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rebrandedbard · 3 years

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A Bard He Would A-Wooing Go (6858 words)

Gift for @valdomarx: some good old mutual pining morons. In which Jaskier courts Geralt and Geralt is oblivious. Ao3 link in title.

Jaskier wrote a song like counting; Counting the years, the steps, until one day he might count the seconds and centimeters of distance that seemed to stretch like oceans between them. Each of them were like marks on a calendar, an entry in a diary to mark the progress. At first, he hid his true intentions behind false names and romantic figures, crafting beautiful damsels for the recipients of his verses in the time when he was still uncertain, but when the depth of his love became apparent to himself, he decided the day had come to be more overt.

He sang of a beautiful man with hair kissed by moonlight, eyes of amber still hollowed with the liquid golden honey left to flow inside. This he played by the evening fire, casting shy glances at Geralt over the flames. “Do you like my new song?” he asked.

“You inflate my image enough already,” Geralt replied in his usual gruff manner. The idea was to make him a hero of monster-slaying, not the heroine of some romance. Jaskier’s verses were too pretty and flattering, bound to be laughed at by the public. Moonlight and honey—such descriptions were wasted on witchers.

Jaskier frowned and played the second verse a little louder, ignoring his response. “I would rather sing it below a balcony; perhaps the artistry of the setting would help better mold your opinion.” He took on a faraway, doe-eyed expression as he spoke, strumming the gentle melody. “I would weave a crown of clover and present it to you. Yes, I think that would suit you fine. You’d cut a majestic figure, lighted by the stars. I would pluck one from the heavens and offer it to you so that it might sit atop your head, the very jewel of the crown, so that all might better see how brightly you shine.”

“Your songs do enough as it is. No need to crown me,” Geralt scoffed. He was not some divine hero. He was a witcher working for pay, and it was crude work. “You romanticize everything too much.”

“Oh, what would you know of it? You haven’t got a romantic bone in your body.”

“First true thing you’ve said tonight.”

“The honey was more than true,” Jaskier huffed. He played the verse again, then stopped, something new glittering in his eye. It was an idea, Geralt recognized. He was far too familiar with that expression by now to mistake it, and he knew there would be a long, terrible enterprise awaiting him. Jaskier started to smile, and he took to his feet.

“Geralt of Rivia!” he proclaimed. “I’ve decided that this will not do. A simple song is not enough! Let it now be known that it is my intention, henceforth, to court you with all the trim, all the pomp, all the circumstance and bells and whistles! You must know the pleasures of romance in their many forms, and I will leave no stone unturned, no mountain unclimbed, until you have been thoroughly romanced!”

Geralt groaned and closed his eyes. He was not interested in a study of human courtship. He was especially uninterested in receiving such lessons from Jaskier of all people. Yet he knew there was no refusing once Jaskier set his mind to anything. Whether he wanted to or not, whatever protests he’d make, Jaskier would not be denied. The bastard would dig in his heels and get his way, and this—it was this game of his that would at last be the thing to kill Geralt. This farce would not be something Geralt’s heart would survive in one piece. He retired early, hoping the declaration would be forgotten in the morning if he gave no reaction. The slightest acknowledgement was all the encouragement Jaskier needed.

The next day, to his surprise, Jaskier was the first awake. He’d gone wandering in the woods before sunrise and returned with his arms laden with flowers. Geralt had awoken to the smell of the bouquet waved under his nose.

“Good morning, my dear witcher,” Jaskier said, grinning ear to ear. “Welcome to the first morning of the rest of your life! A humble offering, still wet with sweet morning dew.” He bobbed and placed the bouquet in Geralt’s hands with finesse before bounding over to relight the fire and begin their breakfast. To Geralt’s even greater surprise, there were five fish speared in the dirt beside it. Jaskier had gone fishing, it seemed. Flowers, fish—would there be a third gesture awaiting him so early in the morning? Or perhaps being first up was the gesture itself. Jaskier was not an early riser by any measure. Geralt might as well still be asleep as unbelievable as it was.

“So, you were serious about that courting thing,” Geralt said.

Jaskier waved his flints in the air dramatically. “Perfectly serious. Honestly, Geralt, you must have known this day would come.”

And Geralt had to admit, after several days spent with Jaskier giving lessons detailing the etiquette of the high courts, the more fashionable dances of the season, a history of the textile arts in which he explained how his doublets were made from the harvest of the fibers all the way through decorative pleating, and the proper forms of address for peers in no less than seven countries … yes, Geralt ought to have known that courting customs were next on the list of useless trivia Jaskier meant to impart.

At first, there was not much fuss and they were able to get on as usual. Geralt didn’t know what he expected in regards to a courtship from Jaskier, but what little thought he’d given the subject conjured images of endless smothering, Jaskier waxing poetic, arms waving dramatically, attaching himself at the hip of his hapless, adoring victim. But perhaps courtship was a one-a-day expression and that would be all until tomorrow.

He was wrong in multiple ways. Jaskier did not leap upon him with some obnoxious peacocking gesture, but he took it upon himself to pack camp after breakfast. Geralt watched him shuffle about, humming quietly. Jaskier had insisted Geralt stay out of the matter and sent him off to ready Roach. Camp packed, Jaskier tied their things to her saddle, and Geralt notice that he’d been careful to arrange the bags just as he himself might, the weight evenly distributed, potion bag furthest in front in easy reach, the rest in the order in which they’d need unpacking come evening. It was observant to say the least. Such a little thing, really, but Geralt was impressed.

“Ready?” Jaskier asked, offering Geralt his hand.

Geralt looked curiously at it, not sure what it was meant for. Jaskier was looking at him expectantly, and for an absurd moment, Geralt thought he wanted a tip like the men who kept Roach tended to in stables in town. At a loss, he shook Jaskier’s hand and turned to hook his foot in the stirrup. He startled when Jaskier took his hand again and helped him up over the side.

It was ridiculous. Geralt needed no help mounting. Yet … something about the action stuck with Geralt. It had been brief, but the way Jaskier had looked up at him as he held his hand, he looked almost as if he’d been about to kiss it.

Geralt wished he would.

After a while of travelling in companionable silence, Geralt inched his head to the side. He looked at Jaskier from the corner of his eye and asked, “What are your plans for this?” wondering just how well Jaskier had thought this silly game through.

“The courtship? Oh, flowers, sweets, dancing—the usual,” Jaskier replied with a careless wave of his hand. He played so casual, and yet Geralt saw the mischievous quirk of his lips. There was more. Jaskier was a great lover of surprises, both in giving and receiving.

Jaskier fiddled with one of his lute strings, running his nail up and down its length shyly. “I’m surprised you’ve accepted it without quarrel,” he said. “Thrilled, really. Not to imply that I’m blind to your reservations; I know how you must feel about the idea of formal courtship: a lot of fluff and unnecessary nonsense. But this is how I express my love, and it means a great deal to me that you would allow me to share the experience with you.”

“It’s not such a great burden,” Geralt replied, offering a light shrug.

Jaskier laughed. “No, indeed, I shouldn’t think so! It’s a gift—the greatest gift of all.”

Geralt snorted and argued that a new set of armour would be a much greater gift.

“Ever the pragmatist,” Jaskier sighed, smacking Geralt’s boot with a smile.

When they stopped for lunch, Jaskier offered his hand once more to help Geralt dismount. After eating, Geralt put his gloves quietly away in one of the bags, muttering to himself that is was a warm day, as if Jaskier might notice and wonder. And though the air had a leftover chill of early spring, when the time came to ride off again, his hand felt hot in Jaskier’s. Geralt soon forgot his gloves entirely, had misplaced them quite carelessly among his bags or on the road. But Jaskier never commented on their absence.

In addition to the attentions Jaskier lavished upon Geralt, Roach benefitted from a surge in care. Jaskier brushed her coat nearly every other day, and it was shinier than ever before. He braided wildflowers in her mane, styled each morning length by length. Afterwards, he would brush Geralt’s hair, braiding it to match. It was the most preposterous thing, and yet Geralt could not help feeling a silly sort of happiness. Jaskier had been feeling much bolder since the first day, and had even allowed himself to put flowers in Geralt’s braids. Geralt would wake to find them on his bedroll in the morning—Jaskier wasn’t as sneaky as he liked to imagine.

It was new, Jaskier brushing Geralt’s hair this way. He might comb Geralt’s hair after a bath or wrestle a brush through it when it had begun to resemble a feral rat’s nest, but now it was more regularly maintained. There was no excuse of necessity. Geralt could close his eyes and enjoy the moment, Jaskier’s gentle hands at work, sometimes simply scratching his scalp, the brush abandoned for minutes at a time. It was such a tender gesture, Geralt at times forgot that it was nothing more than a demonstration.

But oh, Jaskier went to such lengths so teach! He had Roach re-shoed in the city with fine new horseshoes, claiming that the shoes would clip and clop and ring out the song of his heart on every cobblestone, and that the gait of her stride itself would be a reminder of his devotion. And truly, as they walked her to the stables afterwards, Geralt heard their cheerful mocking with each step, “It’s all a game! It’s all a game!” He was glad to give her the day off to rest, and to avoid the clippity-clop of her bright new shoes.

