#when she took good care of it oh my GOD it looked like molten gold

[ace-sailor-uranus]

sometimes im half tempted to grow my hair out to it's natural color, just to figure out wtf is goin on up there, bc i found a straight up dark brown hair growing the other day, and two more since then, and i wanna know, like. what. since when?? is this new?? i thought blondes that were gonna go darker, their hair changed as a teenager. my uncle's did. my older sister's did. fuck, my MOM'S did. i am 25. excuse me, hair, when did you start doing this. who gave you permission.

actually id love to find a pic of my mom's hair without her face in it, just so i could show yall. it's fuckin wild. absolutely gorgeous, brownish goldish reddish, very curly. if i am getting my mother's hair color at the ripe old age of 1/4 century i am going to riot.

[petrichoravellichor]

Title: A New Kind of Life

Wordcount: ~10k

Rating: T

Summary: What if, when Sam and Dean break into the Empty, Cas isn’t the only one they save? A post-15x19 fix-it fic in which Crowley gets a second shot at the redemption (and family) he deserves.

(Read on Ao3)

********************

Chapter 1 (of 5) (Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Chs. 4 & 5)

“Crowley! Wake up, you son of a bitch, wake up!”

Crowley opens his eyes to Dean shaking him hard by the shoulders. Which is strange: the last thing Crowley remembers, he was dying, alone and forgotten in a parallel universe.

He isn’t there anymore. Instead, Dean is kneeling over him in a dome of golden light beyond which everything is dark, and for a brief, absurd moment he’ll chastise himself for later, Crowley thinks he’s somehow ended up in Heaven.

Then he glances past Dean and sees Sam with an exhausted-looking Castiel slumped against him; next to them is a younger man Crowley doesn’t recognize, but his eyes are molten gold, the same color as the dome surrounding them all. The amount of raw power emanating from the golden-eyed man makes every one of Crowley’s hairs stand on end, and not in a good way.

No, definitely not his idea of Heaven.

Crowley snaps his gaze back to Dean. “What—” he begins, but Dean cuts him off, hauling him to his feet.

“No time for questions!” Dean yells, and it’s only then that Crowley registers the roar coming from beyond the dome: it’s as though they’re standing in the eye of a hurricane as all around them things blow apart. “Come on, we gotta go!”

And then they’re all running, the dome of light moving with them like a shield as wispy black wraiths crash and burn against its perimeter and somewhere unseen, a hideous voice howls in rage.

*****

Once they’re safely back in the Bunker war room, Dean takes hold of Castiel and, along with the golden-eyed man—whose irises have faded to a soft, concerned blue—ushers him off in the direction of the infirmary, promising gruffly as he goes that he and Crowley will talk later.

Patience, however, is a virtue, and Crowley isn’t feeling particularly virtuous—especially not after seeing how tenderly Dean and Castiel looked at each other as Dean wrapped an arm around the angel’s waist and led him from the room. The sight had left a bitter taste in Crowley’s mouth, one he does his best to ignore. There will be time for that later; right now, he needs answers, and he’s not waiting on Dean in order to get them.

He crosses his arms and fixes Sam with an expectant glare. “All right, Moose,” he says, "out with it: what in God’s name is going on?”

Sam snorts, looking tired. “Um, yeah, about that...” He gestures towards the map table, then heads over to the liquor cabinet. “You...might wanna sit down.”

Crowley arches a brow, but he does as Sam suggests. Sam joins him a moment later and, after pouring them each a drink, spends the better part of the next hour telling Crowley all that’s transpired in the three years—three years—Crowley’s been dead.

Which is, it turns out, rather a lot.

Lucifer’s spawn survived his birth and is none other than the golden-eyed man Crowley saw when he woke up; his name is Jack, and for all intents and purposes, he considers Castiel to be his father.

An alternate version of Michael got a hold of Dean for a while, until Jack killed Michael at the cost of his soul, then, in a soulless rage, killed Mary.

God killed Jack. All Hell broke loose. Rowena, who’d apparently survived Lucifer’s last attempt to kill her, died to fix it and was now Queen of Hell.

Billie brought Jack back to kill God. Dean tried to kill Billie, so Billie tried to kill him. Castiel managed to take Billie out by admitting his love for Dean, at which point the Empty took Castiel—

Of course, thinks Crowley, the bitter taste in his mouth returning with a vengeance. Of. Bloody. Course...

The brothers had stormed the Empty not for him, but for Castiel. Good, noble, righteous Castiel, the wayward Angel of Thursday who’s been hopelessly in love with Dean for longer than Crowley has known him...and whom, it seems, Dean has finally admitted to loving back. Sam and Dean had saved Castiel because they loved him, because Dean loved him, but Crowley...They’d probably only rescued him because they’d figured they owed him for saving their denim-clad arses that day at the lake.

Now, as Crowley half-listens to Sam talk about defeating God, he glowers down at the map table and wishes they hadn’t bothered bringing him back at all, because it’s one thing to die unloved; it’s another to have to live that way. Crowley’s done both, and he knows which he prefers. At least in the Empty, he’d been at peace.

“Crowley? Hey, you okay?”

He looks up to see Sam regarding him from under a furrowed brow. Bollocks...

“Naturally,” Crowley says, leaning back in his chair with a dismissive smile. “That’s quite a tale, Moose. It sounds like you and Squirrel have outdone yourselves these past few years, even managed to pull one over on God; bravo. I’m sure Lucifer’s spawn will make a spectacular replacement: he is, after all, three.”

Sam’s eyes harden. “Jack’s nothing like Lucifer; he’s good, and he’s got us to help him, and Amara—”

“Oh, Amara! Now there’s a recipe for success if I’ve ever heard one: God’s evil sister and her Satanic great-nephew with billions of raw souls at their disposal. How could that possibly go wrong?” Crowley scoffs, shaking his head. “Honestly, there’s just no learning with you lot, is there? You just keep humming the same damn tune, then acting surprised when the notes turn sour, and it never even occurs to you to pick. A new. Bloody. Song.”

The frown on Sam’s face intensifies. “This is different. Jack, Amara, they’re on our side, and now that Rowena’s in charge of Hell—”

Crowley snorts. “Right. Care to wager on how long that lasts?” Then, at the look of sudden wariness on Sam’s face, he rolls his eyes. “Calm down, Moose; that wasn’t me plotting a coup. I have no plans to try and take back the crown.”

“You don’t?”

“Why on earth would I?” Crowley takes a sip of brandy, grimacing slightly at the flavor—for all the changes the past few years have wrought, the Winchesters’ abominable taste in liquor remains tragically consistent. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but I hated Hell as much as the blasted place hated me. If Mother thinks she can do better, she can have it.”

They sit without speaking for a moment; then Sam clears his throat. “You know,” he says quietly, “Rowena regrets how things ended between the two of you.”

Crowley stiffens, a stab of anger piercing his gut. “No, she doesn’t.”

“She does,” Sam insists, and how anyone can look so stupidly earnest is beyond Crowley’s ability to comprehend. “She told us so.”

Crowley scoffs. “And you believed her?” he demands, left hand closing into a fist at his side. “You know, for the longest time, I thought you were the smart one.”

Sam sighs. “Crowley...Look, I’m not saying Rowena’s perfect—”

“She’s quite literally the Queen of Hell, Moose.” Crowley manages to keep his voice level, but his fingernails are digging into his palm. “I’d say that’s about as far from perfect as anyone can get.”

“—but I think you two should talk.”

Crowley’s hand starts to bleed.

“I mean it,” continues Sam, when Crowley says nothing. “When I was a kid, my dad...he wasn’t there the way he should’ve been, and we fought a lot, and there were times I felt like I hated him, but when he died...”

A multitude of emotions flicker across Sam’s face in rapid succession, too fast for Crowley to name them all, but the final one, the one Sam looks back at him with, is regret. “When he died,” Sam continues, “I didn’t care about any of that. And maybe I should have. I know I should have. Believe me, I tried. But I just...kept coming back to the fact that what I was feeling, the good and the bad, I’d never get to actually say it to him, and if he was somehow sorry for the bad, that was something I’d never get to hear.”

Crowley’s anger flares white hot; his hidden palm is slick with blood. “If you have a point,” he growls, “I’d encourage you to come out with it.”

“My point,” says Sam, curtly, “is that you actually have a chance at some closure, and I think you should take it. For your own sake.”

Crowley clenches his jaw, looks away. “For my own sake,” he echoes, softly. As if his and Sam’s pain is the same. As if Rowena is capable of causing anything but. “Tell me, Moose: since when do you or your imbecile of a brother actually give a damn about my own sake?”

He raises his gaze to stare coldly at Sam who, for the first time since they sat down, seems at a genuine loss for words. Crowley snaps his glass down on the table and stands. “Thought as much.”

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and turns to go—where, exactly, he has no idea—only to nearly crash headlong into Dean, and suddenly, Crowley’s anger turns to outright fury, because at the end of the day, it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter that Crowley had gone up against Hell and his mother and even his own better judgment for Dean more times than he could count.

It didn’t matter that the two of them had shared a bed when Dean was a demon, doing extraordinary things to triplets that Crowley would have kicked out in a heartbeat if he’d thought he could get away with it.

It didn’t matter that Crowley had sacrificed his life to save Dean and Sam and the whole bloody world.

None of it mattered, because for all the times Crowley had chosen Dean, Dean had never once chosen him. Then again, Crowley thinks, maybe it’s his own fault for expecting any different, his due comeuppance for stupidly believing he deserved to be loved. It doesn’t matter; he knows better now.

“Hello, Dean,” he snarls. “Come to look in on me now that you’ve seen to your angel? Well you needn’t have bothered; I was just leaving.”

Dean frowns, crossing his arms. “The hell do you mean, you’re leaving?”

“I mean get out of my way.”

“No.”

“And why not?” Crowley demands, voice rising. “Am I your prisoner? I’ve already told your oaf of a brother that I’ve no interest in causing any sort of trouble in Hell, so if that’s what this is about, then you can just—”

“Damn it, Crowley,” snaps Dean, “no, that’s not what this is about; it’s about where are you even gonna go. You got a place somewhere we don’t know about?”

“I’ll find one.”

“Or,” Dean counters, “you could cut the crap and just stay here.”

That catches Crowley off guard, but only for a moment; he gives Dean a hard look, determined not to let the surprise show on his face. “And why on earth would I want to do that?”

“Because you know it’s the smart thing to do,” says Dean, face impassive, “and last I checked, you were an asshole, not an idiot.”

And it’s not that Crowley doesn't know full well that running off half-cocked into a world whose dynamics have fundamentally changed is naive at best and suicidal at worst—that isn’t what makes him nearly scream in rage, because he knows it’s patently true. No, the infuriating thing, the truly mortifying thing, is that Dean knows him well enough to know that he knows it, and that if Crowley does leave, he’s only going to prove Dean right.

The thought is more than Crowley can bear; still, if he doesn’t get out of this room right now, he’s going to start shouting—at Dean, at himself, at everything. There are other, less crowded places in this godforsaken Bunker, and it’s past time he went and found one. He’s not going to give Dean the satisfaction of watching him break.

Crowley pulls his fury tight and close, stepping forward into Dean’s space and glaring up at him with every bit of defiance he can muster. “Funny,” he sneers, “because last I checked, you were both.”

And he vanishes before Dean can respond.

*****

Crowley finds an unoccupied room at the far end of the hall and decides to claim it as his own for the time being. He bolts the door and turns to collapse onto the bed...only to freeze dead in his tracks.

His mother is standing in the corner. As Crowley gapes, Rowena takes a step forward, face pale and incredulous. “Fergus?” she whispers. “Gods, is it really you?”

Her voice snaps Crowley out of his shock, and he narrows his eyes. “Mother,” he growls, the word like poison in his mouth. “What do you want?”

“Sam told me they were going to try and get you back,” Rowena says softly, eyes roving over Crowley’s face as though seeing him for the first time, “and I wanted...I needed to see if they’d done it, if you were all right.”

Crowley glares, making a mental note to have a word with Sam about this particular indiscretion. “Well, you’ve seen me. Now get out.”

Rowena recoils, and if Crowley didn’t know any better, he’d swear his words actually hurt her. “You’re angry,” she says. “You’re angry, and you’ve every right to be, but if you’d just let me explain—”

“Explain what?” Crowley snaps. He clenches both hands into fists, ignoring the burn in his left palm. “What could you possibly have to say to me that I’d want to hear? You hate me, remember?”

“I love you—”

Crowley barks out a laugh. “Really? Have you forgotten the last time we saw each other? You left on a bus after you sent my son to his death, all because you wanted to watch me ‘suffer the loss of a child’, of my child!” He stumbles towards her, half-blind with rage. “Tell me, Mother: did losing me bring you any suffering, or were you just sad you weren’t there to collect three pigs in exchange?”

Rowena looks as though she’s been slapped. “Of course I suffered! Do you have any idea what I went through trying to get you back? I faced Death herself; I begged her to return you to me, but she wouldn’t do it! Ask Sam, ask Dean!”

“They’ve already told me,” Crowley grinds out. “It doesn’t matter.”

“How can you say that?” Rowena is crying now, tears rolling freely down her face. “Of course it matters! I did it because I missed you, because I love you!”

“You’ve never loved me a day in your life.”

“That isn’t true! I did love you; I do!” Rowena takes another step forward and reaches out a hand. “If you could just find it in your heart to forgive me—”

“Forgive you?” Crowley snarls, and it’s all he can do not to spit in her face. “You don’t get to ask for my forgiveness, not after any one thing you’ve put me through, not after everything! What was it you said to me that day at the bus station, your parting words? ‘Who better than me to crush your shriveled heart’? At least I had a heart, once; you never did.”

“Fergus—”

And Crowley explodes. “GET OUT!” he screams, seizing the lamp off the bedside table and hurling it at his mother with all his might...only to watch as it flies right through her and crashes into the wall.

And then Rowena’s gone, just like she always is, and Crowley’s alone, just like he always is. He stands in the middle of the room and stares hollowly into empty space. “Astral projection,” he says, quietly; it always had been one of his mother’s favorite tricks. “Of course.”

He spends the rest of the night warding the room as many ways as he knows how, determined not to let his mother or anyone else get the drop on him again.

[amjustagirl]

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven.

Wordcount: 2.3k

Summary: Akaashi Keiji catches glimpses of another life in his dreams. He dreams of fields of endless gold, of constellation of stars that light up the night sky. He hears echoes of the birdsong in her laugher, the songs of the gods in the wind. 

(Loosely inspired by ‘Your Name’, aka Kimi No Nawa, featuring Haikyuu’s own pretty Tokyo boy)

Wordcount: 3.5k

Masterlist here

AO3 Link here

Author’s note: This fic is a little different from my usual work, so I’m a little nervous about publishing it. If you do like it, would love if you leave a comment / reblog / anything!

If you’d like to be included in the taglist, do drop me a msg/ask!

‘It’s rare to see young men like you buying flowers for their mother’, the florist comments offhand as she wraps his order of yellow chrysanthemums in paper. 

Akaashi smiles, accustomed to the friendly florist by now. ‘I guess I’ve always had a partiality for flowers’, waving to the florist as he leaves to head to Shibuya to meet Bokuto for Izakaya. He’s running late, but Bokuto doesn't mind, hooting good naturedly at the comedy show playing on the television in the rundown bar. 

‘Agaaaashi, you made it!’ Bokuto rises from his seat to give him a jovial fist bump. 

‘Of course I did’, he responds dryly. ‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep me from my appointment with you’. He spends most of dinner listening to Bokuto’s recent exploits both with the national team and MSBY. Excitement still sparkles in the older man’s eyes as he recounts each and every match he’s played in, and Akaashi idly wonders how it is that Bokuto seems to have managed to pack on even more muscle in the short span of a month, the last time they met up was to see Bokuto off at the airport for the World Cup. 

‘You should have continued playing volleyball in university’, Bokuto crows in between mouthfuls of yakiniku and beer and Akaashi shakes his head at the refrain he’s so used to hearing from his senpai.

‘I wouldn’t be able to maintain my grades if I wanted to take volleyball seriously in university, plus there’s no guarantee I’d even get off the bench’, he answers self-effacingly. 

‘But you have the best tosses, Akaaaaaashi!!’ Bokuto declares, his words slightly slurred, and Akaashi wonders if he should start to inch Bokuto’s beer away from him. After consuming far too much barbecued meat (Bokuto took the liberty of ordering twice of what Akaashi would normally order, waving his protests off by stating grandly that he’ll take care of the bill, he’s the one working after all!), Bokuto slips into a food-drunk stupor, happy to listen to his anecdotes of university life, and he takes the chance to ramble on about his advanced Japanese classical literature course that he finds far more fascinating than his class on modern literature to his best friend. 

They stumble out of the izakaya when the line outside grows far too long to be ignored, Bokuto draping a heavy arm over Akaashi’s shoulder, the red tint on the tips of his ears betraying his slightly tipsy state. As they stand at the traffic light patiently waiting for the light to change from red to green, Bokuto turns to him and grasps his shoulders in his large, warm hands. 

‘I’m really proud to have you as a friend, Akaashi’, Bokuto tells him seriously. ‘And I’m going to prove to you that I can be the best ace so you can be proud of me too’. The molten gold glimmering in Bokuto’s gaze fills him with far more warmth than any alcohol could possibly achieve. 

‘I’m already proud of you, Bokuto-san’, he answers, his earnestness resounding in every word of his short declaration. Bokuto beams at him in response and bounds across the pedestrian walkway in approximately three strides, ignoring Akaashi’s chiding to ‘look before you cross the road, even if you have the right of way!’

Many things may have changed since high school, but some things still stay the same.  

His dreams take a strange turn that night.

He’s back in the Fukurodani gym with his teammates, but it’s not accurate to say he’s with them - rather, he’s watching his past self from afar, seated on the bench, a wrist guard on his right arm. He doesn’t remember ever injuring himself enough to warrant a wrist guard at any point during his high school volleyball career, but it’s probably just another oddity of being in a dream.  

‘I wish your wrist was feeling better, Akaashi. I miss your tosses already’, the pout in Bokuto’s voice pronounced.

‘It’s just for a while - I’ll be right as rain tomorrow!’ he hears himself say cheerfully - but that doesn’t make sense either. No one in their right mind has ever described the way he speaks as cheerful, and the rest of his teammates glance over at him curiously. Then his past self awkwardly tucks his legs under the bench, ankles crossed almost as if he’d like nothing better than to fold himself away with all the cloth vests they use for practice – but that doesn’t make sense either, he doesn’t even know why he’s behaving like some fish out of water. While volleyball doesn’t come naturally to him as it does to someone like Bokuto-san, and there are times he feels like he’s struggling to swim upstream, his fingers still itch to toss a ball up into the sky in a perfect arc even now. 

‘I told you, I don’t get what you insist on waxing lyrical on him being a star you can’t help but follow,’ he hears her voice chime in his consciousness, inexplicable though her presence in this scene may be, he hears himself answer - ‘just be patient and watch’. 

Anahori, their substitute setter tosses the ball up in the air and it’s a good toss, he will give him that, but it’s still not quite as high a toss that Bokuto likes. Bokuto runs right up to the net to leap into the air, back arching to slam the ball to the ground with such force that it’s a commanding full stop punctuating any doubts about his place on the team as its captain and ace. 

‘You see! When he plays well, he's like a supernova, shining with a light so bright it almost blinds my eyes.’

‘Waxing lyrical again, Keiji-kun?’ He can hear her tease him gently. ‘Go on, carry on with your celestial metaphors’.

‘How about a shooting star then’, he replies, amused. ‘If a shooting star shot up from the earth instead of falling from the sky.’ 

‘You sound like you like the guy. Are you sure you don’t?’ She asks. ‘You sure sound like you do.’

What?!

His legs are tangled in his sheets when he thrashes awake, mouth open in a gasp for air. That was a new twist in his collection of dreams, the first time he’s dreamt of something other than that phantom girl’s life in months, but even when the dreamscape doesn’t even feature her, she still manages to invade his dream. 

Worse - his dreams are now edging into territory he hasn’t mapped out in years. His teenage infatuation with Bokuto-san died a natural death after he realised that he’d mistaken his admiration for the ace for romantic feelings. Besides, there was no way Bokuto-san would ever be in love with him, not when he’d chosen to devote the next decade of his life to his sport. So why are his dreams dragging him deeper into a labyrinth of memories that aren’t even his own?

‘Why are you squandering my pocket money in a maid café of all things’ he says, sounding uncharacteristically put out. But then again he would be annoyed if anyone managed to drag him into the pink and white monstrosity his dream has deposited him into.

Bokuto’s happily seated across from him (or rather, his past self), exclaiming ‘ooh - isn’t the ketchup art on this omurice amazing, Akaashi? They managed to capture my hair so well!’, and to his horror his past self nods encouragingly and only laughs when Bokuto whines about not wanting to destroy this ‘piece of art the maids took so much time to create’ by eating the damn omurice. 

‘Don’t be such a killjoy, Keiji-kun’, she giggles. ‘Look at him, he’s having such fun, and besides, your day will reset so your money won’t be wasted anyway!’. 

Bokuto, distracted by the catchy beat of the J-pop song blasting over the speakers, is cajoled by a trio of pretty maids to join them on stage to dance along with them. He pops his hips to the beat of the music, throwing up cheesy hand signals with such gusto that it makes him (yes, present day Keiji) want to smile. 

But his past self evidently hasn’t lightened up yet, because he hears himself say crossly – ‘You do realise this is a waste of time when we could be doing something more useful like homework, especially since  Bokuto-san and I already spend most of our time training?’

‘Oh Keiji-kun, life is too short to be spent worrying like that. Because before you know it, you’ll grow into an old man who doesn’t know how to have any fun’.

‘I have fun’, he says petulantly, a faint sulk in his voice. 

‘Oh really? Then stop worrying and live a little. Maybe you should take a leaf out of your beloved Bokuto-san’s book – look how much fun he’s having!’

Bokuto clearly seems to be having the time of his life because now he’s prancing around the stage playing some silly game with the maids. 

‘I told you, I don’t think of him that way.’

‘And I’ve told you I’ve borrowed your skin for far too long to know when you’re not telling me the whole truth, Keiji-kun’, she sing-songs. ‘You wished for more time with him, didn’t you, so aren’t I doing a good deed by helping you figure out what Bokuto might like to do with you?’

‘Bokuto-san doesn’t have spare time on these things – and you’re just making an excuse to explore cafes in Tokyo at my expense!’ 

‘Two birds, one stone. Don’t be pedantic, Keiji-kun!’ 

The next time he’s back in one of those dreams, he finds his past self dressed in a blue yukata along the Sumida river, tugging Bokuto away from the takoyaki store. He remembers Bokuto dragging him away from the rest of the team on a quest to buy some snacks at the food stalls set up around the park, insisting that his stomach’s growling too loudly to wait until the fireworks display is over ‘come on, even you can hear my stomach at this rate, Akaaashi!!!’ – but that’s where the dream starts to diverge. 

‘If you queue for takoyaki, we’re going to miss the fireworks, and you don’t want to miss that, do you Bokuto-san?’ he says, hand firmly on Bokuto’s yukata sleeve. 

‘That’s right! But shouldn’t we join the rest of the team? They’ve got a spot by the river just over there!’ 

‘We won’t get there in time with this crowd – come on! If we hurry, I know the perfect spot to watch the display’, weaving his way through the crowd to shimmy up the trunk of a tree and settle himself comfortably against a large branch. 

‘Woah – Akaashi! I never knew you could climb trees!’ Bokuto calls, sounding impressed.

‘Well, don’t stand there, come join me!’ 

The tree creaks ominously as the larger boy scales its trunk, branches already heavy with red lanterns groaning in protest as he settles himself in the branch opposite Akaashi. And not a moment too soon, because a collective gasp ripples through the crowd along the river as the night sky explodes into rainbow hued fiery streaks.

‘It’s amazing, Akaashi!’ Bokuto hollers with his face tilted up to the sky. 

‘You’re amazing, Bokuto-san’, he says fondly, reaching over to bump Bokuto’s shoulder with his fist and the older boy beams at him, the sheer delight in his smile brighter than the fireworks in the sky. There is a sea of stars in his eyes, and Akaashi wants to shrivel in shame at the way his younger self looks like he’s mentally planning to pirate a boat to cross the straits to Bokuto’s heart. 

‘There is no way I’m going to do that’ he hears himself say, sounding mildly cross. 

‘Eh – it’s cute. ‘sides, doesn’t he look so happy’ he hears her say, sounding overly chipper. 

‘You could spend your time instead learning how to play so Bokuto-san won’t pout when you sit out of practice and you wouldn’t have to pretend you sprain your wrist every time we swap.’

‘Are you mad? Do you really think they won’t think something’s up when I can’t even do a simple serve?’ 

‘Fine. You have a point’, he answers begrudgingly. 

‘Of course I do. Come on Keiji, live a little. Enjoy your time with the lodestar of your life’.

‘Can you not say things like that?’ he says dryly. 

‘It’s your fault for reading so much Shakespeare to me!’ she replies with a grin in her voice.

He texts Bokuto the minute he wakes up. ‘Bokuto-san, apologies if this seems weird, but do you remember if we ever climbed a tree when we watched fireworks with our team?’ 

Bokuto takes a while to respond, but that’s to be expected, it’s his mornings are usually filled with practice and conditioning. But when he does respond, his text makes Akaashi’s brow curl. ‘Nope, but sounds fun! What’s up Akaashi!!’ 

