#speaking of trials. no one here was privy (wait i think i mentioned it in an rb) to my jason grace breakdown when i found out What Happened

[tsukiida]

i just scrolled through my blog and i realised i have only two modes: weird pseudo-philosophical rambling. and absolutely unhinged yelling. AND I TELL YOUUUU IT'S SO FUNNYYYYYYY because i spent so long trying to curate my voice and sound like a normal, fun, easy to approach person back when i first made this blog!

then again it's been 3.5 years so i guess my voice changed naturally 🤨 i'm not smart enough for this 😮‍💨

[captainsupernoodle]

@wolfsrainrules @north-peach IT’S HERE!!

This is very long????????????

(also writing this really drove home another one of those moments where i'm just like “what the FLIP I have FAMILY as young as this hero WHAT ARE THE GROWNUPS DOING”)

Ichigo is immediately like “a person who Knows Things! Who's willing to Tell Me Those Things!” and sits down and lays out everything he's been mentally and not-so-mentally screaming about since he got STABBED with a SWORD and got up with MAGIC POWERS. Byakuya eventually meanders them to his estate and orders tea and half of soul society feels Judged even though they're not sure where it's coming from. Byakuya is massively unimpressed with Everything.

Whether this is right after the first invasion or later would change some things, but in any era what the fallout mostly boils down to is the Gotei freaking out because suddenly! The super-powerful kid they've had running around is asking questions! And doing things!! Legally!!!

Ichigo puts Byakuya on speed dial on his soul phone and calls him up every time he thinks of a problem or someone tries harassing him or Isshin says something that just. Doesn't add up.

And eventually he just starts calling Byakuya to yell about shinigami nonsense around town (his bedroom is no longer marked as a safe house, has the esteemed Gotei 13 fallen so low–), about theories and experiments he's doing to adapt kido to his reiatsu levels, about history and science and reishi architecture and whatever else catches his interests, and Byakuya pretty much always picks up, even if it's just to tell him that he's in a meeting and setting a time for them to talk, and when he visits soul society he has friends who are eager to see him but he always spends some time at Byakuya's.

(more under the cut!)

Byakuya is quick to invite him into the Kuchiki library, and they spend many afternoons and evenings just sitting quietly, Ichigo tearing through scrolls and records, Byakuya doing paperwork or reading, and sometimes Ichigo will ask a question or Byakuya will point out that this author over here expounds on that point in the book you're reading, and they'll have intellectual debates over hasty bites out of their dinner and the staff is Scandalized by the young lord taking books to the table but after the first three times they got up in the middle of eating bc byakuya was trying to enforce Decorum ichigo just brought his books with him and then byakuya had to get up to reference something and it was just too much trouble. The head servant whatever is just like fine! fine, at least they're not eating in the library, who knows what might happen with a Shiba in the works, at least the young lord still has a grip on his temper.

And it is funny to anyone who sees them together -- it took a little while because Ichigo isn't actually in SS all that often, he usually trains in the bunker and Kisuke is about all the mad scientist he can handle, but he comes to hang with Renji & other friends on some weekends -- but they actually do get along like a house on fire after byakuya flipped the "mentor" switch and let his guard down enough to keep getting sucked into heated debates. Ichigo's not a rebel, necessarily, in that he's not out there constantly looking for reasons to pick fights with anyone, he just doesn't let anyone pick fights with him or his friends and also goes "well that's stupid" with... pretty much any kind of unjust authority and law. It drives Byakuya a bit bonkers but he channels it into "educate the unfortunately misinformed future clan head" instead of immediate senbonzakura-ing. Trouble is that Ichigo is entirely ready for friendly debate throw-downs and yeah, maybe he doesn't have a law degree, but execution without a trial for trying to protect people, byakuya, really?

And this is where a little of the cultural confusion comes through, because Byakuya is intellectually aware that Ichigo is human but it doesn't really affect much beyond Ichigo being from somewhere else and being unfamiliar with soul society. And he's like, mostly adult-shaped, right? He's bigger than Toshiro, and most souls that look like Ichigo are already out doing things, even if they're still pretty closely connected with home, and he acts young sometimes but most of the time he's at Byakuya's level, just less experienced, which is to be expected given shinigami aging. So Byakuya answers any questions he has and applies pressure in ichigo's favor when needs be in the background, and otherwise lets Ichigo come to him and generally be independent.

And this works for Ichigo! He's been independent for years, wrongfully so, but he still has more life experience than most kids his age and is fiercely independent on top of that, so having someone to lean on is both novel and avoids being suffocating or condescending. A lot of the time he wants help – he already has more independence than he really wanted, and he's mostly adjusted to it, but it doesn't stop him from wanting some of that support that he's been lacking for so long, and that Byakuya is freely offering.

And eventually he figures out that he's started telling Byakuya things he hasn't told anyone else – questions about hollows eventually led to offhand mention of his hollowfication, and oh right, he'd actually kind of attacked Byakuya with his hollow mask, he'd probably want an explanation for that and even as chill as he's been so far the soul society anti-hollow rhetoric has gotta come into play somewhere with a noble –

Except Byakuya doesn't push. He never pushes. Even with that first offer, he was just laying out an option that Ichigo could take if he needed it, and he followed through when Ichigo took him up on it.

So he has a bit of a crisis and is a little more scowly than usual, but his sisters and friends know what it looks like when he's thinking really hard about something and leave him be, and he takes some long walks with Chad, just turning over what's been happening in his head and considering.

(Byakuya's been one of his people since he got his head screwed on straight, but Ichigo knows he has a tendency to latch on in ways that most people don't reciprocate, and it's okay. His friends have gone to war with him for someone they barely knew, they trust him, and he can lean on Chad most times, and it's good, it's good to have friends and precious people to protect.

But Byakuya isn't looking for his protection, or for someone to follow, or to spar with or experiment on or manipulate.

He's just – there.)

His thinking doesn't change much. He's already confided more in Byakuya than he has with anyone, because before hollows and Soul Society his friend group was all human teenagers doing teenager things, and Chad was sorely needed relief from a chaotic home life but he was still Ichigo's age, didn't have answers to a lot of the questions Ichigo's been shoving deep ever since his mom died. Byakuya doesn't press, doesn't judge, thinks deeply before speaking, but Ichigo always knows he's listening.

It's. It's good. It's really good.

And I guess I have a timeframe after all because Ichigo's really been there and back by the time of the Winter War. Byakuya sent his sister and his lieutenant to support Ichigo before he'd even been denied help to rescue Orihime, and came to Hueco Mundo himself, and listened again when Ichigo came to him, glaring and stiff, and slowly, quietly told him about dying and coming back less than human, fear in the faces of his friends and enemies, about seeing a soul – a person – crumble at his own hands.

Byakuya gets a hint, then, that Ichigo isn't quite the same as a soul. Souls might go entire lives only in soul society, from birth to death, but even souls who grow naturally rather than coming from the Living World are in some ways static, slightly less flexible in some fundamental way than those in the Living World. He does a little asking around, and Ichigo is so young even by human standards – Soul Society has been leaning on him like he's as old as his power levels suggest, in a place where passive reiatsu output is often more accurate than physical appearance, and all this time he's not even fully developed as a person, is still soft and learning how to exist in the world.

Byakuya has his own crisis right about then, and I'm playing fast and loose with timelines because I don't even remember most of the show, so in this au we're in a waiting period after clashing with the Espada just enough to get Orihime back – all the shinigami are alive, Grimmjow is licking his wounds-presumed-dead, tragic batman is dead, harribel and the tres bestias are not wearing battle bikinis cool, uuuuuuuum I think???? the vizard already happened before the grand desert slaycation??? Byakuya has a few belated heart attacks when he hears about training and the dangers thereof even though he's been privy to & helping with Ichigo's solo experiments with the hollow mask, and after Orihime is back and the shinigami do whatever sneaky sneak they've been planning or however it was they figured out about the time limit or whyever they wait for the Karakura pillars fiasco instead of, idunno, trying to prevent the megalomaniac from keeping hold of the magic rock….

ANYWAY there's a quiet period and Byakuya has his oh crap i'm a dad crisis and eventually is just like this is a literal child but he's proved himself time and time again that he's capable and wouldn't appreciate anyone butting in on his business uninvited, so instead he's sneaky about it. Most of his sneaking reveals that things are about like Ichigo's described, he has school and friends and training (urahara probably notices his snooping but he's certainly not the one filling in for Isshin's catastrophic failures in parenting, and maybe he sees the need or maybe he just isn't bothered enough to do something about being spied on, and he never interferes or tells kurosaki). Okay, this is fine, if everyone else is a complete and utter failure of a parent then he'll have to fill in whatever Ichigo hasn't covered himself. He gets an actually competent shinigami to cover Karakura, gets a copy of his school schedule and keeps people from harassing him near tests, is even more stringent with fronting central 46's stupidity and Very Firmly, At Risk of Murder cuts off all possible contact between Kurotsushi and Ichigo's people (and may start quietly grooming nemu to take over the 12th but nobody can prove it).

Things are bopping along, and then we have whatever permutation of the winter war that happens in this AU. Byakuya's been busy with the Grand Karakura Relocation or whatever the plan is and reinforcing his division, whipping them into shape after centuries of nothing but low-level hollows, and he knows that Ichigo's doing the same and he isn't concerned when they have less time to communicate.

Then Aizen.

I never actually watched the interim between the hundreds of episodes of vs arrancar fights and the butterfly beatdown but i'm assuming that everybody's tied up elsewhere or else they wouldn't have let a SINGLE 15YO fight aizen on his own, right? RIGHT???

Anyway in THIS fic that's the way it works, and while urahara and some of the other captains/ whoever's fighting fit, free, and not gonna die just from standing near the powerhouses lends a hand, so Byakuya is busy but not really worried bc Ichigo is a proven warrior and he has backup and for all his unexpected fondness, byakuya is still a military man and he Compartmentalizes.

Except then Ichigo's power rises and rises and rises again, and then all at once disappears.

Byakuya promptly flips his lid and Aizen goes into the box a bit more shredded than he did in the og timeline.

Everybody else gets the idea pretty quickly and flings Ichigo at Byakuya, who figures out what happened very fast and immediately decides Isshin has lost all rights to anything, ever. Ichigo is kept abreast of all developments in the efforts to get his powers back and NOBODY leaves him to his own devices for two years because Byakuya is persistently present and Isshin is on his shit list big time so he takes great joy in thwarting him at every turn.

I haven't watched or read the Ginjo arc at all but from what I gather they sneak in while Ichigo's isolated so there's a solid chance all that mess gets cut off at the knees.

Byakuya may or may not have an apartment and double life as a reclusive rich businessman in the Living World so that Ichigo has a place to stay when Isshin is Too Much, maybe the welcome eventually gets expanded to Chad and Orihime and the twins, but whatever goes on after Aizen, Byakuya is there and backing Ichigo up.

[funkzpiel]

Recover

The second and final part to ‘Smother’, because wow this story was way more exhaustingly elaborate than I thought it would be. Fun. But fuck.

Also they fuck now, so that’s a thing somewhere in these 27-fucking-pages-of-word-doc-hell. The first half of it is relatively decently edited, but shit unravels quickly. I’m tired, I’m sorry. Enjoy.

For all her long years, Yennefer had always assumed that a witcher’s proclivity to accelerated healing came purely from their trials and mutations. Sterility in compensation for longevity. Even now as she traced a faint, gnarled pock mark of a scar on Geralt’s shoulder idly, she remembered the first night she had ever laid eyes on it. How it had been hot and puffy under her fingers as she traced its edges, lying in bed with him one night after having rendezvoused at some nowhere inn. She had been high from a newly found boon of research and he had been freshly bathed after a contract done exceedingly well, his purse unusually heavy.

She remembered how the gash had been barely closed and somewhat weeping when they started, although the witcher didn’t seem bothered by it at all except for a hiss through his teeth here and there when he moved it just slightly more than he ought to have. They had their fill of each other, supping from the cup of one another’s company and victory, and by morning the wound had closed. Puffy still, but it looked more like a gash three days along rather than hours. She remembered being fascinated. At the time she had wondered what, if anything, could keep a witcher down. It was thrilling to bed a creature as tailored by human machinations as herself. Thrilling, comforting even, to be known by someone so intimately familiar with that very distinctive existence, that pain. Like hearing the pitch of a string plucked that matched the sound of your own heartbeat, vibrating in your bones.

But now, the more she was left to suffer with a bedridden Geralt, the more she wondered if a witcher’s inclination toward swift recovery was not in fact simply a blessing from the gods to spare both witchers and the mortal world from their impatience and bullheadedness. Surely they’d all be dead, if not. Particularly Geralt.

She sat at his side, her back cushioned by pillows and the headboard as she took her time perusing the world-weathered pages of one of the Kaer Morhen’s very many bestiaries. Despite the white wolf’s restlessness, he was not recovering from his weeks-long stint of suffering as quickly as he or any of them hoped. Vesemir had mentioned more than once that Geralt was the first known case of a witcher surviving what they referred to as a ‘witcher’s blight’ or a ‘witcher’s passing’ – the end of the “Path”, so to speak – so there was no telling how long it would take the wolf to recover, particularly given how closely the man had come to death. The older witcher didn’t seem surprised that Geralt slept for hours at a time and woke for less. She tried to take comfort in that. Tried to take comfort in watching her witcher rest, but neither she nor Jaskier found much comfort in it at all – particularly when Geralt began to press for freedom from his sickbed.

She remembered still leaving him for but a moment and returning to the sight of the wolf just after having picked himself up from the floor – hip already blooming into something purple and puffy, cheeks red knowing he had been caught. Jaskier had rushed to him, hands on the witcher in an instant as he lifted Geralt’s shirt, babbling all the while like a panicked mother. Dramatic as always.

“M’fine,” Geralt had muttered, but she knew how much the fall had smarted his pride. He wouldn’t meet either of their eyes, and furthermore, he allowed Jaskier to fret over him instead of shying away or snarling something cruel to hide his own apprehension. His surprising patience was likely a mixture of leftover guilt for the things he had said to both of them, despite having been forgiven as he vomited his self-inflicted punishment – and perhaps, just perhaps, the smallest sliver of fear. The wolf had never been left weak for long before this. She wondered if he had ever fallen like that after standing from any of his prior stints in sickbeds. He was used to returning to his feet quickly.

Instead he shook like a fawn before them, all lanky and trembling limbs. Despite how he towered over the bard, exhaustion stooped him somewhat from his normal stance, and Yennefer could tell by the cant of the man’s hips that he was using the bard as a crutch in whatever way he could that displayed that fact as little as possible and yet still supported him. Perhaps Jaskier could not tell, consumed in his fretting as he was, but Yennefer’s eyes were keen to the lies of a man’s body. Most men were like books written by children, perhaps four pages long at best.

“Fine? You’re black and blue! Why didn’t you just stay put, we were coming right back!” Jaskier bickered, giving Yennefer a look as though he expected her to weigh in.

She was hardly about to fault the man – particularly one used to fending for himself – for hoping he could make use of the privy under his own volition. But that hardly meant she would allow the witcher to keep making foolish choices either. Just as she knew why he had done it, she also knew he had purposefully waited for them to leave lest one of them insist on supervising at best, assisting at worst. Prideful beast.

“I did not think we had all reached this point in our relationship yet, but I’m more than happy to introduce ropes and bindings to how we share our bed, Geralt. Jaskier and I have discussed it at length, even, while on the road. Evidently our learned bard knows a lovely way to frame a body such as yours with knots.”

Surprising them yet again, Geralt blushed something beautiful at that, pale as he was. It rose up his neck to the tips of his ears, made a rosy home in the flesh of chest that peaked out from beneath his night shirt. And his cheeks!

That had cowed the witcher suitably; for a day.

They took turns watching him after that. Slowly, he began to regain the energy to leave their bed, albeit for small stints. It began with relieving himself, then bathing. Short walks, making it to a table to eat – a feat he conquered eventually, albeit as pale as a sheet that hung in a field and shaking like the wind that dried it. He improved, always with one of them beside him like a shadow, chatting casually as they tried their best to look as though they were not always anticipating the possibility that he might fall again. He got better slowly. Still, unease curled in Yennefer’s gut.

Despite his longevity and his hair and his eyes and every inch of him that said ‘I am more than a man’; despite the names society called him and the stories they told about the ferocity of witchers… he was so painfully mortal.

Even now Yennefer could not help but feel ill at ease despite the peace of it all. She had Geralt curled against her hip, his face pressed into the warm curve of her thigh, fast asleep. Jaskier had left to stretch his legs, and with any luck he’d return with a treat for them all – a plate of cured meats or fruit or cheese, perhaps. This particular little “nap” had already lasted four hours. And to think, he once struggled to sleep in the slightest… A part of her enjoyed it, of course. It brought a strange flicker of warmth to her chest to see the normally stoic man like this: soft in his sleep in a way he refused or perhaps simply did not know how to be while awake. Unburdened by his many layers of mental shields and emotional barriers that training had engraved into him as deeply and stoically as the groves on a bloodletting table.

But another part of her worried. She wanted him to rest just as much as she wanted him to wake and prove he was healing, that he’d be fine. Patience, as it turned out, was perhaps not her strong suit either.

He was still so thin, and his thinness only served to draw his scars tauter about his body. Not that they were unsightly – rather quite the opposite – but it served to make her larger than life witcher look strangely small. He’d eat, he’d regain what he had lost, she knew this. The question was not ‘how long until he was back to full form’ but rather ‘could they keep the witcher still long enough to heal before his restlessness got the better of him’.

As if he could hear her thoughts Geralt huffed against her skin, lips parted sleepily and just barely grazing the curve of her thigh from his nearness. A quirk of his she now recognized as the witcher growing closer to waking. She knew what would follow: a grumbly, stir-crazy wolf without the energy to back up his restlessness. Her hand drifted down to his hair out of habit rather than any true intention, nails grazing his scalp kindly as she burrowed her fingers into those thick white locks made soft as silk thanks to Jaskier’s endless soaps and oils. Beneath her hand Geralt slowly but surely settled, his breath evening once more. Another moment of peace bought, however brief. She’d let him wake when Jaskier returned, armed with meats and no end of rambling thoughts with which to distract Geralt with. Until then, she let the hush of the witcher’s breath and the beat of his heart against her leg soothe her worries – perhaps she too just needed to learn how to enjoy rest.

— • —

Jaskier woke, curled into the sheets alone. It wasn’t altogether uncommon in one sense – Geralt and Yennefer were both terrible sleepers. Yen had likely gone to the library to read her restlessness away. Since coming to Kaer Morhen, however, Jaskier usually woke with at least one large arm around his waist and Geralt’s nose pressed to his hair. The man had yet to return to his lighter sleeping habits, still neck deep in recovery. And yet, Jaskier woke alone with only sheets to keep him warm.

He came to slowly, his body and mind fighting waking viciously. His eyes felt swollen and gritty and he knew immediately that it was not yet close to morning, his lethargy far too intense to be even remotely close to a full night of rest. He felt struck dumb, everything connecting slowly. He had woken – but why? A sound. Wheezing. Close and relentless, steadily getting louder, more frantic.

Slowly that began to rouse him. It set off a warning bell somewhere in the sleepy fog of his mind, shrilling and ringing as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The moon spilled in through the window, shadows from the tree outside dappling the man sitting on the edge of the bed in shifting greys and pale moonlit patches. He could see the way Geralt’s back was quaking in tight, twitchy bursts. He had seen the look before, the way the coughing could seize the man up into a terrible knot of tightness. But there was no coughing, no flowers. Just awful, wrenching wheezes.

“Gr’lt?” he mumbled first, rubbing the worst of the grit from his eyes as he tried to understand what was happening. When the witcher didn’t immediately reply Jaskier tried again, “Geralt?”