Geralt tried to be objective. When they spent the evening at a tavern, listening to a local bard perform, he did not allow his thoughts to linger on the hand resting over his on the bench. Nor did he read into things when Jaskier asked him to dance. Dancing—the usual. It was one of the most basic aspects of courtship.

When they spun in and out of the formation on the dance floor, when Jaskier entwined their fingers, when Jaskier pulled them close together, Geralt tried in vain to blame his dizziness on the spinning steps. When someone tried to cut in for a quick romp with Jaskier, only for Jaskier to snatch Geralt’s waist again in rejection of the advance, Geralt did not let his thoughts linger on how pretty the young woman had been and how well Jaskier might look dancing with her, nor the thrill he’d felt in that instance of being so firmly chosen against such an enticing offer.

Though there were contracts to be fulfilled, Jaskier found ways to steal Geralt away for an hour or two here and there and between. He’d dragged Geralt along to see a play: something very modern and poetic. They paid for standing admission, the cheapest and, according to Jaskier, the very best way to appreciate the art up close. They talked throughout, joking with the other patrons and laughing at the worst bits in near-vicious mockery. Evidently, that was the only way to enjoy anything so poorly critiqued, and a step above throwing rotten fruit. He bought them a little parcel of candied nuts, and now and then they flicked a nut at the very worst actor for having every other line fed to him from offstage. They came away laughing with not a single guess as to what the play itself had been about.

The next week they were on the road again, and things were quieter. The city provided so many forms of entertainment, but Geralt liked it best when it was only the two of them, nestled in the calm of nature. Jaskier was lively, and the environment affected his mood. Out in the woods, his gestures were sweeter, smaller, and sentimental. Geralt enjoyed this gentler aspect of Jaskier’s courtship, for his method changed between the city and the road.

Away from the excitement and bustle, Jaskier expressed himself more subtly. As if by magic, ingredients for Geralt’s potion stock would be replenished after one of Jaskier’s morning walks. He did not make grand declarations or even show any signs of wishing to be acknowledged for the little things he did. He simply did them, waiting to catch Geralt’s smile.

“Here,” Jaskier said, tossing a coiled bit of leather at Geralt. It was a braided strap of cord, burnt black over the fire. “In your favorite gloomy color,” he teased. “Your old tie is a twist from falling apart; I thought you might like a new one to tie back your hair.”

Geralt smiled, and he was sure he’d begun to build muscle in his cheeks from how often that had happened now. He admired the tie, running his thumb over the pattern. Cautiously, he edged closer to Jaskier and handed it back to him. He turned around, offering Jaskier his back and whispered, “Would you fix it for me?”

At once, Jaskier’s hands were in his hair, swapping out the old tie for the new. When Geralt turned back around, Jaskier had the old tie fasted to his wrist, looking down at it with a gentle smile. His eyes flickered back up to Geralt, and that same shy expression softened his features from that day when he’d presented his new song. A new shine glinted in his eyes, a fresh spark that danced in the firelight. Geralt’s words of thanks died on his tongue at the sight of it. His eyes roamed Jaskier’s face, taking in the warmth of his gaze.

So loving. So deceptively close to genuine. What a fantastic actor Jaskier would make, Geralt thought. He even smelled happy. Like … vanilla. He leaned closer, breathing it in. By now he’d forgotten the smile in Jaskier’s eyes, forgot how long he’d ceased to study it. Now he’d been distracted by the smile on his lips, taking in their color, the shape of them. He wanted a better look. If he touched them, perhaps he’d learn what made them turn up the way they did—might know how much of their warmth was owed to the fire, how much was owed to Jaskier. He thought they’d come nearer now, and he could just make out the small lines in them. The scent of vanilla was stronger, sweeter, and he felt the touch of Jaskier’s hand brush his cheek.

Jaskier’s hands rose, curling back around his neck as he leaned forward. Geralt blinked rapidly, tilting his head a fraction to the side. His slow heart fluttered to life in his chest. Often he’d imagined what it might be like to be in this very moment. Once, he’d even had the pleasure of dreaming it, but living it was more unbelievable. That Jaskier might kiss him was unfathomable, yet he was here, his hands reaching out, his lips parting, the nearness of him overwhelming and gloriously true. Geralt had nearly closed his eyes when he felt a slight tug on his hair.

“There,” Jaskier said with satisfaction, pulling away. “It was a bit crooked.”

His hair. Jaskier had leaned forward to … to fix his hair.

Jaskier was up now, walking toward their bags. The wind of the motion sent a chill through Geralt and he slumped forward, feeling suddenly cold. He’d been on the flat of a mountain once, standing at the edge of a cliff, all the wide world below him. Looking down, he’d felt as if the world might swallow him up. The sky above was so clear, devoid of even clouds, and he felt he might fall into it if only to relieve the endless void. That was how Jaskier’s absence felt. The wind which had commanded the mountainside was but a puff of air compared to the waft of air left in Jaskier’s wake. Geralt turned like a dying flower turns toward the sun, longing after him.

The bedroll was made smooth beneath Jaskier’s attentive hands as he went about preparing to retire. Geralt sighed and watched, trying to remind himself again that he was reading too much between lines that were unwritten: lines like bars in a cell. His infatuation was unfounded, and this scheme of Jaskier’s to educate Geralt in the ways of courting was only fuel to the fire. What a pointless endeavour. When would Geralt ever use this knowledge? To aid Jaskier as he pursued his fancy of the month? To himself win the heart of some stranger?

Jaskier bowed playfully and motioned to the bedroll. “Your chariot awaits to carry you off into Slumberland, sweet prince of the night,” he announced. He held a blanket in his hands, his boots and doublet set by his pack. With a flourish he rose and waited for Geralt expectantly.

Geralt obediently removed his boots and crawled onto the bedding. Best to sleep and let the moment be forgotten by morning, start over with another day. He turned on his back, waited for Jaskier to cover him with the blanket, to finish his joke and set up his own roll to sleep. Instead, he found Jaskier flopped at his side, his arm flung over his chest, and the blanket wrapped around the two of them snugly.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. His breath puffed against Geralt’s neck as Jaskier cuddled closer, hooking an ankle over Geralt’s leg. He settled comfortably on Geralt’s shoulder and closed his eyes, the most contented smile on his face. Geralt could hear his heartbeat slow down, even and rhythmic, lulling.

After some time, Geralt thought he’d gone to sleep. He cautiously shifted, rolling on his side to face him. Jaskier had long eyelashes, he discovered. This close, Geralt could see a number of faint freckles on his cheeks, the subtle wrinkles about his eyes. He rarely allowed himself to look when they were together at night, but lately that had become a temptation hard to resist. He looked now while he might steal a private minute or two without fear. There was one little hair poking out from Jaskier’s nose and Geralt chuckled to know how bothered Jaskier would be when he noticed it eventually. He reached a tentative hand out, resting it on the loose fabric of Jaskier’s chemise where it lay on the roll, too cowardly to reach out and touch Jaskier in spite of the arm Jaskier had around him. That alone was enough. That already was daring.

Geralt slowly closed his eyes, trying to lock away the memory of the moment. He opened them again for one last look as the fire died down. Jaskier seemed to shine in the afterglow and Geralt closed his eyes again so that he might trap the afterimage in the dark. Then, Jaskier shifted and there was a warmth pressed to Geralt’s forehead. A kiss goodnight.

Was Jaskier awake, or was he in a dream? Geralt’s fingers curled in a fist around the hem of Jaskier’s shirt, desperately wondering. The question plagued him as he felt himself slip away. He shuddered, the inches between them a frozen tundra, all his doubts denying him the feel of Jaskier’s warm embrace even as it wrapped tighter around him. His last thought before being claimed by sleep was a silent wish. He wished that tomorrow the game would end. And more secretly, he wished it would be replaced with something real.

The courting continued more enthusiastically than before. Jaskier broke from the conservative spending habits Geralt had instilled in him over the years. He did not skip about buying frou-frou delights for himself or wasteful fashions. No. When he loosened his purse strings, it was to buy an extra plate for Geralt at dinner. It was to stock the spices Geralt liked best and the preserves he would never indulge in on his own. Geralt did his best to object, but relented upon Jaskier’s insistence that, “It’s a part of the courtship! You cannot deny me this privilege!” And because Jaskier would not be denied, he even found a twisted paper package of caramels hidden away in his bag among the empty potion bottles.

Jaskier continued to cuddle up with Geralt even as spring gave way to the heat of summer. Geralt thought that the game would surely be over by now, but there was no end in sight. Jaskier kept finding more and more ways to surprise Geralt, and it seemed his knowledge of courtship was far more lengthy than Geralt might have ever anticipated. That such an affair could hold Jaskier’s attention for so long was incomprehensible, and with nothing in return. Geralt could understand continuing their study if Jaskier were courting someone in earnest all the while, or having one of his romps for a weekend when they were travelling, but Jaskier had not so much as looked at anyone since … Geralt could not remember the last time Jaskier had flirted with anyone. That made it so much easier to believe. And that made it so much harder to withstand.

Months passed. Jaskier’s courtship fluctuated. He was mainly reserved in his affections and things were not much changed from before they’d begun. There may have been more lingering touches, but those had always been there, since the day they’d met. Likely it was only that Geralt was more aware of them, looking for any sign, grasping at straws for a hint of truth, denying it whenever he found one in an act of self-preservation.

