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tanoraqui · 4 years ago

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I am a huge sucker for one character being chill about a situation while everyone else is freaking out, so if you’re up to it would you tell us about This Is Normal?

@tolrais asked: Sizhui genii locorum!

okay so i must disappoint bc that wasn’t actually a jesting “This Is Normal” - let’s talk genii locorum, known more commonly in the singular: genius loci, the “intellects of [the] place”. In this case: what if it was perfectly common that if cultivation was practiced in roughly the same way in roughly the exact same place, by roughly the same bloodline, for long enough, power built up in the land itself? Power and something resembling thought, in the slow way of geography? (That’s why it tends to attach to a bloodline - individual humans, even cultivators, disappear so fast on a geological scale.)

Say that each generation, the land picks a favorite to bestow its power to - one person, one generation, at a time, only. Others of the blood may access it, but to a far lesser degree. Petty effects. More if the land is partial to them. The true wielder of the land is, of course, traditionally the sect leader - and if they’re not at first, they’re probably gonna be appointed as such.

Say the powers are elemental, roughly, Say their personalities are shaped by the land itself - lakes or mountains, hills or plains - and the continuous philosophy of those who cultivate (upon) them. They choose their favorites based on who most matches what they are, and the strongest sect leaders are those with the greatest affinity for their land.

Or, lemme put it like this:

Lan Wangji was always GusuLan’s favorite, unwavering and fastidious, aloof and righteous and eternal as the cool mountain peaks. Its cool shrouded him; its ice turned Bichen’s edge even sharper. Even though he was far away in a land of fire, it flowed to him like a high-speed glacier when his father died - and he, panicking and desperate, denied it.

It wasn’t the refusal that turned it away - though it’s true, one must actively accept a land’s power; it cannot be forced upon a person. But usually, in such a dispute, the wouldn’t-be recipient dies - in a fight between one human and an entire countryside over that human’s soul, it is acceptance or destruction. Instead, it was...well, the fact of refusal. The fact that he broke, that his gut instinct - resolute as ever - was the shirking of responsibility. That, GusuLan could not tolerate. It didn’t press the issue to destruction, because Lan Wangji wasn’t its chosen after all.

There was nothing, to be clear, wrong with Lan Xichen. He was a little warmer, but still beautiful and distant. He would bend, but his core was upright and unfaltering. He followed the rules to the letter. He was even closer, physically - and in that little cabin in which he was sleeping, hidden, he woke sharply from a restless sleep as the air around him turned to welcome ice.

Or like this:

Jiang Cheng was never YunmengJiang’s first choice. He wasn’t even its second choice. The lakes of YunmengJiang - bright and warm with sunlight, loud with the chatter of market crowds, sweet and beautiful with lotus seeds and petals, all over drowning-dark depths...how could they not fall in love with the boy their Jiang Fengmian bought home? How could the water not leap to follow his every gesture, whenever he went out upon it?

(Except that when he first felt it pressing at him with not just curiosity but love, he thought of Madam Yu’s clenched fist and Jiang Cheng’s yearning gaze, and he shoved it away as hard and fast as he could.)

Failing that, how could they not adore their eldest daughter, sweet and kind and welcoming to all, and protective enough to wield words like deadly blades? Once the land is cultivated to its own sentience, it doesn’t need to be a cultivator who bears its power...

(Except it does still need to be someone whose heart the doctors don’t worry over every time she does something more spiritually strenuous than meditate. And she cannot stay, she’ll explain one day, weeping, on a boat she’s rowed out to the middle of the lake herself. If it was just a matter of love - but they also need the alliance, or Lotus Pier, Yunmeng, YunmengJiang itself might be lost - )

So. Jiang Cheng wears all his deadliness on the surface and all his joy and welcome deep beneath, and YunmengJiang is the opposite. But at least he stays. Land moves on a geological time, and YunmengJiang more than most loves all its people, not just a select family. It can leap readily to the will of someone who stays and looks after them.

Or:

Agreement was universal that Nie Mingjue was a perfect bearer of QingheNie, mighty and stern and stubborn as the mountain granite. As tall, too, some would joke. It’s traditional for a Sect Leader to wear at all times a symbol of their land’s blessing - Lan Xichen’s headdresses always sparkle with a thin coating of ice; a lightly jeweled hip flask has been passed from Jiang to Jiang in which to hold lakewater. Upon taking title and land from his father, Nie Mingjue wears a circlet of rock on his brow, hard stone crafted with his own hands as though molding clay.

Agreement was equally universal that Nie Huaisang was possibly the worst bearer of QingheNie in the clan’s entire history. Flighty where he should be staunch and stern, barely able (much less willing) to lift a blade, as flappable as one of his fans...as Sect Leader, he set a chunk of granite into the base of each one of those silly fans, but it was a public secret that the stone had been carved and smoothed by a stoneworker, not the Headshaker.

The mountains of Qinghe shook with grief on the day Nie Mingjue died, as they had for his father; grief and rage. The Unclean Realm itself shifted and nearly collapsed in several places - some of its famous defensibility came from being set into the mountainside itself, the back halls giving way to twisting tunnels running through the rock. Can you imagine how long one fighter with a saber can hold a single slim tunnel? Hidden ways, their secrets known only to the inhabitants; the deeper an enemy goes, the less likely they are to come out...

A single chip of granite launched across the room with fury can drive through a man’s eye and into his brain, killing him instantly, even with a fan trailing behind. Fortunately, it never needed to come to anything that gauche.

(It would have preferred Nie Mingjue, it really would, but even more than GusuLan, the last thing QingheNie has ever done is falter.)

So...

If the Burial Mounds had once been cultivated to a benevolent sentience and their power then corrupted, it’s been forgotten. But resentful and spiritual energy are two sides of the same coin, and the Burial Mounds yearn for company, for lives to call their own, just like any other land...but what sort of person has enough rage, vengeance, heartache, and loss to match them? Who could have enough strength of spirit to bear the touch of a land whose elemental power is death itself?

Trick question, we all know the answer to that.

Good thing we got him, too, because defeating Wen Ruohan at the heart of the volcano he commands is a bitch and a half. (He wears a jagged crown of obsidian glass and Nie Mingjue will walk away with a burn on his face from the man’s touch.)

LanlingJin’s power is invested in light. Their Sect Leaders - or in Jin Ling’s case, Sect Heirs - carry a lantern at one hip, representative more than anything (one cannot cage light.) Or, you know, they just lowkey glow all the time - but that’s not convenient on a night hunt; you need something coverable. Jin Ling would have inherited it from his father, but instead it came directly from - you know, I so, so want to say his grandmother? But I don’t think Meng Yao, Jin Guangyao, would turn out quite the same were Jin Guangshan not exactly as Sect Leader as he in canon, and I’m loath to say Jin Sect is, like, particularly sexist or something to let both be true. So, grandfather it is, unfortunately.

Jin Guangyao is jealous, but Jin Guangyao has too many secrets for bright LanlingJin. Maybe it would twist to suit him, with another couple generations dark and poisoned beneath the pretty lights, but not yet. Not even with how easily it’s gift can flow into illusions. Fortunately, LanlingJin is also the most gentle of the Great Sect Lands - perhaps weak, with how its family has been failing it, recently, in their stated intent. So Jin Ling can withstand its sudden flood even at the ripe age of two and a half.

It makes up for a little, for Jin Ling to have no memory of a time when he didn’t have the fierce, warm, bright affection of a coastal tower, busy city, and sun-drenched skies curled possessively around his soul. YunmengJiang bristles at the intrusion and mourns another loss (oh, YunmengJiang...at least it’s in accord with Jiang Cheng); and LanlingJin doesn’t like that its favorite so often strays so far. But family is important, both lands can reluctantly agree (in the manner of circling tigers, wary and territorial, thoughts not quite human.) They both want him loved.

...oh yeah, I was supposed to talk about Lan Sizhui, wasn’t I.

GusuLan would love that boy. It does love him, in its cold, discreet way. But it’s...complicated. It’s not Lan Sizhui’s fault. (Of the three, this is very much the AU least about Lan Sizhui.)

It’s the second battle of the Burial Mounds, as the second horde of corpses approaches. Wei Wuxian paces, mutters to Lan Wangji, "If I still had the land...but I don't know where it is. I can't hear it at all. I don't understand it."

This is not how Lan Wangji wanted to do this - though in fairness, he had no idea what would be a non-awkward way. He still doesn’t. Just a little louder than to be an answer to Wei Wuxian, he says, "Lan Sizhui."

"Yes, Huangang-jun?" The boy is at his elbow in an instant

Lan Wangji turns a little to include him in the conversation. He'd be gesturing if he was a man who made unnecessary motions. "Lan Yuan."

"Yes?" he repeats.

Wei Wuxian stares at the both blankly.

"A-Yuan," Lan Wangji clarifies. He draws his guqin but he can't quite make eye contact with either of them.

Wei Wuxian gasps. He cups Lan Sizhui's very baffled cheeks (except something is a little familiar...) and peers at his face, turning it this way and that to check for familiar features. He peers deeper in a way that would be stunningly rude in anyone else (it’s still stunningly rude; they’ve all just come to expect that of Wei Wuxian) and likely impossible if there wasn't a shared affinity for what he seeks - but the bond is distant, so distant. Buried, smothered, bound.

(Lan Yuan, now Sizhui, has always felt like there was something he was missing, something he couldn't remember that was just out of reach. He thought it was the concept of parents or something like that, or maybe just a natural ennui that everyone had and didn’t speak of for propriety’s sake. He discarded it, because of course he had everything he could ever want.)

"A-Yuan..." Wei Wuxian looks at Lan Wangji, wondering, smoldering with love - and just the tiniest bit of reproach.

Lan Wangji looks away. It's a terrible thing to block someone off from their spiritual power, and it's a worse thing yet to block them off from the any power of a land they may bear. One is an insult to an individual, the other to the earth itself, almost as heretical as demonic cultivation. Su She, of course, has done both today, but only temporarily...and that’s a low bar to which to be compared.

But there was too much roiling in Wen Yuan when Lan Wangji found him, death and -

(You know what, I can’t decide: Did QishanWen’s smoldering lava pass to Wen Qing when no one closer was available, ceaseless fire matching ceaseless fire? Or were the Dafan Wens sufficiently distinct for long enough, far enough, that she was already taken? Is there DafanWen in its own right, high hills with the power of growth, from dainty flowers to ancient trees, twisting vines to healing herbs?

...yes, I think so.

But I also think they were close enough in blood, had spent enough time in the heart of the Nightless City, for some inheritance. So the reason no one stepped forward, at the Yiling Patriarch’s demand, to admit to killing Wen Ning was that...Wen Ning knew he was too weak, insufficiently greedy/ambitious for things to burn and build anew; he knew QishanWen was too quenched and dormant after its defeat to the Sunshot Alliance, and he was too far away and it was literally raining. He knew that to fight back would only bring pain down on more of their people. But even so, there was no one to step forward, because the man who dealt the killing blow burned screaming to ashes.

There were sparks left in the souls of each member of the blood left alive, but not enough to burst to flame. With that last death, QishanWen lay...dormant.)

(Until, maybe, almost all the rest of them were killed in the space of about 10 minutes. That must’ve sent a couple sparks flying.,,)

- so there was too much roiling in Wen Yuan when Lan Wangji found him. Verdant DafanWen was barely settled, still reeling from the loss of its favored daughter, the best healer in three generations. QishanWen sparked with new loss and ire, driving a fever. And the Burial Mounds, whose touch was death...

It is possible, for two lands to share a host. Boundaries are a human invention; the Earth is all one thing. Pride and territorialism are taught. And even if those have set in, they can certainly fight, in the infinite space of a human soul.

And the Burial Mounds loved that child. He wasn’t raging, he wasn’t mourning (except he was just starting to, now); but he wasn’t scared of them. Why would be be? The dead things that roamed it belonged to his Xian-gege; the living were his family; this land was his home.

But the Burial Mounds’ was the power of death itself, and A-Yuan wasn’t a teenager filled with enough determination to burn down the sun, he was three years old and scared. The extremely forbidden hasty ritual to (not cut it off, to late for that) hide it, bind it, bury it - this wasn't just for concealment. It saved his life.

Back in the present day, Lan Wangji says this with reluctantly raised eyes, and Wei Wuxian nods. Because oh boy does he know about that roiling spirit of death.

There's a horde of corpses approaching; they don't have time to be tender.

"A-Yuan," says Wei Wuxian, swiping a thumb over his cheek as though to clear away a tear, and then dropping his hand. "Lan Sizhui, you trust us, right?"

"Of course?" Lan Sizhui glances uncertainly at Lan Wangji, head aching with memories about to surface.

Lan Wangji nods imperceptibly and starts to play - and it only takes a few strong chords, precisely chosen. It's always easier to break a wall than build it.

It's in QishanWen's nature to erupt but it's weak, dormant; it hasn't been home in over a decade and this boy has been trained to ice, not fire. It’s in DafanWen’s nature to flourish but it, too, is far from the earth of its body, and this is a place of death, not life.

They are in the Burial Mounds, fifty steps from the blood pool that may as well be its heart. So the volcano stays dormant the grassy hills are quiet as ever, and the raging, too-long-stifled spirit of the Burial Mounds pours forth in whirling shadows that double Lan Sizhui's height. He gasps a scream at the weight of the sudden flood, at the tearing sensation in his soul (tearing open in a way that is right - last child of a dead clan remembering; lost child of a dead land coming home.) Several other people scream and point at the family meeting that had previously gone mostly unnoticed, in a corner of a Demon Suppression Cave. What is the Yiling Patriarch doing to that Lan disciple?!

The Burial Mounds are starting to turn on their only-just-realized child, whether they mean it or not, because their nature is death to all they touch. The Yiling Patriarch is standing forth, spreading his arms, and shouting, "Hey, jackass! Get back in here, we have more vengeance to wreak!"

The cultivation world watches (Lan Wangji catches a staggering Lan Sizhui) as with a sound like the rushing wind, shifting earth, screaming dead, it pours back into Wei Wuxian.

