#the way silver follows flint around with his eyes

[theindiscreetbookworm]

it's 1 AM and I can't stop thinking about how Flint and Silver start looking at each other after they take the Spanish warship

I'm in pain

[peppered-moths]

strangler fig

grian vers. / scar vers.

cw: mildly dubious consent

That’s how little that reputation board meant.  Grian’s fingers curl around the flint and steel.  He lights sparks absently, watching as they char small holes into the already flimsy bridge he’s sitting on.  The moon rises, slow and languorous, washing the server in shades of pale gray.  He kicks his feet over the edge. 

It’s what he’s been wanting to say to Scar since… since.  Well, he’s said it now, and that’s all that really matters.  Grian shakes his head, clearing the thought from his mind.  Sparks jump as he drags the flint and steel together.  One lands on his hand, burning into his skin.  Grian winces, half-hearted.

“Careful,” a voice chides.  Danger flashes in his mind faster than he can think, and he’s already on his feet, whirling to point his sword towards the intruder.  

Scar grins back at him from the shadows, green eyes flashing.  “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”  He raises a hand, dotted with pale scars across the knuckles, as an example.

It takes a moment for Grian’s brain to catch up with everything.  He doesn’t lower his sword, even though his wrist aches and he knows the point is trembling.

“Like you’d care about me getting hurt,” he grits.  “Go away, Scar.  It’s the middle of the night.”  He can’t deal with this right now.

“What, I can’t make a friendly visit to my neighbors?”  Scar’s using that smooth, salesman’s voice, the one that always makes Grian wrinkle his nose.  He steps down from where he’s been sitting on the railing, not unlike a cat, and smiles even wider like he thinks Grian will fall for it.

“You have to schedule an appointment,” he tells Scar flatly, waving his hand in the direction of the top of the mountain.  “We’re not available.  Go home.”

“Aw, can’t you make an exception?”

“No,” Grian snaps, this time gesturing with the point of the sword.  Scar pouts, but moves closer anyways.

“Hey,” he says, “I mean it.  Leave.”  This should be the part where Scar goes.  Sometimes with head hanging, sometimes with tight, angry shoulders, sometimes with someone else, but he always listens.  Grian can count on him for that much.

Scar does not listen.  He tries to skirt the edge of Grian’s blade, but he turns the point back on him.  He’s seething now, and has half a mind to plunge the sword into Scar’s heart, green name be damned.

Still, he gets closer, until Grian’s sword is hovering above the fragile skin of his throat.  It’s too much, and he shuffles a half-step back, only for Scar to keep following, to deliberately press the underside of his chin into the sharp point.  A thin rivulet of blood, dark in the night, spills down Scar’s collarbone, soaks into the edges of his vest.  It makes Grian feel a little dizzy.

“What’s your game?” he hisses, like he’s the one in control of where the sword ends up.  “Or do you just have a death wish?”

Grian can deal with Scar on the other side of a blade.  He can hurt him on the other side of a blade.  Any closer, and he starts remembering bruised knuckles and blood at the corners of his mouth.  Any closer, and Grian starts wanting to touch him.  So he holds Scar at swordpoint.  Whatever mind game Scar thinks he’s playing, he won’t back down for a little blood.

He just smiles again, the scars on his face rippling silver, and Grian wants to scream.  He’s not sure why he doesn’t really; Mumbo and Skizz would be awake in seconds, and Grian wouldn’t have to deal with the danger that is Scar in the moonlight.

“What if,” Scar says slowly, “I said I was apologizing?”

“Then you can do it in the morning.  But you’re not here to apologize.”  That much is obvious by the way Scar continues to grin, like it’s all some massive joke.

It does stop him continuing to inch towards Grian, though, and he looks like he’s contemplating for a moment.

“You’re right.”

“Hn?”  He’s distracted by another bead of blood tracing the hollow of Scar’s throat.  Remembering what it’s like to wrap his fingers around it.

“I’m not here to apologize,” Scar tells him cheerily, and there’s something in his eyes that stops Grian short, struggling for something to say.  He places two gentle fingers on top of Grian’s sword, pushing it down, away from his neck.  Grian’s hands are shaking.  He offers no resistance.  Scar presses forwards.

“Stop,” Grian says.  He doesn’t beg.  He doesn’t.  “Stop.”

“But you don’t really want me to, do you.”  Scar takes another step closer, something intent in his eyes.  Grian moves backwards in tandem, until there’s nowhere else to go, just the two of them on an unsteady bridge, his heart pounding in his throat.

“I don’t think you really even care that I killed you,” he continues, and Grian presses his hands against the wooden railing, desperate for something to ground him.  He doesn’t know when he dropped his sword, only that it’s shimmering on the ground far away from him and far too close to Scar.

“I hate you,” he says.  “I hate you.”  It’s something not unlike a prayer, something that he wants to be true so very badly.

With a careless movement, Scar kicks the sword off the bridge.  He stares in dismay as he watches it hit the ground far below, then realizes too late he’s taken his eyes off Scar.

“I think I know exactly what you want.”  And then he’s too close, armorless and throat bared, blood still running, and Grian wants to kill him.  He wants to run away.  He’s pinned down by green eyes, too knowing.

“Don’t,” and it’s barely a shaky breath.  He can’t muster up the force to say anything else, to want anything else.  Scar leans close, intent as ever.  

Scar’s lips are still soft.  It feels awful.  Grian hates it, even as he returns the kiss, heartbeat staccato.  The wooden edge of the railing digs into the small of his back.  He’s never felt so trapped.  He presses his thumbs into the divot of Scar’s collarbone, settles his fingers around his neck, tries to feel in control.  It’s even worse that Scar lets him, humming against his mouth.  Grian doesn’t know why he’s doing this.  He doesn’t know why he’s letting Scar do this.

Scar tilts his head against Grian’s hands, brings his own down to settle on his waist.  It’s this touch, somehow, that jolts Grian out of whatever fugue he’s in.  He presses harder into Scar’s throat, forces him away from his lips.

“What the hell do you want, Scar,” he says, voice rough from kissing.  His mind still swims a little bit, but he’s aware enough to recognize the fact that Scar is trying to seduce him and desperate enough to want to fall for it.  He wonders, vaguely, if this is Scar’s way of convincing him not to hunt him down the moment he goes red.

Scar just swoops in again, even though Grian bites sharply at his bottom lip.  He doesn’t want this–not right now, not like this, not here, whatever it takes to make him go away and let Grian lick his wounds.  Scar’s fingers curl, near-possessive, into his waist.

When they finally come back up for air, Grian takes his chance and shoves Scar away from him, immediately moving a few steps away.  Scar’s hand goes to his throat, smeared with blood and already darkening fingerprint-shaped bruises.  Grian steadfastly ignores the way that makes him feel, the twist in his stomach and the nonexistent matching bruises on his knuckles.

“Go,” he says, trying to minimize the shaking of his voice.  “I don’t care what you want.  Just leave me alone.”  Scar opens his mouth.  Stops.  His lips are reddened, probably from when Grian bit him.  He doesn’t look like Grian thought he would, like the cat who got the cream.  He just looks a little lost, as if he’d expected something more.  Too bad for him.  Grian can admit to Scar being a damn good kisser, but he still remembers hitting the ground, the pain that still lingered in his jaw as it fractured.

“I– Grian–”

“I really don’t know what you’re not getting,” he spits.  Scar stares for one more second, eyes brilliant in silver etching.  And then he turns away.  Grian does his best not to watch him go.  He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and tastes a hint of coppery blood.  It makes him grit his teeth.

He can’t help remembering the way his hands fit around Scar’s throat as he starts the trek down to recover his sword.  Next time–there wouldn’t be a next time.  Grian had hated it, every moment of it and the way it made him feel.  The copper in the back of his mouth stings.

He’d show him.  He’d show him what it’s like to fill his mouth with blood, to get stabbed in the back.  What it was like to feel helpless. Next time, he thinks, staring at where Scar’s back had vanished.  Next time.

[corvuserpens]

The Oath - A "Black Sails" oneshot fic

Here it is, the angst fest of Billy reacting to Gates' death! I've had the full thing sitting in my drafts for days, itching to edit it and post it, but life kept getting in the way. Well, yesterday I overworked on my Master's dissertation, so today I made time. This is set on the day Billy returns to Nassau, after talking to Silver and recounting what happened to him to the rest of the Walrus crew. I hope you enjoy the read and weep as much as I did lmao 🥂 Obviously, trigger warning for death mentions and dealing with grief.

Billy bones entered the wash tent alone. There was a porcelain basin with clean water there, and some soap for anyone to use. The towels were desperately needing a wash, however. No matter. He could sit it out and air dry enough before putting his rags back on and go find new clothes. There was also a cracked mirror on the corner that he paid no attention to. Slowly, biting back the complaints each movement gave him after weeks locked in that leather vest, he removed his shirt and trousers and tossed them onto the sand. He picked up the jar by the basin, plunged it into a bucket bucket full of water and turned it over his head, hissing as it offered some respite to his burned skin. It didn't last very long; the Bahamas heat soon warmed the liquid to match his own body temperature, but fuck if it didn't feel good. Next, he picked up the bar of soap, also dipped it into the bucket and started washing the sand, sweat salt and dirt from his skin--

His eyes caught sight of his reflection, freezing him. With hesitant steps, he came closer and tilted it downwards to really take himself in. His face was an angry red color, with bits of skin peeling off, and his lips cracked and scabbed over. His ankles and feet were also burned, and every inch of him was covered in bruises of varying shades, especially around the ribs. There were dark purple rings beneath his eyes, which still had the same color and shape, but his days in captivity had put something there that hadn't been present before. A little glint of something feral. Something scared. Something... broken.

He could barely recognize his own image.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Billy forced himself to look away and take a seat on the wooden bench in front of the basin. As he rubbed off every bit of dirt until he could see the color of his own skin again, his mind began to wonder.

Inevitably, it turned to Gates.

Who was dead.

God, he still couldn't believe it. How could he be dead? What could possibly have happened that could lead to such an outcome? It was too hard to accept he could have been randomly killed in battle. Or had an accident. Or something as ridiculous as suffering a heart attack. Gates wasn't invincible, no one was, but Billy had always thought the man was too lucky or too experienced to die. He had never been sick a day in his life, not in all the years since Billy had joined.

But of course, he could have died from any one of those things. Hell, he could have died from a number of any other things, and all of them would have been better than the truth... which was that no one knew exactly how he had died.

Even Silver wasn't sure of what had happen. All anyone on the crew was certain of was that Mr. Gates followed captain Flint into the great cabin, and that was the last time they saw him alive. Flint's account was that Gates' heart had given out and that was it. Dufresne and some of the others were sure Flint had murdered him when he threatened mutiny after arriving to where the Urca de Lima was supposed to be and finding nothing. Regardless, no one was in that cabin to say what went down, except the two of them. Only Flint could tell, but Billy didn't trust a single word that came out of his mouth. And even where Billy himself was concerned, no matter what he had told the others, he also wasn't sure if Flint had lost his grip on his hand during the storm or simply let him go when he perceive him as a threat, as well. What was true and what wasn't, he didn't know.

And perhaps... it didn't really matter. It didn't matter how Gates had died. It mattered that he was dead.

Billy's hand stopped on his shoulder, only now noticing the suffocating tightness in his lungs. It had been there since he was told, slowly, steadily building up. While he had been talking to Silver, chained like an animal to a post, and then telling his brothers what he had gone through with the British navy, he had managed to bury it in his chest and ignore it, surprisingly easy. Now that he was alone with his thoughts, each passing minute it got harder and harder to do so. He scrubbed away at one arm, then the other, then a leg, a foot, all the while trying desperately to swallow the raw emotion growing inside him. It squeezed his throat, like it was trying to claw its way out. His stomach began to hurt something awful as he poured water down his head once more, washing away the soap and the filth off of himself.

The worst part though, was how heavy his eyes felt. The second he was aware of it, his chest constricted until he could barely breathe. He tried to forcefully suck in some air through his nose, only to find it stuffed. His head was swimming, from the building pressure around his eyes and from the memory of when he was finally freed from the navy's impressment.

Billy had been a small, weak thing then, but when Gates had found him, he had personally fed him, given him clothes to put on his back, taught him how to shoot and to use the cutlass. He had taken that fragile boy under his wing and taught him to be strong, to stand up for himself, to kill. And then, little Billy grew up into a man beloved by his friends, his brothers, this odd family that had found him on the brink of death and thought him worthy enough to recruit.

Gates had seen something in him, and to this day, he still didn't know what it was, but everything he had become, everything he had accomplished, he owed it to that man. Billy had respected him, looked up to him... yes, even loved him. He thought about how often Gates would call him "son" in recent years, and he couldn't fight back anymore.

The soap bar slipped from his trembling grasp. His hands went around his shoulders and buried the broken nails into his mistreated flesh, and he let himself curl up into a ball as his eyes shut tight and his features twisted painfully. Hot tears flowed freely down his burnt cheeks and dripped from his chin, as he took one shaky breath after the other.

Gates was dead. Gates was dead, and he died thinking Billy had preceded him. He never would know that this boy he had raised into a respected and revered pirate in his own right was still alive. Billy would never get to have the reunion he had prayed for, the one thing that had kept him sane all throughout the torture. It had been the lifeline he had grasped onto while violence was inflicted upon him. He never would get to thank Gates for everything he had done for him. Never would get to rise to be quartermaster in full, instead of serving as a replacement, then turn around and see the proud smile on his face. All those hopes, those dreams, had died with him.

For the first time since he had been pressed into the navy, Billy Bones sobbed. He rocked himself back and forth, his soul shattering into a thousand pieces. Someway somehow, he was expected to get up, put his clothes back on, and march out there like nothing had happened, but in that moment, he didn't have it in him. The sorrow that gripped him couldn't be forced to back down, and honestly? He didn't want to. So he wept, and wept, and wept, for what seemed like hours. Every time he tried to wipe away the tears and finally breathe, another wave would come and force him under. He held his pounding head in a hand and coughed, choked and moaned, but the tide of grief would not subside.

What was he to do, now...? Without Gates to hold everything together and make Flint listen to reason, what hope was there for him and the others? They would look up to him as Gates' chosen successor to look out for their well-being and their interests, but he didn't have any sway with Flint. Gates was the only one he listened to, and he was gone. What was he supposed to do, now...?

At last, his body stopped shivering and calmed. His breathing evened, allowing him enough respite to at least straighten up and let his hands fall on his lap. A couple of weaker sobs still managed to come out, but they too faded away after he cleared his throat and spat out the sticky saliva mixed with snot.

The crew would look to him to guide them, now. He had to get up and fight because whatever Flint was - liar, murderer, tyrant - on one very critical point he was right: civilization was coming to exterminate them. It would come and take every single person he knew and loved, and swallow them whole. Gates had only been the first casualty in the war that was now inevitable. Billy still didn't know how he would get Flint to listen to him, but that was a matter for another day. Despite how resentful he felt toward him, Flint was the only man in this island full of maniacs who was aware of the real threat looming on the horizon, which meant he was the only man with a way to ensure their survival through what was coming.

And yet, his post was at risk. With dissent and distrust rampant in the crew, it was only a matter of time before another attempt at mutiny was made. That is, if he wasn't voted out, first. That was something Billy could fix. He had learned from the best. Gates was not around to protect them anymore, but he had taught his protegée well. He owed it to Gates' memory to continue his work and make sure he saved as many as he could from the empire and from Flint. That was how he would honor him and the bond they had shared. That was the pillar he would lean on as he mourned his loss.

Billy Bones washed the tears from his eyes with a handful of water, stoop up to his feet and put his rags back on, effectively pulling himself together. Hal Gates was dead, but his legacy would live on through the boy he had seen some sort of potential in, even if he himself could not quite discern it yet. For as long as he drew breath, he would honor and continue that legacy.

That was his solemn oath, which he trusted to guide his steps, now and for the rest of his life. He only prayed it would lead them all to some place better, where their skies were always clear and they were all alive and free; then Billy could lay down on the beach one last time and be at peace, knowing he had kept his word, and that wherever Gates was, he could look down on him and smile with pride.