Akaashi drops his head in his palms. Good to know he’s not losing his grip on reality at least. 

But his sleep for the following weeks continues to be filled with dreams in the same vein. 

He dreams of scenes that have never taken place in real life - him challenging Bokuto-san to ramen eating competition, the older boy winning handily of course, crowing like a child when he slurps the last mouthful of tonkatsu broth - ‘eh Akaashi, eat faster!’, him dragging Bokuto-san to the arcade near school, demolishing middle schoolers in endless games of dance dance revolution (there is no way he is actually able to move like that in real life) and losing far too much money in claw games - ‘Akaashi I really want that toy pleaseeee’ - and even he would admit it’s absolutely adorable if not for the fact that he can’t explain why these dreams keep invading his head like a wildfire that refuses to die. 

‘I honestly don’t understand you’, she says and again, why on earth is she in this set of dreams - she doesn’t belong in them -

‘What exactly do you not understand?’

‘If you like him that much, why aren’t you jumping at the chance to hang out with him? All you do is nag me about how I’m wasting his time, I’m wasting your time, but I don’t understand -  isn’t time meant to be spent on the people you love? Unless you’re confusing love with admiration, because yes, I get that you admire his talent, but you don’t seem to have all that much patience for spending time with him outside of school.’ 

‘I suppose I do like him, but…’

‘Finally you admit it, but I don’t like the sound of that word.’ 

‘It’s nothing’, he finally says, and she huffs in annoyance, clearly wanting him to explain but he stubbornly refuses to say another word. 

His past self is skidding down the hallway with Bokuto hot on his heels yelling ‘Akaaashiii you owe me a Yakisoba bunnnnn’ when he hears an almighty crash behind him. As he spins around, Bokuto’s sprawled on the floor, papers and books scattered around him. The older boy grimaces as he sits up, grabbing at his ankle in pain. 

‘Bokuto-san, are you ok?’ he cries, running back towards the older boy. 

‘I might have twisted my ankle. Argh this is bad - prelims are just next week!’ Bokuto groans, clutching at his ankle desperately. 

‘Don’t worry. You’ll be fine tomorrow, trust me’, his past self says with complete certainty, and flags down a passing student to call for a teacher. 

‘Look what you’ve done now. Are you happy with yourself?’ he hears himself say accusingly. ‘Everything might reset tomorrow, but look - he’s hurt himself today. Is this what you’ve been trying to prove to me?’ 

‘I’m sorry, Keiji’ he hears her say, her voice watery. ‘I didn’t think -’ 

‘Of course you didn’t, you never think about the consequences of your actions, do you?’ he says, glass shards in his words. 

His dream fades to black. He never hears her answer. 

His sleep remains relatively undisturbed for the next fortnight, just in time for his mid-term exams which he aces, even his course on classical Japanese literature. He’s relieved of course, because his final year grades matter most when it comes to recruitment, yet there’s a part of him that’s buried deep between ventricles and pumping flesh that childishly wonders what his dreams are going to show him next.

His wish is answered when he opens his eyes to an ocean of stars, white pinpricks of light against the vast tapestry of the purple night sky. His head is pillowed on tufts of grass and the wind whispers against his feet.

The sight takes his breath away. 

He’s a born and bred city boy, and he knows from experience it’s near impossible to see stars in the city sky amidst light pollution and masquerading satellites.  

‘Is this your way of apologising?’ he asks, his voice wry. 

‘Is it working yet?’ he hears her ask, an uncharacteristically timid note in her voice. He laughs, a fond sound, and he can hear her huff a breath through her mouth. ‘I am sorry though, Keiji. I never meant to hurt him’. 

‘It’s fine, no damage done. Besides, I was thinking about what you said.’

‘Me? About what? I know I’ve said plenty to you so far’, she says curiously. 

‘About Bokuto-san’, he supplies, and she stays silent, waiting for him to go on. The stars twinkle down at him, and if he closes his eyes, he can imagine the galaxy reaching down to lend him its infinite strength. ‘You were right about how…I felt about Bokuto-san. I thought what I felt for him was something more than it really was - now I’m starting to realise I just admire his strength, and I don’t see our paths ever converging, especially if he’s going to chase his dreams of going pro all the way’. 

‘You don’t have to chase someone else’s light when you’re brilliant in your own right’, she says gently. 

‘Thanks’, he answers thickly, as if the word feels a little awkward in his mouth. 

‘So -’ she pipes up, and he can tell she’s trying her best to paper over the sudden lapse of silence. ‘Will you tell me stories about the stars, Keiji?’

He laughs fondly, raising a hand to catch the stardust from the sparkling constellations overhead. ‘I could tell you the story of Andromeda, chained to rocks as a sacrifice to satisfy the cruel demands of the sea monster?’ 

‘Ugh no gory stories, I want a happy ending!’ 

‘It has a happy ending, I promise. Just be patient and listen, okay?’ 

Akaashi wakes up before his past self can finish telling the tale of Persues’ rescue of Andromeda from the jaws of defeat. It’s barely three in the morning, but he knows it’s futile to try to go back to sleep. He wanders to the window, and wonders whether the lone star hanging in the cloudy sky is merely a satellite in disguise. 

Against his better judgment, he dials Bokuto’s number. 

‘What’s up, Akaashi!’ he hears the older man mumble sleepily, sheets rustling. 

‘Was it obvious I had a crush on you in high school?’ he asks plainly. If seeking closure is what he needs to end this slew of dreams, then he’s going to do it, never mind the embarrassment thick in the blood in his veins.

‘Huh?’ 

Akaashi’s pretty sure he can hear Bokuto blink rapidly. ‘A crush on you’, he repeats, and for good measure he adds - ‘sometime in your third year of high school’. 

‘Ehhhh…’ Bokuto’s voice trails off over the phone. ‘You did?’ 

The sigh that trips out of Akaashi’s mouth is worn, weary. ‘I did’, he confirms, embarrassment writhing in his belly. 

‘But you stopped right? Just before I graduated? You started becoming distracted after Spring High and I thought you were just worrying about university entrance exams.’

‘I suppose.’ And Akaashi should really get a grip on himself but his dreams have been doing a number on him so to his horror, he starts to ramble. ’ It’s probably the lack of sleep, but look - this sounds really stupid but I was having a lot of really weird dreams and I don’t understand what’s happening but I’m hoping getting this off my chest helps me get some more sleep and I hope you don’t think I’m completely weird and don’t mind still being my friend -’

‘Woah, ‘kaashi, slow down! You’re overthinking again - what, you think I’m not going to be your friend anymore?’ Bokuto booms, laughing widely. 

‘Uh. I don’t know?’ 

‘Relax! I’m flattered, but I think it’s a good thing we never went out! You were already so stressed dealing with me in high school Washio used to joke about your hair falling out, but I’ve changed! Now I’m just an ordinary ace!’ 

‘Bokuto-san, I don’t think anyone would call you ordinary’, Akaashi interjects, rubbing circles against his temple. 

‘You know what I mean!’ Bokuto laughs, the sound so round and boisterous that it makes Akaashi quirk his lips up in affection. 

‘Yes, Bokuto-san. Anyway, sorry for disturbing your sleep.’ 

‘Anytime, Akaashi!’ They bid each other goodnight, and the relief he feels after the call settles on his chest like a blanket, and he falls back to sleep. 

Taglist: 

@1tooru @kageyamakock @animeflower26 @underrated-fruit-tarts-official

[samstree]

Dark Bird (1/?)

Geraskier, 3.5k, The Time Traveler’s Wife AU, a sequel to You are too well tangled in my soul

Also on AO3.

There’s safe house, and there’s Yennefer’s safe house.

It’s really more of a castle on the outskirts of Novigrad, and none of them knows how she acquired it. Remembering the major’s townhouse in Rinde, it’s probably wise not to ask. One look at the fancy decoration and luxuries in it, Jaskier almost wishes he’s the one with dangerous powers who needs to stay for training.

The protective wards are so well-designed that the only way in is through Yennefer’s portals and hers alone. If Geralt had any doubt regarding Ciri’s safety here, it certainly disappeared after he’s seen the place.

Alas, a letter from home calls for Jaskier’s return. After dropping Ciri off, they need to set off to Lettenhove immediately.

Home. It’s the word that fills Jaskier with longing and dread at the same time. Sleep has been eluding him since the sorceress brought news of his father’s death.

Geralt would want to bid Ciri goodbye before they leave, so Jaskier offers to ready Roach and gives them space.

“Are you sure you have to go?” Ciri’s voice is muffled in Geralt’s chest when she squeezes the hug tighter.

“I’m sorry, cub. But Jaskier needs to go back to Lettenhove.”

“No, I—” she pulls away, reluctantly. “I know he doesn’t have the best memories of that place. Something about his father. That’s why he’s been so down since the letter. And scared too. Why does he have to go if he’s so scared of it?”

From a distance, Jaskier can only catch pieces of the conversation. He startles at how perceptive the young girl is. The idea of Ciri being so worried sits wrong in his stomach. She has been through enough.

Roach snorts next to him like she’s judging him for eavesdropping.

Geralt replies softly into Ciri’s ear while tucking away her unruly hair. Jaskier can’t hear anything without appearing too suspicious. No doubt the words are only meant for his child and no one else. Finally, the girl relents. “Just take care of him, Geralt.”

The witcher gives her a solemn promise before beckoning Jaskier over.

Ciri also pulls him into a tight hug that borders on painful. The girl hasn’t realized how strong she’s become over the past winter. Constant sword training with all the wolf witchers has given her enough strength to hold her own against any common soldier or two. She’s grown taller too, so much so that her hair is all over Jaskier’s face and tickling his nose. He wonders how much taller she’s gonna be when they see each other next.

“Keep Geralt between you and monsters.”

“Keep Yennefer between you and trouble.” Jaskier smiles at her adorable little frown. “And don’t you worry about me, poppet. You are too young to have worry lines.”

The front gate of the mansion creaks open, and Yennefer herself steps out. “Ready?”

Geralt leaves a quick kiss on Ciri’s head and nods at the sorceress. With a heavy heart, Jaskier steps through the portal after the witcher and his mare into the forest of Redania. Behind them, where the mansion should be, stands a crumbling ruin, disguised from the eyes of travelers.

“What did you tell Ciri?”

A smile flashes through Geralt’s amber eyes. “Knew you were listening in.”

“Apparently not, if I didn’t catch anything.” Jaskier pouts, but it’s hard to distract himself from the bubbling dread of returning to his childhood home.

Geralt hums, studying his bard. The witcher must have seen through his pretense because the next thing he knows Geralt is squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.

“I told her you’ll be all right,” Geralt says. “That I’ll be there to make sure of it.”

Staring into the warm molten gold, Jaskier almost believes it.

 *

The ground thaws. Life returns to the Continent after a long winter.

They arrive in Lettenhove on a warm morning, walking side by side through a stretch of meadows. The dandelions have declared spring’s arrival, peppering the ground with sparks of sunlight.

Geralt remains beside Jaskier, steady and solid just as he has been throughout the journey. They knock on the door.

“Master Julian!”

The guard leads them into the great hall. Servants greet him with a name that has been buried for over twenty years, and it catches Jaskier off guard. Everything here, the estate, the title, his father’s fortune, it all would have been his had he not leave. So would the crushing expectations of being a noble. As much as Jaskier seems to fare better with them than the witcher, he knows too well about the back-stabbing nature of those elites.

A warm hand falls on the small of his back, Geralt’s eyes meeting his in support.

“All right?”

Jaskier opens his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by heavy footsteps and a surprised gasp.

“Julian?” God, it’s been too many years since Jaskier has seen his mother. Jaskier startles at how much she’s changed – her hair has gone completely white, her skin lined with wrinkles, but her eyes are a striking blue. “It’s been so long. I couldn’t believe it when they told me it was you. Oh, Julian. It’s so good to see you again.”

“Hello, mother.” He smiles tightly, suddenly forgetting what to do, so he lets her pull him into a tentative hug. Jaskier cannot remember the last time his mother hugged him. It’s unexpectedly nice, in a way that he never knew it could be.

“You missed the funeral.”

“I’m sorry. It must be difficult for you.” Jaskier feels his mother tense up when she notices Geralt’s presence.

“This is my…companion, Geralt of Rivia.” He pulls away, gesturing to the witcher. Her posture immediately changes into a more serious one, her back stiffer. Her sharp blue eyes, identical to Jaskier’s own, look up and down the witcher with an untrusting expression Jaskier has seen one too many times in his lifetime.

“I didn’t know you would bring a witcher with you,” she frowns.

You look so much like your mother, Julian. Especially your eyes. Everyone they used to meet told him that. Right now, it brings him anguish that those eyes so similar to his are looking at Geralt with such hostility.

“As I said, he’s my companion. That’s why he’s here with me.”

“Julian, you know his kind is not welcome here. Your father would never approve—”

“My father has passed, mother. I will not have him insult the person I love anymore.” She flinches at the word love. Whatever illusion of warmth between them is disappearing. “You don’t have to side with him anymore.”

They stand in stone-cold silence. The pounding of his heart and his quickened breath are all Jaskier can hear.

“He brought a witcher in case of monsters,” Geralt chimes in unexpectedly, “Though I find more of them among those in high positions. You wouldn’t have those in Lettenhove, would you?”

Her lips tighten at the insinuation. “Is that what you’re here to do, Julian? As soon as your father is gone you come home to insult us, and what? You’ll take your inheritance and go back to being a jester and dragging the Pankratz name through the dirt? Have you no shame, no sense of responsibility to your family?”

Jaskier lets out a dry laugh.

“I haven’t used the family name for decades. Everything I have right now I built for myself.” He takes a deep breath to collect himself. “As for the other thing, you don’t have to worry. I’m not here for the inheritance, or the title or anything you believe is important enough to fight over. No, I’ll make sure none of it will ever have any power over me, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Her face turns pale out of humiliation, but Jaskier feels no sense of triumph. He’s not here to cause her more grief. Instead, he just feels hollow, tired, like he just traveled across the Continent for a battle that he already lost.

“Very well. You will remain in the estate until the transition is complete.” She straightens her back. In her dark mourning clothes, she almost looks as respectable as any noble pretends to be.

“Have a nice day, mother.”

An older handmaid comes to lead Jaskier away to a guest room. There’s no need for any more exchanges.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Geralt nods to the Dowager Viscountess curtly, before turning to follow. His hand circles Jaskier’s waist again as their footsteps pick up. Jaskier releases a shuddering breath he’s been holding in at the touch, and if he’s leaning on Geralt a little bit too much, the witcher does not seem to mind.

 *

Ferrant settles into the job like a puzzle fitting into place, Jaskier muses as he takes another sip of the fine Toussaint wine. With all his natural ways in court, his cousin is easily the most suitable out of all the Lettenhove children to take the title of Viscount.

Some people are just born to become leaders, to deal with politics and decide the price of tea. Jaskier is lucky, he reckons, that Ferrant is just here with all the experience of running an estate, waiting for him to hand over the title.

Once he’s home and determined to renounce everything, the course of action becomes unexpectedly clear. Ferrant moved into the estate immediately and took over most of the things he was already seeing through. At the time, he was the one to arrange Father’s funeral when Mother was stricken with grief.

The process only lasted two weeks, and Jaskier is more than willing to cooperate just to hasten his departure. Now the last thing required is holding a banquet to announce it to the world, with Ferrant as the Viscount for the first time.

At this point, it’s just formality, one that Jaskier has to attend to show deference to the next head of the family. In his peripheral vision, he can see Mother smile at something Ferrant said. They are both at the top table, playing the perfect host to the first celebration since the funeral.

Geralt has been the most supportive Jaskier has ever seen him. Even his usual grunts have disappeared no matter how many nobles from the Northern Kingdoms are gathering at this hall to prod him with inappropriate questions.

They are seated at the side with Geralt next to Jaskier, shadowing him as if there’s danger hidden in these nobles’ fancy sleeves.

Not only does this place dredge up bad memories of Jaskier’s past, it seems to make Geralt uneasy as well. The witcher is always checking on Jaskier or staying close protectively as if this house can still hurt him. Even now, as they sit in front of an abundance of food and drinks, Geralt is still tense, ready to strike anyone who as much as looks at Jaskier wrong.

In the din of the room, the hired singer is playing some classical melodies so the guests can start to dance. It’s a young musician he’s never seen at any competitions, and he almost snorts into his drink at the immaturity in his playing. The buzz of the alcohol relaxes his limbs, making everything light and fuzzy and soft around the edges.

If Jaskier can’t play at his own goodbye party, he’s determined to make the most of it.

“Come on.” He pulls Geralt to his feet and leads him into the dance floor. The witcher raises an eyebrow in question but complies.

Jaskier places his chin on Geralt’s shoulder and holds him close. His witcher responds in return, pressing a hand right between his shoulder blades, his warm breaths ghosting over the shell of Jaskier’s ear.

The music slows and they sway gently to the rhythm. The light has dimmed as the night drags on. For a moment Jaskier can pretend they are dancing alone by campfire instead of being watched by countless prying eyes.

“Our last night here.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m sorry about that guy earlier,” Jaskier winces at the memory.

Geralt’s answer is almost drowned out by the music and the crowd. “The baron? It’s fine.”

“It’s not. He asked if you drink baby blood to stay young.” Jaskier is offended on Geralt’s behalf just by how laughable these rumors are.

“Jokes on him. I’m older than his grandfather.”

Jaskier lets out a chuckle. “And yet, my dear witcher, you haven’t aged one bit since the day I met you.”

“Haven’t I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Haven’t I really?” Geralt murmurs again. Jaskier untangles from their tight embrace to see the witcher’s worried frown. “All these years, for all you've seen me misplaced in time. Do I never look older than I am now?”

Jaskier touches Geralt’s cheekbone, where the long scar will be.

“You look older, sometimes.”

“But by how much? Can you tell?”

Jaskier’s eyebrows scrunch up in return. “What brought this on? You’ve never cared about your looks. Has vanity finally overcome you in old age, my love?”

Geralt tilts his head at the teasing.

“Not vanity, Jask. I don’t care if the years will show on my skin. If I’ve learned one thing about you–” He presses a kiss at the corner of Jaskier’s left eye. “—these lines only make you more beautiful. No, I was just wondering…Do you know what is the oldest you’ve ever seen me?”

Jaskier blinks. He has seen a much older Geralt, steady and sure of himself. But that Geralt is also battle-worn and weary, with aching joints that won’t heal fully. He keeps a mental map of all Geralt’s scars, the ones already here and the ones that will be. Sometimes he presses gentle kisses to those phantom scars that are still just unmarred skin, as if he can soothe them in advance.

But no, he doesn’t know which version of Geralt is the oldest. Marking the years by scars is too imprecise. Whatever magical intervention, blessing, or even curse that makes time travel possible for Geralt, it has apparently been here throughout his life. Chances are it will continue to happen until the day he dies.

When we slow and get killed, Geralt said those words a lifetime ago. An untimely death will always loom over a witcher’s path even if there isn’t a war raging out there. A chill runs down Jaskier’s body. He’s suddenly seeing all these little pockets of stolen time in his memory in a new light. There’s no telling if he’s already seen Geralt at the end of his life—

“Hey,” Geralt interrupts his spiraling. The room is suddenly too stuffy and Jaskier struggles to take in air. Added with the wine from earlier, his stomach turns with nausea. The room spins under his feet.

“Shit. I didn’t mean to upset you, Jask. Ah…forget about it. Let’s get some air.”

Strong hands steer Jaskier away from the dancing couples. They slip through the crowd as quietly as possible. At the back of his head, he knows court etiquette demands his presence in the hall, but any potential protest is shushed by Geralt’s murmuring.

A cool breeze from the garden hits Jaskier, and he leans into his witcher under the stars, still panting but not as violently.

“I’m okay. We should go back.”

“Shh, it’s okay. No one will notice. After tonight, you’ll have nothing to do with them. Geralt’s hands reach under Jaskier’s doublet, resting on the chemise, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin fabric. “You’ll be free, completely.”

A high-pitched laugh comes through the open door, probably Ferrant telling a cheesy joke to impress the ladies.

“Thank you for being here with me.” Jaskier rests his forehead against Geralt’s temple. “I don’t know what I would have done if I came alone.”

“Hmm. You are strong enough, Jaskier.”

“Am I?” Jaskier says mockingly. “I… There’s always this…chasm that I couldn’t bridge. The longer I was away from home the more I forgot why I was so unhappy here. I kept wondering…if I really was so miserable? Was there really nothing good here? Sometimes it feels like my memories are false, that everything was fine all along.”

“Jask.” Geralt’s jaw tightens, his voice lowers dangerously, but Jaskier knows the anger is not directed at him. “I cannot speak for your entire childhood. But from what I saw, what he did to you was not something any parent should do to their children.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“If you need to convince people it wasn’t that bad, it was bad enough.”

Jaskier hums, nuzzling into Geralt’s neck. The witcher’s muscles are tense, but the warm skin there smells faintly like the lavender soap they share.

“I suppose,” he muses.

They stand under the stars, listening to the distant music until the night whiles away and guests start to leave.

Mother stands in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the warm candlelight. A chill sends goosebumps down Jaskier’s spine as she turns away, disappointed for the last time.

Geralt ushers him back to the guest room and starts a roaring fire. That night Jaskier falls asleep in the safe embrace of his lover. Those nightmares of old he dreads never come. When the witcher’s gravelly voice drags him out of sweet oblivion before dawn, Jaskier feels rested for the first time since he stepped foot in this town.

He will never be Julian of Lettenhove again.

 *

“You woke me up at some godsforsaken hour for this?”

The lake glistens under the rising sun, lapping at the shore in the quiet of the morning. Roach is soon distracted by the wild flora and nibbling on them happily.

Geralt is standing by the water, all wide shoulders and strong arms. A few strands of silver fall out of his ponytail and sway in the gentle breeze. Jaskier hides a little gasp. Every now and then he gets hit in the face by how beautiful his witcher is.

“We are leaving today.”

“I’m aware.” Jaskier smiles, feeling warm and fuzzy under the morning sun. “We didn’t pack everything just to have Roach carry them back to the house.”

“Wanted to see this place.”

“Didn’t know you to be spontaneous,” he teases. “And, darling, you’ve been here a million times.”

“Hmm. But not by choice.” Geralt purses his lips, bending down to pick up a flower. “It’s nice. Nicer, when it’s on my terms.”

Jaskier’s grin spreads as he takes off his boots to roll up the end of his breeches. The coldness sends goosebumps down his back when he steps into the shallow water.

“Come on then.”

It reminds him of the coast of Cidaris. He misses the tang of salt and the roaring waves. Maybe he’ll ask Geralt to come with him again.

A splatter hits Jaskier in the face and he squeals with indignation. The witcher splashes more lake water towards him with a cocky smirk. Jaskier retaliates with equal force and it turns messy very quickly.

“These are nice clothes, you heathen!”

The witcher attacks fiercely, though Jaskier knows he must be holding back, or he would never stand a chance. Regardless, Jaskier is the one who ends up soaked and almost falling. Lucky his witcher is there to drag him ashore.

Geralt helps him out and takes off the doublet as their giggling dies down. Jaskier hasn’t felt this light since he got here so he lies down on the grass and lets the sun do the rest of the drying.

“I was wrong.”

“Hmm?” the witcher plops down next to him, blocking the sunlight. Jaskier shifts to rest his head on Geralt’s thigh.

“There are good things about Lettenhove.” He revels in the feeling of Geralt’s fingers running through his hair, the ends still a little wet. “This lake. I used to come here hours before you showed up, even if I knew the precise time. Think about all the poems I wrote here… See that tree? My early works were all created under that tree.”

“Don’t you ever get tired? Waiting for me, back then and…later?”

The pad of Geralt’s thumb traces the shell of Jaskier’s ear. He thinks back on the years, the heartbreak, the lonely walk down a mountain, but then those images were replaced by the reunions, by a passionate kiss and the crinkle around those amber eyes when Geralt pretends not to care for Jaskier’s cheesy puns.

“Silly witcher. You are worth the wait,” he murmurs, “I’d do it all over again, you know? As long as we have a future together.”

The wind shifts and Geralt’s smile softens. There is something somber in the way he observes Jaskier’s face. It’s like he might forget it the next moment if he pays any less attention. “We do,” he responds.

Jaskier plunges to tackle Geralt to the ground and kisses him with an inch of his life, kisses away the slight worry at the corner of his mouth.

After all, they have the rest of their lives ahead.

[emerald-echeveria-plant]

[[Part 4 of ???]]

Stuck with you

//Baozhai and Islay walked through the jungle. Islay cutting down leaves in their way with her sword.//

Baozhai, looking at the map: You think we'll find any skeletons through here??

Islay: How should I know? I Never heard of this place before.

Baozhai: Oh well, then allow me to tell you about this place!

Islay: please don't-

Baozhai: The Paititi was a civilization that were known for having tons of gold and practically living in it everday! Everything they had was made out of gold. Bowls, statues, and even clothing! Isn't that amazing to know??? Then one day the the civilization just disappeared! As well as the gold items and riches they had. Once outsiders arrived, all they found were statues and the abandoned villages. The weirdest thing they found was murals, depicting where they supposedly hid their treasure...

Islay:

Islay: How do you know all that? I thought you were supposed to be stupid or something.