It’s just like before. It’s rage and pain and loss and vengeance and heartache. It’s Madam Yu’s hard eyes and the way Jiang Fengmian’s face shuttered when he heard the Core-Melting Hand was in Lotus Pier, before he even shoved them back in the boat; it’s Wen Ning’s broken form and Jin Zixuan’s, not fifty feet and ten months apart; it’s Wen Qing’s soft, I’m sorry, and thank you, and Jiang Yanli’s blood dripping down his arm. It’s the crack as the Tiger Seal shattered in his hand, or was that his own neck...

Wei Wuxian might be laughing, as he greets death like an old friend. But when he opens his eyes, it’s to a soft, “Wei Ying,” on the lips of his...Lan Zhan. Mourning whites sullied with the Burial Mounds’ (Wei Wuxian’s) dirt and blood. He’s holding up Lan Sizhui - A-Yuan, their son - and maybe Wei Wuxian is closer to a land spirit than human right now, or maybe he’s just hallucinating, but he swears he can see leaves uncurling behind the boy’s wide eyes. Wen Qing would be proud - if they get out of here alive, he’ll grow the most amazing things.

#15strawberri3s #mdzs #the untamed #ficlet #man idk i just think they're neat #my fic #i'll probably collect these on ao3 later #@tumblr I DIDN'T USE BULLET POINTS ARE YOU HAPPY YOU ASSHOLE

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kirk-spock-in-the-impala · 5 years ago

Text

Between You and the World (6 of 6)

NOW COMPLETE!

Story Summary: Geralt's senses are extraordinarily acute, allowing him to perceive far more than average. As necessary as those senses are for his profession, they can become overwhelming.

Or: Five times Jaskier helps Geralt through sensory overload, plus one time he didn't have to.

Chapter Summary: This is just pure softness. Horse rides! Baths! Home cooked meals! Kissing! Just straight up indulgence. Enjoy.

CW: None, really. A brief mention of food insecurity?

Approximately 5,000 words under the cut. READ ON AO3 HERE

Epilogue: Finding Home – Winter 1254-1255

Jaskier had arrived at Countess Rottermund’s cottage on the coast nearly a week before Geralt, just as the first frosts of winter started to encroach in the early mornings.

Jaskier had spent the last month teaching a special seminar at Oxenfurt for those students who hoped to make a living as a travelling bard. While traditionally most Oxenfurt graduates in the bardic arts went on to serve in noble houses or royal courts, Jaskier’s success had created an example which the more talented and daring students wished to follow. After fielding months of requests for such a class from those students, the Dean of the Bardic Arts at Oxenfurt had relented, sending word to Jaskier and requesting he come teach a special seminar before year’s end. Jaskier had already notified the Dean that he would not be available to teach for the winter term, having promised to accompany Geralt to the coast, and the Dean knew that he needed to capitalize on the opportunity to catch Jaskier before he was otherwise engaged.

When the letter arrived, Jaskier had been delighted. It was a great honor to be specifically requested by the Dean for a special seminar, especially one restricted only to students of the highest level. Fortunately, notice arrived when Geralt and Jaskier were just north of Vizima, only a few days’ ride from Oxenfurt. Geralt had encouraged Jaskier to go, telling him that they would have ample time together over the winter. And so, with excitement to teach warring with his reluctance to leave his dearest friend – who was slowly, slowly becoming something more – Jaskier had left for Oxenfurt and Geralt had turned for Cidaris and a contract on a Royal Wyvern.

Jaskier had spent a glorious month teaching his special seminar. Restricted to only the most talented in the class itself, Jaskier had allowed other students and teachers to audit if they wished, and his lectures had filled the largest hall in Oxenfurt every day, with people jostling for position and lining up hours before to ensure a seat near the front.

Toward the end of the month-long seminar, Jaskier had written to Countess Rottermund to request certain provisions be delivered to the cottage. He knew he would likely arrive before Geralt, having received word Geralt planned to divert to Kimbe to clear a nest of drowners before heading north to Countess Rottermund’s holding, and he wanted to be sure everything was ready for Geralt’s arrival.

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Geralt hurried Roach on the road north, squinting through the driving snow, his pupils narrowed to vertical slits against the bright glare off the ocean to his left. The nest of drowners in Kimbe two days past had turned out to be both drowners and a water hag, a nasty combination at the best of times. Geralt had ended up soaked, frozen, and exhausted, but luckily unharmed except for superficial cuts and bruises that were already almost healed.

Winter came on hard and fast as Geralt turned had north out of Kimbe, frost blanketing the world, catching the light and making the swampland sparkle. Geralt’s breath came out in clouds of steam as he rode, cold wind making his normally pale cheeks flush red. He could only hope that Countess Rottermund had kept her word and stocked the cottage properly for winter. This late in the season, they would have little chance to build up stores of their own before the deep snows.

Just as the sun started to set, Geralt spied a large cottage in the distance, set on a bluff overlooking the ocean, smoke curling from its chimney and warm light shining through the large front windows. It was the only structure in sight and it was in the rough middle of Countess Rottermund’s territory. Geralt hoped it was the right cottage and that knocking on the door would bring Jaskier and not an outraged settler.

Geralt scratched Roach’s withers in apology for the conditions and urged her back into a canter. She tossed her head, catching at the bit to show her displeasure at the long, cold ride, but obeyed, settling into a ground covering stride that brought them swiftly to the low gate in the fence surrounding the cottage’s front garden. Geralt could see a small stable behind the cottage, but tied Roach to the fence for now so he could make sure they were in the right place.

As he started up the little garden path, boots crunching on the crushed sea shells used to line it, he saw the curtains over the window twitch before the door banged open, Jaskier rushing out into the snow to greet him with a strong embrace.

“Geralt! You made it!” Jaskier said, beaming. “I was worried about you with the weather.”

Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier, burying his face in Jaskier’s neck and drawing in a deep breath of his comforting scent before drawing back.

“I’m going to put Roach up.” He said, turning back toward the gate. Jaskier followed.

“I’ll show you where I put everything.” He said. “Countess Rottermund left a new, thick blanket for Roach too.”

Geralt smiled softly, happy to be reunited with Jaskier. They led Roach over to the small stable behind the cottage. There was a paddock attached to one side of it, with a door leading out from a large, box stall. Jaskier’s grey gelding, Pegasus, was already stabled in the stall next to the large box stalland he whickered in greeting. Pegasus had been a gift from Countess Rottermund, given to Jaskier before they left her townhouse the prior spring. He was a sturdy horse of calm temperament and having two horses had made their travels the past year much easier, though Geralt still teased Jaskier over his choice of name for the big grey.

Geralt gave Pegasus’s neck a firm stroke as he led Roach by, settling her into the large stall. Jaskier had already bedded it down with thick straw and filled the buckets with clear water and sweet-smelling oats. Roach let out a sigh as Geralt removed her tack and saddlebags, immediately starting in on the oats. Jaskier leaned over the stall door as Geralt brushed Roach down, carefully checking her over for any cuts and picking out her hooves. When Geralt was satisfied, Jaskier handed him the blanket Countess Rottermund had left for Roach. Though her winter coat was thick and warm, the plush, wool blanket would keep her more comfortable on cold nights, especially when she was still damp from the snow.

With Roach settled in next to Pegasus, Geralt slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and followed Jaskier up into the cottage.

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

As Geralt followed Jaskier through the door into the warm cottage, he looked around, taking in the large hearth, the comfortable lounges surrounding it, and the thick, quality wood planks used to build the dwelling. There was a small kitchen set next to the hearth and a door on the other side of the hearth opened into a bedchamber, into which Jaskier immediately led Geralt. The bedchamber was modestly sized but well appointed, a large, four-poster bed taking up much of the space. As with the bed they shared at Countess Rottermund’s townhouse, it was covered in a selection of thick furs.

Jaskier indicted the hook where Geralt could hang his saddle bags and opened up the dresser set along the opposite wall from the bed. He rustled around a moment before pulling out a set of clothes and placing them on the bed.

“I ordered you some new winter things.” Jaskier said, indicating the pile. “A few new, linen shirts, a wool tunic, and a heavy surcoat.”

Geralt went to inspect the clothes, shaking each piece out of its fold and running his fingers over the fabric. “These can’t have come cheap.” Geralt said, frowning slightly, placing the clothes back on the bed. “You didn’t need to do this.”

Jaskier shook his head, a note of fond exasperation in his smile. “No, I didn’t, but I wanted to buy you something new and warm. I know you don’t have the chance to wear things like this often, given they won’t fit under your armor or hold up to fighting, but most of the work this winter will be indoors editing the beastiary.”

Jaskier picked up the pile and placed it back in Geralt’s hands. “You deserve to be comfortable. Now, go wash off and change.” He indicated the door at the back of the bedroom, leading to a small bathing chamber. “The bath is in there. I’ll get dinner ready while you bathe.” Jaskier placed a warm hand on Geralt’s shoulder, squeezing lightly, before heading back to the kitchen.

Geralt felt the now familiar warmth of Jaskier’s company sink back into him, soothing the ache of the cold and the separation. He unlaced his boots, leaving them by the door, and padded into the bathroom. A large, wooden tub sat in the center of the room and a small hearth was on the far wall. A pump handle for water was beside the hearth and a large cauldron pot hung over the wood piled in the hearth, ready to heat water for the bath. A bucket to transfer the water from the cauldron to the tub hung on a hook beside it.

Geralt got to work pumping water into the cauldron. It ran fresh and clear. When the cauldron was partly filled, Geralt cast a quick igni on the prepared logs before finishing pumping the water. Then he cast another controlled blast of igni around the sides of the copper cauldron to help speed the heating process.

As the water warmed, Geralt stripped off his wet, travel stained clothes. He wiped down his armor with a towel, drying it, and piled it in the corner to be cleaned later. His wet clothes he left in a pile by the door, ready to add to the morning’s wash. By the time he finished, steam was rising off the water in the cauldron. Geralt carefully transferred the hot water from the cauldron to the tub before refilling the cauldron in case Jaskier wanted a bath later, leaving it to heat over the banked fire.

Tasks complete, Geralt sank into the scalding water up to his chin, heaving out a sigh as cold and tension melted away. He didn’t know how long he sat there, mind drifting, before Jaskier came into the bathing chamber.

“How’s the tub?” Jaskier asked, glad to see his dear one so relaxed.

“Hmm.” Geralt turned a small smile on Jaskier, cheeks flushed from the heat.

“That good, is it?” Jaskier said, eyes crinkling. He reached for a bar of soap and a cloth. “Want some help with your hair?”

“You don’t have to -” Geralt started, quelled when Jaskier lifted an unimpressed eyebrow at him. He started again, reminded Jaskier wanted to care for him and that he was allowed to accept that care. “If you’re offering, then yes, please.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Jaskier moved to kneel behind Geralt, snagging a small bowl from the pile in the corner to use as a rinse basin. “Tilt your head back, please.” He directed, using the bowl to pour water over Geralt’s hair once he complied. Jaskier used the cloth to lather the oil soap before working the suds gently through Geralt’s hair. He gently loosened the knots and mats caused by weeks without a proper bath, finger combing the long, white locks until they were smooth. Geralt closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation, feeling weeks of tension leave him as a result of the gentle massage. He sighed in pure contentment, leaned back and let Jaskier take care of him.

When Jaskier was satisfied Geralt’s hair was clean and free of knots, he filled the bucket from the steaming cauldron, glad Geralt had prepared more hot water, and used that clean water to fill his rinse bowl, pouring bowl after bowl of water over Geralt’s head until the water ran clear of soap. Once it did, he picked up a small bottle of hair oil, lightly scented with peppermint, and worked it through Geralt’s clean hair until it gleamed in the low firelight. Geralt was almost asleep from the slow, calming work, completely trusting Jaskier to watch over him.

Jaskier gently nudged Geralt to sit forward, which he did without entirely coming back to the present moment, and lathered up the cloth again to wash Geralt’s back. Once Geralt was sufficiently soaped up, Jaskier followed with his hands, rubbing deep, long strokes into tense muscles, working the knots until they loosened. Geralt drew his knees up to his chest and rested his head upon them, eyes closed, soft, slow breaths showing how close to sleep he was as he enjoyed Jaskier’s ministrations.

Jaskier’s heart warmed at the trust shown by Geralt’s totally relaxed state. Reluctant to rouse him, Jaskier continued on to wash Geralt’s arms and legs, dipping his hands below the water when needed. That done, he gently moved Geralt to sit back again, guiding his head to rest on the edge of the tub. Jaskier continued his work on Geralt’s chest, scrubbing him gently clean and working muscle knots out of the front of his shoulders, leaving only the most intimate areas unattended. The time might come for that, but Jaskier was not going to push and risk violating Geralt’s trust.

Bathing complete, Jaskier gently stoked a hand down Geralt’s face, speaking only when he could see a sliver of golden iris appear through Geralt’s eyelids to focus on him. “I hate to disturb you, my dear, but dinner is ready, so please finish up in here. As soon as you’ve eaten, you can rest. I’ll show you the rest of the property tomorrow.”

“Hm.” Geralt nodded, taking a deep breath and rolling his shoulders. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so loose, so well cared for. Taking the cloth from Jaskier as he left, Geralt finished his bath and dried off, changing into the new clothes Jaskier had purchased. As he expected, the clothes were of the finest quality, thick, soft, and warm. Geralt had never felt anything like them and he vowed to treasure this gift from his dearest friend.

Leaving the water in the tub for now, as he was uncertain where it should be dumped, Geralt headed into the main room, taking a seat at the small, wooden table by the hearth. Jaskier smiled and set a large bowl of steaming, beef stew in front of him, a chunk of fresh, crusty bread sitting on top. He set a similar bowl for himself, sitting down across from Geralt as they ate. Geralt hummed his appreciation for the warm, thick stew. He’d been living off jerky and foraged berries the past couple weeks, so a real meal was a welcome change.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Geralt asked as he got close to the bottom of the bowl. It wasn’t as if Jaskier cooked badly while they were on the Path, just that the tools and options were limited, leaving them to usually subsist on spit roasted meat or watery stews.

Jaskier huffed a laugh. “It’s a long story.” Geralt sat, watching and waiting, until Jaskier continued. “I didn’t know anything about housekeeping when I got to Oxenfurt. Not even how to boil water!”

“Makes sense, given you grew up in a noble house.”