Wheezing, high and thin and reedy. Now that Jaskier was looking, he could see the painful stretch of Geralt’s ribs against the taut stretch of his skin, flexing and expanding in short, aborted bursts – as if he couldn’t breathe. That sobered him.

“Geralt!” He gasped, fighting with the sheets to disentangle himself and make his way across the bed to him. Geralt turned somewhat to look at him with wide eyes, feverish with a glaze of fear and embarrassment. He had one hand to his mouth, trying to smother the sound of his panic beneath his knuckles as he waved Jaskier off with his other.

He tried to wheeze ‘sorry’ and failed spectacularly.

Jaskier pressed a hand to the man’s broad shoulder and he could feel every ripple of struggle in those muscles, every cut off breath that couldn’t quite be drawn deep enough. Geralt felt cold to the touch.

“What is it? More flowers?” Jaskier stammered, words coming in a quick tumble as adrenaline burned the last of his sleepiness away. “Geralt, what’s wrong? Should I fetch Vesemir? Yen? By the gods, Geralt, say something, I don’t know what to do!”

Geralt reached for him, nose flaring wildly as he struggled through the wheezing. A large pale hand curled in the front of Jaskier’s nightshirt and for a mindless moment the bard feared he might be struck – the movement far too similar to the men he’d cuckolded who’d caught him – until that fisted hand suddenly went flat against Jaskier’s chest. Bracing, as if trying to use him as an anchor.

“M’ – M’fine,” Geralt managed to mumble through whispered, harsh exhales and short, throbbing little inhales.

Jaskier grabbed his wrist, something hot and fierce rising in him at that as he snapped, “Don’t you dare lie to me. Not right now. Not after I nearly watched you die coughing flowers because you were lying to yourself. Don’t you fucking dare, Geralt. Do I need to go get someone?”

The witcher watched him for a long moment, yellow eyes flickering eerily in the low light of the room until finally he shook his head no. No, as if everything were fine, as if he wasn’t panicking. But Jaskier had seen Geralt face down all manner of monsters and bandits and dangerous situations. He knew what Geralt looked like when he wasn’t afraid because he was certain everything would be fine, confident in his training. He knew what that looked like, and it certainly was this: Geralt, wide eyed and wheezing and shivering so hard that Jaskier could feel it through the hand firmly planted on his chest.

Jaskier pressed forward. He grabbed Geralt by the jaw and looked for any sign of petals on his lips, in his teeth or on the bed. Then, and only then, did he feel some modicum of comfort fall over him. There were no flowers, no petals, no blossoms. It was more the memory of choking that choking itself; as if, even after being cured, Geralt’s body could not quite forget.

“M’fine,” Geralt wheezed again, jaw tight under the cradle of Jaskier’s hands. Pained. Afraid.

“How can I help?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt shook his head weakly, fingers digging into Jaskier’s chest ever so slightly, and bowed his head. His breath whistled and clicked something awful, but beneath all that, Jaskier saw Geralt’s breathing steady ever so slightly. Just somewhat deeper than before.

Jaskier wasn’t a stupid man. A man doesn’t go to a university like Oxenfurt and walk away with nothing under his belt but debt. Cause and effect, dots connecting like stars shooting across the sky, illuminating constellations. Jaskier was an anchor. An example to set his breathing to like a Skellege war drum urging rowers on to battle.

“Come,” he said firmly, taking Geralt’s hand from his chest and urging the witcher to follow him further back onto the bed. Confused, Geralt stiffly remained on the edge of the bed, eyes narrowed. Jaskier blew out an exasperated breath and reached forward again – twisting awkwardly – and tugged the witcher to him with a pleading, “I know I’m not mage or healer, but just trust me.”

Begrudgingly, wariness high in the exhausted fever glaze of his eyes, Geralt gave in to him. He followed the bard’s hands until he was sitting back against the head board, legs spread. Jaskier removed his shirt and wormed his way into the witcher’s lap in a flash, not hesitating for so much as a moment lest Geralt question him. He caught a glimpse of a struck-dumb expression on the wolf’s face before Jaskier was pressing his back into Geralt’s chest, his slighter frame engulfed against the witcher. He took either of Geralt’s hands and wrapped them around him, placing either palm flat against his belly and his chest, his own hands and fingers entangled in the witcher’s, keeping them firmly in place.

“Follow my lead,” Jaskier said, then took a slow breath – just a few seconds – held it for a short beat, then exhaled it. Each time he drew in a little more air, held it a little longer, exhaled a little more. Geralt didn’t catch on, not quite at first. Jaskier could feel the awful hitch of his breathing through the skin of his back and the slim curl of his ribs. But slowly, ever so slowly, Geralt began to follow the tempo of his breathing. In, hold, out, hold, in, hold, out, hold. Jaskier, despite himself, did not talk. He didn’t want to talk over the sound of their breathing. Didn’t want to miss one second of Geralt’s breathing as it steadily began to even out. He ached to babble comforts and frivolous encouragements, but witchers took actions to heart with much more gusto than words and he knew without looking that the sound of their breathing was helping Geralt far more than any conversation might. The hands he cradled began to warm in his. The wheezing eased, the clicking faded and the whistling disappeared. At some point Geralt had fully curled around him, his stubbled jaw a soothing burn against the smooth skin of Jaskier’s shoulder. Heavy and anchoring as Geralt’s limbs loosened around him.

The witcher hummed against him, soft and acknowledging. A thank you, Jaskier liked to think. Not that he could ask, what with the witcher quite nearly asleep. He eased them both down, careful to keep Geralt’s front to his back and his hands on his chest. And like that, finally, they fell back to sleep – legs entangled, the wolf’s nose in his hair, breathing easily.

In the morning, while Jaskier was still dizzy with waking – loathe to leave the warmth and comfort of sleep – Geralt pressed a kiss to his neck and murmured, “Thank you.”

Jaskier mumbled sleepy nonsense at him and Geralt kissed him again, confident in those early moments where Yen and Jaskier’s cleverness was made soft by morning and he could make small gestures with abandon, the two of them too sleepy to comment on it or see.

— • —

Jaskier told Yennefer the next day about the little episode. Privately, of course. He wouldn’t wish that scare upon anyone. Not the terror of seeing Geralt that way, nor the heartbreak of seeing that frustration in his eyes. The question rang in all their heads: why wasn’t he better yet?

— • —

Eventually, Geralt demanded to see Roach. It did not matter that she was safely tucked away in Kaer Morhen’s stable or that she had a whole pasture to graze from and enjoy. It didn’t matter that Vesemir was looking after her. Geralt needed to see her and that was that. He refused for them to bring her directly outside the entrance to Kaer Morhen. He’d make it to the stable or not at all, he had told them, and they could see by the set of his jaw alone that the matter was not up for negotiation. Not when it came to Roach.

He made it – nearly as pale as his own hair and stinking of sweat, but victorious nonetheless. Yennefer saw the softness on Jaskier’s face as the bard watched the witcher with his horse. Not that she could blame him, it was hard not to love Geralt in these moments – glimpses into a world where the man lived and loved openly because Roach would never tell him not to. Not like his training, not like the people who rebuked him and feared him.

He had a special sort of calmness to his face whenever Roach pressed her head into his chest, demanding attention. Without a doubt, the horse had worried. It fretted and nibbled and lipped at Geralt’s hair and the shoulder of his shirt, snuffling and touching as though convincing herself that her human was upright and alive. And Geralt, despite his weariness and the way the wind destroyed the mask his clothing had built to hide his thinness, looks years younger in her presence.

“I know emotions aren’t a witcher’s thing,” Jaskier whined playfully from the entrance of the stables, one hip pressed to its frame, “But I can’t believe I’m jealous of the way Geralt looks at a horse.”

Roach paid him no mind, far more enraptured with eating apple slices from Geralt’s somewhat trembling hand. He was strong enough to love her, and that was all that mattered to Roach. Geralt, though, couldn’t help but snort through a small, wry smile – an expression just as much a part of his vocabulary as words to a linguist.

“Speak for yourself,” Yennefer purred, taking up the other side of the door frame, “I’ve seen that look before.”

“No, no,” Jaskier continued, “You’ve seen a look. But I am quite fluent in witcher, and not every look is the same. He’s shared many a loving look with us both, but there is a special one for Roach, his first love.”

“First love,” Geralt grunted, the sound flirting with the tenor of a chuckle. When he moved for the brush, Yennefer sighed.

“Geralt, you cannot be serious,” Jaskier said, brows dipped in concern as he expressed, as he did in all ways, his theatric concern.

“I don’t often agree with the bard on principal – far more fun that way – but I can’t deny him now. Grooming is a long endeavor, Geralt,” she said, and it was as close as she could come to saying ‘I don’t think you’ll last that long’ as she could manage without fearing his pride anchor him mulishly.

Geralt merely grunted again and said, “The promise a man makes when he takes in a horse is a simple one: you carry me and I’ll carry you. If I don’t have the strength to see her well-kept, then my right to her companionship and service is forfeit.”

“Speaks more about the horse, too,” Jaskier scoffed, crossing his arms as his face twisted somewhat, as though he were taking into consideration something distasteful. Yennefer knew the look, her face likely matched. Neither she nor the bard had ever had a liking for taking care of working animals, and yet here they were, all for their fawn-legged witcher.

She sighed, the roll of her eyes heavy and pointed as she hung her lavish cloak onto a peg as far from the animals and the stink that followed them as she could. Then she took up another brush and said, “Jaskier, tie back my hair, if you’d please. If I’m to do this fool thing for our witcher, I refuse to let Roach’s lovely perfume follow me home too.”

The bard didn’t utter so much as one complaint, taking to her hair as though it had been something he had wanted to get his hands into for some time. She took note of that, but not before she turned her gaze to Geralt. Geralt who was staring at her somewhat owlishly, as though she had grown a second head.

“Don’t give me that look, I’m hardly heartless,” Yennefer snapped, sniffing disdainfully even as something playful flickered in her eyes. “But this doesn’t come without a price, Geralt. You’ll agree to a stool if we are to do this. And dry maintenance only.”

They spoiled her that day, the three of them. Roach whickered and nibbled at them cheerfully as three sets of hands went about taking care of her hair, her fur, her shoes and anything else Geralt deemed worthy of their attention. Surprisingly Geralt stuck to the terms of their agreement. He used the stool Jaskier found him, albeit grumbling somewhat at first. And by the end of it, despite his love for Roach, he seemed just as eager as the rest of them to return to the warmth of Kaer Morhen.

He didn’t even argue when they pressed close to him, worried by the way he stumbled. There was a glaze to his eyes that bespoke how much energy tending to Roach had costed him. A sluggishness in his grumbling and a lack of protest as they handled him that was both relieving – tired as Jaskier and Yennefer were – and concerning.

Yennefer had long ago enchanted Kaer Morhen’s tub into something larger, something far more similar to the one she and Geralt had first shared. It was a squeeze, but they all managed to slip into it together; a memory that, if pressed, Geralt actually thought was a dream and still didn’t quite believe it happened. But it had. Together, Jaskier and Yennefer had tended to him first – Jaskier behind him, kneading the worst of the tension from his shoulders as Yennefer went about erasing Roach’s smell from him. By the time they were done with him, the witcher was leaning back against the edge of the tub nearly asleep, watching them with lazy eyes as Yennefer and Jaskier then tended to one another with an easy familiarity that once again reminded him of the time the two had spent without him.

“M’we shoul’do this ‘gain,” Geralt had murmured, eyes fever bright beneath the glaze of exhaustion that dogged him.

“You like what you see?” Yennefer purred, reaching an arm back to cup Jaskier’s neck behind her, her breast exposed beautifully by the motion, twisting her face easily into the crook of his neck to peck a light kiss into the curve of the bard’s jaw, lilac eyes on Geralt all the while. That woke him up. “Perhaps if you are a very, very good witcher and don’t argue when we feed you – no, don’t give me that look, I’ve noticed your lack of appetite – and tuck you to bed early, we’ll keep that in mind. For when you’re better.”

He grunted, that crisp, growly sort of sound she was ever so familiar with; and behind her she felt Jaskier stiffen, his hands tightening around the soft give of her waist, dimpling her hips with the long fingers common to artists. Amber eyes watched them keenly, lazily, as they bathed one another. Watched where Jaskier’s hands cupped a firm breast. Watched as they switched, as Yennefer’s slimmer ones ran slowly down from Jaskier’s chest, over the slope of his flat belly, down to the thatch of hair at his crotch and semi-hard dick between his legs.

“But we could give you a show in the meantime,” Yennefer mused, now behind Jaskier, her chin on his shoulder as she exposed the bard to Geralt. She took her time stroking the slim man. Clever fingers tracing the slit of his head, making him grow fully hard as he whimpered and croaked, “Don’t tease, Yennefer, it’s cruel.”

“Should I stop?” She asked Geralt, one brow raised, her hand still on Jaskier’s prick. Jaskier looked at him like a drowning man.

Geralt ached to join them, but even now he knew willpower alone was keeping him awake – willpower and curiosity. To stand and join them felt like a feat more akin to climbing a mountain. But watching? His dick twitched in his lap and he rumbled, “No.”

He wanted to see this.

Jaskier mewled, something torn between surprise and eagerness and overwhelmed as Yennefer brought one hand up to tweak a soft, pink nipple – eyes on Geralt all the while.

“You need not be an inactive participant,” she said to Geralt, drinking in the hunger building in the witcher’s bones, “Direct me. I shall be your conduit.”

Jaskier moaned.

Geralt watched them a second more before he grunted and said, “He’s sensitive,” and let his lips curl ever so slightly into a smirk when Jaskier’s startled eyes darted to him. “Think you can make him come with just his nipples?”

“Mercy above,” Jaskier gasped as Yennefer crooned, plush lips against his shoulder. He could feel her grinning against his skin as she purred, “I’m sure I could figure it out.”

He whined when her hand left his prick and Geralt took his own in hand, eyes on them both. He felt hollow from their excursion to visit Roach, but if his cock could harden, he could find the energy to attend to it. The witcher thumbed the head as Yennefer brought both of her hands up to Jaskier’s chest, letting the man lean into her weakly as his knees threatened to buckle – but held.

“What lovely songs you sing,” Yennefer hummed between kisses to the man’s nape and shoulder and jaw. “I don’t know what I enjoy more, your lyrics or the sounds you make when you’re incapable of words in the slightest. What do you think, Geralt?”

Geralt growled, his cock twitched.

Yennefer grinned with a slow, “I agree,” and bit Jaskier’s shoulder. The man made a keening sound that made Geralt dribble a spurt of precome excitedly, unexpectedly. But he kept the tempo of his hand slow and steady, intent to follow Yennefer’s pace as she unwound their bard. Jaskier’s hands went absent mindedly toward his prick, but Yennefer gave him a more pointed nip and said, “None of that now, you heard the witcher. No touching,” and Jaskier moaned a wrecked, “I can’t.”

She flicked one nipple and pinched the other, and Geralt bite his cheek at the sight of how that made Jaskier’s cock jerk openly, neglected and aching.

“Perhaps I should suck them,” she mused, pinching and tugging and rubbing those small nubs mercilessly into hard little peaks. Jaskier brought a hand back to clutch the nape of her neck, to steady himself, and something hungry flashed in Yennefer’s eyes – pleased.

“Please, Y-Yen,” then, when she didn’t answer pointedly, he looked to Geralt and whined out his name.

“Tell him what you would do to him, Geralt,” Yennefer said, eyes on him over Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier – horny by words as he was prone to be – was helpless as Geralt finally spoke.

“I’d fuck him,” he started, eyes sharp and bright and locked on them both. “Open him up with my fingers. Maybe my tongue.”

Jaskier jerked in Yennefer’s hold, an aborted sound caught in his throat as he craned his head back to rest on the woman’s shoulder.

“Gods, have mercy,” he wheezed as Geralt continued.

“I’d go in slowly. So slowly he’d be writhing. Maybe have’em on his hands and knees so he could service you while I service him. Put his clever tongue and fingers to use making you wet while I focused on making him sloppy from pleasure. Not let’em off until he got you off. Bring you off together. Fuck you by fucking him, like a chain.”

“F-fuck! Fuck!” Jaskier stuttered, hips jerking uselessly, seeking friction – anything – as Yennefer tweaked and rubbed. He wanted her mouth on him; on his cock or his nipples. Anything. “I – oh – fuck.”

“I’ve never heard him so ineloquent,” Yennefer purred.

“Yeah, well—” Jaskier’s words fled him in a shout as Yennefer did something tricky with her fingers. Something magical and electric, and a burble of precome dribbled helplessly from Jaskier’s cock.

“I can’t,” Jaskier babbled, “I can’t, I can’t!”

“You can,” Geralt said, voice so low it sounded more like rocks sliding down a mountain than a man, “You will. Do what you showed me in that tavern in Velen, Yen.”

Her eyes twinkled, and she said, “Gladly,” before drawing Jaskier’s face to the side for an awkward kiss, distracting him as one hand left his nipple to reach down into the bath water and slip a finger inside the bard. Geralt watched Jaskier’s eyes widen, then his mouth fall slack against Yennefer’s own domineering lips as she found that place inside him and pressed.

“Oh,” Jaskier whined, breathy and lost as he came, his whole body drawing taut like a sail in the wind. He came without a hand on his prick, one hand buried in Yennefer’s thick hair, the other braced against the edge of the tub and shaking, knuckles white. Geralt came to the sight of it, jaw tight as he grunted and released.

Jaskier melted into her a second later, chest heaving as he said, “You cruel, tricky devils,” with no real heat. “Utter monsters, you are, the both of you.”

Yennefer just looked pleased as punch as she guided the bard’s face up to look at her – soft and fuzzy from orgasm – and asked, “Think you can do one more thing with that beautiful mouth of yours?”

She traced his pink, puffy lips with a thumb. Jaskier sucked in a tired and yet intrigued breath, and Geralt saw it the moment the bard decided to rally.

The two of them agreed to wait for the bed though. First they had Geralt sit on a stool outside the tub. Jaskier dried the wolf’s hair as Yennefer attended to her own. Then they moved to the bed, Geralt beside them as Yennefer lowered herself onto Jaskier’s face. The witcher pet her sides, traced her breasts, brushed back her hair as Jaskier did his utmost to return the favor and render the mage just as senseless as she had him. Yennefer was unabashed with the sounds he drew from her. Long, lingering purrs and moans meant to direct him. And Jaskier – musician that he was – followed her music beautifully. Leading her to stunning crescendos and heady choruses until finally she came, his chin wet and his smile glossy. He cleaned himself up on shaking legs and returned to curl with them both.

Geralt made a contented, grumbly sort of sound, at peace – pleased to find the two people who had been taking care of him sated and satisfied. And then they curled together on the bed, the craft of fitting three bodies on the groaning thing long having become a science with Jaskier tucked into one of Geralt’s arms and Yennefer tucked into the other. The two of them traced idle patterns into his skin and made light conversation until slowly, inevitably, they lulled the wolf to sleep.

— • —

Kaer Morhen was no lord or lady’s courtly estate, that much was certain, but the longer Jaskier lingered in its marble halls, the more he found himself charmed by the place. It was a strange mixture of old and decrepit, and yet homely and comforting. Despite its delipidated look, it was obvious that the witchers of the School of the Wolf had made a home of this place; or at the very least, Vesemir had. In its nooks and crannies Jaskier found odd luxuries such as the open window seat that overlooked the gardens; although ‘garden’ was likely a generous word. It was not so much a garden as it was that the training fields had become somewhat overrun by flora. All the same, it looked beautiful and served to bless him with quite an astounding view whenever he took to playing his lute there as a ruse to watch over his rather stubborn witcher.