Occasionally the grander gestures would return, and Jaskier counted these as special days. He justified their indulgence by using the situation as evidence; usually these occasions fell on holidays or anniversaries of which Geralt had been unaware, and if they should happen upon a festival or event unaware, Jaskier would sweep Geralt along for an improvised day of fun.

“As with any courtship, one ought to take any opportunities to enjoy oneself as one may find,” Jaskier said, always happy to remind Geralt that the courtship was ongoing, no matter how many months had passed, as if he could not tire of such proclamations. “And what could be more memorable than a day together where all the world is colorful, all the people laughing? It’s so much more fun when everyone is having fun! You can pretend that all the world is right and perfect for one day: no monsters to fight, no prejudices to contend with, and no disdainful destiny pulling at strings. Just a day chasing whatever shining thing catches your eye, unplanned, unbridled joy!”

And truly those were days where it felt like anything might happen. Jaskier shined so brightly, dragging Geralt from booth to booth. They played horseshoes, tried their hand at throwing hatches and other games and tests of skill. One favorite event they’d come upon was a sort of artist’s exhibition in Oxenfurt. Jaskier had been invited to give a lecture on his composition process and he’d insisted on Geralt coming along. After his lecture, which Geralt had listened to attentively from the back of the room, they’d gone through the university and explored the other lectures and demonstrations.

There were great works on display: tapestries and steam-powered inventions, fastidiously cultivated plants with clippings and pressed blooms for sale; a perfumer gave samples of scented paper and described how the brewing was done, and a much better kind of brewing was explained by an artisan ale brewer who offered them small mugs of her product while they listened. Jaskier attended a workshop on embroidery. Fascinated by the practice after so many years of wearing finely embroidered clothes, he wished to learn a bit of handiwork himself. Meanwhile, Geralt was especially interested to watch the smelter, blacksmith, and silversmith at work, privately comparing their methods of crafting swords with those he’d studied in the keep. It was by far one of the more memorable days of the season.

Jaskier bought Geralt a small scrap of decoratively twisted iron from the blacksmith to keep as a reminder. It wasn’t useful for much apart from keeping away faeries, but he bought a strip of cord from the lecturing tanner and fashioned a charm for him, tying it to the sheath of his silver sword. Once more, Geralt chided him for wasting money on useless things, but he found himself smiling at the charm whenever he sat to sharpen his swords. Later on, Geralt had nearly lost it on a hunt and had lingered later after the kill, searching the rocky terrain until he found it.

By fall, Geralt had nearly forgotten Jaskier was courting him at all. It had become their new normal. He let himself indulge in Jaskier’s attention, taking a page from his book. Once in a while Jaskier would make some comment about their courtship to someone in a tavern when asked why he would be travelling with a witcher, and Geralt would remember and the heavy feeling would settle over him again, but the days were too busy and bright, so he soon forgot again. It was difficult to be sad long with Jaskier’s arm looped in his.

When they weren’t travelling, that is to say, when they spent a day or two in town on a contract, Jaskier had taken to spending time alone. He would spend a few hours in their room, or he’d be somewhere in town, a bag always at his side. He practiced his embroidery, following the sample patch he’d stitched at the exhibition. Sometimes he displayed his work proudly when Geralt passed, and other times he was quick to hide it in his bag. Once, Geralt overheard news in a pub that Jaskier had been present at a quilting bee, then the gossiping party fell to whispers when they saw the witcher approach. This was during the time when Jaskier was more frequently away, acting secretive and sneaking about.

The reason behind these mysterious disappearances was shortly unveiled by the end of the month when Jaskier presented Geralt with a new winter cloak. He held it proudly stretched in his hands. It was a dark blue wool. The hood and collar were embroidered with white and yellow flowers, framed by a curling green ivy. There were two metal clasps sewn on either side, and a close look revealed them to be buttercups.

“I made it myself,” Jaskier said, glowing with pride. “Well, all but the clasps. But I did design them—think of it as the signature on a great painting!” Before Geralt could take a breath to compliment his work, Jaskier swung the cloak around Geralt’s shoulders, adjusting it handsomely. “Good, it’s not too narrow. I was a little worried, but I thought if it fit me it ought to fit you fine. Had to make sure it was wide enough in the shoulder, so I measured your armour for a good estimate. Do you like it?”

Geralt blinked. “It’s for me?” he asked.

“Of course it is. Why else would I have been so secretive? I wanted to surprise you!”

Jaskier turned away, kneeling down to pull something from beneath their bed. There was only one—had only been one for a long time now. When Jaskier emerged, he had a large box in his hands. “And now to complete the ensemble,” he said cheerfully. He shoved the box in Geralt’s hands looking up at him in anticipation.

Struggling to process the enormity of the gift, Geralt opened the box mechanically. Inside was a pair of new black leather boots with heavy tread. Upon further inspection, he discovered they were lined with rabbit fur inside the cuff.

“There. Now you’ll be ready for the journey home this winter,” Jaskier declared. Then, just a twitch, there was something reserved in his expression—something that suggested gloom. He smiled through it and straightened Geralt’s hood, making it symmetrical. His hands remained a moment, poised on Geralt’s shoulders. He seemed hesitant. There he stood, looking up at Geralt, and he appeared to be holding his breath, waiting for something.

“Thank you,” Geralt said at last. He shook his head. “No, I … it’s more than that.” It was too much; he didn’t know how to express his gratitude.

Jaskier’s hands fell and he looked at the shining clasps, avoiding Geralt’s eyes. “Yes, well. You’re welcome to it,” he said.

“I’m not sure how I ought to thank you,” Geralt continued. It occurred to him that he could ask. That was the purpose of all of this: to educate him on courtship. Every good pupil asked questions. So he did ask. “How does one usually show their appreciation after receiving a courting gift? Should I reciprocate?”

Whatever cloud passed over Jaskier’s features faded and was replaced by a small smile. “Custom dictates that you should complement the handicraft and dress yourself immediately that I might admire you bedecked in my gifts,” he answered. “Go on then! On with the boots! And if you’re feeling especially gratified, you may accompany me to dinner and allow me to show you off in all your glory.”

Geralt snorted. “Long-winded way to say you’re hungry and broke.”

“Put on the boots, you ass; I’m paying for dinner.”

As soon as Geralt had his new boots on—and oh, how comfortable they were!—Jaskier twirled his finger in the air, made him turn and model. Geralt rolled his eyes but turned around graciously. Jaskier beamed and showered him with praise. He slipped on his own cloak, for it was a cold evening, and they left the little inn, headed toward the delicious smell of the pub and their dinner, following the welcoming glow of its windows down the cobbled street.

“Wait!” Jaskier cried, leaping in front of Geralt. He spread his arms wide and Geralt nearly crashed against his back. Geralt looked over his shoulder to see what danger caused Jaskier to halt in the middle of the road, only for Jaskier to sweep the warm cloak from his shoulders and drape it across a rather nasty, muddy puddle before them.

Geralt’s eyes went wide. It was a new cloak—Jaskier had bought it only a fortnight past. He’d carefully selected a cool green, saying it would remind him of spring when the winter made the world grey, and Geralt had seen him embroidering the collar of it in the evenings before bed. Jaskier had doted on it, and Geralt had never known Jaskier to wear a cloak. Ever. He was never on the road when the weather was cold enough to warrant one, always holing up in Oxenfurt or carving himself out a space in some court for the season. He’d taken such pride in the cloak, adding his own personal touches to it, making it quite his. He talked about it constantly, boasting that it would keep him thoroughly safe when the winter chill set in, that he might climb the most icy, terrible mountain and feel as though he were snuggled up by the fireside.

That was the straw to break his back at last.

“What are you doing? That will never wash out,” Geralt scolded.

Jaskier bowed dramatically and rose with a charming shrug. “What burden is a bit of mud, my dear? I’ll not have your new boots so soon sullied on their first venture. If I allowed that, what kind of suitor would I be?” He chuckled and pressed a chaste, teasing kiss to Geralt’s cheek.

Geralt flinched away, heart leaping into his throat. “You’ve taken this too far!” he cried.

“Geralt, I assure you, the fabric is perfectly sensible and there’ll be no stain. I specifically chose it for wearing on the road.” He looked at Geralt, picking at the end of the cloak still draped in his hands. He kept his tone teasing and light, but there was a nervous edge to it he tried to hide behind a laugh. “Come now,” he said, “don’t let my gesture go in vain; I was trying so very hard to be suave.”

“No. It’s not just the cloak,” Geralt hissed. “This whole charade! I—!” Geralt fisted his hands in the thick fabric of his cloak. He turned his head away, grit his teeth. “I’m calling it off, Jaskier. I can’t tolerate one more day of this game.”

“What game?” Jaskier asked. The false cheer left him. Honest worry furrowed his brow as he lifted the wet cloak once more from the puddle, clutching it as a child might cling to a blanket.

“This courtship. It has to stop.”