Jaskier waved that off. “True, but there was no excuse to remain ignorant.” Geralt nodded approvingly. “When I decided to be a travelling bard, I knew I couldn’t always rely on finding an inn or a tavern every night, so I asked the kitchen maids to help me learn the basics.” Jaskier shook his head ruefully at the memory. “I was hopeless at first, but eventually I stopped burning everything, including myself, and they were able to teach me some good, basic recipes: beef stew, country bread, potage, barley porridge, vegetable stew, and the like. We don’t exactly have a lot of options at our camp sites, but I wanted to feed you properly now that we have a proper kitchen.”

“It’s very good.” Geralt said, using the last of his bread to mop up the remaining stew. “I haven’t eaten this well in a long time.”

Jaskier beamed. “Well, good. We have plenty of stores from Countess Rottermund – even a selection of salted and smoked meats! – so we’ll eat well this season.”

Jaskier peered into Geralt’s empty bowl. “Would you like some more?”

Geralt hesitated. He was still hungry, but he was used to the sensation given he was rarely able to eat until satiated. He didn’t want to overeat and waste the food stores.

Jaskier saw Geralt’s hesitation and sensed its cause. “Go ahead, have some more. We have more in storage than we could reasonably eat in six months, there’s no need to ration.” He picked up Geralt’s bowl and turned to fill it with another generous helping, placing it back down in front of Geralt before tearing off another hunk of the thick loaf and adding that to the top of the bowl. “Eat up!”

Geralt dug in, savoring the tender beef and thick-cut vegetables, mopping it all up with the fresh bread. When he cleaned his bowl again, he sat back and enjoyed the rare feeling of being comfortably full. He looked up at the pot of stew still hanging over the fire. Undoubtably, they would finish it for breakfast. Food security was a rare occurrence for him, though travelling with Jaskier had made it much more common, and he planned to take full advantage of the offered abundance.

“I’ve never been able to eat as much as I want.” Geralt said quietly to the table, wanting to share with Jaskier as Jaskier had shared with him. “Even at Kaer Morhen, there were times we couldn’t hunt enough for everyone.”

Jaskier blinked, surprised, but realized he was wrong to be surprised almost immediately. He knew Geralt had frequent lean periods, he saw the weight loss that resulted every winter they were apart, it made sense he was no stranger to food insecurity. He also knew any hint of pity would make Geralt shut down. Jaskier was amazed he’d offered this tidbit voluntarily and did not want to discourage future sharing by showing how much that small insight horrified him. He couldn’t change Geralt’s past, but he could do everything in his power to make his present and future brighter.

“Well then, we’ll have to make sure you eat your fill every day while we’re here!” Jaskier said, purposefully keeping his tone light.

Geralt smiled at him, meeting his eyes, and Jaskier knew he’d made the right choice.

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

The next morning, after a long sleep with Geralt curled against him under the soft furs, Jaskier showed Geralt around the property. They took the horses out after breakfast, the previous night’s storm having left a blanket of fresh, powdery snow on the sea cliffs surrounding the cottage, frost sparkling in the pale, winter sun. Pegasus and Roach walked quietly side by side, breaths puffing out in warm clouds, hooves leaving a clear trail behind them. The beginning of winter always left a hush over the Continent as all its residents, human and otherwise, hunkered down for the long cold to come.

Jaskier guided Geralt out to the edge of the sea cliffs, pointing out the curls of smoke rising from the seaside villages to their north and south, all Countess Rottermund’s holding as far as even Geralt’s eyes could see. The winter ocean crashed on the cliffs below, occasionally sending a spray of sea water up into the air, catching the breeze and flashing in the sun before dissipating. Sea gulls screamed overhead and large pelicans patrolled the waves, diving down to catch fish in their large beaks.

As they stood on the far edge of the cove, gazing northward toward the nearest village, Jaskier pointed out the sea wall the villagers had just finished constructing.

“See there? They took your recommendation to build a harbor to allow them a safe place to store their boats, to fish, and to forage for shellfish.”

Geralt hummed, pleased. “Good, a small, shallow area is easier to keep clear of monster nests.”

“The overseer of that village, and the one from the next one up the coast, will be down next week, or so I hear from the Countess.” Jaskier said, turning to Geralt. “And her messenger already delivered the beastiary with the vittals.” Jaskier laughed at Geralt’s eager expression. “Yes, I’ll show you as soon as we get home.”

“Home?” Geralt asked, brows furrowing slightly.

“Aye, home.” Jaskier said firmly. “We’ll be in that cottage all winter, just the two of us, and it’s appointed to our liking. So, it’s home.”

Geralt frowned. He’d never thought to call somewhere home before. He knew he must have had a home once, back before his mother left him for Vesemir on the side of the road, and Kaer Morhen was a home of sorts, or at least as close to a home as he could remember having. Still, with all the brutality he experienced there, he hesitated to give it that moniker. He studied Jaskier, who held his gaze patiently, somehow understanding Geralt’s turmoil over that simple word. Jaskier was safety, warmth, and care. He was consistent, affectionate, and tolerant of Geralt’s peculiar needs. No, not tolerant, that wasn’t strong enough. Geralt wasn’t sure of the word, but perhaps something like indulgent would do, or something as simple, as profound, as understanding.

Geralt felt that peculiar warmth in his chest that only Jaskier could inspire. He offered Jaskier a small, warm smile. “Yes, I think you’re right. If you’re there, then it’s home.”

Geralt was almost alarmed as Jaskier’s eyes filled with tears, but the beaming smile that following allayed his concerns. “Aye, I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

With that, they turned the horses back, heading for home.

______________________

The winter passed slowly, calm days merging into quiet nights, as Geralt worked his way through the beastiary, updating, correcting, and redacting as necessary, while Jaskier composed new ballads inspired by their adventures on the Path that past autumn.

Every fortnight, one or two of the village overseers would come visit, bringing a rough map of their village and reviewing options with Geralt to improve its defenses against monsters. As weather allowed, the overseers would implement Geralt’s plans, sending word for Geralt to inspect the work once it was complete, or as close to complete as possible while the snows still fell. Sometimes, Jaskier would accompany Geralt on these outings, other times, he stayed home, composing, or cooking, or simply reading by the warm fire.

As the months passed, Geralt felt himself grow accustomed to the comfort and calm. Unlike years past, he no longer felt a sense of dread when giving into the enjoyment of these fleeting, precious moments. He knew his time with Jaskier was limited, by a human lifespan if by nothing else, and Jaskier had shown him the value in taking time to appreciate the good, soft things in life. Even more importantly for Geralt, Jaskier had shown him that he was worthy of such valuable things, that he could be soft and quiet, and that Jaskier would watch over him when he was vulnerable.

One evening, warm enough that the snow still dripped off the roof even after the sun had set, Geralt set down his quill, carefully capped the ink, and set the beastiary aside. He was almost finished with the revisions of the large tome, and he hoped that Countess Rottermund would share the information as widely as possible.

He turned to study Jaskier where he sat by the fire, his own quill in hand as he composed lyrics for a new ballad, the firelight glinting off his hair and highlighting his high cheekbones. Geralt thought back on the long months they had spent here, quietly going through the rhythms of a normal life, the type of life Geralt had never before experienced. Even the winter they had spent together in Oxenfurt, though similarly comfortable, had been catered by others on the university staff for their food and the care of their chambers. Here, they alone managed their affairs, working together to prepare food and maintain the house. It was so normal, so domestic, and yet Geralt never felt stifled. He knew, come spring, he would return to the Path, but something in him, something stiff and afraid, had finally eased, allowing him to simply be in the moment with Jaskier, to accept his affection and offer his own, confident Jaskier would not spurn him.

As Geralt studied him, Jaskier eventually looked up, having felt the weight of his gaze. Seeing the soft expression, the warmth burning in those amber eyes, Jaskier held out a hand, offering Geralt to come closer. Blinking out of his contemplation, Geralt rose, grasping Jaskier’s hand and moving to sit at his feet, leaning against Jaskier’s legs and the base of the lounger. He pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s knuckles, looking up at him before settling his head to rest on Jaskier’s thighs.

Jaskier’s heart melted, hand carding gently through Geralt’s soft, white hair, the subtle scent of peppermint wafting toward him. Geralt breathed in deeply, scenting at Jaskier from where he rested, filling himself with Jaskier’s familiar rosin and honey scent. Soothed, he relaxed completely, closing his eyes and resting against Jaskier almost bonelessly. He still couldn’t bring himself to ask for affection, for physical closeness. When he tried the words got caught in his throat, dying before he could make a sound. But he had learned to accept what Jaskier offered and to offer his own affection through his actions, certain Jaskier would redirect him if he ever did anything contrary to Jaskier’s wishes.

They sat by the fire, Geralt’s warm weight against Jaskier’s legs, Jaskier’s strong hand in Geralt’s hair, watching the fire burn down. As it turned to embers, Jaskier drew in a breath, releasing it in a content sigh. He scratched lightly at Geralt’s head to bring him out of his near trance. Geralt huffed at the disturbance, nuzzling into Jaskier’s thigh.

Jaskier breathed out a soft laugh, gently tightening his hold on Geralt’s hair. “Come on, let’s go to bed.” When Geralt protested by burrowing even closer, Jaskier laughed outright. “Go on, I’ll bank the fire and join you.”

With a grumble about not wanting to leave his soft, warm spot, Geralt pushed himself to his feet, stretching his arms over his head as he wandered toward the bedchamber. As he undressed for bed, Geralt could hear Jaskier banking the fire and puttering around checking the door was latched and all candles were out. For the first time in their stay, Geralt left his shirt off for bed, as was his preference when sleeping alone. Something about that night made him feel it might be all right. Geralt curled up under the furs, drawing them back on Jaskier’s side, ready for him when he arrived.

Having settled the cottage for the evening, Jaskier came into the bedchamber, latching the door behind himself. He would never tire of the sight of Geralt comfortably ensconced in their bed, waiting for Jaskier to join him. Jaskier noticed that Geralt had left off his shirt for the night, a first in all their years of sharing rooms and beds. Given their increasing closeness, Jaskier felt safe to assume the gesture was Geralt’s way of indicating he was comfortable with greater intimacy. Still, he would tread carefully, this was too important to rush.

“Mind if I leave my shirt off as well?” Jaskier asked.

“Of course not.” Geralt said, a faint flush high on his cheeks betraying his aloof tone.

Jaskier nodded, pulling his shirt off and hanging it over the clothing rack before climbing into bed. He turned on his side, facing Geralt. “Not that I mind, but what brought this about?” He asked. He could guess, but he didn’t want to risk a miscommunication.

Geralt chewed his lip slightly before catching himself, pressing his lips together to still the anxious tell. He wasn’t sure how to express the trust he felt, the lack of shame, to bare his body, his scars, before Jaskier. Even though they had shared baths, there was something different, something intimate, about removing his shirt to share a bed. He wanted that intimacy, but he didn’t know how to ask for it. He hoped showing Jaskier what he wanted would be enough to make up for his appalling inability to properly express himself with words.

Jaskier waited, knowing Geralt needed time to compose his answers on matters this sensitive, this close to the feelings the world told him he wasn’t supposed to have.

“It felt right.” Geralt finally said. “I want to share everything I am with you. To share not just a friendship, but a life.” Geralt steeled himself to meet Jaskier’s gaze, confident enough in him to express that deepest wish of his heart, but still feeling the bitter pull of fear, of the voice in the back of his head whispering you’re not worthy.

Jaskier’s smile bloomed across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes and making them shine. “I share your desire, my dearest one.” He said, placing a warm hand on Geralt’s bare chest. “I wish to experience every intimacy with you, every aspect of your life, of our life.” He ran his hand down Geralt’s chest and back up his side, coming to rest against his stubbled cheek.

Geralt’s heart overflowed with the strength, the depth of the love he felt in that moment. He surged forward, capturing Jaskier’s mouth and pouring all his love, his trust, and his soul-deep affection into the kiss, winding his fingers through Jaskier’s soft hair. He pulled back, resting his forehead on Jaskier’s as they breathed together. Geralt stroked his right hand down from Jaskier’s hair, over his neck and shoulder, coming to rest in the soft divot above his hip. Jaskier kept his one hand softly on Geralt’s cheek, stroking gently with his thumb, while the other traced a soft pattern on Geralt’s chest, dancing over the scars.

This time, Jaskier moved forward, drawing Geralt into a deep kiss, winding his arms around Geralt’s chest and drawing him close. Geralt responded with equal passion, a breathy noise in the back of his throat escaping as he clasped Jaskier to him, throwing a leg over Jaskier’s as he sank into the embrace.

Geralt couldn’t tell if it had been minutes or hours, time both speeding by and slowing down as they kissed, twined around each other so it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Geralt had never felt such passion, such profound love, and it almost overwhelmed him. He pulled back, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing deeply as he tried to draw Jaskier even closer. He felt himself shaking, heart racing as tremors coursed through him from the strength of his emotions.

He had experienced many sexual encounters in his long life, mostly from those willing to take his coin, but nothing had rocked him to his core like the simple embrace, the simple, loving kiss he shared with Jaskier. He knew the time for more would time, that it would be another life-altering experience, and felt no loss in realizing more would not come today. His body was more than ready, but his mind, his heart, were overwhelmed by the profound feelings, the previously unexperienced depth of intimacy offered by this remarkable man. Geralt felt Jaskier press soothing, affectionate kisses to the crown of his head, felt his strong, lean arms against his back, drawing him close.

Geralt nuzzled into Jaskier’s neck, breathed a deep sigh, and settled into Jaskier’s embrace.

He was home.

Requested update tags: @thesunshinemanman @animaniac1017

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krispyweiss · 4 years ago

Text

Book Review: “Me and Sister Bobbie: True Tales of the Family Band” by Willie and Bobbie Nelson with David Ritz

Willie and Bobbie Nelson have lived a combined 176 years - basically all of them together.

That Willie, 87, and Bobbie, 89, were able to tell their story from front to back in just 288 pages within “Me and Sister Bobbie: True Tales of the Family Band” says much about co-author David Ritz’s gift for distillation.

In short, alternating chapters titled “Brother,” “Sister,” “Brother,” “Sister,” Willie and Bobbie recount their lives from the begInning of their shared memory: the day they were abandoned by their parents to be raised raised by their paternal grandparents, Mama and Daddy Nelson. But Daddy died young and Mama became a single (grand) parent and a singular figure in their lives.