He and Yennefer had managed to persuade Geralt to bedrest for a week by various means, but the inevitable had come for them all – riding on Vesemir’s heels, of all things. The older witcher had made the case that Geralt should train now that his feet were beneath him again, that weeks of choking on flowers and focusing on getting to Ciri to Kaer Morhen above all things had taken its toll. And Geralt had latched onto that olive branch immediately.

It did not, however, go quite as Geralt had undoubtedly expected and precisely as Vesemir had thought. The white wolf had slowed. He was spryer than a man, yes, but slower than a witcher ought to be. Vesemir led him through grueling sessions, short at first and increasing each day – each one leaving the wolf dusty and more exhausted than the day before.

“Is this truly wise?” He had asked Yennefer from his perch one afternoon, eyes caught on Geralt as he let loose a font of Axii that knocked him back – his stance correct but his legs too exhausted to bear it. “How can he recover if Vesemir beats the shit out of him each day?”

Yennefer held her silence for a moment, lilac eyes drawn to their struggling wolf as well, before finally she said, “We could not keep him in our bed forever. He’s a witcher, not a pet.”

“Never said what he was or wasn’t,” Jaskier pouted, too worried to react as he usually might to the barb, “I just… I’ve never seen him struggle like this. How long before he goes hunting for contracts again?”

Yennefer drew closer then, her hip against the bard’s ribs as she lured his face away from the training fields to instead look upon her. She brushed the boyish cut of his hair from his brow with a seriousness that nearly made Jaskier comment on it, and yet he couldn’t find the words in the face of her intensity. Her hands were soft, softer than his own despite all the oils he used. Soft in a way human hands just couldn’t be, the double-edged reminder of her power and the price she paid to have it.

“I’ve come to find that the moments in which I was told I couldn’t do a thing only drove me to ruin as I tried to prove that I could,” she mumbled, eyes distant even as she stood so close. A memory played behind those lilac eyes and for a moment, Jaskier thought that maybe he could see it. Fire. Pain. “Perhaps the best thing we can do for him now is have faith, despite what our eyes tell us, lest we run him into the ground with our worrying.”

Through the open window and out on the field, Geralt gave a bitten off shout as the sound of a wooden sword striking his knee pierced the quiet, gliding in on the breeze that swayed the curtains. Jaskier’s gaze drifted in Geralt’s direction but Yennefer would not let go of his face. That alone made him return to her, face twisted in a grimace, nothing elegant or theatrical about it.

“How can you stand it?” He asked.

“Because that is what he needs: for us to stand it.”

— • —

Even as physically he improved each day, the sessions drew his emotional well-being tighter and tighter until Geralt was nothing more than a thread pulled too tight – practically singing with tension – ready to snap. Jaskier and Yennefer could see it in him. Could see that storm brewing in the painful constriction of his shoulders and the way he stopped himself during his training to close his eyes and breathe through flared, frustrated nostrils, jaw tight and teeth grinding. Witchers were quick healers, and yet the ways of witcher appeared to return to Geralt slowly; as if his body were loath to leave the peace of those healing days.

Learning as they were, it was hard to gauge whether he needed space or comfort – harder still because even when he needed comfort, he often ran from it. Reminding them all just how he had ended up in that state in the first place.

But no one turned out to be a better buffer in those early training days than Ciri. She sat in the yard often to watch him. At first Jaskier and Yennefer had worried if Geralt’s pride might be exasperated by the extra witness, but Vesemir had said letting her stay was a good idea --  and he wasn’t wrong.

Ciri crowed for Geralt often. Everything the man did was awe-inspiring to a mind so young, so new to fighting and so enamored by the man who had almost died protecting her, but didn’t. The first man who had survived the mark of fate and destiny that had ruined her life for unknown reasons. She’d sit on broken pillars or warped scaffolding. Sometimes she’d even attempt to mimick Geralt’s forms – crudely, but adorably, and Yennefer and Jaskier often enjoyed watching from afar as Geralt’s little shadow performed behind him.

Her opinion was only that of a little girl, Geralt knew it just as much as anyone. He was still recovering slowly, and that knowledge lingered on the heels of his patience, snapping at his ankles. But the company of a girl so innocent and optimistic despite everything that had happened to her seemed to soften Geralt like a bloom thawing in the spring. Ciri was sunlight and cheer and warmth wrapped in a small body, with small hands and too large eyes – and damn if her excitement wasn’t contagious.

“You were right,” Yennefer mused one afternoon, watching from the library window as Vesemir began to stack books for Ciri’s eventual education. The old man looked excited almost at the prospect of teaching again. It seemed no one was immune to Ciri’s charms. “She’s good for him.”

“Geralt may not remember this way, but this is a technique we’ve often used with mending witchers. Not everyone is as well off with their mutations as Geralt, afterall. He was always an almost unnaturally adept healer. For the others, when impatience and frustration began to rankle them, we’d put the new lads into the ring to watch. Their excitement and awe always did wonders for a man’s brittle ego. Geralt’s no different.”

“You mean to tell me Geralt was once one of those little boys cheering like Ciri?” Yennefer asked, amusement obvious on her face and in her tone as she turned from the window to look at the elder witcher.

Vesemir was smiling ever so slightly, fond and introspective – eyes blind to the room itself as he remembered days long since past.

“Yes,” Vesemir mused. “It took him time to open up. Geralt took his role as his father’s child surprise as sourly as any child would – but he eventually opened up to be a wild young boy, eager to learn. Had somewhat of a hero complex, actually.”

“Still does,” Yennefer laughed.

“No,” Vesemir chuckled, hanging onto the vowel, “Not in the manner that he does now. He has finicky morals in comparison to a lot of the witchers that have passed through these halls. No, when he was young, he had more a mind of being a hero than a monster hunter. He confused the two in his training. Learned the truth of things right quick though.”

Yennefer frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?”

Vesemir looked up from his stacked books, surprised, and said, “You’ve seen the signs, how townsfolk treat us. Mutants. Geralt could save a babe from a fire, and maybe that mother might appreciate it, but not a single man or woman – mother included – would invite him into their home to rest or sup or drink. He is a monster hunter. A damned good one. But witchers can’t be heroes. Not the way that little boys hope, at least.”

“You haven’t heard Jaskier’s songs then,” Yennefer said, turning back to the window. She watched as Ciri hooted, excited as Geralt’s tempo steadily began to pick up on a training dummy. He was improving, thank the gods. “Many have changed their minds.”

“Love, like hate, is quite contagious.”

That startled her. She turned to look at him, to delve deeper into that insight, but Vesemir was already heading out of the room – leaving her to stew in that way, she quickly found, he loved to do.

— • —

Geralt had never been a fussy eater. Yennefer, Jaskier, Ciri – all three of them had seen him eat all manner of (sometimes revolting) things on the road, albiet Ciri less so. Of them, she was the most accustomed to his recent lack of appetite. How he’d gag when trying to eat, only manage a few morsels or bites, then ultimately give up. Flowers, cloying and smothering as they had been, had made eating all but miserable. The petals and stems had scratched up his throat, made it a swollen and tight terrible mess. Swallowing anything heavier than water had been an exhausting task, and the aversion that followed had ultimately taken its toll on Geralt’s body.

They wanted him to eat. He wanted to eat. A witcher that could be blown over by a stiff breeze was no witcher at all. But even the mere sight of food sent his stomach flipping – torn between cramps of hunger and nauseating memories of the pain of swallowing.

Thus he found himself at a table, a bowl of stew before him and Yennefer looming across the table, both hands braces as she scowled. He drank the broth, picked at the vegetables made soft by the stew, but the meat – hearty and thick – laid untouched at the bottom amidst dregs of broth. His stomach curled painfully. He could practically taste the meat in his mouth. He wanted the protein, knew he needed it. Knew that Vesemir was excellent with beef, that each cut would be thick and juicy and satisfying.

But the thought of swallowing something so thick, even after chewing, made his gut clench dreadfully. It was stupid. The affliction was gone, his throat long since soothed since the flowers’ passing. Yet the memory persisted, cloying and demanding attention.

“Surely this isn’t too heavy for your stomach,” Yennefer said, hand waving at the bowl, agitated, “You can’t live off broth and vegetables, Geralt.”

“I know,” he growled, earning a sharp look from the woman. He hadn’t told them of his aversion. He didn’t even know how to describe it. It was nothing; a nonsense paranoia that was slowly starving him. It was easiest to say his stomach needed time to adjust to food again. They had done their best to cope with that – starting with bread and soups. Bread, well… they had long given up on that but soups, at least, he could make it look as though they were making progress.

It was Ciri that noticed first.

Children, so absorbed with learning everything that they could like sponges, saw it the moment Yennefer left – frustrated and needing space. Had seen how Geralt had grimaced and rubbed at his throat, just as he used to by the fire and in the many inns they eventually began to stay at. How he’d set his plate aside and rub at his throat. Pour himself something hot and soothing, sometimes even just hot water if they had nothing else. As if he could burn the pain away.

She went to Vesemir. He reminded her of Mousesack and Eist. Steady, clever as a whip – albeit much more subdued than either. Like the stone that won’t bow to the river’s wrath, worn smooth by experience and time, but still unmovable. Despite his quietness and despite how hard he drilled Geralt, there was a tempered kindness there – back, far behind his eyes. Something patient and weathered, the soft of love that grows in even the coldest of people after years and years of attending to children, watching them grow. Getting invested.

“Do we have apples?” She asked. ‘We’, as though this were already home. Something flickered in Vesemir’s wizened face – surprised and a little soft.

“Apples?”

“Yes,” she said, “I want to help Geralt.”

“Did he ask for apples?” Vesemir asked, one brow quirking. Ciri shook her head, but offered no other explanations – and much as she expected, that kindness bade the old man listen, even despite the way he grumbled. Just like Geralt.

He brought her one apple. She said she needed more. So he brought more.

She took them to the kitchen and Vesemir followed – more curious than anything else. She watched as she looked in drawers and cabinets before she finally pouted, turned to him curtly and asked, “Do you have anything to smash them?”

“Oh,” Vesemir said, smiling not so much with his lips so much as his eyes as the dots slowly connected, “Kaer Morhen’s kitchen may be no castle’s kitchen, but I think we can figure something out.”

— • —

Ciri found Geralt on the training field, battering a practice dummy with his silver sword. Vesemir had warned her to wait if she found him like that, so she did – more than willing to watch the witcher work. She had heard the adults whispering about her. That soon, once they no longer had to worry over Geralt, she would need to be trained to protect herself. How to focus and hone her magical talents as well. She was eager to get started, and that excitement and impatience grew every time she saw Geralt train in the fields or witnessed Yennefer perform an act of magic as if it were no harder than breathing.

She sat atop a large stone, one of Kaer Morhen’s many fallen pillars or walls, and set two bowls beside her, careful to cover both with a napkin.

If Geralt noticed her, he didn’t make it obvious. He continued, legs working into fast, firm formations to support the twist of his waist, the reach of his arm, the swing of his sword. Despite the fluidity of his form, however, he was breathing hard, nearly thready. She saw him sway and have to readjust his footing more than once – the movement so quick she almost missed it.

But she knew what it was like to go hungry. A princess was expected to fit into no end of fine, slim gowns, after all. Yes. Even young as she was, even as Eist coaxed her and Calanthe scolded her, she knew hunger. ‘You look as though a stiff breeze might take you, love,’ her grandmother used to say, her crisp critiques made softer by the worry in her eye. ‘Like a bird, you are. My little bird.’

Yes. She knew hunger. And she knew how it made one swoon.

She saw when it finally hit Geralt – both the swoon and the dummy. A strike made too wide, one he rebounded from too slowly and which gave one of the dummy’s many arms too much momentum, costing him a smarting blow. The wooden arm slammed into his shoulder and made him stumble with a short, cut off grunt of pain. He stepped away, watched until the arm slowly drew still, then let his eyes crawl over to where Ciri perched. He sighed, set the sword aside to be cleaned and sharpened, and made his way over to her wordlessly.

He sat on the ground, his back pressed to the stone she sat on, and leaned his head back. His eyes drifted closed.

“I’m not ready to teach you,” he finally said, as though expecting that to be why she had come.

“I know,” she said, making him open one wry, narrow eye at her like a sleepy, wary – albeit amused – wolf. She smiled playfully, then grabbed the bowl beside her and said, “I made you something.”

Geralt grunted quizzically.

She passed him the bowl and watching him pale ever so slightly.

“You don’t even know what it is yet,” she said, partially pouting, partially excited for the eventual reveal. Because while she had often been left helpless in the face of Geralt’s pain, hunger she was intimately familiar with. This, she could help.

He lifted the napkin with another grunt, then raised his brows. She could smell the crisp, sweet aroma of apples that wafted up. The kiss of cinnamon, the notes of something sturdier and bland hiding beneath it. Chill in his palms, just as hers was as she grabbed her own bowl.

“What is this?” He asked.

“Apple sauce,” she said cheerfully, not looking at him as she made her grand reveal that she knew what the clever adults didn’t. “Eist used to make it for me when my throat was sore.”

And that… that hurt to say. More than she expected, even as she had tried to prepare herself. But it felt good to share this piece of him with someone. As if this small meal meant he carried on. It was a recipe from Eist’s mother, and her mother before her, and her mother before her. A remedy for every little boy or girl who felt fussy at the table, whether it be due to a scratchy throat or an upset stomach or even just the whims and moods of childhood. Eist had recognized in her what others hadn’t. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to eat, it was just the thought that eating something so heavy – thick slabs of pork or heavy cuts of steak, buttered and roasted and complimented with side dish upon side dish – brought forth a dread so fierce she could not swallow. Not when her figure was so closely tied to her worth, her destiny. Not by her grandmother’s standards, of course, but by the courts. She had heard their whispering. She still remembered a group of gossipers commenting that another princess not far from her age was sure not to get any reputable suiters with a waist of that size.

Not that any of that mattered anymore. That realization nearly made her laugh – something weak and trapped like a bird in her ribcage. To think she had starved herself for nothing.

She remembered Eist drawing her aside. Remembered how he took her into an empty kitchen because the recipe was top secret, not just any chef could know. Her throat felt tight as she recalled his hands steadying hers through the movements of smashing the apples. How one had flung across the room on accident, how they had laughed until they were a giggling pile on the floor.

Her eyes felt hot, but not like before. Not like how they would get in the forest, when she would try to smother her cries in her fist lest Geralt notice. It was more like a gentle reminder of the pain than anything else. As if Eist had passed by and squeezed her shoulder fondly. Warm, like hello. Bittersweet, like goodbye.

Geralt didn’t comment on her phrasing, nor on her sudden silence. He never did. He always seemed to understand, and she him, as though they had a language all their own. She wondered if it was because she had been promised to him. She liked to think it was just because they had found the words together their own way.

He tried it. She knew what he would taste. Sweet red apples, making the sauce both sweet, tangy and textured. Cinnamon, to make it warm and spicy. Small oats, to make it filling, and finally powdered protein, to make him strong and fend off the ache of his hollow belly. Easy to swallow. Cool on his throat. Soothing and sweet.

He hummed as he did whenever he knew not what to say. In its inflection she knew he was pleasantly surprised. Touched, even, though he would never say it. Geralt bumped his shoulder against her leg where it dangled over the stone and she said simply, “You’re welcome,” knowing what he meant.

From the balcony, Vesemir smiled knowingly and watched one child surprise share a meal with another; as was the way of witchers.

— • —

The biggest celebration they have is the night that Geralt is deemed well enough to climb the vast set of stairs of Kaer Morhen’s tower. For at the top is not only what Vesemir had dubbed as ‘Geralt’s Room’, it is also where the largest bed in Kaer Morhen resides; and while they had enjoyed learning each other in the tiny sickbed, every one of them was eager for the space of a bed made for more than one and a half witchers.

It is a large thing – evidently a gift from a merchant Geralt had once saved. With no home of his own, he had sent it to Kaer Morhen. Since it was his boon, it had gone unused until now. They washed the sheets, aired out the quilts and furs. And that night, they slept in a bed big enough for all of them –

And woke one atop the other, like always. Like a pile of puppies, drawn to each other like moths to the flame as they slept.

“I suppose your witchering was good for something,” Yennefer moans as she stretches into such ample space before curling back into Geralt’s front, his back confidently and skillfully spooned by Jaskier who has turned out to be more octopus than man now that they all had space to utilize.

“Glad I could be of service,” Geralt said dryling, the littlest curl to his lip at hearing a boon of his journeys had brought one of his lovers’ pleasure. It was nice to provide for them, for once, since their reunion.

— • —

Geralt began to sleep lightly once more as the worst of the Witcher’s Blight finally ebbed from his bones, leaving him feeling more and more like the man he once was. That was how he found himself in the library one night, wandering the halls with an apple and knife in hand, cutting off small and idle slices to nibble on as he paced. Ciri’s apple sauce had done wonders in easing him back into eating, and the comfort that taste had brought him while at his hungriest had transferred into a love of the fruit in general now that he was back to eating solid food. He had just bit into a crisp slice when his roaming eyes had fallen upon Yennefer in one of Vesemir’s high backed chairs. She had a pile of books that reached up nearly as high as the arm rest, her attention lost in the pages in her hands.

Geralt smiled, something making his heart flutter for just the briefest moment. He liked this, he realized. He liked seeing Jaskier safe in his large bed and Yennefer curled pleasantly in Kaer Morhen’s high backed chairs. He liked seeing them here, in what he had suddenly realized was in fact his home.

“Enjoying yourself?” He asked, “Or just can’t sleep?”

“When is it ever truly just one or the other?” She mused and he could hear in her words the breathy glaze of exhaustion that dogged her. She was close to being able to return to bed, then. Good. He wanted her to rest. Wanted to see her curled into Jaskier, their limbs entangled, the both of them safe in bed.

“Hmm,” he said, because he couldn’t exactly argue that. Not that he particularly missed the ability to fall asleep easily at the moment, not after so long bed bound. He would, eventually. But not now. He was more than happy to wander the halls in his sleeplessness for now if it meant he was improving, returning to his former self.

“I should have thought to visit ages ago,” Yennefer mused, eyes still caught in her book, “You witchers have an astounding collection of knowledge in these ugly old stones.”

“Kind of you to say,” Geralt chuckled wryly, amused by Yennefer’s amazement of their library as much as he was by her inclination to avoid admitting that she liked it here. It was no castle, no lord or lady’s house she might be used to – but it was charming in its own right, with more a sense of home than those of royalty or glamor.

She looked up at him then, her eyes roving up, then down over the sight of him.

“You look good,” she purred, letting her book fall closed in her lap as she better focused her attention on him, “Very good.”

“Feel good,” Geralt agreed, cutting another slice from his fruit. She leaned up at that and plucked it from his fingers, eyes blazing merrily as she placed it to her lush lips and took a bite, gaze on him all the while.

“Eating again too, I see. Good. The white wolf returns.”

He hummed again, moving to sit at her feet in lieu of dragging another chair across the stones. A part of him, though he would not admit it, sat there if only because it increased his chances of having her fingers in his hair again. He put his back against the chair, his shoulder pressed against the long line of one of her legs, and spread his own out before him lazily. He cut another slice, offered it up to her, before cutting one for himself as well.

“I’m happy to see you up,” she said idly as she nibbled at her apple, “But also displeased. Can’t sleep?”

“Was bound to happen eventually.”

It was her turn to hum this time, and Geralt tried not to think too hard about the little electric bolt of pleasure that flared in his chest when – just as he had hoped – Yennefer’s fingers drifted to his hair. He leaned his head back against the chair and her leg as she dragged her nails lightly over his scalp, sending pleasant shivers down his spine.

“You really are more wolf than man,” she said lightly.

“Hmm.”