Jaskier turned pale. He trembled, though no breeze swept through the air. When he spoke, his voice trembled in kind, and he looked at Geralt with anxious eyes. “If this is about the winter,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry for being pushy. You’re not ready—I can wait. But we can move slower if that’s the issue, and I can give you your space until spring, just like every year.” His hands twisted in the cloak and he held it closer to his chest. “But I thought you wanted … you agreed to the courtship. And we were headed east together. It’s coming on winter, so I thought … And you’re not one for words …” he trailed. “I don’t understand what’s changed. Just this morning we—”

“This morning, you didn’t kiss me!” Geralt snapped. “I can hold your hand, I can dance with you and listen to your pet names, I can accept your gifts and gestures in an effort to understand your customs. I know you want to teach me about courtship. It’s important to you—or entertaining. But I can’t abide being kissed! Not as part of some lesson.”

Geralt’s eyes felt hot and there was a strange hollow in the pit of his stomach. “Not if it doesn’t mean anything,” he concluded. He couldn’t look Jaskier in the eye for fear of the understanding he’d find there. What pity or disgust would he see when the realization hit? What horrible expression would he find twisting Jaskier’s expression when he finally understood that his best friend, an emotionless, beastly, taciturn witcher, was in love with him?

“Oh,” Jaskier whispered.

There it was. Geralt’s head hung low. He silently braced himself. This was the part where Jaskier would let him down gently. Or he might make an awkward joke and pretend he didn’t understand, brushing it all aside and moving on as always. Geralt wasn’t sure which would be worse. He wished Jaskier would simply leave and he wouldn’t have to suffer either one.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. Geralt heard the splash as Jaskier dropped his cloak once more to the ground. And suddenly there were warm hands cradling his face. “My darling,” Jaskier said, “let me be perfectly clear. No, no, don’t look away—you’ve got to look at me and listen very carefully to what I say. This isn’t a game. I’m not playing at romance with you. I’m not trying to teach you anything either. No games, no jokes, no tricks.”

Jaskier pulled Geralt closer, forced him to meet his eyes. Geralt looked at last and saw nothing but raw sincerity staring back. “This is real,” Jaskier said. “All of it. Since that day I stood and swore to court you and win your heart. Every action and effort I made was in earnest.”

Geralt felt the grounding touch of Jaskier’s thumb stroking his cheek. His heart remained in his throat, still uncertain, but it beat with a fragile hope. “What does it mean then?” he asked.

Jaskier sighed, resting their foreheads together. “It means I love you,” he answered.

Geralt closed his eyes. He felt such a fool. Slowly, he brought his hands up to cover Jaskier’s, pressing them more firmly against his skin. The touch felt new. It had a weight to it now, and he felt lighter than ever before, needed their anchor to keep from drifting away.

Jaskier loved him.

“How does a happy courtship end?” Geralt asked, though he did not wish for it to end so soon, now that he’d learned it was real. He was inclined to start over again and do it properly, no shadows or clouds to hang over them.

Jaskier let out a last nervous breath and smiled. “With marriage,” he said. “Eventually. But I think that may be a bit too soon for us.”

“Then before that.”

“Generally, the first stage ends with a kiss. I think that’s about right for where we are.”

“And … will you kiss me?” Geralt asked, opening his eyes again. He looked into Jaskier’s deep blue irises, and for once he could examine them as much as he liked, he realized. So he stared, taking in every brown freckle, every fleck of gold however small, looking as he never allowed himself to before. With satisfaction, he watched Jaskier’s pupils widen. He was sure he looked much the same.

Jaskier chuckled, pulling Geralt’s hands down and cradling them in his own. “Me?” he asked playfully. “Oh no, my dear; I did the wooing. The stage ends when you take the reciprocating action and encourage me to continue. Therefore it is you who must kiss me. If you like.”

“And if I do?”

“Then by all means,” Jaskier prompted. “Kiss me!”

Geralt tilted his head to the side, no more hesitation, and pressed their lips together in a gentle embrace. Just one short, reverent kiss: the fruition of his longing. It was not studied—was even a bit skewed from lack of practice. But it was freeing. He leaned back again as they parted, and he felt Jaskier leaning forward after him. Geralt smiled, his heart fluttering with a joy he never thought he’d know. This felt right. Felt wonderful. And now the tension was gone and he had nothing left to fear with Jaskier’s hands so tightly clasping his.

“So. What comes in the next stage of courtship?”

“Another kiss, certainly,” Jaskier said, stepping forward in an attempt to close the distance.

Geralt stepped back, a cheeky smile rising to his lips. “I’m fresh out,” he teased.

“Goodness me!” Jaskier gasped theatrically, and he was grinning right back. “Thankfully, I have one spare! Many, in fact, if you’d like them.”

“I would.”

“But, ah! I’m not so cheap as that!” Jaskier cried in retribution. If Geralt would refuse him another kiss, Jaskier would make him earn the next. “I must be wooed first, Geralt of Rivia. It’s your turn, I did say, and I’ll have you know I expect a great deal after all the work I put in. Rides on Roach, dinners cooked for me, breakfasts, embarrassingly poor poetry; then there’s the matter of you holding my hand when I ask, sweeping me off my feet and carrying me to bed in the evening, fresh flowers, foot massages, the—”

Geralt stepped forward again and silenced Jaskier’s rambling with another kiss, smiling through it too hard to make good on the act. He laughed, tucking his face against Jaskier’s jaw as he tried to compose himself long enough to see it through, then he was kissing Jaskier’s jaw and cheek, his eyes, everything within reach as the giddy feeling rose from his chest, laughing all the while as though he would never stop.

Jaskier laughed and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. “Yes, and as many of those as you can afford,” he chuckled. “You were holding out on me, you old tight-purse.”

Geralt pulled away enough to look Jaskier in the eye. “If I promise to woo you later, would you please just shut up and kiss me now?” he asked.

Jaskier huffed and regarded Geralt with sarcastic affection. “Someone has got to teach you about romance,” he said.

#witcher #the witcher #witcher fic #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #my fic #a bard he would a-wooing go fic #gift fic #gotta love some mutual dumbassery

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baoshan-sanren · 4 years

Text

Chapter 50

Emperor Wei WuXian And His Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday

Nie HuaiSang wrinkles his nose at the smell.

It has been some years since he has descended into the dungeons, but the damp air seems heavier now than it had been in the past. They are not meant to be enjoyable, the dungeons, and more pleasant accommodations would defeat the purpose of using them as a form of punishment. Still, HuaiSang does not understand why nothing can be done about the smell. The fan does precious little aside from moving the sticky air across his cheeks, and he folds it irritably, tapping Song Lan on the shoulder.

“Are you certain that torture will yield no results? I assure you, Madam Yu has made quite an art of it over the years. I think she takes pride in obtaining confessions without spilling a drop of blood.”

Song Lan shakes his head. They have spoken of this before, but HuaiSang knows that his voice will carry to the nearest cells. Perhaps Xue ChengMei cannot be tortured into a confession, but there is no harm in issuing a threat.

The boy is on his feet long before they reach him, forehead pressed against the bars, a mischievous grin etched across surprisingly attractive features. HuaiSang understands that a monster’s appearance will rarely reflect their inner monstrosity, but even he has to admit that this is slightly ridiculous. The boy looks fifteen years old at most, short in stature, small in build. The only vaguely threatening features of his appearance are the white, sharp teeth, but even those are made more menacing by their surroundings. Had the boy grinned at him in a well-lit courtyard instead of doing so in-between the bars of a cell, HuaiSang would have thought him cute, rather than dangerous.

“The Royal Companion,” the boy exclaims, “what an unexpected pleasure! I am a great admirer of yours.”

“Is that so?” HuaiSang says, “Do not spare the detail. I am always willing to be admired.”

Xue ChengMei’s eyes glitter in the darkness, his grin unwavering, “I should have known you would make no pretense of false humility.”

“Not precisely the way I prefer to be flattered.”

“It is your deeds I admire,” the boy says, “Tell me, does Sect Leader Su still believe that his son perished from a snake bite? Do you not think it extremely unfortunate? To be bitten by a yellow tail in MoLing?”

The boy taps his lips with his finger, issuing an exaggerated wink, “What a studious, sturdy snake that must have been, to have traveled all the way from QingHe just for a taste of the Young Master Su.”

HuaiSang mirrors the boy’s movement, tapping his lips with the fan.

Interesting. And potentially problematic.

“Your performance was not nearly as impressive,” HuaiSang smiles, “Such a common poison, with such an easily obtainable antidote. Surely, you did not expect that plan to work.”

“Ahh,” the boy sighs, pressing his cheek against the iron bar, “not all of us can be masters of the art I suppose. But the resulting chaos was quite entertaining.”

“Tell me about the Emperor’s potential,” HuaiSang says, “Tell me about achieving greatness.”

“Oh, but I have a much more interesting story to tell.”

“I am bored now,” HuaiSang turns to Song Lan, “let us go back.”

“Your father,” Xue ChengMei says quickly, “was no older than myself when the Empress took the throne. Such a young age, to be handed such great responsibility. Are you sure that you do not care to hear the story?”

HuaiSang’s fingers do not clench around his fan. He is calm as still water.

“You will like it,” the boy goes on, excitedly pressing himself against the bars, “it is a story no one else knows, but I am willing to share it with you.”

“Most of his words are deranged nonsense,” Song Lan says decisively, “there is no need to humor him.”

“Might as well,” HuaiSang says, glad to hear himself sound unaffected, “He seems anxious to tell it.”