[deepwoundsandfadedscars]

Fandom: Shadow & Bone (TV) word count: 5,415 Whumpee: Kaz Brekker Whump tropes: explosion, human shield, self sacrifice, burns, touch aversion, unconscious, caretaking

This is my longest fic to date and frankly there could be more. This is unbeta'd cause I was too excited to get it posted to wait for anyone else to read it 😅

Gifting this to @bocularteletheric because of our shared love of Kaz whump, please enjoy ❤

Read on Ao3 or continue below~

~~~

"Are you really sure this is the best use of our time, boss? I was rather hoping to be keeping warm with a drink and a rousing conversation over a hand of cards this evening," Jesper griped for the third time.

Kaz sighed as he used the head of his cane to lift the top of a crate, glowering into it as he surveyed its contents- or lack thereof for that matter. It was the eighth crate he had opened on this particular venture and nothing of interest to show for it. The first five were partially full with various items, none of which were of any use to them. The rest of them were empty, nothing but dirt and grime from the sloppy mud road that led to the compound that the barn sat upon, nestled deep in the forest outside of the city.  

“The source I have is reliable, they said it should be here,” Kaz snapped out, letting the lid drop with a hollow thud. Dust puffed around him, tiny particles glinting in the moonlight coming in through the gaps in the wide slats of the barn wall, shooting beams across the otherwise unlit building. The moon was full and bright tonight, the use of a lantern unnecessary for getting around except for deep in the shadows. 

“And what, pray tell, did they mean by ‘it’? What are we even looking for?” Jesper turned, throwing his hands in the air.

Kaz turned and shot him a piercing glare, his brow downturned in annoyance. “You’ll know it when you see it, okay? Trust me on this.”

Jesper dropped his hands, his shoulders slouching forward as he threw his head back. “Where did Inej go anyways?”

“Checking the house and smaller out buildings. Shouldn’t be long before she joins us.”

“We’re going to be here all night, aren’t we?” 

“We’re here as long as it takes.” 

“Fine. But the next three rounds at the club are on your coin.” Jesper snapped his gloved fingers and pointed at Kaz, cocking his head and raising an eyebrow, his expression clear that this wasn’t a negotiable option.

“So be it. Check the crates in the loft would you?”

“Always gotta send someone else to the precarious heights and dangerous situations, don’t you?”

Kaz turned to him, giving a pointed look to the ladder as he tapped the corvid head of the cane against his chest.

“Yeah yeah, whatever.” Jesper took a step back as he started to turn towards the ladder.

The world seemed to focus into a pinprick for Kaz as Jesper turned, a glint of silver flashing near his ankles caught his eye as Jesper moved through the moonlight. 

“Jesper, wait!” Kaz yelled, lunging forward to grab the collar of Jespers coat, snatching him backwards before he could finish his step. He heard a faint ping as the tripwire popped apart, the scraping of metal, or was that flint on steel? He wasn’t sure, but he definitely knew the sound that followed, the crackle of burning gunpowder sputtering across the floor. He didn’t spare time to see how much time they had or where the line of powder led, instead he used the momentum of his yank on Jespers coat, propelling the gunslinger around and then shoving him forward in the other direction, away from the general direction of the gunpowder and towards the door. 

Jesper stumbled, barely able to put his feet in the right order to catch himself with the way Kaz was throwing him around. He finally caught himself and took off running, feeling like he was dragging Kaz with him as the thief kept a tight grip on his jacket collar. 

Kaz knew they weren’t going to make it. He could hear the violent reaction of the gunpowder snapping across the floor become muffled as it reached its destination. They weren’t going to make it. But he could do his best to make sure someone got out of here. 

He lunged forward, tackling Jesper around his torso,  forcing him to fall forwards so he crumpled under Kaz's weight. One hand around Jespers waist and the other over his head so he couldn’t raise it, Kaz spread himself over the gunslinger just as the world exploded behind them. 

Searing pain ripped through the back of his shoulders, the force of the explosion threw him even further and his head slammed into a support pillar of the barn. 

Everything went black and he knew no more. 

~~~

Everything hurt. 

Jesper groaned as he regained awareness. He didn’t think he had been out for long, maybe a few seconds, but the impact had been harsh. His whole body ached, squeezed into a tight ball as he was. His knees were pressed to his chest, one arm trapped underneath him where he was flopped onto his side. He could feel a weight against nearly every angle of his body, wrapped around him like a warm and heavy blanket. 

A warm breath ghosted against his neck and he tried to open his eyes, wincing as he attempted to uncurl his legs. The muscles protested but he managed to push himself to his knees. He hadn’t even realized the weight on the back of his head was a hand until it flopped to the floor, limp and wrapped in black leather.

“Kaz?” Jesper coughed as smoke made its way into his lungs, cast off from the flames licking at the rubble of the barn around them. The support beam in front of them still stood and a section of the mezzanine from above had nearly fallen on them, half of it held up by the beam so they were tucked under a dangerous lean-to. He tried to clear his throat but only managed to inhale more smoke, his eyes starting to burn as well. “Kaz, are you okay?”

He received no response to his query. He twisted around, searching for where he had felt Kaz slip off of him when he moved. He found Kaz was slumped on his side, his face lax and pale in the flickering light of the fire around them save for a shadow down the left side of his face, a shiny and dark crimson smear that started at his hairline and followed the angles of his face. Blood.

“Kaz, wake up. We gotta get out of here,” Jesper coughed again. He placed a hand under Kaz’s head, lifting his face towards him. “Kaz!” He yelled as loud as smoke infested lungs would allow, shaking him gently with no reaction.

“Alright then,” he huffed, shuffling around in the tight space so he could get behind Kaz, “You’re probably going to hate this, but let it be known that I tried to wake you up and I don’t exactly have another option, asides from leaving you here and that is not happening-”

The words died in his throat and fear bubbled up as he caught sight of Kaz’s back. His jacket was smouldering in places, flames dancing across the fine material in others. Jesper frantically tore his own jacket off and threw it over the flames, hastily slapping it down to smother the fire. He held it there for a few seconds, gasping for breath until he felt sure it would be extinguished. He cautiously removed his coat. His throat tightened and he had to clap a hand over his mouth as the contents of his stomach threatened to reappear. “Oh saints, Kaz…”

Most of the back of Kaz’s coat was gone, as were chunks of his vest and shirt, the fact he wore so many layers might have actually saved him for the most part but not enough. Wherever the clothing had burnt away were angry burns pocked with wounds that weeped blood around pieces of shrapnel buried in his flesh.

Jesper clenched his eyes shut and tried to control his breathing, he could feel his hands starting to shake and that wouldn’t help either of them right now. Lifting Kaz in any way that touched his back was out of the question so he shuffled around to his front again, grabbing his wrist instead and hauling him into a seated position, ducking his head under Kaz’s arm against his side and shouldering him in the stomach to drape the limp body across both shoulders, holding on tight to his arm and leg to keep him from falling off. 

“Thank saints you’re even lighter than you look,” he huffed as he got his feet under him, snatching Kaz’s cane from the floor before carefully standing up. 

It took time to get out, awkward as it was carrying a body over his shoulders while picking his way through rubble and fire. He was trying to inhale as little as possible, trying to keep the smoke out of his lungs, which just made them burn even worse. 

He barely made it out of the front door when the mezzanine collapsed, a burst of sparks showering around them as Jesper stumbled. He caught himself on one knee, unwilling to let go of Kaz as he tottered dangerously. Just when he thought he would lose the battle with gravity and they would both tumble to the dirt, a hand caught him around the chest, keeping  him upright. 

“Jesper!” Inej was right in front of him, he had to squint to see her. His eyes burned but he couldn’t let go of Kaz to wipe them. 

“His back,” Jesper managed to cough out, “be careful with his back.”

“Okay, put him down, I got him.” 

He felt the weight on his shoulder shift and held on tighter, panicking for a second before realizing Inej had snaked her arm under Kaz’s chest to help get him on the ground again. Once his burden was gone Jesper fell forward, catching himself on his elbows as he coughed hard enough to gag into the dirt. Every breath he managed to drag in felt like gravel in his throat, rattling through his spasming chest.

When the coughing started to abate and he managed more wheezing breaths between fits, he felt gentle hands on his back and he rested his forehead against his arm. He managed to gasp out “Kaz…”

“He is alive but in bad shape, we need to get him to a healer.”

He nodded before pushing himself back to his knees, turning so he was next to Kaz again. Inej had managed to get him on his side so his back wasn’t touching anything. Jesper avoided looking at the mess that was his back, instead focusing on his face. He was dirty with soot and blood, and a shock of hair had fallen forward onto his face, obscuring the wound and brushing against his cheek. Jesper pushed it back and rubbed his thumb over Kaz’s forehead, frowning at the lack of reaction the contact received. It was so unnatural to see his brow smooth and relaxed, unburdened by troubles.

Inej’s hand touched his elbow and he suddenly turned to her, grasping her shoulder as he inspected her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I was in the other building.” She cleared her throat and turned her eyes down to Kaz, but Jesper could see her eyes were red. She had already thought them dead, which a look at the flaming pile of barn behind them would have been a reasonable conclusion to come to.

“We’re going to be okay,” he said. “He’s going to be okay.” He squeezed her shoulder once before letting go and pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll find the cart.”

It took him precious minutes to find the horses and the cart tied to them, spooked as they were by the violence of the explosion. He calmed them, shushing them quietly with gentle strokes. They trembled under his hands, he didn’t blame them at all because he could feel his own hands starting to shake again too. “Calm, calm. Shhhh.” He whispered, though whether he was talking just to the horses or himself too was up for debate.  

By the time he managed to lead the horses back towards where he left Inej and Kaz, Inej was back on her feet, looking like she was about to come searching for him.

“They were spooked.” He said in explanation and she nodded in response, already getting into position to assist. Between the two of them, they got Kaz into the back of the simple wooden cart that they had driven out and within minutes they were back on the road, Jesper at the reins and Inej sitting cross legged next to Kaz on the floor.

~~~

Nearly an hour later they pulled in front of the inn that they had hired a room at for the night.

“Do you know anyone in this city, Inej?” Jesper asked her quietly. 

“Not personally,” she shook her head, “but I do know there is a healer here somewhere, I will inquire.” She spared a look at Kaz before hopping out of the cart and hurrying into the inn. 

Jesper stood from the driver's seat and stepped over it, into the back of the cart to crouch behind Kaz. Inej had positioned him so he was on his side, the best they could do for his injuries with no supplies along with them. He hadn’t made a sound the entire ride back to town and that worried Jesper. He reached over him, placing a hand in front of Kaz’s face, biting down on his bottom lip and holding his own breath until he felt the faint movement of air on his hand as Kaz exhaled. 

“Once again, you’re going to hate this, and I’ll apologize about it later, but if you’re not going to get up, I’m going to have to get you upstairs somehow.”

Jesper went to his front, getting his arms under Kaz’s armpits and pulling him to a seated position before gently and awkwardly shifting him towards the back of the cart. He jumped down and slipped an arm around Kaz’s waist where the least amount of damage was. Most of the burns were across the back of his shoulders, starting just where his neck and shoulders met and growing less severe towards the bottom of his shoulder blades, spanning the entire width of his torso and down the back of his arms. 

The change in position caused Kaz’s head to flop against Jesper’s shoulder and he heard a faint groan. “Kaz?!” Jesper whispered, bringing the hand that wasn’t around his waist up to touch his face, tilting the thief’s head back so he could see. “Kaz, can you hear me?”

Kaz’s eyes fluttered open and Jesper could see how hard it must have been for him, fighting his way back to consciousness. His eyes were cloudy and he looked confused, scared even, but too weak to do anything. He didn’t seem to recognize Jesper at all.

"Pl-please," he pleaded with Jesper. His voice sounded so small and terrified. "Please, just let me go."

“It’s okay, you’re alright, I’m trying to help,” Jesper kept his voice low, trying to sound comforting. Every other comfort instinct of his had to be thrown out the window when dealing with Kaz, his hands ached to gently touch his face, to push his hair back and just touch him in a way that would bring comfort to Jesper. 

But even the arm around his waist, his head lolling against Jespers shoulder, even just being a physical support was a forbidden line that he had already crossed, it hurt him so much to see Kaz in pain and to be contributing even further to that discomfort even if his intentions were to help. 

Kaz twisted against his shoulder, trying to squirm away from Jesper. One hand came up to push against his chest and just that movement brought out a strangled cry, his eyes turned white as they rolled back in his head and he went limp in Jespers arms.

“I’m sorry,” Jesper whispered, pushing back the lock of hair that had fallen over his face.

~~~

Inej took a deep, steadying breath as she entered the pub that made up the main floor of their accommodations. Tables and chairs were scattered around, most of which were empty at this time of night, and a large counter to the right where a big man with a bushy red beard poured drinks for the handful of patrons still sitting at the bar. He nodded at Inej as she entered, recognizing her from earlier. When she approached the bar rather than turning up the narrow staircase to the rooms on the upper floor he raised an eyebrow and moved to the end of the bar to meet her.

“You seem troubled,” he said in greeting. 

She lowered her voice, not wanting to bring attention. “We are in need of a healer. Does Eleanora still reside nearby?”

He gave a curt nod, rubbing his hands with a towel. “She does, not far. I will send my son to retrieve her and bring her to your room. There is an entrance to the rooms from the back if you’d rather privacy from prying eyes.”

She dipped her head in thanks before slipping out the door again, where she found Jesper had Kaz sitting more or less upright on the back of the cart, ready to drape the thief over his shoulders again. She whirled around as the door slammed behind her, a young boy with red hair stumbling over his own feet as he looked at them, his wide eyes catching on the unconscious man that Jesper supported. He gave Inej the same curt nod that the innkeeper had and took off down the street. 

“Around back, let’s get him upstairs.”

The back stairs were even narrower than the ones from the front which made progress slow and awkward. Jesper supported most of Kaz's lanky form while Inej climbed the stairs behind them. Jesper doubted she could catch both of them if he slipped and they fell backwards onto her, but he trusted she would catch Kaz so he wasn't injured any further at least. 

By the time they made it to the room, Inej heard a commotion at the bottom of the steps and the red headed boy came bounding up the stairs. "Mz. Eleanora is coming, she wasn't far behind me."

Inej nodded in thanks and shut the door as he tried to crane his neck to see around her. A boy his age didn't need to see the bloody wounds that marred Kaz's flesh.

Jesper was standing in the middle of the room with Kaz more or less standing with him, holding him up with arms under Kaz's armpits and letting him slump against Jespers chest.

"She's going to want to see the wounds, we need to get his clothes off. Use one of your knives, cut it off. His jacket's a loss anyways."

Jesper could only stand and hold Kaz upright while watching as Inej carefully slipped her blade under the fabric, slicing through the back of the collar and moving towards the sleeves. Every cut was an attempt to keep fabric from touching skin in the removal process.

He felt it moments before Kaz started to come around again, every muscle in his body going tense as a groan hissed out from between clenched teeth. His forehead was resting against Jespers collarbone but when the gunslinger looked down he could see ropey muscles flexing around the sharp angle of his jaw. 

"Inej stop," he warned moments before Kaz suddenly threw himself backwards, a mad scramble to get out of Jespers arms, to get away from the hands touching his body. 

"Kaz, it's me! It's Jesper, it's ok, I've got you," Jesper rambled, trying to keep his voice as calm and comforting as possible, which was difficult as the other man struggled against him. "Inej is here too, we're trying to help."

Inej smartly didn't try touching him, standing back and tucking her blade away again. She had cut away enough fabric already that they would be able to remove his top without issue, but she didn’t dare try to take any of his clothing while he was already panicking.

"Kaz, you need to calm down, you're hurt," Jesper said.

"Let go of me," Kaz whimpered. His hands curled towards his own throat to keep from touching Jesper and he pushed outwards with his elbows, trying to leverage Jespers hands off of him.

Inej threw the scratchy quilt off of one of the beds, revealing the relatively soft bed sheets underneath and frantically waved at Jesper to set the injured man down. The beds were not much more than a metal frame with a latticework of straps that supported a thin mattress, not the most comfortable of beds but fine for a night or two when needed.

It took effort, their boss was gangly but stronger than he looked and he fought hard, especially when injured and afraid. His eyes remained closed as he writhed in Jesper’s arms, frantically trying to push away from him even as his legs refused to bear his own weight, the only barely conscious thought being the need to get the hands off.