Willie’s chapters are folksy, often leaving off words like “I,” and beginning sentences, “Don’t know how ...” Bobbie’s are written more traditionally, often ending with cliffhangers to hold the reader in suspense until she picks up the story again.

When Bobbie married as a teenager, she and Brother joined their first band together, Bud Fletcher and the Texans, led by Bobbie’s alcoholic, non-musical husband. Two decades later, Willie’s dream came true when he and Sister reunited in the Family band. And today, Willie is an American treasure and elder statesman of country music and weed.

The long journey from childhood to old age is all between the covers of this easy-to-read book.

Family and music are the ties that bind through marriages, divorces, the births and deaths of children, remarriages and career ups and downs.

Readers learn Bobbie - an early master of the Hammond B3 organ, who worked for the company and taught clients to play - is the virtuoso of the clan. Willie’s the wandering journeyman who writes classics and has no idea how he does it.

And though it’s subtitled “True Tales of the Family Band,” “Me and Sister Bobbie” is more about family - small “f” - than the band itself, which formed in 1973 and fulfilled Willie’s desire to make music with Bobbie. And they’ve been doing it ever since.

Willie’s story has been told, in greater detail, elsewhere. But Bobbie’s has not. And it’s Bobbie’s story - as big sister, daughter and granddaughter, wife, mother, collaborator and master musician - that makes this book a must for anyone who loves Willie Nelson and most of those who don’t.

Because Willie loves Bobbie; Bobbie loves Willie. And everybody loves a good love story.

Grade card: “Me and Sister Bobbie: True Tales of the Family Band” by Willie and Bobbie Nelson with David Ritz - A-

10/22/20

#willie nelson #bobbie nelson #willie nelson & family #me and sister bobbie: true stories of the family band #david ritz

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primalrageanddumbassery · 4 years ago

Text

But Now I’ve Come Back To Wash Out The Stains

Summary: Jon and Martin have been wandering through the Fearpocalypse for Fear Gods only know how long (cause we all know that gods are vicious two-faced pricks). One day (or what passes for a day), they happen upon an Avatar of Death who thinks that they deserve something nice and offers to bring back Sasha and Tim for twenty minutes. Or The One Where Jon and Martin Can't Stop Being Tooth-Rottingly Sweet and, Oh Yeah, Tim and Sasha Are Here Too

CONTENT WARNINGS- Existentialism Long Musings about Death Description of Death Mention of Religion-Related topics (Heaven, afterlife)

Words: 6,827

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26982298

Jon took a deep, shaky breath. The door ahead of him was plain and gray with a simple black knocker. It was set in the frame of a drab little house painted completely white. There was no color around it- no grass, no trees, no bugs to decorate the dull black earth. Even the sky was clouded over here. He knew exactly what lay before him.

"Jon?" Martin's voice brought him out of his thoughts. Jon glanced up at him, trying his best to look brave. He certainly didn't feel brave, but he hoped his acting had improved since last he checked. Apparently it hadn't, as Martin reached out and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"What do you see?" Martin asked. Jon smiled, even chuckled a bit at the repetition, the familiarity.

"You. Of course, you." Martin nodded, satisfied with that answer.

"And I'm not going anywhere. Unless, of course, you have to do a statement, but even then I won't be very far away." Jon hummed happily.

"You're better than I deserve," he said. Martin chuckled.

"I must respectfully disagree, but thank you." Jon turned his eyes to the door again.

"Well, into the valley of death, I suppose." He raised his free hand to the knocker and let it fall once, the door swinging open before he could knock a second time. Jon jumped back in surprise, bumping into Martin who rested his steady hands on Jon's shoulders.

The man who had answered the door was very tall and built like a twig. He had dark brown skin, frizzy black hair pulled back into a ponytail, and wore a torn and dirty blue shirt with a red and yellow bird sporting the letters 'KU' on its side. Even with the filthiness of the apocalypse that hung around him, like everything else, he was the brightest-colored thing for miles around. His brown eyes surveyed the both of them.

"Oh. Okay," was all he said. He had an American accent. Jon glanced up at Martin.

"We're- um, we're-"

"-The Archivist and a former Avatar of the Lonely. I know. You've been well acquainted with my patron, the way I understand it," he said with a smile. Jon couldn't tell how genuine it was.

"Unfortunately, yes," he replied, hoping he betrayed no emotion. The man nodded.

"I'm Elliot," he said. "Please, come inside." Elliot disappeared inside the house. The two exchanged a look.

"He seems... okay," Jon reasoned. Martin's brow wrinkled in thought.

"Yeah. I guess he does." His eyes trailed to where Elliot had just been standing. "Well, Death isn't in a huge hurry, right? 'Cause it happens eventually? We probably won't, y'know, die in there or something... right?" Jon shrugged.

"Sound reasoning. In we go, then."

The inside of the house looked as normal as it possibly could, other than the lack of color. A small mudroom led into a sparsely decorated living room with high ceilings. Elliot gestured to a gray couch.

"Sit." It wasn't a request. They quietly complied as he took a black armchair.

"This, um, this is a bit different than most of the other domains," Martin pointed out. Elliot nodded. When he said nothing, Martin tried again. "It's not exactly what I'd expect for the domain of Death itself." At this, Elliot raised an eyebrow.

"No? How so?" Martin gestured around them.

"It's, you know, cozy. It's a home. I'd think death would be more... I don't know, dark? Gloomy?" Elliot smiled as though he'd been expecting that answer.

"The way I see it, this is just as likely a place as any to house Death. A living room for a wake. A home where somebody quietly passes in their sleep. The site of a cooking incident, fall down the stairs, a slip in the tub. There's a reason people don't want their parents living alone in their old age. It may not be a traditionally violent place, but Death knows the home just as well as anywhere else." Martin squirmed a bit. Jon grabbed his hand in a way that he hoped read as reassuringly, rather than 'wOW I'm freaked out too, babe hold my hand' (which it was).

"That's... fair enough, I suppose," Jon said.

"But enough about this place," Elliot said. "We have business." Jon's grip on Martin's hand tightened.

"W-we do?" Martin asked. Elliot nodded.

"Of course. Did you think I would just invite you in to chat? I assure you, Freeman, my patron has no shortage of Avatars. If I just wanted some company I have plenty of compatriots to choose from." Martin frowned.

"Um, no, no, my name isn't 'Freeman'. It's Martin Blackwood."

"Didn't ask for your name, Freeman, and I didn't misspeak. You're one of the few who got away from a fear. Do you know how rare you are? Sure, people touched by entities escape them every day, but to be claimed, fully claimed, and find a way to walk out..." Elliot's eyes were almost glazed in fascination. "You're a freed man. Hence, Freeman. It's a high compliment with those who see past the obsession with their patron." Martin looked lost in thought.

"Huh," he said quietly. Elliot's gaze turned to Jon.

"As I was saying, I have an offer for the two of you." Jon's eyes narrowed.

"We aren't making any deals," he said firmly. Elliot looked exhausted and annoyed, like he'd been trying to explain astrophysics to a very dull child.

"Archivist, did I say that it was a deal?" he asked slowly. Jon crossed his arms, taking his hand out of Martin's.

"You expect me to believe you're just offering us something that we'd want with no catch?" Elliot sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose.

"Something that I think you fail to grasp, although I'm not sure how, is that I'm getting anything I could want because of this apocalypse. I thrive off of the fear of death, I hope you at least understand that at this point?" He waited for Jon to reply, which he did reluctantly with a nod. "Then you understand that the fear of absolutely everyone in existence is feeling me more than well enough. This 'ruined' world that your..." He thought about it for a second."...boss is so proud of ruling is more than enough for me, my peers, and my patron to thrive off of. You'd be hard pressed to find anyone who isn't afraid to die in the apocalypse. As such, we hardly have to do anything at all to keep satisfied. So no, I don't want or need anything from you."

"Then why would you want to help us? We only just met you," Jon pointed out. Martin softly elbowed him.

"N-not that we aren't grateful for your help, of-of course," he added. Jon nodded. Elliot leaned forward, propping his elbows up on his knees.

"Simple," he said. "Pity." They frowned.

"I'm sorry?" Martin asked, incredulous.

"You heard me," Elliot said. "I've heard about the two of you, what you've been through to get here, and I gotta say- I don't envy either of you. When it comes down to it, I just feel bad for you. Like I said, you've become well acquainted with death, whether it's brushes with it yourselves or losing loved ones. While I can't permanently fix either of these, the latter I may be able to temporarily undo." Jon's eyes narrowed.

"You don't mean... you can't-" Elliot sat back in his chair.

"If you would let me finish, Archivist?" he requested. Jon's mouth closed. "Thank you. As I was going to say, all Avatars have specific skill sets that they are gifted to serve the one who claimed them, as I'm sure you know. More often than not, these skills are unique to the individual. I, personally, was given the power, for lack of a better word, to temporarily control the souls of the dead. I usually force my victims to see their loved ones at their last moments of life, especially if it was grizzly, amongst other things. Anyway, to my point- I think you two deserve something nice. As such, I will allow you each a chance to speak to anyone you please for twenty minutes, one person each. How does that sound?"

They were speechless and pale.

"I-" Jon exhaled, trying to determine his next words.

"We... we need time," Martin said. "We need to talk for a few minutes? In private?" Elliot nodded.

"Understandable, take your time." He stood up and went into another room. "Let me know when you've decided," he called, then shut the door.

They let out a collective breath.

"So," Jon said, but it was clear he didn't have anything to follow it up with.

"So," Martin agreed. They looked at each other as if the other's face might hide the answer.

"We... we have to make a decision," Jon whispered. Martin nodded, sighing.

"I mean, the obvious choice for me would be my mum, but I don't... I don't really want to see her?" he admitted, his cheeks flushing. Jon took his hands.

"Martin, that's perfectly okay. And very understandable with the way she treated you," Jon added. "You would be much better off choosing somebody who was good to you." Martin scoffed.

"Well, that narrows down the list significantly."

"Good, now it's easier to choose. I mean, obviously it's not good that your 'list' is populated by so many people who were unkind to you, I just meant-"

Martin kissed him on the cheek.

"I know what you meant, Jon, it's alright." Jon smiled.

"Let's see... oh! You could pick Tim or Sasha," he suggested. Martin's eyes lit up, but immediately dimmed.

"Oh, Jon, I couldn't pick just one of them! No, no, I'm better off picking my mum."

"You don't have to choose one, then," Jon said. Martin frowned.

"Um, yes, yes I do, remember? One each," he reminded Jon. Jon shrugged.

"Sure, but if you pick Tim and I pick Sasha, we can have both. So no, you don't have to choose just one." Martin eyed his warily.

"Jon, are you sure? Don't you have anyone you want to see?" Martin asked.

"Of course," Jon said with a shrug. "Tim and Sasha. I miss them too, you know." Martin thought about it.

"O-okay. Okay then. So... Tim and Sasha? Final decision?" Jon nodded, unable to stop a smile from creeping onto his face. Martin grinned back, feeling a little childish. "Alright. I'll go. Tell him, I mean." Jon gestured towards the door Elliot had disappeared into. As Martin went over and knocked on the door, Jon set to thinking about seeing his friends again, if he could even call them that. With a sudden chill falling over him, he remembered the state of his relationship with Tim right before he... before the Unknowing. Would Tim even be willing to talk to him? Would Sasha, after learning about what he'd done? Maybe this wasn't the best idea... well, it was too late now. Martin was excitedly telling Elliot of their decision. If nothing else, it would be worth seeing Martin happy, if only for twenty short minutes.

"So, Timothy Stoker and Sasha James, huh?" Elliot said. Jon nodded as Martin sat back down next to him, taking his hand again. "Friends of yours?"

Jon hesitated.

"Yes," Martin said firmly, seeming not to notice Jon's lack of confidence. Elliot nodded.

"Alrighty then. Now, it'll take a few minutes for them to show up, and I can only call up one at a time."

"Wait, we can't see them together?" Jon asked.

"That's not what I said," Elliot reminded him. "When both are here, you can see both together, but I have to call them separately. Does that make sense?"

"The twenty doesn't start until they're all the way here, correct?" Martin asked.

"Correct. And, just because I'm feeling strong today, I'll give you twenty minutes starting when the last one has arrived."

"Thank you," Jon said.

"Yeah, thank you so much," Martin echoed, his huge, sunshine-reminiscent smile lighting up his face and Jon's entire heart.

"Now, I'll need complete silence to do this, if you don't mind," Elliot said.

"Of course, of course," Martin said, looking around. "We'll..."

"-be in another room if that's alright?" Jon finished. Elliot nodded.

"Please. You can wait in the kitchen," he said, pointing to a wide doorway that they hadn't noticed.

"Okay, thank you," Martin repeated.

From the kitchen, they could see the back of the couch they'd been sitting on and it front of it where Elliot was kneeling, whispering things.

"How do you think it'll go?" Martin whispered. His eyes were full of so much emotion that it seemed a wonder he didn't burst on the spot.

"Truthfully, Martin? I don't know," Jon admitted. "I want it to go well so badly." Martin's kneejerk reaction was to say 'of course it will go well!', but knowing their situation, knowing who was involved in said situation, he couldn't rightly promise anything.

"Whatever happens, I'll still be here afterwards," he promised instead. That was the one thing he was positive of. "I said I'm not going anywhere and I meant it." Jon smiled as he was enveloped in a hug which he happily returned.

"I'm glad." There was a very brief silence. "Martin?"

"Yeah, Jon?"

"I love you so much. So, so, so very much," he said into Martin's jumper-clothed shoulder. Martin's arms tightened around him ever so slightly.

"I love you too, Jon. More than you know." Slowly, they pulled away. Jon glanced over at the living room and the Avatar.

"Wh- Martin! Martin, look!" he stage whispered, remembering their promised silence but still very excited. There wasn't a lot to be seen if you didn't know what you were looking for, but when you did you could tell that there was very visibly some pigment where there wasn't before. Some lilac purple in the vague shape of a skirt maybe? A hint of brown where hair could be? It might have been Jon's wishful thinking, but he swore he could make out the shape of a woman. A woman he knew he wouldn't recognize, but one that he knew he should.