Baozhai: Oh Ironbeard told me- HEY! I'm not dumb! I have the intelligence of a highschooler thank you very much! >:(((

Islay: Yeah, yeah whatever you say.

Baozhai, still angry: I could literally wire your mouth shut if you said that in front of a crowd of people..!

Islay, stop walking and turns to Baozhai: Baozhai, let me get one thing straight with you. I don't care for your threats and I'm not afraid of you. Everyone else on the ship might cower in fear when you brutalize someone but I've seen other pirates with less anger issues do worse. You're just a temperamental brat who gets offended at the slightest comment that criticizes you. Now all I want to do is get this treasure, leave, and ignore the fact that you still exist... You think you can manage shutting your mouth for once?

Baozhai:

Baozhai, pouts: fine I'll be quiet but I won't be happy about it >:(

Islay, rolls her eyes: Just make sure you don't loose the map.

//Islay took a few steps forward. She pushed some giant leaves out of the way. In front of them was a stone path with strange runes drawn on them. Baozhai looked at the map. She took a step forward and put her pressed her foot down on the path. Immediately, arrows came flying out from the walls. Baozhai quickly backed away before one of the arrows could pierce her.//

Islay: The classic arrows coming out of walls and trying to figure out the correct pattern on the floor... How cliche.

Baozhai: Good thing this map shows you how to cross.

//Just as the two were about to cross, a gunshot fired near their feet. The two women jumped back. A few feet from the left of them, stood Flint and Billy. Flint had the gun pointed towards the women.//

Flint: Not so fast ya' harlots.. give us that their map and we'll let ye both walk free..

Islay: Fuck off mate! This is our map and we're getting to that treasure!

Bones: Islay, we all know where this is going. Ye really want to risk a limb over that map?

Islay, holding her sword towards them: I'd rather die for it then let ye rats have it!

//She rushes towards the two. Unfortunately, she was taken down by Billy with a swift kick to the stomach. Billy put himself on top of her, putting her arms behind her back. Preventing her to do anything else harmful.//

Islay, struggling underneath Billy: Doesn't matter! My accomplice will tear you both apart!!

Flint: Well then I guess we'll have have pry it from their cold dead han-

Baozhai, hands him the map: Here you go :)

//Flint, Bones, and Islay all stand there completely stunned for a few seconds. Islay stared at Baozhai with her mouth gaping. Flint snatches the map out of Baozhai's hand.//

Flint: Seems like yer accomplice is more accommodating than ye..

Baozhai, hugs Flint tightly: you're so handsome..

//Flint stared, unamusedly at the small woman. He tried gentle pushing her off of him. But alas, Baozhai stuck to him like glue. Flint attempted to shove her off but still she stuck onto him. With all his strength, he tried to shove her off.//

Flint: LET GO OF ME!

Baozhai: 💕

//Flint grabbed Baozhai by her shoulders. He put his foot up against her, trying to pry her off of him. Fortunately, he managed to get her off of him.//

Baozhai: sorry... Couldn't help myself from wrapping my arms around your big, beefy, frame~

Flint, obviously disgusted: ...

Flint: tie em' both up Billy..

//Billy nods as he takes out some rope. A few minutes later the two women are tied, back to back to each other. Flint and Billy leave them behind as they successfully cross the booby trap.//

Islay, eye twitching angry: I cannot ... BELIEVE YOU HANDED OVER THE FUCKING MAP! WHY THE HELL DID YOU DO IT YOU FUCKING IDIOT. YOU COULDN'T DO THAT BRUTAL SHIT YOU LIKE TO DO TOWARDS THEM?? DID YOUR TWO FUNCTIONING BRAINCELLS GIVE UP ON YOU???

Baozhai: I'm sorry! I couldn't help myself.. he was just so dreamy💕 I feel like we had a real connection there!

Islay: HE PUSHED YOU OFF OF HIM! HOW WAS THAT A "REAL CONNECTION"????

Baozhai: it didn't seem like through his actions but I could feel it.. emotionally 🥺

Islay: OH I'M GOING TO SHOW YOU A REAL CONNECTION YOU STUPID SON OF A BI-

//Cut back to Billy and Flint walking through the jungle. Flint was holding the map.//

Bones: you think those two ladies will be fine..?

Flint: I'm sure they will. If they don't, too bad.

Bones: I mean, I feel a little bad.. I knew Islay for a few years and seeing her again was pretty nice... Until she tried killing me. That other girl seemed to like you a lot too..

Flint, sighs: They're the enemy, Billy. Don't think you should feel bad for em'. If the captain was here, he'd smack you on the side of the head.

Bones:

Bones: but he isn't here..

Flint: I can clearly see that-

//Suddenly, Flint fell through the ground. Flint was clinging to the edge of the ground. Below him was molten lava... Seemed as though it was another one of the booby traps. Unfortunately they had overlooked it. Billy, quickly began to pull Flint up. As he began to pull him up, the map slowly slipped out of hands. Flint, just now realizing this, tried grabbing the map. Unfortunately, the map fluttered down into the lava.//

Flint: No, no, no!

//Map: disintegrates.//

Flint: GODDAMNIT!

//Billy successful pulls Flint out of the hole.//

Bones: You okay??

Flint: No! Damnit I lost the FUCKING map!

Bones: It's okay maybe we can-

Flint: No, it is not okay! I lost the fucking map because I chose to talk instead of looking where I was walking! GODDAMNIT, GODDAMNIT, GODDAMNIT!

//Cut back to Islay and Baozhai. Baozhai was trying to figure out a way to untie them.//

Baozhai: maybe if we... No that wouldn't work.. how about! No, no, that wouldn't work either.. HUH! I've got it!

Islay, dying on the inside: what is it...?

Baozhai, slowly tries to use her knees to get up: we'll... Stand up.. and walk to the treasure tied together!

Islay: Sounds stupid.. but by this point what choice do I even have..?

//Islay uses her knees to also get up. Struggling but successful the two were able to get off the ground.//

Baozhai: Okay! Now we just run across the trap!

Islay: If I die doing this... Tell the crew... I hate you more than that warden that almost killed me..

Baozhai: I'll keep that noted!

//Together the two began to run towards the trap. Immediately tons of arrows flew out of the walls. They screamed in terror as the arrows came close to piercing their skin. With luck on their side, they managed to get across without any arrows sticking to them.//

Baozhai, breathing heavily: see.. that.. wasn't.. so bad..

Islay, white as a ghost: I think I may have wet myself there.

Baozhai: ... Gross...

Islay: I SAID I MAY HAVE!

//Cut back to Flint and Billy. After Flint got over his breakdown of losing the map, him and Billy began to walk around the jungle.//

Bones: uhh, let's take this direction..? *Points to a path*

Flint: we already walked through there...

Bones: Oh, um, then how about through here-

Flint, facepalms: we already walked through there too... ten minutes ago.. WE'VE BEEN WALKING IN CIRCLES FOR FUCK SAKE!

Bones: um... how about we try to walk back and retrace out steps?

Flint, let's out a long sigh: ... Fine.

//The two walk back in order to retrace their steps. Behind a bush they saw, Islay and Baozhai. Who were still tied up together.//

Baozhai: I'm telling you, if I was captain I'd be great at it!

Islay: if you were captain, the ship would immediately blow up from your incompetence.

Baozhai: Hey at least I'm the one who memorized the map! That has to count for something when it comes to leadership or captainship..

Islay: Since when do you have photographic memory???

Baozhai: Ever since I could remember ever little detail of me getting "treated" at the mental asylum I was forcefully put in. Like how they'd lock me in a padded room for hours on end in complete darkness and isolation or how they stuck a needle into my eye and into my brain to get the bad spirits out of me.. god it was painful.. haha! Those were the worst times of my life..! :D

Islay:

Islay: Let's just try to get to the treasure in one piece.. and maybe figure out a way out of these ropes.

//Behind the bush, the two clearly heard what they were just talking about. Billy nudged Flint.//

Bones: I've got an idea..

Flint: Let me hear it..

//Baozhai and Islay continued to walk together. It looked like the sun was starting to set. Islay took notice of this.//

Islay: Damnit, night's gonna arrive soon. As if we need any more problems..

Flint, comes out from behind the bushes with Billy: Stop right there!

Islay: Speak of the devil.

Baozhai, gasps: You came back for me! :D

Flint: I'm not here for you, you stupid cow!

Baozhai: yes you are~! I knew you couldn't resist me..

Flint, groans: I swear I'm going to punch you again.

Baozhai: Ooo, sounds hot..

Flint:

Bones:

Islay:

Flint: you know what nevermind... Tell us how to get to the treasure or we'll cut out your tongues!

Baozhai: Oh okay! Make a-

//Islay hits her head with Baozhai's head.//

Baozhai: Hey! Ow...

Islay: Don't tell him anything you idiot! The last time you did that you got us into this mess! Who knows if they'll do it or not!

Baozhai: okay fine

Flint, holds a knife against Baozhai's neck and growls: Talk..

Baozhai: I'd love to but I'm caught between wanting to tell you or possibly being strangled to death by my crewmate..

Flint: I'm going to count to three and if you don't tell me I'm going to kill you and her..

Baozhai:

Flint: One...

Bones: don't you think we should torture it out of them at least?

Flint: two.. *puts the knife and his head closer to her*

Islay: Whatever you do, don't tell him anything Baozhai!

//Baozhai with precious seconds passing by did the only reasonable thing imaginable. She gave Flint a kiss.//

Flint, cutting him off from saying three: *proceeds to gag and quickly step away from her* WHAT THE HELL??

Baozhai: I'm sorry you were getting close to my face and I couldn't help myself~ It was worth it~! Albeit your teeth did kinda cut my lips..

Flint: FUCK THIS *pulls out his flintlock pistol and presses the end against Baozhai's forehead* I'm gonna put a bullet in this cunt's head!

Bones: What about getting to the treasure???

Flint, growls: ... We can figure that out later..

Islay: Hold on now! How about we all get there together..

Flint: What are you talking about?

Islay: I'm saying how about we NOT kill each other until we arrive to the treasure..? You help us get out of these ropes and we lead you guys to the treasure.. then when we get there we can go back to hating each other as normal... That sound like a deal..?

Flint: Why would I trust you.. you could betray us or strand us at any moment when we let you go..

Islay, looks at Baozhai: even if I wanted to, I couldn't because of the simp next to me..

//Flint stared menacingly at Islay. He took out his knife again and held it against Islay's neck. Islay tried moving her head away her from the knife. Instead of slicing her neck open, he swiftly cut the ropes.//

Flint, puts away his gun and his knife: let's get a move on then. The sun is getting low and I'm not planning on carrying the either of you.

Baozhai: ha, I knew you would do that. You care about me too much to ever do such a thing..

Flint: talk one more time and I'm throwing you down a lava pit.

Baozhai:

Baozhai: my lips are sealed..

//The four walk off straight ahead with Baozhai taking lead.//

To be continued...

[yourdeepestfathoms]

I Did A Terrible Thing

just a very random AU idea. i like the concept of this curse so i whipped this up

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

Pale sunlight filtered in through cracks between the curtains, bathing the floor with washed out yellow rays. The sound of clattering from downstairs awakened Jane, then the empty space in the bed. She sighed, reaching longingly for her husband’s side, only to not find him there. Despite her disappointment, she smiled; that man was probably already up and working. She needed to fall into pace, too.

After getting dressed, Jane walked down the stairs, being mindful of her stomach. She was only four months into her pregnancy, but Henry still wanted her to be careful all the time. She found herself chuckling at the memory of him fretting over her from when she was simply walking.

  “Good morning, Joan,” She greeted the young teenager at the kettle.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” The girl replied.

Joan was a young, scrawny little thing. She was awkward in size and personality, always fidgeting nervously or picking at her arms. She didn’t have many friends, Jane had noticed, despite the town having quite a few kids her age. The girl was just too quiet and too shy and all too reserved to interact with anyone beyond her masters.

Henry and Jane were in need of a maid when their fortune and property grew the more Henry became more powerful in his work. Although a fifteen year old outcast wasn’t what they had in mind, they took the worker offered to them regardless. After all, they didn’t need to pay a child as much as their paid an adult.

  “Where has Henry ran off to?” Jane asked, pouring herself a cup of tea.

  “He went to town early this morning, ma’am.” Joan answered. Her voice was wavering slightly; she always did her best to sound mature and appropriate for her status under such a wealthy family. “Runnin’ off because of something with the Howard’s, ma’am. Didn’t tell me what ailed him.” Her eyes flashed a little, weakness reflecting in them for a moment as her voice dipped, “Look like he was gon’ whip me if I dare ask, ma’am.”

Jane hummed. If she noticed Joan’s fear of a whipping, she didn’t acknowledge it. Yes, she didn’t quite agree with Henry’s choice to sometimes take the whip off its hook, but there was nothing to be done.

  “The Howard’s?” Jane said, interested. Joan deflated slightly when she didn’t say anything about the threatened beating. “Whatever for?”

  “I told you I don’ know, ma’am.” Joan answered. “He didn’ tell me.”

  “Ah, right,” Jane nodded. “And what are you plans for the day?”

  “Mister Tudor want me to work in the field. With the animals.” Joan said.

  “Isn’t it a little cold for that?” Jane commented, watching her servant get her a plate of breakfast.

  “Not to him,” Joan shrugged. It was clear she didn’t want to be out in the cold, but she was not one to go against her master. “I shall get it done as quick as I can. Do you think I will have free time after? May I go to town, too?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Jane said.

Joan lit up. The girl didn’t smile very often, rather wearing a solemn expression on most days, so seeing her smile was strange. 

  “Oh, thank you, Miss Jane!” Joan chirped, bowing her head in thanks. She set the plate down and rubbed her hands against her apron, eyes still alight with glee. All the things she wanted to do, like going to the library and getting new books, made her excited. “Is there anything else you need, ma’am? I don’ want to leave you and get to work without knowin’ for sure.”

  “No, no, I’m fine,” Jane said, waving a hand, “Go on. Get going.”

  “I will! Thank you again, Miss Jane!”

With that, the girl bowed one more time and then scurried out.

---

  “Look at you. A sheep with the sheep.”

Anne smirked at the way Joan’s head snapped up from where she was feeding the lambs. Maggie and Maria tittered at her side.

  “Anne.” Joan said, slightly sheepish. “What-what are you doin’ here?”

  “Came to get you,” Anne replied as if Joan should have known that. “Your master be at my uncle’s house. You know that, yeah? Somethin’s wrong with my cousin.”

  “Cousin?”

  “Katherine, you idiot.” Anne rolled her eyes and Maggie giggled again. “Your head full of moths?”

  “Probably sheep wool,” Maria put in. “She already looks like one. I wouldn’t be surprised if she starts growin’ wool from her ears!” She and Maggie roared in laughter, while Anne just chuckled darkly. Joan shrunk back, her cheeks heating up.

  “Anyway,” Anne said, rolling her wrist, “We gon’ go to the Howard’s house and see her. She’s ill, you know?”

  “No,” Joan shook her head, “Mister Tudor didn’ tell me anything. She’s sick?”

  “Yeah. Real sick. Ain’t wakin’ up. Edmund has been throwin’ a huge fit over her.” Anne explained, “I’m surprised you never heard him howlin’!”

Doing a horrible imitation of Mister Howard, Maggie wailed, “Oh Katherine, Katherine! Wake, my sweet daughter! Wake! Why won’t you wake?!”

Clinging to her arm dramatically, Maria joined in, “God! God! Why have you forsaken me?! What have you struck my little girl with?!”

Once again, they erupted into laughter. Joan’s nose scrunched up at their insensitivity.

  “Tell her my pardons and prayers,” She said, grabbing a rake to rid of the muck in the barn, “My master said I gotta tend to the animals. Then I can go to town. But I’m not spendin’ my free time meddlin’ in someone else’s affairs.”

She missed the looks that the three other girls exchanged. However, she did hear Maria mutter, “I told you we shouldn’t have come here” and Maggie’s, “This was a waste of time.” Anne groaned loudly and snatched the rake away from Joan, making her yelp.

  “Live a little, will ya? Let’s go see poor Kitty!” Anne urged, “To hell with your master right now. You can’t let him lead you around by a leash all the time. Deal with the consequences later. Let’s go!”

Joan stared into the older girl’s eyes and then sighed, giving in.

  “Lead on, Anne.”

Anne, her two goons, and Joan began trekking through the Tudor’s property, making sure they weren’t caught.

  “So, what’s wrong with Kitty?” Joan asked. The other three smirk widely.

  “There be witches about, Joan.” Anne said. “And we’re gonna find them.”

---

  “Anne! We are gonna to get in trouble!” Joan hissed in a whisper as she and the other girls trodded through the darkened forest. This part of the woods was supposed to be banned from entry, but Anne and her goons had apparently found a way into the thicket.

  “No we won’t,” Anne said dismissively.

  “Yeah!” Maggie agreed, as she always did. She was never not licking on Anne’s boots.

  “Stop being such a baby.” Maria said.

Joan blustered. “I am NOT a baby!”

  “Then stop complainin’.” Anne said.

  “I thought you said we were goin’ to Mister Howard’s house,” Joan said, nearly being hit in the face by a thorny branch.

  “I lied.”

The four of them broke through the brambles and into a clearing. There, a small stone cottage, swathed in moss and vines, sat nestled between two towering oak trees. 

Smoke that didn’t smell like normal smoke was streaming from the chimney.

  “Oh, Anne, no--” Joan said worriedly as Anne strode over to the front door with Maggie and Maria in tow. “This isn’ our home, Anne! We can’t go in!”

  “Too late,” Anne said while opening the door with a smirk. “BESIDES, this is a witch’s house! They don’t deserve a home!”

  “Even more of a reason to not go in…” Joan muttered.

The inside of the house was filled with strange items. Vibrant flowers and sparkling stones, vials filled with strange liquids and wooden sculptures with eyes that seemed to follow Joan, weird plants and stacked ingredients--and a beautiful bird in a silver cage that was hanging from the ceiling.

  “Woah,” Maggie murmured as they approached the cage.

The bird had pure white feathers that seemed to sparkle in the light from the fireplace and a long, flowing tail. Its eyes were a bright, striking blue as it turned to them, clucking softly.

  “It’s so pretty,” Maria said.

  “It is.” Joan couldn’t help but agree.

  “Let’s take it.”

Joan whipped her head around to Anne. “What?”

  “Yes!” Maggie yipped gleefully.

  “Yeah!” Maria nodded vigorously. “The witch is probably torturing it!”

  “No! W-we can’t!” Joan stammered nervously, but Anne was already unlatching the door to the cage and pulling out the bird. “Anne!”

  “Finders keepers,” Anne said.

The bird squirmed in Anne’s hands, clearly uncomfortable. It then began to screech loudly, trying to flap its wings in her grip and shaking its tail feathers in irritation. Anne yelped and squeezed it tighter.

  “Anne!” Joan yelped.

  “Make it be quiet!” Maggie cried.

  “Someone is gonna hear!” Maria added, only now sounding anxious.

  “I’m trying!” Anne moved the bird into one hand, trying to hold its beak shut with the other. She yelped in pain when it pecked her and grabbed its head roughly, struggling with the thing.

Then, there was the sound of bones cracking.

The squawking stopped.

The bird went limp.

The girls stared in shock.

  “Oh god,” Anne whispered.

  “You-you killed it!” Joan cried. “Anne, you killed it! You killed a witch’s pet!”

  “Shut UP, Joan!” Anne snapped.

  “What are we going to do?” Maria worried.

  “We’re going to leave,” Anne said. She dropped the bird’s body. “We were never here, alright? Do not speak a word about this to anyone.”

Maggie and Maria nodded, but Joan did not. She went to refuse when a twig snapped outside.

And a beautiful woman stepped into the cottage.

She had dark skin like molten honey and curly brown hair with golden tips. The gold and green robes she was swathed in looked like they were charged with magical energy. Vines and ivy coiled around her arms and neck, forming a bramble crown on her forehead. Her sharp brown eyes widened when she saw the kids in her room, then became anguished when her gaze shifted to the dead bird.

  “RUN!!” Anne screeched, and she, Maggie, and Maria dashed out of the cottage, shoving past the witch. Joan was left behind, too shocked to move. She began to quake in fear as the witch approached slowly.

The witch knelt down and picked the bird up, cradling its corpse in her arms like it was a baby. She looked absolutely distraught over its death.

  “W-we didn’t mean to,” Joan stuttered. “I-I tried to get them to stop, but they--”

  “You killed her.” The witch spat.

Joan flinched and swallowed thickly. “I-I’m really sorry…”

  “You’re going to pay for this, little girl,” The witch growled lowly, then began to mutter something beneath her breath. Her eyes lit up bright white, and Joan felt something slithering up through the inside of her body. Her guts and brain grew warm, as if they were being filled with hot water, and she staggered backwards in shock. 

Then, it all went away.

And a sound began to fill Joan’s head.

Cawing.

Crow cawing.

It was rebounding through her skull like an echo in a cave, growing lower and louder and louder. With it, a pressure grew behind her left eye, like something was trying to crawl its way out of her head. She clutched at her face, gritting her teeth through a new, sharp pain blooming like a flower in spring. 

  “You took my familiar,” The witch hissed. “Now I will take something from you.”

Joan’s eyeball felt like it was being torn out of her skull. Perhaps it was because there was a sharp sensation behind her eye, poking, pricking, stabbing, until she thought it was going to pop out.

Instead, it was destroyed.

The cawing got louder and a trio of crows burst from her right eye socket.

Joan screamed in pain, falling down to her knees as her entire body shuddered. The crows writhed in her face, flapping their wings in a desperate attempt to get away but their lower halves were stuck inside of her skull. They struggled and squirmed, somehow not tearing skin, and sent waves of agony roaring through every part of Joan’s being.

The witch stared down at the girl as she cried tears and blood. Her face, so lacking any avians or remorse, twitched. She shook her head.

  “Go, child. You’re lucky I let you live.”

But Joan couldn’t move. Not for awhile, so the witch picked her up and carried her back into the forest, where she was left under a tree. 

The crows continued to caw.

---

Joan was kicked out of her mistress’ house after returning home, weak and in pain. Henry yelled at her, calling her a witch and a devil, and shot at her with his shotgun.

The bullet blasted a hole through her belly. The pain was unbearable. The crows screeched. But she did not die.

Henry and Jane beat her off of their property, both looking terrified as they did so. Joan tried to plead with them, tried to convince them to let her stay, but they refused.

Everyone in the village did the same.

They all looked at her with disgust and hatred and horror. They all tried to kill her but she would not die. So they chased her into the forest instead, banned her from her home. 

Joan was alone with a crow’s nest in her head.

The crows were smaller than normal crows, but still felt massive inside of her. She felt every move they made, every twitch and jolt, which felt as though her head was splitting open like a watermelon. Some days, they were subdued, pressed into each other, tucked in her eye like it was their nest. Other days, they were manic, wings flapping in never-ending distress, feather ruffling and itching places inside of her face that she could not reach.

She tried to pull them out. They pecked her and bit her and they screeched so loud she thought she would go deaf, but she tried. 

They did not come out.

She tried cutting them off, next. It worked for a moment, but then they grew back within just a few seconds, even more loud and hysteric. They didn’t shut up for awhile after that.

The constant squawking stopped Joan from sleeping. Without sleep, she grew exhausted and miserable. When she grew miserable, she became depressed.

She tried to die so many times, but nothing ever worked. The curse of immortality was as bad as the birds, but she supposed that was the point. She wondered which part was supposed to be the real punishment.

One day, after a long and agonizing four months of torture, Joan couldn’t get herself to move. The birds were agitated, squirming and squawking more than usual. They never seemed to get tired, unlike Joan, who felt like a corpse. She wanted to be one so badly.

Footsteps approached, but Joan didn’t realize because of all the noise until the witch was right in front of her. She looked up at her, whimpering, crying tears of blood, and the crows quieted down to stare, too. 

  “You pitiful creature,” Said the witch. “Are you not going to beg for forgiveness?”

Joan shook her head sluggishly, thunking it back down to the thick root of a tree. The birds were jostled and cawed in annoyance, and she let out a tiny sob as the sound echoed in her aching eardrums. 

  “I deserve it,” Joan managed to croak out. 

  “Hm.” Said the witch. “What a peculiar child you are. Usually people are kissing my boots, pleading for a reversal to their curse. But not you.”

Joan didn’t think she had the energy to.

  “Can you stand?” The witch asked. “My name is Catalina de Aragon, child, and I need an apprentice. You will become that for me and you will listen to what I tell you, and only once you prove yourself will I remove your curse. Now, get up. We have a lot of work to do.”

[viking-raider]

Silver and Magic - Chapter 15

Summary: You make it to the Obsidian Fjord in the Dragon Mountains, looking for your Grandfather and a solution to your dire situation, before its too late. You meet more than just your Grandfather, and when you are no longer able to make decisions for yourself, it’s up to Geralt to make the right one. Not for just you and your life, but his as well.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader

Word Count: 3,276

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Rating: M - Cursing, Mention of violence, blood

Inspiration: The Dragon Language the reader uses is Thu’um and Dragon Shouts, from Elder Scrolls. You can find a translator here! What the dragon’s head necklace looks like (x) This is sorta what I picture reader’s sword to look like (x) and how I picture the reader’s eyes (x)

Author’s Note: I’m pulling shit out of my muse’s ass, and probably future ones. Tell me what you think!