“Kaz, please!” Jesper cried out, flinching as gloved hands scrabbled against his face, blindly searching for something to grasp, whether that would be his eyes, hair, or throat, whichever they found first.

He tried to keep moving Kaz towards the cot while being weakly assaulted, determined to not drop Kaz right there in the middle of the floor. 

In the struggle he didn’t hear the door open behind him until he felt a slight thrum in the air and someone quietly commanded “sleep” right beside him, a hand reaching around his shoulder, one slender finger gently tapped Kaz in the middle of his forehead. Jespers stomach turned as for the second time that night he watched Kaz’s eyes roll back in his head and he fell bonelessly limp into Jespers arms, almost slipping completely out of them before Jesper tightened his grip.

Inej was there in a flash to help support the injured man, one of her blades glinting in the light as she resumed the task of removing the burnt and bloodied clothing. A couple quick and efficient slices and they were able to pull the material away from his back and arms, the ruined clothing being left in a pile on the floor to be dealt with later. 

“Get him on the bed.”

With a grunt Jesper managed to shuffle the last couple steps towards the bed and gingerly lowered Kaz onto the sheets, Inej slipping in beside him to support Kaz's head as it flopped off of Jespers shoulder. Together they positioned him on his front, Inej moving the pillow away so he wasn't stifled by it and wedging it under one of his arms. 

They barely had him situated before the healer, Eleanora, was there, her skirts puffing out as she sank to her knees at the side of the bed and summoning her powers with a twist of her hands. She lightly traced around the edges of the angry and blistering skin. 

“There is a lot of damage,” Eleanora said quietly. “I will need one of you to help remove this shrapnel before I can work on everything.”

Inej glanced at Jesper, already knowing he likely wouldn’t be able to stomach it. He stood frozen next to the foot of the bed, one hand on his hip and the other clamped aggressively over his mouth. There was a sickly pallor to his skin and his thumb and forefinger were pressed hard into the spaces below his cheekbones. It was like he couldn’t tear his eyes off of Kaz.

She touched his elbow, startling him out of his trance and he gasped, his hand breaking away from his face to latch onto her shoulder. She kept her hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. 

“Sit down. Before you fall down.” She said, guiding him to the bed next to Kaz’s. The cots were close enough to each other that if the two men sat across from each other their knees would be touching.

He flopped onto it, bracing his elbows against his knees and resolutely determined not to look anywhere but at Kaz’s face as the other two worked on his back. 

Inej perched herself on the edge of the bed, trying to leave a space between Kaz’s hip and her own. She already felt guilty for all the times they have had to touch Kaz without him being able to consent, and she knew he wouldn’t have even if he was consciously able to do so. 

She tried to keep from thinking about that as she started plucking out the pieces of shrapnel, mostly slivers of wood from the crates, barrels, and barn that had surrounded them when the blast occurred. There were a lot more than she had been expecting, a variety of sizes. She dropped them on the floor by her feet as she worked, another thing to clean up later. 

There were two bigger pieces near his right shoulder blade that each began to splinter as she tried to pull on them, threatening to leave part of themselves behind in his flesh if she wasn't careful. She winced before pulling out one of her blades yet again, using the sharp tip to make the hole in his skin just a bit bigger in order to get every sliver of the wood out. 

She glanced up at Eleanora, who nodded in approval with her lips pressed tight together before she focused her attention on those newly bleeding wounds. 

“He’s hurting.”

Inej looked at Jesper in surprise when he spoke, so quietly she didn’t catch what he said. “What?”

“He’s in pain, look at him.” Jesper gestured towards Kaz’s face.

He was right. Kaz’s face was twisted into a deep grimace, his jaw tight and sweat starting to bead on his brow. The hand upon the pillow that was wedged under his arm was clenched tightly, grasping the edge of the pillow in a death grip.

“The wounds are significant,” Eleanora said, not taking her eyes or hands away from the task at hand. The smaller injuries that had marred the backs of his arms were already back to a healthy pink. “Some of these burns are severe enough he may not  even feel them, but as I heal them the sensation may return. It’ll feel worse before it feels better.”

Inej felt her breath catch in her throat at the same time Jesper choked on a sob. She grasped his knee and immediately his hand was on top of hers, desperately holding onto her. 

“He would hate this. He hates being touched, it’s like a visceral reaction whenever someone so much as accidentally bumps against him.” Jesper started to ramble, unable to keep his mouth shut in his own distress. “Even as friends he doesn’t let us touch him.”

Eleanora looked between them, noticing now how neither of them had laid hands on him since getting him onto the bed. Even removing the shrapnel Inej had been so careful to avoid touching him, only using the tip of her blade when necessary. Eleanora pulled her hands back slightly, leaving an air gap between her fingers and his skin. 

“I didn’t know, thank you for telling me. It’s not necessary for me to make contact when healing but some people find it comforting.”

Inej nodded and smiled at Eleanora, understanding where she was coming from but grateful for her accommodating his needs. With the shrapnel removed, she tucked her blade away and slipped off the cot and onto the other next to Jesper, carefully looking him over to see if there were any injuries he hadn’t fessed up to yet. He seemed visibly shaken but otherwise fine. He had a couple coughing fits on the way back into town but she hadn't heard anything more in a while. His eyes were locked on Kaz’s face still, watching him like a hawk for any sign of awareness. 

His breath caught for a moment as Kaz’s eyelids fluttered. “Kaz?”

Kaz whimpered in response, slow and painstakingly opening his eyes just a tiny amount. He blinked at them, his eyes hazy and clouded with pain. Inej reached out and placed her hand on the mattress right near his hand, just in front of his face where he looked slightly confused at it before focusing on his companions' faces again. 

“Oh saints, his head,” Jesper whispered, reaching out and hovering his hand over the area where blood had been seeping out along his hairline. Crimson still encrusted the side of his head where it had dried what felt like hours ago, now pressed into the sheets with how his head was positioned. 