“Though Vesemir tells me that before you were either, you wished to be a hero?”

His eyes slowly fell open at that, his body still. Her fingers continued to brush through his hair, soothing and steadfast. Geralt swallowed. He didn’t precisely want to talk about it. It felt foolish. A childish desire that had been stomped out of him quickly. But bottling things up had nearly killed him, and after everything she had done to save him, trusting him despite the Djinn, he could offer this at least.

“Yes,” he croaked. Winced. He cleared his throat and tried again when it became obvious that Yennefer was waiting for more, her fingers still against his scalp. “Yes… a foolish story, hardly exciting. As boys, we don’t run into many folk outside of Kaer Morhen. Those we do tend to have a generally decent opinion of witchers. I was… unprepared for how afraid the world would be of me.”

Yennefer leaned her own head back at that, her eyes falling shut.

“I can sympathize,” she said softly, resuming her stroking. After all, how many nights had she spent asleep with the flour sacks, dreaming of a prince charming coming to rescue her from her abuse? How many nights had she prayed her father would come for her even after he sold her to misery? Or that she’d actually found love in the circle, even as she knew better? Childish hopes, all crushed – then crushed some more.

“I know,” Geralt offered softly, one hand falling to curl around one of Yennefer’s ankles.

“We make quite a pair, you and I? We both grew up wanting the best, to be the best. Look where we are now,” she mused slowly.

“I quite like where you are now,” came a voice from the doorway. Both of them turned to see Jaskier there, done up in their quilts in such a way that he looked more like a kicked puppy or a sleepy boy than the man who could swoop into a pub and charm everyone into dancing with nothing but a lute and his voice.

Yennefer watched him with smoldering, considering eyes for a long moment before she patted the arm rest on the free side of her legs, opposite of where Geralt sat, and said, “I did not expect to see you, puppy.”

“Rude,” he said, but came to her nonetheless.

“Which part?” Geralt asked, a wry curl of amusement every so slightly tinging his mouth.

Jaskier just glared balefully, the effect ruined as his sleepiness turned the expression into more of a pout than anything serious. He settled in next to Geralt, the two of them crowding either side of Yennefer’s legs. She slide the fingers of her free hand into Jaskier’s hair and felt that man, too, slowly calm beneath her touch.

Jaskier mumbled something.

“What was that, dear?” Yennefer purred, almost certain she had caught it but unable to resist having him repeat it.

Jaskier drew in a deep, annoyed breath – utterly put upon – and repeated brattily, “Ican’tsleepwellaloneanymorethankstoyoutwo.”

Geralt watched him, something unfathomable in his face – blank but steadily showing more and more each day. Jaskier almost called it fondness. Above him Yennefer hummed happily and said, “How sweet. Now was that so hard?”

Jaskier curled his legs up to his chest and hid his blush in his knees, but did not pull away from Yennefer’s clever fingers.

“Used to sleep just fine, thank you,” Jaskier whined. “You’ve both ruined me. Your sleeplessness is contagious and unwanted.”

Geralt let out a soft, hushed bark of a laugh before leaning back into Yennefer’s touch, his eyes sliding closed, and grunted warmly, “Welcome to the club.”

— • —

The time was vastly approaching in which Geralt would finally be able to help supervise Ciri’s training. He could feel it building in him, day by day, and while he was not at full force quite yet, he was strong enough to begin what Vesemir and the others had long held off. Soon, but not quite. However, Ciri was restless. In her he saw himself – eager to leave his sickbed, to be back in his armor and on the field. To be well again.

She had to wait a little longer, but that did not mean he could not help her divert a little of that impatience and steam. He took her down to the stables one morning as Yennefer busied herself in the library, building a curriculum with which to begin Ciri’s training of magic; and as Jaskier took up perch in the garden, working on new tunes and songs with which to work through everything he had not yet had time to even think about.

“Roach saved us, you know,” Geralt said as they walked – swiftly now. It felt so good to walk swiftly. Ciri was skipping beside him with the same energy of a bouncy border collie capable of sprinting and yet choosing to stay by its master’s side. Buzzing with excitement and surplus energy.

Ciri swiveled her too large eyes on him and said, as if it were plain as day, “I know.”

Nothing else. He smiled at that. Ciri felt like a jigsaw piece he hadn’t realized was missing, and while he’d be forever bristly about the fact that that feeling was large and wide because of fate rather than any built up relationship – he still enjoyed it. Perhaps that was fate’s doing too. He shook his head of the thought before it drove him mad.

“Good,” he said with a nod, holding the stable door open for Ciri to pass in. She went to Roach immediately, and Geralt felt a strange flutter in his chest – affection, he told himself, working on identifying such things – at the sight of Roach pushing her long face happily into Ciri’s hand with a cheerful whicker. “One day you’ll have a companion like Roach.”

“I will?” Ciri turned to look at him, excited.

Geralt arched a brow and said, “Don’t expect me to believe your Grandmother didn’t give you plenty of horses.”

Ciri blushed a little, but went back to stroking Roach when the horse made it plain that she did not approve of Ciri’s sudden distraction.

“Not like Roach,” she said, and immediately Geralt understood. They had learned to talk like this on the road. Bits and pieces that would mean nothing to most, but said everything to them. Of course she had had her pick of horses, but she was right. None of them would be like Roach. Those horses – pretty and thorough bred – were made for royal aesthetics, symbols of power. Horses like Roach were different beasts entirely. Bred from only the most loyal and steady steeds. Trained as a colt to remain steadfast in the presence of danger, albeit sometimes with the help of a swift Axii. Raised beside their witcher-to-be until an unbreakable bond was forged. Roach was no mere horse. Roach was Geralt’s partner, his trusted confidant, and she had more than once saved his life.

“You’ll have a steed like her one day, yes,” Geralt said, stepping forward to brush some of the mare’s forelock from her brow. Roach watched him with big eyes. “We’ll select a colt for you when the first of the colts are born and begin the process of training you both. In the meantime, there’s things you should know about horses like Roach. Things I don’t think you had a chance to learn as a princess.”

He almost expected her to whine when she found out what those things were. Stables had to be shoveled, after all, and attended to. Roach needed her blankets washed, her coat and mane brushed, her shoes maintained. It was not a beautiful process. In fact it could be downright tedious – but it was important. It was the deal a witcher made when they took up a horse.

“Your horse carries you, as Roach did us,” Geralt explained as he guided Ciri’s small hand on the brush in long, slow stripes across Roach’s body. “And in return, you must provide for them.”

“So like you, Yen and Jask?” Ciri asked innocently, the question no more blithe than if she had asked after the color of the sky. Geralt’s hand fell still and Ciri’s continued on without him, unaware.

“What do you mean?”

Ciri looked up at him, her little brow furrowed as if she thought he was making fun of her.

“You all do the same thing, don’t you?” She asked. “I’ve been watching. Listening. Jaskier talks when you can’t. Yennefer is bold where Jaskier might cower. You are steady where Yennefer wants to do three things at once. You all give and take. Like we do.”

“You and I give and take?” He arched a brow now, something amused if a little exposed edging into his tone now, any embarrassment blown away by his amazement of how keen children could be.

“You teach me, watch over me,” Ciri nodded, continuing to work on Roach, eyes focused on her task. “And I watch your back, teach you things too.”

“Like what?” Geralt asked, amusement plainly obvious now.

“Like the apple sauce,” she pointed out, and he hummed dutifully, “Or, uh…”

He smoothed back her hair as she thought that over, drawing her gaze back to stare up at him. He had the wildest urge to kiss her brow but managed to smother it down. Instead he allowed himself a smile – she’d die, people who get too close die, they’re mortal and they die, and they’d be gone from old age soon enough anyway long before he began to feel the weariness of witchery in his mutated bones – and said, “You saved me on the road when you listened to Roach and fetched help instead of trying to fix things yourself, you’re right. We give and take.”

She beamed up at him, and that warm feeling rose in his chest once more like sunrise peeking over the horizon after a long night.

“Come on, let’s finish up. Roach detests blathering.”

“You detest blathering.”

“Hmm.”

— • —

By the time Geralt had finally healed, Yennefer and Jaskier quickly realized that they had a much different problem than they had anticipated. Although, honestly, they should have anticipated it. It was as if the white wolf felt he had to make up for lost time, because the man had gone from a cantering amount of activity each day to full out galloping through chores and training and building curriculum for Ciri and brushing up with the bestiaries and attending to Roach and, and, and –

“He’s going to wear himself out at this rate,” Jaskier said from the kitchen table before he plucked a grape from the vine and tossed it in his mouth, watching with an expression mixed between awe and horror. Geralt was currently leaning with one hip against the counter, a spread of pages across it, his hands full with a book and totally oblivious to the kettles beginning to steam and rattle behind him. He licked the tip of his quill and quickly jot down another note, only to startle comically when the kettle finally began its shrill screaming.

“Serves you right,” Jaskier snorted, grinning when Geralt cast him a dark glower over one shoulder before returning to pouring out water into three mugs, setting each to brew.

“I know this might be rich coming from me,” Yennefer said idly, watching Geralt work, “But you can afford to narrow your work to one thing at a time, Geralt.”

“No really,” the man grumbled, flipping a page, “We were lucky nothing happened while I was down, but that doesn’t mean that Ciri’s safe. Or any of us, for that matter. She must be taught. Trained. We—”

“—must be ready for a fight, if any, at any time,” Jaskier said, reciting the man’s words perfectly. Geralt glared at him again, but Jaskier didn’t back down. Instead he stood, taking a vine of grapes with him, and forced them into Geralt’s hand when the man had become distracted with his notes once more. “Eat. At least in this you must agree that you’re useless without food.”

Geralt grunted, but obliged.

Yennefer rolled her eyes at the table and muttered, “Stubborn mutt.”

They wouldn’t see him again until evening, they knew. And like clockwork, Geralt disappeared to fulfill various tasks until evening, returning only once his shirt was thoroughly ruined by the scent of a full day’s work, his hair tangled and the line of his shoulders weary. They managed to convince him to sit for another meal – relieved to hear that Ciri had managed to get him to eat lunch when he had insisted they break so she might eat lunch. Why should she eat and not him? Clever girl.

But when Geralt moved to return to the study where Vesemir would normally be waiting for him to go over next steps in training Ciri and reinforcing the keep, Jaskier and Yennefer struck. Yennefer came in behind him – one hand on his shoulder easily leading the witcher back down onto the bench – and Jaskier came to her other side. The two of them crowded him into his spot, and Geralt looked utterly bewildered. Or at least as bewildered as blank-faced witchers ever looked.

“Vesemir—” he started.

“—Is resting. As you should be.”

“Resting,” Geralt repeated dumbly, as if not familiar with the meaning of the word.

“Yes, you know, that thing when people sit down for a moment to decompress, just exist? Take a bath, lay down, read a good book?” Jaskier blathered easily. Geralt snorted.

“I’ve bathed and laid and read plenty,” he said, and tried to stand again, only to be forced down. Again. He blew out a haughty breath, bristling and confused.

“This is unhealthy and unnecessary, Geralt,” Yennefer pressed.

Geralt grit his teeth, but didn’t bother arguing. They were right, after all. There was no immediate need to act as though war were on their doorstep. But the sickness that had stolen so much time from him curled in his stomach, filling him with dread.

“I’ve done enough ‘resting’,” he said finally. Yennefer hummed as though Geralt had suddenly pulled back the curtains and revealed everything.

“There isn’t just one way to rest, Geralt,” she purred, bending and looming over him to brush back a wild lock of white hair and whisper in his ear, “And you haven’t rested with us yet.”

And that drew Geralt’s attention.

— • —

They coaxed him to the bedroom – two foxes luring a white wolf up the very many steps that led to their bed. They had set the mood as well, it would seem, because there were candles burning, filling the room with the heady scent distinctly Yennefer’s. Lilacs and gooseberries. If not for how far they had come, the things they had forgiven in one another, it might have made Geralt shiver – remembering the first time he had smelled it, the first time Yennefer had bent him to her whims.

“If you’re so restless,” Yennefer said smoothly, walking toward the open window to gaze upon the moon and twinkling stars beginning to rise in the sky, “Perhaps it is our fault.”

He expected Jaskier to balk, unsure of where this was going himself, and yet Jaskier just slid up beside Yennefer – looking downright scolded if not for that mischievous glint to his eyes – and said, “We’ve been poor masters indeed.”

“What?” Geralt asked dumbly, blinked, but in his gut something stirred hungrily, like a beast waking from a long nap, and yawned with sleepy interest. He nearly flushed.

“A master is expected to wear out their energetic hounds, lest they drive themselves mad,” Yennefer supplied helpfully, one hand slipping up to her shoulder to gently expose the skin beneath, the collar of her dress dropping down her arm somewhat. “I imagine a wolf is no different.”

Jaskier grinned with too many teeth, drawing up to Yennefer to give her a quick peck on the corner of the mouth and murmured softly, “I’ll get things set up,” before going to the vanity and picking up a box that Geralt couldn’t remember being there that morning. A chest, actually – one that Jaskier brought to the bedside and opened, plucking out vials and ornate jars, among other things Geralt couldn’t quite name.

“What’s going on—”

“—I didn’t say you could talk.”

Geralt’s jaw clicked shut despite himself, his eyes darting back to Yennefer who had removed the top of her dress, two round breasts illuminated by the milky light of the moon. Her nipples were peaked with chill. That hunger in his gut woke more properly now, actively invested. Distracted enough that he didn’t even question the order or when orders like that had started in their bedroom.

“Ah. Thought so,” Yennefer said, eyes twinkling and smiling a pleased, knowing little smile as if Geralt had revealed some great tell in a game of Gwent. “Excellent. You’re doing so well, Geralt.”

And that stoked the beginning of a blaze, catching him off guard. He had liked that. More than he ever thought he might. But there was a simplicity to her orders; they were easy to follow, chased by praise. It made it easy to turn off the racing thoughts that had been haunting him ever since he had properly recovered, and he found himself wanting to chase that feeling. To turn off.

“Strip.”

This was it. Now was the time to decide how much power he was going to give them. Should he continue the game or should he leave? He didn’t have the sense that leaving would ruin some element of their relationship that could not be fixed. Yennefer was testing, experimenting. He had a decently certain feeling that if he didn’t play along, she would not force his hand or try again – and there would be no ill will. They were merely learning one another; and there was no better way to learn than to try.

He grunted, but obeyed. Neither of them helped, but they both watched. Watched as he untucked his shirt without flourish, unlaced his britches, ditched his shoes. He stripped himself clinically, with the efficiency of a man who was unused to stripping for the pleasure of others. Yennefer was decently certain that the concept of stripping lewdly had never crossed Geralt’s mind – a game for another day.

He stopped with his underthings still on, maintaining his last step of modesty, and forced himself not to react when Jaskier chuckled, amused.

“Everything, Geralt,” Yennefer purred, eyes already roving up and down his body.

So he stripped himself of everything but the medallion of his house and stood there, flanked by two lovers – two very clothed lovers – and gestured with his hands in a ‘now what’ sort of maneuver.

Yennefer smiled, plump lips pulled into a pleased little line, and directed her gaze to Jaskier as she asked, “Well? What do you think?”

Geralt’s gaze followed hers and met Jaskier’s – smoldering with a hunger that was both naked, bold and unabashed. Jaskier very much looked the part of the fox, perched on the corner of the bed nearest the nightstand, hands loose around a bottle of some sort. Distracted by Geralt, he realized. He felt… strange. Not a bad strange. Just not familiar. He had seen Jaskier chase skirts and trousers alike in bars and court affairs. He had watched Yennefer take him apart with her hands in that tub. He had seen Jaskier aroused.

But he had never been on the receiving end of that look before, not directly. Not like this. Not just from Jaskier, but in general. He had never received a look that appeared as though someone wished to eat him. Well, not like that.

Plenty of monsters wanted to eat him, of course. Just not fuck him. Fuck. Shut up, Geralt. He felt his cheeks flush hot when Jaskier’s grin just grew wider – sensing that the witcher was off balance like a shark might scent blood in the water.

“I think he’s being startlingly good for us, Yen,” Jaskier praised, and Geralt startled when that shook a shiver down his spine and stoked the fire in his belly. “So good as to deserve a reward, in fact.”

“You heard him, wolf,” Yennefer said, catching Geralt’s very divided, very frayed and confused attention again. They were doing it on purpose, he realized. Corralling him now just as they had corralled him to their bed. They were dangerous together. Hunters working together. Geralt felt small between them. He shouldn’t like that as much as he did, but gods above, his cock twitched openly where all might see. And they both knew somehow he would like it. Foxes. “Time for your reward.”

Geralt’s brows furrowed, not following their train of thought. He looked between them – and even in hindsight he wouldn’t admit that he was looking for direction – at a loss. Jaskier took pity on him first. The bard patted the bed beside him and said, “Come on, wolf. Belly down for me.”

Now he was really lost. He glanced between the two of them again, but when they both just kept watching him approvingly, waiting – still both bloody dressed – he went to Jaskier and laid himself out prone on his stomach. He tried to brace himself up on his elbows to keep them in sight, but the bard merely tsked at him sweetly and gently guided him until he was completely flat.

“The effect isn’t the same without music,” Yennefer said, gliding over to the bed to sit beside him, not close enough to touch but enough to be present, to watch. “But Jaskier is about to have his hands quite busy, so you’ll have to do without.”

Geralt turned his head to look at her, still so utterly confused, and asked, “Without wha—” the question choked off when something decidedly warm trickled down onto his spine in a long line. He felt like a startled cat, bristly and arched, but Jaskier didn’t give him more time to react than that before he was climbing atop him, straddling his ass.

Another position Geralt was unfamiliar with.

“Hush, Geralt. Close your eyes, trust me, and be a good boy.”

Geralt shivered again, eyes on Yennefer because he couldn’t see the bard without breaking their unsaid desire for him to remain flat. She nodded at him, looking oh so pleased – an expression that grew when Jaskier pressed the heels of his hands into the small of his back and dragged them up the column of his spine. He full body shivered, something fluttering in his stomach. Even at brothels a touch like this was uncommon. He was a bit clinical in his general approach to sex. It meant that sensitive areas like his back – areas he never would have guessed were sensitive – left him reeling with new sensations. Jaskier did that move with his hands again, the heels of his palms digging into the thickly corded muscle beneath, and Geralt couldn’t hold back the shocked little breath that squeezed out of him.

“You witchers, I swear,” Jaskier sighed, rolled his eyes dramatically, “How any of you have survived is astounding to me. Have you really never had a massage before, Geralt?”

He opened his mouth to answer but Jaskier chose that moment – likely intentionally – to zero in on a knot in Geralt’s shoulder. He worked it with palm heels and thumbs, putting some leverage into it, and Geralt would never admit it, but his eyes had rolled up from the sheer relief of it. He hadn’t even realized the knots had been there, that they shouldn’t be there; what it felt like to have them loosened. He huffed out a long, slow breath – lashes fluttering weakly against the span of his cheeks – too melted into the moment to care when Yennefer let out an amused chuckle.

“So good for us,” she purred.

“Our soft witcher, our beautiful wolf,” Jaskier agreed, then a little more tightly when he worked on another knot, “Our mess of a beautiful white wolf – gods above, Geralt, you’re as tightly wound as a priest whose made his vows of abstinence with the gods!”

He didn’t answer. His brain was mush. The oil was so warm, Jaskier’s hands so soft and confident. Every knot released left him more and more like loose clay to be molded, his lips slack and his breathing sleepy.

Jaskier’s hands loosened his back, his shoulders, his biceps. They moved down, down past his lower back and – ah, yes. This was familiar.

“Can you really say we’re not friends when I just rubbed chamomile on your lovely bottom?”

