he ever reached the point they raised him for. Now all Sid, the commander, knew was that Vlast was lonely. And that he was a brother who longed to meet his sister, the only peer he as a dragon might ever have to shoulder the burden placed on him by birth. 

And now neither him or Aurene would ever get to meet. 

With soft practiced footfalls Sid entered the camp again. At this time of night no one was awake. No one except for the night's watch. Four ears flick in his direction as Sid purposefully makes a noisy step to announce himself. The weary Tribune turns his head, his usual practiced demeanour missing. 

‘he looks tired, more than normal’ Sid thinks to himself. 

“Cub.” 

“Tribune” 

The use of title was not lost on Rytlock, his ears drooped a bit at being kept at arm's length. 

Sid sat down next to the Charr. They sat for a while. Not saying anything, just looking into the glow of the remaining embers of their dying campfire. Sid looked at Rytlock under his hood, the Charr looked tense. It was odd to see him without his usual swagger. Rytlock usually wielded feigned indifference as well as he would a sharp blade. 

“Cub I... I messed up” 

The commander scoffed. “You think?” 

“Look, I didn't know! The sword- Sohothin, it was important.” 

“Important enough to damn the consequences?” 

Rytlock looked away. He took a deep breath and spoke again, dejected. “I needed it. The Charr need to cleanse the foefire” 

“Is that all you need it for?” 

“Yes” the Tribune lied. It was evident from the uncomfortable flick of his tail and how he insisted on looking at the stars. Rytlock wasn’t a stargazer.  

Sid sighed, he took his rifle from his back and laid it out in his lap. He got to work on dismantling it, both to clean it and to reinforce the cursed shadow magic that was woven through it. They sat in more silence. Sid wouldnt've called it uncomfortable, Rytlock was about ready to crawl up a tree. 

“You could have told me.” 

He got started on the process of reassembling his rifle. He figured he should be angry, but he wasn’t. Anger was an impotent feeling, his ability to truly feel rage had mostly burned out on the streets as an orphan.  

“And yet you didn't. And I got blindsided by something that could have killed me, or our friends, and has been killing many people” 

Rytlock finally looked back. “But. It didn't, and that means I get to help you fix it. Fix all of this” 

A paw reached up to fiddle with the braids in his beard. it was an odd sight to the thief to see Rytlock have a nervous habit. 

“...I'll make it right.” 

The rifle was finally reassembled, and Sid got up. He didn’t say anything to Rytlock other than look at him from under his hood. Then he went to his tent, leaving the Tribune alone. 

Rytlock wasn't a stargazer. But he looked up anyway, the lights of the night sky making the quiet of the desert a bit more bearable. 

[girlscience]

had a bit of a meltdown about the state of the world and people in my life. don't feel like you have to read this. it was written while crying so it's a bit all over the place and i have mixed feelings about parts of it because it feels like excuses for not being better. but. it is what it is.

I realized tonight why I have been obsessed over superhero's recently. It's because they can do something. They have power and eloquence. They can stop terrible things, prevent horrific evil, they can protect people, they speak and people listen. I can't do any of that.

I once listened to my mother advocate for the genocide of an entire people group so jesus would come back sooner.

I hated christopher columbus before I even knew what genocide was. I hated him with a vitriol that made no sense to my family. It was the anger of a child who didn't know who to be angry at, and so directed it towards the figure they were told started it all. My family ridiculed me for it.

I give money to people on the street and online. I donate to groups getting clean water to people, to groups stopping pipelines, to doctors, anyone I see asking for it, as much as I can. I get told to stop. I get told it's wrong. I get told they will just use it for bad things. That they don't need it. That it's a scam. That I should give my money to a church. To god.

I get told I'm too sympathetic. I'm too nice.

I can't do anything. I Can't Do Anything. I CANT DO ANYTHING.

my rage and grief and sympathy and kindness mean nothing. my efforts mean nothing. and no one cares. my family doesn't listen. i can't make them listen. i can't make my friends parents listen to them. i can't make my representatives listen. i am not a fighter. i can't blow up boeing. i can't kill the people killing everyone.

i sit here and watch. cause that's all i can do. i make myself look. i vividly remember the moment i realized it was important to watch. it was years and years ago during a really stupid nerd movie, but i've refused to look away since. not once i know something is happening. and my parents ridicule me for that every single time i say anything about what is happening in the world. i get told if it upsets me that much i shouldn't look. i get told the news is too depressing to watch. i get told i'm no fun. i am made to feel i am hurting their feelings.

i sit through conversation after conversation about protests and racism and lgbtq and religion and the environment. it doesn't matter whether i talk or not. nothing i say makes them pause. makes them stop. makes them think. why can't they see that they are talking about people? why don't they care??? how can they not care????

i feel so impotent all the time. i walk through my life constantly feeling i am failing. i'm not doing enough. i'm not saying enough. i'm not sharing enough. i'm not helping enough. and they don't give a shit. how? how can they let this happen? over and over and over again? how are they okay with it? how is it not destroying them from the inside out? how are they not constantly filled with a rage and grief so deep it is suffocating? how are they FINE?

i am not. i don't know how i could be. why can't i do anything?

[fangirleaconmigo]

Eskel is wounded in a hunt, and no one in the three towns he passes on his way back to Kaer Morhen will give him aid.

Geralt has a bit of a breakdown about it.

This is Eskel x Geralt hurt/comfort fic. You can also read it as x Lambert, but that isn't explicitly defined, as this focuses on Geralt mostly. But they obviously all love each other.

About 2500 words. Rated Teen I guess? Not explicit. Now beta’ed and posted on AO3.

------

Rage pressed out from Geralt’s chest cavity, like bony fingers clawing an escape. Freezing wind whipped his hair into his eyes. He growled in frustration and shook his head to clear his vision. He brought the sledgehammer down on the last remnants of the shed. It cracked and threw splinters into the furious wind.

A throat made a scraping sound behind Geralt. He jerked in surprise, and whipped around, eyes still wild.

“Hate to interrupt, but he’s asking for you.”

Lambert looked comfortable, as though he had been leaning against the tree for an age. Geralt dropped the hammer.

“Oh.” He looked around the wreckage of the perfectly good structure that he had spent a week building. The scrapes on his knuckles and the rips in his trousers told the story of his outburst, if the ruined shed hadn’t done so. “Fuck. How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.”

Geralt pushed his hair out of his face with fingers that were unsteady and still unsure of why they no longer gripped the handle of a hammer. Then he rubbed his eyes.

“Take a breath, big guy,” said Lambert.

Geralt’s body instinctively obeyed, and his chest expanded as he pulled in a deep breath. What he had done was setting in. “Why didn’t you stop me, then?”

Geralt knew it wasn’t Lambert’s job to stop him from having mental breakdowns, but he felt defensive. He had given himself one brief moment of self indulgence, and all of this rage had just roared into being. The thought that he didn’t actually know what was inside the yawning chasm of his own heart was terrifying.

It was also embarrassing.

“We all need to let it out sometimes.” Lambert shrugged.

Geralt began to realize how cold he was, and therefore how freezing cold Lambert must be.

“Sorry. I’m an idiot.”

“Ah,” Lambert said easily, dismissing him out of hand. “It’s a relief to see someone else in this family admit to how fucked up it all is.”

Lambert did look relieved. There was recognition in his face. Kinship. Geralt felt a twinge of guilt. How lonely he must feel sometimes.

“How do you handle this? How do you get rid of it? It feels like shit.”

Lambert pressed the inside of his cheek with his tongue as he considered the question. “Being an asshole helps sometimes. Revenge is good. But don’t take my word for it, I’m not the model of fitting witcher behavior.” The last three words were said in a mimicry of Vesemir’s voice. He held both hands up in a sarcastic surrender.

Geralt thought for a moment. Lambert allowed the silence to stretch out between them.

“I know the new cleric down in Ard Carraigh has been working people up, turning them against us. It’s made everything worse,” said Geralt. The gut wrenching image of Eskel bleeding, gasping, and cradling his split open wound as town after town turned him away, blazed to life again in his mind’s eye. He clenched both fists. “It didn’t have to be that way. If only one of those motherfuckers, if only one of them had helped him...he almost...he almost died.” Geralt spat the final word and when he did, he could feel hot tears prickling his eyes.

“I know,” said Lambert. “Believe me I know. But he wants to see you, and you can’t go in there like this. Breathe.”

Geralt nodded and breathed again.

“How’s this?” offered Lambert, “If you don’t come to your senses by the time the snow melts, I promise I’ll help you come up with a really good way to fuck with that self righteous piece of shit in Ard Carraigh.”

Geralt laughed airily. “Yeah, alright.” He put his hands on his hips and waited for his thudding heart to settle.

Lambert’s eyes lit up with glee. “Really?”

Geralt nodded. “Really.”

“Alright. Now come on.” Lambert began walking towards the keep, and beckoned for him to keep pace.

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

Geralt washed his hands and cleaned his cuts. Then he changed into fresh clothes and let himself into Eskel’s room with the soft creak of a door.

Eskel lay in bed with his eyes closed. It was a large bed, piled with just about every spare quilt they had been able to find. A neat bandage was wrapped around Eskel’s stomach. Vesemir had done it as Geralt cursed himself for his shaking hands. Eskel was a shade more pale than his usual warm brown. He looked drained, of blood and of energy. The lines of his face were slack, and his hands rested with fingers laced across his chest.

The sight of him provoked a tangle of emotions in Geralt. The usual feeling gripped him of course...the one he felt whenever he saw Eskel’s familiar face...the full lips that melted him to a large helpless puddle whenever they smiled or kissed him....the round, solid shoulders that were the best place on the continent to lay your head. That bit wasn’t a mystery. It was just love. That was the most natural thing in the world for Geralt to feel for Eskel.

But the soft pink suggestion of blood beneath the white cloth kindled a very different feeling. That was the rage. Still there. There were probably not enough structures on the continent for him to destroy to sate it. Also, the slight puffiness in Eskel’s skin surrounding the bandage implied a nascent infection they would have to continue to fight off. That provoked a feeling of powerlessness that threatened to shatter him from the inside out. It intertwined with the desperation to kiss his soft stomach...to make it better somehow.

But he couldn’t make it better. He couldn’t heal him. He couldn’t protect him. He couldn’t do anything at all but be angry and fucking useless. Impotent, helpless, and fucking useless.

What good was it? He thought. What good was love, if no matter the degree of its ferocity, it would never be enough to protect the ones you loved?

For a moment he truly glimpsed the reality of his powerlessness, paired with the vulnerability of Eskel’s flesh. His body. His heart. It could just stop beating, and there would be nothing Geralt could do to help it. The breath sucked from his body, and he swayed, dizzy on his feet.

Eskel opened his eyes, and as he focused on Geralt, he blinked at the look of anguish on his face.

“Hey, wolf. Hey. I’m good. I’m here. C’mere.” He tried to lift an arm to beckon him to bed, but he winced.

His voice was soft and gentle, as though Geralt were the wounded one. That broke the spell of despair gripping him, and he rushed to Eskel’s side. He sat down gingerly next to him on the bed. Eskel leaned his head into Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt situated himself so he could wrap his arms around Eskel’s shoulders, and he dropped a kiss onto the top of his head.

Eskel made a noise of contentment. They sat there for a short moment, breathing together in the quiet room.

“Hey,” said Eskel. He looked up, concerned.

“What?” Geralt asked.

“Hey!” Eskel sat up and unwound Geralt’s arms from his shoulders. He squeezed Geralt’s hands in his. “You’re trembling. What’s going on? What are these scrapes from? Are you hurt?”

Geralt snorted and gently pulled his hands back, tucking them at his side. He was too much of a mess to hide his little breakdown. He would have to explain just a bit. “No. You’re the one that’s hurt. I’m fine. Just. You know. I hate...I hate seeing you hurt.”

Eskel tilted his head. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt.”

Eskel looked at him quizzically, and dug Geralt's hands back from his sides and clasped them again. He swept his thumb gently below his injured knuckles.

“This is our job, Geralt. Our life. We’ve been doing it for almost eighty years.”

Geralt swallowed. It was true. He felt ridiculous, of course. And defensive. Like he needed to explain himself.

“I know. I know.” He thought of why this was different. But it really wasn’t. Factually, this was just another hunt. Another instance of humans treating them like garbage. He shouldn’t care anymore. And yet? “And most of the time,” he pressed ahead, “I don’t notice. Wounds. Dressings. Combat. The sun rises, the sun sets. It is what it is. I tell myself that all the time. Why worry about something you can’t change?”

Eskel touched a stray bit of Geralt’s hair and tucked it behind his ear. “Then what? What was different about this one?”

He sounded so gentle. He was always so gentle. Geralt couldn’t bear it sometimes.

“Nothing,” he choked out. “There was nothing different about it. It’s just that sometimes...” he leaned back against the bedframe and looked at the ceiling. He just couldn’t look at Eskel right now. “Sometimes I look at you,” he continued haltingly, “and I see the bruises. I see the wounds.”

“You don’t usually see them?” Eskel was teasing him lightly, trying to make him smile.

“Not really. They’re just things to fix. Things to bandage. Things to watch disappear and then on to the next hunt.” He was silent for a good long stretch. Eskel didn’t fill it. He just brushed the palms of his hand and waited. “But then. Every once in a while, I see them for what they are. They are things and people who hurt you. Who stood there, and fucking hurt you. Who saw you as a thing to hurt. And I want to burn down the whole world.”

He pretended that he didn't notice the tear the slid down his cheek.

He finally looked at Eskel, who was sitting up now and watching him intently, with a complicated look on his face.

“Geralt. I’m fine.”

Geralt looked away again, dragging his arm across his face to dry it. “But you almost weren’t.” His voice insisted on breaking, against his will. He cleared his throat. “You could have died. And why? Because no one in three towns would help you? People who you’ve helped countless times??” He felt the thudding rage threaten to swell again like the first ripples of a tsunami.

“Geralt,” Eskel touched his chin. Geralt turned, and was rewarded with a soft look and a kiss. “I don’t have your pretty face, wolf. Even if I weren’t a witcher, they would react the way they do.”

Geralt knew it was true. Eskel’s looming size. His voice. The way his eyes seemed to glow. The scars. All things he loved. But not everyone else did. He clenched his fists. “Idiots.”

Eskel loosened his fingers and clasped them again. “It’s been ages since I got the scars. I’m used to it.”

“Yeah well. You shouldn’t have to be,” hissed Geralt. “Sometimes,” he remembered Lambert’s voice telling him to breathe, so he did. Eskel watched him with concern and something else. Affection. That was it. “Sometimes," Geralt tried again. “I just want you to have the gentle life that you deserve.”

And there it was. As sensible, as strong as Geralt tried to be...as he was, sometimes he was like a little child stamping about how unfair the world was. How he wished it were different. Ridiculous. Fucking stupid.

He waited for Eskel to tell him again that he was fine. To be practical, like he always was. To tell him that it was better than what a lot of people got. That most of the time, he liked being a witcher. That he was good at it. Eskel was like that. Even. Solid. Where Lambert wanted to punch destiny in its smug face, and Geralt hid from the spiteful bitch, Eskel just rode it. Like a ship on a wave. Sometimes he and Lambert resented his ability to do that.

But Eskel didn’t do any of that. He looked at Geralt, and his expression was so raw that Geralt was taken aback. And he was taken back. That was a look he hadn’t seen in many years. It wiped about seventy years away from Eskel’s face. Geralt was transported to this same room. But instead of a large bed, there were two bunkbeds. And instead of two grizzled witchers, there were two small, hopeful, frightened boys, who loved without wariness. Without skepticism. Without doubts.

Eskel pulled his hands to his lips and kissed each knuckle softly, in turn.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice husky.

Geralt shook his head. “Ah, for what? Me being angry doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t help you heal faster.”

“You don’t know that. It might.”

Eskel patted the blanket covering him. “Crawl in with me wolf. We’ll huddle together until it passes.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched into the hint of a smile despite himself. It was what Eskel used to say when Geralt had nightmares and he would stand stupidly around Eskel’s bed, hoping to be invited in. Geralt had always made up some excuse to accept his kindness. Something that wouldn’t be interpreted as weakness.

“Alright, but only because I want to keep you safe.”

Eskel grinned his lopsided, perfect grin. “I feel safer already.” That was what he used to say. Even as a child he knew how to respond to Geralt. How to handle his pride and his need to be the hero.

Geralt slid under the covers, still fully clothed. He laid his head on Eskel’s shoulder and gingerly draped his arm across his chest, avoiding his injury. With his free hand, Eskel turned his chin to face him.

They kissed, slow and unhurried. Geralt barely pressed against his lips, his fingers ghosting Eskel’s cheek. They could have kissed for a minute, or an hour, or a day. Geralt lost track of time, love settling in his chest and chasing away the rage and the fear. He could also hear Eskel’s pulse growing more steady. He could see that some color had already returned to his cheeks.

Maybe he wasn’t so useless after all.

Then, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Eskel called.

Lambert swung open the door and stood there with a shit eating grin. “Did Geralt tell you we’re gonna go down to Ard Carraigh and really stick it to some piece of shit priest? We’re gonna work out how to make him really suffer.”

Eskel raised his eyebrows and turned to Geralt.

Geralt shrugged. “I’m not saying I won’t.”

Lambert laughed and took stock of the two of them. “Look at you. Two bugs snug in a rug.”

“Come on,” said Eskel. “You too.” He patted the bed on the other side of him. Lambert’s grin stretched wider and he clambered in, pressing up against Eskel, warming himself with relish. He reminded Geralt of a blissed out lizard sunning himself on a rock. Eskel managed to turn enough to plant a kiss on Lambert’s cheek.

Lambert made that noise he always made when he loved something but didn’t want to admit it. It was like a combination of a snort and a laugh.

And when Vesemir came into the room in the morning to check Eskel’s dressing, he found them all asleep side by side.

He chuckled and watched them for a moment as they drooled and snored against one other.

The remaining Kaer Morhen wolves, together.

It was as it should be, how it always was, and how it would ever be.

They needed each other, after all.

[cupcakemolotov]

My Only Love: Part 2

Well, ages later, and I managed this.

When Stefan and Damon find a coffin holding an original, they hope they find an ally. They find Caroline instead. Part 1 on A03

Warnings: Alternate Universe; Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; original!caroline; hybrid!Klaus;Canon-Typical Violence; Blood Drinking; Blood and Gore; Character Death (Not OTP); Not Salvatore Friendly; Biting; No Smut Yet

                                                       -

Skirts and nails and lips bloody, her left hand curled carefully around the strange device she had plucked from Stefan’s hand the same way she’d taken his secrets, Caroline swept out of the dank and dreary basement to find just how the world had changed. A hundred years surely had more than one fascinating new thing to marvel at, and she wanted it all. 

But mostly she wanted her husband.

It was unfortunate that the house was both astonishing and an utter disappointment. The windows were boarded, and the time-worn furniture and fading curtains were as alien to her as the wide expanse of the rooms. There were no gas lamps or candles here, but strange and delicate things made from blown glass that hung from the ceiling and turned the room nearly noon bright. Some of it was tacky, the colors were atrocious and who picked out those chairs? 

Did this modern work not believe in pretty yet comfortable? She was quite certain Klaus had insisted on owning a set of chairs just like those in the 1800s and she hadn’t liked them then either. And what was that fabric?

What kind of place had she been put away to rot?

Outside, she could feel the burn if the sun and frustration clawed at her. When her father-in-law had left her to rot, he’d taken everything he could. Her daylight ring, the pretty jewelry Klaus had gifted her the morning of her abduction, her favorite hair combs. But right then it was the lack of daylight ring she raged at the most. 