Tag List: @jennylovelyheart, @peakygroupie, @jessevans, @rosie-loves-things, @ohjules, @mary-ann84, @omgkatinka, @the-freak-cassie-131, @heelsamizayn, @agniavateira, @cap-barnes, @romyr4, @michelehansel, @katiebriggs004-blog, @badassbaker, @mrsaugustwalker, @authentic-bish-face, @rizeandvibe, @severuined, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @bellastellaluna, @wondersofdreaming, @thisisntmyrightera, @michelle-1185, @winchwm, @royallylazy, @sofiebstar, @worldicreate, @agniavateira, @fantasygirlsuniverse, @witches-of-discovery-a, @xuxszx, @ayamenimthiriel, @keiva1000, @fantasygirlsuniverse, @itsreigns, @constip8merm8, @scorpionchild81, @mylifefallingupthestairs, @onlyhenrys, @luclittlepond, @ellixthea​, @lebguardians​, @geralt-yennefer-jeskier​, @cherrybloomn​, @p3nny4urth0ught5​, @iloveyouyen​, @hollydaisy23​, @mcuimagination​, @psychosupernatural​, @sweetlybigdragonn​, @whitewolfandthefox​, @moviemonzy​, @the-soot-sprite​, @hell1129-blog​, @trippedmetaldetector​

A great Purple Dragon rose from the treeline, at the south end of the lake, and you felt an awe and kinship with it as it hovered above the treetops, like it was waiting for you to do something; but you had no idea what. After several moments the Dragon came to you, landing on the edge of the shelf before you and regarded you for several long minutes.

“Hello, Dov Kiir. I am Zoe, wife of Orzac.” The Dragon spoke to you. “You're grandmother.”

You felt a giddiness bubble up inside of you. “I am so pleased to meet you, finally.” You replied, moving closer to her.

“And I you, Mal Gein.” She whispered back, touching noses with you and closing her eyes. She opened her eyes again, and looked at Geralt. “Who is this Joor, Kiir?”

“This is Geralt of Rivia, he's a Witcher.” You told her, turning your neck to look at him. “He is my lover, my...Sil Fahdon.” You tried to explain to her, the best you could.

“A Jul?” Zoe replied, looking back to you. “A man?”

“A Witcher.” You corrected her. “A good mortal. I love him.”

Geralt looked between the two of you mighty Dragons, totally out of the conversation, but trusted, whatever was going on, you would keep him safe.

“Then, why have you come home, Kiir?” She asked, her attention back on you.

“I have a problem, grandmother.” You told her, remembering how tired and on the sharp edge of death you are.

“Tell me, child.” Zoe replied, concerned.

You groaned, letting out a hard breath as your scales shivered and you returned to human form, looking so small beside Zoe, and looked up at her, your knees wobbly. Your pale skin glowed with the red and gold spots and veins, now in the corner of your eyes. Zoe huffed at you through her nose, ruffling a cool breeze over your body, stirring your hair, and relieving some of the heat in your body, like a forge. Zoe's large body walked around you, gently touching parts of your lava-like skin.

“Oh, Child.” She sighed, facing you again, her large mint-green eyes regarding you, sadly. “You're heart-” She whispered, touching the center of your chest, where it was the hottest. “You are losing your human life—soon, your Dragon life, will soon take you over.”

“How do I stop it?” You asked, tears welling up in your eyes, but they quickly dried up, with the heat of your skin.

“We must see your Grandfather.” She said, looking troubled.

“Of course.” You nodded, feeling hopeless.

“This is a trail, there-” She pointed her tail at a worn path. “that you and the...Witcher...may take. Go as far as it will take you, and you will find your Grandfather and I.”

“Thank you.” You told her, nodding your head to her.

“Welcome home, y/n Dilos, daughter of Ronar and Izzi.” She bid you, taking flight and returning back to where she'd emerged.

“She said, we take this trail, and it'll lead us to my grandfather.” You told Geralt, turning towards it; thankfully it was down hill.

“Who is she?” Geralt asked, wrapping his arm around your waist in case you needed support, and followed you down the trail.

“My grandmother, Zoe.” You answered, leaning your shoulder against his side.

Geralt had to carry you the last two miles of the trail, before you came to a house butted up against a huge slab of obsidian. There was a beautiful older woman, with mint-green eyes, standing in the open doorway.

“Bring her in, Joor.” She said, moving out of Geralt's way and motioning inside.

Nodding, Geralt did so and followed her instructions to take you into an upstairs room and laid you down on the bed. “Are you her Grandmother?” Geralt asked, as she bent over you.

“Yes.” Zoe replied, fussing over you.

“You can transform into a human as well?” You asked, looking up at her.

“Of course, Kiir.” She replied, brushing her fingers through your hair, with such affection. “It was the only way your grandfather and I could visit your parents.” She explained to you. “Orzac banished your father from the Fjord, but he never stopped love his children.” She told you, smiling softly at you. “We visited them often, we tried to be with your uncle Orsa, but-” Zoe frowned, shaking her head. “He is still angry.”

“He's still alive?” Geralt frowned, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Yes, he and his wife live in, what we call, the East Gate Cliffs.” Zoe explained to him, placing her hand on your forehead and closing her eyes. “Krah.” She whispered, and her hand became frigid against your skin, cooling your face. “They went there, when they were sent away, and will have nothing to do with us, that isn't hostile.”

“Can you save her?” Geralt whispered, watching you.

“It will be hard.” Zoe answered, moving her cold hand to your chest. “She is so close to death..” She sighed.

“What do you mean?” Geralt demanded.

“Her Dovah Zii, is burning her human body from the inside out, the soul of a Dragon, is incredibly strong. But, hers is even more so, being y/n is a Ved Dovah-”

“A what?” He frowned, shaking his head at all the use of Dragarian.

“A Black Dragon.” She elaborated, glancing at him. “They are the strongest, other than Yuvon—Gold Dragons, like her grandfather. Their spirits are great, it's a surprise y/n was even born, especially, as she was.”

“Why?” You panted, getting delirious.

“Long ago,” Zoe said, sitting on your bed side, her cold hands moving over your body. “There were two gods, Aher and Oara, they loved each other with a fiery passion, that all were jealous and envious of. Before the Conjunction of the Spheres, there was a great battle, between the gods and goddesses about who would rule once the Conjunction happened. But, Aher and Oara, didn't want power, they just wanted to be one, to love each other, for the millennia. When the battle happened, Aher was trapped by an rival god, and was about to be killed, when Oara came from nowhere and stood between them, her skin turned to scale, protecting him from harm. But, it was for not, the god managed to wound her, and in his rage, its said that Aher breathed fire on the god, burning him to blackened bones.”

You surfaced in and out of consciousness, buoyed by her voice and cold of her hands.

“Crushed, as he held Oara as she died, they poured their magic and love together, creating the first two dragon eggs, that laid dormant until the Conjunction, when they hatched. The first, a white egg, for Oara had the most beautiful white hair, emerged first. Soon afterwards, the other egg hatched, a gold egg, for Aher had eyes of pure, molten gold. The powerful embodiment of the god and goddess.” She stroked your hair, watching with worry as your eyes rolled back. “But, even in the body of mighty Dragons, their love and power was too much for them to contain, so they had a child, Dilos; the first Black Dragon, who was strong enough to contain everything his parents could not. He went on to marry and have his own child, Orzac, and so the line of Dragons began. You, y/n, are a reincarnation of Dilos. Your great-grandfather.”

“What?” Geralt snapped, standing at the foot of the bed.

Zoe carefully turned your head and showed him your Dragon Mark, and traced it. “The lower case d.” She said, softly. “Dragons can be reincarnated, it's incredibly rare though. This is how we know she is.” She explained. “That and only Black Dragons are reincarnated, its extremely rare for any other color to be so.”

“Where is Orzac?” Geralt asked, watching you move fitfully.

“He had business to take care of.” Zoe answered, shushing you. “Life of a king.” She laughed, softly. “I am going to put her to sleep, it will help settle her and, hopefully, slow the damage, until Orzac arrives.” She said, looking back at Geralt, sensing his worry. “Praan Ahrk Hahnu, Dii Fron.” You took a deep breath, your eyes opening for a moment, before you let the breath out and relaxed, your eyes falling shut and body laying still. “I am sure, since she's made it this far, that you'll care for her, while I tend to other things.” Zoe said, rising. “There's nothing more I can do for her, now.”

“I'm not leaving her side.” Geralt told her, staunchly.

Zoe patted his arm. “I am sure of it, Witcher.”

Geralt sat down beside you after Zoe left, brushing his fingers through your hair and over your cheek. Your body was relaxed, but your face was still slightly pinched with pain and restlessness, the sheets and pillow beneath you growing damp. “You'll get better again, me minne. I'll do anything to have you better again.” He told you, brow creased as he watched you with worry, leaning in to kiss your chapped lips.

“Witcher.” Orzac greeted him as he returned, stepping into the room.

“Orzac.” Geralt greeted him back, standing up.

“I am sorry, we've met like this again.” The Dragon commented, folding his arms and regarding you in bed.

“Tell me, there's something you can do for her.” Geralt, all but, begged him.

Orzac moved closer to you, touching his first two fingers to your forehead and closing his eyes, sliding his fingers down the bridge of your nose, over your lips and chin, to your throat, and stopping in the center of your chest, a hum rumbling in his chest. He turned to Geralt, suddenly. “Do you love her, Witcher?” He asked, studying him.

“With all that I am.” He answered him, narrowing his eyes.

“Would you die for her?”

“A million deaths.” Geralt growled.

“Would you bind yourself to her?” Orzac asked, tilting his head.

“Like, marry her?” Geralt frowned, confused.

“Of the sort.” Orzac replied, glancing at you.

“Yes.” He whispered, softly.

“Then, this choice, of her life-” Orzac said, looking back at Geralt. “is in your hands. As her soulmate, you must choose how to save her.”

“What are my choices?” Geralt asked, without hesitation.

“There are four.” Orzac explained, seating himself in a chair beside your bed. “One, you allow her to die. Two, we remove her Dragon heart and start her human one. Three, I remove her Human heart and she will turn into her Dragon form, permanently.”

“Why can't you just restart her human heart again?” Geralt asked, feeling himself getting agitated.

“That is the fourth choice,” He answered with a sigh. “But, it's not as easy as you may think. It will change her.”

“Change her, how?” The Witcher got a sick feeling in his stomach.

“There is a very old ritual.” The Dragon began to explain to him. “The Passage of the Sacred. It will change her, it may enhance certain powers, enhancing her Dragon abilities, magic, senses, dragon form; which is already quite strong. It may enhance her human and Mage abilities. It may give her new ones. But,” He settled his eyes on Geralt. “It may take her powers, some or all of them. She may not return from it, either. Some get lost on their journey through the passage.”

“Why do I decide this?”

“She isn't capable of making them herself, you can see as much.” He waved his hand over you. “So, the choice resides with her one true mate, You, Geralt of Rivia.” He smiled between you and Geralt. “Your love for each other is the embodiment of Aher and Oara.”

“I'm not a Dragon, I'm a Witcher.” Geralt huffed.

Orzac laughed. “They didn't start out as Dragons, Witcher. They didn't even start out as Gods. They ascended, because of their love for one another.” He grinned. “I will give you time to decide.”

Geralt grabbed Orzac by the arm before he could leave the room. “I want y/n back.” He told the other male. “I will do anything, so, I want you to do the Passage.”

He blinked at Geralt, and a slow smile crossed his face. “Very well then. I'll prepare the ritual, when it's ready, I'll retrieve you both.”

“Thank you.”

Geralt picked you up, not allowing anyone else too, and carried you down a path that led into a cave system near the lake. He noticed several humans by shimmering pools and lifted his brow at Orzac.

“Dragon Menders.” Zoe explained. “Those we've entrusted our powers and secrets with.”

Nodding, Geralt carefully laid you down on a stone slab indicated by one of the Menders, and stepped away from you, but made sure he was near enough to step in, if he didn't like how they were treating you. A mender retrieved a bucket and dipped it into one of the pools, then slowly poured it over your body, steam rose as the heat of your body evaporated the water. They poured several buckets of water over you, cooling your body considerably. Another Mender entered, covered in strange tattoos and markings, and carrying a large stack of what looked like white gauze. She dipped the gauze into the waters, then slowly started wrapping it around your feet, working up your body.

“What is she doing?” Geralt whispered to Zoe.

“Wrapping her in the fabric of our people.” The Mender replied, her focus still solely on you. “My people have been serving, worshiping and mending Dragons of millennia, we have utilized the Dragons' powers and magic, mixed with ours to aid them, in all things.”

“Lena is our best Mender.” Zoe explained, smiling at her. “Y/n's mother was a Dragon Mender.”

“I thought she was a Dragon?” Geralt frowned.

“She was.” Lena replied, dipping more fabric in the waters and started wrapping your arms. “For her abilities as a Healer, Orzac, gifted her the form of a Dragon. All White Dragons were once a Dragon Mender, that has transcended through the Passage of the Scared, returned, and proven themselves worthy of the heart and soul of a Dragon.”

“Then, our son, Ronar, fell in love with her.” Zoe chimed in, watching. “and they married.”

Lena paused, holding your unwrapped arm and turning towards Orzac. Orzac nodded, stepping forward, pulling a titanium-oxide blade from his belt, taking your hand in his and slicing into your palm, making Geralt jerk with anger. But, Zoe rested her hand on his thick arm and smiled at him, then nudged him forward. Lena held your bloody hand as Orzac grabbed Geralt's and did the same to his palm, making him growl and hiss. The Dragon King pressed your and Geralt's bloody hands together and held them tight between his.

“Do you still mean, that you will bind yourself to her, Witcher?” Orzac asked him, panting. “To marry her, in the will of Dragons.”

“Yes.” Geralt snapped.

“As the might of Dragons,” Orzac said in a strong and powerful tone, his voice carrying through the stone rooms. “King and God of our people, I give my son's daughter to this mortal, to Geralt of Rivia, Witcher, to bind them as one; in love, life, blood and power.”

Geralt felt a burning tingle race up his arm, a white hot heat blooming between your and his palms, and felt strangeness surge through his body and mind, threading his bloody fingers between yours, and squeezing, his amber-gold eyes glowing.

“Gron Ahrk Kos Gein. Fah Nu, Ahrk Enook Bok.” Orzac growled and a gold halo glowed around your linked hands, his eyes changing to their Dragon form. “You are one of us now, Witcher.” He told Geralt, watching as Geralt's pupils changed from pinpoint circles, to narrow slits. “You are tied to each other, bound by all things, as husband and wife, and so much more.”

Geralt shook his head, seeing the change in his vision, even with his eyes being enhanced by the Witcher trials. Orzac let your hands go and Geralt looked at his palm, it was healed, the only trace was a thin and neat scar; you hand was the same. Lena wrapped your arm, then wrapped the rest of your torso, securing your arms to your chest as she did, then carefully wrapped your neck and head. With the  help of another Dragon Mender, they picked up your body, carrying you to one of the pools, and gently lowered you in, allowing your body to sink to the bottom, and out of view. Lena took your Orzac necklace and turned to Geralt, motioning him to bend to her short level, and slipped the necklace over his head, settling it around his neck and against his chest, over his heart.

“This necklace has become attuned to y/n's powers.” She told him, touching her fingertips to the mystic crystal eyes in the pendant. “While, she is on her Passage, she will need a guide, a reason to return to us, and her life here. She will be drawn back by her power, but, if she doesn't have a true reason to return, then not even her power will bring her back.” Lena explained to him, meeting his eyes, that had returned to normal. “You, Geralt, as her Soulmate, and now her husband, must be that reason. You must call her back to life.”

“And, if I can't?” Geralt asked, feeling his heart pound.

“Then, she will not return, she will remain in the waters here, for all time. Lost.” Lena told him, sadly, glancing at the pool they submerged you in. “And the only Black Dragon of the Continent, since Dilos, will be gone.”

“How do I recall her, then?” He asked, his eyes trained on the pool and his throat tight.

“Stay here.” Lena said to him, resting her tattooed hand on his arm. “Think of her, talk to her, of your love for her. The life you want with her. What you love about her, and that you want her back.”

“How long will it take her to come back to me?” Geralt asked, he hadn't stopped thinking about those things, since he met you.

“All depends on her.” She answered him, sighing. “Depends on how much damage was caused to her, how much strength she had, and has, left. What life of her is left, and how much she wants to come back.”

“I won't leave until she comes back.” Geralt said, with deep conviction. “and if she never comes back, I still won't leave.” He added, pressing his lips together and fighting hard against showing the emotions so many people had accused him of not having, as a Witcher.

“You are the son of Dragons and Dilos now, Witcher.” Orzac told him, resting his hand on Geralt's shoulder. “Family. My grandchild's Soulmate, husband and love. You will always be welcomed here, for as long as you want, whenever you want.” He said, with his own honest conviction.

“I will ensure, that one of the Menders tends to your needs, while you are here, Witcher.” Lena told him, feeling for him. “However long that is.”

[miracle-sham]

Instead of Dead, Become Two Dragons in Red.

| {MaribatMarch2020 — Week 1, Day 5: Transformation} |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] |

| {Repost due to original post disappearing from the tags.} |

| Triggers/Warnings: Violence/Implied Violence, Animal Transformation, Explicit Language/Some Swearing, Implied/Referenced Character Death (but not really), Polyamory (not really a trigger/warning but if you don't like Polyamory then this isn't for you). |

| For Gotham vigilantes, rampaging magic-users always make for an interesting fight, that is of course, provided one doesn't get hit by any stray bolts of magic. However for Parisian heroes, it's just your typical Tuesday Akuma situation. |

| Word Count: 3232 |

==‹›==

| A/N: Hi! I'm not dead, sorry for how long I took to respond to comments, I got hit by a nasty cold then sinusitis so I lost basically all my Maribat March prep time thanks to that, so I just barely managed to finish this ficlet/oneshot for today, anyway I hope you guys enjoy, and if enough people enjoy it, I'll make a second part to this oneshot because I had to cut so much material and it'd be nice to be able to use it still. |

| If you want to be tagged in future oneshots/fics, or a specific Au, then comment or send me a DM/ask! |

| Also side note, Don't Like? Don't Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

==‹›==

Zzzzt-crackle-woosh, a purplish-black bolt of unstable magic flies through the air, just barely grazing passed Dragonbug's side as she flips across the gap between two buildings. Cheerfully, she calls out “Missed again!”

The villain, an amorphous black shadow with dripping molten gold eyes and donning a ruddy patchwork hooded robe (which suffice to say, looks suspiciously like a rip-off wizzrobe from the Legend of Zelda, that or a faceless Gregorian based cultist extra from a film or TV show), scowls furiously, “Oh fuck you! I'm trying my best here!” and blasts another bolt of purplish-black magic towards her.

Conveniently located on the roof she just landed on, is an air vent. She cartwheels behind it and manages to dodge the bolt by a good metre or so. “Well, your best sucks and so does your aim!”

The wizard-villain screeches in fury, “Well my aim wouldn't suck if you didn't keep moving like a goddamn Duracell bunny!”

Dragonbug snorts. “Yeah but firstly, I'm dragon and ladybird themed, not bunny-themed; the bunny theme's already taken anyway. And secondly, where's the fun in that?”

As soon as she says that, her earpiece crackles as Red Robin pipes up on the comms channel. “Ready to see some fireworks?”

“Oh, you bet!” She responds, all too gleefully.

There's a faint clink-woosh-woosh-woosh and out of the corner of her eye, Dragonbug sees a blur of a small round silver ball arcing through the air towards the wizard-villain who's quite stupidly standing in the same place. As the silver ball disappears from her view, she hears a clatter of clink-clink-clink followed by a bwoosh and a bright flash of white light. At this moment, Dragonbug is so glad the Miraculous suits protect against flashbangs of all things.

The wizard-villain screams and once the flash of light fades, Dragonbug can see that they've fallen to their knees, in the middle of the street.

Dragonbug frowns and eyes their form, then double-taps her comms. “Hey, is it me or does our rip-off wizzrobe-magic-cultist look somewhat unresponsive?”

Her earpiece crackles again as Red Robin answers, and really someone should give these things a maintenance check, the crackling can be so distracting. “Our wizzrobe-magic-cultist is looking pretty unresponsive to me too. It could be a trap though because I swear I didn't use one of my knockout flashbangs.”

She nods, despite the fact he can't see her; which upon realising this, she flushes red in embarrassment. After clearing her throat to compose herself, she tilts her head to the side. “That's concerning, unless our rip-off wizzrobe-magic-cultist is susceptible to flashes of light.” She pauses, frown deepening, “You don't think they've got epilepsy do you?”

There's a slight rustle before Red Robin responds, “No, that's not what an epileptic seizure looks like. Again this could be a trap, or they could just be stunned. Either way, we should hurry but be careful.”

“Right.” Dragonbug scurries over to the edge of the roof then flips her way down to the ground. As she lands, she just spots Red Robin vaulting across an overturned car. As he catches sight of her, she gives him a thumbs up, which he returns.

Dragonbug then nods to him and he nods back, silently communicating their plan. They both start to slowly approach the wizard-villain in a pincer movement, her to the left and him to the right.

Red Robin reaches to his bandoliers and whips out a pair of manacles. He skulks behind the wizard-villain and goes to handcuff when the wizard-villain starts cackling maniacally. The laughter is quickly followed by a forming orb of purplish-black light—the same light as the magic bolts.

Oh, fuck! Is Dragonbug's only thought as she immediately dives at Red Robin, who's started backing away; she uses herself to try and block him from the still-forming orb. Please let the Miraculous magic protect us both! She silently begs as the orb expands exponentially, unfortunately enveloping them both completely in a fraction of a second

The maniacal laughter is the last thing they both hear as they're violently launched backwards into an alleyway, and everything fades to black.

==‹›==

Kagami's lounging on the sofa at Tim's Nest and binging Netflix, when the red alert rings across all the comms units.

“Shit,” Oracle falters, “Red Robin and Dragonbug are down. Dragonbug's signature has disappeared from our systems and her comms aren't responding. All Red Robin's vitals are down, his suit isn't registering any more signs of life. But I'm still getting warnings that the villain they were fighting is still active, so everyone available needs to converge on Red Robin and Dragonbug's last known location.”

Fear immediately seizes Kagami's heart, no please, please don't be dead my loves. She double-taps her comms. “I'm suiting up as Kuro Neko, I'll be at the location in three.”

With that said, Kagami flings herself off the sofa. She glances around the room for Plagg who's halted in his eating of cheese and giving her a sad but cryptic look. Her eyes flicker to the window and he nods almost imperceptibly.

“Plagg, claws on.” There's a woosh as the poisonous green light washes over her, donning her in the Kuro Neko suit. She flexes her claws for a split second, tail whipping back and forth furiously, before darting over to the window and vaulting out of it.

As soon as she's out the window, Kuro Neko extends her baton down and begins pole-vaulting her way across the rooftops and over towards where her significant others were last.

==‹›==

When Dragonbug returns to consciousness, the first thing she notices is that she can't move, nor see, nor hear. But she can feel, and unfortunately that means she feels a strange painful pulsing throughout her entire body, as well as an excruciating aching sensation. The second thing she notices is that she's curled up on the ground and her head, or the world, is spinning somewhat. Anyway, I can safely say I'm not doing so good right about now, big ouch.

The first of her other senses to return is her hearing. Which immediately makes her hiss in pain from the sudden cacophony seemingly coming from somewhere above her? She pauses, then realises that something's not quite right, hey wait a minute, why'd my hiss sound so weird? Something's not right, although I suppose that's kinda obvious now, but still! Oh god, what if I'm dying, or I've been body switched, or—or—or—

Her thoughts are interrupted by a sudden scream of fury, ringing out from above. Which is good because it means Dragonbug doesn't get time to dwell on that particular string of anxious thoughts, but it's also bad because it's loud and causes her to whimper in pain from how loud it is.

“Where the fuck are they? What the fuck did you do to them?” A voice sounding very similar to Kagami yells out.

Wait a second, that doesn't make sense, Red Robin and I didn't call for backup, so why would Kagami suit up on her night off? Dragonbug muses to herself, brain immediately latching onto the next train of thoughts. As she muses, she slowly realises that she's starting to regain the feeling in her limbs. Which is another positive? However, the feel of said limbs, causes her mind to immediately blank and lose the train of thought. While her brain tries to figuratively perform an error message, she does finally manage to crack open her eyes, yay sight.

It's at that moment, Dragonbug's superhero experience/training kicks in. She quickly takes stock of her surroundings and quietly thinks to herself, oh fuck.

It looks like she's in a giant—no massive—version of Red Robin's suit. Have I been shrunk? She wonders for only a brief second as something moves, just out of the area of her view. She turns and squints at the movement. Not a second later, a roughly cat-sized red lizard shuffled into sight.

She squeaks in surprise, then has a minute of wait what because her squeak sounded weird and very concerningly not-human-like.

The red lizard tilts its head to the side and coos at her.

Dragonbug glares at the lizard and tries to back away. Emphasis on tries, because as she does so, she ends up tripping over herself? Confused and extremely concerned now, she glances down and oh.

What. The. Heckles. She slowly spins around, checking out her new form, because she's clearly no longer human. No, she's got a snout, scales, fur—well mane—, claws, a long snakelike body, and a tail. Spinning around, she catches sight of a gleaming piece of shiny silver metal. So does what anyone would in the same situation as her, and scuttles over to it to use it as a makeshift mirror.