“I am,” Xue ChengMei exclaims, “It is a fascinating tale. Many, many years ago, there was a mad Emperor who had a gift for demonic cultivation. But trying to control resentful energy comes with a cost. In order to continue using this infinite resource without harming himself in the process, he decided to store this energy into an object. The object would be capable of concentrating and directing the energy, but the process of creating such a thing came with a cost as well. He committed endless atrocities, slaughtered thousands of people, burned towns, rivers ran red with blood, so on and so forth,” he waves his hand impatiently, “You know that part of the story I am sure. Temples and cities obliterated, Sects decimated, advisors strung up by their toes, blah-blah.”

The impatient wave of his hand is such a perfect mirror image of Wei Ying’s own frequently used gesture, that HuaiSang is both alarmed and nauseated to see it.

“This part is known to all; the Emperor’s little niece, his favorite creature in the world, decides that the Emperor must be replaced, and murders her own uncle in cold blood. This is a story told and retold. Every child can recite the details. The Emperor’s experiments had failed, the Emperor was killed, the Empress took the throne, years of peace followed. But,” the boy presses his forehead to the iron bar, “this story is wrong.”

“Is it?” HuaiSang says, more and more convinced that this creature is dangerously unstable, “How so?”

“The Emperor did not fail in his experiments,” Xue ChengMei whispers conspiratorially, “He had succeeded. He had managed to create an object which can store infinite amounts of resentful energy, an object which can be used by any of his descendants. Any descendants, that is, who posses a particular affinity for demonic cultivation.”

HuaiSang feels his stomach turn, “The sword.”

“The sword,” the boy confirms, “Now, this is the interesting part of the story. The Empress, having grown up at court, did not have many trustworthy friends. But she did have three close confidants, two sworn brothers and a sister, peers she explicitly trusted. One of them, your father, was entrusted the sword. He was to place the sword in the Nie family's Ancestral Hall, where no descendent of YanLing DaoRen could lay their hands on it again. Can you guess what happened next?”

HuaiSang no longer cares that the boy can see his tight grip on the fan.

“Enlighten me,” he says coldly.

“Your father did not follow the Empress’ order,” Xue ChengMei grins brightly, “and who can blame him, truly? A young girl, not a full day in possession of the throne yet, asking him to hide such an object? If she were to lose her seat within a year, who would stand in the Nie Sect’s defense? Who would believe that the Nie Sect had obtained such an object for the sake of protecting the throne, instead of personal gain? You may think yourself a rare creature, Young Master Nie,” the boy winks again, “but I think you will find that the Nie Sect Leaders have always been pragmatists at heart.”

HuaiSang ignores the jab, his mind a whirlwind, “What did he do with the sword?”

The boy offers an exaggerated shrug, “Pawned it, sold it, given it away. What difference does it make?”

He is lying; HuaiSang knows this. He had made no effort to make it sound like the truth.

“How did you get it?”

“A friend gave to me,” Xue ChengMei says, blinking innocently through the bars.

“A friend who is still in the Immortal Mountain City?”

“Maybe,” the boy says, “Maybe not. Maybe he is no longer a friend. One cannot always trust those they call friends,” his grin is a sharp, sickly-sweet thing, “I believe this is a lesson the Emperor has yet to learn.”

HuaiSang wants nothing more than to take a hot, fragrant bath, and forget that he had ever spoken to this creature.

“You wanted the Emperor to become another YanLing DaoRen. To what purpose?”

“Wei WuXian would never be another YanLing DaoRen,” Xue ChengMei scoffs, “He would be so much more. A perfect vessel of destruction. A divine entity. Chaos personified.”

Well.

That answers that question.

HuaiSang taps his fan against his leg, thinking.

“Your attempts to eliminate the Lan Sect. You did not want the presence of those who can cleanse the Emperor of the resentful energy. But the Lan Sect is still here. The Emperor will recover. Your plan has failed.”

Xue ChengMei does not seem upset by the revelation, “Plans fail on occasion. There is always tomorrow.”

“You must have a great deal of confidence in your friend, who is maybe no longer a friend, if you intend to live long enough to see tomorrow.”

The boy only smiles in response.

It is an empty threat.

HuaiSang hates making empty threats.

A Jin Sect disciple cannot meet an accidental death in the Immortal Mountain City dungeons; not unless HuaiSang means to cause a diplomatic disaster. The situation at court is still too tense, too fragile for such heavy-handed solutions.

HuaiSang also cannot reveal the reasons for Xue ChengMei’s imprisonment. Such an accusation would result in a swift death, with no opportunity to draw out the accomplices he must have in the Immortal Mountain City.

No, the boy is infinitely more useful alive, although it sets HuaiSang’s teeth on edge to have this creature anywhere near Wei Ying.

There are many more questions he could ask, but the smell is unbearable, and for the time being, he has the majority of the answers he needs. The boy’s revelations may have been sparse and unpleasant, but HuaiSang has never needed all the pieces of a tangram to discern its shape.

Only when he is climbing the stone steps, does one particular sentence come back to him with full force, and he finds himself shaking his head in disbelief.

Chaos personified. As if Wei Ying had ever needed a demonic sword to be worthy of such a title.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #ficlet #m #wwx emperor au #okay so i mixed up the order last time #this is xue yang's creepy story time #wangji's pov is next #ily chickens

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boomkloppthesoundofmyheart · 3 years

Text

Carraville Fic AU

Title: the heart and mind are the true lens of the camera

Summary: On the eve of his departure, Gary thinks about the people he will be leaving behind.

“Look and think before opening the shutter. The heart and mind are the true lens of the camera.”— Yousuf Karsh

Gary scanned his London bedroom. The room looked bare, all his belongings stowed away in boxes and suitcases. The only evidence left that he once lived there was his still neatly made bed, waiting to be slept on for one last night.

It was his last day in London, for God knows how long. Tomorrow he leaves for New York to start a new chapter in his life. Phil had moved there years ago and has been living a good life for himself as a lawyer.

Gary craved a new challenge, so he hit his brother up one day and asked if there was room for one more Neville in New York City. With help from his younger brother, he spent the last several months getting his Visa and law license set up in America. Now, everything is finalized and he is eager to leave.

Not to say that he wasn’t going to miss anything here. He'll miss the rest of his family. They were devastated when they found out he's leaving the country as well. But they came around to the idea when they reasoned at least Phil won't be alone anymore. He'll have his big brother with him again.

Then, there's his friends. He'll miss them terribly, too. He'll miss Scholesy throwing him one of his famous glares as he leaves crumbs all over their notes. He'll miss listening to Giggsy and Butty arguing over which evidence to present first.

And he'll miss Becks mothering him when he's worked too hard, making sure he takes a break because "you getting sick won't help our client, Gaz."

He'll miss all his friends.

A crash of pots and pans followed by a curse brings Gary out of his thoughts.

Except one probably.

He's kidding, of course. Gary will probably miss Jamie the most. He had been friends with him before he even met the rest of his friends at law school.

They had become an unlikely pair when Gary's family moved to Liverpool for his father's work when he was 15 years old. Being a Manc in Liverpool made it difficult to find friends. But one Scouser seemed up for the challenge. Ever since then, they had been inseparable.

When Gary moved down to London for law school, Jamie followed and established his photography business there.

Gary walks downstairs to the kitchen. "Everything alright here?"

"All good. Go relax or summat. I'll get dinner ready soon," Jamie waves him off.

"When will that be? I may be on my flight already and you'll still be here cooking."

"Fuck off." A middle finger was thrown at his direction before Jamie continues bustling around the kitchen.

Gary laughs as he makes himself scarce. He walks around their shared home, breathing in their small piece of London one last time.

He ended up in Jamie's home studio. The room was covered by Jamie's most prized photographs, images of both their families. It was Gary's favorite room in the whole house. Gary will never let Jamie know that. That will only stroke his ego more and he already gets that a lot from his clients.

He loves to work in the same room as Jamie. They don't need to speak to each other. They embrace the comfortable silence between them. Him and his paperwork on the couch. Jamie at his desk, eyes glued on the computer, jaw set. Moments surrounded by those photos and Jamie made Gary feel like they were teenagers again, just doing their homework at his place, their futures still ahead of them.

Now, he's about to leave his home away from home.

Gary is about to leave his friend that made leaving home easier in the first place.

The friend who didn't give it a second thought when Gary said, "Come with me."

He just told Gary, "I thought you'd never ask." His camera and clothes were packed soon after that and he was ready to follow Gary anywhere without any solid plans for his own future.

Gary walked over to Jamie's desk and sat in his chair. He rarely gets to see Jamie's portraits until it was done. He always makes sure that his computer was off. Today though, Jamie has left his screen unlocked, giving Gary free rein to go through his photographs.

He scrolls through different folders, each titled with his famous celebrity clients' names. He's seen most of them. What catches his eye was a folder that was just titled, "him."

Gary doubles click on the folder and was surprised to see tons of photos of him. Some of the pictures of him he was aware of. Sometimes he'd help Jamie test out the lighting in his studio before his clients come.

There were photos of him taken as far back as to when they were teenagers.