Caroline stared at what looked to be the front door with impotent longing. Somewhere out there was Klaus, free from the machinations of father who had hunted him all her life and she wanted to see what changes that freedom had wrought, to taste the triumph from his tongue. To feel him beneath her hands, to know they were free. 

It'd only been a handful of hours to her memories since she’d seen him last, but she could feel the ache of centuries in her bones. The lack of the man who had stood with his hand curved around hers for all the years of her life. Her nails dug into her palms, gouging little half moons, and she took a slow breath. 

Klaus has broken his curse. Mikael was dead, and she knew her husband was hunting for her with the same need that sat in her bones. He’d come to her as soon as he knew she was awake. She’d woken in a world where they’d won. Her lips curved as she recalled Stefan’s words, the angry, bitter pill of her husband’s triumphs clear in his gaze. Below her, she could hear him grieving, the death of brother the song that would usher her into this new existence.

It was fitting she decided, for this young vampire who wished to destroy Klaus to understand the pain he wished her to suffer. He’d wanted her family destroyed, and instead sacrificed his own. She’d leave him that agony for a while yet, her compulsion ensuring he would stay where he was, keeping the cooling corpse of his brother company. Right then, she had something far more important to do. 

Carefully, she wiped her fingers clean on the skirt of her dress, mourning the ruined fabric of it even though it was already liberally covered in blood. Stefan had carried no handkerchief to offer her and she had no wish to search the house for something more suitable to wipe her hands on. She’d already seen more than enough of this place, and wished nothing to delay her husband finding her. 

Hands mostly clean, she considered the smooth shape of what Stefan had told her was a phone in her hand. A strange, modern device that connected people's voices to voice, sometimes face to face. A wonderful little thing that would bring Klaus to her, when the sun was high in the sky and she had no way to go to him. 

It was fascinating. Stefan’s explanation of how to use it and just how radio signals worked had been quite poor, when she wished to know every facet of the device. What kind of world had it become that such fascinating technology should be so badly understood by those who used it? 

Klaus would help her learn. 

For a moment, her finger hovered over the strange cover, this screen and she let herself wish this reunion would happen when she was a little more composed. A hundred years, and she was dressed in a relic of the past, dust covered and splattered with gore. The gore bothered her less than the dust, the ancient wrinkles she had no way to improve. And what was the point? She planned, hoped to be quite naked very soon. 

Pushing aside that niggling vanity, she carefully copied the motions Stefan had shown her to work the phone. Thankfully, English itself hadn’t seemed to have gone through so many changes it was completely unrecognizable, the shape and form of letters familiar even if utterly strange in this… digital format. First, the odd thing he’d called a passcode. Then she found the green box at the bottom with the strange symbol, followed by recent calls. 

There it was. His name. Klaus. 

Such a simple thing, such a lifetime of need. 

Pressing his name, her brows drew down sharply as nothing happened. Muttering under her breath a number of curses at incompetent things, she carefully prodded the screen until something changed. An unexpected jolt of noise startled her, a loud sound that she supposed was ringing. She was going to have to have so much to catch up on.

“Stefan, rethought my offer?”

The sound of Klaus’ voice, so clear and with that soft mix of charm and menace she knew so well, unexpectedly clogged her throat. Fingers flying to her mouth, Caroline swallowed hard. It was one thing to hear that her husband had triumphed, but it was another to hear his voice. To viscerally know that he was alive and if she could just get her voice to work, he’d be here. 

“Klaus.” The single word came out rough. There was a sudden, fraught silence, and she wondered if the blasted device had stopped working.

“Who is this?” Klaus’ voice was sharp, dangerously bladed, and her eyes narrowed at the threat she could hear beneath his words. 

“I am told,” she said in tones that had cooled considerably. “That you should be able to understand me as easily as I understand you. If you require an introduction to your wife, century between us or not, I am going to be very displeased, Klaus Mikaelson.”

Behind him, there was a crash, a noise that sounded like bone breaking. Her brows furrowed, ears straining to catch any hint of sound. “What was that?”

“Caroline.” Her name was clipped, a thousand things she couldn’t understand in his voice. “Where are you”?

Spine snapping taut in irritation at the blatant order in his voice, the way he ignored her question, her fingers tightened on the screen. “I believe the vampire Stefan called it a boarding house?”

“Stay there.”

Her jaw dropped as there was sudden silence, the screen changing to once again and it occurred to her that he was no longer listening to her. The screen cracked beneath her grip, and she tossed it away. Clearly her husband had forgotten a thing or two in the intervening years such as her dislike of rudeness.

Stay there. 

As if she was a minion. 

As if they hadn’t seen each other in decades and decades. Blowing out a slow breath, she wrangled her temper. He certainly knew where she was but had given her no indication how long it would take him to reach her. Maybe she should head back downstairs and entertain herself with Stefan until he arrived. 

Debating, she blinked when outside, there was a noise, a blur of movement, and then the door opened with a wrench that nearly removed the door from its hinges. Her breath hitched in her throat, and Klaus stared at her from the perimeter of the room, eyes hotly yellow. 

His hair was shorn shorter than she’d ever seen it, the cut and make of his clothing as strange and foreign as the wolf in his eyes. But she knew him down to her bones, and she took half a step towards him without thought. But when he continued to just stare at her, to watch her with a carefully set expression, her remembered annoyance sprang to the surface. 

Hand sliding to her hip, Caroline stopped moving and narrowed her eyes. Temper and the smallest bit of hurt turned her voice hard. “I cannot believe the very first thing you're making me do after being released from that box is remind you that I am not…”

His face lost its passiveness, something vibrant and wild crossing his face before the distance between them disappeared with the curve of his palm on her jaw, and the press of his mouth, firm and plush and wanting, swallowed her complaint. Hands grasping for the feel of his shoulders, his spine, she pressed back with the same gasping need he always elicited in her, teeth sinking into his lip as both a need to taste and a chastisement for his behavior. He groaned against her mouth, tongue chasing hers as she slicked along the blood, and her head spun as he tangled himself in her skirts as they staggered backwards. 

His palm pressed against the back of her skull as he pressed close and her spine hit the wall, so close that hip, thigh and stomach were all one line of burning contact even with her skirts and his clothes between them. There was nothing passive in his touch or kiss as they let mouths and hands roam, and she dug in with her nails, demanding more. 

When he pulled back, lingering so they breathed heavily against each other’s mouths, his hand left her face to cup her hip, pulling her even closer. His gaze flickered down the line of her chest, to the blood splattered material that was both his and the other vampires, and his mouth curved slow and pleased before returning to her face. When he spoke, his voice was low and raspy, a thousand benedictions behind his eyes.

“Caroline.”

[desi-lgbt-fest]

Day 5: Platonic

A story I wrote for today's prompt. It's a story about two middle aged men realising the happiness they want can come in many different forms.

1. 8 k words.

Cw: Mild homophobia. Incorrect language. It's indicative of character's understanding, not mine.

...

When Vikram Kumar first transferred to their branch, Nath wasn't impressed. Theirs was a small transport company, still somehow holding on against the giants of the industry. They were doing well for themselves; they had branches in few neighbouring states where the business was concentrated. And yeah, the company policy does state that employees should get transferred around every 4 years or so. But that never really happened. Nath had been working at Gada transport ltd for more than 25 years now and the only way anybody new ever came in the office was if someone died or retired.

That was what had happened. Another clerk, Nisha Bhagwan, had a heart attack at the computer and in came Vikram Kumar, a transfer from Nagpur. The office people took to him like animals take to the new clown at the circus. Nobody was really sad about Mrs Bhagwan's passing. She was old and in an office full of other old people, they were just waiting for the hat to drop on someone. Better Mrs Bhagwan than us.

They inquired after him, after his family, his mother's family, his neighbour's family, his neighbour's dog's family. When they found out that he was divorced and currently living in a sketchy hotel, they immediately turned to Nath.

Nath, or Adinath, as his name was, owned two flats in his society. Two flats side by side, one in which he lived. He very famously refused to rent it out to families or students or single women. Which meant, he never really rented it out. It actually quite suited to his own solitary silent life. But he regretted boasting about it in the office because here came his perfect rent.

"I- uh. The apartment is very dirty and I'd have to clean it," he started making excuses.

Vikram Kumar shrugged. "I don't mind. Better than listening to the sex noises coming from the side wall." Raucous laughter emerged, unhampered by the fact that their only woman employee wasn't there anymore.

Nath couldn't say no.

Vikram Kumar did turn out to be an ideal renter. He was silent. No guests. Rent, which Nath had kept a little high to dissuade, always on time. Sometimes old hindi songs drifted from his flat but Nath didn't mind. As his novelty wore off and office people stopped fawning over him, Nath did find himself to be quite okay with Vikram Kumar's existence.

A distinct mark in his favour was that he didn't laugh when at their regular chai break (5 minute break that always turned into a 45 minute one) the others made him familiar with Nath's title as the resident Bramhachari.

"Never married, never looks at a woman," Bhosle, their manager remarked.

"Hey you remember that time when that bombshell came in complaining about some lost package? Nath did not even look away from her face."

"Pakka gentleman, I tell you. He's not the customer complaint manager for nothing."

Everybody guffawed. Nath gave his regular pained smile. Vikram Kumar smiled back. For a moment, Nath thought it was a smile of understanding.

Eventually, Nath started offering Vikram Kumar a ride home on his ancient scooter. He obliged. When the ride turned regular, Vikram Kumar started contributing for petrol. Another mark in his favour.

13 months later, Vivek Chand, accountant, retired. In came a new hire, Ashalata Waad.

Suddenly many colleagues started turning up in pressed shirts and oiled hair. Nath merely shook his head and laughed at their preening. It was their colleagues' turn to laugh when Ms. Ashalata, recently widowed, took to Nath. Furtive smiles. Sympathy over dealing with difficult clients. Nath of course did not notice. But the other colleagues did. And out of sympathy for Ms Ashalata's feelings, they gently took her to a side after a week or so and directed her towards someone more likely to respond; the new divorcee, Vikram Kumar.

That, Nath certainly noticed.

That evening, Nath left without offering a ride to him.

Next morning, everyone noticed the distinct coldness between Ms Ashalata and Vikram Kumar. It was a long day too. Some trouble with licensing of a large shipment, everybody had to stay behind. It was well over 8 when people started leaving. Vikram came over to Nath's desk and tapped on it.

"I don't think this late I will find a riksha like yesterday. Will you please give a ride home?"

Nath sighed. He wasn't petty after all. Well, not much.

The streets were near empty. Theirs was a small town. One that eats at 8 and sleeps at 10. Nath's scooter cut through the silence and the sickly orange lights of the streetlamps like an interloper. They were crossing the Hutatma Chauk when Vikram asked him to stop.

"What for?"

"It was a long and stressful day. I wanted us a relax a bit at the park bench before we go home."

"I'm not going-"

"Please yaar."

Nath sighed.

Stopping the scooter at side, they both walked to the circle where statue of some forgotten freedom fighter stood, benches around it. Surprisingly, there were some people ambling around. Old couples taking a rest from nightly walk. A group of youngsters.

After having the sound of scooter in the ears for past five minutes, the sudden silence was deafening.

"I don't think Ms Waad would be talking to me again," Vikram Kumar started without preamble, a laughter in his voice.

Nath sighed and ran a hand through in thin hair. "You didn't do any-"

"No no, oh god no! I just said I'm not interested. I think that was enough for her to be offended."

"She's not your type?" he probed gently, curious.

Vikram was silent for a moment and then burst out with sudden emotion, "Why does it matter? Why one single woman and one single man can not stay without having an affair? Ye saala bollywood-" Nath hushed him, noticing the people around.

"Sorry." Vikram said, taking a deep breath to calm himself down.

"I get it. Years ago, when I told my father I was gay-"

"You're what??"

Nath felt like he made a tremendous mistake in judgement. But he was a grown man dammit, he will hold his ground!

"I said I am gay." Nath held his gaze. Vikram Kumar stared back, unknown range of emotions passing. Eventually he broke the gaze, ran a hand through his own balding hair and sat back.

He shook his head. "I am not gay, if that's why you-"

"That wasn't-"

"I'm NOT. I like women. I- I mean men are good too. I. I don't-"

Nath couldn't help it. He broke into a loud laugh. Like Vikram had performed some excellent comedy sketch.

Vikram punched him lightly on his shoulder, a smile evident on his face.

"I just meant, men, women. All are same to me. Honestly, I didn't mind being married to Sheela. I provided for her, I cared for her wellbeing. Our.. bedroom relations were less ideal but I didn't shut her out. I did my duty."

"I'm guessing she wanted someone who didn't see her as a duty?"

Vikram shrugged. "She was nice about it. Told me plain and simple she found someone else. We didn't have kids. It was easy. Well. As easy as it could be. She told the court I was impotent for swift divorce. I agreed. It caused drama in families though, which is why I asked for a transfer."

"Mrs Bhagwan died at a really opportune moment then."

They both shared a laugh and things fell silent once again.

"So you are... one of those," Vikram tried to say casually.

The elderly couple had left. A newly wed looking one took their place. Nath suddenly felt he was thrown back in time.

"I don't have much family," he started. "Mother died when I was young. Theirs was a love marriage, quite unusual for the times. They had run away and so had lost their families. My father raised me well enough; started pestering me for marriage when I got the job at 22. I kept avoiding for few years. But eventually I had to tell him. I wasn't going to ruin some poor woman's life." Nath looked pointedly at Vikram. Vikram didn't take offence. Just laughed self-consciously. Mark in his favour etc etc.

"Father raged for days. Didn't raise his hand on me, didn't tell anyone else but we fought a lot. It wasn't that he denied my condition. He just wanted a family. On some level we understood each other. I realise it now. I knew he wanted me to marry because he didn't want his hard fought family to die with me. And I guess, he probably knew what it meant to love someone you weren't supposed to.

He died soon after."

"When you were thirty, I remember you telling me."

Nath nodded. "I was free. I had a place of my own. A job. No family to hide myself from. I felt guilty over feeling relieved. I felt angry at being guilty. Then came sadness over being angry. That sadness stayed for a decade."

Vikram asked, "So you never...?

Nath shook out of his trip to memory lane. "Hm?"

"Are you? A bramhachari? Did you ever find-"

"There were some men here and there. Obviously there wasn't going to be a relationship," Nath scoffed. "If you know where to look, you can find release. But after Father died, I don't know, I rarely ever went looking for anybody. I didn't have it in me."

Vikram laughed. "Look at us. Two old men, all on their own, no happy family for us."

"Speak for yourself, I'm barely a day over 40," said the man, almost 50.

Vikram laughed again, looking at him with such fondness in his eyes. Nath felt sharp fear for a moment. Then he decided to be an adult again.

"You look well for your age too."

"Nath..."

Nath shivered at hearing his name. It was an intimate name. People didn't say it much. But it fit in Vikram's mouth.

"I don't want to change anything," Vikram said. "I'm happy as things are. It's ideal. I can't offer anything more."

Nath got up, brushing dust from his pants. It had gotten late. They were alone at the circle. A vehicle passing by to remind them of the world that exists.

"I'll take whatever you can offer," he said, looking away from him.

"Friendship? For as long as I live?" Vikram held out his hand.

Nath looked at it. Big, warm. Hairy. Pale skin where the wedding ring used to sit. He extended his own and took it.

"As long as I live."

... Let me know if you like it enough to see some other prompts involving them... I have so many headcanons for them.

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

❛ THE BIG FIRE ❜

Headcanon.

with Angel Reyes.

Request: Hi In the serie they talk about Big fucking fire ( I Guess is the one where Dita was ) But would u write something about Mayans girlfriend ( no matter which one- except EZ i don't like him ) lost everything in fire. So our boy propose her to move with him ? 💕

BY ANON

Word count: about 900.

Aurora says: this writing hasn't been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I'm sorry about that!

Gif credits: to the author.

Masterlist. You can subscribe to my broadcast list, to be notified whenever I post a writing!

You have lost everything. With your scared buddy against your chest, you're feeling impotent as you watch the fire consuming your house. There's no water enough to save it.

Your dog jumps to the floor, running with her tail hidden between her hind feet to the motorcycles coming closer. She doesn't lose time, pouncing into Angel's arms, walking towards you.

The whole crew is there, trying to help somehow. But the only things you kept with you, when you noticed the smoke flooding your house, was your laptop, your cash savings and your bag with personal stuff, like your wallet and your car keys. Fortunately, the Mustang was at Romeros and Bros since last Monday.

They take you to the clubhouse, in the meanwhile the firemen turn off the flames. You will have to come back tomorrow to make a study of the damage.

You can't stop crying, hugging Niebla tightly. She was the only thing that really mattered to you in the moment you found the fire coming into your garage.

“I brought you something fo' dinner”.

Angel comes into the room, carrying a cardboard bag with a delicious smell of cheese springing free from the inside. Leaving it on the nightstand, and taking the advantage of Niebla sniffing the bag, he holds you between his arms. Kissing your head, you feel somewhat better. Just a little. You know that your insurance company will pay you every single thing you ask for, because it wasn't your fault, but your neighbors barbecue. When will they do it? Who knows it.

“Bishop said you can stay here as long as you need it”.

“I will… try to find something to rent. I don't wanna bother anyone”.

“Do you think… you bother us? Babe, we're happy for having you this close. It's amazing. And I can see you the whole time”. He says a little excited, pulling himself away to look for your eyes.

“Yeah, bu—”.

“Yeah, but, I told Prez that I had a better idea”.

Cleaning your tears, you frown slightly confused.

“You know… I know you're suffering, it's normal, but… what if destiny was telling you that it's time to live together?”

You weren't expecting it, licking your lips feeling nervous. Does he really want it, or is he just asking you to make you feel better?

“There's nothing in my life that could make me happier than waking up with your everyday. Come back home after a long day and watch you dance around our house, wearing my shirts”.

These words make you smile, almost in tears again. This time because of the happiness he's talking about you.

“Please, mi dulce. I know it's a big step… We just have been together for seven months, but it's like I've known you ever since”.

You don't need anything else, nodding in silence before his joyful lips finds yours.

The next day, he's the one who accompanies you to your house, or what is left after the fire. It's funny how yours can barely remain on its foundations, while your neighbor's didn't suffer any kind of damage. Angel can feel your rage, your sadness, running through your veins when you're allowed to come into your home.

The smell is disgusting, and there are some leaks that you have to dodge. Everything around you is carbonized. Pictures, furniture, books, the walls… There's nothing you can take with you. Angel intertwines his fingers with yours, raising your hand to place a kiss on the back of it. Looking at him, you just pucker your lips down on a sad gesture. Kissing your forehead this time, your boyfriend urges you to get out of there.

You have been at his house thousand times, but now it is different. You had to go to buy some clothes and basic things to get installed.

“I have to come back to the club, but I will be back asap'”.

“Okay…” You mumble, seeing how happy Niebla looks lying over the sofa.

“If you… want to change anything… just do it. This is your house now, and I want to feel you comfortable”.

But you don't. You like Angel's house exactly as it is.

In fact, you go to the supermarket to buy food to make dinner. Angel deserves it, and you know how much he loves your recipes.

Rice with fried banana and mango.

Latin music floods the kitchen, as you finish the dinner to serve it on the table already set up. You're wearing nothing but one of Angel's shirts, moving your hips and your feet at the rhythm of the melody, when your dog starts to bark and move her tail. She's the first one receiving Angel. By the look on his face, he hadn't remembered that she was also there. And he loves her.