The reflection that greets her is… frankly quite adorable but also she's now a tiny little lung/long dragon. Which to be fair, makes quite a bit of sense as she was using the dragon Miraculous and Longg is a lung dragon. Her scales are a pretty red with shimmery golden accents and her mane is a dark red-almost-black colour. Her eyes still have the golden yellow iris and sclera that the dragon Miraculous gives. And the rest of her is all done variation of the gold, brighter red, and darker red. So at least her colour palette doesn't clash. Okay, so the colour palette isn't the most pressing issue here, but also I don't know how to fix this or change back so y'know, I'd rather potentially be stuck like this permanently with a nice colour palette, than one that clashes. But also oh god please don't let this be permanent, there has to be a way to undo this!

In her panic, Marinette doesn't notice the red lizard slinking closer to her. As it reaches her, it gently prods her with one claw; startling her badly and causing her to squeak again, loudly.

The red lizard flinches back and Marinette realises that maybe, just maybe, that's not a random lizard. And that maybe the not-a-random-lizard is actually a drake. A European dragon that hasn't got wings. And Tim. Tim's surname is Drake. A coincidence? I think not! It's got to be Tim!

She stares at the probably-Tim dragon and makes a chirping noise because dragons don't have the same vocal cords as humans, so she can't exactly ask him if that's him or not. A minor nuisance, to say the least.

The red drake mimics her chirp. Then cautiously slinks up to her again.

This close, Marinette can see that she's probably around the size of a ferret, in comparison to him being roughly the same size as a cat.

He flops down half beside, half against her and makes a series of clicks and chirps. She can't help but to tense as he flops but as the seconds pass, she finds herself relaxing bit by bit until she's also flopped over.

Enjoying the peaceful impromptu not-quite-a-cuddle cuddle session with one of her significant others, Marinette does try to keep an ear out for any goings-on above, just in case. But all seems well.

That is until, not even three seconds later, the peacefulness is abruptly shattered by a cacophony of screams, yells, zaps, and loud bangs echoing shrilly from above, before ceasing just as abruptly as it started.

However, the unexpected cacophony still manages to cause Marinette to panic. She tenses with a low whine, hunching slightly, and holds her breath. Alert and anxiously vigilant, she can't help but survey the immediate vicinity again and again and again—looking for anything she missed initially or if anything's changed.

Tim shuffles and stumbles into a sitting position. He nudges her gently in the side of the neck with his snout. He makes a cooing noise, followed by a soft rumble—as if he were trying to imitate a cat's purr.

It takes a few seconds, but his actions start to help calm her down. She takes in a deep breath and mentally reassesses the situation. We've been turned into tiny dragons. We're inside-slash-underneath the Red Robin suit which is on the ground. Before we woke up like this, we were battling a magic-user villain who tricked us. We didn't get time to call in backup before we got hit but it sounds like backup arrived anyway. As far as we know, no one is aware of what happened to us or that we're in-slash-under the suit. We are currently safe for now.

As Marinette reaches the end of the reassessment, she feels much calmer. She makes a low trill-like-purr noise to signal to Tim that she's calmed down.

He sticks his tongue out in a blep and mimics the low trill.

Their second moment of calm is then also interrupted because apparently fate hates peace and calmness or something like that.

“I will ask you once more, Where. Are. They?” Kuro Neko questions.

There's a loud thump-snap, followed by the wheezing cackle of the Wizard-villain. “They're gone! Dead! Erased! Exterminated!” With its piece said, the wizard-villain continues to wheeze and cackle maniacally.

Marinette can't help but shiver in fear at the sound, barely able to squash the rising nausea.

A harsh snap sound echoes loudly in the street and the wizard-villain starts choking wetly.

Kuro Neko hisses something but the red robin suit muffles the words to the point of being indistinguishable.

The minutes drag by and the only sounds of note from above, are inaudible mutterings and the clattering of handcuffs and car doors. They must've handed the wizard-villain over to the police, Marinette thinks.

She's about to go nudge Tim to try and communicate that they probably need to go find somewhere to stash his suit and a place for them to hide until they can figure out how to turn back when a conversation between the vigilantes who arrived for backup catches her attention. Partly because of the topic, and partly because of how close the voices suddenly sound.

“They can't be dead, Red Robin's suit is still there.” Dick—or well more like Nightwing, since he probably arrived as backup as well—stresses.

“But Dragonbug an' her suit's gone. You'd think maybe that there'd be a little more left if just organic matter was destroyed.” Jas—Red Hood mutters, the vocal distorter in his helmet making his tone of voice sound strange.

Or maybe that's just a side effect of getting tiny-dragon-ified, thinks Marinette, things sounding stranger. Although I've not really noticed anything bar the distorted voice sounding weird.

“The Miraculous suits are made of magic, and anyway, Plagg says he can't feel Tikki or Longg's presence anywhere,” Kuro Neko admits, reluctantly. “If all living things in the vicinity of the orb were destroyed, then the Miraculous would have still been left behind.”

“And how d'you know that?” Red Hood asks, sounding both genuinely curious and mildly concerned.

There's a split second of almost icy silence before Kuro Neko responds with a clipped tone. “Akuma.”

“Ah, o'course.” Red Hood comments, voice getting closer again. “Hey, d'you think B will want to stick the Red Robin suit in a memorial case like what he did with my Robin suit?”

“Hood!” Nightwing exclaims in a horrified and almost scandalised tone of voice.

Red Hood snorts.

Marinette flinches, and so does Tim beside her, although probably not for the same reasons as her. I don't think I'll ever get used to how flippantly Red Hood jokes about his death. Even if most Parisians who've died in Akuma attacks use the same sort of gallows humour.

There's a few seconds of silence before someone grabs the Red Robin suit and yanks it upwards, causing Tim and Marinette to tumble out of it with a series of startled squeaks and clicks.

Red Hood is the first to respond to the situation, with an eloquent, “what the fuck.”

Marinette glances up and sees Kuro Neko holding the Red Robin suit and looking rather shell shocked, with Red Hood and Nightwing a few steps away.

“Oh, thank fuck they're alive.” Nightwing half mumbles, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation.

“My loves,” Kuro Neko murmurs leaning down and scooping up Marinette and Tim, “I'm so glad you're okay.”

They both squirm for a minute before relaxing into her arms.

Nightwing frowns. “We should bring them back to the cave, maybe call Zatanna and Wonder Woman.”

“To the cave then.” Kuro Neko nods, hugging Marinette and Tim carefully, making sure not to accidentally hurt or squish them.

Marinette looks up at her significant other and bleps. She then trills, content to be held for the journey back to the Batcave.

Tim however, wrinkles his nose and chirrups in protest, he squirms and tries to escape Kuro Neko's hold—probably wanting to return to the Nest and deal with this on his own instead.

Kuro Neko gives Tim a deadpan stare before expertly pinching the correct pressure point to temporarily paralyse him.

Red Hood gives her a quizzical stare.

“Akuma, as well as kwami.” She responds, sagely.

“Right…” He slowly mutters, shaking his head.

Marinette can't help but burst into laughter at that, only because she's currently a ferret-sized lung dragon, the laughter comes out as a stream of trills and chirps.

Red Hood narrows his eyes at Marinette. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, danger noodle.”

Marinette pouts, whilst internally promising herself that revenge will be swift and pasta themed.

==‹›==

When they finally arrive back at the Batcave. They're greeted by the sight of Batman and Robin at the Batcomputer.

Robin turns and sneers at them. “Of course, trust Drake to pull such an attention-grabbing stunt as this.”

Marinette immediately looks up from her snuggled up position in Kuro Nell's arms and hisses at Robin; Tim however, lets out a world-weary sigh.

“Robin.” Barks Batman, but the reprimand does nothing to quell Robin's hostility.

Fixing a glare at Robin, Kuro Neko starts to stroke Marinette's scales like an evil villain would stroke a cat (much to Marinette's delight). “Need I remind you, how you hesitated upon hearing Oracle inform us that Red Robin's suit ceased reading any signs of life.”

“That was not hesitation! I was merely preparing for Grayson or Fatgirl to become hysterical in their distress.” Retorts Robin, who then stalks away, scowling and red-faced.

Nightwing dithers between going after him or staying to check on Tim and Marinette.

Kuro Neko shakes her head. “Go after him, Marinette and Tim will be fine without you hovering like a mother hen.”

Nightwing flashes her a grateful smile and scampers after Robin.

Kuro Neko then heads over to the medical bay and gently plonks the two dragons onto a cot. “Batman, I believe we will need to do as Nightwing suggested earlier, and call Zatanna and Wonder Woman. As this is a magic situation and I am not as skilled or knowledgeable in regards to magic as my love is.”

“Hhrrm,” Batman growls, already calling up the Watchtower.

Kuro Neko smiles softly as she glances down at her significant others, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Let's hope they arrive soon, otherwise who knows what sort of trouble you two could get into.” She winks.

Marinette chirps, tail flicking side to side eagerly. Whilst Tim perks up slightly and tilts his head to the side, mind probably racing with hundreds of pranks and shenanigans they could pull off whilst in dragon form.

==‹›==

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little oneshot! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated! |

| @maribat-march2020 | | @vixen-uchiha |

[meli-productions]

Love Bug

Day Three of #ineffablehusbandsauweek by @ineffablehusbandsweek.

Today we venture into a small-town that seems pulled from a Hallmark movie: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26599846

Aziraphale paced the length of the waiting room, nervously twirling his ring and hoping that his darling was saveable - if only because he couldn’t handle thinking about the cost of replacement. Grace had been in the family for years - it’d be a shame that a silly thing like a trip into the country would put her out of commission. 

But she’d been sputtering and smoking for the past few weeks - this had been inevitable. 

The door opened and he'd never been more grateful to have been ready to speak because at least it hid the dropping of his jaw. The man who walked out was unfairly attractive - disheveled in a way that looked purposeful. His coveralls were tied around his waist, leaving him in a loose black tank and there were grease stains covering the lightly defined muscles of his arms and the long-fingered hands.

When he glanced up, the mechanic took a moment to stare at him - Aziraphale bit down a sigh at the sight of his molten gold eyes - and then took a step towards him.

“You must be the owner of the Volkswaggen,” he reached out a hand, then looking down at the grease, wiped it on the coveralls. “Sorry, I’m filthy, otherwise I’d shake your hand.”

Aziraphale’s mind caught up as the man spoke, “Right, yes. Is Gracie going to be okay? Is she - y’know - ascending to car heaven?”

Though he wanted to smack himself for that comment, it was worth it for the sharp smile that bloomed on the mechanic’s face.

“Nah, nothing of the sort, dove,” said the mechanic. “I’m Crowley, by the way and your - Gracie - she’s gonna be just fine. Just had a little leak that ended up making a bigger mess. Nothing that should break the bank.”

“Oh, wonderful,” said Azirpahale, shoulders dropping with relief. “I’m Aziraphale. Thank you so much for doing this so last minute. How much do I owe you?”

Crowley shook his head, “Nothing at the moment. I’m afraid to say that she’ll be out of commission for a few days at the least - the clean up’s gonna be a bitch.”

Tension returning, Aziraphale felt himself lose color, “Oh, dear. Oh, I was meant to head back home tomorrow. Gabriel will be so cross. I wasn’t meant to be away so long and, I’d only set up a room for a couple of days and now - ”

“Easy there, dove,” said Crowley, hands outstretched but just out of reach. “Take a seat, you look like you’re going to double over. Deep breaths, that’s it, dove. We’ll get you sorted out.”

As Aziraphale sat in one of the rickety, blue plastic chairs and focused on the gold eyes that were now watching him so worried as the mech - as Crowley - squatted before him and, despite the state of his hands reached out towards him. He greedily took the spindly fingers and relished in the warmth of the hand.

“There, we’ll work through it, alright?” he waited until Aziraphale nodded, then swept a thumb across the back of his hand and continued, “I’ll try to get it fixed so you’re not here any more than you need to be. And I have a friend that runs a bed & breakfast, I’m sure she can squeeze you in a room. As for this Gabriel, if he has a problem he can shove it.”

A laugh bubbled out of him and the thumb pressed against his knuckle gave a little squeeze, “I don’t want to put anyone out - and Gabriel is my brother…and boss. I was just supposed to be doing a little travel piece and now it’s become immersive.”

“ Ah, that just means that you’ll have a hell of a piece,” said Crowley. “Look, my break starts in a few minutes. How about I treat you to lunch? Least I could do for freaking you out.”

Aziraphale couldn’t believe his luck, so he just gave a nod which was answered with a bright smile.

“Brilliant. Just wait here. Let me get decent if I’m going to be seen out with an angel.”

Without another word, Crowley straightened up and sauntered out towards the workshop, hips swinging while Aziraphale’s eyes tracked the movement with wide-eyes.

Oh, good Lord.

While he waited, Aziraphale called Gabriel, bracing himself for the berating. And, as usual, his brother didn’t disappoint.

“Honestly, sunshine,” sighed Gabriel and the eye-roll was palpable through the phone. “I told you that that car was unreliable. You should’ve just taken the Lexus we offered.”

Aziraphale pouted, “That car was mother’s, Gabriel. You didn’t want it, Michael didn’t want it, but I did - it was one of her favorite things in this world.”

Another sigh, this time more exasperated, “I know, we don’t have to go through it again: I got the newspaper, Michael got the house, and you got the car. I know. Just - are you gonna be able to get the piece to me in time?”

“Yes, Gabriel.”

“Then for all I care,” the man said. “You can stay as long as you want - get a quaint little cottage there, hell, get married to that God-forsaken town. Just - get me the piece. It’s the tie-in to everything else.”

“Alright , I’ll - ” the dial-tone met his voice, “see you soon.”

He pressed the ‘End Call’ button a little harder than needed, but didn’t feel the satisfaction he thought would come from it.

“Whoa, there, take it easy, angel. Don’t want you breaking the phone,” said Crowley’s voice from behind.

Aziraphale turned, blushing, “I just - he just- ”

“I’m sure your brother deserved it. No doubt,” said Crowley, smirking. “But put the muscle away, dove, might need it later.”

Implication dripped off his words and, had his eyes not been covered by glasses, Aziraphale would’ve expected a wink directed in his direction. He was, nonetheless, disappointed that the gorgeous gold had been covered up, but pleasantly distracted by the new outfit donned by his companion.

Tearing his eyes away from the tight shirt and pants, he asked, “So - ahem - lunch?”

Crowley smiled, “I know a perfect place. I’m sure you’re gonna love it.”

A sleek, black Bentley sat waiting and Aziraphale’s jaw did drop this time at the amazing vehicle before them.

“This is yours?”

“Belonged to my grandfather,” said Crowley, preening under the attention. “I’ve kept it in great shape. She’s my little darling.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help be impressed, if a little jealous, as a pout curved his lip, “And I can’t even keep Grace alive.”

“Oh, dove, things happen. She hasn’t looked like this always, believe me. Come on, in you go, let’s get lunch.”

So as Crowley drove around the small town, the two swapped stories about cars, then family, and then into more casual topics as they relaxed - slipping into the bistro amidst laughter and hand swats.

“Oh, you are dreadful, dear.”

“Look, Bea shouldn’t have tried it - they knew what they were getting themself into.”

The server looked between them, then shot Crowley a sly smile that he pointedly avoided, “Hey Tones, who’s your friend that you took a lunch break for?”

Crowley clenched his teeth, “This is Aziraphale. He was having a rough day so I decided to distract him a little. Don’t be nosy, Ligur - that’s not what you get paid for.”

Ligur just scoffed and turned to Aziraphale, “Regardless of his grumpiness, it’s an honor to meet the person that somehow got the hermit out from under a car. I’m Ligur, Crowley’s oldest friends and I’ll be happy to get you anything you want.”

Aziraphale blushed at the attention from the newcomer, “Aziraphale, pleasure to meet you. The spinach quiche sounds good, I think I’ll have that - and a glass of lemonade.”

“Uh-huh, sure thing,” he glanced over at Crowley and asked, “and dessert?”

Crowley bit back a groan, “Ligur.”

“Not - not at the moment, dear. Thank you.”

With a little huff of laughter, Ligur turned to Crowley and took his order, leaving only after he’d ruffled the red-hair out of its perfect disheveledness. Then, pink sprinkling across his cheeks, Crowley turned to Aziraphale.

“Please, don’t let Ligur freak you out, he’s just trying to be funny.”

“Dear, it’s alright,” Aziraphale said, reaching over to squeeze Crowley’s hand. “I know all about annoying friends. Believe me, you are not being judged by the pushiness of your friend.”

With easing shoulders, Crowley smiled, “Thanks, angel. But, trust me, he’s not gonna be the worst of them all.” 

It was true.

While they tried to enjoy their lunch, still joking and Crowley taking little breaks to watch the enraptured look on Aziraphale’s face as he ate, more people dropped in to catch a glimpse of their famed ‘hermit’ and his new friend.

Hastur, Ligur’s boyfriend, came in and made snide comments that only ended when Ligur upended a glass of cold water atop his head and swept him out of the bistro. Then came Anathema - the friend with the B&B.

“I have a room with your name on it, Aziraphale,” she said, clasping his hands in hers, then giving a little hum. “Your aura is so bright, querido, like a halo. Ay, que chulo,” then turned to Crowley, “tenías razón, si es un angelito mandado por Dios.”

Crowley blushed and hid his face behind his glass of water as Anathema continued to coo over Aziraphale, telling him that the room would be his for as long as he needed - or until he found better accommodations which he thanked with a bright smile and a shake of her hand.

“She’s very pretty,” Aziraphale said, sipping on his drink and watching Crowley’s reaction.

A quirk of a smile, “Yeah, her fiance thinks so, too.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and a happy wiggle ran through his body. “Well, thank you for lunch, darling, but I think I’ve imposed on you for far too long.”

“No imposition, trust me,” said Crowley. “I’m my own boss and I get to decide how long my lunch break is…so you’re not getting in anyone’s way - trust me.” 

“Well, if you say so.”

Anathema was sitting along the flowers of her little cottage when Crowley dropped Aziraphale off and she peeked through the foliage as her friend helped unload the suitcase. Aziraphale knew she was there, he had seen the crest of her curls, but figured that it was just another Ligur incident and should just be ignored.

“Thank you for everything, Crowley,” he said. “Now, you have my number so just let me know when Gracie’s good to go.”

Crowley nodded, “Of course, angel. And I’d say I hope you keep entertained - but I’m sure Ana will find something interesting for you to do. I’ll see you soon.”

“Mind how you go, dear.”

He watched Crowley drive away and when he turned around, he found Anathema perched over the gate - looking far too much like the Cheshire Cat to be comfortable. 

“Welcome, Aziraphale,” she said, swinging the gate open. “Ven, amor, let’s get you settled. And then join me and Newt for tea, we’d love to get to know you a little better.”

The woman was intimidating and zipped through the cottage like a hurricane while Newt, a tall and quiet young man, just smiled at Aziraphale and tried to settle her down for a cuppa. Eventually, he won and the woman settled into her white-washed, wooden chair nursing a cup of lavender tea and the couple grilled him until he was hot under his collar and wishing for the earth to swallow him up.

“Don’t look like that, angelito,” Anathema said, patting his cheek as she passed into the kitchen. “We just want to make sure that you’re good enough for our little carino. Crowley’s special to us and he barely ever comes out of his cave.”

Aziraphale focused on her echoing footsteps instead of the heat of his body, “I’m not anything - I - I’m just a failing journalist from London. I’ll be out of town before you know it and - ”

Newt gave a little snort, “Yeah, that’s what Ana thought. It’s what I thought. This town has a way of dragging you into its heart and making you stay.”

“Opens your heart, too,” said Anathema, reappearing and placing a kiss on Newt’s forehead. “Just - keep the possibilities open, okay amor? You never know what might happen. But enough of that, it’s time for sleep - it’s time for good little angelitos to get ready for tomorrow.”

As dismissals go, it was the nicest Aziraphale ever got and he was ushered into his room by an apologetic Newt. He lay in the soft bed and stared at the ceiling with their spirals that he tracked with his eyes and thought of the curve of Crowley’s smile. 

He wished nothing more to wrap himself in this life with Crowley and his gold eyes - but his life was in London and wishes only took you so far. 

The next afternoon, an unknown number rang Aziraphale’s phone and - with only one unknown person who knew his number - he answered to the drawl of Crowley’s voice.

“Is - is she okay? Are we ready to go?”

Crowley’s silence made Aziraphale nervous, even more so with the sharp intake of air, “Okay, so there might be a little more wrong with Grace than I thought at first glance and I’m going to need some more time.”

As Aziraphale’s breath hitched, Crowley continued in a rush, “Relax, dove, breathe. I’m picking you up and taking you to lunch again - somewhere you won’t be harassed - and we’ll talk this out, alright?” 

The soothing tone released some of the tension off his shoulders, “How do you know just the right thing to say?”

“Practice,” said Crowley, laughing. “I’ll be over in a few, angel. Just be ready - the last thing I need is Anathema on my ass.”

Aziraphale joined in laughing, “Of course not, I’ll make sure I’m ready.”

Anathema, like the seer that she was, was already waiting for him at the door of Jasmine Cottage, “Have another date with Crowley?”

He blushed, “Hardly a date, dear. I think that he just - just feels bad that I have such a bum car.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, rolling her eyes. “If that were the case, I should be worried about my fiance being taken away from me - his car is worse than yours. Believe me, Aziraphale, this has nothing to do with your car and everything to do with you, chulo.”

She pressed a kiss on his forehead before gliding back into the heart of the home. Aziraphale, rubbing the spot she’d kissed, kept his focus on the road and processed her words.

Angel. Crowley called him ‘angel’, and there was no way it was because he knew the meaning of his name so it had to be a - a pet name. So when the Bentley pulled up to the curb, Aziraphale blushed and hurried in.

“You seem in a better mood then when we last talked,” Crowley said, tilting his glasses to look upon him with bare eyes. “Let me guess, you told off that hardass brother of yours and now are gonna follow your dream and open up your library.”

Aziraphale stopped in the act of putting on his seatbelt to blink over at his companion, “You remember that?”

“Course I do, ‘s hard to forget such a dream,” drawled Crowley, a hint of a pink brushing his cheeks where they met the rim of his glasses. “So, did you tell Gabriel to fuck off?”

“No,” he said, slowly tracking the blush as it made its way lower into the collar of his shirt. “Not just yet. But he did give me permission to stay as long as I want - might even stay forever - with the right incentive.”

Crowley’s hand slid off the wheel as he turned, “O-oh, yeah? And what incentive would that be.”

Aziraphale, feeling bolder than he had in awhile, hummed, “Let’s start with lunch. Then I’ll let you know.”

A small chuckle was coupled with a change in gears, “Then I hope this lunch is everything you’ve ever wanted, angel.”

[franziska-writes]

blackberry (1/2, second part in reblog)

warning: if you're sensitive to mentions of or reading about deceit, acting, teeth, general themes of romance, arguing, death, harm, manipulation, swearing/cursing/bad words, dramatized themes of danger, stress, fear, crying, mentions of food, negative self talk, poor and unhealthy coping mechanisms, fire, emotional masking, trauma, god/religion mentions, self blaming, oversharing, grandfather mentions, caps, no caps, then reader discretion is advised.

as I laid myself down to sleep that night, images of her flashed across my eyelids, and questions floated about in my brain like the remnants of light I saw when I closed my eyes. who was she? how did she know how to charm me so well? so intuitively? what was it about me that gave her such intimate access to my wants and desires? but then, as that question toppled off the heap of other such queries, there was a stillness in which I made a revelation.

it wasn’t anything about me in particular that allowed her entry into my mind—it was the woman herself.