The oldest photo in the file was of him, Phil, and Tracey. Jamie had just been gifted his first camera and given them the honor of being the first ones he took a picture of. He doesn't really know if he should believe Jamie. The Scouser was notorious for being the flatterer.

Others were candid photos of him.

There was a photo of him and Phil, watching a university football match. He remembers that night. Gary had invited him to come, but Jamie was late. Punctuality was not his strongest suit when they were younger; Gary pinned his tardiness to that. Now, he's seeing the real reason. Jamie had been busy taking pictures of him and Phil, enjoying the match.

He scrolls further down the folder. There's another photo of him with Phil. This time it was when they were interns in the same case. They were walking out the courthouse, looking defeated, well because they did lose their case. He had confided to Jamie the night before the verdict that he didn't think they were going to get their client acquitted. It was no surprise to see his friend waiting there, ready to take his mind off the case.

That's just how Jamie was. He knows when Gary needed him.

I wonder what it'll be like in New York without him. He shakes his head. I have Phil. I won't be alone.

Gary clicks on another photo. This one was more recent. It looked like it was taken from their backyard when they had his farewell party. He was clearly talking to someone, with who, he doesn't recall nor could he tell because he was the focus of the photographs.

He was so engrossed with the photos that he does not hear Jamie come into the room. Gary was only made aware of his presence when Jamie spoke.

"Me dad always said, 'If you want to learn what someone fears losing, watch what they photograph.'"

Gary spins in the chair around and finds Jamie standing a few steps behind him.

"I thought it was just some pretentious artist bullshit, but I always found meself taking pictures of you. I guess there's some truth to it," Jamie shrugs. "I guess I had been always afraid of losing you."

Gary blinked. For once in his life, he could not find his voice. Like he said, Jamie had always been a charmer, but he knows this time he is being sincere. Words were never Jamie's medium of art; he likes his photos to do the talking for him.

He gets up from the chair and stands just in front of Jamie. Gary places a hand on Jamie's cheek, which he immediately leans into. "You don't have to lose me, J."

"I don't know about that. We lost Phil to America. The lad loves it there," Jamie chuckles tearfully. "Always busy, too. We never see him on this side of the pond...I'm just scared you won't come back to us either."

Gary was never one for making promises he can't keep.

Jamie was right. Phil was always busy and rarely had the time to fly back home. He doesn't want to break any promises especially if it's ones with Jamie.

"I wish you would have stopped me or let me know how you felt. I would have stayed here for you; I wouldn't have even given America a single thought."

"That'd be selfish of me if I had stopped you. I would never hold you back from your dreams." Jamie takes Gary's hand between both his own and kissed it.

Gary steps closer to Jamie. "You're part of my dreams, too."

"Ask me then." Jamie presses his forehead against Gary's.

Gary didn't need to ask for clarifications. So he asks, or rather, demands like he did those years ago. "Come with me."

Jamie smirks. "I thought you'd never ask." Unlike last time, Jamie closes the gap between them and kisses Gary.

Gary smiles against Jamie's lips. Now, he won't have to wonder how New York will be without Jamie by his side.

#carraville fics #carraville #jamie carragher #gary neville #phil neville #my posts #my edits #my football edits #my football gifs #my fics #carraville edit #carraville au #pinned post

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somerpmemes · 3 years

Text

Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist S1 Starters

Change as needed. More under the cut.

“Quick question: do you always have to play and sing your music that loud?”

“Why are you up so early anyways?”

“Oh, I didn’t go to bed.”

“So, you’re ready for this?”

“I just really don’t wanna screw this up.”

“Keeping it lean for the ladies.”

“I need to expand my horizons.”

“It was literally all you.”

“Now is not the time to be modest.”

“Let’s face it, the woman’s a narcissist.”

“Work your magic, feel the glory, in it to win it.”

“Well I’m not really comfortable with anything.”

“Alright, who wants some freshly delivered, slightly cold, mediocre pizza!”

“Could we maybe open a window or something?”

“They’re not that scary.”

“Are you sure this isn’t an elaborate teleportation device that will take me to an alternate universe?”

“I just wanna get this over with.”

“Is this supposed to be happening?”

“That sounds really sad.”

“Why are you singing right now?”

“Why would I sing to you? You don’t even like me.”

“Can I get you anything? Water? Vodka? Xanax?”

“Quick question: did you recently imbibe or inject anything that came from a “medicinal” type shop?”

“But I’m an open-minded person, I’m willing to roll with this.”

“Maybe you’re operating on a higher plane than the rest of us.”

“Child, I’m completely baked. Ain’t nothing going on in my head right now.”

“This is the first thing that I find remotely interesting about you.”

“Will we ever have joie de vivre?”

“My mom left me when I was young and my whole life has been a series of rejections from the opposite sex.”

“You sure you don’t hear that?”

“Let’s party like it’s 1978!”

“And you should really take everything I say when I’m high with a grain of salt.”

“That song is real dark.”

“Good music can make you feel things you can’t express in words.”

“Hey, not that I’m keeping tabs or anything but that’s like your fourth cup of coffee today.”

“That’s a whole lot of tmi I just spewed on you.”

“Who knows what other people are really thinking, right?”

“I’ve found in general death and dying tend not to be the best conversation starters.”

“If I show you something can you promise to keep it only between us?”

“This is the only thing that I can hold onto.”

“I’ve become a real expert on bottling my shame and pain and hiding it from the world.”

“Listen, I’m not an expert on this or anything but you can't just keep it in.”

“I should’ve been the one this happened to.”

“I think we’re just gonna have to stumble through it together. The blind leading the blind.”

“If you had the power to know what was going on in other people’s heads, do you think you’d feel guilty?”

“I’m going to be uncharacteristically honest with you so don’t get used to it.”

“I notice everything.”

“I just feel like everyone’s against me.”

“Two more hours and I would’ve gotten it, just saying.”

“There’s gonna be good days and bad days, remember? Let’s chalk this up to one of the good ones.”

“Mama needs an update.”

“No, no, don’t be flattered.”

“I view you more as a social experiment, like a rat running through a maze.”

“Sounds bougie, I’m in.”

“I'm not in trouble, am I?”

“Bottom line, please?”

“You’re yelling, bro.”

“I’m acting weirder than normal?”

“Believe it or not I didn’t really play any sports growing up.”

“This power is wasted on you!”

“Is this weird? This feels weird.”

“I gotta say, I am loving the energy.”

“I’m pretty sure nobody cares.”

“Any desire to tell me what this is all about?”

“Of course I know that song, it’s a very famous song. Do YOU know that song?”

“With great power comes a lot of nasty stuff don’t nobody wanna do.”

“I’m not NOT mortified right now.”

“Please tell me your day was better than mine.”

“Do I need to hide all of my breakables?”

“I can’t cook. You should see the inside of my fridge.”

“I guess we’ve just breezed right past the whole “knocking-and-waiting-for-the-other-person-to-answer” phase.”

“When I get inspired no doors will stand in my way.”

“Creative. Absolutely terrifying..”

“Could be cool. Could be confusing. Could be both. Let’s see.”

“And I’m kinda obsessed with you.”

“Door’s always open, honey.”

“So could everyone please act as if they care?”

“I haven’t breathed outside air in over forty-three hours.”

“Why did we come up with this stupid, stupid plan?”

“Dolly Parton is my spirit animal.”

“There are lots of reasons why people are unsatisfied, ___. 80% of it is sex related.”

“Do you just make these statistics up?”

“I’m gonna keep this one simple.”

“The only place I’m comfortable dancing is in my bedroom… closet.”

“Don’t ever say that again.”

“First of all, that’s terrible grammar.”

“I was a drum major in high school and that mess would not have been tolerated.”

“I have always found it helpful to vent when I’m feeling dissatisfied.”

“I don’t vent, I scream into a pillow.”

“You dress like a docent at a folk art museum.”

“Wow, we’re still talking about this?”

“___, are you growing as a person?”

“And the good news is I’ve been banned from the grocery store.”

“There’s been a radical shift in the way I perceive the world, you wouldn’t understand.”

“There is nothing in the world that I love more than your smile. But not if it isn’t real.”

“Don’t make this into a thing right now.”

“That term hasn’t been used in well over a decade.”

“I can see your side eye.”

“You can take the fifth and stop telling me about it.”

“Do you know anything about faith at all?”

“I think we might be vibing again.”

“Are you sure that everything’s okay with you because I feel like maybe it’s not.”

“See, that whole “leap of faith” thing really doesn’t work for me.”

“Empathy is a wonderful gift to have.”

“I have faith. You should too.”

“I recognize your tiny footsteps.”

“Okay, that’s enough gaping at the shut in for one day.”

“I swear this is the last one.”

“Why so secretive?”

“I am very aware of what a duet is.”

“Why do I even answer the phone this early?”

“My brain does not like functioning until night o’clock.”

“What’s the good of bad news if you can’t share it?”

“I love barely meeting expectations!”

“Is it great? Feels not so great.”

“I think you’re crushing it, that’s all that matters.”

“You two would be great in a female cop show.”

“Something’s going on with you, I can tell.”

“How do you do that? Really see me. No one else has the ability.”

“I’m just not used to negative feedback.”

“Care to tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Can I take a picture? I’m gonna take a picture.”

“Uh oh. Don’t tell me you’re depressed too.”