Eleanora shifted her attention there for a minute, making motions as if she was pushing her magic into Kaz’s skull. As the wound sealed up, Jesper and Inej could see when he fully came aware, his eyes clearing slightly. He was still tense with pain, but the confusion when he looked at them was gone at least, replaced with recognition as he looked up at his Crows watching over him. 

~~~

He hadn’t expected to wake up again. But when Kaz came back to awareness, he wasn’t sure that he even wanted to. 

Every nerve in his back screamed as though the fire still burned upon it, the pain causing muscles to tense and spasm against his will and amplifying it, resulting in a never ending spiral of call and response of torment. 

Something slipped into his head, an odd sensation of a chill inside his skull and it was like he had awoken with his eyes already open, as though he had already been awake but not aware of being awake for a moment or two. 

As his eyes came into focus he could see white sheets that were pressed against his cheek. Right in front of his face he found Inej’s hand and he focused his gaze to travel up her arm, to her face set in a mask of barely concealed concern. Next to her sat Jesper, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, not even trying to disguise his concern. Jespers lips twitched into a sad smile that didn’t reach his watery eyes.

Kaz’s hands ached, clenched tightly as they were but he recognized the familiar feeling of the soft leather that hugged them, grateful that they hadn’t been removed. He could tell the layers of clothing he wore like an armour around his torso were gone though.

That chilled sensation that brought back his awareness now traced over his back, momentarily cutting a trail of relief through the searing pain. The pain was so great that the relief was often short lived, but it never stopped moving, skimming along the edges of areas that just felt like… nothing. 

He took a deep breath, which caught in his throat for a moment as the movement of his rib cage pulled on muscles that protested vehemently and he had to close his eyes against the pain. When he opened them again, Inej had shifted off of the other bed and knelt on the floor to be closer to him. Her hand never moved from the edge of the bed, not moving any closer, which he knew she wouldn’t. 

Slowly, he relaxed his hand, letting go of what he realized was a pillow that he had been holding so tightly to and reached for the edge of the mattress, curling his fingers around it mere centimeters away from Inej’s hand. Close, but not touching. 

He felt at peace in that moment. Knowing two of his most cherished Crows were with him, watching over him. Trust didn’t come easy for him, but if there were any two people he could rely on, it would be Inej and Jesper.

The pain flared up again and his whole body tensed, once again amplifying everything. His hand clenched and he wound up with a fistful of bed sheets, his eyes screwing shut with a strangled whimper. 

He vaguely heard Jesper begging someone to do something, he’s in pain, though Kaz couldn’t say who he had spoken to. 

He didn’t have an opportunity to find out as the cold sensation returned to his head, and with a brief burst of relief he succumbed to the black again.

[jaynovz]

4.09 Silverflint Sword Training Fic Rec List

In all ways but physical, I am up on the Maroon Island cliffs watching two clever idiots refuse to confess their love to each other. Except when they do tho, because this is fanfiction!

Here are my recs for stories centered around the 4.09 sword training scenes. Enjoy!

--

Cloth of Gold by dornfelder--

Summary: "Tell me one thing," Flint says.

Silver lifts his head, eyes full of apprehension. "If I can."

"If you were to tell me about your past – about all the things you cannot bear for me to know – what do you think I might do?"

Notes: One-shot, 3.3k, rated M.

A Ship is a Republic by robotboy--

Summary: Flint and Silver train every day on the cliffs, and Silver starts to realise he likes being told what to do.

Notes: Multi-chapter, 19.7k, rated E.

Riposte by Apetslife--

Summary: noun: riposte; plural noun: ripostes (Fencing) a quick return thrust following a parry.

Notes: One-shot, 3.3k, rated G.

flame you came from me, fire meet gasoline by jaynovz--

Summary: The incident on the warship lights a desire in Flint. It’s a powder keg with a fuse that burns slow but hot, flaring up at the worst moments and threatening to obliterate him.

It torments Flint off and on, but he manages to go long stretches of time without thinking about Silver's cock at all. About the delicious mouthful Silver is hiding in his trousers and how it might make Flint’s jaw ache pleasantly. Inevitably, Flint's mind drifts at the most inappropriate moments.

He cannot help but watch Silver and desperately want.

Notes: One-shot, 4.8k, rated E.

two dead boys stood up to fight by vowelinthug--

Summary: 4x09 flashback fic, made gayer

because flint looks like THAT while sparring, and silver is not actually Long John Silver. which is to say, he's only human.

Notes: One-shot, 5.8k, rated T.

Our Shadows That Are Bold by x_etoile_x--

Summary: “No.” Silver’s voice isn’t loud, but it is commanding in a way Flint hasn’t heard directed at him in a long time. A way that does nothing to quell the heat that is growing in him as he stands entirely at Silver’s mercy, heat that is much more than the remnants of exertion from their fight. “I think it's time you’re honest about what is happening here.”

Notes: One-shot, 4.9k, rated E.

you reveal the darkest versions of yourself at the precipice by coffeeandchemicals, red_plaid_on_red_plaid--

Summary: You are standing on the top of the cliffs, chest heaving, throat parched, wishing that you were back in the Doldrums. Because, even though you were starving, dying of dehydration, lips cracked, skin burnt and flaking, maybe from the sun, maybe from too many days with mere mouthfuls of water, even though you were sure that death was coming for you, at least Flint was not looking at you then like he is now.

Notes: One-shot, 1.9k, rated M.

That old sword-play by jauneclair--

Summary: 4.09 coda, in which sparring leads to sex.

Notes: One-shot, 2k, rated E.

we lean like gardens (toward light) by mapped--

Summary: Silver takes his shirt off. Flint probably shouldn't have criticised Silver for watching his eyes, because, as it turns out, that's just the pot calling the kettle black.

Notes: One-shot, 3.6k, rated E.

save every day 'til eternity passes away by lacecat--

Summary: Perhaps that’s where they exist, somewhere between the sea and sand, between something human and something otherworldly. Something known, tangible, and then something easily forgotten, as if it too was eroded by the waves.

[4x09 extended scene]

Notes: One-shot, 3.5k, rated M.

what we have left undone by pdameron--

Summary: “You have my genuine friendship,” he says on the cliff, voice quavering, “and loyalty. Can that be enough?”

Flint hesitates, stares down at his sword for a charged, long moment, and Silver can feel his heart splinter as he realizes that it isn’t.

(yet another Flint and Silver on the Cliff Fic)

Notes: One-shot, 2k, rated M.

something just like this by samedifference61--

Summary: Making James Flint purposefully wait for him? Now that’s something that sparks Silver’s curiosity.

A little 4x09 flashback cliff!porn piece that doesn't actually have any porn, just some sword fighting, stripping, banter, and kissing really.

Notes: One-shot, 2.1k, rated M.

--

As always, if there is an inclusion that you think I have missed, you can DM me and I will check it out. 💜

[lichfucker]

BRAIN DAMAGE IN D MINOR?

lmaoooooo "brain damage in d minor" is a placeholder title and I live in fear every day that it's going to stick. the only other thing I call it in my own notes is "music and lyrics au" so unless something better appears I'm afraid brain damage in d minor will end up the actual title

a million years ago the sunder server watched music and lyrics (2007) for movie night, which is my favorite rom-com of all time, and I. could not stop thinking about how well the conceit works as a silverflint au. because I am the one with brain damage (in d minor)

it's likely the only bs modern au I'll ever write bc in general I find the canon time period far more compelling, but I digress. flint is a washed-up has-been-- he was in a boyband with thomas and peter ashe in the early '00s but it's been twenty years and his career is dead. suddenly he gets a call from gates, his manager, saying, "charles vane just left his band to get out of a contract with guthrie records and he wants to kick off his new solo venture by singing a duet with you, so you need to write a new song. okay bye"

the problem is that flint is a terrible lyricist. sure he could come up with a pretty metaphor, but he can't write things that are Relatable, and pop music is all about being Vague and Relatable. help, of course, comes from the least likely of places: john silver, a guy flint hires to water his plants, just so happens to be an excellent songwriter.

yes, this is extremely contrived. yes, it is following the plot of the movie to a tee (except, y'know, set in 2023 instead of in 2007).

a meet-cute for your perusal:

The buzzer rings, piercing through the rhythmic discordant chime of Flint repeatedly bashing his head onto the keys of the piano. Great. That’ll be Idelle in to water the plants, and he can either stay in the living room composing Brain Damage in D Minor while she does, or he can spare himself the humiliation and retreat into the privacy of his bedroom. Perhaps he’ll run a bath and drown himself in the lavish tub.

A sigh hauls itself out of Flint’s chest with all the effort of the tow truck that time in ’04 when the tour bus got impounded, and it takes similar heft for him to stand up from the piano bench and answer the door.

Flint registers long black hair before anything else, and his skull is so thick with cement that he nearly turns heel and stalks off to his room without so much as a grunt in hello—but he stops.

“You’re not Idelle,” Flint says.

A very astute observation: the person in the doorway has bluer eyes, tanner skin, and a significantly fuller beard.

The man’s gleaming smile falters. “No,” he says. “Sorry, did she not text you? I’m taking over for a few weeks while she’s away. Can I come in, or are all your plants out in the hall?”

Flint blinks. Considering the man looks like he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in his entire life, Flint hadn’t expected his voice to be so… smooth. Nor so English, not in Manhattan. Before Flint lets this stranger into his (admittedly, very thieve-able) apartment, though, he looks through his phone and—oh. Idelle had texted. Three times over the last two weeks. He’d even given her a thumbs-up emoji. Well, all right, then. He steps aside to let the man through.

“Thanks,” the man says, his bright smile back and full of teeth. “I’m John, by the way. John Silver.”

“James McGraw.”

Silver drops his messenger bag on the coffee table beside the chaise, looking around with cataloguing eyes at the veritable garden lined up along the floor-to-ceiling windows, the crystalline chandelier hanging over the dining table, the glossy baby grand on the shag carpet, the unmasked luxury in which Flint lives. “Watering can?” he asks.

“Under the sink,” Flint says, pointing him toward the kitchen. He waits a few beats and then follows, trying to keep a wary eye on Silver while appearing casual rather than paranoid. He leans coolly against the kitchen island just as Silver finishes filling the watering can. “So, Joe—”

“John,” he says, not unkindly. “Most of my friends just call me Silver, but I’d rather you call me John. No offense. Less personal, you know?”

“Using your given name is less personal than your surname?”

He gives Flint a pointed look. “I can be one of eight hundred Johns you’ve ever met, or I can be one of half a dozen Silvers, if even that many. Maybe we’ll be friends someday and you can call me whatever you like, but for now I’ll take John, thanks.”

Flint just barely suppresses a grin. “Fair enough,” he says. “Where are you from?”

Silver—John hesitates, and then he says, “London. And you?”

“Cornwall.”

“Really? You don’t sound it.”

“I trained myself out of it, a long time ago.” Flint watches John tend to the orchid on the counter, careful not to over-water it; he’s gentle and methodical with it, which isn’t what Flint had expected. He’s not sure what he expected, in truth. “So,” Flint says, “you’re a friend of Idelle’s? Where is she, anyway?”

The question earns him an indignant snort. “Idelle is in the Bahamas getting married, and I,” John says, crossing the living room to the ficus by the window, “got the great honor of not being fucking invited. She tried telling me it’s because they wanted to keep the guest list small, but I know that’s a damned lie. She invited Muldoon, of all fucking people. Logan I understand, because he and Charlotte are attached at the fucking hip, but Muldoon?” John scoffs. “No, it’s because Augie—her husband—never liked me, not that I have any idea why. Truth be told, I think Idelle herself only tolerates me because she’s close with my sister, and she knows not to say a bad word about me to Max if she intends to say any words for the rest of her life.”

He keeps talking as he progresses down the row of plants. “I told Max to bring me as her plus-one just to piss them all off, you know, but she’d already committed to taking her girlfriend, and, honestly, that’s comeuppance enough. I am far more fun at weddings than Anne is. Luckily for you, I’m also a far better plant-sitter, so—Fuck!”

John hisses in pain and turns around to face Flint, sucking on the pad of his thumb. “Fucking cactus,” he mumbles around the thumb in his mouth. The two of them stand there, twenty feet apart, for an odd moment, the air thick with… something. John narrows his startlingly blue eyes, scrutinizing Flint. Flint hasn’t a clue what he might be looking for. His lips work at his thumb all the while.

And then John’s thumb leaves his mouth with an obscene smack, the sound so loud in the dense silence that had befallen them, and he says, “You look really familiar. Are you famous or something?”

[mercysought]

❝ Assume I’m looking out for myself and you’ll figure it out. ❞ ( this is too them not to send so silver for maxima... i'm thinking early days on nassau? )

the banner saga 1 // accepting // @immobiliter

The heavy smoke is exhaled, pulled in enough to burn the back of her throat and once out the scent of tobacco fills the air, obscuring her face for a moment through a thick cloud of grey mixing with the few sun rays that pierce through the cot that they had been meeting in. As a very busy man, Silver was hard to get a hold of, especially if he intended to make himself scarce. Unsurprising, though it was likely one of the first few times when she had to ask: what would she do in this situation and tended to find him following the same line of thought.

That same line of thought that had lent them both in this liminal space. Maxima would not deny it: it was fun.

And that much was clear through the pearly whites that finally pierced through the fog as she moved closer. Her clothes, a mix of green and white would have stood out if they were to step outside to the middle of the bustling beach. Maxima had no intention of walking into the direct sun, however, her presence there was single, and he stood right in front of her.

She leans in, her free hand first touching the side of his jaw, dark eyes focusing instead of the curls of the side of his head.

   "Keep me happy, purring" the side of her finger softly making its way down to his neck, pressing against warm and sunburnt skin. Her tongue rolls at the words, whispering softly as her nails trail onto the small hairs at the back of his neck, the side of her body coming to rest against his "like a well-fed cat in a wool blanket."

Just relax, be at rest, like a bird in a nest. Trust in me. Just in me. It was one of the first songs she had learnt as a child. A half warning and half lullaby spoken from different mouths in her earlier years. He was, after all, a costly investment that she intended to keep around for long and watch closely with more interest than she's had in anything in these past few years. But Maxima knew quite well that sometimes it was wiser to leave dead weight behind, regardless of how long you've carried it.

   "Make me assume, figure things out?" she hums, holding his face carefully, her eyes moving from his lips to his eyes, eyebrows furrowing. Her lips graze his earlobe, but her eyes remain locked on his "Well... My imagination runs wild, dearest. It is in my nature!"

And that was the crux of it all was it not? An understanding: it is not if, it is a when he would turn to sting her because Flint managed to offer him something more and leave her to drown. When and what Flint found out what he could offer to turn him against her, give him the perception of more: Maxima knew his playbook too, she had helped him write it to keep that same crew under control.

It would be interesting, to see how it all unfolded, but lest he forget it: whatever deal he would choose to take over her, the price would be dire. But he knew that, as the man that had done a deal right beneath Flint's nose she could only assume that a good dose of insanity and genius was ratling in that head of his.

But she was not Flint, and he would do well to remember that.

Taking a step back, she carefully places the wide-brim hat, lacing the green fabric under her chin. Looking back at the other, she smiles, taking a step back into the shadows where the sunrays that pierced through crooked wooden planks attempted still to pierce through "Until we speak again, Silver. I'll be most curious to hear all of your stories."

[saintvainglorious]

Fics I Enjoyed in May

11 fics total. Includes fics from the following fandoms: Black Sails

ya filthy animals by vowelinthug/@vowel-in-thug Black Sails | James Flint/John Silver | 11k | Explicit

Flint and Silver could be rulers of an illegal organization, major mob bosses, kingpins, criminal masterminds, etc. But then they could also be petty shoplifters who like to drink during the day and fool around on their houseboat.

the straight walk home by vowelinthug/@vowel-in-thug Black Sails | James Flint/John Silver, Jack Rackham/Anne Bonny, Anne Bonny/Max, Billy Bones/Charles Vane | 73k | Explicit

Let me tell you a story, about a vaquero named Vasquez…

Seedlings by twofrontteethstillcrooked/@twofrontteethstillcrooked Black Sails | James Flint/John Silver | 23k | Explicit

"If there's anything I can help you with, or if you'd like to order flowers for an upcoming occasion--" "All right, honestly?" Handsomely disgruntled customer looked Silver dead in the eye and said, "I'm looking for a gift that says, 'You are making a dreadful mistake. Call me when you've figured out what a fucking hash of things you've made.'" He spoke the way some people chewed tinfoil. Silver felt two things: lust like a plague of locusts, and the words 'uh-oh' waft through his brain.

Roasted by robotboy/@r0b0tb0y Black Sails | James Flint/John Silver | 7k | Explicit | Part 1 of Butterscotch

‘Everyone ignores me! I’m a barista!’ Of John Silver, useless bisexual, and James Flint, Deaf coffee addict.

no-one by doomcountry/@doomcountry Black Sails | James Flint/John Silver | 2k | Teen & Up

Now, he is thinking of a name.

stealing by nysscientia/@nysscientia Black Sails | James Flint/John Silver | 1k | Mature

This particular approach—it’s not Flint’s first instinct. But gentling Silver when he’s like this generally yields bad results. So instead he looms, crowding into Silver under the guise of examining his papers. “What are you doing?” Silver doesn’t turn or look up, but Flint can see him shifting in response to the proximity. “Need to adjust shares now that Wallis won’t be in the boarding party.” Flint drops his hands to either arm of Silver’s chair, bracketing him in. “And why did this require my shirt?” Silver takes Flint's clothes. Flint takes a test.

Riposte by Apetslife/@corsaircourser-blog Black Sails | James Flint/John Silver | 3k | General Audiences

noun: riposte; plural noun: ripostes (Fencing) a quick return thrust following a parry.

say that the wind will never change on us by mapped/@reluming Black Sails | James Flint/John Silver | 3k | Teen & Up

Three conversations about Flint's grave.

welcome to the occupation by natlet/@natlet Black Sails | James Flint/John Silver | 4k | Mature | Part 1 of please do not let me go

Vulnerability, it turns out, is a blade that cuts both ways

trouble is my business by vowelinthug/@vowel-in-thug Black Sails | James Flint/John Silver | 13k | Explicit | Part 3 of BLACK SAILS NOIR

The brim of his hat digs into Silver’s ear for a quick second before Silver takes it off and drops it on the floor, too. Then his arms come up around him. “Hey, daddy, is that your revolver in your trousers or are you just happy to see me?” “It’s my Pocket Hammerless.” Silver tsks. “I know a fellow who came back from Verdun like that,” he says. “War is hell.” Flint manages to keep his business open for a whole four hours before it all goes to shit. Part 3, with actual plot, of the NOIR au

Part Three: The Men by Apetslife/@corsaircourser-blog Black Sails | James Flint/John Silver | 5k | Teen & Up | Part 3 of John Silver Can't Get There From Here

Or: Third In A Continuing List Of Insurmountable Things That Stand Between John Silver And Treasure Island. He’s always liked this ship, from the first time he’d set foot on her in Tortuga. She’s light to the wind and the rudder, and easy under his feet, no sharp movements or heavy, heaving lurches after the sails like the merchant ships where he’d begun his life at sea. Now even she feels tense, though, taut in her anchorage, stiff to the waves rolling into Chesapeake Bay off the ocean ahead of what looks like a sharp late-spring squall. He kisses his fingertips and presses them to her mainmast. “Easy, lady,” he murmurs. “We’ll bring him back, don’t you fret none.”

[jaynovz]

MadiSilverFlint OT3 Rec List

Aka the Best Tragic Triad of All Time.

I don’t think anything more needs to be said except that I love these three to PIECES. These are my favorite MadiSilverFlint fics--sappy, sweet, angsty, sexy--you get the whole spectrum of flavor. <3

Enjoy!

--

I wish for once we could stay gold by jaynovz

Summary:

Madi has discovered that pirates truly are a grimy bunch, but her two have managed to keep fairly clean the last few months when they had access to fresh water.

The governor’s mansion is filled with bustle, men scurrying about, seeking answers from both Captain Flint and their new King, but there is time enough to steal them away. Time enough this evening for some respite, to cleanse the grief and violence from the last few days alongside the dirt.

the misplaced half of our lives by mapped

Summary: Madi starts to understand why Silver trusts Flint.

Good Morning by bana05

Summary: As Madi prepares to take care of her lovers, they instead decide to take care of her first.

how we could be brought here by love by mapped

Summary: A 4x03 AU where Flint receives a minor injury in the battle of Nassau Town and Silver is very shaken by it.

the only way out is the way back in by samedifference61

Summary:

And Silver obviously means to further agitate Flint’s state when he says, “Do you know what she said to me this morning? She said, ‘I cannot understand why the two of you have not been intimate yet.’”

a shared bath, a conversation about death, and a promise

darkness in his fingertips, eyes just the same by jaynovz

Summary:

A desperate fear is welling up in Silver. Flint, injured? How grievous a wound must it be to keep Flint from a battle? To prevent him from heading up the rescue party? Flint, who Silver had seen take a warship with a shot shoulder, Flint, who shrugged off injuries from raids with an annoyed grimace as if they were minor inconveniences. Silver’s heartbeat is too fast and too slow at the same time, ice creeps around him from all sides at the stark reminder that Flint is mortal. The man who would sneer at God, who would sail straight into a tempest, who seemed to control reality with his demons… Silver has seen Captain Flint bleed, yes, but it’s never mattered like this, never truly hampered him.

And on the heels of this fear is something far less enfeebling, something Silver embraces: a dark vortex of rage.

a three way knot by jauneclair

Summary: Flint knits; Silver pries; and Madi secretly doesn't mind at all.

your heart is the only place I call home by vowelinthug

Summary: Madi learns the secret of John Silver's past: he used to be the worst.

sequel to still i follow the heartlines on your hand

pass on your way, then, with a smiling face by youremyqueen

Summary: Flint sleeps in the spare room until he doesn't.

join your hands to your hearts by jauneclair

Summary: Madi's approach to diplomacy in negotiating relationships is not what Flint expected.

Burial at sea by le_mru

Summary: Two years after Skeleton Island, Madi sets out to find Flint and recover the treasure for the Maroon community, Flint is adjusting to a life after death, and Silver interferes as usual.

Maybe in Another Life by samedifference61

Summary:

At the rail of a ship James doesn’t command, they stand shoulder to shoulder.

“John still thinks you’re dead,” James states, because it’s something that needs to be said aloud before they continue.

With eyes unblinking toward the rolling sea, Madi says, “And he still thinks you should be dead.”

James’ lip curls in anger. The wounds of betrayal are too fresh for either to say anymore.

Two Points In Space by illgiveyouallofme:

Summary: Since Silver returned from the dead, Madi has watched him and Flint dance around each other. She decides to take matters into her own hands.

And then everyone takes some things into their own hands.

stitched with its color by x_etoile_x:

Summary:

He is my friend too.

She’d reached out to him for the first time after he’d said those damning words, slipping her small hand into his and leaning against his side. Had duty not pulled them back into the world, he thinks they might yet be standing on that beach, like silent watchers in some myth, fading away to nothing with their eyes fixed on the sea.

The scene where Madi tells Flint that Silver is alive.

nonpareil of beauty by lacecat:

Summary: In which Silver gets his ear pierced, both by Flint and by Madi.

In the Warmth of the Night by Magnetism_bind:

Summary: After Silver's return from the sea, Flint thinks he needs to step aside so Silver & Madi can be together. He finds this is not the case.

inhale,exhale,reset by mapped:

Summary: After he is reunited with Thomas, James continues to watch more than one point in space at the same time.

married by the ocean by mapped:

Summary: Flint returns to the sea whence he came, and James? Well, James goes back to Padstow.

i am tired and i need someplace to begin by lacecat:

Summary:

Madi watches him steadily as he approaches her. “Perhaps one day,” she begins, but cuts herself off with a swallow, blinking back tears. They won’t be able to fill the hole between them, but maybe they can try to build around it, accommodate it.

He lays a rough palm on her cheek, gentle. He loves her so much. “Perhaps,” Silver says, even though they both know it’s the furthest from a promise. They have survived on far less, after all.

this is a story about loss by inwardphae:

Summary:

There is Madi’s warmth next to him, safety, a nest, a place to call home, someone to come back for – Silver knows that Flint knows this, he understands this. He’s been in this situation before. But with him? With him there is light, there is certainty and a purpose, there is a man standing on a cliff at the top of the world, a sword in his hand, asking to be loved for who he is, not for who he had been.

How exactly is one supposed to watch two points in space at the same time?

Practice.

Silver looks up and tightens his grip on Madi’s hand as he does so. But his gaze meets ocean eyes instead, and he can’t bring himself to look away.

Stay. Please. Stay.

~Written for the nsfw edition of Freedom in the Dark, a free digital Black Sails fanzine.

[viiisenyas]

So here's a small clipping of my first chapter for my new fic The Last Prince of Starkhaven.

I will tag (with no pressure) @psalacanthea, @oxygenforthewicked, @n7viper, @inquisimer, @sulky-valkyrie, @gloriousonemahanon, and YOU !! Yes, you scrolling :D

Guardian, 9:31 Dragon

Goran never favoured the parties hosted by the royal family. It was nothing more than an elaborate way of flaunting what he coveted the most. The throne was rightfully his, and it was plucked from his grasp when his uncle Corbin assumed control of Starkhaven despite his father’s dying wish. He despised him ever since.

The cool breeze kissed Goran’s face as he stood on the balcony. He listened to the idle chatter of the elites, and his grip tightened on the silver chalice when his cerulean eyes landed on his relatives. Corbin was seated at the head of the royal table.

For forty long years, Goran has lived his life under his shadow. He was ridiculed in the council meetings, humiliated at political gatherings, and Corbin relished in it. But he wouldn’t any longer. Not after tonight.

His eyes flitted to the mercenaries hidden among the servants. He made a point to memorise their names and their features. He wanted to thank them properly when this was over. The Flint Company may not have had the reputation of the Antivan Crows, but they were skilled enough.

“Lord Vael,” a feminine voice sounded from his left.

Goran turned his head and his expression softened when he saw Johane approaching from the shadowed corridor.

“Lady Harimann,” he greeted formally, offering a curt nod as she stood beside him. “I suspect you have news?”

Johane nodded, lowering her voice, “The doors have been sealed, and your men await your signal.”

“And what of the guards?”

“They have been diverted to patrol outside the palace.”

Goran took a slow sip of his wine, savouring the taste of the rare vintage. “You have my eternal thanks.”

“So long as your gratitude doesn’t end here. Do not forget who arranged your ascent, Goran.” Johane clasped her hands together, “I would hate to see your reign end faster than the Ferelden Blight.”

He gave her a contemptuous look in response to her thinly veiled threat. “Unlike my uncle, I do not forget who my allies are.”

Goran began to move into the hall towards the royal table, leaving Johane behind. He wore a tight-lipped smile when he passed the feasting nobles, ignoring their sneers. They would never turn their noses up at him again.

“Your highness,” he bowed.

“Nephew,” Corbin greeted in a flat tone. “I take it you’re enjoying the celebrations? I must say, I am surprised you haven’t already indulged in the feast.”

Goran willed himself not to scowl.

“Aye, and now that you mention it, Father… His belt has certainly loosened since last we met,” Carsten jeered, and Adain chortled.

He forced a chuckle and ran his fingers through his brown curls. Imbeciles, he thought. He loathed them just as much.

“Where is Meghan?” Goran asked, looking at the empty seat beside Corbin.

“My wife has been feeling ill as of late,” Corbin reached for a roll of buttered bread. “She is abed.”

“Pity. I would have liked to have seen her tonight, but no matter.” Goran waved his hand dismissively, “I pray that she recovers soon.”

“She doesn’t need your prayers.” Corbin tore the bread into pieces before stuffing one into his mouth. “And I doubt anything coming from your mouth will ascend higher than the ceiling.”

His cousins erupted in boisterous laughter again, and Goran pressed his lips together.

“Your highness,” Goran bowed and turned to move to the centre of the hall.

“If I may have your attention,” he called as he moved his eyes around the room. The hall quieted to a whisper and curious gazes followed him. He watched the assassins move into position. “Tonight, we’ve come together to celebrate Wintersend and give our gratitude to the Maker.” Goran said, “But this blessed day also marks the fortieth year of our Prince’s rule of Starkhaven.”

Goran looked at the mercenaries who were moving behind his relatives as the room was filled with applause.

He shifted his gaze to Corbin, and his expression hardened as he saw the smug grin on his face.

“Long may he reign,” Goran raised his goblet.

[fornassau]

Charles had gotten nice and dressed up, to a point anyway. This was a sweet little dinner date idea and this tavern had become one of their favorites. So he slipped on his tightest pair of black jeans, and chose a black button up shirt. He had it unbuttoned down so you could get a nice glimpse of his chest, having both flaps spread open. A silver necklace was around his neck, a cute little thing his niece had won for him. Charles wore the trinket proudly.

He’d followed him to its location and as soon as he talked about them bumping into each other he grinned. “ You mean when you bumped into me and spilled my drink? “ Oh that would be a point of contention their entire relationship as well as a funny story to tell others.

Then he started talking about the concert, and continued on. Flint was telling him how much he loved him, and he seemed so choked up about it. He wasn’t expecting him to full out propose again and get on his knee. He hadn’t even expected a ring. Wedding bands would be good for him. He continued on and the singer noticed he was kind of blocking the door to the whole place, people waiting patiently behind them as if there was a queue. One girl was awwing. Yes, Flint was terribly sweet.

He’d laughed softly when he said he was glad he brought him backstage, smiling warmly. The way he was talking.. it sounded almost like — and then the box appeared and the man knelt. His eyes went wide. Charles was hard to surprise and his fiancé had done exactly that. He started to laugh, started turning a dark red, covering his face with his hands and shaking his head in disbelief. This man! This beautiful fucking man. His eyes started to tear up. It felt liked he’d not proposed until now.

“ Oh, James.. “ He cooed softly. People were watching, someone was taking a picture. He’d laughed about riding him. His blush got darker if you could believe it. “ It’s beautiful.. you’re beautiful.. “ Another laugh. Now he was crying. He sniffed. “ Yes, of course I’ll fucking marry you! “

The Place Where We Began

The Bell and Anchor Tavern.

The place where he and Charles met so many months ago. Where they - quite literally - bumped into each other. Where sparks flew, and not necessarily the good kind. At least not with James. His sparks had been more like fuses being lit, short fuses, because he certainly went off on Charles, which the other man had been amused by and even aroused. And later that same day, they ended up meeting yet again at a Rusty Anchors concert, their lead singer being that exact same man James Flint had gone off on hours prior. His ticket number had won the on-stage meeting and had it not been for Izzy and Stede practically forcing him to that concert and onto that stage, he would not be standing here with the love of his life. That very same man he went off on for bumping into him. That very same man that both embarrassed and defended him on stage. That very same man that changed his life for the fucking better.

He never thought it possible to love again. He never thought it possible to be happy again. And then he met Charles and suddenly, everything was possible. And everything did happen. All of that and so much more. He fell so deeply in love and though he was terrified of it and any thoughts of their future because of what happened to his first love, Thomas, Charles, as always, calmed any fears and any worries. Once a man that was unsure of marriage and parenthood, he was now completely sure of it and knew, without a doubt, he wanted it all. He wanted all of it with Charles and he could see it so clearly. Meeting his nieces certainly helped with that, and oh, he loved them dearly. He grew attached to them rather quickly and it only made him want children of their own even more, something Charles had been wanting for a long time. James had once been afraid of being unable to give that to him, but he was afraid no longer.

He wasn't afraid of anything thanks to Charles. So long as Charles was by his side, as long as they were together, he felt as though he could do anything. They could do anything. And they were certainly doing just that. They were living their life and enjoying it. James Flint was truly the happiest man alive, despite the argument that came from Izzy and Stede when saying that. All in good fun, of course.

The day they became engaged was certainly one of the happiest moments in James's life, even though what lead to that moment wasn't exactly the happiest. But James was able to get everything off of his chest, he was able to lay out all of his fears. All which had to do with losing Charles and the thought devastated him. It shattered him. But he knew he needed to stop living in fear and living in the past and start living in the present. He needed to focus on the now, on their life together and their future and in that moment, that's exactly what happened. Because he proposed to him. Not in the most romantic of ways, but it was romantic for them. He told Charles how he wanted to marry him, how he wanted a family with him, how he wanted everything with him and he meant every single word. They made love soon after and, well, that was some several days ago. They were engaged, except... James didn't have a ring in that moment. It wasn't how he wanted to propose, not that he planned one out anyway, but now... now he did. Now he had a ring.

So, he brought his unsuspecting fiancé back to the tavern where they met for a drink and dinner date, but he stopped just before the door to go inside. His heart was fucking racing. He didn't know why he was so nervous, since they were already engaged, but this time he'd be doing it with a ring and with other people witnessing. "This is where it happened," he starts, smirking. "Where you came out of those doors and bumped into me, spilling your drink all over," yes, he still blamed him. Jokingly, of course. "Fuck, I was so angry." He laughs, shaking his head. His smile is wide as can be. "And you had the nerve to fucking flirt with me, Charles." God, he was laughing harder now. At the moment, it wasn't at all amusing but it was now. Now that they could look back on that moment and smile and laugh.

"But I'm glad. I'm glad you ran into me and spilled your whiskey all over my trousers," he smirks, turning to face him. "I'm glad those two dragged me to your concert and that my number was called, despite how fucking embarrassing it was to be up there," but he'd gladly join him on stage now. "and I'm so fucking glad you invited me backstage because I would not have had the courage to ask you out." He admits, blushing and smiling. "Because you have changed my life, Charles. In ways I never thought possible. You've made me feel things I never thought I could feel again. You've made me... see a future, something I'd been unable to do. Afraid to do." Now he was tearing up. Fuck. "I don't feel afraid when I'm with you. I just feel so... fucking elated. All good and nothing bad." He drops to one knee and reaches into his pocket, then, pulling out a small, blue box. "I know we're already engaged, but I didn't have a ring at the time," He chuckles. "So now that I do, I thought I'd do this again. Without punching a wall this time..." Another laugh. "Charles Vane, will you make me the happiest fucking man alive and marry me?" He pops open the box. "I'll let you ride me like a stallion again." He couldn't help himself with that one. @fornassau

[nataliedanovelist]

GF - Timestuck AU: The Power of Mabel ch.6

While fighting over a time machine so one twin can win a pig or the other can win the heart of a girl, Mabel is left stranded in a snowy forest with no time machine and no brother. Oops.

ch.5 - ch.7 (finale)