"Sasha..." Martin breathed. As they watched, she slowly became clearer and clearer, although she stayed statue-still.

"I... I forgot that we didn't- we don't know what she actually looked like," Martin said softly.

"We will soon," Jon replied with a smile.

She was mostly there now. It was like looking at her without glasses on; unfocused, fuzzy, some color from one place bleeding into another. It was, Jon noticed, oddly similar to how he'd imagined her all these years. He knew what she wore, knew that her skin was light brown (courtesy of Melanie), knew her big, round glasses that took up a large percentage of her face, ones that were almost the same as Martin's (leading to plenty of 'twin' jokes from Tim). But as much as he knew about her, what she was supposed to look like, he could never even begin to picture her. This blurry, out of focus freeze-frame was the closest he really ever got. The current situation was oddly reminiscent of a dream where you're anticipating something you want more than anything, but you wake up the second before it happens. He didn't know who he was praying to, but he prayed that wasn't the case.

It was two whole, agonizing minutes before she was clear. And there she was.

"Almost done with the first one," Elliot called. He whispered one last thing, and then stepped back. She was still frozen, Jon noticed, his heart sinking.

"Why isn't she-"

"Patience, Archivist," Elliot hissed.

Sasha gasped, her eyes suddenly coming into focus.

"Wh... where am..."

"Hey, Sasha, it's okay," Martin said calmly, jumping at the chance to help. He slowly made his was towards her. She squinted at him.

"Mar...tin?"

"Yeah! Yeah, it's me!" he said, laughing a little. Tears that had been waiting for her to show pooled in his eyes immediately. Her face softened.

"Martin, what's- oof!" He bowled into her, enveloping her in one of his huge, warm hugs that almost knocked her over. His chest shook with sobs.

"Sasha, I'm so sorry we couldn't save you! We would have in a heartbeat, I swear! It's been hell since you..." He faded into sobs again. The look on her face was nothing short of confused, but she rubbed his back gently.

"Martin, it's alright, it's okay. Easy there..."

Martin pulled away when his breathing had evened out, almost a full minute later. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his jumper.

"Sorry that I'm... a mess," he chuckled. She smiled.

"It's alright, love, it's perfectly fine." Her eyes drifted around the room until they locked with Jon's.

"I'm sorry, is that- Jon? Jon Sims?" He smiled, giving a small wave.

"Hello, Sasha. It's really, really good to see you again." The double meaning of his words were lost on her.

"Good grief, your hair! Jon, your hair is so long! And almost completely gray! What on earth is going on?" Jon frowned, his brow creasing slightly.

"Do you... do you remember what happened?" he asked, keeping his voice as calm as he could. She pushed a stray strand of oak-brown hair behind her ear, as she always used to do when she was thinking. Her simple habits were so familiar that it hurt, even if the body doing her habits was alien to him.

"It's really fuzzy," she admitted. "But... the institute was attacked by Prentiss. Right?" Jon and Martin nodded. "And then we realized Tim was gone, I tried to save him, I talked to Elias, then..." Her face paled. "Oh. Oh, I remember," she said quietly. She looked at her hands. "How am I here?"

Jon gestured to Elliot, standing quietly off to the side.

"Avatar of Death. Wait, I forgot- you weren't there when we learned about-"

"I know about the Fears," she said, her expression cold. She glanced at Elliot. "Are you sure you can trust him?"

"For the most part, we think," Jon spoke up.

"Gee, thanks," Elliot said drily. "Now, do you want me to bring up your other friend or not?"

"Ah, yes. Sorry. We'll go back to the kitchen," Jon said apologetically. They led Sasha out of the living room.

"Other friend?" she asked. Martin smiled.

"He's bringing Tim back too, we get twenty minutes with you two," he explained, unable to mask his smile.

"Just... just because?" she asked, her eyes narrowed.

"He said he feels sorry for us," Martin said. "And quite honestly, I'm too tired to be suspicious of him anymore. I just want to spend twenty minutes with my old friends, alright?" Sasha surveyed his face, slightly red and bordering on annoyed. Jon took his hand, rubbing his thumb over Martin's knuckles to soothe him.

"Alright, Martin, if you're sure," she said finally, offering her own smile. "Now, I haven't really gotten a good look at my boys yet." She stepped back, looking them up and down. "Wow, you two look old," she said. Jon laughed abruptly.

"Thanks, Sasha," he said with an eye roll. She watched him, clearly amused.

"And Jon, you're so much more... expressive." He smiled.

"Well, I don't have the stick up my ass anymore, so that certainly helps," he quipped. Sasha roared with laughter.

"I imagine so," she said. Martin chuckled, putting an affectionate arm around Jon's shoulders.

"He is a lot better and I'm very proud of him," he said, the love in his eyes spreading to his smile. Sasha shifted her weight to one leg and crossed her arms, but said nothing.

"Suppose he's almost done with Tim yet?" Martin asked, straining his neck to see over the couch. Sure enough, Tim was almost completely visible, but there was something different from the way Sasha had appeared. While Sasha had slowly faded into focus, it was almost like Tim was burning in reverse. Small, almost imperceptible fragments at a time, but they could still see the bizarre process. The parts of him there were frozen in a stance with his knees bent, one arm clutching his torso and the other up at an odd angle with his hand in a fist. Like he was holding something.

"Oh my," Martin breathed.

The boys knew exactly what he was supposed to be holding.

"What is he doing?" Sasha asked, squinting. Jon turned his head away, his eyes clamped shut. He subconsciously rubbed the burn on his side from the blast.

"It's... how he died," Jon said quietly. "Explosion." Sasha looked like the wind was knocked out of her.

“He- oh, Tim,” she whispered.

“So you didn’t, you know, see anything?” Martin asked. “From, like, heaven or something?” he elaborated. Sasha thought about it for a second.

“I remember… some things, but I don’t think I can tell you any of it. I mean literally, if I tried I think something bad would happen.” Martin looked a little disappointed.

“That makes sense, I suppose,” he said. She put her hand on his arm, unable to rest her hand on his shoulder due to his enormous height.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Martin. You have a while yet before you have to deal with the afterlife, I’m sure.” He laughed humorlessly, opening his mouth in what was probably a protest, but she interrupted him. “That wasn't a suggestion. I’d better not see you there anytime soon, Martin Blackwood,” she said, leaving the threat open. He shut his mouth, blushing. “And that stands for you too, Sims,” she said pointedly. Jon gave a small smile.

“We’ll certainly try,” he promised.

“Hey, you three,” Elliot said. “You’ll want to be over here when he comes to.” Sasha’s eyes lit up.

“Tim’s almost done!” she gushed. She grabbed their wrists and dragged them back into the living room. Elliot was just stepping back when they reached him.

Now that they could see him clearly, the desperate, crazy, pained, and triumphant look on his face was that much clearer. It was terrifying, in all honesty. Sasha tried not to dwell on it, instead waiting in earnest for him to come to life.

“You might back up, Sash, so you don’t overwhelm him,” Martin suggested. “Last he knew, you were dead; seeing you might be a bit of a shock.” Sasha reluctantly took a few steps back, but no more. At last, Tim gasped, looking around wildly.

“What the hell?” he muttered. His eyes caught on Sasha, softening.

“S...Sasha,” he whispered. She smiled.

“Hi, Tim,” she said softly. He searched her face almost hungrily, drinking in every detail.

“Holy shit, I’m dead,” he said finally, more to himself than anyone else. Elliot seemed to have enjoyed the last sentiment, so he piped up.

“Usually, yes, but not right now you aren’t,” he corrected. Tim squinted at him.

“And who the hell are you?” he demanded, crossing his arms.

“My name is Elliot, but what’s important to you is that I’m an Avatar of Death,” he explained. Martin stepped forward.

“He’s agreed to help us, Tim,” Martin explained. “He brought back you and Sasha for twenty minutes for us.” Tim’s eyebrows raised gently, a smile slowly growing on his face.

“Martin,” he said. Martin grinned.

"Hi, Tim." Tim's smile suddenly dimmed.

"Wait… us?" he asked, looking around until he spotted Jon. Jon seemed to shrink into himself under Tim's gaze.

"H…hi, Tim," he said quietly. Tim's expression betrayed nothing, positive or negative. It was almost worse to Jon than if he'd been outwardly angry.

Sasha frowned, looking back and forth between Jon and Tim, visibly confused. She opened her mouth to say something, but Martin caught her eye with a fierce glare and swiped his hand in front of his neck, miming to stop. Sasha closed her mouth.

"Hi, Jon," he said stiffly. Jon winced, his eyes misty.

"Look, Tim, I-I know this means nothing, but I really am-"

"Oh, save it," Tim interrupted. Jon's mouth hung open, mid sentence.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me, Sims. You've apologized before. It didn't work then, definitely isn't working now, but if we only have twenty minutes for this, there's no sense in spending it at each other's throats, right?" Jon's eyes were filled to the brim with gratefulness. And tears.

"Thank you, Tim," he said softly in disbelief. Tim shrugged slightly.

"Yeah, yeah. Just remember that you aren't off the hook. The second you get up there, it's pure spite 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, got that?" he asked. Jon chuckled, wiping his eyes.

"Yeah, yes. Yes I do." Tim lightly punched his arm. Jon fidgeted with the ends of his sleeves, smiling a small smile.

"Awww, my boys!" Sasha gushed, pulling them all into a surprise hug. "You three are such a mess without me," she cooed.

"Can't argue with that," Martin chuckled, leaning over a bit so he didn't completely tower over the five-foot-four Sasha. Jon let himself be smothered by the hug, melting into the arms of everyone around him. It had been so long, so long since he'd felt anything resembling safety, even longer still since he'd been around so many people he trusted. Martin was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him, no doubt about that, but there's only so much void one man can fill when there used to be three.

"Oh dear, Jon," Martin cooed, taking his arm from around Sasha's shoulders and using his sleeve to wipe at Jon's damp cheeks. He hadn't even realized that he had been crying.

"Oh good grief," Jon sniffled, swiping at his own eyes. "I'm s-sorry, I didn't mean-"

"It's alright, love," Martin said softly, lightly touching his forehead to Jon's from across the hug circle. Jon smiled, letting out what was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. Tim made a sound of surprise.

"I- I'm sorry," he said, pulling out of the hug so he could gesture at his living friends dramatically. "Is that what I think it is?" Sasha chuckled, pulling away as well to look them up and down. Martin wasted no time putting one of his free arms around Jon whose eyes were slowly drying.

"I knew it!" she said, grinning. Tim turned to her, a betrayed expression on his face.

"You knew about this? And you didn't tell me?"

"To be fair, Tim, we've been reanimated for all of about three minutes. 'Hey, Tim, by the way, I think Jon and Martin are a couple' wasn't exactly at the top of my priorities." Martin let out a small chuckle. Tim turned back to them.

"So it's true then?" he demanded. Jon looked up at his much taller partner with an expression nothing short of completely in love.

"Yes, Tim," he said finally. "Martin and I are… a couple." Martin's face lit up and he planted a kiss in Jon's long, tangled hair. Tim whipped around to Sasha.

"I am so mad," he declared. Sasha raised her eyebrows.

"Tim, they look really happy together…" she pointed out, the look in her eyes a vibrant blue Tread Lightly, Stoker sign.

"Oh, I know," he said, "I've known for five years, Sash. I made a bet about it with you," he hissed, punctuating 'you' with a pointed jab into her sternum.

It was clear that he wasn't actually angry in any way, but when Tim went off about something, he went off.

"You what?" Martin demanded, his voice going up several octaves. Tim ignored him and kept going.

"And you know what, Sasha? We're dead! We don't use earth currency anymore! Meaning you can't give me the 15 pounds you owe me!"

Sasha threw her head back in laughter, her fringe bouncing. Jon made a point to remember this action. It seemed like it should look so familiar to him. It was something he knew she had done frequently when she laughed, he knew that. He decided to ask Elliot if he had any Polaroid cameras around before their twenty minutes was up.

"Seriously, you two bet on whether or not we'd get together?" Martin squeaked. Sasha smiled sheepishly.

"To be fair, Martin, you two have been at least a little bit in love for pretty much the entire time you've worked together," she pointed out. Jon thought about this.

"I… I suppose that's true," he said quietly, blushing. "On my side, at least." Martin looked down at him, brow wrinkled and mouth upturned in a disbelieving smile.

"Uh, Jon, did you even see me the first year we worked together?"

"Yeah, mate, he wasn't exactly subtle," Tim pointed out, chuckling. Jon frowned.

"Really?" he asked, looking up at Martin. Martin nodded with a small giggle. Jon hummed.

"News to me," he said. Sasha snorted.

"Martin Blackwood is morosexual, part two-hundred-and-four," Tim muttered. Jon laughed in surprise.

"Shut up, Tim!" Martin cried, trying not to laugh (and failing). Tim grinned that shit-eating grin of his.

"I'm right and I should say it." He glanced at the arm chair behind him. "Okay, was anybody going to tell me I could've been sitting down this whole time or was I just supposed to figure it for myself?" Sasha rolled her eyes, taking a seat next to him. He shifted to sitting on the arm rest so she could have the whole chair.

"Tim, it's a perfectly big chair and you have the width of a telephone pole. We could've shared," she pointed out. He shrugged.

"Curse of the bisexual, Sash; you know I can't sit correctly." Martin and Jon sat on the sofa together.

"Oh my gosh, Jon is the same," Martin interjected. Jon froze, legs already contorted into some weird version of the pretzel. Martin laughed. "Case in point." Jon pulled his ponytail over his shoulder so he could mess with it, a little embarrassed.

"Guilty as charged," he admitted with a small smile. "Sitting normally is awful." Tim waved his hands at Jon, keeping perfect eye contact with Sasha as if to say 'See? He gets it!'

"You're both weird," she said with a shrug.

"Seriously," Martin agreed. Jon gave him a playful shove. "What?" he said with a laugh. "You are!"

"To quote one of the greatest minds of our time," Tim said, promptly clearing his throat, "'We know, but hey!'" Sasha exhaled sharply in place of a laugh.

"Did you just quote John Mulaney?" she asked.

"Of course I did. I'm ashamed you had to ask."