“Hey, what's up, baby girl?” His voice sounds excited, squatting to Niebla so he can pet her. “Who is a good girl, ah? Fucking course, you're the best girl ever”.

But as soon as he sees you waiting for some love too, he catches you between his arms. Sinking his face into your neck, Angel has a deep breath.

“Welcome home, mi amor”.

“Yeah… Now it really feels like home, mi dulce”.

[elvendara]

Mysme Reverse Big Bang

This was such an exciting project! I got to work with the

AMAZING, FANTABULOUS, INCREDIBLE, TALENTED, SKILLED, BEAUTIFUL @koutone !!!

We gushed, we sighed, we giggled over YOORAN and brought you some angst!

Here is my half of the contribution for the @mysme-rbb ! Make sure to check out @koutone 's art too! It will make you WEEP!

AO3

*spoilers for Mystic Messenger's Secret End*

The room was dark and stuffy, as if the window hadn’t been opened in months. Saeran knew that wasn’t the case, he’d been over just a few days ago. Yoosung and he had been seeing each other exclusively for almost a year and traded spending the night at each other’s places. His house was more comfortable but sometimes they didn’t want to be bothered by his brother, Saeyoung and his wife MC. It wasn’t that they minded hanging out with them, it was just that sometimes they wanted to be alone.

The younger man was an avid texter. There were times when Saeran would have to mute his phone, as it could ping ten times in thirty seconds, every thought something to be shared. It didn’t bother him one bit, though Saeran preferred to read and answer maybe once an hour. It was a system that worked well for them both. Yoosung had early on let him know that he didn’t need to respond to every text. The last several days however, Yoosung’s texting had begun to dwindle. It was so slight that at first Saeran had not noticed. Once he did, he assumed it was because his boyfriend was studying for upcoming exams, but complete silence was not something he would ever do. There hadn’t even been a single complaint about being too tired to study. He would usually try to engage Saeran in conversation so he could procrastinate. To so suddenly go radio silent for several hours was not normal for the blond. Saeran had then tried to call him, but the calls went straight to voicemail. It seemed like a giant red flag, so he had decided to check on him.

Yoosung’s room was notoriously chaotic, clothes strewn about, empty soda cans, and a trashcan that was constantly overflowing. Yet Saeran had never seen it this bad. He had to sidestep several aluminum cans and a couple of convenience store plastic food containers, and he might have stepped on a half-eaten piece of pizza. He shook his slippers off and hoped he could keep his socks clean at least. When he finally made it to the window, he threw the curtains wide open. There was a startled sound from the middle of the room and Saeran noticed a blonde head pop up. Yoosung rose to his feet, his hands over his sensitive amethyst eyes. His blond strands were in disarray and he made it more so by running his hand through the yellow locks. He sniffled, bleary eyes swollen and red, it was obvious that he had been crying for a good long while.

“Yoosung! Oh my god what is going on? What happened?” he hurried to the man, forgetting all about opening the window and letting the stuffiness out. He reached out to take his boyfriend in his arms but Yoosung startled him.

“Don’t touch me!” he slapped Saeran’s hands away. The red-head backed up a step and held his hands out in front of him.

He looked at his boyfriend critically from head to toe. There was something wrong here. This was more than just sadness. Saeran recognized the symptoms, knowing that while Yoosung hid his depression well from others, he had always been completely open with Saeran about it. This episode looked like it was going to be a hard one. He usually let Saeran comfort him quite easily and he had never seen him so angry either.

“OK.” he tried to stay calm, knowing how easily it was to overstimulate someone who was having a depressive episode. He wanted desperately to take Yoosung in his arms but knew from personal experience that it would be one of the worst mistakes he could make. Any contact when he didn’t want it would be catastrophic. He kept his voice even and tried not to sound condescending.

“How...how can you look at me! How can you love me? You can’t! I know you can’t!” Yoosung spat, some blond strands plastered to his forehead from his sweat. “You hate me! I would hate me if I were you!”

“Don’t say that. I don’t hate you Yoosung, you didn’t do anything to hurt me.”

“That’s not true! I was blind, and stupid! How could I believe she was so innocent? I should have known! I knew her the best besides V! I should have seen it! He tried to hide it, hide what she was! I did the same thing. I didn’t see who she really was because I didn’t want to! She was a monster, and I...I... I’m a monster too!” he screamed, his tightened fists striking at his thighs. It tore at Saeran’s heart.

“Please...please stop Yoosung.” Saeran pleaded, his own tears trailing down his cheeks uncontrollably.

Yoosung fell to the floor and began to slam his fists against his head. Saeran didn’t hesitate, crouching down and grabbing his wrists to pull his fists away from his head. Yoosung reacted violently, slamming his fists against Saeran and connecting with his nose painfully. It made him see stars, getting hit on the nose was excruciating, as the stinging sensation confirmed. No wonder so many defense experts taught how to do it in several different ways. He shook his head and tried to clear it, attempting to keep his balance as Yoosung kicked out blindly, hitting his legs and arms. Saeran fell back, his bloody nose forgotten as he fended off the sudden attack. He understood it was a defensive coping mechanism and not Yoosung trying to hurt him on purpose.

“I said don’t touch me!” he screamed and scuttled backwards. “I don’t deserve kindness. I deserve pain. As much pain as you went through. As much pain as everyone else that she ensnared went through! I should have seen it! But no, I didn’t want to!” he pulled his knees up to his chest and hid behind his hands sobbing uncontrollably. He continued his tirade but the words were unintelligible.

Saeran wiped his bloody nose absently with the sleeve and sat heavily. He felt useless as Yoosung raged out of control. This wasn’t the first time, but it was turning out to be his worst yet. The younger man was usually bubbly and happy, though Saeran was well aware of his depressive side. It mostly manifested with mild symptoms. Quiet crying, some shaking, negative thoughts but it had never been this severe. Yoosung had never said such horrible things about himself. He wondered what had triggered the intensity of the outburst. He got up on his knees but refrained from getting any closer to his boyfriend.

He watched helplessly as Yoosung’s body shook, the only sound between them the occasional sob and cough that wracked his body. He looked so frail, so vulnerable, as if he could be snapped in two with a snap of his fingers. He sat there in silence and felt Yoosung’s pain. He sat in the pain with him. He shared it as best he could. Whether the blond wanted him there or not, he wanted him to feel his presence. It tore at his heart to see him like this, knowing all he could do was be there. As bad as it was to go through an episode like this, being on this side of it, in his opinion, was much worse. He felt helpless, impotent, useless.

Once Yoosung’s sobs subsided somewhat Saeran spoke softly, “Yoosung, please look at me.” Yoosung only shook his head, the despair coming off him in waves. It was devastating to witness, and it made Saeran feel even more respect and appreciation for what Yoosung went through as he suffered his own bouts of depression. When they had first began to date Saeran had tried to hide those bouts, but it had only made the ensuing explosion worse. Yoosung had taken his verbal attacks with patience and love, never showing irritation about any of it. It had taken months for the red-head to realize that Yoosung was there to stay.

Now Saeran could see what a Herculean task his boyfriend had had. Several times over. The least he could do now was be there for Yoosung, no matter how much vitriol the man threw at him. This wasn’t the real Yoosung. The kind, compassionate, ray of sunshine. Yes, this was part of him, but it was a deceptive part, something deep inside of him that felt wrong or guilty for things he had no control over.

He looked like a lost child, frightened and alone. Saeran scooted forward, being careful not to come into contact with him. “I know you feel out of control right now.” he spoke gently. “And that’s OK. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Yoosung shook his head muttering, “No no no no no... You don’t know SHIT! How could you! She hurt you, she hurt you for years! She’s my cousin! How...how can you look at me? I’m so ashamed! I’m nothing, I’m dirt, garbage! You deserve better.” he closed in on himself, his body molding against itself.

Saeran sobbed, his body shaking as he cried for the pain Yoosung was in. “Babe please, don’t do this, don’t say those things, they aren’t true.” he leaned forward wanting desperately to touch him, holding his hand out, hovering an inch from the man.

The blond looked up, red rimmed lavender eyes swimming with tears. The pain in them was agonizing. He kept his hand where it was, aching to touch him. Yoosung moved, kneeling and sitting back on his heels. He lowered his head as he rested his palms on the floor. Saeran retreated his hand back to give him room, fingers itching to settle on the mop of unruly strands.

“Yo...you don’t hate me?” Yoosung murmured quietly, his voice hoarse from so much strain. Saeran noticed stains on the front of the blond’s shirt and wondered how long he had been in this state.

“Never. I love you.” the red-head said soothingly. He dared to lay his hand on the man’s shoulder. He felt Yoosung tense up and made ready to lean away from him, but then he felt a shudder run through his body as his shoulders rounded inwards. Yoosung hugged himself and rocked back and forth, tears falling freely. Saeran wasted no time in wrapping him in his arms, whispering in his hair, rocking them both. The blond wept, his body vibrating, pain washing through him.

Saeran held him as they both sobbed. Sharing their individual pain and taking comfort from each other. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed that way, the rocking slowing to a gentle sway. Yoosung wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt and lay his cheek against Saeran’s chest letting out a huge sigh. “Talk to me.” Saeran said, cajoling him to voice his fears. Hoping he had calmed enough to do so.

The blond buried his face in Saeran’s shirt but his tears appeared to have been spent. “I’m so ashamed.” his voice was muffled as he spoke against the red-head's shirt.

“Of what? There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Saeran soothed, rubbing Yoosung’s back gently.

“I let her go. I... I helped Zen help her escape.” His voice sounded like he was on the verge of more tears but they didn’t fall.

“You didn’t know.” Saeran kissed the top of his head. “Something happened, tell me.”

Yoosung hesitated. He clutched at Saeran’s shirt. He shook his head but finally took a deep breath and the red-head waited to hear something that was sure to be painful.

“She called me.” he breathed in a rush, the words seeming to need to be evacuated quickly. Saeran tensed at the revelation. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I heard her voice. All she said was my name and it made me nauseous!” Yoosung cried. “I dropped the phone and ran to the bathroom. I don’t even know where it is now. I don’t care. I don’t want to touch it ever again. Oh God Saeran, I’m sorry!” he wrapped his arms around the older man. “I’m sick and disgusting, why would you want me? I admired her, loved her. Part of me still cares about her! How can you stand being with me when I’m such a monster?”

Saeran swallowed, closed his eyes, and tried to do the breathing exercises he’d been taught. Knowing that her voice had touched Yoosung’s ears made him almost as nauseous. He breathed in through his nose deeply and let it out through his mouth while tightening his arms around his boyfriend. The man he loved, who loved him. It wouldn’t do to lapse into his own episode and even though she had reached out to Yoosung, she could no longer touch him. He was free. Free of the pain, the fear, the brainwashing, the addiction she enfeebled him with. Free of the lies she fed him for years, that made him a true monster.

He made some shushing noises as he got himself under control, having Yoosung in his arms helped immensely.

“I know I sound crazy. The words come out of my mouth and I know they’re wrong but I can’t stop them. I feel like I’m losing my mind. It hurts. It hurts like nothing I’ve ever felt before. So deep I don’t know if it will ever stop hurting.”

“You’re not crazy, you’re just in pain and I know what that feels like.” they held each other, Yoosung still weeping softly against him. He felt the tension in Yoosung’s body loosen up as the blond leaned heavily against him. “You’re not a monster, if you were you wouldn’t feel like this. She’s been a big part of your life, of course you still care about her.”

“But...”

“No, no buts. This isn’t about me, this is about you. Come on.” he stood and pulled Yoosung up with him. He led him gently to the unmade bed. Saeran sat and lay Yoosung’s head on his lap. The blond curled up and snuggled against his thigh. The red-head ran his fingers through Yoosung’s hair, letting the golden strands fall through his fingers.

“Tell me about her. Before all of this. Tell me about the girl you knew. The one that inspired you to be a better person.” he whispered. The ache in his heart was palpable. Talking about Rika hurt him, but not as much as he thought it would. The initial shock had already worn off and all he cared about was helping Yoosung.

He felt the man stir beneath his hands, shaking his head awkwardly.

“Tell me. I want to hear.” and he meant it. Every word. He wanted to know the woman Yoosung knew. Wanted to understand what it was about her that had captured a young man’s admiration and respect. It took a few more cajoling words and murmurs but Yoosung finally opened up. He told Saeran about a young, vibrant, kind woman, who helped others, who inspired more from a young man. Yoosung fell asleep mid-sentence as Saeran’s tears fell silently above him.

[silverflame2724]

Can you do a continuation of this prompt where wwx left the Lan Clan and joined Wen but where LWJ tries to take WWX away from WX and back to CR but WWX yells at LWJ? Sorry if this doesn't make sense

Okay! I wrote this up in one go! Hope you enjoy~!

———————

Lan Wangji had watched from the sidelines as who he knew to be his son happily chattered away to Wen Xu. He so badly wanted to go forward and snatch his son away from Wen Xu’s paws but did he have the right? He, who looked the other way while his son and spouse were looked down on and spat upon?

“A’ Yuan!” A bright, panicked voice called. 

Lan Wangji looked up to see Wei Ying, in all his bright and splendid glory, dressed in Wen sect robes, scold A’ Yuan for running away. Wen Xu huffed and affectionately calmed Wei Ying down.

And Lan Wangji was jealous. Jealous, jealous, jealous.

How dare Wen Xu touch what was his? 

.....Well, what used to be his, that is. Because Wei Ying was now married to Wen Xu.

Lan Wangji stiffened as Wen Xu shot him a smug look and pressed a kiss to Wei Ying’s head. He seethed at that action and felt even more heartbroken as Wei Ying snuggled up to Wen Xu.  

His uncle then took this chance to speak up and claim Wei Wuxian as theirs. It was only proper. After all, the marriage contract between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian was still active even though Wei Ying had cut ties with them, even though the Lans had done nothing to even dare to claim Wei Wuxian as theirs. 

But Lan Xichen turned out to be impotent and the duty of siring heirs fell to Lan Wangji. The elders wanted to get A’ Yuan back for that purpose. At least until they made Lan Wangji remarry and get an heir - that they approved of - of his own.

But it seemed like Wei Ying had had enough and began telling the entire cultivation world how ��righteous” the Lans truly were. Lan Wangji could see how the tides turned against them as everyone shot the Lans dirty looks. Neither Lan Qiren nor the other Lans denied these claims because they were true, were they not?

The Lan clan had abused Wei Ying and his son and Lan Wangji had done nothing but watch. Even though Lan Wangji loved Wei Ying, the bright, beautiful boy who laughed his way into Lan Wangji’s heart. The one who seethed with rage and spat at him every time he forced Wei Ying to perform his martial duties. 

And Lan Wangji knew that he deserved this. He was a worthless husband, a useless alpha who never did anything to inspire Wei Ying’s love, only his hatred and apathy.

But still, he was a loyal disciple to the Lan sect to the end. He would try to convince Wei Ying to come back with him. And this time, he’d try a little harder to protect Wei Ying and their son. He’d promise that and more, if it meant having Wei Ying by his side again.

...................

“Wei Yin---”

“My name is Wei Wuxian, Second Master Lan.” Wei Ying interrupted coldly. “We are not close. We never were. Do not call me as if you are familiar with me. You. don’t. know. me.”

Lan Wangji swallowed and nodded. “Wei Wuxian,” The characters felt strange on his tongue. “Come back to Gusu with me.”

“Why?” Wei Yi--Wuxian asked, seemingly more interested in cleaning his fingernails than looking at Lan Wangji.

I want you back. I love you. I need you. I regret what I did. I’m sorry I was such a horrible person to you. There were many things he needed to say but none of that left his lips. Only, “The elders need an heir. They want A’ Yuan back.”

Wei Wuxian froze and his entire aura became frosty. “No.”

“Wei---”

“No. Lan Wangji, I am never going back to that hellhole you call home. Never. Not me and certainly not my son. Gusu Lan has made it clear on what they think of us, so fuck off.”

Lan Wangji flinched at the words, but pleaded, “I’ll do better this time. I’ll protect you.” And if that wasn’t enough, “The elders have promised safety and sanctuary.”

Wei Wuxian gave an annoyed sigh. “I’m pretty sure they meant imprisonment and isolation. And look Lan Wangji,” He shook his head. “You don’t need to do anything for us, since you’re so good at it.”

The words stabbed him like knives and he hung his head, unable to say anything back as he remembered always turning away when Wei Ying and A’ Yuan needed help the most.

“Besides, my current, loving, supportive husband already protects and takes care of me. He indulges me and allows me to do whatever I want, within reason of course. And with your Gusu Lan’s three thousand principles, I highly doubt you would allow that.” Wei Wuxian continued his barrage. “And anyway, you can just marry another omega - a “proper” one this time - and have a child with them, as you are clearly able to. Also, A’ Yuan, Wen Yuan, had already been formalized as an heir to Qishan Wen. So if you don’t want war - and I highly doubt Gusu can stand against Qishan’s might - leave us alone.”

With that, Wei Wuxian turned around, leaving him behind without another look back.

“Wait!” He called out as he grasped the other’s wrist, freezing him in place.

Wei Wuxian frowned at his touch. “You said you don’t like physical contact from outsiders.” He mocked. “Let me go.”

Lan Wangji, panicked as he was, did not comply. “That was---Wei Ying, I.....I was never good with my words. I always said the wrong things around you and I’m sorry. I didn’t--didn’t come here because of the elders. I came because I love you and I regret my actions. Wei Ying, please---”

Wei Wuxian yanked his wrist out of Lan Wangji’s grip and used that freed hand to slap him across the face. “You love me?” He repeated like a joke. “Don’t lie, Second Master Lan.” He hissed. “Where was your love when I was beaten up and looked down on, when those elders of yours racked up rules I didn’t even break, when my son was poisoned, when A’ Yuan’s life was in danger? Where was it?” He demanded, yanking Lan Wangji forward by the collar. “Answer me, Lan Wangji!!” 

“I...I.....” he couldn’t say a thing. What was Lan Wangji thinking?

“There’s no love in that. You told me, with those actions, that you never cared for my life and death, for A’ Yuan’s life or death.” Wei Wuxian let go of Lan Wangji’s robes, shoving him away. “Never say those words to me again. I am married, Lan Wangji. I am happy. I will not let you destroy what little happiness I have left in the world.”

Wei Wuxian left him there, going up to A’ Yuan who had just walked around the corner.

“Who was that?” A’ Yuan asked and those words hit Lan Wangji even harder than anything Wei Wuxian had said to him. Because his own son didn’t even know him.

And Wei Wuxian shot him a knowing grin, turning his attention to A’ Yuan, “He’s no one.”