Yes, this was familiar. Jaskier kneaded his cheeks like they were a baker’s dough. Pressing in with his thumbs, rolling them in steadily wider and wider circles.

“Don’t think I believe your sleepy ruse for a minute, Geralt,” Jaskier said cheerfully, his thumbs slowly moving in a way they hadn’t before. “I fully intend to put you through your paces before the night is done.”

What did that mean—oh.

Jaskier’s thumbs had slipped between the crack of his cheeks, brushed over the tight ring of muscle beneath. Slippery as they were, it was easy for the bard to flirt with his entrance. Pressing in with a thumb nail only to pull away and press with the flat of his thumb instead – again and again. He felt as though his limbs were made of molasses, his reactions slow.

“Far less resistance than I anticipated,” Yennefer commented, her hands reach out to brush back a sweaty lock of hair from his brow. The wolf’s gaze looked positively hazy, lost beneath his touch. Soft and trusting and curious, she noted, so curious. “Though I’m pleasantly surprised to see how utterly receptive you are, Geralt. Such a good boy.”

Geralt moaned despite himself, then turned to hide his face into the pillow when he realized what he had done, what he had let slip out. Yennefer chuckled fondly and curled a hand around the back of Geralt’s neck soothingly, her thumb petting over the knob of his spine. Jaskier’s progress was so steady, so minute, so gradual that Geralt didn’t even realize he had a finger up his ass until he had two of them in there.

“Jaskier,” he murmured into the pillow, feeling picked apart and exposed in a way he couldn’t even describe. That steady buzz of anxiety that had driven him to working nonstop these days was a distant thing now – buried deep beneath a layer of thrumming, hot-blooded pleasure.

“I’ve got you, Geralt,” Jaskier promised gently, so surprisingly gently, as he adjusted his fingers, his angle. “You’re being so good.”

Good. Theirs. Good. A good boy. His head felt abuzz with it all. Then that buzz scattered like stars streaking across the night sky when those fingers bent, crooked inside him, and left him reeling. White hot pleasure seared up his spine, tightening and rippling every muscle Jaskier had just loosened deliciously. Geralt had just sucked in a breath when Jaskier and Yennefer said something pleased to one another that he couldn’t make out and Jaskier crooked his fingers again. He clenched his teeth around a sound that was building in his chest, threatened to slip free, but managed to hold it in.

“Next time I’ll eat him out, I think,” he suddenly came back to, down from the high, Jaskier’s fingers gone as he adjusted his position. “If he reacted like that for my fingers, well… it’ll be quite a show with my tongue.”

“Tongue…?” Geralt repeatedly, woozy and fuzzy in a way that was not unlike being drunk, but so much better because he didn’t feel sick, didn’t feel dizzy. Just pleasantly floating. He didn’t have to think, have to move. Just follow orders and feel. He wish he had known about this feeling ages ago.

Jaskier’s hands were slipping under him now, coaxing him to kneel, and while his mind felt distant, Geralt’s body did it’s level best to follow on instinct. It left him propped in Jaskier’s lap, his ass above the bard’s crotch – his naked crotch. When had that happened?

“You undid him so beautifully, Jaskier. Remarkable work,” Yennefer hummed, that electric current of hunger sharp in her voice. He opened his eyes as she cupped his jaw, suddenly in front of him. Not just in front of him, but practically in his lap and getting closer. “Are you certain this won’t crush you, darling?”

“Only one way to find out,” Jaskier said.

Something was parting his cheeks again. He nearly twisted to see, to understand, when suddenly Yennefer had her hands on his prick, slicking it with that too-warm-just-right oil that Jaskier had used on his back. He moaned, the sounds too strong to hold back now as Yennefer teased the slit of his cock with a thumb nail. He tossed his head back, white hair spread across Jaskier’s shoulder, leaning heavily into the bard’s chest.

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier promised in a whisper against the flesh of his throat, peppering it with kisses and nips as he babbled, “You’re doing so well. So proud of you for trusting us. For letting us in.”

And in he definitely let them, because he was decently sure Jaskier was slipping into him with his cock. It spread him slowly, so fully, taking him in a place he had never been taken before – too buzzed to be anxious, perfectly content in letting Jaskier guide him to whatever destination he had in mind.

“Such a good wolf we have,” Yennefer said as she lifted himself over her lap. Something sparked at that, he knew this, knew this posture, this look. Her eyes met his as she sunk her wet heat onto his prick and his slack lips pulled back to bare his teeth at that – overwhelmed, taken at two ends. She clenched and writhed around him, walls of slick warmth undulating and tugging him deeper as she shimmied down further. He couldn’t even lift his head from Jaskier’s shoulder anymore, too torn between two worlds to function as Jaskier began to set a pace for both of them, fucking up into him, thus into her.

Above him Yennefer moaned like a litany, her hands cradling his jaw, forcing him to look at her, to keep eye contact as she said, “I want to see you. All of you.”

Gods above, how much more was left to see? He felt scraped clean and laid out to dry, every bit of him exposed and over sensitized. Her hands moved to loop around his neck – as well as Jaskier’s – and she kissed the bard over his shoulder before returning her attentions to him. Jaskier’s hands moved from his hips to his nipples. Yennefer’s hands guided Geralt’s to her breasts, urging them to cup and pinch and grope.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Geralt breathed in a reedy, broken chant. That fire in his belly was a blaze now; roaring and searing him from the inside out, stoked that much higher with every order – kiss me, now my neck, suckle my breasts, reach back to cup Jaskier’s neck, yes good – and every kind word of praise – so good, our good boy, our witcher, so good and all ours. There was a sound now, high and breathless and keening, and with a blink he realized it was him. He was whining, as close as he could get to begging, as Jaskier and Yennefer both closed a hand over his cock and began to stroke him as one.

Jaskier, the bastard, had remembered where his fingers had pressed to make Geralt react like that before and he was relentless in his dogging of that spot. Thrusting in short, abortive little burst, then in hard, deep slow strokes, then bursts again.

Geralt moaned, words beyond him, lost in the haze they had dragged him into. They had peeled him of every layer, laid him out beneath them, framed him on either side until there was nothing left but more and tell me what to do and don’t stop.

There was a deep, instinctual, almost animal pleasure in this. In simply existing, sandwiched between them, worrying only about rutting and being good. Something relieving in not making the decisions or the plans after decades of having no one but himself to make every decision and bare the weight of every plan. He melted into them totally, finally, and let them drive. He drifted, lulled by the hum of their voices now – nonsensical and far away, dancing over him like a stone sending ripples across a still pond.

“So good, such a good man.”

The haze broke only when that pleasure-heat had finally been stoked to a writhing inferno. It gripped his gut, sending his hips into a rolling, writhing mess atop Jaskier and pinned beneath Yennefer as he came, the force of it blinding him, head thrown back against Jaskier’s shoulder, mouth open – deft to his own howling. His hands would leave bruises on Yennefer’s hip and Jaskier’s thigh beneath him, he would find out later, but for now he held onto each of them like a life line until his orgasm passed. He wilted between them, chest heaving, as Yennefer chased her own pleasure atop him and Jaskier followed quickly after inside him – teeth buried in his shoulder and growling with more force than a bard had any right to growl.

“Downright territorial of you, Jaskier. Beautiful, albeit surprising. I was much more inclined to believe you would wax poetic to us or sing,” Yennefer mused as she removed herself from Geralt’s lap.

“Anyone else, I would,” Jaskier said, the littlest bit surprised himself it would seem, “But this was different.”

“Indeed,” Yennefer hummed, easing Geralt off of Jaskier’s prick – eyes on his hole as it gaped slightly with Jaskier’s absence, pearly cum beginning to leak from it. She gathered his jaw in her hands again, sought out his eyes, and smiled wolfishly as she said, “He opened up to that rather beautifully, didn’t he?”

Jaskier hummed, just as pleased, as he peppered Geralt’s back with kisses. “Better than expected, I really thought we’d need to coax him there with far more guidance. How long do you think this will last?”

“This deep? Hard to say with a witcher,” she said, easing up from the bed, drawing Geralts hands in her own as she murmured warmly, “Up we go, wolf. To the baths, then some meats and some cheeses, and bed. Up, up. Be good now.”

He followed. In a pleasant, cared for haze he let them ease him into the tub. He hummed and purring and grumbled pleasantly as Jaskier washed his hair and Yennefer cleaned his skin, each of them taking their time. He watched lazily as they attended to one another. They dried him. Plied him with food.

Then they tucked themselves into either side of him, petting him through the submissive daze they had helped him reach. It was some time later, the three of them dozing lightly in the bed, that finally his lashes fluttered open – some semblance of clarity in his amber eyes.

“Ah, there he is,” Jaskier said, propping his chin up on Geralt’s chest to beam at him, “Hello there.”

He felt Yennefer’s gaze fall on him as well, expectant and waiting – although for what, he wasn’t sure. His mouth worked open and closed a few times, but he had no words, no idea of where to even start. Yennefer smiled, pleased.

“Good. It worked. We struck the witcher too dumb to keep working himself into the ground,” she said. He grunted, grumpy – albeit too wrung out with pleasure, too loose from sex and exhaustion for there to be any real heat to it. She leaned over his chest to share a celebratory kiss with the bard, short and sweet and chaste. Geralt just stared on, almost owlishly, before letting his head fall back into the pillows with a soft, stunned ‘fuck’.

Jaskier patted his chest consolingly, but his grin was anything but remorseful as he said, “Don’t worry, Geralt, you’re in good hands.”

And he was.

[thetailorofenbizaka]

Chapter 1–The Tale of the Scissors, Act 7: Fate; Scene 5

The Tailor of Enbizaka, pages 174-183

At the foot of Mount Inasa, Kokutan-douji and his two companions were enclosed on all sides by men wearing suits.

The suited men were all employees of the Yarera Zusco Firm. Douji and the others had been tailing them as they searched for Kayo, but evidently they’d been spotted.

“—What are you following us for? Answer, dammit!” a black suited man yelled coercively at the three of them.

“…It’s not out of any particular malice. We were just trying to meet with Kayo-san,” Douji calmly replied.

But the suited men didn’t seem satisfied with that.

“Sudou Kayo is our prey. We can’t have meddlers like you tagging along.”

“Why are you hunting Kayo-san?”

“We think she killed Kiji’s girlfriend, Miku.”

“On what grounds?”

“…I ain’t gotta answer a single one of your questions.”

Saruteito stepped up before the men. “If you suspect Kayo of being the murderer, then shouldn’t you be telling that to the people at the Magistrate’s office? …yannow.”

“Can’t do that. Kiji-sama’s requested to kill the culprit himself.”

“—So, he still has no intention of giving up on his vengeance…yannow.”

At that moment the men in suits parted, and another person appeared there.

“’I won’t let you off easy if you make a wrong move’…I’m quite sure I told you that, Saruteito.”

“Kiji…Still wearing that tasteless outfit, I see…yannow,” Saruteito said, gazing at the pure white suit that Kiji was wearing.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be critiquing my fashion sense. How about you stop wasting my time here and go back to your search for your blades, huh?”

“Unfortunately, I need to see Sudou Kayo to search for the blades…yannow.”

Kiji and Saruteito glared at each other.

“…”

“…”

Watching them, Inukichi whispered to Douji, “Hey, Kokutan.”

“What is it?”

“Shouldn’t we be beating all these jerks back right here?”

“…Don’t go around needlessly starting fights. Our aim isn’t to beat them.”

“So you say. Looks to me like they wanna kill Kayo-san. We can’t just let them do that, can we?”

“…”

Douji looked to be mulling worriedly over what they should do next.

Kiji for his part appeared to be doing the same.

“—Well, alright. Our first priority is finding Kayo.” Kiji raised his right hand, and all of the men in suits behind him snapped to attention at once. “I’ll allow you to travel with us. We’re chasing after a woman who committed such gruesome murders without issue, after all. She might have some unexpected degree of ability. Couldn’t hurt to have more skilled allies with us.”

“…We have no intention of becoming your ‘allies’, and we’re not planning to kill Kayo.”

“Whatever. Whatever the case you’re the same in that you can’t just leave Sudou Kayo be, correct? Kokutan-douji.”

“…”

“Our destination is a ruined temple set in the heart of the mountain. I received word from my subordinates that Kayo was hiding out there. Our investigation’ll be a lot harder once the sun goes down, so let’s hurry.”

Kiji turned towards the entrance to the mountain path and started walking towards it.

The men in suits, as well as Douji and Inukichi, all followed after him.

--But Saruteito alone, still standing where she was, looked toward the mountain and shouted, “Wait! …yannow.”

Upon hearing that, everyone turned back towards her.

“What’s up, Saru? Do you hafta go to the privy?”

“You really are an idiot, Inu. That’s not it—someone’s coming down the mountain.”

Saruteito pointed up to the mountain.

“Really? I can’t see them that well…” Inukichi replied, squinting in the direction that Saruteito was pointing.

“—It’s Sudou Kayo.”

It was Kiji who replied next.

“You’re certain, Kiji?” Douji asked.

“Yeah. I’ve got confidence in my eyesight—but…her appearance…Looks like she’s heading this way.”

As he spoke, a faint tremble appeared in Kiji’s eyes.

Just as Kiji said, Kayo was coming down the mountain towards them…And eventually, she was near the base where Douji and the others were.

Once she had gotten that far, everyone else outside of Kiji could clearly see what Kayo looked like.

And everyone was frozen to the spot, speechless.

“…”

“…”

“…”

Kayo’s entire body was stained black.

A black kimono, a black obi, a black hairpin.

Black arms, black legs, black face.

And everyone could tell that this was a result of discolored blood spray.

“…Kayo-san.”

Douji spoke with great difficulty, in a hoarse voice.

Kayo appeared to have noticed Kiji and those assembled with him, leisurely making her way toward them.

When she saw that Douji was among the group, Kayo looked sad for a moment. But that quickly changed to a befuddled, relieved smile.

“Oh my…Nice to meet you, everyone.”

Kayo stood before the group, and then spread her arms wide and bowed, as though to show herself off to them all.

And then said, in this way:

.

“How is it? Aren’t I—beautiful?”

--Kiji immediately drew his sword and went to slash Kayo with it, but was stopped by Kokutan-douji. While the two of them were quarreling, people from the magistrate’s office arrived from town and took Kayo under arrest.

“…”

Elluka continued to write in her notebook, silently listening to the story.

The next day Kai’s miserable corpse was discovered at the mountain temple. One month later, Kayo was charged for all of her crimes at a trial held by the magistrate’s office…and she was sentenced to be executed. One week after that, Kayo was beheaded at the one execution site at the top of the hill, and that head is now on display before the site.

“…”

And with that, my story has now come to an end.

Elluka stopped writing.

“…Pardon.”

Yes, what is it?

“You’ve been talking at length this entire time, but now that we’re finishing up you’re ending things in a hurry.”

The time after Kayo was arrested is unique. I don’t have a lot of details I can tell you about it…

“That so? But the way I hear it around here there were various troubles after Kayo’s execution was determined?”

…To tell the truth, around the time that Kayo was captured for some reason my awareness would grow weaker more often. So…this last part of the story is something I merely gleaned from the rumors the townspeople were telling of it.

“Your awareness grew weaker? Is that still happening?”

No…I had almost completely lost all consciousness right before Kayo’s death, but then at some point after that my mental state returned to its usual vivid awareness. –However, at that time Kayo’s head was already put up before the execution site, exposed to the air.

“I see…” Elluka once more started to think. “—I wonder if it was ‘anti-demonia’…”

…What is that?

“The other ‘Vessel of Deadly Sin’ that you mentioned earlier that wasn’t the scissors or the mirror—it has a unique power that the other vessels do not. The ability to weaken and degrade the power of the ‘Demons of Deadly Sin’ that dwell in the other vessels…I have named that power ‘anti-demonia’.”

So you’re saying that the change in my awareness was due to that power?

“You aren’t a ‘Demon of Deadly Sin’. …But given that you exist inside a ‘Vessel of Deadly Sin’, there’s no guarantee that you can escape from ‘anti-demonia’’s influence. Or, it’s also possible that ‘anti demonia’ weakened the ‘Vessel of Deadly Sin’ itself, and as a result you inside it were influenced by that. –All of this is just conjecture, however. There are still a lot of things I don’t know about that ‘Vessel of Deadly Sin’.”

…

“—Well then.”

Elluka closed her notebook and stood.

Yes…With that, the entirety of my story was finished.

In other words, that meant that I was no longer of any use to her.

Elluka picked up the two scissors.

You…are going to erase me, aren’t you?

But--Elluka shook her head, and smiled.

“No…Not yet.”

…Hm?

“I’ve still got a little more time until the ship departs. Before that—there’s one other person I must meet with.”

Elluka put the scissors into the folds of her outfit.

“Even you must have a few things you’d like to say to ‘her’ before you disappear, yes?”

…Elluka-san. You--know, don’t you. Who I am.

“The affection you held for Kayo that I could glimpse during the pauses in your story—I’m not so thick-headed that I couldn’t pick up on that.”

Passing under the sign, Elluka exited the tailor shop.

The sky was without a single cloud, and there were many people walking about Enbizaka.

Among the people walking from the top of the hill, I saw the monk that Kokutan-douji had been speaking to earlier.

“The weather’s nice…The sea should be calm on a day like today.”

You know…where she is staying?

“I wouldn’t be looking for her if I didn’t know her true identity. After resting carefully for a whole year I have now regained my magical power, the same as it was in my heyday. My investigative abilities have risen as well. …Well, they failed when it came to the mirror, albeit.”

Elluka lightly patted on her breast pocket, wherein she had placed the scissors.

“Come then, let’s get going, shall we—Kagura-san.”

She began to walk towards the sea.

<<prev------directory------next>>

[joeycupcakerichter]

Zach Dempsey v Cyrus - Crying Lighting p2

A/N: Hey, so yeah.... let’s just not talk about how it’s been over a month and a half, alright? To quote Chuck, “writing is hard” Anywhooooooooooooo.... yeah, here’s this and it’s almost 1000 words more than the first one... so... yay? :D I really hope you like it and if you have any input into where it should go or anything you’d like to see happen hit me up. :D

Pairing: Zach x Reader, Cyrus x Reader

Warnings: Parents being... parents I guess? And just mention of stuff from the show.

Word Count: 2359

Masterlist

𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝓃𝑒

The dirt under your shoes and the blaring music in your headphones grounded you as crossed the campus. Cyrus and Mack were adamant that meeting up with Zach was unequivocally the worst possible idea and as much as you agreed, the curiosity that tickled the back of your mind compelled you out into that field to wait for the boy that broke your heart. The wind cut through your flannel, chilling you as you scrolled through your phone and waited. Twenty minutes passed before he finally showed up, looking sheepish as ever. Irritation had long since boiled over in your gut and by the time he showed up, you had already begun grabbing your things to leave.

“(Y/N), look I’m sorry,” he apologized as he climbed the bleachers two steps at a time, “Coach wanted to prep us for the game next weekend and I couldn’t get away.”

“I get it, Dempsey,” you rolled your eyes, “Now, what did you want to talk about so I can get home. It’s freezing out here.”

“Oh shit, if you’re cold-” he shrugged out of his letterman jacket, wrapping it around your shoulders. The warmth sunk into your core and washed away some of your anger as Zach’s cologne wafted around you.

“Thanks,” you murmur gratefully, careful not to meet his gaze.

“Since when did you start calling me by my last name anyway,” he asked lazily as he sat down next to you and reclined back.

“Does it bother you or something?” you smirked.

“I mean, kinda? Not really, it just seems really impersonal. I thought we were friends.”

“Oh ha, ha, ha,” you laughed sarcastically, earning you a look of offense.

“So we’re not friends?” Zach asked, a genuine note of confusion leaking into his tone.