I’d had my eyes on her all night, keeping careful watch after I narrowly realized what she was doing. I’d seen her change her colors like a chameleon or an octopus or something entirely otherworldly. her body language would shift to match and compliment whomever she was speaking to—where the sparks of playful rivalry took hold in one conversation, a childlike innocence possessed her in the next. and I had no clue how she could possibly come to have all these different, impossibly perfect qualities possessing her at just the right moment—up until I realized that she was the one possessing them.

this woman was a marvellous actor, far greater than any seen in film.

where film actors worked with a script and set motions and cameras ready to re-record any scene, she worked with real people, with real situations, with moments she had no choice to re-do.

and it was in this moment that her danger fully struck me: this woman, whom I’d all but fallen head over heels for the moment I’d met her, was a shapeshifter.

no, maybe not in the fantastical sense—but it was there.

the gleam in her eye, childlike and bright and new. the glint of chandelier light off her teeth, summoning and bold and terrifying. the shimmer bouncing off her lipgloss, romaticible and flirtatious and seemingly unknowingly breathtaking. she shot to stun.

it was all instinctively woven, all created on the spot from a single introduction alone, all seamlessly stitched together so well that you’d see depth where there was only darkness.

but then again, perhaps she was a siren.

the tantalizing pull when her eyes met yours, like you’d known each other your whole lives and knew no world without the other. the sweet lull of her voice, melting over every syllable like molten metal. the poetry that she spoke, like fire trailing down my limbs as she spoke to me and said my every desire out loud for only us two to hear……. the performance never gave up. she struck to kill, and oh, I think I let her already……

this woman.

this peculiar, dangerously endearing, disarmingly charming woman—this woman, whose eyes were hazelnut whilst also being lizard-green, whose hair was a shifting multitude of different shades of blonde, whose lips were just pillowy enough and whose cheekbones could cut more than glass and whose brows perked just in that right way—oh, dear god, had she enchanted me.

only for me to be told it wasn’t real, only for her to be told to give up the illusion, only for something realer and angrier and bitterer to rear her sharp-defined face for me to see as she laughed at my inability to see through her.

and even then, there was nothing.

only the cold shell of what was born into this world as a human being, but was now something entirely different—simply put: gone.

when I looked into her eyes around the others, they were hollow, hateful, devoid of any and all goodness or emotion or anything even remotely close to that undeniable spark that all life supposedly held.

but when she was out there—out there, doing her job, the one we’d brought her on for…...she shapeshifted, truly, and fully.

her eyes gleamed gold and brown and green and even red under the different lights. her mouth twisted upwards and rested downwards and was open enough for me to see her bite her bottom lip and glance over just to see me cry on the inside. her shoulders were lax and back and shrunk inward depending on just how much she was leading the conversation—though, no matter what, she always had complete control.

and now, as I laid myself down to sleep, I couldn’t get her out of my mind.

how flamboyant and intoxicating she’d been to everyone at the dinner party, how she’d melted in through the cracks to form whoever she needed to be for them, how she’d caught the void in every person’s heart and filled it with illusions of her own making—god, I needed to know how it was so convincing.

and several weeks of using her talents to extract valuable information later, I’d know.

she’d had exactly the same baseline with me every time we met around the others: somewhat withdrawn, burnt-out almost, a faded capture of what she thought a real human being ought to be underneath all the sparkle and jazz-handing of showbiz. she was a performer, through and through, and even this was a performance—although, I got the sense that I was seeing something I wasn’t meant to: she was tired.

and finally, I’d have clarity on that, because I was left alone with her for the first time.

she’d just blown up on everybody, snapping off like she usually did until one of the group said something particularly choice that I didn’t catch. suddenly, the shell before me erupted into roaring flames—the way her voice deepened as she bellowed, the way her tongue slipped over every personally hurtful word she spat out at everyone, the way she rose up and was suddenly more physically imposing than I’d ever thought a person could be….! I was scared for my damn life—I thought for sure she would kill me if I looked at her for too long. and she did it all without breaking a sweat—her hands didn’t shake, and her voice never wavered or clipped, and her eyes were dry and her face was pale. she chewed every single person in the room out, assaulted them at their weak spots and threw the verbal equivalent of boiling hot acid their way—and she did this to everyone except for me. I thought I was lucky to be alive. I was glad for being ignored, and prayed to god that she’d forgotten all about me in the act of getting some apparently well-deserved insults out to settle in the dust of her past with everyone else.

but when she ordered everyone out of the room, I went to go with the rest of them—but she boldly said no, glared them all in the eyes and said that I could stay. when I looked back to my friends for some sort of excuse to go with them, to convey my complete and utter shock at her words, to beg them all through my eyes to get me away from this horrifying display of power so far beyond anything I’d ever seen in a person………….they just stared back. upset, and hurt, and also just as confused as I was.

they left me all alone with that snake—because by then, that’s what I’d been calling her: a snake. not based off any old garden snake or viper, but based off the serpent that convinced Eve to take a bite of the forbidden fruit.

based off temptation and willful deceit.

the moment the door shut and the group meandered away was the moment I felt the room change with her.

it was like the power being cut in the middle of a wild storm, only for the storm to be cut with it; it was silent. still.

and then, she gave a great sigh, and slid back into her chair which was turned away from me for reasons I could only describe as god’s sweet mercy on me.

I, slowly, tiptoed as silent as I could back to where I’d been sitting, but still stood because I was afraid I’d have to make a run for it.

the energy in the room was terribly unsettling.

it was like I’d just watched two strangers end a decades-long relationship in a quiet, deserted waiting room, and half of the pair had walked away and now I was left alone with the other half.

I kept my gaze fixed on her.

it was soon that I noticed just how run-down she looked—just how….different she was.

she was slouched over the desk with her head in one gloved hand, and her fingers were on the brink of carding through her hair. I could feel the stress radiating off her, and for the first time, it was something real, something substantial—I could feel it. it was so, so different to how she’d acted with me when we’d first met. she’d been charming and witty and smooth, and had fit herself into me like a puzzle piece. but now…..there was a noticeable difference. no longer did she seem to exude good and exciting vibes, the kind you’d find within the thrumming thrall of a party, but instead, she was just……….there.

she looked tired, worn out. looked like she hadn’t slept in days and it’d only just caught up to her.

eventually, this nightmare would soon change into a different nightmare—a minute or so after the door shut, she spoke to me, keeping her back turned to me and her face pointedly hidden from view.

“do you know why you’re still here?”

her voice was…..oh, dear god, it was strained, like she was fighting back tears with the small amount of strength she had left. but I was sure I knew not to comfort her—the others had told me just how professional of a deceiver this woman was, and I’d observed it to be true.

I fumbled so hard for an answer that I simply didn’t give one in my panic—but that was alright, because like the perfect actress she was, she seemed prepared to monologue.

“it’s because you’re the only one here who’s acted even remotely like a human fucking being.”

oh?

….oh…..

…………….oh.

oh, god.

“honestly, I—” she began again, cut off by some unheard thing I assumed was a suppressed cry. she took in a deep, faintly shuddering, breath, and continued. “—don’t know why I let them near me. all they do is make me feel like a villain. and I—know that I am one, but…..” and here was when she tried to mask herself with social relatability— “...just because I am one doesn’t mean I have to feel like one, ahah……..”

she fell flat.

she fell flat, and I knew that was wrong, wrong because I’d seen her in action: becoming part of other people in beautiful, polychromatic splendor, matching energies and mirroring body language and altering pronunciations and changing names and smiles and shapes.

but now…..now, she was monochromatic: captured in gray light, a beautiful intellectual—broken but full. full, now, for the first time before my eyes, because everything else I’d seen as hollow and empty. after all—lies were only lies, weren’t they? there was no truth in them, no genuine emotion, no…...anything, really, in my experience.

I felt spurred to comfort her—not because of the daydream she’d probably have rathered to pretend to be, but instead because I saw a glimpse of the human being inside of her.

“y-you’re…...not a villain.”

a sad huff of amusement through her nose as her whole upper half jolted just slightly, “sweetheart, you don’t even know me. everything you’ve seen has been a lie. you know that.”

…..I didn’t know where to go from there.

she was right. she was absolutely right. I had no idea who this frustrated, sad being before me was—but now, I…..I wanted to know. wanted to know her interests, her hobbies, her favorite book, her favorite television show, what joke made her laugh the most, or if she even genuinely laughed at all.

“...........how do you do it?”

my voice was feeble, small, like that of a rabbit cowering behind a great lion.

“how do I do what?” she responded after a short pause, voice clicking even with the smooth ups and downs of her vocal pattern. she really was tired…..if only she’d look at me so I could be sure—

“d-deceive.. like you do. how do—how can you create something so lifelike out of-of thin air? y-you’re lying every minute I see you, and-and yet, I—I-I’m tricked every time. ho-how do you do it?”

it was poorly worded, poorly phrased—but she picked up on what I really meant by it.

I had no clue how she could always know so much.

she laughed, darkly and quietly, with such bitterness that I could taste it like an unripe blackberry in my mouth—and then she turned her face so I could see it, and that was the moment something real began.

her eyes were misty, and her cheeks were flushed, and there was a smile stuck on her face by sheer inevitability.

when she spoke, her words—it’s so difficult to describe, but they evaporated like honey in the dim lamplight.

“there’s a drop of truth in every lie.”

it was simple, yet packed full of meaning, and my mind reeled as I had another revelation.

she wasn’t just playing a part, was she….?

“when I’m with people, I see these voids in them—what they want out of people, what their perfect compliment would be, what they want out of me. I see a void, and I fill it—it’s an instinct that I’ve sharpened to be useful over time.”

oh……

“but of course, no performance is perfect. my execution is only flawless because, to me, it’s a game of survival, and the slightest hair out of place means game over.” her eyes were cast down then, apparently unable to hold my gaze. was she that exhausted? “it drains me. I can’t be around people for very long as I am, but having to act every moment of it just takes more away from me. I’m tired. but I’m a good masker—it’s what growing up in my particular circumstances caused me to have ingrained in me. seared into my flesh and bone and brain….. I must perform perfectly because this to me is the art of survival—yet even so, no performance is perfect. I am more than a good liar. a good liar will feel his performance and give it everything he’s got—but I can do so much more.”

oh.

“with just a brush of my fingertips, I can get a man to weep at my feet. with just the quirk of a brow, I can drive a woman mad. with just the right word, I can draw out a person’s deepest secrets and intrigues. I can control any variable you want me to. I can dominate a conversation, I can be invisible in a crowd, I can make someone resent me. the only thing I’ve grown too much to do is be immune. I can control any situation without saying a word. I can control myself and my body and my responses at the drop of a hat. the only thing I cannot control……...are my emotions.”

oh.

“the moment I leave the conversation, more of me dies and fizzles out into smoke. I...know I could have everything. I could rule the damn world if I wanted to, I’m sure of it. I could have people and friends and enemies and rivals……...but I don’t.”

…….there was a lull there, as she traced the edge of the desk with a finger and cast her forlorn gaze over the carpet.

I’d been so enraptured by the mental pictures she painted for me that I’d completely forgotten I was here with her.

like the stammering idiot I was, I made myself speak up.

“wh-why…..why don’t you? is-is it because you don’t…..uh…..w-want people i-in your life?”

I could’ve cursed at the way her next expression made me feel—a look of anguish flashed across her face, and god, it was more beautiful than any of the lies she’d been before.

“yes, but also no. I…..believe me, I want people—I think that much is obvious, in how entangled my emotions become with my victims, but…...but I—”

a sad smile.

I could feel reminiscence in her eyes.

“I’m not cut out for people.”

...huh?

“wh-what d’you mean?”

she looked up at me, and—and for the first time, I saw a spark of life in her eyes. it made me want to do foolish things, made me want to jump and scream and laugh and cry and—

“I ruin them. I’m the perfect weapon, sweetheart: I’m built to ruin and destroy and conquer. I can override my own body’s signals and ignore my emotions and run for hours on empty. but people….” her brows rose and she looked off to the side, as though impressed and annoyed at the same time. “......people can’t do that. people fall to their emotions and make irrational and poor decisions and struggle to keep it together no matter how rehearsed they are. they drop when they’re tired and their functioning derails. they are not like me. they are soft, and I am sharp and callous. they are warm, and I am cold and mean. they are sensitive and careful with themselves, whereas I fling myself into traumatic situations on the daily even when I am hurt.”

I couldn’t think.

all I could do was process—twenty minutes ago, I’d barely been certain of her status as a human being, and now, she was spilling over in front of me.

and then I realized that she was cracking. breaking. faltering.

no longer was she a carefully maintained shell—now, now she was……..on the verge of tears…..

“there is a shred of truth in every lie that I embody. and my truth is my insatiable desire to be not alone as I have been all my life.”

I stood there in shocked silence for a solid ten seconds.

insatiable……….?

“wh-why...insatiable?”

she looked me dead in the eye and suddenly I understood how the ocean’s tides felt about the moon.

“because I won’t let myself be satiated. nor will I ever let myself be soothed, nor will I ever let myself be comforted.”

my eyebrows pinched above the bridge of my nose.

“why?”

“because that is the most dangerous act of all.”

I was confused. how could it be dangerous to—?

“if my emotions make me want people so desperately to love me when I am simply performing for them…..then I shudder to think what would happen to me if I allowed myself to relax into someone. it’s the same reason no one’s allowed to touch me.”

………….ah. I’d…..I’d noticed that.

no matter how physical my friends were with each other and with me, none of them ever came too close to her, and she actively kept herself at a safe physical distance from most people we encountered. I only steered clear of her because, if I was to be honest, I’d been scared of her up until this point.

even now, she intimidated me—but I was slowly coming to grasp a portion of who she really was.

“but…...but, surely, that- can’t be healthy.” I attempted to argue, feeling a dark weight settle over me. I never liked it when people hurt themselves like that on purpose.

a small, resigned smile found its way onto her face. she hadn’t looked at me for some time now. it was odd to see someone with such a big presence refuse to make eye contact…

“it isn’t.”

my brain paused to compute that.

“then—why do you do it?”

“survival. people get close to me, I hurt them, and they hurt me back, and then they leave. it’s a cycle. I’m simply protecting myself, because I know that the moment I am shown true kindness, I will be floored and malleable in ways you cannot imagine. another reason I wear so many masks—even if I am touched or on the receiving end of kindness, it is still never really me. simply a vision of what they think I ought to be.”

“.......o-oh……..” softer than a whisper.

“I don’t need kindness. I don’t need comforted, and I don’t need people. and so long as I am acting, I am safe from whatever could be.”

now, in this moment, I was feeling stupid. but not stupid as in the unintelligent kind—stupid as in the daring kind.

I’d just made up my mind on a lot of things. I knew what I wanted to do, and I knew there was no stopping my own nurturing instincts, and I knew I was one of those people she’d described earlier that fell constantly to their emotions.

“well, you’re...you’re not acting right now, are you?”

I phrased it simply, casually—like it was any old question without intent hidden under it like the mud under the plank of oak wood outside my grandfather’s home.

she squinted her eyes at me, like she was meant to be wearing glasses but had forsaken them.

“I………..n-no. no, I’m—not.”

she sounded more shocked than I’d been during this entire conversation.

“then come here.” I instructed her gently, taking a few steps towards her as if to show her it would be a joint effort.

she was reluctant and slow in her movements, but smooth nonetheless. (CONT'D)

[lost-in-time-marie]

Into the Shadows: Chapter Two

The rest of the week passed easily. I hung out with Natasha and Katy whenever possible, easily getting into my familiar school routine. I put in extra effort to participate this year, shaking of the previous years’ disinterest. I avoided any form of contact with Ryder; in class a competition took place of who could pretend best that the other wasn’t there; I liked to pretend I won those. Classes picked up eventually and I started getting the first lessons and assignments of the year.

Things did, however, get interesting one Wednesday. Mrs. Robertson was announcing “Romeo and Juliet” to be the play of the semester, a super original choice, I noted with the roll of my eyes, when Mr. Monroe, the principal, walked in. He whispered something to Mrs. Robertson, and she nodded and smiled. A few seconds later Mr. Monroe walked out and ushered a tall, dark, and handsome male inside. A swarm of hushed, excited conversations passed between the girls in class. The guy was handsome; I had to say that, with curly, dark brown hair falling over eyes so brown they were nearly black, wiry muscles hidden under slightly tanned skin, and his face was all angles, smooth and sharp. The class watched curiously as an introduction took place. Mrs. Robertson greeted the new student kindly; he returned her warm smile and shook her hand. Mr. Monroe took his leave just as Mrs. Robertson turned and addressed the class.

         “Class,” she announced, “this is James Sampson, he is new to our area so please be kind to him.” Mrs. Robertson led him to my seat and loudly pushed a desk from the back of class to the side of my desk unoccupied by Ryder. Our school was very popular this year, apparently so was I. For the second time in so many days, the gazes of my peers shot daggers into my back, and I felt every single one.

“I know you already have a partner,” Mrs. Robertson said, gesturing to my other side where Ryder sat, “but would you be a dear and show James around? I know I can trust you to be nice.” Mrs. Robertson flashed a joyful smile and returned to the front of class without even waiting to hear my answer. I didn’t really mind helping out, but seriously? How many new students was she going to place in my care? At least this one appeared nicer than Ryder.

“Is Mrs. Robertson going to put her with all the hot guys?” The girl behind me, Kim, complained to her partner, Elizabeth, who muttered in agreement. I rolled my eyes. God, I hated them so much.

“Hello, I’m James,” the mysterious newcomer greeted me politely, flashing a charming smile and offering his hand after taking a seat. His molten gaze aimed in my direction quickly dispelled my thoughts of Kim and Elizabeth.

“Hey, it’s nice to meet you, I’m Kristin. Welcome to hell,” I joked surprisingly easily, my round face brightening with a warm smile as I took his hand.

“Is this class really that bad?” He chuckled.  

         “Oh, you have no idea. Mrs. Robertson can’t control a class to save her life, and she just finished telling us the play for the semester. Care to take a guess? It’s a huge cliché: Romeo and Juliet,” I whispered, as Mrs. Robertson began passing out the script.

         He let out a low whistle, “Oh man, it’s so much worse than I thought. Just kill me now,” He joked.

         “Only if you promise to take me down with you,” I laughed. James was easy to laugh with, I was surprised to discover. Generally being considered the school outcast and finding it a chore to relate to the rest of my species most of the time, I was impressed by our light interaction. After that, we became instant friends, joking about class and comparing schedules. It turned out we had AP Literature, lunch, and AP Psychology together as well. James glowed with warmth and oozed charm. Acting suddenly became my second favorite class of the day instead of a morning drag.

              “Hey guys, this is James Sampson,” I introduced, plopping down with my tray at the lunch table. Natasha sat beside Aleks, a Russian foreign exchange student who had transferred to our school two years ago. Natasha always had an odd, bordering creepy, fascination with everything Russian for as long as I had known her. The moment Aleks had been ushered into our classroom in tenth grade with his shaggy dark hair, muscular build, dark eyes, pale white skin, and thick accent, she pulled up a desk and befriended him. He stuck with us ever since, I never minded because he was actually a very nice guy.

         “Hello,” James greeted warmly.

         “Nice to meet you,” Natasha said kindly.

         “Hey,” Aleks said casually after a moment of eyeing James warily. I explained that James was new and Mrs. Robertson instructed me to show him around. Shortly thereafter, he won over Natasha and Aleks as easily as he had me. I got the feeling James was just good at that kind of thing; making friends, charming people, adapting to new surroundings. All of us already felt like we’d known him for much longer than a couple of hours.

         “Well, you’re certainly better than the first new kid Kristin had to show around,” Natasha praised openly with a smile.

         Aleks shook his head, before candidly adding “Natasha was just filling me in on that. Ryder is a huge asshole.”

         “Our other partner in Acting?” James asked with a quizzical look.

         “Yeah, I’d watch out for that one, he’s not terribly friendly. He’s said about one whole sentence to me since school started, and that one sentence wasn’t very nice,” I explained, recalling our brief introduction and the hallway when I tried to help him.

         “Yeah, I kind of got that feeling from him. He doesn’t look at us at all; just sits perfectly still and straight in his chair, when the bell rang today, he practically ran out the door.” James observed.

Conversation eventually took a new turn, for which I was thankful, and the rest of lunch passed easily as we introduced James to the school and gave him tips and warnings. Soon the bell rang and I headed off to Teacher Assisting. Helping Mrs. Enders grade papers and make copies certainly doesn’t make a class period go by quickly, but at least she was nice and when I finished my work she let me do my homework in the library. Eventually the torture ended, and I headed off to AP Chemistry, an entirely different, more painful, kind of torture. After what felt like ages of hearing Mrs. Gold ramble about atoms, molecules, ions, and other things I didn’t care about, the bell rang and I bolted for AP Psychology, my favorite class. I caught up with Natasha and James before the late bell rang. We took seats near each other while Natasha dished the latest school gossip. Soon the bell rang, and Sinclair came sweeping in the door, right on time. Class passed quickly as he explained an upcoming project, when the bell rang again, I could hardly believe the school day was over.

“Hey, Natasha, do you mind waiting by the car for me, I need to drop off my volunteer application at the elementary campus,” I said, shoving a binder into my already heavy green backpack.

“Ooh, I want to see the babies,” Natasha cooed excitedly.

“Wait for me at the car, I don’t want to have to bail you out of jail for kidnapping,” I laughed. She sulked and grabbed her books, trudging off to the parking lot.

Our school had an interesting tier design. The high school, my school, stood at the very front of a large piece of property, behind it, across a grassy field, the middle school was built, and across another grassy field, in the very back, sat the elementary school. The elementary school had an after school care program to watch the students whose parents worked late, the school was always looking for volunteers to help out; I loved kids so it was a convenient way to get my mandatory volunteer hours for graduation.

I made the long trek to the elementary campus, taking my time, appreciating the vast greenness of the school fields and the dappled patches of wildflowers growing amongst them. A large brick building loomed closer and closer, a copy of the two other large, brick buildings behind me. My legs led the way without any prodding and I found myself in main office. Air conditioner and the scent of orange sterilizer blasted me the moment I entered. I wrinkled my nose in distaste. None of the office ladies sat behind the long tan counter, which bisected the room. Just when I was about to turn and leave, I noticed a small, black bin perched on the counter labeled Volunteer Applications. I placed my packet in the bin and turned to walk out the door. Instead, I slammed right into the person behind me. At least, I assumed it was a person, because it felt a little more like running into a brick wall.

“Ouch!” I yelled, landing on the floor with a loud thud.

“Are you alright?” A soft, concerned voice asked from above me. My eyes fluttered open to the sight of Ryder, except he didn’t look like himself. The stone mask I’d grown so accustomed to melted away, worry and concern softening his sharp features.

“I’m fine,” I replied a little dazed, still curiously studying his expression. His jaw line softened from harsh angles to a more rounded edge and his eyes looked more brilliant instead of glaring intimidation. Ryder grabbed my arms gently and pulled me up with ease; he studied me for just a moment longer, then all at once the stone mask slammed into place and he jerked stiffly away.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, not letting him turn to stone so easily.

“Picking up my little brother,” Ryder said in the same stiff tone he always used. I sighed and said a half-hearted goodbye, not wanting to be near stone-statue Ryder any longer than I had too.

“What took you so long?” Natasha complained when I finally reached her car.

“Long line,” I muttered sliding into the smooth, leather passenger seat of her car, not feeling up to divulging in a six hour play by play of my run in with Ryder.

“So do you want to come over my house and work on the AP Government assignment?” Natasha asked starting the car and backing out of the parking lot.

“Oh, I completely forgot about it. Yeah, that sounds good, just let me text my mom,” I said. I got permission from my mom and chatted with Natasha about James and other school events for the rest of the short ride to her house.

“Kristin?” Natasha asked in a more cautious voice than usual once we parked in her driveway. I paused halfway through undoing my seatbelt to turn to her, sensing a more serious turn of conversation.

“Yeah, what’s up?” I asked.

“That night I pulled you out of bed, I’m sorry for being so reckless. It was really irresponsible of me. You know how I get in those danger seeking moods with my bipolar disorder,” Natasha apologized softly, staring at the steering wheel.

“It’s really okay, once you ran off I just went home,” I shrugged, wishing to end the conversation. It wasn’t often Natasha had enough insight to realize her actions in her manic phases, I wasn’t quite sure how to take her sudden maturity. Perking back up to her usual self, Natasha retreated into the house ready to begin our project with a clear conscience. As I stepped out of the car to follow her, an image flitted through my mind, a dark figure darting about in the shadows, but the more I reached for the memory, the further it slipped away. I shook my head as if that would dispel the thought, grabbed my books, and ran after Natasha into the house.

    My footsteps echoed on the wet asphalt street. I hugged my jacket closer against the cold, damp air. I warily searched each shadow and dark, empty yard for figures and silhouettes. I felt the oddest sense of déjà vu. Why am I being so nervous? I’d made the short walk from Natasha’s house to mine thousands of times, during both the night and day. I could probably close my eyes and my feet would just lead me home. I squared my small shoulders, shook my head, brown hair smacking me in the face, and told myself to stop being such a baby.

Natasha and I hadn’t intended to work that late. The assignment wasn’t due until next week, but we got an idea and finished the whole project in one night. The next time I looked up it was already 10pm. We quickly packed up and now I was practically jogging home so my mom wouldn’t ground me for breaking curfew. I silently cursed myself for insisting on walking when Natasha offered a ride, but I wasn’t ready to be home so soon.

“Hey! You’re the girl that got my brother in trouble!” A deep, harsh voice shouted at me. I jumped in surprise, shuttled instantly from my thoughts to reality. The dark street came into focus again, but this time in front of me a hulking man blocked my path. The darkness sheltered him; in the only bit of light offered by a distant streetlamp, I could make out thick, rippling muscles. I instinctually backed up. The monstrous man let out a bellowing laugh.

“That’s right, girlie, you should be afraid,” He taunted, taking a giant step forward. A knot formed in the pit of my stomach and I fought desperately against the panic rising within me.

“What are you talking about?” I asked annoyed, faking confidence, “You’re making me late. I have a curfew.” I crossed my arms and stared straight at him. This guy was bigger than a horse, but I was determined to keep up my façade, so I kept glaring at him defiantly and refused to show any weakness. The flashes of images were running rampant behind my eyes, confusing bursts, a flurry of overwhelming emotions. One thought tickled the back of my mind, taunting me with the clarity just out of my reach.

“You better make time for me then,” He bellowed angrily, “You got my brother arrested. He was just being friendly and talking to you. The police arrested him for no reason at all,” He ranted, walking closer. I refused to move an inch.

“What on Earth are you talking about?” I complained, forcing an exasperated sigh. My head was spinning with the force of the memories, and still the one memory I needed for them all to make sense danced just out of reach.

“I’ll just have to finish this matter then,” He rambled nonsensically with an excited smile, sauntering closer. I took several steps back this time, fear crashing down on me like an anvil. The snarky, sarcastic voice in the back of my mind joked about being attacked by such a cliché thug, but fear quickly gagged that voice. This was real, actually happening, it wasn’t like the movies I was accustomed to watching or the stories I was fond of reading. That thought almost pushed me over the edge, and if my joints weren’t locked in place I may have collapsed.