~~~~~~~~~~

The air was still quite nippy and crisp, but the afternoon sun sparkled on the white snow and made the atmosphere pleasant to stand in if the Main Sequence Star was shining directly on a living organism, like it was on Stan from where he stood on the porch. He sighed tiredly as he dug into his hoodie’s pocket for a fresh cigar and lit it with his Zippo-style lighter. He knew he probably shouldn’t smoke with a kid in the house, but after the few days he’s had, he needed and had well earned a smoke-break.

The door opened and Stan hid his cigar by his side, his right arm glued to his hip to hide the newcomer on his left, but when he saw it was an adult, he relaxed and took another puff. “M’trying to quit.” He mumbled.

Ford snickered. “Yeah, it looks like you’re trying really hard.”

“Don’t be shitty.” Stan said casually.

“Mind if I lend one? I can replenish you in a few minutes.”

Stan stared at his goody two-shoes of a twin and handed him a cigar and the lighter. “You smoke?”

“Not often. For a celebration or after a long day.” Ford answered as he lit his borrowed cigar. “Maybe twice a month. Thrice?”

“Huh.”

Ford looked down at the lighter in his hand, and he was surprised when he recognized it. He can clearly remember seeing the tiny silver box in a store and thinking Stanley would like it as a Only One More Year of High-School present. “I gave this to you.”

Stan smiled as he took it back and pocketed it. “Yeah, it’s a good lighter. Only needed to change the flint a few times.”

“Hey guys!” A small voice called from inside the house. “Do you like vanilla or chocolate?”

The twins looked at each other, smiled, and called back. “Both. Both is good!”

“Both it is!”

Stan chuckled and shook his head. “Knucklehead… I knew she had to be family just by looking at her!” He bragged proudly.

“I suppose I was too distracted by the fact that a cold girl was at my doorstep to recognize the family resemblance.” Ford reasoned, shrugging. “I wanted to make sure I did the right thing. I didn’t exactly feel like getting arrested for kidnapping.”

Stan barked a laugh. “Yeah, you got a good point.” The conman yawned and stretched his arms over his head. “Guess I’ll head out tomorrow.” He mentioned offhandedly.

Ford stared at him, a little saddened and disheartened by this fact that was news to him. “You’re leaving?”

“I mean, yeah?” Stan equally stared at his brother, confused and not daring to be hopeful, but still. “What?”

“I just…” Ford hesitated and busied his mouth by taking a hit of his cigar. With everything that has been said and how well he and Stan have been communicating, he really didn’t feel like ruining it now. He relaxed his shoulders and said with his eyes on the snowy woods. “I was really hoping you would stay.”

Stan looked dumbfounded, like a child discovering candy for the first time, but he looked away and down at the porch floor. “Oh.”

“I’ll of course be taking care of Mabel until Dipper comes back in time for her…”

“He might not.”

“We got over our grudges. They can do the same.” Ford said firmly. “Still, you have a point. Dipper might not be able to come back. Regardless, whether it’s for a short time, a long time, or for the rest of my life, I will take care of her. I might not be the best for her, I can acknowledge that…”

“C’mon, Sixer, don’t be like that.” Stan scolded lightly, giving a sympathetic look to the nerd. “What else can you do, y’know? There’s no way in hell you’re gonna give her up, I’ll kidnap her and run away to Canada before I let you…”

Ford laughed and waved a hand as he smiled. “No no, I promise I won’t.”

“Good.”

“The point is, she loves you. Clearly. And it takes two, and I’ll be busy with my research, especially once the snow melts and the anomalies become more active in the spring and summer, but…” Ford bit his lip. This was a bad idea. If he makes it seem that the only reason why Stan needs to be here is because of Mabel, if or when she’s gone, then Stan will have no reason to stay. And there were many reasons why Ford wanted Stan to stay.

Despite how much of a social-cripple Ford was, he knew that Stan was homeless. His frequent traveling and how full his car was right now was enough proof of that. And Ford hated that for his brother.

But there was another, bigger reason why Ford wanted Stan to stay. So he better just say it.

“Do you know why I went to Backupsmore?” Ford asked.

Stan’s facial expression darkened as he looked away and he shrugged. “Cuz I fucked up your project?”

“No,” Ford answered plainly. “I may not have been accepted into West Coast Tech, but there were so many other colleges that wanted me. I could apply to Yale or Harvard or any college from New York to California and instantly be accepted.

“But I didn’t.” The author added grimly. “Stanley, when you left… When you were gone, I was a mess. So many days I just lied in bed without meals or sleep. Ma was hysterical. I failed most of my exams and only barely scraped a C in the ones I didn’t fail. My GPA dropped significantly and I even lost my Honor Roll. Thankfully my past grades were enough to let me graduate with a 3.2, but my clean record was stained and a lot of prestigious colleges didn’t want me.

“All I wanted at that point was to get as far away from Glass Shard as possible. Luckily there was a small college outside of San Francisco that practically accepted everyone and had a wide range of studies to offer, so I applied and was accepted by graduation day.”

“Good for you.” Stan grunted.

“No! The point is, I…” Ford groaned, feeling like he was failing, but he had to try. “I understand if you don’t want to stay. I understand you have your own life and things you want to do, and I can live without you again if I have to, but… I really, really don’t want to. Yes, I know that part of growing up is going in different directions and being independent and all the other bells and whistles, but it doesn’t have to be. So, if you can tolerate living under the same roof as me again, and if you’re okay with it, I want to offer you a job.”

Stan raised an eyebrow at the six-fingered man. “What kinda job?”

“The committee gives me monthly boosts so I can continue my research. As long as I prove to them once a year that progress is being made, I have a good income coming in. It is a big job, exploring the large woods, climbing mountains and waterfalls, combing the lake, mapping the Enchanted Forest, and hunting down monsters and anomalies to learn more about them. I’ve always managed to make it out of trouble alright, but… I need a partner, and I want to keep it in the family.” Ford smiled at the last sentence.

“What are you saying?” Stan sneered, not daring to believe, not daring to hope, but that stupid smile Ford had…

“I’m saying I want you to do this with me, Stanley.” Ford said matter-of-factly. “I can share the grant with you after bills are paid and groceries are purchased. We can renovate the small room on the ground floor to be Mabel’s bedroom and you can have the entire attic as your own space.

“I know it’s not sailing around the world, but… Please. Will you give me another chance?” Ford pleaded with a soft smile.

Stan grinned and shook his head. “Shit, Sixer, you’re a better salesman than me.” He looked him in the eyes. “Okay. Yes. I’ll stay.”

Ford’s cheeks puffed with happiness as he smiled, his lips pressed together, and he looked ahead, happily daydreaming his future. Being surrounded by weirdness for a living was amazing by itself; doing it with his twin and raising their niece together on top of it was better than anything he could have imagined.

Stan was watching him and laughed good-naturedly, then held out a hand to him. Ford blinked at it like a startled owl, but then returned the smile and sealed the deal with a high-six.

Both brothers stood contently outside with their cigars for a minute, but then heard a bowl clatter on the floor. Mabel must be making a mess in the kitchen, which was fine.

What wasn’t fine was the sound that followed of a body falling on the floor.

Ford raised an eyebrow and called calmly, “Mabel, are you alright?”

They both expected a quick “yeah, sorry, I’m okay,” and maybe an explanation to follow, like she tripped getting down from a chair or something. But there was no reply.

“Mabel, sweetie?” Stan hollered, trying not to sound mad or scared or anything but cool-under-pressure, but this voice trembled with fear.

Still no answer.

Ford and Stan quickly discarded their cigars and bolted inside. Racing like children for cookies, they soon stood at the doorway of the kitchen and were horrified to find Mabel sprawled on the floor on her front, her hair scattered over her face to hide her expression, and her legs and bottom-half of her body slowly fading.

Literally. Fading. Mabel was fading away. She was disappearing like a stain on cloth.

“MABEL!” The men screamed and were immediately on their knees beside her. Ford scooped her up into his arms and felt her pulse and looked over her.

“What happened to her?!” Stan cried out. “Pumpkin, what’s wrong?!”

Ford’s eyes widened in panic as a horrifying realization slapped him in the face. “Mabel… You changed history.”

The tired girl nodded with her eyes closed. “If… If you guys had a fight… and never made up… in my timeline, then I guess…” Mabel paused to yawn tiredly. It didn’t hurt, but she was really sleepy now.“I guess that timeline doesn’t exist anymore, huh? I guess I don’t exist anymore.”