“My body’s doing all sorts of disgusting things to me like making liquid appear in my eyes.”

“It’s too gutless, it’s too passive-aggressive. I like aggressive-aggressive.”

“I just feel like I’m failing.”

“Why do you put so much pressure on yourself?”

“Wow. I just got a window into your soul and, baby, it is not a place I wanna visit.”

“Did you know I once stared at the ocean for literally seven hours?”

“How about you lead the way and I’ll just holler if I need any medical assistance?”

“You’d tell me if you weren’t good, right?”

“So, tell me some good news please.”

“Thank you for not trying to fix me or make me feel better. Thanks for just being real.”

“Why are you smirking?”

“Sometimes I just feel like I can’t do anything right.”

“Someone sounds like they’re in a good mood.”

“The world is waiting, so am I.”

“I have no interest in hanging around a bunch of 20-somethings talking about artisanal beer all night.”

“___, this is a classy affair. Of course they’ll be pigs in a blanket.”

“Now it’s time for a makeover which is literally my favorite thing to do.”

“No matter how hard I try I just never say the right thing.”

“At least let me help you accessorize.”

“I gotta admit this is kinda fun.”

“Now they just taste like water.”

“Who do we know with a hot tub?”

“You are super fun. Like sloppy, dance on a bar fun.”

“I might also be drunk.”

“I’m a mess… and emotional… also vodka.”

“Life doesn’t always go as planned. It just doesn’t.”

“Is it weird that I want one of those?”

“Yeah, nothing good happens after someone sings that song.”

“I hate when people assume I know their names.”

“So, you’re attractive and talented.”

“I can’t believe that happened, and how quickly…”

“If there’s something going on I’d love all our friends to hear about it.”

“You should probably leave this party before you burn something else down.”

“That’s almost funny.”

“I need that thing more than you’ve ever needed anything in your entire life and I’m ready to fight you for it if you make me.”

“I wouldn’t trust myself to ride that thing sober let alone now still halfway drunk.”

“The last thing I want to hear from you is another apology.”

“I really need to be mad at you right now.”

“Are you crying?”

“What? I’m not allowed to get emotional at a superhero movie? Lives were lost, ___. Ethical questions were raised!”

“He only responds in one letter. ‘K’? Who does that?”

“Just— let’s talk about you.”

“It’s hard to accept that I can’t do this all on my own anymore.”

“Wouldn’t peg you for a food court guy.”

“We are gonna be ultra professional from now on.”

“What’s the crisis? Did I cause it?”

“Can you believe it?! ...apparently you can and perhaps already knew?”

“___, are you okay? You look paler than usual.”

“You okay? You look shaken.”

“But I feel great and I’m gonna be totally fine.”

“Can you google that for me?”

“Are you seriously hiding from me?”

“I listen to true crime to calm myself.”

“Look, we both know I’m not good with feelings or emotions.”

“Mad respect for your pun game.”

“Men don’t check on men in bathrooms, it’s not a thing.”

“Well now I know you’re telling the truth because no one would ever lie about doing something that heartless.”

“Were we ever even friends at all?”

“Real friends have hard conversations. They owe it to each other.”

“I’m gonna get deep for a hot second so bear with me.”

“Stuff like this has been going on for a while now. You wanna tell me what’s up?”

“You’re starting to seem like a liability, man.”

“What’s the point of rising if we can’t do it together?”

“Here to pour salt on my wounds?”

“It’s all coming from a place of love.”

“It is not exactly what I expected but I’m rolling with it.”

“Watch how fast I nail this.”

“Are we talking witchcraft or just shameless career advancing?”

“I’ve got a super chill brain that never needs calming, so…”

“Was I just singing out loud?”

“Am I going crazy? I feel like I am. I mean, I don’t know what crazy feels like but I feel like this is it.”

“That’s… bad.”

“Are you fine? I mean, I know you’re not fine but…”

“Can you schedule your nervous breakdown for another day?”

“In solving one problem I’ve created another.”

“I… I don’t know why that happened.”

“Okay, yes, I’ll admit I’m in a good mood but it’s for completely unrelated reasons.”

“Okay, this is getting worse by the second.”

“I apologize in advance for whatever’s about to come out of mouth.”

“I'm really sorry. Just know, it’s not me, it’s my body.”

“That’s such a strange way to phrase that.”

“There you go, now you know. Hey, that rhymed.”

“I will go to the supermarket… one day.”

“I ruined my entire life yesterday.”

“I just call that uninspired.”

“Honestly, I think I’m broken.”

“What exactly is going on here? A creative inspiration or a massive cry for help?”

“I’m broken and I’m gonna die alone.”

“How do you go through all that suffering and not let it break you?”

“I don’t know what to do. And it’s tearing me up inside.”

“Hurt people hurt people.”

“I think it’s best if you don’t look at me or worry about and focus on what I’m thinking or feeling.”

“It can be challenging sometimes, knowing the right way and the wrong way to care for somebody.”

“Well, it’s the almost-thought that counts.”

“That’s a terrible surprise face.”

“I think it’s finally time I focus on my own happiness for a change.”

“I don’t want to talk. Lord knows that we’ve done enough talking.”

“I’m exhausted. And exhilarated. And thoroughly depleted.”

“Stay aloof, reveal nothing, keep small talk down to a minimum.”

“You’ve been there for me, I wanna be there for you.”

“Don’t smile at me, I don’t wanna look at your sad, appreciative eyes.”

“What? He’s hot, I’m weak, you do the math.”

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a hoodie before.”

“This would be a great place to murder someone, huh?”

“So, who’s ready to talk about death?”

“It doesn’t have to go down like this, ___.”

“You can only postpone the inevitable for so long.”

“In moments like these sometimes you have to haul out the big guns.”

“Someone better be dead or dying, I’m not in the mood.”

“I am worried. This is how I compensate.”

“I find you charming and disturbing, like a Pomeranian wearing a tutu.”

“I go big or go home.”

“Death is hideous and ugly and grotesque and wildly, wildly unfair.”

“Believe me, I’m not doing well but I’m not doing that badly either.”

“I guess we gotta face the music sometime, right?”

#zep #zoey's extraordinary playlist #rp #rp meme #rp starters #starters #sentence starters #sentence starter meme #ask meme

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subbyp · 3 years

Text

the phantom thieves krewe’s opinions of each other, at least at the point I am in the game

--Ren--

Skull: High school relationships never last, sin-eaters shouldn’t get too attached to life, and it’s a terrible idea to confess to your best friend. I just have to keep reminding myself of that.

Mona: My conscience-in-a-box, complete with nagging. You’d think my geist, if anyone, would fill that role, but no.

Panther: I don’t know why she finds my advice so valuable, but I’m glad I can help her be who she wants to be.

Fox: He’s got an amazing talent and I’m proud to be his friend, but the man is a hot mess, emphasis on both hot and mess.

Queen: She’s already the best of all of us.

--Ryuji--

Joker: What can I say? He’s my guy! We’re each other’s right hand men for life! That doesn’t sound like totally gay, does it?

Mona: He’s the guy who made the krewe what it is and I owe him for that, but he needs to get off my freakin’ back.

Panther: When I was a kid, I dreamed of getting this close to her, but now that it’s happened she’s feeling more like my sister every day.

Fox: One weird fuckin’ dude, but in the best way.

Queen: Smart, hot, badass enough to do all that magic shit, and rides a motorcycle?? She’s totally the perfect woman.

--Morgana--

Joker: He’s a sweet kid, and I try, I really do, but sometimes I just don’t get waking world people.

Skull: If he wasn’t such a good person I wouldn’t even bother with him.

Panther: What could I say about the wonderful, brilliant, gorgeous Lady Ann that could ever do her justice?

Fox: In another timeline, he’s definitely a changeling.

Queen: The only other truly living person on the krewe. I really respect her, but sometimes I feel like she’s muscling in on my turf.

--Ann--

Joker: He listened to me when nobody else would, and I owe him everything for that.

Skull: It’s surreal. Like, yesterday I was eight and dodging his spitballs, and today I’m seventeen and in some sort of undead soul family with him.

Mona: His crush is flattering, but I like my guys a lot less furry.

Fox: I used to be completely creeped out by him, but I’m glad we got past that.

Queen: She’s the kind of woman I want to be someday.

--Yusuke--

Joker: Quiet observation and considered critique is the most valuable gift an artist can receive.

Skull: Without the unschooled eye of the outsider, art would die of its own purity--but does he have to epitomize the hoi polloi quite so much?

Mona: I don’t know him well enough to have an opinion on him, but his seats are comfortable.

Panther: As Conan Doyle wrote, “It may be that you are not yourself luminous but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power for stimulating it.” (And I’d like her to note that this proves that I have irrefutably read “something newer than the Heian period.”)

Queen: We’re kindred spirits. There’s a reason magic is referred to as the “mystic arts.”

--Makoto--

Joker: I can be in doubt around him, and that makes him an extraordinary friend.

Skull: I probably should have told him that I’m a lesbian a long time ago, but I’d feel like such a heel.

Mona: Fae creatures are so different from humans, but Mona makes sense in his own way.

Panther: Am I doing “girl talk” properly?

Fox: I like him, but he proves it’s possible for one to be too sophisticated.