_________

Continuation of this

[forbidden-sorcery]

'Whoever does not speak with me and like me has nothing to say. Whoever does not act with me and like me is sick with impotency. Whoever does not live with me and like me desires to kill herself.' This is the teaching that the Empire spreads among its enemies from the mouths of the two emissaries. But the barbarians are deaf to such foolish warnings; their ears are sensitive only to the voices that call them to the assault against the Empire, to making a clean sweep of the existent. Their fury even inspires terror in many enemies of the Empire who indeed desire to defeat it, but with good manners. As civilized cutthroats, they share the dissent but not the hatred; they understand the indignation but not the rage; they hurl protests slogans but not war cries; they are ready to shed saliva but not blood. They too — it is clear — desire the end of the Empire, but they wait for it to happen spontaneously, as a natural phenomenon. Pushed by the certainty that the Empire is seriously ill, its most educated enemies hope that a collapse frees humanity from its cumbersome presence as soon as possible. Besides, no one can deny that it is much less dangerous to obtain freedom after the peaceful departure of the master, like a hereditary fortune, rather than conquering it in battle. This indisputable observation leads them to sit on the banks of the river waiting to see the corpses of their enemies pass by carried by the currents. The barbarian nature is quite different; it doesn’t know this gentle patience. In fact, the barbarians are persuaded that it is vain to wait for the death of the Empire, which above all might not be quite so imminent as its civil enemies hope. Besides, this all leaves one to assume that at the moment of its collapse the Empire will bury everything, really everything, under its ruins. Then what is the purpose of waiting? Isn’t it better to go in search of the enemy and do everything possible to get rid of it? This barbaric determination rouses horror.

Crisso and Odoteo - Barbarians

[stopeatingwhales]

“i’ll always love you,” x damon albarn

this one’s for my beloved friend emily, who requested i write something inspired by the song clocks by coldplay for her, and must i say this turned out better than i had anticipated it to. enjoy <3

Paring: 90s damon albarn x reader

Warnings: angst, dysfunctional relationship

Word count: 1.811

Happy late birthday emily x

༉‧₊˚✧

Having to endure his enthralling features pick-up multiple women at a bar accompanied by my watching, plastering a pretend look of inattention, attempting to hypnotise my ears with Graham’s words directed at me was the equivalent of absolute torture. It devastated me. Seeing the woman’s eyes glow up, instantly subdued to Damon; his beauty right away changing the plans for the evening. A chat? Maybe. A shag? Definitely. A boyfriend? No way. He would use the poor woman as a ploy to get back at me, perhaps from an argument that had resurfaced from the previous night - which created much bigger issues the following day. He did it countless amounts of times as revenge, and each time - no matter how many times it had been done - it always felt like he was slipping a knife slowly into my heart, twisting it around as leisurely as possible, creating the most excruciatingly horrific pain. Pain that wouldn’t leave, even after he had finished with her, as he stumbled into the cramped tour bus, avoiding my eyes completely. He was butchering me, in all ways notorious to man. 

Patiently waiting, I was expecting for the usual: some sort of scoff, maybe a roll of the eyes - dearly conducted straight at me. There was nothing. The only attack I had received in the majority of ten seconds was the gust of wind blow straight past my face from his grand entrance - exhilarating goosebumps on my cheeks. I pondered over the situation, battling the idea of whether I should hoot at him or not, his body language unattentive to my view. It was almost as if he was avoiding me, avoiding the scene, as if he was contemplating outside whether it would be a good decision to walk in at such a dingy time. He seemingly tried to rush past me as fast as he could, although there was no chance I’d be letting him get to sleep this early. 

“Damon,” I said, sternly, rising from my sleeping position on the couch. His slow movements came to a halt, my ears perking up at the sound of a hefty sigh roll off his tongue. Funnily enough, he knew this was coming. He knew the repetitive argument that was going to play, almost word for word at this point. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

The rest of the boys were preciously bunked up in their beds, and unfortunately my angry consciousness had little to no care whether they had any sleep or not; I had not been able to get a clean, crisp night’s sleep since the beginning of the tour. Since the beginning of this all. 

Scoffing, Damon’s stilled stance had now twisted round, his daggering stare locking with my hopeless, tearful one. “Sorry?” he muttered? Cocking his head to the side, waiting for another chain of rows to dance out of my mouth. What a dickhead. 

Closing my eyes, I inhaled sharply. I swallowed the pool of saliva forming on my tongue out of nervousness, the tremble of my hands sending my mind into a pit of anger as I cupped them both into fists, each hand hidden by my sides. “You’re such a dickhead,” I mumbled, shaking my head to the ground in utter disbelief, knowing full-well this wasn’t going to end well; it never did.

I averted to laying back down on the couch from my former standing position, deciding that there was absolutely no reason that I should be giving my all into repetitive arguments, all it ever did was dig a much larger pit of agony than I had before. “Of course you’d say that,” I heard Damon chuckle, aggravation grumbling throughout his voice. He stood still, waiting for my response. If I’m being honest, I wanted him to stay there. Regardless of the life he was sucking out of me, I seemingly needed his presence there. All the time. 

For a short moment, the anger that had riled up in my veins was mellowed, but that softness was interrupted by another evil laugh fleeing his lips. Suddenly, everything that had happened in the past evening came right back at me, leaving nothing but pure rage. “Why do you think that sleeping with other women is going to help?” I questioned, turning my head to once again connect our eyes. He was clearly taken aback at my abrupt and explicit asking, due to his eyes widening slightly at my raw phrasing. I wasn’t going easy tonight. 

“You seem to think that making me feel like dirt on your feet mends our arguments. Why?” I asked again, carrying the same, firm tone I was initiating previously. I wanted him to realise what he had been doing, in the cruelest way achievable. He’s harmed me enough. “Does it seem to please you?”

My gaze never left his face. I studied his features, noticing each twitch, shift, and emotion embellishing his appearance. His face was a blanket of snow, almost exactly like the face of the moon. His head was hanging low, the tips of his fringe guiding his hair to freefall from the gravity. His darkened, gold locks effortlessly matched the dynamic of the room, the colour of the lamp blending in with his figure. The air felt painfully still; my words not just affecting him, but me as well. A sudden rush of wonder coursed through my mind, what if one of the boys were listening? They knew about how dysfunctional mine and Damon’s relationship had become over the past couple months, but they never mentioned a word of it, fully aware that it would be yet another reasoning for an argument.

Eventually, his silence began to taunt me. It felt as if he didn’t want to say anything, but all I wanted was for him to just own up to his actions - something he had never come across doing in his lifetime. “Why do I let you do this to me…” I croaked, my eyes beginning to well up with tears. 

Finally, I shifted my stare to my lap, letting my silent tears flee from my eyes, dripping onto my trousers. I didn’t feel like changing, the sickness that had pitted in my stomach from the thought of Damon with someone else becoming like a sickness for me. All of a sudden, I began gaining flashbacks over the past few weeks, remembering the one conversation that started this all. Let’s have an open relationship. Why? It’ll give us more freedom.

I felt all the emotions pent up, engraved inside my mind all rush back to me, my steady breathing now becoming extremely rapid, water now soaking my cheeks as I sobbed as quiet as possible. I squeezed my mouth shut, my constant sniffles being enough to wake the entire bus of sleeping people. Damon rarely saw me cry, not because I didn’t want him to, I felt incapable of doing it in front of people. The perpetual worry of judgement clouded above my mind subconsciously. My crying now was not only a sign for me that I was impotent of carrying on what we had created between ourselves, but for him, to realise that this was unhealthy. What had we become?

“Y/N…” Damon managed to squeak out, the soft sounds of his feet progressively getting louder as he made his way over to where I was, crouching down to eye level with me. “Love, please don’t cry,” he whispered, caressing my hair lightly. 

Subconsciously, I felt my head lean against his hand, the comfort pulsating warmth through my body. He took note of this immediately, standing up slightly to lay down next to me on the couch, disregarding the little to no room for both of us. Our bodies were touching everywhere imaginable, my heart aching as I felt his arm around my shoulder, tightening our embrace. I shut my eyes, beginning to cry into his shoulder. My sobs quickly escalated to wails, Damon’s caressing putting my mind into a complete state of confusion. “Shhh,” he cooed, peppering kisses all over my forehead. See? This is exactly what he does, every time. 

My cries slowly began to die down after a while of his consolations. However, although my body was completely drained inside and out, I couldn’t rest. I knew he could tell, due to my breathing. “Why do you let me hurt you like this,” he mumbled, his voice cracking at the end of his sentence. He never realised how much pain he was causing to not only me, but to himself. We were torturing each other, the toxicity of the relationship way past the point of mending. Our love was a poison and a medicine; he could dismantle my limbs in such a loathsome manner, yet almost immediately be able to perfectly stitch me back to my previous figure, slobbering sorrowful kisses all over my body, realising he had done no good. 

We were one of those oblivious couples, thinking, assuming that nothing would happen to us. Nothing would tear us apart, nothing at all. But the fear? The fear of love tearing you apart? No, that doesn’t exist. What the fuck is that? The usual reaction. How can the person who brought me the utmost joy, the brightest smile, the love of ten thousand adorning stars and more, be the same man who murdered my belief of love, be the one person who causes me the most torment, rips me, corrupts me, pacifies me in places I didn’t know were a part of my body? And yet, all I find myself doing is lingering back to him. 

“I love you Damon, and I really don’t fucking know why I do,” I mumbled into his ear, breathing in helplessly before carrying on. “But I can’t do this anymore,”

My breath hitched in my throat as those words left my mouth, my mind bewildered that I had said such a thing. I felt Damon tense up, the gulp in his throat more prominent than usual. This conversation was avoided many, many times by the both of us, but there was no use in hiding it anymore. “I can’t live without you,” he mumbled into my hair, inhaling the pungent scent, knowing this would most likely be the last time he’d be able to. 

I knew what my words were doing to him. They were daggers, anguishing sharp stabs in his stomach, exactly like the same stabs he’d given me, simply a hundred times worse. “You’re dying with me here,” I replied, biting my lip in pure melancholy. “Go live your life, you’ll find the love of it eventually,” I breathed, my voice barely inaudible as I released myself from Damon’s grasp, standing up. He was as quiet as he had ever been, trying to take in my words one by one. 

“Just remember I’ll always love you,”

[swtmoonie]

Alone

Warnings: SUICIDE, pls don’t read this if you’re uncomfortable with this topic

Summary: after the night of Halloween of 1981 Remus finds himself coming home completely alone.

Word Count: 1k

A/N: this turned out a bit more Sirius centered than I wanted lmao and sorry if there’s any mistake, english is not my first language.

________________________________________________________________

1, November, 1981, 00:23

Remus entered his apartment through the old door, put his keys on the table and sat on the worn out couch. He looked miserable, his lifeless eyes blood red with big dark circles under them, his messy hair he'd been pulling the whole night, you could see the pain through all his body.

He had lost everything, his best friends were dead and who he thought was the love of his life was locked in prison after he'd betrayed them. He didn't have anything left. Anything.

He started thinking about all the memories he had, closing his eyes, wishing everything was one of those nightmares he was used to have. He prayed to any God that listened that the last hours were just some kind of twisted test they were making him pass, he prayed that he was going insane and everything was an hallucination. Tears started streaming down his face. He knew, he knew there was no coming back, he'd lost everything and there was nothing he could do.

He cleaned the his wet face with his sleeve, got up from the couch opened a tiny wardrobe from where he pulled a bottle of whiskey. With shaky hands he drove the bottle to his lips and with the only desire of making everything disappear he took a long sip. He supported his weight on the table beside him and took another sip even though he knew alcohol wasn't gonna stop his life from falling apart, it was the only thing he could do.

He had always hated the feeling of impotence time gave him, the fact that there were things that happened and he couldn't go back in time and fix them. He hated when he got bit, he  had the constant feeling that if he'd done anything different it wouldn't have happened, but he didn't. He hated when he told Sirius he saw him as something more than just a friend, even though that turned out good, he hated the feeling he got when he thought he had fucked up their friendship.

And now, he kinda wished he did, because, maybe, if he had done that he wouldn't be feeling that bitter pain of betrayal he felt. He trusted him with his life, and so did all the marauders. They had done everything for him and that's how he payed back. He had hold him all the nights he felt like giving up, he had told him his biggest secrets, and what Sirius did was destroy his heart and soul.

He felt the inevitable wave of rage running through his skin, through his veins, through his blood. He grabbed the bottle he was drinking and smashed it into the wall in front him letting out his anger and pain. A thunderous sound of crystal breaking was heard, followed by a scream of agony and desolation that probably scared the neighbors. He couldn't take it anymore, he collapsed on the floor letting every single tear he had out, sobbing like a part of his soul had been ripped off.

He felt dizzy, empty, he felt like he wasn't alive anymore, like his life had been taken that night with his friends'. He was just the shell of the man he was a few hours ago.

He couldn't stop all the memories from running through his mind: the first day they all met at the train, James and him running through the whole castle trying to get on time to their classes, the day the used the map for the first time, his first kiss with Sirius, his first time with Sirius, his first fight with Sirius, his first love. Sirius. Sirius. Sirius. He was gone, they were all gone.

He covered his ears in a useless attempt to make his mind shut.

When James announced he was marrying Lily. 

He needed the memories to stop flowing. 

When they decided to make themselves animagi just to help Remus. 

He started to scratch his skin in desperation. 

The time Sirius and him went together to they Yule ball.

"Stop, please" he begged weakly, as if someone was torturing him.

The memories didn't stop coming to his head, all of them stained with pain and loneliness now.

He got up from the floor and staggered to the balcony. He felt the freezing wind hit his body making him shake. He looked down to the streets, cars driving through the dark night with flashing lights, but no person could be seen.

"One jump, one jump and is over, one jump and I can see them again".

Still crying he passed his legs over the balustrade. He felt chills when he looked down from there. "Just one last push".

Just when he was about to do it, he pictured Sirius, he knew what he'd do if he was there with him, he'd hold him like he always did and make him feel the most loved person in the world. And after all, after he betrayed his friends, after he betrayed him, he still loved him, he still needed him.

He thought of him, his smile, his laugh, the adorable nose scrunch he did when he found something Remus did cute. His tears, his scars, the promises they made to each other.

"I need you" he sobbed still holding onto the balustrade as if Sirius was going to hear him and coome save him.

And he thought of James, his best friend, the person that never left his side. And Lily, definitely the most caring person Remus had met in his entire life. And Peter, the one he had the best conversations with.

He took a deep breath and looked to the sky, the moonlight making his tears stained face glow. He just stared at the stars thinking "Are they there? Are they watching me?"

He knew they were, he knew they wouldn't want this for him. And he knew Sirius would be devastated if he saw him now. He knew. But he couldn't be left alone. He couldn't be left with all the pain he was feeling, with all the memories that he couldn't erase.

He didn't want his friends to be disappointed on him, but he saw no other way.

"I'm sorry" he whispered before he stepped into the void and fell.

[mhamiltonwrites]

Chasing a Song: A Witcher’s Tale

The first time had been an accident.

Jaskier had come to the hilltop seeking inspiration. His muse had taken to hiding, squirreling itself away in some forgotten recess of his spirit, and the usual methods of coaxing it out, wine, lovers, old songs, had all failed one after the other. So a different approach; a stroll to the hilltop overlooking the town, that the sight of such grandeur spread out below might just move his hands to pluck similar beauty from his lute.

If he’d known about the griffin, he would have just tried the wine and lovers option again.

The winged terror had not been best pleased to find the foppish interloper reclining upon its hillside, lesser so still when said interloper had attempted to serenade it to peace. The tattered remains of his jerkin now discarded on the slopes spoke to the narrowness of Jaskier’s escape. He had tumbled out the way, lute clutched to his chest, the things talons leaving a crimson line raked across his shoulders that would undoubtedly scar, and in his tumbling had ended up falling into a gully in the sloping meadow. It was too narrow for the creature to reach him, but similarly too smoothed by centuries of rain for him to climb out of. The griffin did not seem in any way discouraged by the difficulties; indeed, in its impotent rage it had begun scraping up great clods of earth and sod, beak snapping, claws reaching, furiously trying to pluck him from his fragile refuge.

All of a sudden there came the tinkling sound of glass breaking and heat as fire flared above him, flames scorching a path across the griffin’s back. It shrieked in pain, its anger now turning to whosever had dared to interfere in its hunt. It had barely turned when a pale figure leapt upon it, cat-like, one leather-gloved hand gripping a fistful of feathers, the other slashing a sword into its neck. Silver flashed, caught in both the light of the summer sun and the orange glow of the fire. Jaskier watched as the battle raged above him. He heard the shrieks of the griffin grow more fraught until at last it gave out a final mewling cry and fell silent. A single smouldering feather drifted down towards him. Jaskier snatched it out of the air and ran it between the strings of his lute. It sat caught there like a garland from some courtly competition. The light above him dimmed once more as his saviour came into view. White hair hung down, thoroughly ruffled in the fight. Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Geralt!?”

“Jaskier.” The leather-gloved hand gripped his shoulder, pulling him and the lute bodily out of the crack in the earth.

“How- What- Why in the world are you here?”

Geralt looked at him flatly. “There was a monster to kill.”

Jaskier stared back, mouth still opening and closing as he dumbly reached for the words. How long had it been since Geralt had told him to leave his side? Six months? Eight? He’d stopped counting after the first few weeks, losing himself to the self-indulgent consumption of misery before resigning himself to a life without his stoic companion. And yet now, seemingly out of the bloody ether, Geralt was before him once more as if he’d never left, behind him the bloody remains of the vast avian terror that had so recently been trying to rip him to pieces. “R-right. Okay then. Right.” Gods damn it all, why did his words have to fly from him now of all times?? “You, um. You look…”

The witcher raised an eyebrow. “I look like shit, Jaskier. So do you. What you get for tangling with a griffin I suppose.”

“Well, yes. Quite. Yes.” The bard looked Geralt up and down. There he was, just as he ever was. The leather a little ragged from the fight, certainly, but that and the mud somehow only added to his rugged perfection. “You wear battle damage just as well as you ever did, for what that’s worth.”

Geralt grunted in response. As if deciding the bard was safe and therefore no longer a concern, he turned away, cleaning feathers and gore from his blade. “You should go, bard. The wilds are no place for a soft-skinned fool.” He glanced back over his shoulder “What?”

“Nothing!” Startled and blushing, Jaskier snatched his gaze up and away from the witcher’s taut buttocks caught in the stretched leather of his britches. “Nothing at all. You’re right. Of course. No place for a fool indeed.”

“A lesson I thought you’d learned back when…” Geralt trailed off, voice fading into uncharacteristic uncertainty. What was that, Jaskier wondered. Could it possibly be regret that traced at the corners of his erstwhile-companion’s eyes? Impossible; Jaskier pushed the thought away. Geralt was many things but the kind of person likely to be given over to regret was definitely not one of them. And yet, those lines remained on the witcher’s hardened face.

Jaskier did his best to smile, pushing away the memories of Geralt’s harsh words the day he’d left. The day he’d been sent away. “Oh, you know me. Never one to learn a lessen so well it stuck!” He was trying for jovial, though it came out more manic. He rested his hands on his hips, willing his heart to stop beating so fast beneath the tattered remains of his shirt. “So, um. You planning on sticking around long?”

“No.”

“I see.” He was powerless to keep the note of disappointment from tainting his words. “In and out, the witcher way and all that, I suppose!”

“Yep.”

That was Geralt. Monosyllabic to a fault. Jaskier stared at the back of his head, watching the way his mouth hardened into a line as he worked on his gear, how his shoulders rose and fell with his breathing; how, even now, he could see the muscles shift under his skin in a fashion that brought the colour surging to his cheeks. “Geralt,” he started, but he had no idea how to continue. How could he begin to put it into words, how much leaving had hurt, how much seeing the witcher again meant? Could mere words even begin to capture it? And would Geralt even hear them?

“I’m not here to talk, Jaskier,” said Geralt, his voice icy. Silently he cursed his rotten luck and the vague cruelties of fate that had forced the bard back into his path once more. How many times would he have to save the poor idiot’s hide before he got the message and stayed in some comfortable college where he belonged? This was no place for the overdressed clown. Time he went back home and the witcher could get back to the busy work of forgetting. Jaskier, Yen, all of it. A witcher, alone. Suited him just fine. “Time to go.”