“WHAT?!” Stan yelled and took Mabel’s hand and squeezed it. “We have to do something! You’re family! You’re… We can’t just let you d- not exist!”

Ford held Mabel tighter and closer to his warm chest, making her smile. She swore she could hear his heartbeat. It was too fast. She would have to fix that. Poor Ford was also shaking like a leaf. Mabel could fix that, too.

“I’ll exist.” She smiled up at her uncles. “In a few years.”

Ford bit his lip. He shouldn’t ask this, it was probably dangerous to learn about the future, but the worst was already happening. What else could possibly happen that was worse than losing his girl? Ford couldn’t help but ask, “When?”

“August 31st, 1999.” Mabel’s eyes dazzled. “You’ll meet Dipper, too.” She shifted her eyes to only Stan and whispered, “Did you know you were there? You came to see us when we were born?”

Stan’s eyes watered as he smiled at the new piece of information. “I did?”

“You did. I came out first. You were so proud when I kicked the doctor in the jaw.”

Stan made a watery chuckle and wiped at his eye. “That’s my girl.”

“Dipper came next. He was blue. Umbilical cord wrapped around his neck.”

“Was he okay?” Stan asked.

“He was fine. You knew he would be. You never doubted.”

“I never will, pumpkin. I swear.”

The fading is now much worse. It was spreading over Mabel like a virus. Her legs were hardly visible to the naked eye, and even her shoulders were losing color. This Mabel is almost completely gone. 

Ford, pressed for time, bit his lip as tears flooded his eyes and he cupped Mabel’s cheek and cradled her. “I… I can’t let you go! We just started to become a real family! Wh-What am I going to do without you?!”

Mabel smiled and used the free hand not holding Stan’s trembling hand to caress Ford’s jaw and lower cheek, then cupping his face so her fingertips grazed his sideburn. “It’s okay, really. I’ll see you again, and next time it’ll be when both of you come to see us. Totally worth it.” 

Ford held his breath, and shut his eyes, a tear escaping from each eye and sitting comfortably in the corners of his windows to his soul. Stan hiccuped a laugh and rubbed her hand between both of his. Both of them were doing everything in their power not to cry. 

To that, Mabel laughed and said, “Boys are stupid. It’s okay to cry.”

The cursed power of Mabel. Making people be honest and breaking dams.

Ford curled into his niece, his face sloe to her heart, and cried gently. He wasn’t ready, but he didn’t think he could ever be ready for this.

Stan laughed with tears streaming down his face and he kissed Mabel’s tiny fingers trapped in his hold, then held their hands close to his bowed forehead and just focused on feeling her pulse between his palms.

It only lasted another minute.

Ford was mortified when his chest sank and his arms were empty. He threw himself back and stared at his lap and felt sick to his stomach to find his little girl missing.

Stan’s hands also clasped together and he squeezed tightly, his fists against his trembling lips as he cried.

The genius who always seemed to know what to do didn’t have a damn clue what to do with himself. He growled in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, then let out a painful howl and moan that most definitely disturbed birds and made a deer or two gallop farther away.

Ford removed his glasses and held his knees, sobbing his heart out. Stan blinked his tears off his eyes, resulting in them rolling down his face, as he watched his brother completely shatter to pieces. He had seen him upset before, sure; all those years of bullying, of Pa’s outbursts and sometimes physical punishments, hopelessness that he was actually worth something. You don’t spend seventeen years with a person and not see them break every so often, granted the blessing to help them put themselves back together again.

But Ford didn’t need Stan to swoop in and fix it. There were no bullies to punch or parents to stand against or jokes to crack that would make this okay. All Stan could do was throw his arms around him and bury his face into Ford’s shoulder and cry, too. 