“In what way are we even remotely still friends Zach?” you snapped, finally bringing your eyes up to his. “You haven’t talked to me in months! Why are you so worried about me now?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose, (Y/N). There was a lot of shit going on with the trial, a lot of shit came out and my mom was trying to do damage control-”

“Speaking of which, all those nights we hung out and you never mentioned sleeping with Hannah Baker?” you interjected, an old wound flaring up at the mention of the trial.

“I never told anyone about that,” he told you firmly.

“You told me everything else, but you left that out? It went on for months!”

“I didn’t tell anyone, (Y/N). It wasn’t any of your business.”

“Oh because all of your concerns about dinosaurs and fish, those warranted hours of in depth soul searching but something as life changing as finding a girlfriend and losing your virginity was something I wasn’t allowed to be privy to?” Tears welled in your eyes as you snapped, finally letting the sea of hurt cascade out of you.

“Talking to you was supposed to be easy. I didn’t have to stress when I talked to you because you didn’t know everything about me. We could just talk about dumb shit and I didn’t have to worry about all the dumb drama from school.”

“You know what? Fuck you, Zach,” you declared, standing up and turning away to wipe the tears away from your eyes.

“I don’t understand why you’re getting so upset about this,” Zach asked, gently grabbing your arm to get you to face him again.

“Because I loved you, you fucking idiot,” you admitted, trying your hardest to avoid his gaze.

“Y-You- You what?”

“I was in love with you, back then,” you elaborated, “I thought you felt the same way but you were just too innocent to make a goddamn move.”

“Wh-Why didn’t you say anything?” Zach murmured, staring out over the field.

“I liked just spending time with you. I didn’t need it to be more than that at the time. I didn’t need it to be… complicated.”

“(Y/N), I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he apologized, tugging your hand to get you to meet his gaze. “H-Hannah, she’s the one-”

“I don’t need the play-by-play, alright?” you interrupted, sitting back down next to him on the bleachers. You couldn’t find the strength to finish storming off and if you were honest with yourself, you didn’t want to go home to your miserable bedroom just yet.

“I didn’t mean- I’m sorry,” he apologized, resting his head in his hands in defeat. “For what it’s worth, I liked you a lot, I still do.”

“Yeah, well, that’s great and all but with everything going on in your life, I don’t think I see anywhere I can fit in,” you told him bitterly.

“So you’re just hanging around that weird kid, Cyrus?” he asked, an uncharacteristically jealous tone leaking into his voice.

“He and his friends are nice to me,” you shrugged, unable to bring your eyes to meet his. “I haven’t really had anyone since you guys-”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like that, (Y/N),” he sighed, frustrated. “I didn’t mean to-” Your phone rang, interrupting him much to his irritation. “Mom” flashed on the screen,  you sighed before holding a finger up to him in silence.

“Hey Mom, I’ll be home soon. I stayed after to get some help with a project. I should’ve texted you, I just didn’t-”

“Just tell me when you’re on your way home, I got worried,” Mom interrupted, uninterested in whatever lame ass excuse you was going to give her.

“I’m leaving now,” you assured her, heart racing as you awaited the lecture that was inevitable. The call ended abruptly and you knew the lecture would be waiting for you at home.

“Do you want a ride?” Zach asked cautiously as you slid your phone back into your pocket and started grabbing your things.

“Oh, yeah, she’d love that,” you scoffed. “I’ll be alright. I don’t need more fuel added to the fire,” you dismissed him, slinging your messenger bag over your shoulder and heading down the bleachers.

“(Y/N)!” Zach called after you, continuing to insist he drive you home. You turned him down again and he finally gave up as you crossed the street and headed off school property. You dug out your headphones, desperate for anything that would dull the ache in your chest.

~+~

When you got home, your mother gave you another classic lecture about how you were to come straight home after school. You nodded in assent, not even really listened as she rambled on about how you lived under her roof and you would obey her and your father’s rules if you wanted to keep said roof. You apologized hollowly, reminding yourself you would be eighteen at the end of the school year and this wouldn’t be your problem anymore. You could finally get away and be free.

After her lecture was finished, you were remanded to your room to your silent delight. As soon as the door closed behind you, you let out a sigh of relief and collapsed on your bed. While your mother talked at you, your back pocket had been buzzing endlessly and when you pulled it out you weren’t surprised to find a couple missed calls from Mack and a handful of texts from her and Cyrus.

“What happened? Tell me EVERYTHING.” One from Mack read.

“You okay?” “I may not look like much, but if you need me to kick his ass, I totally will.” Two from Cyrus said.

You texted them both back, assuring them that you were okay and nothing outside of pointless arguing transpired. As soon as the message sent your phone rang, this time Mack’s picture appearing on the caller ID. As you answered, you couldn’t help but wonder when she’d had time to even add that.

“Hello?” you asked into the phone nervously.

“Jesus, how long of a talk was it?” Mack demanded urgently. “What did he say? Was he a dick? Did he try to kiss you?”

“Jesus Mack, no,” you assured her, earning a sigh of relief, “My mom was just pissed I hadn’t come straight home after school so I got reamed for it.” 

“So you got yourself in trouble just so you could argue with some dumb jock?” she asked flatly. You could feel her narrowed gaze through the phone, and knew judgement was being passed whether you liked it or not.

“I mean, I guess I did- Technically. She’ll get over it. I’ve been on lockdown ever since Hannah Baker’s trial anyway, so it really doesn’t matter. What else is she going to do, homeschool me?” you snorted.

“Yeah, well, how are we supposed to hang out if you can’t leave your house, ever?”

“Well, I get about eight and a half hours where I get to leave the house a day. It’s called school.”

“That’s just not fair,” Mack huffed. Cyrus’s voice came across the line in the background and you were surprised at the anxious excitement that fluttered in your gut. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself that he barely knew you and whatever his thoughts on the matter were, they had no prevalence to how you should actually be handling any of this. Despite this, when you heard him ask Mack how things went, your heart raced as embarrassment flushed on your face as Mack told you she was handing the phone off to Cyrus so you could talk to him.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked lazily. Your mouth went dry at the sound, mentally slapping yourself out of it quickly.

“Not much, I was talking to Mack but apparently her overbearing older brother wanted in on the conversation,” you remarked, looking at your nails pettily.

“Overbearing, eh?” he asked, feigning offense. “Well if you wanna talk to Mack so badly…”

“Hey, no wait-”

“Yeah, yeah,” you could hear his smug grin through the phone, “everything alright? I may not look like much, but if you need me too I can totally take that asshole out if you need me to.”

“N-No, that won’t be necessary,” you assured him hurriedly, remembering the pictures Tyler had posted after they set the baseball field on fire. “We talked for a couple minutes but it wasn’t really worth the time or trouble I got into for it.”

“What? You got in trouble?” he asked, confused.

“My parents want me home as soon as school lets out and I was almost an hour late,” you told him mournfully.

“What in the hell did you do to get put on lockdown?” he asked curiously, “Let me guess, secret late night career as a hitman, you look the type.”

“Wh-What? No. Jesus,” you giggled, clapping your hand over your mouth to avoid alerting your mother. “After everything came out around the trial and everything happened with Hannah they just don’t want me around those type of kids anymore,” you explained, “I was friends with Jessica and Chloe… It started as just wanting to make sure I was safe but it’s evolved into full blown tyranny at this point.”

“So, what about me and my friends. We’re not like those assholes, you think your parents would let up if you had better influences?” Cyrus asked seriously, as if he was trying to find some kind of loophole.

“I mean, they didn’t like it when I hung around the popular kids, so shit, they might just accept the social outcasts in eyeliner,” you scoffed before quickly adding, “No offense, of course.”

“Well shit, let’s test the theory,” Cyrus challenged playfully. “We’ll walk you home tomorrow, see what they say.”

“Cyrus, I-”

“(Y/N), who are you talking to?” your mother demanded, startling you and sending your phone rocketing out of your hand.

“O-Oh, it’s just a f-friend from school,” you stammered, trying to steady your breathing.

“I told you, you’re not to be hanging around those kids anymore,” she told you sternly, holding her hand out expectantly.

“N-No, you don’t understand,” you pleaded softly, trying to make sure Cyrus and Mack couldn’t hear you. “I-I met them today. T-They’re not like my old friends-”

“Give me the phone, (Y/N),” she ordered. Fighting back tears you handed it over, pressing the “End Call” button as she pulled it away from you. “Mackenzie?” she said curiously as she read the screen.

“She started talking to me today,” you explained, your voice wavering. “She and her brother noticed I looked lonely today, they just wanted to be nice.”

“Look, (Y/N),” your mother started tenderly, “It’s not that I don’t want you to have friends, I just don’t want you end up like-” her voice hitched as her eyes welled up with tears at the implication,  “-Hannah Baker, Jessica or Chloe.”

“I know Mom, you just want me to be safe,” you recited, rolling your eyes at the excuse you’d heard so many times. “Completely isolating me from everyone isn’t going to keep me safe, it’s just going to drive me crazy.”

“(Y/N)-”

“Please don’t, Mom,” you asked weakly, not ready for another fight about teenage development.

“(Y/N), just listen,” she asked firmly, “If you want to make new friends, bring this  Mackenzie and her brother by. Let us meet them.”

“Whatever Mom,” you groaned, turning away from her and focusing on a hangnail you were only making worse by picking at. 

“I don’t trust those popular kids and it was hard to trust your judgement after what happened, just give us a chance. You may not have had a tape but you were at Jessica’s party. That could’ve been you,” your mother reasoned with you, sitting down next to you. You met her eyes, unsurprised to find them filled with tears.

“Don’t cry, Mom,” you sighed, “I’ll walk home with them tomorrow and you can meet them, okay?”

She nodded quickly before standing back up and heading to the door. She stopped and considered for a moment before tossing your phone back to you. She closed the door behind her, leaving you to scramble for the device. One message appeared on the lockscreen, this time from Cyrus.

“You ok?“

[eldridgecandell]

Confronting Ghosts

A heavy pounding resounded the small room of Erlain Candell as he jolted from his chair.  Conservative was an understatement of the packed inn, but Fort Daelin wasn’t exactly going to be a quiet place any time soon.  News had arrived earlier in the week of the full scale attack of the Naga and their horrific queen, neither side in the Great War prepared.  This wasn’t how things were supposed to be going with the war with the Horde in full swing.  War had a way of screwing things up.

The heavy pounding came again as the door of his room rattled on the hinges and drove him to his feet.  

“Just a moment,” he called out as weakly as he could muster.  His quick and strong stride carried him to his dresser and the heavy broadsword of nethersteel that rested quietly for it’s master.  Grasping the hilt and moving swiftly back to the door, Lain position himself to one side of the entrance.  Face grim and blue eyes narrowed, bare feet would adjust their stance and prepare to counter this seige.  Another three strikes to the wood.

“Give an old man a moment, here we are now.”  Erlain called out as he reached gently to the door lock and flipped it.  The iron latch would lift and clatter followed by the slow creak before opening wide.  A booted foot would cross the threshold as his scarred hands gripped the scabbarded sword tightly before swinging it at the intruder.

Clashing cries of the same tone would resound as the leather guarded blade was caught by strong hands with a thunk.  Bared teeth and blazing blue eyes would meet and lock before the old man’s pressure would halt and eyes widen. 

“Eld?”

A grunt and shove would throw the surprised knight of his step and send him stumbling back into the edge of the old bed.  The dark cloaked figure stepping in with heavy footfalls before slamming the door behind him.  A swift turn would blow his hood back to show the middle aged man shooting daggers at his father.  Words would start and stop as Erlain bounced out of his shock and used his sheathed weapon to pin his son against the oak door.  Eyes blazing with equal anger sent accusatory hurt straight at Eld.

“What the hell are you doing, boy?  Have you lost your light addled mind?”  Lain snarled at his son as he struggled to hold the witch hunter at bat.

“What am I doing?  What are you doing?”  Eld growled back as he shoved against the sword.  “Or more so what did you do?”

Like two enraged wolves the Candell struggled against one another in the grapple.  Eventually the older would give way as he spoke.  “Damn it Eld, calm the hell down!  I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You damn well do, I sent her here for help!”  Eld shoved back with his strong arms, both warriors and equal thanks to time and experience. 

“What?”

“Tidesinger you sanctimonious bastard!”

Lain blinked as he heard the name and cooled his rage to a hard frown before relenting and releasing the younger Candell.  “What about her?  What’s happened?  Calm yourself boy.”

The son sucked in a shaky breath, Eld relaxing his burning arms before he leaned against the door.  He’d let himself get angry and not in the productive way but the stupid way.  The witch hunter definitely felt foolish, but that’s what happened when danger claimed those closest.

“Emma, she’s been arrested.”

Lain grimaced harder as he adjusted the grip of his sword to be drawn but faithful his son wouldn’t bring it to that.  “What do you mean arrested?”

“I’m not sure if there is another word I can use to show the gravity of what’s happening,” Eld responded coolly.

“Shutup, Eld.  Why would you think I had anything to do with that?”

“Because as I said before you’re a sanctimonious ass.”

“Bastard.”

“What?”

“Bastard.  You called me a bastard,” Lain replied curtly as he scowled at his son.  “And I advice you be careful how you speak of your grandmother.”

“You think this is a joke, Lain?  She’s is in prison.  She’s more than likely heading to the noose and you want to joke about what I called you?”  Eld snarled as he started forward at the elder Candell before the ethereal misted netherblade sat between the pair.

“Easy boy,” Erlain spoke clearly and sternly as he held his son at bay.  “We both have faced a lot of terrible things in our days so far.  We likely will face far more, but by the light I am your father and I’m telling you to call down.”

Eld continue to seethe under the older man’s hard gaze and parental tone.  Lain always knew how to get under his skin and always knew how to poke him out of his usual cool calm.  The father and son bond they shared carried a simmering rage that one of the other always tapped in their meetings.

Eld let out a shaky sigh before Lain nodded with a grunt and lowered his sword.  “Let me see the letter, Eld.”

•

To the Attention of Eldridge Candell, 

 It is at the behest and under the authority of the Proudmoore Admiralty that this missive reaches you by post. The individual known as 'Emma Tidesinger' has been apprehended by the Admiralty military police within the city of Boralus under suspicion of crimes under the provision of the Lord Admiral and the Alliance. She is being held to await trial for crimes against the Admiralty, the Alliance, and their people. 

 It is the understanding of the Admiralty that the individual mentioned above is an associate of yours. As a citizen of the great nation of Kul Tiras, the Admiralty is requesting your presence in Boralus to meet before a tribunal regarding your ties with the alleged. Please see the notary attached for scheduling and location.

•

Lain stroked his mustache softly as he sat in the chair, his sword still free to the warm air of his room as Eld sat opposite him on an old footstool.  The younger Candell kept his gaze on the fire that crackled and bit at the small provided logs.  The water stained proclamation sat between them, rolling at the edges from its long journey from the south.

“This is not good, Eld.”

Eld grimaced and bit his tongue to hold back the frustrated sarcasm his family cultivated when under stress.  Folding his hands before him as he squeezed them right, his reply would be strained by calm.  “I know it’s not good, Lain.  That’s why I’m here.  I had her come asking for your help and a few weeks later I’m summoned to a tribunal regarding treason.”

The witch hunter would look up to his father again with a tightened jaw.  “So you tell me what happened when she got here.”

Lain continued to stroke his mustache before letting out a hard sigh from his crooked nose.  “Ms Tidesinger came to me about investigating the azerite and its effects on those using.”

Eld’s former cold anger was caught off guard by his father’s admittance of the supposed strange life blood of the world.  “You’re using azerite?”

“Why does that surprise you?”

“It just feels out of character for you,” Eld replied with the same curious look to the estranged parental figure.  “You were always such a by the bootstraps and your own hands way of doing things.”

Lain’s frown easily matched Eld’s at the accusatory tone of his son regarding his use of the mineral.  “Are you here to judge me or to find out what happened?”

Eld cleared his throat and went quiet as he waited for the man to continue.  Lain nodded curtly before continuing his story, his words short and to the point.  “For the next few weeks we traveled together.  I did most of the heavy lifting, she kept her nose in her books.  Days were fairly simple as went around helping with a few jobs here and there for the people of Stormsong.  She kept a safe distance and asked questions while I worked.”

“She stayed here and we took meals but for the most part it was a professional relationship for the couple of weeks.”  Eld nodded softly as he listened to Lain and tapped his chin as he tried to find something useful from the basic story.

“So nothing else odd?”

“No.  I used the azerite and did my work, she took notes and records.  Nothing else.”

It was just as Eld had thought things would go for Emma when he sent her here to see Lain.  Unfortunately it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“What do you think I should do?”  Eld spoke quietly, his former fury cooled as he found himself lost on his next action.

Erlain sat quietly watching his son for a few moments before looking into his low hearth fire, doing his best to mask his surprise at being consulted by his son.  “I think you should go to Boralus and hear what this tribunal has planned.  Perhaps your testimony might aid her defense.  Hopefully others have been called, I’m not privy to Kul Tiran judiciary system.”  

“They’re going to ask questions.  About myself and from before,” Eld replied quietly, caution outweighed his fear regarding his past.

Lain let out another long sigh as a snort, his fingers drumming absently along the pommel of his blade. “And that will be your bridge to cross.”

Eld nodded, his hands pressing to knees as he eased himself up to feet with a grunt.  “Then my road lies back to the south.”

“Son.”

Eld paused, one hand on the latch of the oak door as he stood silent facing the door.

The knight stood up from his chair but did not close the gap with his son, merely holding staring at the back of his only kin.  Eldridge was all he had left.  A family lost to war so long ago but still hurting to the core of who he was. He had to try, time never stops.  “Eld, do you have to leave just yet?  I know this is important but I feel I deserve a little of your time.  We can’t go on living this way.  Can we talk?”

For a moment, the witch hunter held at the oak door hearing his father’s words.  Each struck deep and gripped his heart with pity for a moment, there was a certain finality to the old man’s request.  But each pang reopened other ones.  An argument in a stable, harsh words at a tower, and the final blows at the crossroads.  They froze him inside as he felt his hand close about handle and squeeze tightly as the heat of his anger would simmer under the ice in his veins.

“I thought we made it clear before where our relationship stood, Lain,” Eld spoke coldly as he twisted the handle.  

Erlain’s face fell as his hopes were cast aside, the similar grim frown on his face as he wanted to one more word to his boy but found he couldn’t.  Both of them had said a lot of things, perhaps too much or too little but they had been said.  Nothing could change the past.

The silence sat like a heavy curtain between the Candells before Eld pulled the door open and closed it softly behind him.  

(This is in response to a recent storyline regarding @emma-tidesinger created by @whimsicallyart .  I apologize for how long it took to put together but hopefully it was enjoyable!)

Players @eldridgecandell @erlaincandell @emma-tidesinger

[crystal-siren]

The Silent Truth (Loki x Reader)

Inspired by this imagine.

“We were happy,” she said, and her eyes, downcast and brimming, reminded him of how the sky was before the first splash of rain. “We were happy and they punished us for it.” ~ Lang Leav

“I swear to you,” Y/N clasped her hands together, “I would never do something like that.” Her e/c eyes pleaded with the Allfather, begging him to understand.

“Every criminal says that,” Sif spoke from the side, earning a glare from Y/N. “You’re not helping your case.”

Without warning, Y/N launched herself at the female warrior. Two guards had to pull her back before she could inflict any damage. Y/N grunted as her knees slammed onto the marble ground and she twisted her shoulders in an effort to rid herself of the guards that held her down.

“You know the penalty for you did,” the Allfather’s commanding tone drew her attention back to him.

“But I didn’t do it!” The pleading tone was back. “Please, you have to believe me,” the shackles on her wrists limited her movements. Y/N glanced away from Odin and towards Frigga, who stood silently in the shadow of the throne.