“Run little girl,” the thug whispered, “I’ll even give you a head start.” He taunted.

“That makes you nicer than me,” A light, teasing voice echoed from behind the thug. Suddenly, in the time it took me to blink, the man before me was lying on the floor, leaving a lean figure standing in his wake. The man roared and jumped up. I stood frozen as the lithe figure danced around the man, easily avoiding his blind, rageful attacks.

The memory ripped forward from my subconscious, finally ready to be discovered. I remembered Natasha rapping loudly on my bedroom window, calling me outside to seek danger, and then her leaving me alone in the street. On my journey back home, two experienced thugs trapped me in the dark street and a strange figure saved me. The next thing I knew it was morning and I was waking up in my room thinking the whole ordeal had been a strange dream.

“Oh, you’re going to have to do better than that,” The shadow teased, leaning against an unlit streetlight, pulling me from my reverie. I squinted to get a better look at the figure; it was definitely the one from the other night. The figure was rather tall, a head taller than my 5 foot 3 inches, lean, and muscular. That was all I could discern in the dark. The man bellowed and charged at the shadow, but the figure was already gone, the man instead punched an empty streetlamp with a metallic thud. The thug cried out in pain and whirled around searching for the taunting shadow. His eyes fell on me. Before I could move an inch, if I could have even moved at all, he had his thick, sweaty arms wrapped around me. I gagged on his overwhelming stench of sweat and body odor. His hot breath on my neck made my stomach churn in disgust. I might as well have been restrained by steel bars because no amounts of kicking or squirming made him even ease up.

“How about if I squeeze the life out of your little girlfriend?” The thug shouted at empty air, spinning wildly looking for the figure. This thug smelled about as pleasant as the last, apparently his brother, and his brother I only got a whiff of from a distant. Up close and personal was not a place I wanted to be with this guy.

One moment the man restrained me, the next I dropped quickly to the ground and the man lay behind me in a crumpled heap. The shadow stood with the unconscious man at his feet and made no attempt to approach me. My head swam, black spots dancing across my vision. I wanted nothing more than to curl up on the damp, dirty street and never move again.

“Are you okay? You’re not going to pass out again, are you?” The figured asked from the shadows, his voice softer now, wary. I quickly stood up and brushed myself off. Luckily my huge displeasure at showing emotion to strangers won over my weaker self.

“I don’t think so,” I said, scowling and giving myself a quick once-over. I squinted in the dark trying to get a look at my savior. In the glint of the moonlight I saw only a black, Lone Ranger style mask and dark eyes. I stepped closer to get a better look, but the figure retreated farther.

“It seems you have a knack for trouble,” the figure teased playfully, leaning lazily against the unlit streetlamp again.

“Whatever do you mean?” I joked with mock confusion. I thought I saw him flash a bright grin as he turned to leave.

“Wait!” I shouted, “Don’t I get to know who saved me? Twice,” I added.

He chuckled, “Just stay away from dark streets, they’re dangerous at night.” With that, my hero melted silently into the shadows.

[kikiwhataboutthatbrendon]

Here’s my writing submissions for English, they’re worth a Bit of my grade.

·         Writing is hard but "hard" is rewarding

“I’m a writer.” He whispers to himself, as he dosn’t fucking write. He sighs then closes his laptop, plunging his room into complete darkness.

 A million unwritten scenes flash through his head, pleading to be brought to fruition. Giant monsters, gods of other worlds, hearts broken by friends, a world doomed by a singular action, and he can't find the words.

 The boy leans back in his chair then stares out of his window. He’s met with a dark sky, tree’s swaying gently in a midsummer's night breeze, faint stars burning above him. What a beautiful sight.

 He absentmindedly thumbs a black ring around his finger, a gift from a friend long ago, he talked to her just this morning. Thoughts of her, his best friend, flicker like flames across his mind, and he finds himself smiling.

 He remembers where they've been and where they still need to go, an incomplete list from their teen years. A cafe overseas she promised to take him to, a favorite place of hers when she lived in France. A haunted mansion in California they unanimously agreed to visit, due to both of them being obsessed with the paranormal. His real home as he puts it, a beach on the east coast looking across the Atlantic where wild horses roam free. 

 He laughs softly. His writing had stopped because he couldn't find inspiration, a reason to create a beautiful, broken world with people of gold who brought light to it. Then he realizes he's living in that world. He opens his laptop, filled with newfound determination.

 He writes with a smile, filling pages and pages with words that remind him of her. Her mind, her heart, her smile, her laugh, her name. Words that remind him of Sarah.

 Were You Ever Really There

 Conan watches, bored, as the newest asshole to request something unreasonable of him starts screaming about him daring to act like a tyrant when he denies his demand.

 The two guards stationed at the bottom of the steps leading to his throne look about ready to kick him to the next dimension over, which brings a smile to his face.

 The man stops yelling for a moment when he notices the smile on Conan’s face. “What is so funny, Fate?” He spits.

 Conan bristles as the lack of a title after his rude question. He sits up straight and gives him the truth. “I was thinking about how funny it would be to watch my guards kick your ass.”

 His guards tense, presumably trying to keep from laughing. He smirks at the rage burning in the man's eyes.

 “Oh, I’ll show you whose ass is gonna be kicked-” The man goes to run up the steps and promptly falls on his face from a well-placed foot from the guard on Conan’s left.

 The other guard snorts then covers her mouth, embarrassed.

 The man pushes himself to his knees, revealing a bloody nose from the steps sharp corners. Conan had done that one too many times when he was Mother’s champion. He hisses then gives Conan a pissed glare, had Conan not been immortal and a god, he surely would have been dead.

 He forces himself to his feet and points a bloodied finger at Conan. “You have no right to sit where Mother once did, acting as a tyrant in her place when she actually cared for her citizens.”

 The guards freeze when he finishes his sentence.

 Conan’s smile drops into a hard set line. His eyes change from their heterochromatic black and hazel to molten ruby. His horns creak and it appears as if ash starts to flake off of them.

 He stands, looking down at the now apprehensive man. Conan stares him down, forcing the man to keep his gaze. “Say that again.”

 His guards look between each other nervously, this might be the third time in five months they've seen this happen. The man stutters, unable to respond.

 Conan descends the steps, and his guards step to the side. Despite being several inches taller the man cowers away from him.

 Conan catches his shoulder before he can turn and run, then forces his palm to the man's forehead. He makes him live through his worst possible future in a matter of seconds, the life he took away from himself because he couldn't deal with the loss.

 When Conan takes his hands back the man collapses into a heap of tears, his wails ringing off the throne room walls. Conan scoffs as he picks himself off the floor and runs towards the door. He watches the man leave the throne room and sighs.

 His guards try to muffle their laughter as he slides onto the floor groaning, distracted from what just occurred for a moment. One of the two clears her throat, giggling softly. “My Lord, what will become of him?”

 He sighs then presses his palms to the floor, following his footsteps away from the castle. Conan looks into the most probable future, following the web of time until he has to weave the strands together. “He will regret what he said and rethink over his life thus far, he will realize everyone that he has hurt in his life due to his short temper...”

 He reaches farther into the future, straining to find his course of action. “He will make amends with his wife,” He says, “Then he will dedicate more time with his son and daughter and vow to be a better father, he follows through on his promise and dies a loved grandfather for his kindness and wisdom.” He opens his eyes with a slight headache, his eyes returning to normal.

 His guards look down at him, shocked. For the other two they died horrible deaths due to their own self destruction, this was a change of pace for them.

 One of the girls smiles, and she looks to her fellow guard. “That’s good, he changed, he’s better now.” The other smiles, recognizing that she's right.

 They look down at their derpy god and laugh. “May we go, Lord Fate?” 

 He looks up from the floor and nods. When they turn to leave he sits up with a start then shouts after them. “Can one of you get Consigne for me please?”

 The other guard shoots him a smile and nods. “Sure thing Lord Fate!”

 The door closes with a bang after they leave, and Conan begins to wait impatiently. He crosses his legs, avoiding snagging his cape. He tries his best to keep his thoughts away from the location he’s in, favoring thinking of his beloved and what they’re going to do for the rest of the afternoon and evening.

 Mabey a run in the woods? Consigne has voiced that they've been missing the feel of leaves underfoot and hidden stars overhead. A faint memory of him and Mother taking a night walk flashes through his head, and he feels a stab of pain through his chest. A visit to one of the pantheon? They've been meaning to visit the Misplaced and Defender, but they are a few days journey away. Another memory, from not long ago, the dinner party with everyone from the pantheon, when he got stuck in the ceiling, and Mother teased him about it for weeks. The stab turns into an ache, he looks to the center of the room and shudders at the scenes that cross his mind. A visit to the north side mabey?

 Before he can think through his last thought the doors to the room open and a large white muzzle pokes through the crack. The rest of Consigne’s towering form steps through, their white fur turned rainbow due to the stained glass in the room's walls. Their back barely brushes against the massive doors archway as they walk all the way inside.

 Conan smiles wide then jumps up and runs to them, burying his face in their fur once his hands have tangled themselves in the soft strands. He hears a soft laugh and looks up to a smiling face and dark skin, his hands tangled in the ends of their long hair.

 “Did you miss me or something?” They say with a chuckle.

 “Of course!” He exclaims.

 They put a hand to the side of his face. and he leaned into their touch, relishing the cold. They must have been outside. It was starting to turn to the winter months on the Isle of Shadows.

 “Are you alright Love?” Consigne asks softly. Conan opens his eyes, not realizing he had closed them.

 “Why wouldn't I be?” He asks, confused.

 They can tell something is off. The room feels different, there's more space, there's more than just their presences, something else is with them. Consigne looks around the throne room, searching for the thing that would show he wasn't okay.

 Their eyes fall on a crack in the floor at the center of the room. It wasn't just a crack in the stone brick, the crack reflected the universe, stars and suns, the infinite web of time.

 Conan follows their gaze and freezes at the crack in the floor. Violent images flash across his mind, memories from long ago that could have been just seconds away. Mother, Prophet, fighting and spilled blood… final words and one goodbye.

 Consigne turns his head away from the crack and sighs. They feel him shaking. They carefully push away a few strands of hair from his face, avoiding pricking their hand on his horns. “You have to fix that thread Conan…”

 He shakes his head, refusing to look at the place where Mother died. “Mother can do it, she did it before.” He takes a shuddering breath. “I’m not doing it.”

 Consigne’s chest tightens at his words. They know he’s not being stubborn, that he’s just in pain. They look around the room, noticing that it’s gotten darker, despite the clear days sky outside. Their gaze tears back to the crack, and they startle when they see a figure flicker into existence.

 Her form is faint, but she's there. Starlight drips off Mother’s opaque form, her beautiful dress fading into nothing but glitter and the webs of time. She gives Consigne a soft smile, then looks at her son.

 Conan still hasn't turned around, but he can feel her presence, he knows she’s there. He doesn't know what he’d do if he saw her smiling at him again. Half a century since her death. Five decades of telling himself that she’s not coming back. She won’t hold him close when he can't sleep, won't kiss his forehead and tell him it's okay when he has a hard time existing, won't tell him she loves him more than anything else in the world.

 Mother brought Consigne into the living world to be there for him and be his other half. Because fate and coincidence are nothing without the other.

 Mother shakes her head, the horns curled over her sparkling with the movement. She walks over to them, footsteps soundless, dress billowing behind her. Consigne carefully steps away from their creator, leaving Conan to wrap his arms around himself, still turned away from her. Her obsidian black eyes betray every little thing she wants to say. A thousand unsaid promises and wishes aching to be said, half a century to late. She starts to set her hand on his shoulder then hesitates.

 Why? Why extend her powers to the living world to see her son again? Why hesitate? She loves him too much to hurt him. She’s seen then through the void of darkness and webs of time to the smile of fate and laughter of coincidence.

 Would he be happy to never see her again? He could move on, live his eternal life without seeing her smile of pride, hear her joyous laugh, her sweet voice. Then again, he cried himself to sleep for a decade pleading to a dead goddess to come back, woken up from fitful nights of sleep screaming The Blind Prophets name, and left himself to rot in a castle, outside the closed throne room doors where his mother died.

 Mother sets her hand on his shoulder and turns him to face her. Tears spill down his face when he sees her beautiful eyes and smile.

 She laughs quietly and cups his face in her hands. He leans forward and presses his forehead against hers, careful to keep their horns from tangling, something he did many times.

 “My son.” She whispers, voice like honey and smoke.

 “Mom-” He chokes on his words, a thousand differient ways to say “I love you” caught in his throat, and he can't find the right one. She knows what he’s trying to say though, she always has, when he’s been at a loss for words she’s always known, somehow.

 Mother pulls away to properly look at him. She smiles softly at his mismatched eyes that she caused. “I love you, son, I always have, and I always will.”

 He starts to cry even harder then wraps his arms around her, she moves to do the same. “I love you Mom.” He manages between quick breaths.

 Her face twists, a mix of pain and regret. “I love you baby, I need you to wake up-” 

 He shoots up in bed, a cold sweat running down his neck. He rapidly looks around the room, panicking because he isn't living through the scene in his dream. Then he realizes.

 Conan looks to his right, and Consigne is fast asleep, curled around a pillow where he’s supposed to be. Tears start to well in his eyes. He brings his knees to his chest then hides his face, crying silent tears.

 Soon Consigne will wake and hold him close and sing him to sleep before he can start to scream. When he’s sound asleep in Consigne’s lap they’ll sigh and run a delicate hand over the piercings in his horns. Something will knock over Conan’s staff in the corner. They'll snap towards the noise and see a figure they swear had pitch eyes, towering horns, and an ink dress of silk. 

 She disappears before Consigne can be sure she was there.

 (This is a part of my friend/family storyline for a world they created, I added to a character of mine’s lore.)

 Lessons To Learn

 Oh, look at you Will, stood to the side

Too much of a man to swallow your pride

 -

General of L’manberg, lest you forget

Leave me to my work little junior cadet

 -

Sounds like you've got something to hide

Should I go tell them that you’ve lied?

 -

Oh Tommy, so quick to judge and yet

You're the one who’s getting so upset

 -

Maybe that's because my hands are tied

Dream could have a man on the inside

 -

[Will gets angy]

 -

If you really wanna know

Let’s go

Wanna bet?

 My loyalty hasn’t been tried just yet

 -

[Silence from Tommy]

 -

Stay in your place Tommy

Try to change your mindset

To fear the person who’s actually a threat

 (Lyrics for a Minecraft SMP server that got lore on accident, I got inspired. There’s more where this came from, but this is what I wrote for the daybook.)

[darlinrogue]

It had been a long time since an argument had made him feel such a way: exhilarated even in his exhaustion, trembling with adrenaline even as his body ached. He and Adam had argued, and he and Adam had brawled, strikes to the jaw, fists and knees—Adam’s knuckles colliding with Kenny’s mouth, and Kenny simply smiling at him with bloodstained teeth. Pinned to the wall, Adam against him. Like electricity. Kenny kisses him hard, blood staining Adam’s lips. And for once, The Cleaner is ashamed.

Sol Finished Her Essay.txt >:3c

Adam and Kenny AKA Omegaman 

A swipe of his thumb and the twitter feed blurred. Post-after-post, oh, that kitten was cute, he did not care about this person’s problems, holy shit, Adam did not want to read about politics right now. Bright blue and white fluorescents burned his eyes, blurred his vision. Adam blinked and wiped his hand down his face. He dug his fingers into the bridge of his nose to alleviate the pressure of a building headache. An open beer, three sips deep, rested on the bar counter at his right elbow. Adam picked-up the bottle. He swirled the contents and watched the amber liquid and brown glass disperse the light. Molten, dark, and shifting, a tiny kaleidoscope in his hand that captured his brief fascination-- haha, dumb monkey brain like pretty colors. He brought the rim to his lips but didn’t tilt a swig back. His phone vibrated. The bottle returned to the counter and with a couple taps he opened the message app. Mom had sent him a question, will he be home this weekend? She’s making tex-mex for dinner Saturday.

With a little :-) emoji at the end. 

For a second, Adam stared at the little green bubble of white text. 

As a professional graphic designer, he always thought the Iphone text function was ugly as hell, plain and near unfunctional. The colors were plain and unappealing-- and there was no fucking search bar. That line of thinking didn’t help him answer the question. Adam pressed the power button and the screen blackened. He laid the phone face down on the bar counter. Adam leaned back and pressed his hand against his thigh. The stool creaked beneath his shifting weight. He threaded his fingers through his hair and swiped sweat dampened curls from the back of his neck. An ache worked into his muscles, a little bruised, a little sore, but not yet satisfied. Not yet— Both elbows now pressed on the counter, a sigh racked his shoulders.  

Tucked into a corner of the arena, this small bar probably served executives and cultured peoples during the day. People who wore like, a tie everyday, the poor miserable bastards. This late at night it was empty. Crystal glasses lined the back shelves and fractured the golden glow of the light bulbs. The black marble countertop reflected back Adam’s face and hands. The curve of his IPA. It was quiet and it was lonely, exactly how he liked it. The hour was ticking way past late, he had to get back to his hotel. Right here, on his own, though, post-match, he was content for the night. This was it, this is what he asked for. He took a swig of his poison, the grain had a good flavor, smooth but with a bite. The bottle returned to the counter, and with a nudge of his finger, Adam pushed it just out of reach. His stomach churned, heart constricted in his chest. His forehead fell into his hands and stayed there when the door pushed open. Footsteps shuffled across the carpet. The stool legs next to him screeched as it was dragged across the tile. The newcomer settled down.

“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” the coarse voice observed.

Adam leaned back, hand gripping the edge of the counter to balance himself as his gaze peeled to his left. His twisted heart found new contortions-- like dislocated shoulder, levels. Kenny sat next to him, within touching distance. A heavy, dark leather jacket draped over his broad shoulders. A thin sheen of sweat coated his bare chest. Adam’s gaze studied the seams of the coat, the lines of Kenny’s throat, and then the features of his face. The light had a way of softening his rounded features, the thin, pinkness of his lips, and the fullness of his cheeks. He wore dark, aviator sunglasses, obnoxious because they were in a well lit room, inside— at night. Adam turned back on his stool, facing parallel with Kenny. Looking at nothing in particular. His entire skin was on fire, cheeks warm, hands shaking. He tucked his fingers under his armpits.

“Yeah,” Adam said, he rolled his palm over his forehead. “At least I’m consistent.”

“How long are you going to do this, man?” Kenny demanded, his leg propped against the stool spindle. “Wasting time, getting drunk— you know how many calories are in that?”  Kenny did not look impressed when Adam twisted the bottle to check the label. “You think what you’re looking for is at the bottom of that bottle? Think again, man, think again. All you’re doing is drowning your braincells, you know you need those, right?”

“Yeah, and how do you know what I’m looking for?” Adam grunted, his eyebrows lifted, glancing at Kenny. 

Kenny was all grins because Adam took the bait-- hook, line, and sinker. From his side, Kenny lifted the belt and laid it on the counter to his left. Kenny smirked, with smarmy, stupid, self-confidence. Adam hated that his arrogance was hot as hell. His eyes darted from Kenny to the AEW World Championship Belt. That big strap of black leather, gold, and silver, glittering like the Stairway to Heaven. A muscle tightened in Adam’s jaw and his hand fisted. Adam scoffed and he sought solace in his drink, swallowing, relishing the burn of alcohol down his throat. A year or more, with all sorts of detours, divergences, side-paths, distractions, an entire run as one-half of the tag-team champions, and he was still chasing that damn belt. Adam had everything, it was supposed to be his for the taking. Yet, twice now, it’d slipped his grip. It was an illusion, like a pond screwing with his depth perception. It was always a little deeper than he thought. Much like someone else at this counter. 

Kenny’s head laid on his chest. A mop of curled, unruly blonde hair, that tickled Adam’s lips and chin. He buried his face against the top of Kenny’s head and smelled the plain soap, the cheap shampoo he used, floral, rosemary, something aromatic. Kenny breathed slow and even, and Adam could feel each inhale and exhale through the connection of his hand against Kenny’s back. Proof that was he real and present. He was warm, contrasted to the cooled hotel room. Adam tucked Kenny against himself, drew him closer, terrified to let go-- knowing he’d escape in a heartbeat. That moment was as fleeting as the kiss laid on Adam’s forehead like a reverential gift. Adam awoke in the morning, alone and cold. He grasped at the still warm mattress and felt Kenny fall through. 

“You’re too easy,” Kenny chuckled, he tapped his forehead with his finger. Like he was some kinda conniving mastermind. Dude, watched way too much Anime. Adam only barely remembered Kenny being this annoying in Japan. He’s seen the videos of Kenny singing his own damn theme song during his entrances. “You let people in your head, they get to you— it’s an excuse, Page. You’re just too pussy to do anything, that’s why you sit there and get fucking wasted, ‘cause that’s all you can do.”

The beer bottle shattered. Slammed against the counter on the perfect sweet spot, crushed in Adam’s hand. The glass fractured into dust and piercing shards that buried in his palm. Beer spilled onto the counter and dribbled onto his jeans. Blood, red and crimson, mingled with the stinging alcohol, and seeped between the lines of his callouses. Adam snatched Kenny’s lapel. Hand fisted, Adam dragged him in, the tendons and muscles of his bicep tight. Kenny was all teeth, eyes obscured. Once again, Adam had taken the bait. Kenny was in his head and he lived there rent free. Adam wasn’t sure if he could evict him. 

“You mad bro?” Kenny queried. “Because I’m right? You couldn’t beat Chris; You couldn’t beat Maxwell; and you couldn’t beat me. You got it, you got everything you need, but you keep wasting it. You lose, and what do you do? What you’ve always done. Take a beer from some stranger that has God knows what disease and mope. You think I was fucking cool with it? Dealing with your drunk ass all the time?”

“You’ve been a real dick since you won that belt,” Adam growled. He laughed to himself, chin ducking to his chest. His attention focused on Kenny, “You know I’m going to take it from you.”

“No, you won’t,” Kenny snapped, a little irritation biting in his tone. “We both know you won’t do shit.” His tone took on a whiny, mocking lilt. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll try harder next time. Sorry, doesn’t cut it Pizz. What are you going to do, stretch my coat? You’re a coward, you won’t do shit.”

Adam’s bottom lip trembled, his throat dry and eyes locked with tinted glass. “Take off the fucking sunglasses,” Adam demanded, voice cracking. He dragged Kenny a little closer. “Say that to my face.”

Kenny pursed his lips, he pouted. 

“Take off the glasses, Kenny,” Adam repeated. “Look me in the eye, you son of a bitch— and say what you just said, again. Show me you actually mean that shit.”

Kenny sneered and Adam read the disgust, discomfort, mockery. And, something else he’d been missing. It was right there, right in front of him. Kenny leaned in the last couple inches, his nose brushing against Adam’s. He whispered: “Make me.”

“HIt me, punch me,” Kenny insisted, sing-songing. “C’mon, do it, prove it— that you can do something. Literally, anything, Hangman.”

Adam’s grip slacked. He released his cinch on Kenny’s jacket. Kenny eased back onto his stool and muttered, “I knew it, I knew you wouldn’t, you’re--”

Kenny didn’t complete the sentence before Adam decked him. A hard and clean right hook across the jaw, that knocked Kenny clean off the bar stool. Kenny stumbled, his hand swiping and reaching for the counter to steady himself. He rubbed his fingers over the site of impact. The skin of his left check now red and swollen, imprinted with Adam’s bloody knuckles. Kenny smiled and giggled, nodding his head with approval. Adam pressed to his feet, jaw stiff. Small sparks of pain coursed-up his arm, like he just stuck his finger in an outlet. Kenny straightened, cocked his hip, and returned the favor. The left smashed across Adam’s cheek and sent him reeling back. A pump of adrenaline rushed his head, throbbed his heart, and burned in his skull. Like a bell ringing clear in the night, unsure of for whom it toiled. 

Adam hoped it chorused for him. So, that he might hang for his crimes and his corpse could feed some daisies. Finally, after twenty-nine years he could do something good for this miserable planet. Let the worms make sweet worm love in his brain and maybe then, by the nutrients of his bones, he’d be useful. And despite the grim thought, the certainty of his resurrection filled him. Burry him, return in three days, and he’d be back-- call him Lazarus. He resented the executioner, hated his accusers. Adam was a piece of shit, son-of-a-bitch, with poison for blood and a rock for a heart. He was too pissed, anger filled, frustrated and unsatisfied to stay dead in a shallow grave. 

And Kenny’s left hook hurt like hell.

Damn, that felt good, he needed that.

Like he needed oxygen, like he needed water, like he needed Kenny.

Like he needed that belt. 

Adam surged and swung with a wide punch. Kenny caught it at the elbow and twisted Adam’s arm. Adam stumbled forward, bending into the momentum. Kenny drove his knee into Adam’s gut. The air rushed out of Adam. His already sore ribs seized like a vice around his internal organs. 

Oh, shit, he had not thought this through. Adam had already gotten the crap beaten out of him tonight in a match. Like, put through a table but still won-- crap beaten out of him. This was not good. Adam couldn’t beat Kenny on a good night. What the hell was he doing picking a fight on a bad night? Well, Adam was way past dumb decisions at this point.