So that’s what they did on the kitchen floor for over an hour.

~~~~~~~~~~

Dipper blinked to try to see, but all he saw around him was inky blackness for miles. His heart raced as he looked around for his sister. “Mabel? Mabel! Mabel, answer me!”

The boy scrambled and collapsed out of a portable potty at the fair. He blinked his eyes rapidly to adjust to the sunlight, scurrying off his hands and knees, clutching the warm time-machine in his hands. Wendy was still admiring her price and Robbie was still sulking, and Waddles was still trying to get away from Pacifica.

That didn’t matter! Mabel was stranded back in time! But how far back?! When was Mabel?! Dipper started jamming the button, but the machine wasn’t working, and it was soon swiped from him by a black-gloved hand.

“Mason Pines,” A gruff voice commanded above him and Dipper looked up to find two new guys with that Blendin guy. The two other guys were muscular and guarded with high-tech armor. 

“You are under arrest for violating the Time-Traveler's Code of Conduct and for jeopardizing the timestream.” The man labeled as Dundgren stated as serious as death.

“Do you have any idea how many rules you just broke?!” Blendin squawked. “I’m asking. I wasn’t there with you. It was probably a lot, right?”

“Wait, wait please!” Dipper begged as the two members of the Time Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadrent each grabbed the boy by an arm. “My sister! She’s still back there! We have to get her!”

“You have the right to remain silent.” The man labeled as Lolph informed robotically. “Anything you say can and already has been used in the Court of Time-Law.”

“Let me go, Mabel needs-...” And Dipper and the three time-travelers were blasted forward in time.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the endless space of time, Dipper was levitated off the ground by a giant baby using the power of his forehead-hourglass to trap him in a baby-blue field. Members of the the Time Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadrent circled the two, and Blendin stood with his arms crossed over his chest and smiling smugly as the kid who caused so much trouble was getting what he deserved.

“You and your sister have broken the eternal laws of space-time.”

“I’m sorry!” Dipper cried out, trying to fight the energy circling him, but it was futile. “I’m sorry! Do what you want to me, just help my sister!”

“Your sister does not require help, nor do you require punishment.” Time Baby informed as he held his feet. “You are lucky the events that occurred do not change anything drastically. However, your timeline has shifted and therefore this reality’s version of you and your sister are no longer viable and will cease to exist.”

“What?!” Dipper squeaked and looked down at his body to find his legs disappearing. “No no NO! What’s happening to me?!”

“You and your twin sister will be born again on August 31st, 1999, but too many things are different in your timeline for this version of you to continue to exist.”

“W-W-What did I do wrong?! What did I change?!” Dipper cried out as his whole body was drained of color. “What changed in our timeline?!”

“Your uncles have amended their bond thirty-four years ahead of schedule. As unfortunate as this is, your sister miraculously delayed the plans of Bill Cipher by an entire millennia.”

“What uncles?!” Dipper asked, panicked as the fading reached his neck. “Who’s Bill Cipher?!”

“If you wanted the answers you sought out, you should have been patient.” Time Baby scolded. “We all get the answers we seek… in time.”

“P-P-Please!” Dipper begged as he appeared as a ghost. “Please! What did Mabel do?!”

Time Baby cruelly stayed silent, testing Dipper’s strengths, but he was dying, anyways. Might as well.

“She met the Author of the Journals. Your missing uncle.”

Dipper’s eyes widened. “Mabel…” He rasped, and then he ceased to exist.

[citrinekay]

Prompt:

"You pushed our world into the sea."

"Well, what's so bad about it?"

"I do not know how to swin."

Anon, sincerely from the bottom of my heart, this shit hurted and you are partially responsible <3

_____

Silver is tired of climbing that damned, cursed hill.

Apparently, Madi isn’t. She keeps scaling the tawny hillside, past the jutting rock that trips him every time, past the dying tufts of grass beaten down by the tread of feet on the way to a lesson in swordsmanship, past the packed plateau of earth to place where one can stand still and look out at the sea unobstructed. She keeps standing there as if there’s some vestige of Flint left in the sand and the sea, and Silver feels compelled to go after her.

He imagines himself like a star in orbit with the earth, trying and failing to catch up to some inevitable conclusion, some terminus which might make everything right again. He’d hoped it wouldn’t take so long for a balance to strike between them again, but nigh on six months have passed. The camp is quiet now that the chiefs are gone and the treaty signed. Life appears stable, only it isn’t. Not for them. Every small victory - a kiss on his cheek, a hand on his arm, a meal shared, a conversation late at night - rings hollow. It’s as if they’re casting pebbles down into a great chasm in order to fill the void.

The last time Silver followed Madi up the hill, she told him she wanted to be alone. She’d gone up there to think. Not wanting to upset her, he obeyed; but as he shuffled away, he heard her breath hitch with a quiet sob, and he couldn’t fucking understand. The hill should be torn down. It should go to ruin with everything else. It should be destroyed just like every other reminder of Flint. But it can’t be - it’s a part of the landscape, their goddamn foundation here - and so it will remain. Likewise, he will continue following her.

Today, as he crests the hill breathing heavily and sweating from the exertion, he sees her sitting on the boulder where she found him that first day she decided to let him remain with her. Dressed in blue cotton, she appears like one of the blackbirds marking the sky. She must hear him approaching - everyone does these days - but she doesn’t turn around.

He stands still for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say. Mostly, he wants to scream, please, I did this for you. Stop looking past me to things that don’t matter anymore. Stop ignoring how much I love you. It’s getting harder and harder not to let those words run free.

Finally, moving in until he’s standing beside her, he says, “You know, there’s other places you might get this view on the island.”

Madi’s jaw clenches. “You think I don’t know this? I’ve lived here my whole life.”

He lowers his head, and stares at the dirt. “Of course not. I’m trying to understand.”

“You came here, too.”

“Yes. Then I stopped when I realized …”

There’s nothing but the wind for a moment until she looks up at him, her dark eyes squinted against the sun and the glassy sheen of emotion. “Realized what?”

“How futile it is.”

“It?”

Silver swallows hard against the growing knot in his throat and shifts his gaze back to the narrow, glistening seam between the sea and the sky. It’s almost an indistinguishable mirage at this point in the day when the angle of the sun sears them together.

“Thinking about him.”

Though Silver hadn’t whispered his name, he can feel the weight of Flint’s presence down his back like a feather traced deliberately, torturously along his spine. He can’t force it away no matter how hard he tries. It’s as if he’s here with them now.

“I’m not thinking about him,” Madi says, at length. “I’m thinking about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes. About why you did what you did.”

“I told you.”

Her brows furrow. At once, tears spring into her eyes, the first he’s seen since he first delivered the news. She has been so cold and distant, he’d thought he was witnessing an angel emerging from marble all these months, but the stone is cracking now with fissures that threaten to ruin the entire construction.

“John,” she whispers, her voice trembling, “you pushed our whole world into the sea.”

His pulse quickens to a feverish, nauseated beat. He can feel it down his whole body, the panic and the guilt sluicing like a filthy river with his blood. The sun seems to grow brighter right along with her cutting scrutiny.

“Our world,” he echoes, softly. “You mean the world of war, and pain, and suffering? What is so bad about that world vanishing into the sea?”

Madi leaps to her feet, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I do not know how to swim!”

The words hit as hard a physical blow, and he must readjust his crutch to keep from reeling backwards. Opening his mouth, he tries to offer some kind of reassurance, but Madi is already looking back toward the water, wiping a tear from her cheek. She sniffs tremulously.

“I do not know how to swim … without you,” she whispers. “You did this terrible thing, but … I cannot lose you. You’ve put me to an impossible choice; do you not understand?”

Silver’s eyes sting. She becomes a mass of swimming color and tattered edges. Christ, while he had been imagining her looking past him to what could have been, she had been looking directly into his soul and trying to find a reason to stay. Maybe he was the one looking past her. Looking for him.

“So have you?” he whispers. “Made a choice?”

She stands utterly still with her hands clenched together in front of her for a moment before stretching out her fingers toward him. He rushes in to accept the offering of physical intimacy, and utters a massive sigh of relief when she turns to throw herself into his arms. He struggles to stay upright as he clings to his crutch with one hand and her body with the other, but he feels quite certain she won’t let him fall; both her arms are securely wrapped around his waist, her face buried in his neck.

For a long time, neither of them speak or move. He holds her as close as he can, relishing the warmth of her body and ignoring the quiver of his muscles growing weak from tension. He looks at the sky and sea, and counts his breath by the crash of the waves. He pushes Flint’s face to the back of his mind, to the farthest, unreachable corner possible. It might come back sooner rather than later, but he can dream that he and Madi are alone here for the moment while the sea marries itself to the rim of the sky.

[cursestothemoon]

I Won’t Say I’m In Love

i.

Fred Weasley x Fem!Slytherin!Reader

Read the summary here

Warnings: Language, suggestive themes

Word Count: 2569

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

(i found the picture on google, there is a name on it but other than that i am not sure who owns it. I do not.)

The leaves, newly fallen from the on coming of Autumn, crunched under the feet of hurrying students. Hogwarts had begun it’s new school year, witches and wizards were hurrying from boats and carts to get into the castle and catch up with friends. Just outside of the dining Hall was a sea of students, chattering with friends, everyone staying in clumps of like colors.

Gryffindors stayed with their own, as did Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs were the ones to intermingle the most, having friends in almost every house. Then there was the house of Salazar Slytherin, a proud bunch, robes of green tightly knit together leaving no room for outsiders or stragglers, not that the other houses (excluding Hufflepuff) thought highly enough of the green and silver house to make friends.

Y/n L/n, a proud member of Slytherin stood proud with her friends and housemates. Her chin was held high, a playful smirk painted delicately on her features as she listened to Blaise Zabini give a recount of his summer holiday. Blaise had always been a nice boy, his mother was a beautiful woman who was familiar with the front page of many high end wizarding fashion magazines. Then there was Lily Webberforth, another pureblood from a family of wealth, she was in Y/n’s year and a cherished friend.

“Father said he’d be purchasing a new peacock for the manor, though he couldn’t decide between albino or not.” Draco informed.

Draco Malfoy had wormed his way into the group during second year, a good kid...when he wanted to be, but absolutely snotty otherwise.

“Y/n, how about you wear my jersey for the first game of the season?” Adrian Pucey asked, arm slinging around Y/n’s shoulders making her internally cringe.

She was never a fan of being touched and Adrian seemed to be all for it when it came to her. They were in the same year and he’d been trying to convince Y/n to make it official since third year. She preferred to play with him rather than commit to him. It was easier that way, being able to differentiate her feelings from an early age, she knew she didn't particularly like him, but they had a few good nights and now she can’t shake him. He had become rougher over the years, harsh and controlling with an affinity for blackmail.

“No my clothes are just fine, Pucey, thanks.” She shrugged off his arm as Lily snickered at the exchange, finding joy in giving Adrian a look that told him ‘better luck next time’.

Adrian, not the biggest fan of rejection then turned to Lily in hopes of getting a jealous rise out of Y/n.

“What about you, Lils? You’ll wear my jersey won’t you?”

Lily shook her head, “I’m on the team with you, clear why you're not in Ravenclaw isn't it?”

Y/n laughed at the comment and moved to stand next to Lily, away from Adrian. Luckily, he got the message, for now, and left to find Marcus Flint.

“Have you seen the twins yet?” Lily asked, leaning closer to Y/n to make sure she wasn't overheard.

The girl gave her a questioning look before asking, “Why would I go looking for them?”

“Their hair’s come in nice, looking a bit shabby last year, remember?”

“Yeah, they’ve finally cut it?”

Lily shook her head, her eyes glowing with excitement, “Even better, it’s grown out a bit longer. Real nice looking, George looks rather well I’d say.”

“I always figured you had a thing for him.” Y/n laughed.

“Oh please, you and I both know that you love how much attention Fred gives you.”

Y/n tried to respond, really she did, but she was both out of words and interrupted by Lily again.

“Look, here they come.” Her voice was quite as she nudged her head in the direction behind Y/n.

Y/n turned slowly, in no rush to give Fred Weasley the satisfaction of having him know they were talking about him. When she did finally meet his eyes she couldn’t help but agree with Lily, his hair had grown out quite handsomely and he seemed to have reached an impossible height, well over the six feet he towered at in the previous year.

“Ladies.” They greeted simultaneously, Fred eyeing Y/n as they neared.

She gave a silent nod to them as Lily vocally greeted them with a reserved, “Hey.”

“News is that the first match of the season has our houses against each other. Shame isn’t it, Poppet? You can’t cheer for me.” Fred asked, arms crossing in front of his chest and lips stretching to a smirk.

Anyone could tell Fred was proud of his large frame, as a beater he worked hard for his toned arms, and thick biceps but his height was a complete natural gift bestowed upon him by the gods and he wouldn’t waste their generosity.

Y/n snorted, “Oh yeah, makes me feel empty inside when I can’t cheer for you, Weasley.”

“I know, no need to tell me. I fill you right up don’t I?”

The comment made her sneer at him, but she was unable to say anything back as her house was called into the Great Hall for the beginning of the year feast. Fred watched her leave as George poked fun at his inability to charm his way into her heart with innuendos and sarcasm.

It annoyed Fred, it was common knowledge that you had been with a few guys, some people even going as far as giving Y/n an undeserved title for it. Unfortunately, common knowledge happened to be a common rumor made by people who disliked her. Fred didn’t know this however and her constant rejection made him wonder, what did all those other guys have that he didn't?

Y/n and Fred had a back and forth relationship, neither being afraid to throw jabs at the other with the underlying tone of flirtiness yet both of them knowing the line not to cross. Fred thought she was ethereal, the way she seemed to glow as she walked through the halls had him weak in the knees. Her voice was buttery and soft, a velvety quality that seemed to grasp onto each of his heartstrings. Fred was head over heels for her and he hated it so he used sarcasm and a condescending tone to combat his feelings. Over time this developed into a false belief that he really didn’t like her, she was cunning, sly, and so easy to hate when he couldn’t love her.

--

Lily and Y/n sat in potions class, potion already brewed and completed as they gossiped in hushed tones and watchful eyes.

“So, anything new with Weasley?”

Y/n didn’t need a first name to know who her friend was referring to and she groaned.

“No, and there never will be.”

A loud groan emitted from Lily’s lips, “When are you gonna stop lying to yourself? I can see right through you.”

“There is no chance, no way that I’d ever fall for him.”

“You’d never fall for him or you’d never let yourself?”

The following silence was just as good of an answer as any, and Lily gave her a smug looking knowing she had won the argument.

Class ended shortly after that exchange, Y/n and Lily now having a free period chose to hang out in the room with the goblet of fire, watching as people put their names in. It was only last night that Fred and George had voiced their complaints quite loudly at the age restriction and Y/n was excited to rub it in Fred’s face that she was of age. Of course she wasn’t going to put her name in the goblet, she had better things to worry about than some tournament.

Lily and Y/n entered the hall at seemingly the wrong time, seeing as Fred and George had run through the doors leaving the girls in their dust. The whoops and hollers from bystanders made Y/n roll her eyes much to Lily’s amusement.

“How can you not be annoyed by their arrogance?” Y/n asked incredulously.

Her friend shrugged, “They are amusing.”

Y/n ignored the comment as they neared the twins.

“It’s not going to work.” She sing-songed loud enough for them to hear as she walked by.

Fred and George heard the comment and made a b-line for her and Lily. Fred plopped down behind Y/n, his face turning to meet her eyes, George doing the same to Lily.

“You don’t think that, do you Lily?” George asked Lily with a feigned look of childlike innocence.

“Come on, Poppet, have a little faith in me.” Fred said, a sarcastic look of pleading falling over his features.

For extra effect Fred jutted out his bottom lip making Y/n laugh at his ridiculousness, and oh how he loved to have her attention to himself.

“It’s incredibly dimwitted.” Y/n answered.

Lily nodded, “See that there?” She pointed to a white line around the goblet as she continued, “it’s an age line. Dumbledore drew it himself -”

“Meaning something as pathetically dimwitted as an aging potion isn’t going to get past it.” Y/n finished.

Fred tsked as he shook his head, “That’s why it’s so brilliant.”

“Because it’s so pathetically dimwitted.”

The twins stood up abruptly and Y/n’s eyes followed Fred’s figure. The way his jaw flexed as he drank the potion and his hair flopped when he jumped down from the bench with George made Y/n lose grasp on her emotions for just a moment.

He was good looking, she couldn’t deny it. Fred Weasley seemed to be built by the gods, his hair burned as that of Ares’, and his face chiseled to the likeness of Apollo. But Y/n had been there and done that with pretty boys, all of them were the same and wouldn’t give in to another one. She refused to let herself fall for him, afraid of the repercussions of really loving him.

The fire let out an angry growl that brought Y/n’s mind back to that room and what was happening, with good timing too as she then watched George and Fred get thrown a few feet in the air and land away from the age line. They sprouted long grey beards and got into a tussle on the floor.

The sight made Y/n giggle before she quickly regained her composure and acted as unbothered as possible making Lily roll her eyes. It would’ve been a fairly enjoyable time, regardless of what Y/n would’ve told Fred, but Adrian Pucey walking into the hall made her shrink in her chair as she grimaced.

“Go, don’t think he’s seen you yet.” Lily whispered, eyes trained on the other Slytherin.

Y/n nodded and hugged the walls as she made her way to the door, hopefully, unseen. She celebrated too early, and her face fell as she heard the unmistakable tone just as she made it through the doors.

“Running away from me?” Adrian called, his smirk evident in his words.

She stopped, turning to look at him as she spoke, “Don’t be so surprised. You ought to have realized by now your company isn’t wanted.”

“Come on Y/n, give us a chance. You know you want to.” He said coming closer to her.

“Really, Adrian, I don’t.”

Adrian reached out to pull her under his arm and forced her to walk with him, the act making her tense up but he didn’t seem to mind. He leaned closer to her ear, his breath hitting her skin making her incredibly uncomfortable.

“You’re mine, you know that don’t you? And no fucking ginger is going to get in my way.” He growled.

“You’re disgusting.” She spat, eyes burning with the anger of Hephaestus’ greatest fire.

Adrian laughed as he leaned closer to Y/n’s ear making her give an uncomfortable shiver, “Careful, darling, your feelings are showing.”

--

“Miss me, poppet?”

Fred Weasley’s voice was chipper and cheery as he greeted Y/n in their first class of the day. He had just woken up and it showed, his red hair looked as though it was hastily brushed through with his own fingers and his eyes still a bit puffy. He looked positively endearing as he took a seat at his table with George, just behind Lily and Y/n.

“Ridiculously.” Y/n mumbled, not looking up from her Herbology book.

“We’re only a few weeks in, what could you possibly be studying for?” Fred asked as he leaned over his desk to catch a glimpse at what you were looking at.

You glanced at him momentarily before looking back at your book, “Just giving myself an idea of what to expect.”

“Not a bad idea.” George said, considering doing it himself.

Fred gave him a funny look before turning his attention back to the girl in front of him, chin resting on his hand propped up by his elbow on the desk. She wasn’t paying attention to him, instead focusing on the book in front of her. She was slightly to the side allowing Fred the perfect view of her face without giving her the satisfaction of knowing he was staring at her.

Y/n’s hair fell in gentle waves down to kiss the top of her hips, she had fring that framed the length of her face and parted in the middle that was incredibly voluminous. Her eyes were focused with intense determination as she read, face relaxed as she was completely absorbed in what she was doing. Fred noticed early on that she rarely laughed, a genuine, eye crinkling, giggle but instead always had a look of unbothered casualness. He couldn’t understand this, not in the slightest, seeing as he was sure he had smile lines forming already.

He wanted to know more about the ethereal Slytherin, he craved it with everything in his being. Something about her drew him in, held him in place and refused to let him go.

Deep in thought, Fred failed to notice her eyes now looking at him with a curious glint and her hand coming out to poke him with her index finger.

“Alright, Weasley?” Her eyebrows were furrowed and Fred shrugged off the bubbly feeling he got in his gut.

He smirked, “Aw, do you care about my well being? Georgie hold me I may swoon.”

George laughed and shook his head at his brother, Lily joining in on the laughs as she watched Y/n’s face contort to one of distaste.

“Oi, Freddie’s got himself a girlfriend.” Lee Jordan, a close friend of Fred and George’s called from his table on the other side of the greenhouse.

Fred gave a short chuckle, his defenses coming up instantaneously as he tried to ignore the burning of his cheeks. And maybe if he hadn’t been so keen on putting down any and all rumors of him having feelings for Y/n he would’ve noticed the shy smile that graced Y/n’s lips as she turned her face away from the boys.

But alas, he didn't, and instead opened his mouth to shout over to Lee.

“My standards aren't that low, mate. I’d just as soon shag a goblin, Godric knows they’d be less bothersome.”

Taglist

@freddieweasleyswife​  @anywherebuthere​ 

[lupismaris]

Blackberry Crepes- silverflintham black sails modern au ficlet

(i saw a few posts about how love is sharing food and making breakfast for your loved ones and lets just say this is part 1 of a series in which Flint cooks for his loved ones when saying i love you might not be enough)

Sleep was something of a stranger to Silver. He liked to joke that he didn’t need it, that he could just cat nap for half an hour here and there, and be good for a few days, that he was just built different, the perks of life on the run and never having a real routine. But in truth he’d push himself until his body gave out and he slept for 18 hours and woke up feeling like death warmed over. That was the only way he’d be able to get any real sleep. Pushing himself to the point of exhaustion, or, as he had eventually learned with Flint and Thomas, getting well and truly laid until his brain shut off and his body felt like lead.   He preferred the latter, of course, but it still wasn’t something he felt he could readily ask for. Especially when it wasn’t enough to keep his mind quiet. Dreams, nightmares, they’re funny things. You can think you’re too tired to dream and then on your way into an REM cycle you get blind sided by the most vivid night terror you’ve had in the past three months. You could be napping on the couch when the phantom limb starts acting up and your mind conjures memories of when you lost it or just vague ideas of what life would be like if you hadn’t and you wake up unable to tell which is worse. You could be strung out and coming down from an orgasmic high and then feel your stomach drop when you finally fall asleep and your mind tells you it isn’t safe, jolting you violently back to consciousness. Or you could be dozing in the early morning hours, the way Silver had been, after a good night, a genuinely good night, and find yourself halfway between deep sleep and waking, faced with fears you’d buried so far deep you hoped they’d suffocate. They’d gone to dinner, on a date even. Flint and Thomas had made a point to be home and get dressed up and take him out on the town and pay complete attention to him, like he was just a normal lover and not, well, himself. It was still an adjustment for him, this idea that he could just have this, a normal relationship with men who actually wanted him, where using each other wasn’t part of it, where the end game wasn’t someone’s bank account or an act of violence, where there wasn’t even an end game to consider. By the end of July the charms of summer had started to wear thin, even for Silver, and he was tired of the heat and the mirror like cage of the city, he was tired of the long days and the long conversations and the longer shadows on the blistering asphalt. He was tired of the haze that made his mind question what was and wasn’t real, despite knowing what was. It left him on edge and he knew Flint could tell, no matter how hard he worked to hide it. If Thomas knew, he was at least polite enough not to give it away. Dinner had been lovely. A little Spanish place by the promenade, followed by a short walk since the evening was cooler than expected and a breeze of the Hudson meant it was almost blissful. There had been wine and Flint’s homemade limoncello tarts when they got home and endless lazy kisses and one of them always touching him as if trying to keep him tethered. There had been sex, great sex, not that Silver had ever had bad sex with the pair of them (the smug rotten bastards), but the kind where Silver had been able to let go and drown in it for a while, let someone else carry the load, and do the thinking for a while. It still hadn’t been enough.