“Why isn’t he here then?” Y/N challenged her audience. “If my trial is legitimate, then he should be here.”

The Allfather made to answer when Frigga stepped forward and spoke for him. “You are right to ask that Y/N,” her tone was gentle and held a note of sympathy for the young woman before her. “You have a right to know.”

Swallowing hard, Y/N silently waited. Her heart rate began to increase steadily.

“I was all for him being here but,” the Queen paused before continuing, “the Allfather believed him to be too emotionally involved and that would only cloud his judgement of the situation.”

Y/N didn’t know how to react. She simply stayed where she was and blinked. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. She was only vaguely aware of her guards tightening their grip on her shoulders.

“Due to the gravity of your crimes,” Odin’s booming voice shook Y/N from her shocked state. “You will receive double punishment.”

“What?” Genuine confusion coloured her tone. Fear entered her eyes as she caught sight of a healer who held a needle and thread. “Wh-what are they doing here?”

“Your lies only serve to further condemn you Lady Y/N.”

“But they’re not lies!” Y/N struggled against the strong grip of the guards. “Ask Thor.” A spark of hope made her eyes light up, “he’ll vouch for me.”

“I’m sure he would.” Odin’s tone was patronising and Y/N clenched her jaw.

“Fine then,” she took a shuddering breath, “ask him, ask Loki. I was with him the whole time.”

“As if he would tell the truth,” Y/N heard Fandral murmur from behind her.

“Unfortunately,” Odin spoke again, “neither Prince will be able to vouch for you.”

Y/N swallowed, “what are you saying ?” Her hope was vanishing disturbingly fast.

“Both Princes are off-world, as it were and they will not be back for some time.”

Y/N could hardly believe what she was hearing. “You’re lying.” The words came out in a strangled whisper. “He would have told me. He wouldn’t just leave.”

“Looks like you’re on your own Milady,” one of her guards taunted her, speaking her title as though it were a curse.

“You’re lying,” her voice was a little louder this time. Her e/c eyes became icy as they swept over the occupants of the throne room. “You’re all lying!” Her movements became erratic as she tried to free herself from her restraints.

The sound of the Allfather’s spear connecting with the ground caused her to freeze and look at him. “The only liar in this room is you Lady Y/N.”

Y/N opened her mouth to protest when he silenced her. “No. You have spoken quite enough.” Y/N’s eyes followed him as he nodded to the healer and the guard that stood behind her.

Before she could even blink, she felt a pair of strong hands hold the sides of her face secure. Nevertheless, Y/N tried to shrink away from what she knew was coming. The more she tried to shie away, the firmer the hands held her.

As the healer stopped mere inches from her face, Y/N tried one last time. This time speaking to the healer. “Please don’t do this. I’m not lying, I swear.” She couldn’t help the tears that broke free.

The healer, a young woman smiled sadly. “I am truly sorry My Lady. Please know, that I take no pleasure in what I am about to do.”

Y/N’s heart rate steadily increased as she watched the healer thread the needle. Swallowing hard, she took a deep shuddering breath before calling his name in utter desperation and fear. “LOKI! LOKI, HELP ME!” Her cries resulted in the three guards holding her tighter.

Y/N continued to call for him until the needle pierced her skin. Her calls for help morphed into screams and cries of pure agony.

~ ~ ~

The peaceful realm of reading was shattered by the faint sound of his name. Looking up from his book, Loki looked around the library but saw that he was alone. Convinced he had imagined it, the Prince returned to his reading. A distant scream made him look up a second time. Narrowing his eyes, Loki placed the book beside him and stood up. Walking to one of the library’s numerous windows, he looked out to see what had caused the scream but could see nothing unusual.

Huffing in annoyance at being interrupted a second time, Loki made his way back to where he had left his book when a sharp pain lanced through his head. Stumbling from the suddenness of the assault, he shakily leaned on one of the tables and gritted his teeth when the pain hit again, more vicious the second time.

This was how Thor found him. A sharp series of knocks announced his presence.

“What?” Loki spoke sharply, the pain in his head had not yet faded.

“Brother?” Thor stepped into the palace library and his eyes widened when he found his young sibling leaning against one the library’s low tables.

“What do you want?” Pushing himself away from the table, Loki faced his brother, his teeth clenched against the pain.

“Have you had news of Y/N?”

Just the mention of her seemed to calm him down. Shaking his head, Loki met his brother’s blue gaze. “I have not. But I expect a raven from her this evening.”

He was under the impression that Y/N had left Asgard to visit family in Vanaheim.

“Are you alright brother?” Thor did not miss his brother’s paler-than-normal complexion and his clenched jaw.

“Nothing but a bothersome headache.” Brushing past him, Loki headed to where he had left his book.

“Brother, there is something you should know.”

“What might that be?” Ignoring the splitting agony, Loki tried to focus on his book.

“Y/N never made it out of Asgard.”

Loki froze and slowly turned to look at the blond Prince. “What?” His voice was low and dangerous. “What happened?”

“She was arrested just as she reached the Bifrost.”

“Arrested?” Loki wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “For what exactly? Y/N couldn’t hurt the smallest insect, let alone do something that would warrant arrest.”

Thor paused before answering. “I was not made privy to that information.”

“How convenient,” Loki sneered, his features contorting. “If anything happens to her, so help the one that is responsible.” Pushing himself up from where he was sitting, he stalked towards the library doors.

“Where are you going brother?”

Pausing for a split second, Loki turned to look at him. “I won’t let anything happen to her Thor. Whatever she is being accused of, she is innocent. I was never worthy of her, brother, but if I do nothing, I will be even less so.” With those words, he opened the double doors and stepped out into the hallway beyond. 

~ ~ ~

There was no need for the guards to hold her down anymore. The pain had paralysed her. Now she lay on the cold marble, the blood from her injuries dripping onto the stone beneath her.

Even if she wanted to move, Y/N couldn’t. Her mouth throbbed and pulsed and a dull pain accompanied every breath she dared to take. She knew how she must have appeared, but she did not have the strength or will to care.

“Get her on her feet,” the Allfather’s voice made her flinch.

When Y/N felt the guards pull her to her feet, she simply let them. Her chains helped them. Y/N felt like a puppet, being forced to move to another’s will.

“Hasn’t she suffered enough ?” the Queen’s gentle tone was music to Y/N’s ears. “Let her be, I beg you.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do so,” Odin was an unsympathetic as ever. “ I cannot allow my dispensation of justice to lapse, even for someone like her.”

“Think of your son, think of Loki,” Frigga begged, “think of what will this do to him.”

Odin paused and Y/N hardly dared to hope. “I am sorry.” Never had Y/N hated those three words more.

Weakly looking over her shoulder, Y/N glanced at the Queen. She hoped her eyes conveyed just how grateful she was, that at least someone was on her side.

Frigga met Y/N’s gaze and swallowed hard. How was she going to tell her son this? The young woman’s eyes seemed to smile at her, and a sense of gratitude flowed from her. Gratitude for what, Frigga knew she would never find out.

“Come along Milady,” the guards pulled her along and she let them. Her body seemed to be on autopilot.

~ ~ ~

Bursting into the throne room, Loki found only his mother. She was standing by the foot of the throne, the afternoon sun casting her shadow across the throne behind her.

“Mother?” His tone was gentle yet urgent. Approaching her, he stopped a short distance from her.

“I’m so sorry Loki,” Frigga looked at her son with only grief in her eyes.

“I don’t understand Mother,” Loki cocked his head to the side. “Sorry for what?”

“I know what she meant to you.”

Those words seemed to jolt his memory. “Mother. Where is she? Where is Y/N?”

“If you hurry, you may be able to save her.”

“Save her? Save her from what?” Loki hoped and prayed fervently that he was wrong. Odin wouldn’t dare!

“Her execution.”

His mother’s words made him see red. “Father wants her dead?!”

Frigga nodded, “I tried to dissuade him Loki, but he would not see reason.”

“How long does she have?” Loki sounded desperate.

“Not long.”

Nodding frantically, the younger Prince bolted from the throne room, followed closely by his brother.

~ ~ ~

The sound of the crowd was almost deafening. For once, Y/N was grateful for the guards that surrounded her. Her legs shook however, as she was all but pulled up the steps of the scaffold.

Her e/c eyes scanned the crowd and was both relieved and confused when she could not find the face she so desperately sought. She barely registered it when the Allfather silenced the crowd and began to speak. The feeling of thick rope around her neck was the only thing she really noticed and paid any attention to, knowing it would be the last thing she would ever touch.

Loki ran as he had never run before. Fueled by anger, fear and utter desperation, he wove his way through the palace’s numerous hallways until at last he broke through the main entrance.

Knowing that the Allfather liked to make executions public, he knew exactly where to go. Within in moments, his green eyes had found the crowd he was looking for.

With Thor hot on his heels, Loki headed for the crowd. To his annoyance and dismay, the crowd was huge.

The sound of the King’s voice drew his attention to the front of the crowd. He heard not a word the Allfather spoke, his eyes had at last found who he had been looking for. “Y/N” he whispered her name in shock as his eyes traveled to her mouth. Fueled by adrenaline and a seething fury, he pushed through the crowd and no one dared stand in his way.

Closing her eyes, Y/N braced herself for the inevitable. But the pain of having her neck broken never came. Instead, she heard the sound of someone having their bones broken. Hesitantly opening her eyes, Y/N saw a pair of emerald eyes stare back at her.

Not being able to speak, she raised her shackled hands and gently touched his face.

“Oh Y/N,” Loki whispered her name and she swore that she saw tears in his eyes.

“What is the meaning of this? Loki?” Odin’s calm, yet furious voice tore the Prince’s attention away from her.

“Funny,” Loki looked anything but amused. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

“I will not have my authority questioned.” Odin moved until he was towering over both Loki and Y/N, the latter flinched and seemed to cower.

“You wanted her dead?” Loki’s words dripped with disbelief and thinly veiled fury.

“It is what she deserved.”

Loki’s green eyes widened. Had he just heard correctly? “What did you just say?” His voice had gone a little quieter. “I will not let you hurt her, let alone take her life!”

“You will pay for this insolence,” Odin threatened before turning to the guards that surrounded the scaffold. “Guards! Escort my son to the dungeons.”

Despite her injuries, Y/N placed herself between Loki and the gathering guards and vehemently shook her head and held her hands up in a pleading manner.

A gentle touch on her shoulder made her turn around. Her e/c eyes met his emerald ones. “Y/N?” The way he said her name made her forget where she was.

In answer, she nodded slightly.

“I know you did not do what you are accused of.”

Y/N couldn’t stop the smile and instantly clenched her jaw as a wave of pain crashed into her. Looking down, she hoped he would not see the agony in her eyes.

“Please look at me.”

Y/N shook her head and refused to look up.

“Y/N please.” The desperate pleading was not a tone of his she was used to or had ever heard.

Finally looking up, she tried to back away but he was too quick. Loki took both her hands and gently pulled her towards him and not caring who saw them, he leaned forward and gently kissed her sealed mouth.

Y/N leaned into him and when his mouth left hers, she felt the shackles fall from her wrists. When she looked at him in confusion, he winked.

“Enough of this.” The Allfather’s voice broke through the bubble they had created and despite her silent protests, guards soon surrounded the raven-haired Prince. She looked on in horror as the shackles locked themselves around his slender wrists.

~ ~ ~

The memory of Y/N’s face, though horribly disfigured, was Loki’s only source of sanity. He had been denied any visitors. His cell was positioned a good distance away from the others. Many times, he would create illusions of her to keep him company and he often found himself talking with her.

What became of her, he could only imagine. If Odin had gone through with the execution after his arrest and she was indeed dead, then he wished with all his heart that her spirit would haunt him and remind of what she looked like before.

“You were an angel, fit to spend your days in the heavens,” Loki spoke to one of the illusions. “But in my selfishness, I tore you down, as only a devil such as I could. At least now,” he stopped to take a deep breath and felt it shudder in his chest. “You are back where you belong, up there among the purest of the pure and I am where I belong, down here with the damned. For there is nothing more shameful that failing to protect the one you love.”

Tags: @alien-lover20

[dent-de-leon]

Hi there! I love your blog, your explanations and pretty much everything. I was curious what are your favorite Shieth moments? Maybe with some details? I'd love to compare and contrast with my own. And I also want to share with some friends. I absolutely love reading your thoughts.

oh mannn,, ok uh,,, alright, here we go (it’s top 12 cause I couldn’t cut it down to 10 ok)

12) THIS GLORIOUS SCENE–It’s such a small thing, but we see Shiro and Keith really going through a lot in this first episode. Right from their first scene together, everything is tragic and heart-wrenching. So seeing them just…being themselves and being happy, just relaxing–probably one of the first times either of them really felt at peace since Kerberos–and that’s just really heartwarming to see 

11) KEITH SAVING SHIRO FROM THE DROID–we get this scene super early on and I love it because it immediately sets up this idea that Keith is really Shiro’s knight in shining armor, and that if anything happens to Shiro, you just know who it is that’ll be rushing in to save him. Keith also takes the time to recognize when Shiro is having an attack and immediately moves to defend him. It means so much to see that a character with mental illness is never portrayed as weaker or less capable, but still receives comfort and support from loved ones  

10) SHIRO REACTING TO KEITH SIGNING ON FOR A “SUICIDE MISSION”–Again, whenever Shiro or Keith are gravely in danger, we see this pattern where they’ll always be more concerned about each other than anyone else. And the animators and writers both make sure to put those reactions as the main focus. So when Keith volunteers for a “suicide mission” and says “No one’s commanding me. I’m doing it,” you can literally see the pain in Shiro’s eyes. He grits his teeth and says Keith’s name, then has to stop and compose himself before he–very resigned and unwillingly–agrees. 

The fact that Keith mentions no one can command him is interesting, because we see Shiro has already learned this lesson about the Black lion earlier–”No one commands the Black lion!” So he understands how much respecting Keith’s decisions means, and decides to put his trust in Keith’s instincts. Just like how he had to learn to let go and trust the Black lion. And of course, both of them ended up saving the day 

9) WHEN KEITH FINDS KURON–okay so this scene was framed as if it were romantic. First off, this isn’t Team Voltron rescuing Kuron. It’s Kuron being saved by Keith. The scene is this uninterrupted, private moment between just the two of them. If “Shiro” were really like a brother to Keith, and they wanted to stay with that idea of found family, there’s no reason to separate them from the rest of the team. 

The fact that everyone else was removed implies there’s an intimacy here beyond just this idea of found family, which would extend to the rest of the team. So it’s really just Keith and Kuron’s scene, complete with longing looks across the vast expense of the universe as they gradually float into each other’s orbit–which again, to me, that final shot of the episode just reads as distinctly romantic. This scene is very personal–both characters are extremely vulnerable, and it’s really just the two of them in empty space. The scene is quiet, heavy, intimate. There’s this weighty atmosphere to it you just don’t get with bros are casual friends. It’s also interesting that Keith was the first memory of Shiro’s that surfaced, implying that he was Shiro’s most important person 

8) FORMING BLAZING SWORD–listen, I’m sorry, but it doesn’t get much more magical anime true love destiny than you and your boyfriend combining bayards to make the Ultimate Cosmic Superweapon and overthrow an intergalactic dictator together,, that’s just common sense. 

Okay, but really–Shiro lights Keith’s fire, and that’s true in more than one sense. For a long time, Shiro has been Keith’s one and only support, and when he loses Shiro, you see just how much Keith kind of relied on him just to keep going. In an interview, Steven said that “Shiro always took him under his wing. Keith always hoped that he could reach a place where Shiro was and hopefully more. I think Shiro saw that in him and tried to stoke those flames and cultivate that within him.” (source) And honestly, I think this is like the physical manifestation of that–they are on equal ground, Keith does have that fire thanks to Shiro, and they both just fall into perfect sync. Together, they can create Voltron’s greatest strength 

7) THEIR FIRST SCENE TOGETHER–literally Keith goes from mercilessly knocking people out, showing up like a thief in the night–a thief who brought exPLOSIVES–to suddenly melting at the sight of Shiro. From their very first scene we can glean two things: 1) these two mean a lot to each other, and 2) whoever this Shiro guy is, he’s clearly Keith’s weakness. You really see how vulnerable and tender hearted he is, and the way he breathes out Shiro’s name, his very first line, before reaching out to gently hold his head so can turn it closer for a better look after all this time?? This is how you setup someone meeting their love interest, complete with a fairytale rescue of the “princess.” 

6) bOTH INSTANCES OF “IT’S GOOD TO HAVE YOU BACK” “IT’S GOOD TO BE BACK”–I don’t really need to explain this except just to say that there is no other ship that has a particular phrase they exchange upon reuniting with each other, and if that isn’t the sappiest and most romantic thing, I don’t know what is. It’s also really sweet in that you know they remembered (similarly to when Keith mentions Shiro’s mantra and he’s really touched and says “That really stayed with you, didn’t it?”)

5) tHE SHEITH HUG–see here. All I’m going to say is–this was definitely the follow-up to BOM. A lot of people left the episode thinking okay, but where do we go from here?? How does Shiro really feel about the whole galra thing? And it turns out, they’re even closer. Everyone is kind of keeping their distance from Keith, and Shiro is the only one who says goodbye. Not only that, he holds him close in a gesture that plainly says where he stands not only to Keith, but to any conflicted onlookers who may be watching–hi Allura. 

And speaking of Allura, the way we see her turn and stare back at them is definitely deliberate. It’s an interesting way to frame the scene, because not only does it look more intimate, but it also feels like this stolen moment you shouldn’t be privy to, like it’s just for them and you’re an uninvited guest. So yeah, definitely feels more romantic to me than platonic. 

This is also the only time when Keith is hugged and doesn’t tense up, because rather than someone else just latching onto him, Keith and Shiro both hold hands and walk into the hug together. As equals. Also, going back to Allura real quick, she looks a bit guilty when she’s caught staring and quickly looks away. She can’t reconcile this picture of the galra as evil traitorous monsters with this person who’s so affectionate and caring, who holds Shiro so tenderly. Shiro symbolizes Keith’s humanity, and by seeing this glimpse of Keith’s love for Shiro, Allura remembers that he is a person first and a galra second. 