Adam drove the heel of his hand into Kenny’s lower stomach, a cheap shot to make Kenny drop his hands. Adam popped a quick jab into Kenny’s face. Nothing but a distraction, to make his eyes water, and stun him. Adam seized Kenny’s jacket by the lapels and drove him him back into the wall. A solid ‘oof’ escaped Kenny as they collided with the solid surface. Kenny wheezed, because he had had a match too. Neither of them had any business picking a fight. 

“Damnit! Kenny!” Adam shouted. “Get your head out of your ass!”

Adam growled, a low rumble reverberating through his chest and his eyes darkened. Chest-to-chest with Kenny, he leaned-in, to push and pin him against the wall. He breathed hot and fast, his heart shuttering, beating against his chest. Their pulses mingled so that Adam couldn’t separate the chaotic rhythms. Kenny’s glasses were ajar, hanging crooked off his nose. Adam knocked them off Kenny’s face. They clattered to the floor. Kenny blinked, eyes adjusting to the new light. Tension drained from Adam’s shoulders and he sighed, soft breath over his chapped lips. Blue eyes, like the sky over his childhood home, baby blue, aquamarine, the Gulf when his family took a trip to the beach. Pupils blown-out and black. Breathless, Kenny left Adam breathless. The rage dissipated, draining from him like water. Kenny grinned, blood on his teeth, white and red, their noses an inch apart. It would be so simple to--

Kenny’s lips tasted of iron and him. Everything Adam dreamed of but better. The kiss was all teeth, blood, and spit, ugly and gross. Worthy of something from Adam’s fumbling teenage years. Adam groaned into Kenny’s mouth, lungs shuttering and eyes fluttering closed. He braced his hand against the wall and pushed back, tilting his head for a better angle. Adam kissed Kenny with his blood roaring in his ears and demanding more of whatever the hell this is. He slowed, lingering, in a passionate and deep kiss, relishing the taste of what he had been starving for. Then, Adam slid his hands through Kenny’s hair, cradled either side of Kenny’s stupid, soft and stubbly, chipmunk cheeks. He laid small, quick, fluttering kisses to Kenny’s lips, the corner of his mouth, and Kenny whimpered, wanting more than teasing. Adam smirked and he tangled his fingers into those ashen curls to tilt Kenny’s head back to give more. Darted his tongue past Kenny’s lips to find more. Kenny clutched at Adam and dug his nails into Adam’s shirt.

Then Adam parted, gasping for air. He rested his forehead against Kenny’s and whispered something like ‘holy shit.’ He threaded his fingers in Kenny’s hair to pet and soothe him. Kenny surged forward, looking for that second kiss, but Adam laid his hand across Kenny’s chest and pushed him down. Kenny slumped against the wall, settling on his heels. He looked wounded, like a kicked puppy. It was enough to tug on Adam’s heart strings. 

“Adam,” Kenny whined, drawing out the last syllable. 

“Kenny,” Adam said, voice firm. “Stop, that’s enough.”

Kiss him again, his inner voice insisted. While Kenny stood there, all pretty and cute, gaping with his brow furrowed. His cheeks flushed and lips almost scarlet. Take a second taste, a third, let the whole night unfold like origami. Except no, this wasn’t what Adam wanted. Whatever the hell this was, it ain’t it, chief. Adam knew what he wanted. He knew what he needed. He knew, he knew, he knew, it was so obvious that this dumbass, pinned beneath his hand, could see it. So obvious, that even Adam was starting to see it. Adam stepped away from Kenny even though it felt like ripping off his own arm. Pure chemistry, the pure need and want of a man dehydrated in the desert. Adam didn’t want to go back to his hotel room alone. He didn’t want to spend another night in a cold bed. He didn’t want to keep playing this game of cat-and-mouse, always guessing, always confused, and lost. He didn’t want to keep his thoughts to himself anymore-- but there was something else he needed more than he wanted.

Something, he’d needed since he was a child, since his birth. Adam was convinced it was inscribed in his DNA. And until he had it, he would never be satisfied. Maybe he was a masochist, always stepping-up to the chopping block like this. Knowing, believing he knew, what came next when the axe fell. Yet, Adam Page didn’t have an ounce of quit in him. He was far too stupid to stop.

Adam eyed Kenny and then reached behind him to find his phone on the counter. Kenny stayed pinned to the wall like a taxidermy bug. Then, Adam turned to leave. He paused at where the belt rested on the countertop. He lifted his hand. Adam curled three fingers to his palm and pointed his index to the sky.  Then he took aim at the belt. With a dramatic flourish, Adam took the shot. He left the bar, leaving the door ajar. While the Uber drove him back to the hotel, Adam typed-out his reply on the ugly message app. 

I’ll be home this Saturday. Looking forward to tacos I’ll bring tequila. See you soon. Love ya, a lot. 

[vicunaburger]

Admittedly, I’m Hard to See

Fandom: Beetlejuice the Musical Chapters: 10/? Pairing: Beetlejuice x OC (Holidae) The Players: Beetlejuice, Lydia Deetz, Holidae Bell Word Count: 1,563 Warnings: M for Language and Suggestive Content

Notes: …angst angst angst angst...

Chapter 10- In Which Occam’s Razor is Proven Correct

In the almost two months since moving into the house with Lydia and Beetlejuice, Holidae had yet to venture beyond the second floor.

She was aware there was a massive attic space, that Lydia’s family had a few things stored up there for safekeeping, but it was wholly underused in the grand scheme of the floor plan. Holidae vaguely remembered Lydia saying something about wanting to convert it into a dark room at some point, but nothing else. It was just there. A set of steps leading off into the abyss as far as she was concerned.

So it was quite the surprise when Lydia sent Holidae up to the attic to rummage around for photo props for her latest brilliant scheme.

“Just go find something… I dunno. Haunted looking.” Lydia had instructed before retreating back into her bedroom.

Holidae trudged up the surprisingly steep set of stairs, barely even touching the doorknob before it swung open, almost beckoning her inside. She was getting used to the creepy nature of the house by then, merely shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.

The space was huge, but not as empty as Lydia had claimed. An old, patched up sleeper sofa was unfolded into a bed in the far corner, accompanied by a dresser and a large mirror. A rack of clothes was stuffed up against the wall, doing a poor job of hiding the piles of meticulous marked cardboard boxes that lined the walls. Unfinished works of “art” sat collecting dust on the opposite side of the room. With a little work, it could have been converted into a rather spacious guest room, but it was far too shabby to house anyone now.

Holidae’s attention was drawn to the clothing rack, seeing an array of colorful dresses - Delia’s, no doubt - and some smaller, darker clothes: most likely Lydia’s old hand-me-downs. She sifted through the clothing idly, making the occasional face at the more gaudy ensembles, until she came upon… a man’s suit. It was hidden so well in between the other garments, she would have passed it by completely if she hadn’t been paying attention.

She pulled out the suit, shaking some dust off of the lapels, and inspected it carefully. The jacket and pants were a deep, but loud, red color; stained with grime that turned patches of fabric a sickly gray, stitched with thread that didn’t match any color on the suit. A ruffled shirt completely the look: again, a garish red, but a rusty hued stain had soaked into the front of it, a good sized rip disrupting the button line.

Furrowing her brow, Holidae stood in front of the mirror, holding up the suit next to her for height reference, “Hm. Too short for Mr. Deetz…”

A small whiff of tobacco smoke was the only warning she had before the suit was ripped from her hands, and she was shoved backwards toward the center of the room with force. It took some ungraceful, wobbly steps, but she managed to regain her center of gravity. Beetlejuice stood in the place she once was, crushing the suit against his chest in a vice-like grip, his hair matching the red of the fabric, his expression terrifying.

“Who the fuck gave you permission to come up here and go through my shit?” His gravely voice was low, reverberating deep in his chest.

Holidae held up her hands in defense, “Whoa, wait! I had zero idea of your stuff being up here! Lydia told me to get something for her, that’s all.”

“She told you to get this?” He held up the suit, “This specific thing that was hidden from view?”

“Well, no…” She started to chew on her bottom lip, feeling the pit of her stomach drop. “She said to get something haunted, so I was looking around through the clothes because most of them are frankly hideous, and it was on the rack. How was I supposed to know you wore anything besides stripes for god’s sake? I don’t think you have the right to be so angry about something like this.”

Beetlejuice didn’t seem impressed with her ramblings, putting the suit back in its place before advancing on her like an animal, “I don’t have the right?”

Despite him now looming over her, she stood her ground, “It was an honest mistake.”

His hands wrapped themselves around her neck, his thumbs pressing up into the bottom of her jaw, “Honest mistake, she says, like I would just believe you. You know what else could be called an honest mistake? Snapping your neck before you could even take a last breath. Oh no, what a shame, I didn’t mean to murder her. It was an honest mistake.”

“N-no, an honest mistake would be more akin to forcing your bestest best friend to marry you under duress and then realizing the whole affair was a waste because if you would have just sat down and talked things over you could have been happier faster.” Holidae could feel her pulse pounding under her skin, pressing against the force of his hands. “I know a tuxedo when I see one.”

Beetlejuice squeezed harder, earning him a gasp from his captive, “You are so mouthy today, Holli. Where’s all this coming from, huh? Do you think we’re friends Holli? That we have some sort of understanding? What makes you think I haven’t been fucking with you this whole time because I’m bored out of my skull? Wait wait… don’t tell me… you think I feel something for you other than utter contempt, right? You’re alive. I exterminate living things as a job.”

“…did anyone ever tell you that you can’t lie for shit?” Holidae choked out, her eyes starting to water with effort to breathe.

The muscles in his jaw twitched, and he eased up on his grasp, “…I lie all the time, babes.”

“Exactly, but you’re bad at it.” She reached her hands up, grabbing hold of his forearms. “If you didn’t care about the living as much as you claim, you wouldn’t have kept a constant reminder of a time when you were one of us.”

“Ugggh, damn.” Beetlejuice released her completely, walking over to sit on the edge of the fold-out bed.

Holidae waited a moment before following him, watching as his coloring turned from red to a dull violet, sitting with his face in his hands. Still leery, she crept over, standing over him in quiet contemplation.

“…don’t tell Lyds.” He finally spoke, running his hands down his face with a sigh.

“About the suit?” She asked, gesturing behind him to the clothing rack.

“No, about the fact I haven’t dusted up here in weeks. Yes about the suit.” Beej groaned, leaning over and resting his head against her thigh. “I know she already feels bad about the whole… stabbing thing. I don’t want to make it worse for her.”

“Tell you what; no more murder attempts, and I’ll keep your secret.” One of her hands reached down and patted him on the head; surprised by how soft his hair felt despite it’s messy nature. “Deal?”

Almost instinctively, he leaned into her soft touches, “Deal. Weirdo.”

“Me? I’m the weirdo? Uhh, pot calling kettle there, sir.” Holidae protested, tapping on his skull with her fingertips, “Mind elaborating for me?”

Beetlejuice put his hands around her waist, pulling her down onto the bed beside him, and rested his head on her soft stomach. Holidae made a small noise at the sudden shift of view, but let him do as he pleased for the moment. Her hand went back to absently petting his hair, seeing pink mix with the violet.

“I’m a literal demon who just threatened your life again, and you didn’t have the self preservation to like… run away. You’re weird. Like Lydia is weird… but you’re different weird.” His clawed fingers, unsubtle as he was, slipped under the hem of her shirt, feeling the warm skin underneath.

“Okay, I’ll give you that. Ahh~ cold hands.” She squirmed uncomfortably.

“Cold hands? Where?” He sat up, pulling her shirt up and over her bra to expose more of her skin, rolling her back and forth to check all sides of her. “I don’t see any cold hands under here. I think you’re losing it, Holidae; finally going mad! It’s the curse of this house.”

“Or maybe it was a jerkass ghost.” Holidae flailed helplessly, completely undone and laughing until she was out of breath, “S-stop!”

Beej continued running his hands all over her exposed flesh, pinching and dragging his claws to leave little white marks, “I’m trying to get those cold hands off of you, hold still! You’re clearly in distress and need my help, babydoll, your face is all red… you must be terrified, right? Don’t you worry about a thing. Aha!”

He dove down as he lifted her midsection off the bed, catching some skin between his teeth and biting sharply, the flesh immediately red and starting to bruise when he pulled away. Holidae couldn’t hold back the noise that left her throat; a soft keening whine breaking through the laughter. It startled her, and she clamped a hand down over her mouth to muffle herself, watching as those molten gold eyes of his turn dark.

“Oh? Care to repeat that, Holli? Didn’t quite catch it…” Beetlejuice grinned wide, leaning down for another attack.

Knock

Knock Knock

“Holli? Didn’t know if you got eaten by the monster octopus that lives up here. Should have warned you about Captain Tentacles, my bad.” Lydia’s voice echoed from the other side of the door, just as the knob started to turn.

Writing Tags: @mr-geuse @paxenera @leiasolo77 @go-commander-kim @ashemspirit

[deadgirlrising]

Wrote a little backstory thing for Nalla, my aasimar paladin in @kloud‘s D&D campaign. Story below the cut, so I don’t take up your whole feed

Nalla had gotten up earlier than usual to make sure he was prepped.

First, she’d snuck into the kitchen and packed him a week’s worth of field rations, sturdy food that would keep for a while and not fall apart in his bag. Smart as Aukan was, he sometimes neglected the important little things, like whether he had enough food and water. The last time she’d left this to him, he’d packed some muffins and they’d gotten smooshed up in his saddlebags, and he’d only had enough for a day or two anyways.

Her next stop was the stables, where she checked over Quincy, his horse. He was clean, freshly brushed, and well-rested, his shoes in good shape for a long journey. Exactly as she’d expected. Not that she didn’t trust the folks working the stable, but it never hurt to check. Nalla saddled him, made sure everything was secure, and left him ready for his master.

She stood there a moment, going over a mental checklist, then marched back to the house and filled a small wineskin with water. Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, she thought of a happy memory, brought the mouth of the skin up to her lips, and gently blew into it. The scent of strawberry wine bloomed in her nose, pleasant and evoking warm summer days. Nalla took a sip, just to be sure, then nodded, grinned, and popped the stopper in. Perfect.

Back in the stables, she put it down in the bottom of Aukan’s bag: a nice surprise for later, when home was far away.

Almost as an afterthought, she added a small medical kit: bandages, surgical spirits, needle and thread, some dried herbs to help with pain. Basics, just in case.

“Seems I’ve caught you doing my job again,” Aukan said.  “You’re going to have to let me learn the hard way, one of these days.” His voice was a pleasant baritone, touched with amusement, their mother’s accent laying lighter than it did on her own voice.

Nalla looked up to find him in the doorway, leaning against the frame and giving her a sharp-toothed grin, his facial markings and molten gold eyes sparkling in the lamplight, seemingly relaxed. Aukan was tall, even by Evenwood standards, and as near to slender as their family got, dressed in sensible riding clothes; dark shirt and trousers, blue cloak pinned with a small golden broach shaped like a beetle. He wore a short, neat, white beard and had his white hair pulled back in a short tail between the upturned points of his golden horns. He held a pair of riding gloves in soft, long-fingered hands, golden talons manicured and gleaming. Only his tail, held low and wrapped close to his body, betrayed his anxiety.

She grinned back and futzed with Quincy’s mane. “You start taking care of yourself, I might do that.” Her own voice was a pleasant alto, their mother’s accent slightly thicker on her tongue. “But until then, I’ve got your back.”

It was an old routine. They took care of each other. Always had, always would.

Nalla came around the horse, towards Aukan. Now that she was paying attention, she could feel that perfect, gentle chord thrumming in her soul. She gestured to the bags piled around his feet, her golden nails and the markings on her rough, calloused palms glittering. “You want a hand with that lot?”

He looked down, as if he’d forgotten the bags were there. “Oh! Yes. Please.” He hefted a pair of them and handed them over.

She took them as if they weighed nothing and carried them over to set on the horse, redistributing the contents for a more balanced load. It was all books and writing supplies, not really a surprise. If Aukan was around, you could bet there would be books and things to take notes on. They finished loading up Quincy in comfortable silence.

“Is that everything?” Nalla peered past her brother’s shoulder at the empty doorway, half-expecting to see a lonely, forgotten bag. Probably with his clothes in it. There was nothing there.

Aukan pulled a small journal from a pocket and opened it, mouthing words as he marked things off with his fountain pen. After a few moments, he closed it and nodded, satisfied. “Yeah, that should do it.” The journal and pen disappeared back to where they came from.

She handed him the reins. He flopped them over Quincy’s neck and moved around the massive horse. “Can I get a hug before I go?”

“Of course, little brother!.” Nalla grinned and swept him up in one of her patented bear hugs, taking the poor man off his feet and crushing him to her breast.

He hugged her back, rolling his eyes (she was older by all of two minutes), and then started trying to wriggle free. “Can’t… breathe…”

Nalla set him down, mussing his hair and grinning, golden eyes bright.

Aukan wheezed comically for a moment, then stood straight, took out a small mirror, and set about smoothing his hair. He pouted. “I do wish you hadn’t done that. You know how long it takes me to get my hair just so.”

Eventually, he put the mirror away and gave his sister another hug. She returned it, much more gently this time.

“Are you ready, Auk?”

He pulled back, sighed, wiped his eyes and blew his nose on a kerchief, then took Quincy’s reins again. “No, not really. But if I don’t go now, I don’t know if I ever will.”

She opened the door and held it for him while he walked the horse out, shut the stable doors behind him, and they headed for the front gate, where a small crowd was waiting. Aukan’s somewhat impatient valet on his own horse, Nalla’s young squire, Kara, standing at ease with Morana and Lucian, Nalla’s other retainers. She made her way over to join them.

The rest of the family in a disorganized crowd to either side of the gate. They were a stark contrast to Aukan and Nalla, with their dark hair, brown eyes, and tan skin, but they were family. Their parents stood together, their father dabbing at his eyes with a kerchief, their mother standing on her good leg, strong and stoic, but hugging him gently to her side with one large hand.

Nalla stood with her staff while the family said their goodbyes, giving them space. She felt a gentle hand on her arm and looked down to find Morana giving her a questioning look. She gave her a weak smile. “I’m okay, ‘Ana, but thank you”

The dwarf nodded and looked back to the crowd, but left her hand on Nalla’s forearm, a comforting pressure.

Eventually, the crowd of family dispersed a bit and Aukan mounted up next to his valet. Nalla moved up to join the family, making her way to her twin. “Hey.”

He looked at her. “Hey.”

“Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t forget to write. Let me know if you’re in trouble.”

He smiled down at her. “I love you too, ‘La. I’ll be alright.” His smile turned to a grin, and he gestured to his valet. “I’ve got Himo here watching my back.”

The half-elf valet frowned slightly but said nothing.

Aukan said his final goodbyes and rode out the gate, off through the town, on the way to gods only knew where.

Nalla stood at the gate, watching as he dwindled into the distance, that perfect chord fading until only silence remained, leaving a space like an abandoned theater in her soul.

[blake-belladonna-defence-force]

Tag

Based on that RWBY Chibi skit of Blake and Yang playing tag because A) Blake’s lil amused noise/ giggle was bloody adorable and B) I have this headcanon that Blake could be a lil shit when she was in a good mood. Ruby thought it was amazing, Yang adored it and Weiss did as Weiss does: suffer. Sorry, Weiss.

Set back at Beacon just before the Vytal Tournament.

I feel like I’m about to fall into writer hell with the rest of you because now I’ve written one fic, two more ideas scream at me to write them.

But here ya go. A lil bit of bumbleby fluff with a touch of angst...

There is one parallel and one reference in there that I couldn’t help but put in.

————————————————————

Covert missions were a standard part of being a huntress. They required one to be alert and aware of everything, including oneself. Yang knew what had to be done; her target was right in front of her. Sneaking up on the mark would be easy.

Slowly, Yang inched her way towards the lone figure. She had to be careful; they were known to be quite dangerous. She couldn’t afford to die now, not when her team needed her. She crept forward until she was close enough and launched her attack.

“Tag, your—oof!” Only to kiss the dirt. “Stealth really isn’t your thing, Xiao Long.” The calm, familiar sound of her partner’s voice sounded more than a little condescending. “Oh shut your up.” She shot back as she rolled over.

“Make me.” Yang looked up at Blake. The faunus stood with her hip cocked, examining her nails nonchalantly. Yang was more than smart enough to recognise a challenge when she saw one. Without further ado, she jumped up and launched herself at Blake again; only to be met with an empty shadow clone. She glowered at her friend.

“Blake...

“Yang…” Great. She was being mocked. Well, she wasn’t going to stand for that. She immediately tried to propel herself towards Blake again.

And again.

And again.

“You know, Yang, they say that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

And again. Why did she do this to herself?

“Blake! You! Are! It!” She growled playfully. She was, without a doubt, annoyed but seeing Blake having fun always tended to overrule any grievances that she may have about the girl.

“Am I, now? Aren’t you meant to actually catch me?” Yang made an offended noise in the back of her throat. Blake smirked at her cheekily, tucking her arms behind her back and leaning forward. “Let’s see how well you can keep up, little Sunflower.” And with that, Blake winked at her and ran.

Yang blinked in stunned silence before shaking herself out of her stupor and made chase after her. Blake was apparently in what Yang had come to affectionately refer to as “lil shit mode”. This simply meant that whenever Blake was in a particularly good mood, she tended to become especially cheeky with her friends. And occasionally their teachers. Blake was the one out of team RWBY with most detentions for a reason, after all. But considering that the two still clashed occasionally, Weiss tended to suffer the most. Mostly because Yang adored these rare moments of playfulness and outright encouraged it and Ruby tended to make things worse by falling into hysterics. So, the amount of puns and jabs thrown at their poor little Ice Queen tended to double on these days, much to her chagrin.

But on this day? Apparently, Blake was planning on messing with Yang. Well, Yang wasn’t going to complain. She did love it when she was feisty. But, unfortunately for Blake, the brawler wasn’t going to go down without a fight. She kept her gaze firmly locked onto the back of Blake’s head, hoping against hope that her partner would mess up eventually. They ran around the court yard and down a path, eventually making their way to the gardens. Blake hurdled over a small bush and into a grassy sitting area and surprisingly missed her footing. Yang, who was right behind her, took advantage of the raid slip up and reached out to grab her…

Only to once again fall forward; the only difference being a hand that reached over and grabbed her arm, twisting her around in mid air. The result was Yang landing on her back, only to be promptly pinned down by a heeled boot.

“Don’t ever underestimate your opponent. You never know what tricks she might have up her sleeves.” Blake grinned down at her, such delight in her eyes that Yang couldn’t stay mad even if she tried.

“Ya know, smugness isn’t a good look of you, Belladonna.” She retorted. She chose to ignore the fact that said retort was a bold faced lie. Blake rolled her eyes and stepped off of her, calmly sitting down next to her.

Yang promptly sat up and draped her arm over Blake’s shoulders, heart swelling with affection when Blake reached up to entwine their fingers together. When Blake first started to be physically affectionate with the team, Yang had been surprised. Blake hadn’t seemed like a touchy-feely person but then again, some people take a lil longer to get there.

It was always little things; squeezing Yang’s hand when Cardin was close to getting a facial reconstruction, reaching out to adjust Ruby’s hair when the younger girl fell asleep at their desk or even a supportive arm draped over Weiss’s shoulders. It was incredibly endearing. And that was all without mentioning Yang’s favourite ones!

She had noticed that when she would do something kind (especially anything regarding tea or books) for Blake, that the other girl would slowly blink at her and lean over to butt her head into Yang’s shoulder, murmuring a quiet “thank you” and go back to whatever it was she was doing beforehand. Eventually, she was able to determine that the slow blinks and head butts were their own brand of affection for the faunus and slowly, Yang found herself picking up these habits subconsciously. She wondered if Blake was aware of it. She had only just picked up on it herself. But while her train of thought was on Blake and affection…

“Sunflower? Really?!” She teased lightly, gently butting her head against Blake’s. The resulting huff causing her to giggle into Blake’s temple. “It fits.” Blake defended, faux offence lacing her words. Yang hummed thoughtfully. “If I’m a Sunflower, does that make you my Sunlight? Ya know, ‘cause I always turn to look at you?” “Oh my God. You are such a dork.” Yang merely grinned and jumped to her feet, ready to offer Blake her right hand and help her up.

“C’mon, Ruby wants us to meet up with her and Weiss to go over some last minute stuff for the Vytal Tournament.” And with that, both girls made their way back to the school. But not without Yang sneaking glances at Blake’s smiling face. She knew that Blake hadn’t had an easy life. That somebody that she had trusted had hurt her. She saw the way Blake reacted to certain situations. She didn’t even want to think about what could have caused her to be so closed off. Yang desperately wanted to help her partner but she knew that Blake didn’t need a knight in shining armour to come save her. But the shorter girl sure as hell deserved to have an ally to stand against whatever war was raging on inside her head. Yang was determined to be such, silently making herself a promise.

“I’ll make it my mission to be there for her. For as long as she’ll let me. Starting with this tournament.”

Yang knew she was playing with fire. All she had to go off of was their short time at Beacon together and a hopeful heart. She doubted that Blake would stick around forever. Nobody ever did. But she truly believed that Blake would talk to her. She trusted her.

Maybe that trust would become her pyre, but she couldn’t deny that there was something about Blake that made her think that maybe burning wouldn’t be the worst way to go if it was within the depths of molten gold eyes.