With his own laugh, Jon recalled the week that Tim discovered John Mulaney. You were lucky to hear him say anything that wasn't a quote for at least a month afterwards. His favorites were "I said, y'know, like a liar" and "y'know those days when you're like 'this might as well happen'?", or so it seemed, as Tim used the two religiously.

"You are the only reason I know that," Sasha said, shaking her head.

"And I'm very proud of that," he returned. Suddenly, his face fell.

“Tim?” Martin asked, ready to get up if necessary.

“I just realized that Mr. Mulaney is either dead or in a fear prison,” he said quietly. “Holy shit, so is literally everybody else. Holy shit.” Jon looked at the ground. He felt Martin’s huge hand envelop his and give a gentle squeeze. It’s not your fault and you know that, the squeeze said. You were manipulated. We don’t blame you, love. Jon smiled ever so slightly, putting his head on Martin’s shoulder.

“That’s why we’re going to the panopticon. We’re gonna kill Elias," Martin said firmly. Tim looked pleasantly surprised by this.

"A- you? You, Martin Blackwood, are going to kill Elias Bouchard?"

"Jonah Magnus, actually," Jon corrected. "But yes, that's the plan." Tim whistled.

"That's some intense character development, right there," he said. Jon smirked up at Martin.

"He's been… more murder-y, of late," Jon said teasingly. Martin's jaw dropped.

"Out of context!" he cried.

"So you have been more murder-y, then?" Sasha asked, the awe visible on her face. Martin flushed red.

"In broad terms, yeah, I guess so. I have been a bit…" He sighed. "Murder-y." Tim howled with laughter. "To be fair, most of them deserve it!" Martin added.

"Most of them!" Sasha wheezed.

"He hasn't actually killed anyone yet," Jon assured them.

"Keyword- yet,"Martin muttered. Jon snorted. "When we find Simon, though-"

"Martin, we are not killing Simon Fairchild," Jon said sternly. Martin pouted.

"Oh, come on, not even a little murder?" Jon laughed abruptly.

"A little murder? Sure, I suppose, as long as you only murder him a tiny bit," Jon chuckled. Martin smirked.

"Score."

"How does one murder a little bit?" Sasha whispered to Tim.

"Frankly, Sash, I'm too afraid to ask at this point." They all erupted into laughter.

Jon had missed this more than he could say. Meaningless chatter, conversations that had no purpose other than enjoying the company of those around you. Sasha's motherly tone, Tim's easy smile… he absorbed everything around him and held them close to his heart. They were so familiar to somebody he used to be, somebody he was glad that he was not anymore. He tried to relax back into their patterns, even with his part having changed. The Jon whom Sasha never met, the changed man Tim was too hurt to see, he fit well into their little group. The old archival staff, bruised and battered and torn and traumatized, but together again.

But as hard as Jon tried to relax, he Knew their time was drawing to a close. At first he ignored it, too overwhelmed with joy to pay any mind to that itching knowledge. As the time went on, though, the voice grew louder in his head.

You have three minutes, Archivist, it hissed now, sounding like old, crinkly paper and whirring tape recorder and knowledge itself.

"Jon?" Martin asked softly, bringing him back to the present. Jon looked up tiredly.

"Three minutes," he said quietly. Martin's face fell.

"Oh." They looked at Tim and Sasha in the armchair.

"Well," Tim said grimly. "I guess we should… finish up, then." Suddenly, Jon remembered his idea about the Polaroid. He stood up abruptly.

"Hold on," he said. "Elliot! Ellioooot!" The avatar poked his head out of his office.

"I'm death, Archivist, not deaf," he deadpanned. "What do you want?"

"Do you have a Polaroid?" Jon asked timidly.

"Like, a camera?" Elliot asked. Jon nodded. Elliot thought about it for a second.

"I mean… I think so? Yeah… yeah, in my laundry room, I think."

"May I borrow it?"

"Oh, I suppose. I'll look for it, you go spend spend the rest of your time with your friends." Jon nodded.

"Thank you." He rushed back over to the three of them, locked in a hushed circle, not sure what they could possibly say that would mean enough.

"Tim, Sasha," Jon said, breaking the silence. "I- that is- I'm- I'm glad we had this," he said at last. "It meant the world to me that I was able to apologize, to… say goodbye…" He sighed deeply. "I miss you two."

"We both do," Martin added. Jon nodded.

"Yeah. I…" He took a deep breath. "I love you guys so much," he croaked, his throat tightening as he felt the tears return.

"Oh, Jon," Sasha cooed, closing her arms around him. "We love you too." Tim followed suit, then Martin. They cried, oh they cried. Everyone cried into the fabric of everyone's clothes, all too much of a collective mess to care one way or another. A great, messy group hug featuring two almost-ghosts, a puppet for a malevolent eye god, and an ex-errand-boy for the spirit of loneliness itself in the living room of a junior angel of death. What a sight.

"I got it!" Elliot called. They all looked up, disoriented, having forgotten about him entirely. He waved a Polaroid camera at them. Jon's face lit up.

"Oh! Yes, thank you!" Jon said, wiping his eyes. "Guys, could we take a picture? Just so I'll believe it actually happened tomorrow," he said, only half joking.

"Oh! Sure!" Sasha said, readjusting her glasses. Tim groaned.

"Right after we've been bawling our eyes out? This is when you decide to take a picture? I look awful, and I'm the hot one. You guys don't stand a chance!" Sasha elbowed him.

“Be nice, Tim.” He put his hands up in defense.

“Basira said it, not me.” Jon wracked his brain for when that could have occurred. He frowned, the realization dawning on him.

“Timothy Stoker, were you listening in on me and Basira’s conversation that day?” Tim grinned.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Jon rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. Alright, guys, everybody group in.” He held the camera out to take the picture but Martin sighed and took it from him.

“Wh- Martin!” he whined.

“You have the shortest arms of anyone I have ever met, my love,” Martin said in his defense. Jon pouted but didn’t protest. “Smile, Jon.” Jon forced on a smile that looked just as fake as it was. Martin kissed him on the cheek, making him erupt into a fit of giggles just as the camera clicked.

“Martin!” Jon complained between laughs as Martin took the picture out of the camera. Sasha cooed.

“You two are legitimately made for each other,” she said. Martin pressed a kiss to Jon’s mess of hair.

“I certainly like to think so.” Tim scoffed.

“Sasha, you always complained when I was that cheesy! What is this ridiculous double standard?” Sasha stood on her tiptoes to kiss Tim’s nose.

“Because you were bad at it, Stoker.” He sighed.

“There’s just no pleasing you, is there?”

Martin made a small squeaky sound, the Polaroid picture fluttering to the ground.

“Martin?” Sasha asked, concern written all over her face.

“You’re… you’re fading,” he said softly. They looked down. Just as they had appeared, Sasha was starting to become less visible and Tim looked like he was fading into dust.

“Good lord,” Jon breathed. Sasha had a mildly panicked look on her face. She gathered all of them together for one last hug.

“Hey, give Elias a hard time for me, a’right?” Tim said.

“Be careful, take care of each other, we love…” Sasha’s “you” was barely audible. It might not have even been there; maybe the sound Jon thought he heard was wishful thinking, but he clung to her voice as the last bits of their friends disappeared. Then it was just the two of them, hugging each other and crying in the empty, monochrome living room. Jon couldn’t say how long they just stood there, holding each other as tight as possible. Jon marveled at how Martin was so solid, so here, one hand on Jon’s back as the other held the back of his head, buried in his ponytail. Jon rubbed his back gently, admittedly just as much for his own comfort as it was for Martin’s. After a few minutes, the sobs having died down to hiccuping, Jon cleared his throat.

“Martin?” Martin hummed in response. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Martin pulled out of the hug just enough to look at Jon’s face. He cupped Jon’s jaw with a big, soft hand.

“There is nowhere else I’d rather be. Even if we weren’t in the fearpocalypse.” Jon smiled, turning his head to kiss Martin’s palm.

After a while, Martin remembered the picture he’d dropped on the ground. He picked it up and turned it over.

“Jon, have a look at this.” Jon took it from him. If not for the slightly shimmery state of Tim and Sasha (apparently having started to fade even before Martin pointed it out), it could have passed for a normal picture of a group of friends. Tim was winking, Sasha’s head was tilted back in a laugh, Jon was blushing profusely and caught in a giggle, and Martin’s lips were pressed to Jon’s rouged cheek.

“We look happy,” Jon said with a smile. Martin put an arm around Jon’s shoulders.

“Yeah.”

“Great, you’re happy, fantastic. Will you please get out of my house?” came Elliot’s voice from behind them. They both jumped.

“Oh, uh, right. Right,” Jon said. Martin caught his eyes, mouthing 'Forgot this was his place'.

Jon tried to stifle a chuckle, mouthing 'Same here'.

"Thank you for this," Martin said. "Really, it meant the absolute world to us." Elliot nodded.

"You're welcome. Good luck, you two," he said as he showed them out the door. It was closed in their faces before they knew it.

"Well," Jon said, breaking the already minute-long silence.

"That was… a lot," Martin said. Jon nodded.

"I hate to ask this, but shall we press on?" he suggested. Martin shrugged.

"I suppose we should."

And so they pressed on.

THANK YOU FOR READINGGGGGG

The song used for the title is Aged Pine by Della Mae, PLEASE check it out! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xvDO2-b2JF4

Hey! You! Yeah, you! I think you're pretty neat, and that's saying something because yesterday I saw a cat perched on somebody's shoulder like a parrot. And you know what? You're neater than a cat perched on somebody's shoulder like a parrot. Drink some water, eat if you haven't eaten in a while (or if you have!), take your meds if you need them, and remember that I think you're pretty damn cool.

#the magnus archives #fanfiction #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #timothy stoker #sasha james #fluff #angst #so apparently this fic made a lot of people really sad?#that wasn't my intent!#i mean kinda yeah it was #but like mainly i hoped it would be fluffy and sweet #well i guess it's the definition of bittersweet #season 5 spoilers

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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Rocky Movies and the Importance of Thanksgiving

https://ift.tt/33itC33

Thanksgiving isn’t the first thing to come to mind when you think of the Rocky franchise, but three of the original run, and both Creed movies, opened on that holiday. While this could be because the Thanksgiving box office is traditionally a celebratory event, it may also be a kind of apology. The relationship between the boxer and the holiday got off to a rocky start.

“To you it’s Thanksgiving, to me it’s Thursday,” Rocky Balboa (Sylvester Stallone) tells Adrian Pennino (Talia Shire) as he leads her away from a failed family dinner. He says this moments after Adrian’s brother Paulie (Burt Young) threw the turkey she was cooking into the alley. The sibling even rips off a leg before tossing it out the side door, with a big chunk of thigh attached.

He deserved it. It may not appear like Paulie does when you first watch the scene of him abusing a tasty bird while at the same time belittling and humiliating his sister. But that seemingly insensitive act sparks the flame at the center of the film. Rocky isn’t a boxing movie; the later sequels were, but not the original. It’s a love story, and the Thanksgiving date sequence is as exciting, nuanced, and important as the final round.

Rocky doesn’t fight Apollo Creed (Carl Weathers), the Heavyweight Champion of the World, for Adrian. He does it because that’s what boxers do. He also goes the distance against all odds to overcome the stigma of breaking thumbs for a living.

So he didn’t take the fight to impress his lover. He’d even been discouraged by his own trainer and gym manager Mickey Goldmill (Burgess Meredith), who warns the southpaw “women weaken legs.” What does Mickey know? He’s also the guy who gave away Rocky’s locker and called him a “leg-breaker.” Rocky doesn’t have to prove anything to Adrian, she would be happy to support whatever decision he makes. But when the fight’s over, Adrian is the only thing that matters to Rocky.

None of this would have happened if Paulie hadn’t thrown that bird out the door. This isn’t to say Paulie is cuddly with brotherly love in doing this. When Rocky first tells him he wants to date Adrian, Paulie can’t see why he’d even be interested. There’s a reason Adrian’s pushing 30 and still not married, she’s “busted.”

Paulie sees his sister as a responsibility he’d like to pass off, and Adrian doesn’t even want to be seen. While their family dynamic is problematic, when Paulie rips the turkey from the oven, he does it for altruistic reasons. He wants his sister to have a nice time so much he gives her no choice but to get out. Paulie may not completely agree with himself on what he’s doing, but he knows he’s putting together two lonely people who could each use company. Rocky got roped into following his instincts after a really bad day. He lost his locker for breaking legs, and his job for not breaking them. On his way home, he does a good deed for the mid-week holiday and gets treated like a jive-ass turkey.

It doesn’t look like the antipasto is any better at the Pennino house either. The first thing Adrian does when Paulie brings Rocky into the apartment is lock herself in the bedroom. Paulie may not always be in his sister’s corner, but he coaches Rocky to a win in round one of their first date: getting her out of the house, all while nibbling the turkey leg. But it’s Paulie’s parting gift which will ultimately clinch the match. As Rocky’s walking out the door, he asks Paulie what his sister likes to do. “Ice skating,” Paulie says.

The ice-skating rink scene is the centerpoint of the courtship. The walk up to it is aimless, and Rock delivers street poetry in almost onomatopoeia. Director John G. Avildsen gets an amazingly vulnerable performance from Stallone the actor, and Stallone the screenwriter fuses his lines with beautifully inarticulate eloquence. Rocky calls himself a moron, you have to be dumb to be a fighter. He says being a boxer is halfway to being a bum. Rocky’s father told him to work with his body because he had no brains. Adrian’s mother told her to develop her brains, because she didn’t have a good body. Rocky concludes he and Adrian “make a really fine couple of cocoanuts,” with him being so dumb, and her being so shy.

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Shy is an understatement. Adrian looks like she wants to be completely invisible. With every step she takes, we can feel Shire willing that character to fall into a crack in the sidewalk and disappear from existence. This is so far removed from the young Connie Corleone who shouted “vaffanculo you” to her cheating husband in The Godfather before throwing a plate of spaghetti at his nuts. Both of her characters rise from emotionally oppressed beginnings to mark their place in a competitive world. But the contrast is as interesting as the dramatic contradiction of Adrian warming up while skating on ice. Rocky can’t even skate and has to maneuver in shoes. She is more in her element than he is, yet still out of it.