It was good to see you, Jaskier. The words came to him, unbidden. Seven words, that was all. He could say them, as a kindness. It wasn’t as if they would mean anything. They would, the little voice in his head whispered. They would mean something to him.

Damn it. Geralt took a sharp intake of breath, calling on old instincts to slow his heart and quiet the buried feelings trying to surface. A witcher didn’t have feelings. Feelings made you weak. Reckless. Feelings got you killed. Besides, it wasn’t anything worthwhile. Not really. Mayhaps for a time there he’d allowed himself to think of Jaskier as more than a travelling companion. A friend, even. A friend with soft hands. Soft hands on your back, rubbing away the knots and stresses of a hard fight. He returned the sword to its scabbard. Enough. He had business elsewhere. Anywhere, so long as Jaskier was far behind.

Jaskier felt the harsh words cut into him, sharper than any griffin’s talons. “Right. Yes. Okay then.” He ran his hands down his shirt to keep himself from reaching out, biting back his own response. “I’ll be on my way then.” Gritting his teeth, he turned from Geralt once more. It wasn’t any easier this time either.

Geralt watched him go a little while. Not once did the bard glance back behind. Somehow, that stung him. Why? He wanted him gone. Needed him gone. So why this ache as he watched him leave?

Folly; he dismissed the ache as soon as it had arrived. There was no time for sentimentality in this job. And the work would not be done until he’d found the nest and made certain there would be no mates or offspring coming to look for their fallen feathered comrade.

But a little while later and Jaskier found himself once more engaged in the time-honoured traditions of a soul scorned, drinking himself into a stupor in an all-but-deserted tavern and doing his best to ignore the slow, sad thumping of his heart. Even oblivion had to be better than this. He forlornly plucked at the strings of his lute, its bowl scratched and marked from its tumble down a hillside. The crisp, sweet notes filled the air, cutting through his wine-drenched misery with their unexpected grace. He let his hands move of their own accord, trusting musical instinct to guide them. Notes gathered and strung themselves together into a simple, soulful melody, not a song, not yet, but the start of something… Beautiful.

He stared down at his lute. Where in the hell had that come from? It seemed nothing sharpened the bardic spirit like imminent death.

And seeing Geralt. That helped. He didn’t want to admit it but it was the truth nonetheless. The missing piece of the puzzle, the inspiration he had been craving all these months, it was all thanks to him. It made sense; his times on the road with the witcher, for all the near-constant threat of danger and lack of comfort had been invigorating. Fun, even. He’d found parts of himself on those desolate roads and in those forbidding forests that he’d never known were there. Seeing Geralt in action once again had clearly revived those instincts. But not enough.

The song hung incomplete, its beauty dying as the notes faded away. Jaskier plucked again, repeating the pattern but it was becoming hollow, emptier with every reprise. Shit!!

In a surge of anger, the bard raised the lute as if to smash it upon the flagstone floor, but before he could bring it down a voice cut through his rage. “A terror, so they say. Some monster or summit. Over near Lindenvale.” Jaskier’s ears pricked. It was like the song, buried instincts starting to rise to the surface. “Looks like a man, but cast in clay. Killed a girl.”

Without thinking Jaskier was on his feet and hurrying to the speaker. “Which town?”

The speaker, a stocky man in a stained jerkin, turned, surprised. “What’d you say?”

“Which town,” Jaskier repeated, his voice shaking. An idea had started to form, a plan, crazy and half-baked, but a plan nonetheless. “Which town did you say you saw this clay man?”

The man looked him up and down, concern touching his eyes even as Jaskier’s wine-drenched breath forced him to recoil. “Lindenvale. Why, you know someone from round them parts?”

“No,” said Jaskier, mouth stretching into a manic smile, “but I’m sure I know someone who’ll be heading there soon.”

And suddenly the plan that had been creeping up, inch by inch, was there, fully-formed (or as close to fully-formed as any of Jaskier’s plans ever were); where there was danger, where there were monsters, there would be his inspiration. He’d seek out the risks that he’d encountered by chance before, and in those frenzied flights for his life he’d find the rest of that song that had so nearly been birthed just minutes before.

And maybe, just maybe, Geralt would be there. The thought sat in his mind, unbidden and unmoving. It was born of broken hope and just a touch of masochism and it was not going away. Yes, thought Jaskier to himself. Maybe Geralt would be there. That would be… Nice. Definitely not his goal. Certainly not. Hadn’t crossed his mind once that a dangerous clay man wreaking havoc in the countryside might just draw the attention of a certain professional monster hunter.

***

Jaskier had arrived in Lindenvale in time for a funeral; a girl, no more than sixteen, was to be laid to rest beneath the roots of a cherry tree that grew in her family’s garden. Asking around it seemed this was the girl the man in the inn had mentioned, beaten to death by a golem loosed upon the townsfolk as some wizard’s misplaced retribution. Jaskier solemnly struck a few minor chords from his lute as he watched the veiled procession pass, a thin drizzle wetting the shoulders of the fresh jerkin he’d managed to procure in a handy game of cards. A golem was always trouble. But Geralt was good at what he did. That girl’s family would have justice soon.

The journey may have only been three days’ travel but it still took a week before Jaskier even heard word of Geralt’s arrival. From the talk of the townsfolk they’d driven the monster into the woods around the town but feared it could return at any moment if it were not slain soon. And so coin had been gathered and word sent calling for a monster slayer. Jaskier did his best to steady his heartbeat as he listened to the town bailiff announce that the witcher Geralt himself would be arriving in the morning. He spent that night fitfully tossing and turning, countless improbable scenarios playing across his mind as to how he would go about talking to him, doubt beginning to creep in. This plan was folly, anyone could see that. Geralt had made it clear twice now that he wanted nothing to do with the bard. What kind of man was he to defy him on purpose this time?

The kind who knows he needs to hear it one more time, Jaskier thought. Geralt had been a constant in his life for the best part of twenty years and now he was expected to simply let him disappear? Friends didn’t do that. Sure. Friends.

He woke with a start to the sounds of a commotion outside, sunlight streaming in through his rented room’s window and the sheets tangled about him like a poorly-worn cape. Cursing under his breath he stumbled to the window, the bedsheets almost tripping him. There in the street below was Geralt. His white hair tumbled about his shoulders, rippling in the wind. His orange eyes seemed to glow in the cold morning sun as he took in the gathered townsfolk and dilapidated buildings. He glanced upwards, as if sensing the bard’s gaze upon him. Jaskier threw himself to the floor, his knees colliding hard with the wooden boards. He yelped in pain and rolled away, grabbing his coat and boots. Staying out of sight was going to be essential; the plan would never work if Geralt knew he was in town.

He dressed and ate breakfast hurriedly before bolting out of the inn and into the street. From what he’d been able to get out of the townsfolk, the last place the golem had been spotted was out of town a ways into the dense forest. There was a cavern there, blasted into the side of a quarry by miners long ago, and it was there that it was thought the monster had made its home.

The plan, from there, was even simpler. He’d sit outside that cave, playing his lute, until Geralt showed up in pursuit of the monster. What could go wrong?

***

Jaskier flung himself to the ground out of the path of the clay fist that rushed towards him. Dirt exploded upwards as stone met recently-vacated earth. Jaskier yelped in fear as the terrible thing moved to him once more, impossibly quick. Golems were usually slow, lumbering things, lumpy masses of whatever loose clay the maker had to hand, but this one was different. It was faster, and definitely angrier.

Not an hour after Jaskier had found the cave the thing had come running from the treeline as if pursued by some unseen assailant. It was only the bard’s frequently practised survival instincts taking over and dragging him up onto his feet and out of its path that had saved him from being little more than a smear on the road. Not that the golem seemed ready to let him go that easily.

Jaskier scrambled for the treeline, lute smacking painfully against his ribs, swinging as he ran. The golem started towards him, giving out a monstrous shout, but before it could reach him a figure appeared at the treeline. Sunlight shined off dark leather, glinting silver and all too familiar white hair. Geralt. The witcher paused at the treeline, taking in the scene; Jaskier, his back now pressed against a broad elm; the golem, glaring at him as if unsure whether to finish off the idiot or make a run for it; and the cave where it clearly called home.

Geralt heard his trainer’s voice whisper in his head. First job of a witcher is kill the monster. Saving the civilians comes second. Especially when the civilian in question was clearly just here to torment him once again, Geralt thought to himself, jaw clenching. He darted forward, bringing his sword back to swing. The golem moved impossibly quickly, moving almost in a blur as it pulled away from Jaskier and ran for the cave. Unusual; he’d expected it to stand and fight. Still, the townsfolk had already told him there was no back exit from that cavern, so he had the beast cornered at least.

“Perfect timing once again, Geralt,” Jaskier called cheerfully from the treeline.

Geralt spun towards him, eyes narrowing. “Jaskier. I’m busy. Get out of here.”

“Aren’t you at least surprised to see me? I would risk happy but even I’m not happy to take those odds.”

“I wasn’t surprised. I knew you were here.” The witcher tapped his nose. “Practically followed your scent.”

“Remind me to change cologne.”

“Hm,” Geralt snorted, softly. Jaskier blinked. Was that the ghost of a smile teasing the corners of his erstwhile companion’s mouth? The smile was gone in a moment, fading like a snuffed candle. Geralt’s eyes darkened. “Damn it, Jaskier,” he said, voice softer than the bard had expected. “How many times do I have to pull your arse out of the fire before you understand? This is no place for you.”

“Oh come on, Geralt, have a little faith! I’m a grown man who’s survived more than his fair share of scrapes along the way.”

“Because I was there to fix your problems,” Geralt sneered. “I mean it, Jaskier. No more games. If I smell you around any job I’m called to in future, I will just ride on. There are other witchers. Let them deal with you.”

The words stung as sharply as they ever did, but they sounded to Jaskier just a little hollow. Or perhaps that was just his heart, desperately listening for softness that wasn’t there. “I’m sorry my possible death proved so inconvenient for you,” he replied, his voice cracking at the edges.

“You say that like you didn’t come just to get in my way.”

“Alright, yes. I came, hoping that you would also be here. Truth be told I’ve been somewhat lacking in inspiration since we… Went our separate ways, and I was hoping that the chance to see you in action again might get the old creative juices flowing once again.” And the fact he’d be able to spend some time talking to the witcher, even just to bicker, even just to fight, played no part in it.

Geralt sighed internally. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Why was it so hard to say? Why did he always have to wrap it in cruelty? Geralt looked at Jaskier. The bard stared back, half angry, half hopeful. Because he wouldn’t hear the warning, only the kindness. And that would get him killed.

Telling himself that it was Jaskier’s own good had become a reflex at this point, one almost as finely honed as any in the witcher’s arsenal. His mind would wield it like a log from a pyre, burning away his doubts and unbidden wishes until the coldness, the apathy, the untrue voice that said “you are a fist, not a heart” was all that could be heard. Steeling himself he spoke at last. “I’m not your easel, bard. You don’t get to prop your work up on me.”

Jaskier shivered a little at the icy tone. It wasn’t surprising to hear yet it still stabbed at his heart as keenly as the silvered dagger on the witcher’s belt. “I suppose you’ll be off then,” he replied, fighting to keep his voice airy. “Monsters to slay, coin to collect and all that.”

The witcher nodded curtly, turning towards the waiting cavern.

“And an audience would not be appreciated?”

“What do you think?”

I think you’re being a stubborn ox, Jaskier thought to himself bitterly. I think you might just miss me as much as I miss you and you’re too wrapped up in all your anger to admit it. But the words caught in his throat like gnarled roots too twisted to loosen. “I’ll leave you to it then. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. Gratitude? That was new. The witcher hadn’t turned back towards him but he hadn’t move either, seemingly locked in place by a different battle than the one that lay ahead.

Geralt fought the urge to turn and offer the bard his hand to shake. Somehow he knew that even just that one touch would be enough for his resolve to weaken and ask Jaskier to stay, at least to watch the mouth of the cave. And then you’d be right back where you started. It was true; he’d hurt him enough the first time he’d sent him away and besides, being around Geralt always seemed to land Jaskier in deadly peril. It was better it stayed how it was. Still, a few words wouldn’t hurt, would they?

To hell with it; even if they did, his body was already outlined in constantly criss-crossing scars. What was one more? He looked back over his shoulder, his sharp features caught in profile against the gaping black of the cavern’s mouth. “Take care, Jaskier. The world would be a poorer place without you in it.”

Jaskier caught the gasp of surprise before it could escape his lips but he couldn’t keep his eyes from staring wildly or the spreading smile from his face. “Yeah. You too, Geralt. You too.”

Without another word, the witcher stepped into the cavern. For a moment, Jaskier considered staying and waiting for his return. Perhaps there would be more of this new softer Geralt to see? It was certainly tempting… But no. He’d pushed his luck already. And it wasn’t as if Geralt hadn’t told him in no uncertain terms that he was not looking for another traveling companion. Reluctantly, he started back towards the town and his lonely room.

As he walked his hands fell once more to his lute and, almost without a thought, began to pluck that self-same melody as had been following him since the griffin attack days ago. His hands quickened as he began to hum along, fragments of lyrics beginning to form. The stumbling block of the chorus began to creep up upon him just as it had before but this time as he reached it his fingers moved as if of their own devices, striking a series of crisp, clear chords that closed off the sequence beautifully. He stopped and stared down at the lute. It had worked! Somehow, getting back into the dangerous work was exactly what his muse had needed of him, just as he’d suspected.

Seeing Geralt helped. The thought was burning and undeniable in its constancy. Could it be true? Could it have been not the monster trying to kill him but the witcher coming to save him that had returned his inspiration? It was certainly true that Geralt’s presence was… Comforting, but was that the same as inspiring?

He’s always been there. At the times when you need him most, he shows up. Even when he doesn’t want to. Even when he’d rather stay away. Even when he says he hates you. He still shows up. That was right, wasn’t it? He’d been able to write because of the sight of Geralt and the jolt that always gave him. But then if that were true what did it mean for the two of them? Jaskier, for all his romantic notions, was not one to be so quick to hope that Geralt had a similar need for his presence in his life.

And yet, there were those words he had said before he left. “The world would be a poorer place without you in it.” What was that if not a confession that the witcher was glad to see him alive? Perhaps, even, missed him? Certainly Geralt scolded him for his recklessness, and sent him away as soon as look at him, but what as that if not spoken concern? Spoken a little harshly admittedly, but that was the white wolf’s way.

Alright, so he was concerned; so what, Jaskier thought heavily. It wasn’t as if the witcher would ever admit it. Dappled sunlight streamed down through the canopy of leaves, scattering as birds took flight, startled at his passing. He morosely strummed his way through the melody once again, mood darkening as quickly as the elation had risen. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Even if his muse truly was Geralt, even if Geralt truly missed him, the witcher would never say so, nor would he be willing to stand and hear Jaskier out.

Unless he thought there was cause to.

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed as he glanced back over his shoulder, the faint path back to the cavern stretching away through the trees. Geralt went where there was word of a monster. So if he wanted Geralt to come to a specific spot all he’d have to do is make sure he got word of one.

Jaskier snorted. That had worked once, it wouldn’t work again. Even if concerned, Geralt could be so bloody stubborn there was every chance he’d make good on his threat to simply not show up if he got wind that Jaskier was there, even with a rampaging beast on the loose.

Well. Unless the threat seemed dire enough. If he’d been warned of something terrible, something that he simply could not entrust to anyone save himself. If that were the case Geralt would have to come, Jaskier be damned. Jaskier lost himself in thought. It might even be better coming from him. After all, he could sound apologetic, that he did not want to interfere but he knew that Geralt would trust his word. It wouldn’t be the first time Jaskier had brought such a mission to him. He could do it, couldn’t he? After all, a bard had to be a writer too, and to write a notice worthy of the white wolf’s undivided attention would be a challenge worthy of ballads.

Do you really want to lie to him? The thought whispered across his mind, cutting sharply through the fevered reverie that had started to overtake him. He’s upset already, the thought said, chiding Jaskier sternly. How would upsetting him with some wild goose-chase win you any favour?

But it was that or simply wait for fate to intervene as it had before and drop the witcher back into his life like a glove dropped on a ballroom floor. And how long might that take? He didn’t have Geralt’s long life to wait for him to decide he was ready to talk. A little deception then, to get the stubborn oaf to the table. Then they could at last have it out. Whatever “it” was.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the sense of something… More between them that Jaskier had started to feel was nothing more than his own head and heart joining forces against his reason. But if it proved so, at least he could go forth knowing that he had at least said everything. It was better, the bard thought, his hands repeating the perfect little melody once again, to try and to fail and to know than to live forever with the pain of the possible, the biting torment of the could-have-been.

***

It had been simple enough to arrange. He still had some coin saved up from performances on the road, enough to book a private room for as long as he’d need it and to send a trustworthy courier out after Geralt. He’d stayed in Lindenvale; his scent would already be all over it after all, so there was at least a chance the witcher wouldn’t immediately suspect something to be wrong. In his message he had claimed that it seemed the golem Geralt had dealt with had been but one of a pair, and now the second came hunting for those who had slain its fellow. The town, short on coin and fearing retribution if the witcher returned, had decided to try and keep the matter secret; Jaskier was only sending word to Geralt out of concern and hope that he might find it in his heart to lend a hand. After all, when you thought about it, it was really finishing off the job he’d already been paid for.

It was a good lie. Not his best, but good enough to fool Geralt. And if not, at least enough that he might just return to town simply to castigate him for pestering him further. Whatever the cause, Jaskier was certain it would get him back and that was truly all that mattered.

It was just over a day that the courier sent word of his message being received. If everything kept to plan, Geralt would be back here that very night. Jaskier felt his heartbeat quicken just at the thought of it. He had gotten to work immediately, setting the table in his private quarters for two, fetching candles and ordering wine and a dinner of roasted chicken and vegetables from the inn-keeper. The stage was set; now all that was needed were the players.

It was dark out before he heard the tell-tale crunch of hooves upon the gravel path outside, the gentle murmur of “Easy, Roach,” drift up through the window. He was here. Geralt was here. Finally. Jaskier checked himself in the mirror once again for what must have been the twelfth time that hour alone. His hair was a problem, as neat as he could make it but part of him wanted it ruffled, at ease, as if the witcher had just roused him from a bedroll by a campsite fire. Remind him of the good old days, he thought to himself. “It’ll do,” he said aloud, smoothing his shirt and shifting his hips just a little. The britches were perhaps a little on the tight side but they’d always done the trick when it came to seducing various baronesses and stable-hands across the realm.

He turned away from gazing at himself as a different sound reached him. Voices in the bar, low and questioning. Mutters of a brief conversation. A door opening. The sound of feet upon the stairs. Heavy. Purposeful. Geralt’s.

Jaskier watched the handle of the door to his prepared sanctuary twist slowly, the oaken door swinging slowly open on squeaking hinges. There the witcher stood, caught in candlelight, leather and silver and the promise of deadly violence wrapped up in a man Jaskier knew in his heart to be kinder than he would ever let show. That was until tonight. Jaskier took a deep breath before finally speaking. “Geralt. You’re here. Good.”

“I got your note, bard.”

“That’s good! I’m glad. Yes.”

Geralt’s brows were knotted as if he was wrapped in some complex puzzle. “You mentioned another golem. Funny. I asked the barkeep about it just now. He doesn’t seem to know anything about it.”