Silver sighed, a cloud of smoke curling around his face as he watched the rooftops shift and glimmer in the faded teal skies of four am, his second cigarette of the hour dangling somewhat carelessly from his fingers. He had tried, valiantly he felt, to stay in bed with Flint and Thomas, to sleep curled up with them the way Flint always hoped he would after sex. Some nights it worked and he’d wake up when Flint went for his blasphemous morning run. Most nights though he’d wait until Thomas was out cold and snoring like a bear, then kiss Flint goodnight, and slip back to his room next door. He’d fallen asleep tucked into Flint’s chest, with Flint’s arm around him and the deep rumble of his breathing filling his ears. Thomas was spooned up behind Flint, clinging to his husband like a child and snoring loudly, but that too was somehow comforting. He was safe, he was loved, he was home. And suddenly the next thing Silver knew he was choking on nothing and fighting the air, sitting bolt upright in bed with a wordless, noiseless scream of fear. The only saving grace was that it didn’t wake the others, Thomas still sound asleep and curled up under the covers, Flint spooned up behind him, years younger in sleep, a different man. Silver had sat there shaking for some time, half an hour, five minutes, he couldn’t be sure. Once he could breathe without wheezing and his hands had stopped shaking violently, he steadied himself and slipped out of bed, grabbing his crutch from where it rested dutifully against the nightstand. There wasn’t much he was good at in life, but John Silver had always been good at running. This wasn’t any different. Now, he was wrapped in an old blanket, hidden away on the roof where he’d been putting together his own little makeshift garden. Plants that he’d found half dead or dying on the curb, abandoned succulents from friends, houseplants he found on discount at the hardware store that he’d barter down to a dollar. He liked the distance heights gave him, always had, was always climbing things as a kid to try and get a better view, try to hide away from prying eyes. It was harder now that he had the prosthetic, but the elevator could take him up to the loft, and the stairs to the roof weren’t too steep, so he could manage them with his crutch. It wasn’t that he didn’t love the little patch of green paradise that Flint and Thomas had nurtured down below, he loved it and the time they spent there. But this- this little scrap of roof top, with it’s homemade shelves of plywood and resurrected plants, was his. Silver took another drag from his cigarette and watched a flock of pigeons shift their course in flight, heading west towards Manhattan where the morning crowds were no doubt slowly beginning to stir. Even on Saturdays, the city got a bright and early start if it ever truly decided to rest. He could hear tidbits of conversation from his perch, voices carried up to him like secrets as their owners walked past, heading home from work, from a night out, leaving home to go to work, whatever their little lives demanded, existing in spite of themselves, for themselves. Cars hummed past, cabbies and uber drivers trying to catch the last of the club goers as they left the bars in search of a trip home, picking up the true early bird tourists as they tried to beat the others to some absurd event or another. He could even hear music, someone’s window open on their block he thought, and the faint repetitive sound of a piano as they worked through their scales. Maybe he wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. The neighborhood would be well and truly awake soon. The running group would be on the corner waiting for the stragglers, hitting the asphalt by five am. The store fronts and bodegas would start opening up around six, the bars by eight if they served brunch, and the world would come to life at Silver’s feet. He had until then to quiet the noise in his head and remember how to put his mask back on. The sound of the door nearly gave him a heart attack. He thought for a moment that maybe, if he kept still, he’d go unnoticed, they the sparse shelves and plants and the blanket might hide him well enough that Flint, because it was always Flint, would go back down stairs and go for his morning run and leave him well enough alone. But he knew better. “Do I want to know how long you’ve been up here?” came the sleep heavy rumble of a voice. “Depends on whether you want to be disappointed this early in the morning,” Silver replied dryly. And there it was, the telltale sigh of disappointment, because Flint was going to be disappointed no matter what answer he got. “Silver-” “I don’t want to do this right now.” “Do what?” Silver sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He heard Flint move across the roof, the soft footsteps of bare feet on the weatherproof matting slow and well chosen, stopping next to him. “This thing you do where you try and bully answers out of me. I don’t fucking feel up to these games, alright? I just- I don’t,” Silver said, risking a look upwards. Flint was shirtless, as he always was when fresh out of bed, but he’d pulled on a pair of old sweatpants before going to look for Silver. He’d left his hair loose, the rich copper strands hanging in a curtain around the left side of his face, the shaved under cut peaking out along the right. Silver could still see the pillow prints on his cheek, and his beard was disgruntled and unbrushed the way it rarely was when he left the house. Silver loved him like this, he loved Flint always, but there was something about Flint like this, soft and at ease, bare chested and vulnerable that managed to settle even the worst of Silver’s deep seated insecurities. Because who else got to have Flint like this? Who else but Silver and Thomas got Flint at his gentlest? They looked at each other for a moment, Flint frowning softly with his hands on his hips and Silver wrapped up in his blanket, saying nothing, saying everything they could. Then Flint sighed and sat down next to him. “I’m not here to bully you,” he said gently, taking the cigarette that Silver was neglecting. “You were gone when I woke up, thought I’d check on you,” He paused, relighting the cigarette with his trusty old lighter, “but as you were not in your room I figured something was bothering you and you’d be either working in the office or up here.” “You didn’t have to check on me.” “It was for my sake, not yours.” Silver smiled faintly, his eyes stinging from what he hoped was just exhaustion but was probably tears. He didn’t look at Flint, just blinked them away and watched the sky lighten little by little as Flint finished the cigarette. “You know that’s not what I’m doing, right?” Flint asked after a few minutes of silence. “Whats not what you’re doing?” “Bullying you.” “I mean it’s kinda what you do.” “Is that how you see it?” Flint wasn’t looking at him. He was reaching for the French enamel cigarette case that was sitting next to Silver, one he’d stolen in Monaco several lives before, and lighting another cigarette. Silver watched him, a little wistful, and incredibly exhausted all at once. “No.” He said. “Yes. Depends on when you try and do it I guess.” That got a low hum from Flint, smoke filling the air for a moment in a pensive cloud. Silver waited, oddly tense, hoping that Flint would listen to him, and not try and play one of their fucked up little games so early in the morning. They were doing really well these days, not playing any games at all, having real, honest conversations like well adjusted adults who hadn’t done all the awful things they’d done, to each other, to others. But sometimes it was so much easier to just be awful to each other, to fall back into the old way of doing things. “I only check on you to know you’re still here,” Flint said finally. “I only ask if you’re alright because if I can fix it, I want to. I don’t care if you lie to me about what had you out of bed this morning. I don’t give a shit if you never tell me the names of your ghosts, I’ve told you that a dozen times, I know you remember that as well as you remember the names of my own ghosts.” Silver did remember, both the ghosts, and the plaintive way Flint had asked him to trust whatever it was they had between them. “I just want to know you’re still here. That you’ve not gone running off again. That you’ll run to me next time this,” he waved at the rooftop and the skyline as if encompassing all of Silver’s faulty coping methods, “fails and you’re out at sea. I just- I ask those questions to reassure myself, alright?” He paused, taking another drag from the cigarette, tipping his head back with a heavy sigh. Silver could see the age starting to show on his face again, in the soft lines around his eyes, the firm set of his mouth, the scars on his nose and throat, the endless sea of freckles, the faded ink of his tattoos, the streaks of gray in his beard. Before his eyes, the man he loved, his Flint, was appearing, returning to flesh and blood from the land of dreams. “You’re not the only one who’s scared, pup,” Flint added, finally turning his head and catching Silver looking at him. The sea green of Flint’s eyes always seemed to hook Silver, regardless of whether he wanted them to. They could be the deep inky black full of secrets or the still gray of quiet waters, it didn’t matter- if Flint looked at him, soft and open and endlessly patient the way no one else was, Silver would eventually break. Flint knew it, but so far, he never seemed to abuse the power he held. Silver smiled faintly. With a soft groan he shifted onto his knees, loving the way Flint’s hands immediately reached to steady him whether he needed it or not, and crawled into Flint’s lap, straddling his hips and wrapping the worn blanket around them both. He took the cigarette from Flint’s lips and stubbed it out in the ashtray, as Flints hands settled like an anchor, warm and sure, at the small of his back. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, old man,” Silver said, brushing Flint’s hair out of his eyes, “I promised you were stuck with me. No amount of nightmares are gonna change that.” He kissed Flint softly, smiling at the low rumbling purr it got him, at the way Flint’s hands pulled him closer, spread wide on his back. It was a soft, innocent thing, no heat, no hunger, and that too was still something novel to Silver, that he could have this innocent kind of intimacy with someone, with a man like Flint. He craved it as much as he craved the wilder side of love and was grateful that Flint seemed happy to satisfy both moods whenever they arose. “Good,” Flint said, once the lazy kiss broke and Silver tucked his face into Flint’s shoulder with a happy sound. “Because while I would absolutely give chase, I’d rather not have Thomas trailing after us as well. You know the kind of trouble he gets up to, just imagine him trying to find you.” Silver snorted with an undignified burst of laughter. “No, god, he’d be impossible.” “Exactly. I’d have my hands full just trying to keep him in one piece. I’ve got enough gray hair as it is, pup, don’t go giving me anymore before my time, alright?” Flint lifted his chin as Silver’s fingers petted the gray streaks in his beard, letting out another soft rumbling sound. “Alright. Though I do think it’s sexy.” “Yeah yeah, you’ve made that perfectly clear,” Flint kissed the top of Silver’s head, nuzzling his messy curls. “C’mon, why don’t we head inside, I think it’s a reasonable time for coffee.” “What about your run? Your awful five am morning ritual I can almost never talk you out of even for a blow job.” “I feel like skipping this morning.” Silver lifted his head, leveling Flint with a skeptical look and a raised eyebrow. Flint returned it with a fond smile. “Its Saturday, I feel like making breakfast,” Flint said with a shrug. I love you, Silver heard. “Can we have blackberry crepes? And scrambled eggs?” Silver asked after a moment. “And that fancy bacon you got from the farmer’s market?” Flint smiled, still fond and impossibly warm. Silver’s heart skipped, flipped, and settled in his chest. Flint had heard the unspoken, skittish, and undeniable “I love you too” tucked into Silver’s reply. Flint coaxed him into another soft kiss, still wearing that same smile.

  “Blackberry crepes it is.”

[asweetprologue]

window to the soul

Octoberfest 3: ghost (from geraskier hollow) + stare

“It’s drawn to strong emotions,” Geralt said, and Jaskier knew that he was about to become bait.

The monster of the week was a wraith, but of an unusual type. Over the years of traveling together, Jaskier had seen plenty of wraiths - noonwraiths, nightwraiths, even a plague maiden once. He probably could take one on himself, knowing what he did about the process of destroying them, though it would be difficult without the use of yrden holding them in the physical realm. Luckily it was Geralt’s job to dispatch them. Jaskier usually didn’t even go along to watch anymore, unless the story behind the haunting was particularly ballad worthy. 

This time, the wraith was different. Geralt had quickly identified the lost soul, a young woman who had recently died. She’d been deeply in love with a merchant that had regularly come and gone from the town, and had tried to cast a spell to trap his heart. Jaskier knew, after everything with Geralt and the djinn, that there was no curse or potion that could truly emulate love. Her spell had made the merchant obsessed with her, the man driven slowly mad by a fixation that he did not want and could not escape. In the end he had killed the girl and then himself, to escape from the madness that she had struck into his mind. The strength of her grief and the magic of the binding spell had changed the spirit of the woman into something else entirely, something extremely dangerous. 

“It’s a sort of hybrid between a vampire and a wraith,” he explained. They were in the field beyond the village, and Geralt was meticulously checking over his potions. His blades were laid off to the side, the slick oil that he used to slay spectres shining across his silver blade. It was nearing sunset, the twilight hour that made it easier for apparitions to make themselves seen in the material world. Jaskier was sitting across from him, nervously stripping leaves from a small twig. Geralt continued. “The emotion she felt and her unrequited love turned her into a heartwraith. Sometimes people call them ‘hungry ghosts.’ They’re never satisfied, and they feed off of people’s emotions to try and fill the void in them.”

“Sounds like a truly awful existence,” Jaskier mused, watching Geralt. The evening light played across his broad shoulders, turning his hair from silver to gold. Jaskier thought he might be able to understand where she was coming from, even if he’d never have tried to bind Geralt to him unwillingly. It was a terrible thing, to be so deeply and unfortunately in love with someone who didn’t want you. 

“I need to draw her out,” Geralt said gruffly. “She’s seeking out powerful emotions, like the couple that were attacked and the man who was beating his wife. I’ll need your help.” Jaskier sighed. Of course, it didn’t make much sense for Geralt to try to draw her out. Though Jaskier didn’t subscribe to the notion that witchers felt less than regular humans, Geralt was what Jaskier would dub repressed. The man couldn’t look an honest emotional conversation in the face without getting flustered and running away. 

“Whatever you need,” Jaskier said, like he always did. He didn’t love playing bait, but he knew Geralt would never let anything bad happen to him. 

Geralt nodded and picked up his silver sword, his steel one still securely in its sheath on his back. “Come on. We need to build a fire to destroy her locket.” The girl had kept a locket with a small lock of the merchant’s hair inside, which Geralt had guessed helped tie her to this plane. Over the next few minutes, the two men built a small pyre. Geralt pressed the locket into Jaskier’s palm, his fingers brushing over Jaskier’s skin. He tried not to blush at the contact. 

“When she’s distracted, throw this into the fire. It’ll weaken her,” Geralt said. Jaskier nodded mutely, clutching the warm metal close. The fire crackled merrily beside them, painting the landscape around them in swatches of ocher and dark blue. It was truly approaching night now, only the barest hint of sunlight still left on the far horizon. 

“What do you need me to do?” Jaskier asked. “To get her attention, I mean.”

Geralt gave him an odd look. “Nothing. I’m going to draw her in.” Geralt’s face was pinched in a way that Jaskier had come to realize meant he was experiencing some kind of emotion, though it was always hard to tell which one. Anger, frustration, sadness and pain all translated into relatively the same expression - tight jaw, drawn eyebrows, thinned lips. Jaskier wanted to reach out and sooth the tension from his friend’s features, but luckily the locket demanded his hands’ wandering attention. Geralt gestured to the soft earth beside the fire, clearly bidding Jaskier to sit. He did so, flopping gracelessly into a crossed legged position, back straight from tension. It was hard to forget that a wraith could appear any moment to wreck the quiet evening. 

Geralt settled next to him, dropping into the kneeling position that he favored for meditation. His eyes were grave as he looked over Jaskier’s face. “Just… sit still,” he said softly. Jaskier wasn’t sure what to do with that tone, so he just tried to do as Geralt asked. He settled in, waiting for something to happen, but Geralt just stared at him. 

For a moment it was awkward. Jaskier felt a blush spread across his cheeks as those golden eyes regarded him, sweeping over his face and following the line of his neck. Geralt was a man who always split his attention half a dozen ways at once, one eye always on the door and an ear out for trouble. Jaskier had accepted long ago that Geralt never fully listened to him, and that was alright. It wasn’t in his nature, and Jaskier didn’t need participation to hold a conversation. Now, though, he felt the full force of Geralt’s focus on him, looking back at him as if trying to see beyond a mask. Geralt’s own face was impassive, that slight frown still marring his features. 

What could he hope to accomplish through this? If he wanted to elicit strong emotions, there were certainly easier ways to do it than a staring contest. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever elicited strong emotions in anyone that he wasn’t actively singing to. It was he who was often overtaken by the whims of his own heart, prone to fits of temper and weeks of lovesickness by turn. Geralt never seemed to feel anything other than mild annoyance. Gods, what if Jaskier annoyed him so much that just looking at him made the witcher angry enough to summon a spectre? Jaskier knew he could be infuriating, but surely if Geralt detested him that much he would just leave Jaskier behind. Right?

Anxiety filled his chest, but he’d been instructed specifically not to move. Forcing himself to relax, Jaskier found himself taking the opportunity to just look back for once, something he so rarely had a chance to do. He absorbed all the details of Geralt’s face that he never allowed himself to - the way Geralt’s left eyebrow was ever so slightly interrupted by a tiny scar, the slight wrinkles on his forehead from years of frowning and the even fainter ones around his eyes, the ever so slight part of his lips. The dramatic light of the fire and the moon overhead made his face into a patchwork landscape of color, the valley of purple shadow in the hollow of his cheek highlighted by soft gold. Jaskier committed every feature to memory, thinking of the notebooks he could fill with songs dedicated to Geralt’s eyes and lips and brilliant white hair. He loved him so much it felt like it was going to drown him, leaving no room in his chest for his lungs. 

After he’d finally taken in all the abstract elements of Geralt’s face that he could in the low light, Jaskier’s eyes dragged back to meet Geralt’s. The gold of his irises were nearly consumed by dark pupil, his eyes expanding to take in as much light as possible in the darkness. In this lighting he looked both more and less human, and it made Jaskier feel helplessly fond. Their eyes met, and suddenly the situation struck Jaskier as a bit funny. Two men sitting in a field, silently staring at each other, one pining away like nothing else while the other tried to summon a ghost. It was ridiculous. He quirked a playful eyebrow at Geralt, as if to say, Aren’t we just a couple of fools?

Jaskier watched Geralt’s face shift, a second of surprise flitting across his face. And then, without warning, there was something new there, something Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen before. A softening in Geralt’s eyes, in his brow, as he looked at Jaskier, open and affectionate. The expression hit Jaskier like a punch, or a kiss, demanding and devastating. Geralt’s mouth opened on a low exhale, and Jaskier leaned forward, wondering if he dared, if Geralt might - 

There was a screech, and the wraith was upon them. 

Geralt was up in an instant, silver sword flashing as he blocked a clawed hand from coming down on Jaskier’s head. Jaskier yelped as he scurried out of the way, clutching the locket he’d almost forgotten. There was a sudden burst of purple light in the field, making the shadows around them dance and twist eerily. The wraith made a horrible noise, like flint scraping across metal, endless and clearly annoyed. Geralt pushed her against the wall of the magical trap, cutting off bits of wispy energy with his sword. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure when the exact right time was, but the wraith was certainly distracted. Jumping forward, he tossed the locket down into the fire, watching as the clasp popped open and the little lock of hair fell into the embers. It caught quickly, and Jaskier heard the wraith shriek again, this time a haunting and mournful sound. When he turned back it was just in time to see Geralt shove his sword in her chest. The strange, cottony fabric of her ragged dress seemed to dissipate in the wind, her dry flesh cracking and falling away like old paint. After a moment there was nothing left but a pile of ash. 

“Go in peace,” Geralt said, and turned to Jaskier. Dropping to one knee, he said, “Are you hurt?”

Jaskier pushed himself into a better sitting position. They were close, too close. He hoped the warmth of the fire would mask his blush. “I’m fine, thanks to you. Is she really gone?”

Geralt nodded. “Should be. She has no tether to this world anymore without the locket.”

“Right,” Jaskier said. He paused. “So. Um. What you did there seemed to work, at least.”

Geralt leaned back away, out of Jaskier’s space. He missed the proximity immediately. “I wouldn’t have exposed you if I could think of another way.”

“Well, it’s not easy to find someone as irritating as me on such short notice,” Jaskier said nervously. “Hardly efficient.”

Geralt gave an almost comical shake of his head, surprise slapped across his features. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

Jaskier shifted, uncomfortable. Giving a forced laugh, he said, “Well, I can only imagine that you were conjuring up strong emotions of the, ah, annoyance you so often display when I do something like, I don’t know, sing or eat or breathe. I know you’re not so easily swayed by my charms.” He tried to pass it off like a joke, but he knew it fell flat even as he was saying it. There was too much hurt in his throat to make it come out anything less than bitter. He stared into the fire, watching the locket turn a liquid red from the heat. 

A warm hand suddenly came up to cradle his jaw, and Jaskier blinked in surprise as Geralt’s fingers urged him to look up. “It’s not that,” Geralt said forcefully. “You must know, Jaskier, you have to - When I look at you, it’s so...” He cut himself off with a frustrated sound. Words had never been his strength. “I feel many things for you, bard.”

Jaskier swallowed. “You do?”

Geralt’s eyes were hot on him, and Jaskier wondered if one could be branded by a glance. It certainly felt like it. “Yes,” Geralt said. “Intensely.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier stammered. “Um. I’m not sure if I’m reading all this right, but assuming that you’re saying you don’t hate me, then, ah -”

Geralt gave an annoyed huff, and Jaskier was just about to comment, say something like, see, I am irritating, but then Geralt was kissing him, and he decided to let it go. He leaned into the press of lips, gasping softly. It was brief, nearly over before it began, but Jaskier could feel the warmth of it after Geralt pulled away, breath ghosting over his skin. Jaskier shivered.

“Quite the opposite,” Geralt said softly. His eyes were molten gold, hotter than the locket still melting in the fire at Jaskier’s side, and Jaskier never wanted to look away. 

“Oh, well, that’s a relief,” he said, and leaned up to kiss him again.

~~

this fic was heavily inspired by Somedrunkpirate’s piece A Lover’s Lament, which is one of my favorite stories of all time. If you read it you’ll be able to see exactly what scene I borrowed from, and I need you to know that it lives in my head rent free. 

edit: for some reason tumblr ate everything but the heading for this fic and I didn’t realize until this morning, so thanks to the ten people who liked it with no content LMAO. yall the real