4) THE WAY THEY CONSTANTLY WORRY ABOUT EACH OTHER IN S2E1 and “YOU’RE GONNA MAKE IT”–aHHHHHH,,, see here, but just real quick: I love the way they’re both hurting but still try to push on for each other, and as Josh has said, Keith here is really Shiro’s hero: “Shiro is in really bad shape and he’s waiting to pretty much get rescued by Keith. I love this clip because you really see the weak side of Shiro, you really see Keith’s determination to find him. And it was just really exciting for me to watch it. Because it really looks dire, and it really looks like he’s not gonna make it in time. And then–a hero comes through and saves the day with the lion.” (source)

Beyond just saving Shiro in the traditional sense, I do also think Keith really convinced him to keep him fighting and that he has to go on. Because he was really ready to give up, but here’s Keith, all passion and fire, and he looks back at Shiro and says, voice aching, “You’re gonna make it.” And Shiro really wants to believe it 

3) KEITH MOURNING SHIRO IN S3E1–it was of course expected, but we as the audience really experience Shiro’s loss through Keith. All this time, he is the one still in denial and searching. He’s the one who really loved Shiro and won’t ever give up on him. He’s the one pleading with the Black lion not to replace Shiro, he’s the one who undergoes the five stages of grief and still continues to carry a torch for this man even when everyone else is telling him it’s time to move on. The passion, the outburst, the adamant denial and insistence that everyone else seemed to have forgotten about Shiro, that not one cared about him like he did–Keith’s grief is intense and possessive in a way that reminds me of someone mourning a lost lover, and it’s just really painful to watch Keith lose the person he loves most for the second time 

2) “AS MANY TIMES AS IT TAKES”–full analysis here, but just know that it’s this really intimate scene with a lot of interesting direction from the lighting, to the framing, to Kuron’s disheveled appearance, to the way this scene compares alongside Keith’s talk with Lance. Again, this just felt like something more in line with what you’d expect from a love interest. Keith is literally the only one allowed at Kuron’s bedside–because even if this isn’t Shiro, his memories of Keith were enough for him to be the only one Kuron knew he could trust to let him see at his weakest. And Keith’s vow to always save him is nothing short of love

1) THE BOM TRIAL–I feel like I’ve talked about this so much already, so just some quick points: 1) Whenever Keith puts his life on the line, we see just how fierce and defensive Shiro gets 2) like with Keith rescued Shiro, we also see Shiro’s vulnerability really come out when Keith’s hurt. Keith is his weakness 3) “Your friend desperately wants to see you”–the word “desperate” here does not connote a mutual platonic relationship, but rather sounds more like unrequited love to me, which would explain the desperation and intensity of Keith’s feelings 4) “Then you’ve chosen to be alone”–implying that, despite all of Voltron being his found family, literally none of that matters if he loses Shiro, because that will render him all alone. He can’t bear the thought of going on without Shiro, which is why he runs back and chases after him 5) Shiro getting fired up and ready to fight every time someone even suggests Keith may die. That’s simply not an option 6) Shiro rescuing Keith here mirrors Keith’s rescue of Shiro when they first appeared on screen (really go back and watch them, you’ll notice that visually, they’re very similarly animated and framed) 7) Shiro cradling Keith in his arms 8) Shiro being willing to fight off everyone in that base for Keith’s sake, much like Red

[itshistoryyall]

Part 4: Burn Them All

photo credits: here

A little foreword before we begin:

I had to start over for this part because, I’m gonna be honest, it’s a mess. For some reason historians have this aversion to keeping history in a tidy chronological order, and I’m not sure why, but I basically had to sift through other people’s research for multiple days and then come up with a game plan for how all of this was going to be laid out. To put into perspective just how large this part of the research was, I made this photo of the links that I found on Wikipedia.

   The rest of this will include only the trials that I wanted to research or thought were interesting or had some sort of historical importance, so if you feel like there’s one I didn’t mention and you would like researched, please email me or PM me and I will do my best to do a separate post about it. I have to admit, it was just too much for me to do without spending a few weeks researching. Now, back to the good stuff.

 In the mid-1500’s we begin to see a wide-spread persecution of alleged witches and a mass hysteria driven by religious persecution and fear of accusation. This time period between 1560-1630 is considered by most historians to be the bulk of the trials, and that idea is backed up by sheer numbers. The death toll from these trials is somewhere in the 40,000-50,000 range, though, historians of the past have wildly unpredictable and outrageous estimates numbering in the millions. Taking into account a “normal” level of fatalities for crimes outside of witchcraft, plague fatalities, and normal death rates, it’s a bit safer to assume somewhere in the thousands 40-50,000 even seems a bit steep to me, but no one can ever know for certain. The important thing to takeaway from this was that it was a lot. In this section we’ll be focusing on the trials that have enough historical information to be granted a name and some basic description located somewhere other than Wikipedia, or (more likely) the ones that piqued my interest most. Those are as follows: The Witch Trials of Wiesenteig, Trier, Berwick, Bamburg, Nogaredo, the Pappenheimer Family, Pendle Witches, and the Affair of Poisons. The Salem Witch Trials are a unique set of events that I feel require special attention and will therefore write on that subject separately. size

As we learned from Part Three, these trials began in a region of southern Switzerland and spread from a French-speaking side to a German-speaking side, so from that we can deduce why the first major trial took place in Germany. The Wiesenteig Witch Trials began in 1562 amassing a death toll of around sixty and earning its reputation for the first mass execution of this magnitude[1]. To understand why we saw such extreme numbers here, we need a little background. The city of Wiesensteig, like many other cities in Europe,[2] was facing a difficult few years. Some might call these things simply unfortunate, but not Wiesensteig. They were clearly cursed by witches because no other city in the world could possibly have inclement weather, the Bubonic Plague—among other epidemics, and (I think at this point it goes without saying, but alas) religious turmoil! So obviously, the first course of action after a particularly brutal hailstorm in 1562 was to arrest a few ladies for witchcraft. Of the accused, six were made to confess through torture and were executed, but before facing their punishment they claimed to have seen several other women at their Dark Sabbath[3]. The women that were named from neighboring Esslingen were soon arrested, and then shortly released leaving authorities in Wiesensteig outraged by the lack of sentencing. In reaction, Weisenstein saw forty-one more executions. In December of 1563, the execution of twenty more women was approved leading ultimately to the production of a widely used pamphlet, True and Horrifying Deeds of 63 Witches. Further executions in the area occurred in 1583, 1605, and 1611 leaving an estimated total of ninety-seven women who perished.

These were certainly not the largest trials to have occurred in Germany, however the Trier Trials taking place in the diocese of Trier near the borders of France, Belgium, and Switzerland[4] certainly left their mark on the world. We can’t know for sure the number of casualties because existing records of the trials only include those that occurred within the city-limits, and they do not include statistics for the entire diocese or those that may have perished via torture or while imprisoned. The number that most sources reference is 400; however, it’s likely that the number closer to the thousand mark rather than the low hundreds, and as such it can be an assumed low estimate of the actual number of deaths. This incident is considered the largest mass execution of peoples during an extended period of peace in Europe’s history.

The appointed archbishop of Trier in 1581, Johann von Schönenberg, was quick to order a purge of three groups that he didn’t like very much. That included Jews, Protestants, and lastly, witches. Due to Johann’s support for these trials, we see a large upturn in the popularity and commendation of these executions among increasingly more church officials. The largest number of executions took place between 1587 and 1593 when 368 people were burned at the stake in twenty-two villages. The number of those executed was so heavily comprised of women, that a couple of villages were left with only a single female resident amongst the living, but that is not to say that it was only women who were executed for sorcery. A large number were members of nobility, held positions in the government, or were people of influence, and of the victims, 108 were men. One notable male victim was rector of a university and a chief judge in the electoral court who didn’t approve of the trials; Dietrich Flade, the rector/judge, doubted the effectiveness of torture practices and opposed the violent treatment of the accused, and as such, was arrested and subjected to the same abuse as those he was attempting to protect. His execution was a turning point, and it effectively ended any opposition to the trials in Trier and making way for hundreds more burnings.

 I would like to issue a trigger-warning for the sensitive material that is to follow. It is graphic, detailed, and gruesome, so please do not read further if you feel sensitive to these subjects.

 One other case worth mentioning in Germany is the Pappenheimer Family Trials. Though it was a small number of fatalities, it was unusually well documented for the time and that gives us a great deal of written detail to refer to when describing the torture practices in these trials. The family comprised of a mother, father, and three sons—Simon (22), Jacob (21), and Hoel (10). The mother, Anna, was born the daughter of a grave-digger and began life on the fringes of society, and her husband, Paul, did not fare much better in life as an illegitimate child and day laborer. Throughout their lives they lived apart from most of society and were likely not even treated kindly by other poor laborers. In fact, the surname suggests that the family was in the business of privy maintenance and cleaning, and it was not their original surname. The real family name was Gämperle, and they were in for a fate much worse than name-calling after Paul was accused of murdering pregnant women in order to gain magical benefits from their unborn fetuses. The whole family, aside from their youngest son, was subjected to cruel and relentless torture until they had confessed to hundreds of unsolved crimes over the past few decades including murder of the elderly and children, spoiling cattle, thievery, and burning people alive in their beds.

On July 29, 1600,the following took place: the eldest sons and their parents were brought before the town along with two others accused of witchcraft, Anne was placed between her two sons, the executioner cut off her breasts, and then he proceeded to beat her and her sons in the face with them three times each. Next, Anne was whipped five times with a “twisted wire,” then both of her arms were broken on the wheel, and her body was immediately burnt. Next the men’s arms were also broken, they all received five lashes with the twisted wire whip, and all of them except Paul were tied to the stake and burned. Paul was then spitted alive and roasted to death, and then once he was dead his body was also burnt.[5] This was all displayed for the entire town to see and was then used as a punishment for ten-year-old Hoel, who was made to watch the entire ordeal. Later that year he was also tortured, strangled, and then burned at the stake after having confessed to eight murders on his own. The importance of pointing out these torture proceedings is to make a reference point for how tortures took place during these executions, and to give you an idea of what this could look like at each and every execution described hereafter.

For our next trial, we turn to Scotland’s famous witch trials where, purportedly Shakespeare gained the inspiration for one of his most famous tragedies, Macbeth, and where we begin to see an association with witches and the natural forces of weather. The Berwick Witch Trials took place for a year beginning in 1591, and it was all due to the inclement weather that beset King James VI after he had sailed to Copenhagen to marry Queen Anne. While the royal couple were sheltering in Norway and waiting on the storms to subside one Danish Admiral, Peder Munk, made mention that high ranking official of Copenhagen’s wife was to blame for their misfortunes. After the suggestion, several nobles of the Scottish court were also accused and confessed to plaguing the voyage of Queen Anne with raging storms and for sending devils to climb up the sides of the ship. More than a hundred of the accused were executed marking this as one of Scotland’s largest witch hunts on record. These events prompted King James to publish his dissertation Daemonologie in 1597, marking the beginning of a secular persecution of witches and conversely inspiring a well-known playwright.

Shortly after the publication of Daemonologie, and the execution of the Pappenheimer’s, the famous English witch trials known as the Pendle Witches[6] (part of a larger series of trials known to history as The Lancashire Trials) took place in 1612. These trials are some of the best kept records of the executions taking place in the 17th century. We know that these trials led to the execution of around 10 people (two were sons of the accused), and although these numbers seem inconsequential when compared to the thousands who perished in Germany, it actually made up a significant portion of executions that took place in England where it’s estimated that the combined executions during this era were fewer than 500. Inspiration for the witch hunt that accused 11 people, included an instance where an unfortunate series of events involving Elizabeth Southerns and her granddaughter Alizon Device. Elizabeth also went by the alias Elizabeth Demdike which was a title derived from “demon woman,” and she was commonly believed to have been a witch by her neighbors for around fifty years prior to the Pendle trials. Her granddaughter, Alizon, one day had the misfortune of running across a beggar selling pins that had an ill-timed stroke after refusing to sell her his products. Pins were often handmade and expensive, and although considered a fairly common item, could also be used for magical purposes including divination, healing, and love magic. The beggar, John Law, was left lame and stiff with a permanent distortion of his face, and subsequently almost the entire Device family, including Elizabeth Southerns now in her mid-eighties, was put on trial for witchcraft.

Next we have a rather large historical event that took place, known as the Thirty Years’ War, and I don’t want to spend a lot time on that subject, so I’ll hit the highlights. It took place mostly in Central Europe from 1618-1648, and it is known as one of the most destructive wars in human history. During this time, we see somewhere around eight million casualties due to human violence, war, plague, and famine and a twenty percent loss of Germany’s total population on par with the casualties that it faced in WWII. We can also see witch-hunting efforts exaggerated by the raging war between most of Europe, and consequently some of our largest casualties from the following executions. Two of the four largest executions of witches in the Early Modern Period (1500-1800) took place during these thirty years of chaos and they resulted in fatalities numbering in the thousands.

[1] Though, we do see an execution a few years earlier in a region of Italy that mirrors the scope of the trials in Weisensteig, it is not as well documented and I thought, for brevity’s sake it would be best if I left it out.

[2] You’re not special, Wiesensteig.

[3] Not the band, that’s a different kind of sabbath.

[4] Remember Switzerland where those other crazy trials started? Me too.

[5] (Unknown, 1600, pp. 1-10)

[6] The Lancashire Trials consisted of the Pendle witches and the Salemsbury witches among other hunts in the area.

[jessicaptain]

For at least the past year, I was consistently told, demanded, and jokingly harangued to join the pedal RACING men on this unofficial-yet-has-an-official-name ride Tuesday and Friday mornings near Cherry Creek State Park. And for eleven months, I found excuses to avoid it: “Gotta work,” “maybe next time,” and my favorite: “one of these days, I’ll join you.”

I knew it was a sausage fest and the thought of hammering out the watts elbow-to-elbow with testosterone-pumping broski bros didn’t turn me on like it did my male counterparts.

I didn’t see the benefit of waking up at the asscrack of dawn, trying to find the elusive meeting spot, only to potentially make a fool out of myself or crash or hell, maybe both.

Then one of my female pedal RACING teammates swallowed her pride and dropped all apprehension and joined the dudes. After seeing her activity glittered with kudos and Strava bling, I had immediate FOMO. Kinda what social media does to us, right?

All the encouragement and positive comments convinced me that, sure, I can at least give it a try once to see what it’s all about. Not to mention the fact that this season as a Cat 3 has been exceptionally soul-crushing and challenging watching my competitors leave me in the dust as I suck [wind].

From all the mediocre finishes, I was desperately seeking another type of training that’d increase my speed, skills, and maybe confidence. The pedal RACING guys had been telling me the past year how PHP would make me faster and it wasn’t until I saw my female pedal teammate speak highly of this impervious ride-but-actually-it’s-a-race-for-us-newbies that I realized, “shit, if I try to ride [operative word being “try”] this with faster people, maybe I’ll get faster.” Sure, we all have to figure these things out on our own.

So I hardened the fuck up (Rule #5) and on May 22nd, I joined my first PHP ride. The meet-up was on the bridge at Cherry Creek and Holly. I didn’t see a single person when I drove past looking for a parking spot. Am I in the right spot? I frantically thought.

I parked alongside the road and scanned passing cyclists for any hint of a gathering. I applied my chamois cream, buckled my helmet, slid on my shades, and started my Garmin as I attempted to look like I knew what I was doing and where I was going.

I slowly rolled up to the bridge five minutes ‘til and there were two dudes hanging out. Seriously, five minutes before and no one is here? I’m totally at the wrong spot. I finally mustered up the courage to ask one of the guys if this was the meeting spot for PHP. He smiled, “yep.”

And like clockwork, 60 (that’s a rough estimate) cyclists appeared out of nowhere. Just in time to Hammer. I found my teammates who were both shocked and excited to see me finally own up to my word. Then the game plan was laid out for me: “this is just the warm-up before we get to the park.” “Watch out for the potholes. It’s the worst right here.” “You’ll get dropped up the first hill. It happens to everyone. Just wait at the top for the group to come back.” “Oh, the ‘S’ turn. You want to be toward the front because it’s like an accordion. If you’re on the back at the ‘S’ turn, you’ll get dropped. That’s what happened to me.”

Loads of tips were offered as I tried keeping pace during their “warm-up.” Of course I wouldn’t keep up at the first hill. It was race-pace for me. I could only speak a few words before another giant breath.

“The fuck did I get myself into,” I thought, as we made our way down Colorado Blvd.

We rolled into a parking lot just outside of Cherry Creek State Park to reconvene. I was told sometimes they broke into A and B groups. This time they didn’t. A couple of other teammates showed up and we started rolling out as a giant peloton-ish group.

As soon as wheels touched the perimeter of Cherry Creek, it was full gas. I picked a Jersey in front of me and held on. Luckily, drafting kept me on the pace line.

The group rides the Cherry Creek Time Trial course, which I’m quite familiar with, so I knew where the hills were and sections of the road to avoid. As the first Hill was coming up, I kicked it down a gear (high cadence, lower power) and tried to keep up with the quickening pace.

Men flew by me on my left, they flew by on my right, and the rest of us left on the hill, pushed and pulled on our pedals, trying in vain, to reach the top of the hill before the peloton was completely gone. Our heavy and rapid breathing became a choir of novices and determination.

I was dropped.

The peloton was nearly at the bottom of the hill by the time I recovered. My buddy, Zuzana, and I, collected ourselves, and followed the group down the road.

We watched the giant mob grow smaller and smaller and just like that, it was like the group of 50 men were never there.

Too proud to not do the full route, I zoomed around the lollipop loop with a couple of other stragglers. We formed a small group of three as we pedaled up the second Hill (which, on later rides, I would eventually be dropped) desperately seeking the peloton.

We didn’t even know what direction they went, so we guessed. We didn’t know which road to take to get back to our cars either. As we biked back to the entrance of Cherry Creek, we saw several dropped riders, like discarded litter on the side of the road. One man was headed back to the elusive meeting spot where he was also parked, so we jumped on his wheel.

The meeting spot was as bare after the ride as it was before.

As soon as I was back to my car and uploaded my ride to Strava, the kudos, the bling, and the comments poured in. I PR’d segments on the route I didn’t even realize.

I saw the others with whom I started the ride and kudo’d them. It was like I had been initiated into a secret society that anyone who follows them on Strava knows about. My own friends asked what PHP was and I had to tell them I had no idea what it stood for, but… then I’d detail the crazy ride I experienced.

I’ve since started commuting to PHP with a few men from my team. It’s about ten miles from the Littleton meeting spot to the PHP meeting spot. The guys told me it’s also a warm-up to PHP, but by the time we get to the bridge, I’m drenched in sweat, I’ve QOM’d segments, and my glasses are foggy from my warm face. Then PHP commences. I follow that with a ride on Cherry Creek path to work. I end up clocking in about 54 miles by the end of the day.

I’ve only seen a few other women ride at PHP, notably two Cat 2 women from Palmares who seem to be regulars. I could see why this would intimidate anyone who just started racing: you’ve 60 amateur cyclists trying to be like the pros, riding on public roads, 99% are dudes, testosterone is raging, and you’re privy to crashes.

One time I joined a B group actually formed. Some people think the B group is slower, but I work harder in this group because I actually get a turn to pull. It was both a good and bad experience. It was good because it was bad. It taught me how to handle myself and my bike around people who didn’t.

The men didn’t understand how a paceline worked and once they came to the front, they’d take off. The group would break up, there were no longer two lines, and we had to reel them back in. Halfway through the the route, I was sick of no one calling them out and I was concerned for my safety. I finally asked this one older dude, dressed in his green PHP kit (to prove his seriousness and dedication to an elusive bro’s club), if he was part of the paceline because he kept shooting off the front.

He growled back at me, “I’ve been doing this for ten years. Don’t tell me what to do!” Now, 18-year-old Jessica would have opened a bottle of verbal whoopass. 29-year-old Jessica swallowed her pride and bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood. Instead, I told him, “calm down, it’s just a ride.” Another teammate of mine tried to settle him down as well as a Palmares racer rode next to me and very loudly said, “For what it’s worth, you’re fucking right and he’s wrong.”

I tried to not let the dickhead ruin the rest of the ride. But it also made me realize it’s guys like that who turn women off from joining PHP. To men, it seems like it’s all about comparing not just dick sizes, but bikes. I know women can be combative, catty, and of course, competitive. But for a woman to join PHP, it’s much more than riding with the bros. We want to get faster. Stronger. We want to learn skills. And there aren’t many opportunities for a woman to do that in a big group setting. When there are women’s workshops, we’re lucky to hit double digits.

I think the fear is what I worry about each time I go to PHP: being the only one who can’t keep up. Getting in a crash. Not having anyone I know there.

Luckily, I have teammates who care about my wellbeing and are great examples of how to treat others in the peloton. They hold their line, they call their pass, they tell me where I need to go.

Each time I’ve joined PHP, I’ve been able to stay with the group longer, which says something about where my fitness is going. My good cyclist friend, Anna, tells me all the time to ride with guys because it’ll make me faster. And I think I found the guys who will do just that.

The post PHP: voluntarily kicking your own ass before the sun comes up appeared first on Jessica McWhirt.