The sequence concludes at Rocky’s apartment, where he reintroduces Adrian to the turtles she sold him at J&M Tropical Fish pet shop. She was intimidated by Rocky when he first came into the store. Rocky uses that tension and suspense against itself to infuse a tender uncertainty into one of cinema’s most sexually heated scenes.

Rocky may have been able to convince the manager to open the skating rink, but the fact remains, it was closed for Thanksgiving when they got there in the movie. If Rock lived in New York, he could have taken her to see Rocky, which opened there on Nov. 21, 1976, just in time for the Thanksgiving weekend.

At the end of that film, heavyweight champ Apollo swears he does not want seconds. But when Rocky “the Italian Stallion” Balboa gets to fight Apollo “The Master of Disaster,” “The King of Sting,” “The Dancing Destroyer,” “The Prince of Punch,” “The Count of Monte Fisto” Creed again in Rocky II, the rematch is set for Thanksgiving Day. The championship belt he then wins becomes the second greatest thing he has to be thankful for from the holiday. Adrian watched it on TV with her brother.

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snappedwands · 4 years ago

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𝐃𝐈𝐆 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐑 !

𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ?

the hierophant. the plan is perfect in every way. everyone where they need to be, at exactly the right moment, with exactly the right smile. you have moved and manipulated the situation, but did you remember to put yourself in the correct position ? you, after all, are still a player in the game — whoever thinks they control the pieces still has to make the next move eventually. whoever is playing the game is playing against an opponent. ensure that they have not played better than you.

the thing that sticks out to me as the hierophant, beyond the way that this is written and the implications of the chess master ( as laz thinks himself to be ), is that it is a card of tradition. rather than continue on with the status quo, lazarus seeks to put himself in establishing a new tradition that he thinks is better for the wizarding community through a near sense of divine providence. his understanding of the world, his desires to see it changed and renewed in his image, is palpable and though he is charismatic, he is also keenly aware of the way he sounds.

toeing the line between extremist and pragmatist, there is a chaos that is nestled in his bones that takes a significant amount of energy to hold back. he wants to be impulsive, craves this need to show the world how he wants to shake things up, but he knows and values the privilege of having supporters to his cause and that is the thing that prevents him from trying to start a revolution on his own. the board has been set, now he waits for his opponents and allies alike to make their moves.

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐛𝐭𝐢 ?

the mbti type estj is represented by the executive, a person of great fortitude who emphatically follows their own sensible judgment. they serve as a stabilizing force among others, able to offer solid direction amid adversity. this personality type are representatives of tradition and order, utilizing their understanding of what is right, wrong, and socially acceptable to bring families and communities together. embracing the values of honesty, dedication, and dignity, people with the executive personality type are valued for their clear advice and guidance, and they happily lead the way on difficult paths. taking pride in bringing people together, executives often take on roles as community organizers, working hard to bring everyone together.

at first glance the mention of honesty might seem out of place for lazarus but there is a beauty in being a manipulator: it doesn’t inherently mean you’re always lying. he is very much the type to stick to the letter of the law, whether or not it flies in the face of the spirit of the law. the spirit of the law provides a kind of gray area to be argued for or against an action, to follow the law to its letter is to provide no wiggle room for a case to be made against you.

overall, this is a spot on evaluation of how lazarus is perceived by others and how he hopes to present himself. the mention of traditionalism and order is a solid affirmation of both his dedication and also the pull of the hierophant card for him. the world is on the precipice of change and he intends to ignite the dynamite to shake it up, as well as lead his faction through with the fewest incidents possible. this goal of their’s is not one that is as easy as point a to point b but there is something to be said for the efficiency with which he approaches the task at hand and the plan he has crafted.

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐧��𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦 ?

type 8, wing 9 — the diplomat. eights are charismatic and have the physical and psychological capacities to persuade others to follow them into all kinds of endeavors — from starting a company, to rebuilding a city, to waging war. eights have enormous willpower and vitality and they feel most alive when exercising these capacities in the world. they use their abundant energy to effect changes in their environment, to leave their mark on the world, and to keep that environment and other people from hurting them and those they care about. at an early age, eights understand that this strength, will, persistence, and endurance are qualities to develop in themselves and to look for in other people. as well, eights with a wing type nine fear being hurt by others and avoid situations in which they have less control, generally preferring to be in positions of leadership. to guard themselves against threads and to control their own destiny leads to developing a sense of independence at a young age. diplomats defend themselves by building emotional walls and denying vulnerabilities. these people tend to be naturally energetic and confident, see a variety of different perspectives, fear being controlled by others, and tend to be seen as stubborn or rigid.

lazarus avery could not be summed up more perfectly than the description provided by the enneagram test. though it lacks mention of tradition, it highlights his need to lead, his desire to keep his fears hidden and prevent them from being realized, indicates his potential as someone worth following into battle, and his appreciation for those of high wisdom and high intelligence. being classified as a diplomat is a boon to his ego and serves as a reminder for himself that he is in the right place, at the right time and he is doing what is right for the people he cares for most and for a majority of the wizarding community at large. they should, as far as he’s concerned, follow the sentiments that the americans hold and to institute more stringent codes around the international statute of secrecy in britain. removing the muggle influence from the wizarding world is desperately important to the survival of their kind. let it be noted that their kind here means purebloods and not the wizard as they are.

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 ?

a lawful evil villain methodically takes what he wants within the limits of his code of conduct without regard for whom it hurts. he cares about tradition, loyalty, and order but not about freedom, dignity, or life. he plays by the rules but without mercy or compassion. he is comfortable in a hierarchy and would like to rule, but is willing to serve. he condemns others not according to their actions but according to race, religion, homeland, or social rank. he is loath to break laws or promises. this reluctance comes partly from his nature and partly because he depends on order to protect himself from those who oppose him on moral grounds. some lawful evil villains have particular taboos, such as not killing in cold blood ( but having underlings do it ) or not letting children come to harm ( if it can be helped ). they imagine that these compunctions put them above unprincipled villains. some lawful evil people and creatures commit themselves to evil with a zeal like that of a crusader committed to good. beyond being willing to hurt others for their own ends, they take pleasure in spreading evil as an end unto itself. they may also see doing evil as part of a duty to an evil deity or master. lawful evil is sometimes called diabolical, because devils are the epitome of lawful evil. lawful evil is the best alignment you can be because it combines honor and dedicated self-interest. however, lawful evil can be a dangerous alignment because it represents methodical, intentional, and frequently successful evil.

it’s important to know in the detailed results breakdown that lazarus got a 30 in lawful evil responses and a 28 in lawful good. though he is actively on the wrong side of the argument, he still perceives himself as lawful good for the good he does for the people around him, who are close to him in some way. though the above is a good starting point, it should be noted that there are a pair of corrections that laz would make:

he plays by the rules but without mercy or compassion ( his compassion is selective, only taking special care of those who care for him ).

he is comfortable in a hierarchy and would like to rule, but is willing to serve ( temporarily, so long as it gets him into a position of leadership ).

ultimately, laz being pegged as lawful evil is wildly accurate and though his perception allows him to view himself as lawful good, there’s no doubt that he’s evil and lawful evil at that. as i said in the answer regarding his mbti result, it benefits him to work according to the letter of the law instead of in the moral gray area.

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 ?

born at 3:33, the height of the witching hour, he is a hurricane of personalities meshing together to form a formidable beast. a scorpio - sagittarius cusp with a capricorn moon and libra ascendant, lazarus is concerned deeply with justice, honor, and revolution. his is a sign determined to do what is right, what is ultimately good, and had he been born to another family perhaps he wouldn’t be a nuclear weapon in the arsenal of the pureblood cause.

as a sun in scorpio and sagittarius, he displays the intensity indicative of both a scorpio and any fire sign. the combination of these signs, who are both attuned to psychic gifts, are blessed with a sixth sense that allows them to get to the heart of the matter which manifests in lazarus’ talent for divination ( though his early readings in third year were not nearly as refined as they are now ). it’s important to acknowledge that scorpios have intense amounts of willpower, incredibly conscious of what they want and knowing when to go for it at the right time. they are powerful strategists and can have incredibly patience, combined with their staying power and refusal to give up. scorpios are not intimidated by anybody or anything and confrontations are not a problem.

his capricorn moon combines very well with his scorpio / sagittarius sun as lunar capricorns tend to keep their emotions in check and do not favor taking unnecessary risks. capricorn moons also tend to have a deep respect for tradition and authority. these natives are more likely to keep their lives structured and well controlled, practically dealt with instead of passionately felt which leads to a selectivity in romantic attachments. though capricorn moons are reserved and cautious, they tend to be deeply attracted to politics, positions of leadership, and not getting carried away by love.

the libra ascendant indicates an active love for creating harmony or upsetting balance, contentious beings who bring a particular change to the pursuit of either war or peace. these people tend to be socially active and find it natural engaging in one on one and group settings alike, similarly they find it easy to make and retain acquaintances but close friends are few and far between. their particular sensitivity for chaos causes them to be selective with their inner circle. libra ascendants tend to quickly hone in on the many sides of an issue, allowing them to weigh their scales in the manner that best suits what they need. combined with the resoluteness of a scorpio sun and capricorn moon, it makes lazarus incredibly decisive about the choices he makes.

#iv. look at you with the light of summer on your face，before you knew the cost of being alive : prologue.#i. ivy is beautiful，yes，but invasive — it will choke the life out of anything，given the chance : about.#this got really long so a ton of things are under the cut #this is 1916 words

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mollyraesly · 6 years ago

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Time with Wolves -- Chapter 18

Just as Thanksgiving had been overshadowed by Robb and questions about his possibly expecting new girlfriend, Christmas was dominated by Robb and his definitely expecting fiancée. Although they still had guests over, it was a rushed affair with more focus on what was to come in the next two weeks than on the day itself. Normally Catelyn spent a generous amount of time shopping to get the best sales and make sure each of her children got two or three fancier items, with a smattering of smaller gifts they’d all come to expect—wall calendars, underwear, fuzzy socks, chapstick, new gloves, wolf-related paraphernalia.

But this year, those little items were nowhere to be found. Instead, they’d gotten mostly gift cards and items they’d need for the wedding, like bowties, emergency first-aid kits, and Advil.

“I’m sorry,” Cat told them Christmas morning after they’d finished opening their presents. “I know this isn’t exactly following tradition.”

“It’s fine, Mum,” Sansa assured her. “We know this year is a bit…unusual.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Arya noted dryly. “I’d say—”

“Arya,” said Sansa, sensing the need to deescalate the situation, “why don’t you help me go get everyone some eggnog?”

Ned gave her a grateful look and then went back to trying to comfort Cat.

When they were in the safety of the kitchen, Arya heaved a sigh. “I hope Robb knows he owes us a Christmas after fucking up this one for us.”

Their elder brother was over at the Westerlings house, having stayed the night with the future in-laws. He was bringing Jane over later in the afternoon to eat with the Starks. Sansa wasn’t sure if it wouldn’t have been wiser to stay away.

She caught Arya eyeing the kitchen knives.

“C’mon, let’s get breakfast ready. The snow outside looks perfect for making snowballs. You and Rickon can challenge Bran to a fight while I help Mom with dinner. Maybe see if Dad wants in.”

Arya dragged her gaze away from the knives. “All right then.” Since her mom was busy helping Mrs. Westerling with wedding preparation—or complaining about being left out—Sansa had taken up a lot of the slack. The first few days, it had been nice to focus on something tactile after her exams. They weren’t her hardest batch of tests, but her Equal Protection Law professor decided last minute he wouldn’t let them bring in their case briefs and they had to do everything from memory—and Prof. Lannister forced her to rewrite one of her papers because she didn’t like the topic Sansa had chosen, namely the importance of portrayals of more traditionally feminine characters in positions of strength in prestige television shows. And all that extra work had made Sansa last couple of weeks of the semester exhausting. But this wedding prep was exhausting in a different way. Almost every conversation she had was about the wedding, and it was frankly getting on her nerves. Sansa normally enjoyed wedding talk and organizing; she had a whole scrapbook to prove it. But everything was so rushed, and the logistics were so complicated that the whole thing just felt stressful, not fun. But there was no way to avoid it—as the entire Stark clan was involved and working their damndest to make this wedding happen. Sansa knew she was starting to tire her friends with discussion of it, and she’d even started to dream about catering menus and napkin colors. “It sounds like you could use a break,” said Gilly sympathetically over the phone after Sansa ranted about the wedding preparations to her for over thirty minutes. The wedding was only five days away now, and she was so ready for it to be over. “Or a lobotomy,” Sansa muttered. Gilly chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry, I’m being a total grouch. You’ve been so lovely to listen to me complain. We’ve barely spoken about you. Oh Gilly, I miss you and the girls.” “I miss you too. Sansa. I wish I were there to watch movies and eat lemon cakes with you, but I’ve got to help my sisters with the farm. Speaking of which, I’ve got to get going. But call me again, if you ever need to let off some steam. You know Brienne, Meera, and I have got your back. Keep your head up, Stark, and remember—it’s up to you to decide how you treat others.” “Thanks, Gilly. You always know what to say. Tell your sisters I say, ‘Happy New Year.’ Love you!” “Love you too!” Sansa took Gilly’s advice and left the house to clear her head and visit Ghost. His exuberance upon seeing her again was more than enough to help her sour mood. And she felt calmer by the minute as she brushed out his long coat with Ghost’s face in her lap. “You are my favorite boy in the whole world, Ghost,” she told him. “And I’ll never not love you.”

As she was getting ready to leave the sanctuary of Ghost’s pen behind, Sansa ran into Mr. Mormont. “Back for another visit, eh?”

“You know I can’t bear to be away from him for long.”

Mr. Mormont shook his head. “Never met a more spoiled beast in my life.”

Sansa just waved her hand.

“Thank you, though, Miss Sansa, for the new hat and scarf,” he said, gesturing to the items she’d scrambled to finish knitting on time for Christmas. “I’ll see you at the wedding in a few days.”

Sansa sighed. “That’s right. The event of the season.”

“I’ll expect a dance.”

That made her smile. “You got it.” When she got home from the reservation, Arya kept her company while she started on dinner. It was just them and Rickon, as her parents and Robb were eating with the Westerlings and Bran was hanging out with Hodor. It was not the most exciting as far as New Year’s Eves went, but she was fine with a drama-free evening. Gendry would be coming over later once he was done with work, and she was hoping to fall asleep on the couch before the ball even dropped.