“Ah.” Jaskier felt that a stirring in his stomach, the nerves at what he had done, at what he was about to do, starting to truly strike at him. “That’s the thing, I suppose. Time to come clean. Actually…” He paused. Could he do it? Yes. For Geralt? For this? Anything. He steeled himself one final time and let the words flow from him. “I made it up. The whole thing. There is no second golem. I just… I just needed you to come back here.”

“You did what?”

“I made it up. Every word. Complete fakery on my part, I’m afraid.”

“Hmph.” At first, Geralt’s face was unreadable save for the ice-cold anger that seemed to set it in place. Then, after a moment’s breath, the witcher’s eyes narrowed, his gaze taking in the dressed table set for two, the fire gently burning in the hearth, candlelight glinting off silver cutlery and china plates. “Expecting other company, bard?”

Jaskier fought to keep his voice steady. “Actually it’s for you. All for you, Geralt.”

“What are you talking about? What is this?”

“The greatest horror I’m sure you’ve ever had to face. An honest conversation.”

“Hmph,” Geralt snorted again. “You’ve wasted my time once too many. I ought to run you through where you stand.”

Jaskier felt his heart pounding but fought against it, willing himself calm. “Of course,” he said, focusing all his energy on keeping his tone as level as the cold witcher’s. “Because I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you and it’s all my fault that your default reaction to anything being the slightest bit difficult is to turn and run.”

Despite himself, Geralt looked at the bard a little incredulously. “Jaskier, I fight monsters for a living. I don’t run from anything.”

“All you do is run!!” Jaskier couldn’t help his voice from raising to a shout, anger and frustration overtaking forced calm. “Fighting monsters is easy for you, its being a person that’s hard! The second you start to feel something, anything, you get up on that damned horse of yours and disappear over the nearest horizon!” Unbidden tears threatened to overwhelm his eyes’ resolve, but he carried on, the hurt and pain rolling out like a dammed river bursting. “I can see you’re annoyed, of course you’re annoyed, but that’s not from me. You look at me and you get annoyed because deep down you know what you said to me on that goddamn clifftop was… Was fucking unfair, Geralt!!”

The bard’s words hung in the silence between them, months of frustration and distance suddenly spanned by Jaskier’s bridge of accusation. Finally, Geralt spoke, his voice little more than a whisper. “You tagged along when you were not welcome. You dragged me into messes of your own making. You used my work to further your career. And you wish to talk about fairness? Damn you and your fucking lute.”

The words were like daggers in Jaskier’s chest. Was it so hard for him to apologize? For just once to admit that perhaps he had been too harsh on him?

Inside Geralt could feel two voices battling. Right now the louder of the two was his iced fury, ready to reach out and tear the fool’s head from his shoulders for wasting his time like this with such a wild goose chase. But the second voice was becoming almost as hard to ignore. It spoke without thought, without words, instead a simple, silent crescendo of longing and loneliness, its unheard yet unstoppable whispers running across the surface of his anger like red-hot rivers melting his frosty countenance. From the depths of the witcher’s heart he could sense a simple truth emerging; Jaskier was right. It had been unfair. He had yelled out in anger, in the shocking pain of losing Yennefer yet again, pain that needed a lightning rod to draw itself to, and there was Jaskier.

There was Jaskier. The bard stood staring back at him, his own eyes wild in a way that Geralt had never seen. Gone was the buffoon who talked too much and got himself into scrapes so often that it was a wonder he hadn’t yet been killed by a monster or cuckolded husband, and in his place stood a man as strong as any the witcher had faced in battle. Geralt blinked, surprised at the intensity of Jaskier’s gaze back at him. “I tried to move on, Geralt,” the bard said, voice shaking at last. “I really honestly did. But I can’t. Not while there’s so much… So much that I still need to say. So please.” Jaskier’s hands twitched, as if he were fighting the urge to clasp them together in supplication. “Please, all I ask is that you sit and you listen. And if you don’t want to hear it or you still wish to be alone at the end of it, you have my truest word I will let you be.”

Geralt blinked again. Against all instinct he could sense something in him, willing him to stay. “…Alright. I’ll hear you out.”

Jaskier felt his shoulders sag with relief, gratitude surging over the mountains of misery that had sprung up within him. “You will? You will. Thank you. Thank you, Geralt!”

“Hold your thanks, bard. I said I’d listen, that’s all.” The witcher stood where he had entered, hand still on the lintel, though it seemed to Jaskier’s eyes that had tarried over Geralt enough to know the signs, that an undeniable uncertainty had made a crack in the stoic armour of his erstwhile companion.

He gestured to the table. “Come on, if you’re going to stay at least sit down.”

Geralt stood frozen a moment longer, then, with a grunt, complied, settling himself on the opposite side of the humble table. He glanced across the setting once again, as if coldly amused by the effort on display. “So what was your plan here, that we would somehow settle our differences over supper?”

“Something like that,” Jaskier replied, taking the seat opposite. “Can I pour you some wine?”

“Sure.”

With shaking hands Jaskier poured a generous amount of cheap red into the two polished goblets. He gripped the bottle a little tighter, fighting the trembling in his fingers that threatened to send crimson liquid staining across the tablecloth. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Geralt sniffed the wine. His sharpened senses could pick out the bitter notes where the unfinished wood of the cask had seeped into fruit. Not that it mattered. In his experience the only difference between the wine on a lord’s table and the stuff in his goblet was how much bull you were willing to listen to about it.

Jaskier finally sat down opposite the witcher, hands folding in front of him. For a moment there was nothing but silence between them, the awkwardness growing with each passing second. He watched as Geralt took a long sip of wine, his gaze fixed firmly to a section of wall several meters to the bard’s left.

Another moment passed. Another sip of wine. Internally Jaskier berated himself. He’d gotten so worked up so quickly, and all his planning had been so focused on just getting Geralt in the damn room, that now he was actually here and complying his momentum had just run out on him. He’d taken the leap, and quite to his surprise it had turned out there was deep water at the bottom and he was going to have to swim.

The silence was becoming excruciating. Finally Geralt cocked an eyebrow. “Well? Are you going to say your piece or not?”

“Yes! Yes. Sorry. Just… Gathering my thoughts.” Jaskier took a deep, steadying breath. He’d started this whole evening’s performance. He could see it through. “I suppose it all started there on the cliffside. Where you…”

“Where I told you to leave.”

“Yes.” Another moment of silent recollection passed between them, as if despite the warmth of the small room they were both back on that wind-blasted hilltop, without even a final goodbye to ease the passing of their time together. “Like I said just now, it hurt, but I’ve endured your harsher side plenty of times over the years. But this time… I think… This time I think I realised that I never properly told you what our journeys meant to me.”

Geralt snorted, his face as impassive as ever. “They certainly helped line your pockets. If everyone’s tossing coins to their witcher, the bard next to him can always scrape a few off the ground.”

“You needed that song more than you know,” Jaskier bristled. “You might hate it but without that and your still just the Butcher of Blaviken!”

He was right of course. Geralt knew that, in his heart. It had done wonders for his success, to have his reputation restored in the fashion the bard had provided. He’d gone from a reaper-like menace, a mere thug with a specialty, to some kind of rugged folk hero. He was practically beloved in some corners, or at the very least begrudgingly renowned. All thanks to Jaskier. It wouldn’t hurt him to say so. A small kindness. He was worthy of that, at least. “…Fine. I admit it. I got plenty of work out of it too. But you can hardly compare what I do to your ceaseless strumming.”

“You protect, I inspire. It’s a complimentary arrangement. Was a complimentary arrangement. I’m sorry.”

Geralt studied the bard from across the table. A complimentary arrangement, huh? That was one way of putting it. He raised an eyebrow again, almost as if to tease him.

“Anyway,” Jaskier continued, stumbling to get back to his point. What was it about Geralt that could leave him so bereft of words? Nothing else had had this effect on him. “Like I said, I never got to tell you what it all meant to me. And now… The thought I wouldn’t be able to… That was just horrid, Geralt.”

“I’m here now, bard. Tell me what it all meant.” Geralt’s voice was cool and level, without a hint of emotion.

Jaskier paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. He’d tried before, in songs and stories, by flickering fires and in crowded inns, but they’d never come out right. But now, with Geralt here, actually here in front of him once more, they crystalized in beautiful simplicity. “Well… Those days… For all the ups and the downs and the danger… Those days spent travelling with you were the best days of my life.”

Geralt blinked. Honesty radiated off of Jaskier, the bard staring at him almost pleadingly as he waited for his response. It wasn’t as if it had been unpleasant, came that voice inside him once again. It wasn’t like you hated having him around. No; the opposite, really, though he was loath to admit it. And for all his faults Jaskier did seem to understand what he’d done this time was wrong, there was no doubt about that. But there was also no changing just what he had done; it was foolish and preyed on the witcher’s nature in a manner that sat wrong for Geralt. The thought threatened to harden him once again, but before it could a second thought chased it away, twice as potent in its simple truth: Just like you preyed on Jaskier’s nature to send him away.

That was it, wasn’t it? Even speaking in anger he’d known at the time that the words were perfect in their cruelty. They attacked the deepest insecurities he knew the bard carried, like arrows flying straight to the centre of the target that was Jaskier. In his anger and pain, he had allowed himself the bitter indulgence of turning it all on his most loyal companion. Jaskier was right; that was unfair of him.

He’d been running from that fact for so long, convincing himself that his self-righteous anger was justified, that he was better off on his own, that now stopping and facing it head-on was as comforting as staring down a rampaging striga. He coughed, mouth suddenly dry. “…I’m sorry too, Jaskier.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to blink in surprise. “Sorry? For what?”

“For what I said. You’re right. It was wrong. I was wrong. And for what it’s worth…” He paused, considering his next words carefully. But pausing did not make the words on his tongue any less true. What was the harm in finally saying them aloud? “For what it’s worth, I had a good time too. I miss… I miss those days too.”

Jaskier blinked again, eyes widening in surprise. The words had reached him but were still barely making sense. Geralt missed those days? Missed travelling with him? It was more of an admission than he’d dared to consider in even his wildest imaginings and yet here Geralt was, saying it aloud as if it were nothing more than a casual line. As if it the possibility it promised was nowhere to be heard.

He steadied himself as he considered his next words. This was a new side of Geralt, and he knew the witcher well enough to know that if he pushed too hard, too fast into something new he was likely to up and bolt as swiftly as he had come. “I’m… Glad to hear that,” he began, fighting to keep his voice gentle. “I wouldn’t want every memory you had to be of me tormenting you.”

His eyes fell to the table. Geralt had sat as if posing for a portrait, placing his palms flat on the cloth as he listened. It was still, poised— exactly as he’d come to expect from the witcher. Moving seemingly of its own accord his own hand moved across the table, fingers lightly drumming a nervous rhythm as if to betray the pounding of his heart. “And I am more than willing to admit that I took advantage of your loyalty,” he continued, words as carefully chosen as before. “That was wrong of me, I know. But I felt like I had no choice.” Jaskier felt his hand move just a little across the tablecloth, the lace catching at his palm just a little as it closed the gap between his and the witcher’s own resting fingers. “I was dishonest, I betrayed your trust, and I hurt your feelings. I am truly, truly sorry, Geralt.”

“Spare me the hysterics, Jaskier. I’ve told you before, Witchers don’t have feelings.” Somehow the words sounded hollow even to Geralt.

“Bullshit. You feel everything. You feel it more, even.”

“Don’t talk like you know me, bard.”

Jaskier moved his hand a little more, his fingers brushing just the edge of Geralt’s, frozen still upon the wood of the table. “But I do know you,” he said, his voice little more than a pleading whisper. “Better than most, I might add. I’ve seen the good and the bad in you, Geralt. In fact, I’ve seen some of the worst. Perhaps,” he added, with a wry smile, “due in no small part to my own annoyances.”

The witcher’s lip curled just a little. The moment seemed to stretch out between them, a quiet spell cast upon contact, the distance of months finally bridged.

Geralt opened his mouth to speak but before he could utter a word there was a sturdy knock at the door. It burst open to reveal the innkeeper, red-faced and sweating under his generous moustache, arms laden with a tray of steaming meat and vegetables. “Now sirs, I mean no ‘arm interuptin’ ye, jus’ thought you’d be wantin’ yer supper so.”

Jaskier’s hand flew from Geralt’s, the magic spell broken in an instant. He jumped back to his feet, hurrying to the innkeeper’s side. “Yes, yes, thank you. Perfect timing.” He cursed internally but helped the man, taking the tray from him and moving it towards the table, doing his best to ignore the way the skin of his fingers seemed still to burn from where they had grazed Geralt’s. “Do you mind?” Geralt grunted, shifting plates and candles aside to make room for the high-piled tray. Jaskier sat it down, the table groaning slightly under the new weight. “Thanks.”

“Will ye be wanting more wine, sirs,” the innkeeper called across to Jaskier.

The bard shook his head. “No, no thanks, we’re all fine here.” Get out, he thought, get out and leave us alone for Gods’ sake.

As if sensing the bard’s anxiety at his presence the innkeeper huffed once and turned on his heel. “As you say, sir, as you say.” He disappeared, the door swinging back shut as he stomped his way back down the stairs to the hubbub of the taproom below.

Jaskier looked over the tray of food to Geralt. His companion’s face was impassive as he took in the feast set before them. “It’s…

“A lot of food,” Geralt finished, his voice tinged, if Jaskier wasn’t imagining, with just a hint of amusement.

“Rather more than I’d planned, yes.”

“Do you mean to fill me like a goose? Make a pate of me to spread on your morning toast?”

Jaskier blinked. Geralt was joking with him. Genuinely, openly joking. “I’m not sure the flavour would be all that pleasant,” he replied quickly, not wanting the sudden change in tone to stop. “I don’t want to imagine just how you’ve marinated under those leathers all these years.”

“Hmph. Sure you’ve picked up plenty of stench from your own escapades, bard.”

“Perhaps my fair share.” A moment’s silence fell between them as each considered the other. How long had it been since that quiet corner in that no-name bar? Enough that Jaskier had lost count of grey hairs plucked and new lines on his forehead. He’d kept young as best he could but Geralt may as well have been cast in granite for all that they had seen. Time had run off of him like water off of rock, leaving as much impression as a dream forgotten on waking.

Geralt could sense his heart stirring just a little as he looked back at Jaskier. Damn it. Even now, despite himself the bard knew how to make him smile. He shifted his shoulders under his armour. It was a little warm with it on in here, and it wasn’t like there was any immediate dangers…

With a final decisive exhalation of breath, the witcher stood and began to unbuckle the straps holding the sheets of leather and chainmail to his body. Jaskier���s eyes widened. “What… what are you doing?”

“It’s not like I need armour if all we’re doing is talking. Besides,” Geralt said, another slight smile teasing the corner of his lips despite himself, “if you do decide to make an attempt at my life with the cutlery I think I can take you either way.”

Jaskier watched as the leather fell away revealing the simple cotton jerkin and taut britches beneath. Dark marks where the witcher had sweated into the fabric only served to accentuate the physicality of the man, the potential of those muscles that moved so pleasingly as he watched. Even the overwhelming scent of rosemary and thyme wafting off the food was not enough to stop Jaskier from catching the old familiar smell of Geralt’s skin. Musk and woodsmoke, salt and soil, as deep with mystery as a lost grove at the heart of a darkened forest. Just a breath of it and he was back on the road again, the pair of them camped out under distant twinkling stars. Alone with each other. He hadn’t had comfortable beds or sweet wines, but he had Geralt. And that had been all he’d wanted. All he would ever want.

Geralt glanced back over his shoulder at the bard watching him, mouth slightly open. “You’ll catch flies like that, bard.” In two more movements his gloves were pulled off, the pale skin of his rugged calloused hands seeming to glow in the candlelight.

Jaskier caught himself, snapping his lips shut before he could start to drool. “Sorry,” he mumbled, still dazed from the sight before him. “You, uh, caught me off-guard.”

“That makes two of us,” Geralt replied, finally returning to his seat. His golden eyes, still as startling to Jaskier as the first time they had stared back into his, watched him levelly from across their supper. The witcher studied him as if appraising him like a jeweller with a rare stone. Or a wolf with a choice piece of meat. The though caught Jaskier just as unaware as Geralt’s scent had, crashing through his already-shaken mind like an out-of-control haycart.

Jaskier blinked and shook his head slightly, forcing himself back into the present moment. In need of distraction he turned his attention to the feast before them, grabbing a carving knife that the innkeeper had kindly though to leave beside the roasted bird. “Um. Shall I carve?”

“Sure.”

The knife’s edge was imperfect, dulled in places so that it made ragged work of each slice, not helped of course by Jaskier’s shaking hands. After what felt like agonizing minutes, he finally had two plates of meat and vegetables assembled, the juices from the roast making a thin sauce. He handed a plate to Geralt, smiling apologetically. “Sorry about that. Not exactly the suave demonstration I was hoping for.”

Geralt half-smiled back at him, sharp eyes softened in the gentle light. “I was tempted to get my sword. Seemed like quite a beast to wrestle with.”

“I’ll be sure to compose a ballad to its slaying.”

“Maybe leave out the part where it was already dead.”

“Of course, how else could you come riding gallantly in to save me once again?”

Geralt caught the chuckle in his throat before it tumbled free, burying it in a brief cough and a mouthful of sour wine. What was this? How was it possible that the months had fallen away so quickly? It was as if they were living once more in the past, already joking, and teasing back and forth. The roadside bonfire had been replaced by candlesticks and the hunted game by the inn’s offerings but the spark, the flare of something different that made the bard bearable was the same as it had ever been.

No; not bearable. A joy. Geralt furrowed his brow at the thought, feeling it creep through him. It was just so, wasn’t it? Jaskier was a joy. And it wasn’t in spite of the scrapes he inevitably had to pulled from; it wasn’t in spite of the way he refused to take his warnings seriously; it wasn’t even in spite of the way he could so easily get a rise out of him like only Yennefer on her worst days could. They were all part of it. There was separating him down into his component parts, you either loved all of it or none of it. And for Geralt it was all of it.

He froze at the realization. Love. That was a new word, one that had never crossed his mind when thinking of Jaskier before. But then, Jaskier had always been there. He’d never had to think about what he felt. He was just there, a comforting presence, as much a part of his day to day life as his leather armour or the weight of his swords on his back. Geralt glowered down at the plate of food in front of him as if some answer to this new troublesome thought could be divined from the swirls in the meat juices, but any secrets the sauce may have held evaporated like so much steam off a good meal.

Jaskier caught the look on the frowning witcher’s face. “Oh, something wrong with the meal?” His voice was teasing again, still riding the high of discovering this new, softer Geralt. “I know it wasn’t the most elegant of cut-jobs but it should still be edible, right?”

“Jaskier.” Geralt had changed again, his shoulders seeming to freeze while his eyes remained locked on the plate of food. “All these… Feelings of yours. It sounds like…” He drifted off, seemingly unsure of what to say. This was strange, even for Geralt. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen the witcher at a loss for words before. His voice was strange, all at once back to its sharp, cutting tones, and yet, just like carving knife, seemed dull in places, as likely to catch on the shape of what he wished to say as to slice yet another gulley through the bard’s heart.

“Sounds like what, Geralt?”

Once again, silence fell between them. Even the noises around them seemed to quieten in the moment stretching agonizingly between them, the crackle of the fire, the voices from the bar bellow, the crunch of gravel and shouts of night-birds, all fading away so that all remained was the unbroken stillness, a hundred thousand unspoken words silently whispered in their hearts.