“What should we eat?” Sansa studied the refrigerator with a frown. She was tired of leftovers of savory dishes. She spotted the maple syrup. “How would you feel about breakfast for dinner?” “I feel very good about that.” “Done.” Arya shuffled around as Sansa pulled out what she needed for French toast. “So when is Dickon getting in?” “Tomorrow at 3. I’m going to pick him up at the train station, and he’s going to be staying in Rickon’s room.” “Gross.” Sansa sighed. “I know. Bran offered his, but he needs the extra mobility and access. Rickon’s room will have to do.” “I’ll help you clean it tonight. I know where Rickon hides all his bugs.” Sansa groaned. “I’m looking forward to getting to know him better.” “Yeah? I’m glad. It’s such a shame he hasn’t had much of a chance to meet everyone before. I kind of feel like I’m throwing him to the wolves.” Arya laughed. “Gendry will be around for him to talk to, and luckily Robb will be too busy to do anything stupid to scare him off.” Sansa stopped beating the eggs in front of her. She could still remember that night when Robb upended what was supposed to be her first date with Jon; things were never the same after their conversation in the car. She hadn’t thought much about that night—had purposefully tried to push it from her mind till she got so good at pretending it had never happened. But thinking about it now made her realize how angry she still felt, how unresolved her feelings were about Robb’s interference and Jon’s abandonment.

With a flash, she could still remember the feeling, almost like being kicked in the stomach, when Robb had suggested Jon would never actually want to hang out with her had it not been for Ghost and the way Jon had avoided her eye and refused to stand up for her.

Gods, that had hurt.

She wasn’t a pining, lovesick teenager anymore—by any means. But the memory of that pain still ached.

She realized then, whisk in hand, that she did want answers and that perhaps more closure would help her to put that chapter of her adolescence and her whole history with Jon to rest. How much she wanted to sew up that wound and let it heal so she could finally move on.

“Sans?” “What? Oh, sorry. Just got lost in thought.” “S’fine. I just said you’ll have to be careful with Rickon, too. Cause you know, Dickon’s name isn’t exactly...” Sansa rolled her eyes and stirred some cinnamon into her egg mixture. “I’ve known many dicks in my life, but Dickon Tarly is not one of them. He can handle a joke.” “Can he handle five thousand?” The next morning she met up with Margaery to get their nails done. Sansa chose pale pink for her fingernails and blood red for her toes; Margaery went with mauve and gold. As their nails were polished, they flipped through fashion magazines and discussed hair and makeup options for the wedding. “I’m thinking long, glossy curls for the hair and something more demur for the makeup.” “Just you.” “Well, the dress shows so much cleavage, I have to leave something to the imagination.” Sansa rolled her eyes. “Mmhm.” “And what about you?”

“Me? I can imagine your cleavage just fine.”

“Sansa Minisa Stark!” Margaery exclaimed. “You are terrible today. I love it.” Sansa rolled her eyes.

“What dress is worthy of such a person?”

“I honestly wouldn’t get your hopes up. I’m probably going to wear this purple dress I wore to a school dance a couple years ago.” It was a nice dress with long sleeves and a floor-length skirt that would keep her warm. And no one who’d be attending the wedding had seen her in it before. It wasn’t going to drop any jaws, but it was pretty enough. “You aren’t going to get something new?” “There hasn’t been much time.” “Darling, there’s always time for a new dress.” Conveniently, Marg didn’t have any afternoon plans so she went with Sansa to pick up Dickon from the train station. During the ride, they discussed Sansa’s law school applications—in all the excitement she’d barely even registered that she’d already gotten two acceptances via email—and Marg’s plans to take what she learned in business school to open up her own floral shop with her grandmother. “Just better you than me,” Sansa said when she heard the news. “What? Gran is an absolute lamb.” “If you say so,” Sansa demurred. Margaery clapped her hands. “Enough shop talk. Tell me more about your beau. I saw pictures online. He looks like a complete dish.” Marg shoved a picture of a shirtless Dickon under her nose. “I’d positively pay to lick him clean.” Sansa turned a little pink. In the couple of weeks they’d been apart, she’d almost forgotten how handsome he truly was. “He is...occasionally very dishy.” “Oh, you absolute minx! I wish my date had shoulders like that.” “Who are you bringing again?” “Arianne Martell. I met her in one of my business classes. She’s very beautiful, and we’ve gone on a couple of dates, but it’s more casual. I only asked her—well, because I didn’t want to go alone. I didn’t think I could handle—well, you know, I always did have a crush on Robb...” Sansa knew, of course; her friend had never been shy about telling her all the inappropriate things she wanted to do to her older brother. But Margaery was a flirt; Sansa has always assumed she was joking, or at least exaggerating her crush on him. Now, though, Marg looked like she was fighting back tears. “Marg, I—" Her friend’s face transformed into a beaming smile. “Now, now, I think I see a pair of hulking shoulders at two o’clock. Run to him, won’t you, Sansa dear?” Sansa rolled her eyes but nevertheless did a sort of skipping run into his open arms. He was warm and smelled like roasted coffee and peppermint and held her close. “I’m so glad you’re here,” Sansa whispered into his neck. “Me too.” “I missed you.” Dickon smiled and pulled away so he could see her face. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” “Can I kiss you—just real quick?” “Please.” Smiling, he leaned down to capture her lips—a little longer than he had said he would. “Happy New Year,” he whispered with his lips against her cheek and at her ear. He was still smiling, but his lips began to frown as he pulled away. “Your friend is watching us, I think.” “Oh, I’m sure she is.” “Should I be worried about what I’ve gotten myself into?” “About Margaery? She’s just the tip of the iceberg.” “She doesn’t look that dangerous to me.” Sansa give him a wry smile. “Even roses have thorns. And you’ve just entered the wolves’ den.” “Good thing I have you to protect me.” “Good thing.” “How are you—really?” Sansa sighed. “My big brother is getting married in a shotgun wedding to a girl I think he only met about three months ago, my parents are absolutely overwhelmed, and my younger siblings are barely keeping it together. I’m as good as can be expected under the circumstances. How are you?” She plastered on a smile, laced her gloved fingers through his, and led him away from the train. “Ready to meet Margaery?” He swallowed nervously. “I think you were right about her being dangerous. She looks like she’s going to eat me.” Margaery must have overheard him because she grinned beatifically and winked at him. “With a spoon, handsome.”

Sansa tried not to laugh at the strangled noise that emerged from Dickon’s throat, but it was too perfectly hilarious. “I’m really glad you’re here,” she told him again.

“Nowhere I’d rather be.”

#jonsa #jonsa fan fic #jonsa fanfic #jonsa fan fiction #jonsa fanfiction #jon snow #sansa stark #mollyraesly #Molly Raesly #timewithwolves

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fleetingfan77 · 6 years ago

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The Flaw in Every Crystal

Chapter 20: 'Life in Praxus' Part 4

Aka: Driving Force

We start off with Jazz once again having to ask what has been done to him after waking up rather than be allowed to make his own choices. Though at this point I could see Jazz even rejecting a form of help due to just wanting to have control over even one thing in his life even if it is detrimental to him. Though that goes to the heart of the Praxian culture with foreigners, doesn’t it? They shouldn’t be allowed to make any choices due to the fear that they will make the “wrong” one. To the point that Prowl is even allowed to keep Jazz’s modifications from Jazz himself.

I wonder what range “short-range” really means? Can Jazz only contact people within the city? Would he receive an update, ding, or whatever if say rewind or someone entered the city and be able to contact them? Or does it block any numbers not approved of by Prowl?

It is a bit sad that Jazz has had to stop correcting people that Prowl is his mate because in Praxus he is fully considered such. Though it is interesting to hear Prowl referred to as a “warden” rather than a kidnapper/torturer. It begs the question of if Jazz is beginning to internalize some guilt to think that this must be some sort of karma brought onto him due to a prior action rather than a tragic circumstance. It is also interesting that Prowl is referred to as the “warden” rather than a “jailer” or “guard”. The warden is usually known as the being of absolute authority yet being absent from most prisoners lives and in most media is traditionally depicted as corrupt or not believing in the system itself. So for the metaphor proper from a third person angle it would be the city/culture itself that is the warden and Prowl as a guard with Jazz as the prisoner but since Jazz has been depicted as such a single track mind thinker so far and puts such an emphasis on physical sensations it may be that he is unable to think to blame a city/culture itself but rather would blame a singular person or persons.

Also interesting that Prowl offers to explain all the modifications to Jazz inside of the medical center or just go home. I wonder if its so that if Jazz takes the news badly there will be medical staff nearby? Or could it be Prowl thinking that if Jazz does not wish to know right away then it means that he does not car to know ever?

Then when Jazz comments that some of the modifications were described as “surprises” Prowl sidesteps it by asking for another stop before home. From here it is hard to determine if Prowl knew it was a set up to explain about the modifications or if he is taking it as Jazz saying that he does not want the surprise ruined by Prowl explaining it then and there.

We see then that the stop Prowl wants to make is in the city. Jazz gets a view of a bunch of “subs” walking around in the open with different names on their wings along with a strong enforcer presence. It is odd that Praxus, for claiming to be such a safe city with no significant crime rate, boosts such a large number of enforcers paid to seemingly just drive around the city. Could it be to serve as a reminder to any Praxians or non Praxains who wish to disobey some of the traditions? As a constant reminder of Praxus’s power?

As it turns out the place in the city is the “Reeducation center” which Jazz panics at first thinking it could be a brainwashing center a la 1984 or some such. Which I do not believe a building for the purpose Jazz fears would even been in Praxus since from what we have seen of Prowl and some of Barricade’s comments that “training” as it is is considered more a private family/couple matter rather than anything you would feel comfortable asking for outside help about.

It is interesting that Prowl either does not note or does not care about Jazz’s obvious distress at seeing the building and being asked to walk towards it. It seems also the Prowl has plans to be seen in public or at least be able to drive around with Jazz since he worries about Jazz’s skills getting rusty. It takes Jazz guessing at the building’s purpose to prompt Prowl to tell Jazz what the building is really for.

I wonder if this building is only for foreign adopted frames to practice/learn new skills in or if it is for Praxians as well who have found themselves in a new sub/dom position that they did not think they would have before hand. Jazz is forced to accept this explanation from Prowl as to the building’s purpose at face value, since as Jazz notes, there is really no choice for him to refuse that won’t end in more pain for him.

It is interesting to note that Prowl simply downloads a map of the building before they left and that Prowl had previously said this visit could happen at any orn. There was also no receptionist inside to greet them so the area but either accept only commed appointments or be open for public use and then just not be used that often since Prowl shows no worry about there being crowds or someone else currently using the track. They also don’t run into anyone else in the hallways on the way to the indoor track.

The track itself seems to be a proper testing ground with obstacles and even parts of the track deliberately neglected to copy that of what may be seen on the roadways. It seems as the only worker in the building as well would be a medic to help deal with any issues that newly door-winged individuals may face.

Jazz’s collar is then removed into Prowl’s subspace. I have to wonder if it is because the track is a closed area so Jazz would have no hope of escaping anyway or if the collar would interfere with the transformation sequence somehow.

Jazz then asks Prowl to join him on the track though I am unsure if it is to make sure that the track is safe first or if Jazz simply wishes for company. Prowl agrees once he is sure that Jazz will not suddenly crash and burn into the side of the track or some such.

It is interesting that now without the collar around him Jazz reverts quickly to his old nature and even seems to be flirting with Prowl a bit, I assume in a similar way to when he first arrived and caught Prowl’s interest. I wonder if it is a conscious decision to do so to show how well Jazz is without the collar or if it is simply Jazz trying to pretend for a bit that this is how it actually is and the collar didn’t exist for a while.

We also see Prowl happy to see these actions in Jazz and thinking that it was a good gift to deliver this reaction. Though I wonder then if it is a gift to allow Jazz this movement or if it was for medical reasons?

We then see Jazz start a race with Prowl. It seems at first to be Jazz indulging but this could also allow Jazz some valuable information that if he ever did get on a road with Prowl, if Jazz would be able to out speed him. This would be the perfect environment to test out how their speeds compare on different terrain and the whole while Prowl simply thinks its his mate enjoying a playful race. And then later get to confirm that while Jazz is having fun he also wants to test his limits properly against an enforcer.

Though it is also interesting that Prowl decides to deliberately let Jazz take the lead and not pass him even though Prowl believes that he could. Is it because Prowl suspects that Jazz would not like it or wanting to keep an eye on Jazz when driving? It is show that Jazz DOES want to fully race Prowl since he then slows to parallel with Prowl before taking off again though Prowl seems more concerned with making sure Jazz would know how to handle himself alone on the road. We see later that the story has enforcers react some way to a chase that Prowl states he does not want to trigger without having warned Jazz first. Whether this is a chase triggering more aggressive actions or being tied to interfacing like in other stories remains to be seen. Though Prowl does feel pride that Jazz is able to out maneuver/outsmart him in the road maze. Though Prowl then feels the need to scare, cut Jazz off to reestablish dominance over him... via it seems a game of chicken.

Then we see how Prowl’s half-explanations tend to do more harm then good as his sudden explanation of no longer being on the track leads Jazz to believe he upset Prowl rather than almost triggered something in Prowl. And at this point Jazz looks for verbal traps in everything as he does not believe in Prowl saying that Jazz could remain longer, instead seeing it as a set up that he will be punished for leaving his dom’s side later.

It is interesting to see Jazz’s tendency to lie rather than have to wait or explain something he doesn’t want to.

It seems also that Jazz is lead back still uncollared and then is left by Prowl in the entrance with no instruction. I wonder if this is Prowl once again falling into the “We had a nice day and I WANT Jazz to just act like a good mate so I will pretend that is what is going on” again or if Prowl is so used to either not having a mate or Jazz being locked up that he didn’t think of it. Jazz, for his part, plays into it as well, getting them both energon and then waiting to be able to dry off Prowl. And although Prowl is happy at these actions from Jazz, Jazz is less so, it seems, or simply reminding himself in his thoughts that Prowl is his captor.

And with that the chapter ends with them falling asleep.

Till next time!

#Jazz/Prowl #the flaw in every crystal #ao3 #fanfiction #readthroug #meta anaylsis

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