Slowly, moving in inches, Geralt raised his head to meet the bard’s pleading gaze. His features were a mix of confusion and something Jaskier hadn’t truly seen before; simply, undeniable fear. Geralt was afraid. “Geralt…” Hardly daring to breathe, Jaskier stood, getting up from the table.

With a tinkle of cutlery the witcher followed suit, quickly rising as if readying to run. “This was a mistake, Jaskier. I should go.”

“Don’t you dare!” Jaskier moved closer to Geralt, putting himself between the witcher and the door. “It wasn’t a mistake. You needed to hear this and I think you needed to say your piece too. I know there’s more you want to say, so say it. While I’m here to hear it.”

Geralt glowered back at him then lowered his eyes, as if looking at Jaskier would stop the words in his mouth. “Just that… The road wasn’t the same without you walking it beside me.”

Jaskier could hear the words between that Geralt could not say. The shaking threatened to return but he quelled it, willing his voice to remain steady as he replied. “I would gladly walk it with you again. If you would have me.” He took a step closer, his body seemingly dwarfed by the witcher’s broad frame. “Where you would go, I’d gladly go also. Your loyal companion to the end.”

His words filled Geralt’s heart, threatening to undo him. “And what if there is more to say, further along the road? What do we do then?”

Jaskier half-smiled. Letting himself be bold, he pressed a hand to the witcher’s chest. The powerful thud of Geralt’s heart thundered ponderously against his flat palm. “Then… We’ll just do what we have always done best. Say it all. Fight, talk, laugh.” He stared wide-eyed into Geralt’s face. “And in the end we’ll figure it out together.”

Geralt gazed back down at the bard, so close now that he could taste his sweetened breath, his perfume filling Geralt’s senses. “…Alright.” His voice was little more than a murmur. “I can do that.” A lock of Jaskier’s hair had sprung out of the carefully lain arrangement he’d clearly combed it into. Moving slowly he reached up and gentle moved it back, tucking it back behind the bard’s ear. His hand felt heavy, as if it had been transformed to lead by some alchemist’s trickery. He held it there, palm close to Jaskier’s cheek, the bard eye’s half-closed, lips open just a little as if to speak. But there was nothing more to say.

The inches between them now felt like canyons. Did he dare to cross them?

For just a moment longer he paused. It would change everything. It could all go wrong again. He could be a cruel, callous fool, speak in anger and ruin it all once more. But Jaskier’s lips, so soft in the candlelight and so close now, seemed to call out to him, an undeniable force. In his heart the witcher knew that to resist would be one fight he had already lost. Would always lose. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, the distance between them shrinking until at last…

Their lips met, gentle, unsure. Then Jaskier sighed and leaned into the kiss, his body pressing against Geralt’s as the witcher wrapped his powerful arms about him. They both gasped at the rising intensity, hands gripping each other’s clothes as if wishing to tear it away, freeing their bodies to be even closer. At last, after what felt like minutes, they broke apart, eyes closed panting, foreheads still resting against one another. “Geralt…”

“Jaskier.”

But there was no more need for words. They kissed again, more certain this time, passion overwhelming them both as they explored each other, the world outside, the bar downstairs and even the room in which they stood melting away in the heat of the moment.

***

The cold, gold-tinged light of morning crept through the blinds of the private room. Illuminated in a shaft of dawn, Jaskier sat on the edge of the table, the lute strung across his bare chest. His hands rested for a moment on the strings as he took in the gentle rousing of the day. A cockerel crowing on a distant farm. The crunch of gravel under the horseshoes of dawn riders. Low voices of those perhaps only just making it home now. And there in the room with him the low bass rumbles of a witcher’s snores.

He’d forgotten the strange comfort that came with those rumbles. It was somehow a promise of safety; if Geralt was ready to sleep so deeply and soundly surely there could be no threat nearby.

Gently so as not to wake him, Jaskier moved his hands along the strings of the lute, the faint whine of the gut under his skin pricking the edge of the peaceful air. Then, just as gently, he began to play. His fingers as if without command began to pluck out that same strange new melody he’d been chasing for so long now, at first unsteady and unsure but quickening with each strum. The chorus came towards him, the chords that had surprised him before now singing out with perfect clarity, like they’d always been there. But this time he played on. The chords moved, progressed, until the melody returned in a beautiful refrain, the same pattern repeated but subtly changed, as if the story told had moved forward just a little. On and on he played, the song filling his heart and mind like no melody had in years, until at last with a final repeat of that perfect chorus it came to a sweet,

Jaskier blinked. There was water on his cheeks. He was crying. He hadn’t even noticed. Quickly he grabbed a cloth from the table, rubbing his eyes and face clear of tears. As the music drifted away he realised his companion’s snores had ceased. He turned to see Geralt stirring, murmuring from the bed. “Hmm. Don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

Jaskier smiled. “It’s something I’ve been working on for a while. It was touch and go for a while there, but now…” He turned back towards Geralt, letting his eyes linger across the tangled sheets caught around the witcher’s muscular form. He smiled again, heart lighter than it had been in months. “Now I think it might just be something.”

[raywritesthings]

Happy Accident 1/3

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Oliver Queen, Laurel Lance, Felicity Smoak, Curtis Holt, John Constantine, Rene Ramirez, Rory Regan, E-2 Laurel Lance Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: Felicity’s punch has consequences no one intended, driving Oliver to take drastic measures with their own unexpected result. *Can be read on AO3, link in bio*

Oliver watched, tensed to make some kind of move, to intervene. He couldn’t let this twisted version of Laurel kill Felicity, yet hurting her could possibly be one of the hardest things he’d have to do. His verbal appeal to her not working, however, he was left with little choice.

Curtis intervened before he had to act, using some kind of device to neutralize the Black Siren’s metahuman-enhanced Cry.

She turned around to look at Curtis with shock and impotent rage, Oliver’s teammate coldly stating, “You really need to shut your damn mouth.”

They could bring her in without violence, Oliver realized with relief. They could secure her to keep her from hurting others, and maybe, just maybe, he could try to reach her and find out why she was so determined to hurt herself.

But then Felicity moved.

“Hey, pumpkin,” she said, just barely catching Siren’s attention before her fist connected with the other woman’s head. Oliver’s heart stuttered in his chest for one crucial moment as he watched Laurel Lance fall to the ground once more. It almost felt like he was stuck in slow motion or even frozen — just like the damn prison — until she hit the concrete floor with a hard smack that jolted him out of his horrified reverie.

“Hey. Kept my wrist straight,” Felicity remarked to him with pride as she straightened up. She eyed him funnily as he failed to provide a response, but as much as he was glad Felicity finally seemed to be picking up defensive maneuvers, but he could not delight in them being used against a woman with Laurel’s face.

And then Curtis, who had gone to handcuff Siren while she remained on the ground, said something that chilled Oliver to the bone: “Uh, guys? She’s not moving. Like at all.”

Oliver rushed forward, crouching on the other side of her as he and Curtis turned her over.

“Oliver, careful, it could be a trick,” Felicity cautioned.

But as he looked upon her pale, unmoving face and the red blood that ran down her temple to her chin with just a small amount continuing to ooze from the wound, he knew it wasn’t. His voice, when he found it, sounded strangled to his ears. “She’s dead.”

“What?” He didn’t know if it was a whisper or a shout; Felicity’s voice sounded far away while his head pounded and his eyes blurred and stung. On impulse, he reached for Laurel’s cooling body, pulling her into his arms.

“Oh God,” Curtis muttered under his breath. “Oh God, oh God.” It was clear the younger man was panicking, maybe going into shock, but Oliver could do nothing for that when he felt like throwing up himself.

Instead, he closed her mouth to rid it of the permanently slack-jawed expression Felicity had unknowingly etched onto her face and slowly stood. His head was bowed, but he still could make out Felicity’s wide and horrified eyes.

“Oliver, I- I didn’t mean to — she was going to kill me.”

“We're going back to the base,” he directed, and something in his tone seemed to work at getting both her and Curtis moving to follow him.

Laying her out of one of the tables was agony, because she looked too much like she had in the hospital. She looked dead, because she’d always been dead. He’d known that; he’d fought to escape a whole other reality because he’d known it was true no matter how much he hoped and wished and dreamed it wasn’t.

As he cleaned the blood from the one side of her face, he could hear the others talking quietly a good distance away.

“I shouldn’t have let her escape. One of the guards could have died, and now this.”

“You didn’t know it would happen.” Rory paced the floor, nervous energy rolling off him. They were all nervous and tense, maybe even more so than when the truth about his past as the Hood had come to light. Maybe it was because Oliver was no longer the only one in the room with blood on his hands. “Prometheus was there. We almost caught him.”

“It wasn’t your tech that did this,” Rene was offering Curtis in comfort.

All Oliver was really hearing was excuses. Reasons this wasn’t their fault, reasons it wasn’t so bad that a woman was dead, again, because of mistakes made by him and his team, again.

“My wrist is really gonna hurt while typing tomorrow,” Felicity muttered. “I guess I deserve that.”

Something broke in Oliver at that word as he stared down at Laurel’s long lashes fanned over her cheeks and her blackened lips. “You deserved better.”

“What was that?” Felicity called, the rest of the base falling silent and still.

“I said she deserved better,” Oliver said, speaking at normal volume as he finally turned to face his team. “Laurel deserved better.”

The recruits looked at each other, clearly unsure what to say. Felicity stepped forward. “Yes, our Laurel deserved better, Oliver. And I’m sorry that this other Earth version of her died, but she wouldn’t have hesitated to kill any of us.”

“You put her in a position to,” he reminded her, not nearly so willing as Rory to make excuses. He was tired of protecting Felicity’s innocence when she wouldn’t even defend his actions to the others. “With our Laurel, I can at least lay the ultimate blame for what happened on Darhk. But this? We did this. We have to fix it.”

Felicity recovered herself and asked, “How?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’m gonna find out.” Constantine had gotten back from his trip to Hell months ago. Oliver had the chance to ask his advice this time, something he hadn’t had when they’d lost their Laurel.

Maybe he’d just say it was hopeless. But maybe he wouldn’t. All Oliver knew was, he couldn’t just accept that this had happened. He wanted more for Laurel, even if she wasn’t his.

Oliver got out his phone and stepped away to make the call with one final warning. “Do not touch her while I’m gone.” Then he marched from the room that was silent enough to be this Laurel’s tomb.

---

Felicity was still struggling to process what had happened in the last 48 hours. She had thought her dead friend was back, gotten suspicious that she wasn’t, proved that suspicion was right and then… killed her not-friend?

It sounded horrible like that. She hadn’t meant to kill anyone. She never did! And it had basically been self-defense. The others all agreed.

But Oliver didn’t.

He had been off-center for a while. If Felicity had to put a date on it, she’d say since April. Since Laurel’s death, the real Laurel’s death. And he had only grown more so in the last month or so, since they had all teamed up to fight the Dominators. Maybe it had been from facing Sara for the first time since her sister died. Maybe he was just struggling in his own way to process that they were living in a timeline just slightly to the left of what they’d been living months ago.

But neither of those reasons explained his fanatical need to help this new version of Laurel, to reach her. Was it his Helena Complex rearing its ugly head, or was it simply because she looked like Laurel? If the latter, that did not bode well in Felicity’s eyes at all.

She looked across at the dead woman, recalling her mocking words and the smirk on those now-smudged black lips. How could she hold such a sway on Oliver when they were, for all intents and purposes, strangers? Why did it always have to be Laurel?

“Look, I’m sure this, uh, whoever he’s calling is gonna set him straight,” Curtis offered timidly. “He’s just in shock. I mean, I’m in shock. Honestly? I’d prefer she be alive because I am not gonna be able to sleep tonight knowing I helped—”

“You didn’t help anything. The concrete killed her,” Felicity decided crisply. Black Siren could have tripped in her heeled boots and cracked her head open, and it would have ended the same. It’s not like if this went to court that Felicity would be charged with the first degree. The real Laurel would’ve told her that, probably defended her if it came to that.

“Well, you did help her down to the concrete,” Rene said, not looking all that apologetic when Felicity glared at him.

Oliver re-entered the room then, so they all shut up, and Felicity was dismayed to see the spark of hope in his eyes. “Oliver?”

“There’s other Lazarus Pits.”

Her heart dropped somewhere deep into her stomach. “What?”

“Constantine. He says Ra’s didn’t have the only one. We can bring her back.”

Felicity knew the others were lost — probably wondering what the heck a Lazarus Pit was — but she didn’t care. She marched towards Oliver instead. “No, we can’t. The Pits are dangerous and using them irresponsibly like this — Malcolm warned you about Thea, and you didn’t even want Laurel to use it on Sara!”

“And both Sara and Thea are fine now. We’ll restore Laurel’s soul and get the Lotus.”

“Not even the Lotus is going to cure her wanting to kill me,” she stressed. “I mean, what is the plan after you bring Prometheus’ metahuman lapdog back from the dead, Oliver? Just let her run around screaming people to death?” There probably wouldn’t be much difference between the soulless version and Black Siren in that regard.

Oliver wasn’t even facing her, too busy repacking his quiver. “We will transfer her to a secure ARGUS facility. From there, I can talk to her, try to reach the part of her that has to be like the Laurel we knew.”

“While ordinarily I would love to celebrate this newly optimistic version of you, I think you’re just repeating history here, because this sounds a lot like Helena Bertinelli.”

“This is not about Helena!” He finally snapped, finally facing her, except he was clearly angry, which Felicity hadn’t wanted. “It hasn’t been about Helena in years, and if you didn’t bring her up every time we had an argument, I might have forgotten she was ever part of my life. This is about Laurel, about giving her another chance, believing in her when—” To her surprise, the anger that had been building in him seemed to deflate, and his shoulders slumped as he looked at the ground. “When I didn’t before.”

Felicity closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Of course it was about Laurel. It was always about Laurel. She wouldn’t be surprised if Helena has really just been about Laurel all along.

“When this inevitably goes sideways, I am going to be there to remind you that I told you so.”

“I know you will be,” Oliver said wearily.

“And I’m gonna be there, too,” Curtis piped up unexpectedly. “I have to see this through.”

Oliver gave Curtis nod. “John sent me the location of one of the Pits. We’re meeting him there in two days, so make any arrangements you need. Rene, Rory, keep up your patrols. Thea’s on her way back and should be able to help with any questions or emergencies.”

“Fine by me, Hoss.”

Rory gave a short nod. Felicity has really been hoping for someone to ask Oliver to stay instead.

But here they were again, going on another ill-advised trip to the Lazarus Pits.

---

Oliver was too preoccupied with carrying one end of the makeshift casket they had place Earth-2’s Laurel Lance in to shake John’s hand where they met at the bottom of the mountain in Siberia, but he did say, “Thanks for agreeing to this.”

“What can I say? The pretty girls in your life left an impression on me.”

He heard Felicity’s scoff behind him. He didn’t think Curtis had even registered the remark, too busy muttering under his breath about trying not to focus on the fact he was carrying the other end of a casket.

“Truth is, this helps me as well,” Constantine admitted as they started the trek upwards. “There’s been rumors that bad actors are looking for these Pits since Nanda Parbat’s destruction. Gives me the opportunity to layer at least this one with some protection and concealment magic.”

Oliver nodded. If this meant he and John were still even by the end of this, he wouldn’t complain.

By the time he called for them to veer off the common path, both Felicity and Curtis had put in their fair share of complaints about the climb. Oliver had done his best to ignore both or to keep from pointing out that neither of them had really worn the right shoes for it, though at least Felicity’s boots didn’t have her customary heel.

“Through here,” John instructed, directing them towards a crevice Oliver might have otherwise passed up. It was going to be too tight for the casket.

“Lower it — gently, Curtis!” He scolded, as the other man quickly set his end down with a sigh of relief.

“Sorry.”

Oliver set his own end down and opened the lid. Under the shroud, the body was cold and stiff in his arms. His mind went back to his father, and he fought down the usual wave of nausea.

Inside, a Pit much like the one he had seen in Nanda Parbat bubbled with the mystical waters. Oliver waited as the others all filed in.

“So, what happens now?” Curtis asked?

“Well, last time there was a priest lady who did a chant,” Felicity explained. “Do we need the chant? Does it not work without it?” Oliver couldn’t help noting she seemed hopeful that was the case.

“Nah, that’s just all for show,” Constantine said. “You can lower her in, Oliver.”

He did so slowly, pulling the shroud off as she slid down under the bubbling water. Moments after her head disappeared beneath the surface, the waters stilled.

“Curtis, Felicity, stand back,” Oliver instructed, though Felicity was already doing so.

“Why?”

“If this works, she’s gonna be a little disoriented.”

“Well, you catch her, and I’ve got something to put her to sleep to make the soul retrieval a little easier,” John told him to his left. Oliver nodded, swallowing once as the waters began to roil once again. Here went nothing…

Laurel’s body, rejuvenated and alive, sprung from the water straight over his head. Curtis let out a shriek if terror, and Felicity darted back through the crevice towards the entrance of the cave. Before Laurel’s soulless body could make another move, Oliver seized her from behind, lifting her feet off the floor and getting the whole front of his jacket and pants wet as she struggled to free herself from his hold.

John thrust something under her nose and spoke some sort of incantation. Instantly, she went limp. “There. Not so hard?”

“Nope,” he agreed. Oliver looked down at her. Were she not still wearing the Black Siren suit, he wouldn’t be able to tell a single difference between her and his Laurel. If they had only known about this Pit last year, before they had been forced to announce her death and her identity to the public… he would have to settle for making this right.

Oliver laid her down, this time on the ground far enough from the Pit for John to begin drawing his circle and placing those items only he knew the purpose of. By the time he had finished, Felicity crept back in with a muttered, “It’s freezing out there.”

“Now then, I need at least a volunteer to go with me to the other realm,” Constantine said. “I assume Oliver’s game, but is there anyone who might have known her better?”

“Too bad we couldn’t ask Prometheus,” Felicity snarked.

Oliver just looked her in the eye. “You coming?”

She shook her head. “I can’t even fight.”

He bit back the remark that they wouldn’t be here right now if not for her foray into the field, and instead said, “John and I would take care of it. You would just help to pull her out.” Given it had taken two of them to pull Sara’s soul out of the darkness it had been trapped in, he couldn’t imagine it would be any easier to extricate Black Siren’s soul. “You trust me?”

“Oliver… I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” she said, one hand raised as she shook her head in denial.

“Okay,” he replied, his voice tight. “Curtis?”

“I think I should stay and stand guard,” Curtis suggested. “In case those other guys that want the Pit show up.”

“Fine,” he bit out. “Let’s go, John.”

“Very well,” his friend said, then raised his hands, his eyes rolling back a little as he spoke in that strange tongue again. Oliver stood over this Laurel and waited for the familiar sensation of being sucked away in a blinding flash of light.

Darkness met him. Oliver blinked, but it didn’t go away. “John?”

“I’m here,” his friend said very close, yet Oliver could not see him. “Damn, I was worried about this.”

“What is this?” He raises his hand up and moved it to touch his face, and still he couldn’t see it.

“You said this was a Laurel from another Earth. I think her soul must have fallen out of our vibrational frequency. I don’t think we can reach her.”

“What, there’s just nothing here?” That couldn’t be it. There had to be something, some way to do more. If it was vibrations, maybe they just needed Cisco.

“I’m sorry,” John started to say, but Oliver shushed him as he heard another voice far off in the distance.

“Ollie?”

“Did you hear that?” He asked bear a whisper.

“Hear what?”

They both listened. The silence seemed to stretch on an age before it was broken, so much so he had started to wonder if he’d made it up.

“Ollie?” The voice asked again, and there was no mistaking it this time. Oliver’s heart leapt.

“She’s still here,” he said, and started walking towards it, almost wading through the strange darkness. “Laurel?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m coming to you. Just keep talking.”

“Oliver! Don’t go too far.”

But he couldn’t heed John’s warning, not when he was so close. He reached and reached out, no even able to see his hands through the unending darkness, not until he suddenly stepped through what could have only been a barrier of some kind separating the inky black space from here, in the light.

It was a cosy studio apartment that met his eyes. A desk stood against one wall piled high with work while a punching bag hung in the opposite corner. Candles sat in the fireplace, and Laurel herself stood in the center of the room as if she had just risen from the couch.

“How did you…?” She seemed just as stunned to see him as he was to see this.

He had expected a fight, some kind of representation of the pipeline or Prometheus or Zoom. What did it mean that this was her soul? Was he right that beneath all the snark and the cruelty, there was someone like the Laurel he had loved and lost?

“You’re going to need to come with me,” he said, holding his hand out, and to his disbelief she took it without argument.

“But what are you doing here?” Almost without argument, then. Trust Laurel.

“To make things right. I’m sorry for what happened with Felicity.”

Her mouth fell open, though she said nothing. Oliver wondered if she had forgotten what had happened here in this place, if death was that kind.

He had begun walking backward the way he’d come, and she went with him. Rather than return to the total darkness, however, it was almost like the light from the room he had found her in followed them, lighting their way just a few inches ahead at a time.

“Oliver, where the bloody hell are you?” John’s voice called from up ahead, apparently still stuck in the dark. “I have to take us back now!”

“Then do it, John! I found her!” He shouted back. “We can go home!”

“Was that Constantine?” Laurel asked, and the satisfied grin on his face slipped.

“How do you know who Constantine is?”

Laurel — and it struck him then just how much like Laurel she truly looked and sounded — opened her mouth, but there was a blinding flash of white light, and Oliver found himself blinking the spots from his vision and standing in the cave again.

On the ground, Laurel blinked and slowly sat up, looking down at herself in clear disorientation.

“Well, not sure how we managed it, but another successful restoration,” John said.

“Congratulations,” Felicity remarked dryly. “We should definitely cuff her now.”

Oliver placed a hand on Curtis’ shoulder to block him when he came up with the meta cuffs. “I’m not sure we did exactly what we meant to.”

Laurel coughed a couple times and asked, “How did we get here, and who put me in these clothes?”

“We did something better,” he said quietly, a smile blooming on his face as she turned her gaze towards him.

“Fishnets, Ollie. Really?”

[bcbdrums]

What Is True

FFn link --> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13666708/1/What-Is-True

For @drakgoprompts no. 5, “Emotion Sickness Aftermath.”

Also inspired by @cocoa-at-night‘s answer to the prompt with her lovely art for the prompt!  Please look at it first!!!

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

Shego rolled over in bed again, tossing her hair carelessly. She didn't know how many times she had rolled over, but it was enough to now be annoying her as much as the inability to sleep.

She had barely slept for three days, since the incident with the mood-altering device that had inadvertently fallen on her during the most recent caper. Her wild memories of the events that had occurred kept playing in her mind on an endless sequential repeat, the way Holiday Tale did on Christmas Day each year on that one cable channel. She couldn't stop thinking about how she had been fully invested in her actions, every step of the way...

It frightened her. She had been unable to stop crying over a broken nail. And then she was mad at Drakken for not caring. Until she wasn't. Until she wanted nothing more than for him to put his arms around her. And then she cried because he wasn't spending all of his attention on her. And then the sadness turned to rage.

The scariest thing was...she could still access the emotions if she tried. She could feel the sadness, the anger, and...the...

What did she call the feeling she'd spent most of the day having toward Drakken? It wasn't lust. It wasn't a crush. It was something else... Something...deeper, that combined elements of the two.

It wasn't love. It couldn't be love... What was love anyway? She'd never been in love. It couldn't be love...

She rolled over again, and then finally sat up, tossing her hair back in frustration. She reached behind her neck and touched the aching, stinging spot where the little device had been.

Drakken had moved on. He set the henchmen to cleaning the lab that had been ruined by melted snow, and was off elsewhere in the lair working on something smaller until the lab was back to operational conditions. When Shego came out of her room to eat or to see if there was anything new planned, he acted almost as if nothing had happened. He was content to chalk the situation up to the technology and let it go.

But Shego couldn't.

She got out of bed and after dressing, stormed through the halls in search of Drakken. She wasn't entirely sure why she felt compelled to talk to him, but she did know that she wouldn't be able to sleep that night unless something changed.

She found him in the den, sitting behind his desk while a fire roared in the fireplace. He was flipping through a brochure for the upcoming villain convention and circling something on the current page.

"Drakken!"

He dropped his pen and looked up, startled. For once he didn't call out or look annoyed. But Shego was too tired and too riled up from her own stress to notice.

"Why didn't you take advantage of me!"

Drakken's eyes widened and he sank back in his chair, as if trying to disappear. Shego's hand flew to her mouth. She hadn't planned to say those words... They just came out. She stared at Drakken, who stared back, equally at a loss.

"Wh-what?" Drakken asked in a meek voice.

Shego's heart was pounding. But she couldn't take it back...

"Y-you heard me," she said shakily, and then, with more assurance, "Answer the question."

Drakken's shock turned into affront. "That...that would have been wrong, Shego!"

Shego's jaw slowly dropped as he began to ramble about the morals his mother taught him, his uncertainty over her out of character behavior, and how really, he just wanted to enact his plan. The EMA was the perfect beginning to his eventual global domination...

Shego shook her head and stepped closer as he went on, gesticulating wildly as he bemoaned the recent failure due to Kim Possible's unexpected appearance.

"So, so let me get this straight," she interrupted, setting her hands on his desk and leaning forward. "Your plan was more interesting than a beautiful woman throwing herself at you? What are you...are you gay, or impotent, or something?"

Drakken's face then looked like she'd never seen. His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, his lips pursed, and his cheeks blushing nearly purple as he seemed unable to decide which emotion to respond with. But she held her ground, glaring at him as she waited for an answer.

And then it suddenly hit her... What answer, exactly, was she hoping for?

"No!" Drakken burst out, deciding apparently on anger. "I was concentrating on trying to cause mass chaos and destruction that would lead to my ruling the world! You— You...wait," he slowed down, his expression suddenly growing nervous. "Did you...want me to...make a move?"

Shego stood up suddenly as her face flushed crimson.

"No!" she spat back before any other thought dared enter her head. "If you had you wouldn't be alive to have this conversation."

Drakken's eyes flashed in fear as he leaned back further, pushing the chair slightly away from the desk. And then his expression fell back to confusion as he peered at her. Confusion, and caution. He moved his hands to his lap and twiddled his thumbs.

Shego sighed. "I'm just...surprised, I guess. Most men would have taken advantage of the situation."

Drakken's expression hardened slightly. "I'm a gentleman, Shego."

Shego looked at him for anything but honesty, but...that's all there was in his eyes. And she was no closer to understanding her own feelings about everything.

As a silence grew between them, Drakken looked more and more like he wanted to say something. Sudden fear over what it might be propelled her speak again.

"Thanks. For...being a gentleman. Guess I'll stick around," she said with a small laugh, hoping that would be enough explanation for her interrupting his evening.

But it still gave her no further answers about why she'd enjoyed kissing him in that photo booth...and why the memory was still positive. Shouldn't it disgust her?

She touched the sore spot on her neck as her gaze drifted to the fire as she worried about why she couldn't get that day out of her mind. And why she kept finding herself wondering why he didn't kiss her back... Why he just seemed to tolerate her romantic advances...

"Is your neck still hurting where that...thing was on you?" Drakken asked.

Shego blinked back into focus and realized she was still touching her neck.

"Oh. Yeah."

Drakken looked like he wanted to say something again. Shego's fingers brushed a spot on her neck that stung, and she winced.

"Uhm. Could you...look at it? I can't see it really well with the mirror."

Drakken's brow rose. He left the chair and approached her silently, cautiously lifting a hand. She spun around and pushed her hair over right shoulder, suddenly feeling a bit unsteady on her feet. Or was her stomach turning over? Or both...

"Ah..." Drakken said. She felt his fingers at the edge of her collar.

"What?"

"Could you...move your collar down somehow? The device was partially beneath it."

Shego felt her stomach turn over again as she unzipped the front of her suit. She suddenly, inexplicably felt like her legs wouldn't hold her up.

"Hold on, uh...can we sit down?" she said while moving to do so, dropping on her knees in front of the fireplace.

"Ah..." Drakken said, following her down. He sat behind her, and Shego stiffened slightly as she felt his hand gently touch her left arm, just above her elbow. She felt her collar pulled down very slightly with his other hand, the garment moving freely now that her suit was undone.

Drakken didn't make a sound as he apparently looked at the injured spot on her neck. The silence made Shego even more uneasy.

"Is it bad?" she asked.

"It...yes," Drakken said plainly. Shego's brow shot up, and she listened as he described the wound. "You remember the device was round and had those little...clamps, to anchor into the victim?"

"Yes..." Shego said, wondering at his choice of the last word.

"There is bleeding beneath the skin where each clamp was... And you have a bad electrical burn in the center, and more subcutaneous bleeding."

His gloved fingers ghosted over the pained spot, and then vanished.

Shego sighed as her thoughts zeroed in on one thing for once that night. He hadn't exactly called her a victim. But it's what she had been... A technology they didn't understand driving her...and leaving her mind so mixed up now it was gone, she didn't know what was true anymore.

Except...for one thing. There was one thing she could still be sure of.

"Dr. D.?" she said, her gaze dropping to her lap without focus. She tugged on the ends of her hair lightly.

"Yes...Shego?"

"Thanks...for being a gentleman."

"Shego... I would never dream of...of..."

He sounded anxious as his words trailed off. She thought back to well over a year before, when he had put her under mind control for an experiment and made a mockery of her throughout the experience. But of all the things he had done then...what stood out must was what he hadn't done.

Her heart was racing. No matter what that strange mood-altering device had done to her...and know matter how mixed up she was... She knew she could always be sure of him.

His hand was still inexplicably resting on her left arm. Why had he put it there? She crossed her arms and set the fingers of her right hand lightly over his.

"Dr. D. I know."

[ficstogo]

Somebody Else Chapter 6

Chapter 6: I Thought

Summary: Sandra finally meets with Trevor.

Word Count: 2,022

It had been late in the night when the door finally opened. Sandra only sat as she watched the tiny television set from across the room. A man in red flannel and a fisherman's cap poked his head through. He was nervous, saw the bikers park out front of the trailer and squirmed his way through one of the back windows. He didn’t want to get caught up with The Lost. He didn’t want to die.

“Oh shit…” He said with a hint of fear in his voice, taking a peek at the damage caused. As he entered fully into the trailer, a yelp escaped him as he backed himself against the door once he caught sight of Sandra. “Who the hell are you? Are you from The Lost?”

“That shitty biker gang? No. I’m here for that asshole Trevor.” Sandra had a scowl on her face. He better be asking her that because she was here and not because he thought she looked like a meth head.

“Well who isn’t nowadays…” He said under his breath as he calmed down. “Just look at this place! He’s going to be so pissed…”

“Why? I thought it looked like this all the time.”

“No, they were here, probably to give him a warning…”

“And what did he do this time?”

“Uh, I’m sorry but who are you?”

“An old friend. Who are you?”

“A new friend. Listen lady, I don’t trust that easily, unlike most people, I know better than to trust any stranger off the street. That’s why I’m Trevor’s number two.”

“Well isn’t that just fine and dandy, but unlike you, I don’t really give a shit. Now, is Trevor gonna show up or not? ‘Cause we got some things we gotta sort through.”

“He should be, I think he’s in a meeting now…”

“Oh, a meeting you say. Probably with someone that I don't give a shit about huh? That fuckin’ scumbags got a meeting with someone more important than me and the goddamn situation he’s got me in now, huh?”

The sound of an engine revved in front of the trailer. The fisherman turned with a look of fear once again. Exiting the trailer Sandra can hear his voice. Loud and boisterous, just as she remembered. What surprised Sandra was how she stormed out of the trailer with anger instead of the anxiety she felt earlier on.

Walking through the fisherman and towards Trevor, Sandra had a finger pointed towards him while she shouted, “You! You goddamn son of a bitch! You got better things to be doing than coming to see me and talk about fucking Michael!”

Backing up with his hands up in defense, Trevor couldn’t help but scan Sandra's body before confirming it was actually her, “Is-Is that my sweet sweet Sandra-Dee?” He let out a low whistle as he took another look up and down her body. “I see your tits are as fit as I remembered them…” He said in a low growl. A loud slap split the night as Sandra’s hand came in contact with Trevor’s grimy face. The two other men that were there, their faces were in shock, they never seen their boss take a hit and not retaliate before.

“Ooo, you still got that good arm too huh?”

“Fuck you Trevor!”

“Honey, I’m ready when you are. Come into my office and we’ll talk.”

“W-wait! Trevor-” Entering his home, Trevor couldn’t help but notice the bigger mess in front of him. Bigger than how it usually is. “They were here Trevor! They’re trying to scare us away!”

“All of my stuff...destroyed. Broken as my soul. And, and would you look at this…” Trevor kneeled to the ground picking up a figure of what Sandra noticed to be Impotent Rage. She rolled her eyes at the useless toy, waiting for Trevor to let out his tiny tantrum over it. “No respect for a man’s prized possession. Those honor less, disgraceful, fuck headed bastards!”

“They messed with the wrong people Trevor!”

“Shut up Ron!”

“Are you done? Because I didn’t come here all the way from Vice just to see you kill a bunch of peopleI don’t give a shit about. Now where the fucks Michael?!” Sandra let out. She was tired of these games.

“That, my sweet Dee is something my dear friend Wade can answer.” He said as he turned to the man with the painted face on. Christ, now that Sandra was looking at him she, for some reason, wasn’t surprised these were the kind of people working for Trevor, especially after hearing him talk.

“I-I’m sorry Trevor but there’s so many people in Los Santos, he’s hard to find.” With her hands on her hips, she threw them in the air in exasperation, frustrated at how much of her time had been wasted on today alone.

“Wade, come here.” Trevor asked as his friend who only coward back a bit. “No no no no, come here Wade, I’m not gonna do anything to ya.” He cautiously came up to Trevor in obvious fear. Trevor only laid his arm across Wade’s shoulder in a friendly manner. Sandra only placed her hands back on her hips with the look of absolute annoyance adorning her face.

“Do you see my lovely friend over there with the nice rack?”

“Trevor-” Sandra says in a warning tone.

“She came a long distance to find a man named Michael. Now, I can already tell she’s disappointed and she’s no fun to be around when she’s that way. Like a wet blanket.” Sandra rolls her eyes at the statement but keeps quiet. Trevor then places both his hands on Wade’s shoulders and looks him directly in the eyes. The wannabe Juggalo only tries to avoid his eyes as it always did make him nervous to look into the eyes of man who can bring him death so easily.

“Now, frankly, I’m disappointed as well. So when I tell you to go look for someone, I expect some fucking results!” He then shoves Wade through the door of the trailer, him stumbling out. “Now the next time you show up here, I better have Michael Townley’s goddamn address on hand or else you and your shitheaded cousin are gonna end up the same way Johnny K did on my fucking boot! Now hurry the fuck up!” He shouts throughout the trailer park with Wade still stumbling like Bambi out of Trevor’s property. Sandra can hear him huffing and puffing like he usually does whenever he’s upset.

As soon as he calms himself down he turns to Sandra as if he never had temper at all. “Sandra, honey, so good to see you again...” He says as he tries to swipe in for a hug. Sandra sees his mediocre attempt to brush by every other conversation that needs to be had and pushes him away.

“No no no, nuh uh. Don’t come here trying to hug me like we’re good pals, meth-for-brains. We’re not doing that. We’re nowhere near that.”

“What do you mean?” He gives Sandra the innocent look routine but she wasn’t having it. While she was still angry (and unlike most people) she was thinking clearly.

Sandra only inched close to his face and said through clenched teeth. “You know exactly what I mean, don’t act like the dumb meth head with me you piece of shit, that never works...” She turned away entering back inside the trailer. Trevor only stood there in confusion looking at Ron as Ron only shook his head with a shrug of his shoulders. He knew what you meant but he couldn’t bring himself to actually talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want nothing to do with it.

“Sandra! Sweetheart! I know, I know you’re still mad about what happened in the past but it’s done! It's over with! Let me get you a beer!”

“No Trevor! No!” Sandra walks towards him as she gets into his face. What he expected was another slap but what he found instead of anger in her eyes was hurt and disappointment and it wasn’t over the lack of whereabouts on Michael. “You left me all alone when I thought we had each other’s backs after that day. I thought that after that heist, you’d stay with me and we’d live out life the way we use to way back before Michael and Brad showed up! I know we were shit back then but I thought that when we got ourselves cleaned up a little, we make a few bucks and move to fuckin’ Tahiti or some shit and live out the way we always planned on living!” Trevor only looked at Sandra in disbelief as this was more than what he expected from her. In his head, he only thought she would just be mad about him leaving without saying anything but it ran much deeper than that and he felt absolutely stupid for thinking very little of the dilemma.

“But that’s all it was Trevor, me thinking about all of the things that could’ve been. I was thinking of some stupid fantasy that I knew better about. Like any of that shit was gonna happen.” That’s all Sandra could let out right now. She could definitely sting him about anything else but that was the one thing she wanted to let off her chest for now. She was too flustered to do much else as she let out a sigh and backed away from him, walking to sit on his run-down seats.

Trevor only stood there to let all of it sink in. He found it funny. He hated Michael for abandoning them but he did the exact same thing to Sandra. What a damn hypocrite he was for doing that.

“Well, erm, Sandy, I uh, didn’t realize all that was transpiring in that noggin of yours...”

“Don’t hurt your brain over it, T. I’m not expecting anything from you, why would I?” He felt bad when she said that. She lost all trust and probably loyalty in him. What was once a close relationship with the both of them has obviously been lost and fractured over the years. What was he to do? He only hoped that them finding and possibly beating Michael would bring them closer again but that was only a thought.

“Uh, T?” Ron said in nervousness as he really didn’t want to be apart of this dispute but the clock was ticking for them.

“What Ron?! Can’t you see I’m having a heart to heart to heart here?!”

“Yeah but, uh, The Lost?”

“Shit!” Trevor whispered to himself. This was perfect timing, isn’t it? Make him look more of an asshole than he does now.

“Look, Sandy, I gotta go and take care of some things but I’d really love it if you could drive me there. For old times sake.” He asks with a hint of plea in his voice.

“No.”

“No?”

Sandra only stands back up and places a hand on his shoulder. “You go do whatever it is you plan to do. I came here just for what you called me for and nothing else so I’ll be waiting here.” She then sits back down with arms crossed and a patient face on. Trevor just stands there as he sees the switch go on in her. It was strange. She had a temper just like his, a bit more toned down but nevertheless, she had a temper. He saw the beginnings of it earlier but she backed down. He was confused to the say the least, but he rather not stay and have her yell at him. Although, he wouldn’t mind that. He missed her yanking his ding dong around and not just in anger.

Trevor just takes the opportunity to head out the door yelling at Ron to follow. With more time, Sandra soon will get what she came for, whether she had Trevors help or not. If it took his friend forever, she’ll go out looking for him herself. She was capable of doing that.