#p5r #phantom thieves krewe au #someday I'm gonna make actual content of this au but I fear today is not that day

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captainlilyuniverseworld · 4 years

Text

Happy Birthday Sam

Title: Happy Birthday Sam

Square Filled: CEO AU

Ship: Sam Wesson/Dean Smith

Tags: CEO AU, Smith/Wesson AU, CEO!Sam, HR!Dean, Sick!Dean, Based on It’s A Terrible Life with a few changes.

Summary: It’s CEO of Sandover Publishing, Sam Wesson’s birthday. Dean’s home sick and Sam got a few fires to put out at work, but they still manage to spend some time together.

Word Count: 2115

Created for: @spnaubingo

AN: I went over this thing about five times so any mistakes are mine. Enjoy!

Happy Birthday Sam

“Happy birthday Mr. Wesson.”

Sam jumped startled as Becky appeared in front of him with a card. “I took the liberty of having everyone in the office sign a birthday card for you.”

“Thanks, Becky…” Sam awkwardly took the card from her.

“Hard to believe you’re turning thirty-six today, you hardly look a day over twenty-eight,” she added.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “...How do you know I’m turning thirty-six?”

She blushed and tapped her headset. “Sandover Publishing House. How may I direct your call?” She gave Sam an apologetic smile before she hurried off back to the receptionist’s desk.

He shook his head and walked down the hall to his office. He flipped on the lights as he stepped inside and went over to his desk with the intention of turning on his computer and paused when he saw the flowers on his desk. It was a mixed bouquet and lavender and orange roses tied together with a bow in a clear vase.

Sam picked up the small card attached to the vase and read the small note. Happy Birthday was written on the card in neat calligraphy. He tucked the card back in amongst the flowers and looked up at the knock on his door.

“Morning Rowena,” he smiled at the older woman. “No Dean this morning?”

“Poor dear’s at home sick as a dog,” she answered. “He wanted to make sure you took a look at the candidates for the assistant head of IT position. Though we both agree Miss Bradbury is the best choice for the job.”

“Well at least he took his sick days this time instead of trying to work through it like before,” Sam told her.

He flipped through the files Rowena had given him and then handed them back. There was a green tab sticky on the second file, usually Dean’s indication who would be the best fit. Red was ‘No way in hell’ and yellow meant ‘with a little work they’d be good’.

“If Dean says she’d be a good fit, then give her a call and schedule a drug test and background check,” Sam told her. “I trust his judgment. He hired me after all.”

“Wonderful, we’ve already got her scheduled for next Monday,” Rowena told him. “Oh, and before I forget. I left you a little something in your second drawer. Happy birthday Sam.”

He started to protest but she was already gone. He sighed and opened the second drawer of his desk and saw a gold gift bag. He peeked inside and saw an assortment of various candles. He made a mental note to send her a thank you card.

Sam reached for his phone as it started ringing and leaned back in his chair

“Wesson speaking,” he answered.

“I can’t do it.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Can’t do what Chuck?”

"I can't do it. Speak in front of all those people, what am I supposed to say?" The man asked. "What if I say the wrong thing? What if they don’t like the new book?”

"You'll be fine Chuck," Sam told him. "It's a simple interview. Answer a couple of questions, announce the publication date for the new book. Take some pictures with a few fans, you'll be home by 9 pm to chat with Mistress Magda."

"Okay," the man took a deep breath. "Okay. Thanks, Sam...and Happy Birthday. I uh, I forgot to get you a gift."

"Don't worry about it," Sam answered.

He hung up and turned his attention to be his email to get started on work. He was tempted to shoot Dean and email and see how the other man was doing. Even if he was home sick, Dean was a workaholic at heart.

He grabbed his phone as it started ringing again.

“You’ll be fine Chuck, ” Sam said by way of greeting.

“...It’s Cas..” Castiel replied.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sam apologized. “Chuck called about his interview, but that’s not important. What’s up?”

“There was an issue with the printers,” Castiel answered. “The book covers, they’re uh…” he trailed off awkwardly.

“I’m on my way,” Sam told him.

He hung up and made his way down to the receiving bay. Castiel was at one of the tables with one of the large boxes of books open, a few stacked next to him, and packing peanuts on the floor.

“What’s the problem Cas?” Sam asked

Castiel wordlessly handed Sam one of the books and Sam snorted as he looked at the cover

“...At least it’s tasteful?” Sam added.

“We can not put these on the shelves, no matter how...tasteful,” Castiel replied. “Adler would have a fit. He’s still upset about that petition that went around a few months ago when we announced the reprinting of books 1-5.”

“Adler can suck on a lemon,” Sam said bluntly. “How many were printed?”

“Just a couple hundred for Chuck’s book signing on Saturday,” Castiel answered. “I tried to call the printers, but there was no answer.”

“Of course there wasn’t,” Sam sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. “Just...put these in my office for now. I’ll go over to the printers and see if I can’t give Lucifer a kick in the ass.”

Castiel nodded and started to put the books back in the box. “Oh, and happy birthday Sam. Did the flowers survive the night okay?”

“The roses? They weren’t delivered this morning?” Sam asked.

“Last night,” Castiel answered. “I saw them outside your door, so I put them in your office before I went home last night. Someone must like you.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“Well, lavender roses usually mean that someone has a crush on you. And Orange means that they’re proud of you. So whoever got them for you must like you and the man that you are. Or they just liked the color combination,” Castiel answered.

“Thanks...I think,” Sam nodded and went back to his office to grab his keys.

He drove to the printers and followed the sound of loud rock music to the offices on the second floor. He turned off the stereo and dropped one of the books on Lucifer’s desk.

“Real mature Lucifer. What’d you do? Find some fan art online and switch out the real picture we sent over?” Sam crossed his arms over his chest.

“Like it’s that different from the actual cover photo,” Lucifer smirked.

“You know this is illegal right? What if these had made their way to the bookstore instead? Sandover could’ve been sued by the original artist,” Sam told him.

“Cas would’ve caught it, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Lucifer rolled his eyes. “I’ve already got Crowley printing out the books with the right covers. You’ll have them tomorrow afternoon you fuddy-duddy.”

“You are a monumental pain in my ass you know that?” Sam said.

“Who? Me?” Lucifer smiled innocently. “By the way, this is for you.”

He set a wrapped bottle on the table and Sam picked it up cautiously. “What is it?”

“Just open it would you,” Lucifer told him.

Sam tore off the paper and raised an eyebrow at the bottle of tequila. “If you find your new age hard to swallow just add some tequila.” He read off the note that was taped onto the bottle.

“Consider it a birthday gift from me and Crowley,” Lucifer added.

"Thanks," Sam smiled a bit. "...and it was a little funny. But please refrain from trying to get my place of work sued."

"Yeah yeah yeah," Lucifer waved his hand dismissively.

Sam turned the stereo back on, on his way out, and drove back to work.

"Happy birthday Sammy." Gabriel thrust a small wrapped package into his hand. "Don't open it till you're alone okay." He winked and walked off.

Sam shook his head as he walked back to his office and set the tequila and Gabriel's present on the coffee table. He turned his computer back on and pulled up the website from the café that was down the street to order his lunch.

He looked up at the knock on his office door and saw one of the delivery people from the café.

"Turkey BLT and medium Caeser salad with a strawberry banana smoothie?" The guy asked as he read off the receipt.

"Uh...yeah…" Sam stood up and went to meet him. "But I didn't, I haven't even ordered yet."

"Looks like someone bought you lunch," the younger man said.

Sam took the food and tipped the guy before he went back to his desk. He looked at the roses, and at his lunch. He wasn't sure if he should be flattered or weirded out. He was too hungry to care and he dug into his lunch. He picked up Gabriel's gift and unwrapped it.

From the man that brought you Casa Erotica, the novelization comes a new series set in the steamy world of office romances. Featuring Dan Hanson and Sean Blythe.

Sam grabbed his phone and called Gabriel.

"Did you write an erotic novel about me and Dean?" Sam asked when the line picked up.

"Don't flatter yourself, Sam. Sure Dan's got your build and maybe Sean's got Dean's boyish charm, but that is where all similarities end," Gabriel told him.

"You realize if Dean sees this he is going to massacre you," Sam replied.

"Guess it’s a good thing Deano’s home sick today,” Gabriel mused before he hung up.

Sam hid the manuscript in the bottom drawer of his file cabinet and locked it for extra measure. He’d get rid of it later...after he read it. He pulled up the highlights from the previous night’s football game and used it as background noise as he ate his lunch and finished going through his emails.

He was getting ready to throw the trash away when he saw a message typed out in the notes section of the receipt for his lunch.

Enjoy the rabbit food Rapunzel. Don’t work to hard, it is your birthday after all.

He smiled and knew exactly who’d gotten him the flowers and his lunch.

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

Sam hoped it wasn’t too late as he rode the elevator to the third floor. He had a bag of takeout in one hand and a few movies in the other. He stepped off the elevator once it reached the third floor. He shifted the movies to his other hand as he knocked on the apartment marked 3F and smiled when Dean answered the door.

He was wearing an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt with a pair of sweats and a large thick comforter wrapped around him.

“Sam?” He asked hoarsely. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to say thank you for the flowers, and for lunch,” Sam answered.

He couldn’t tell if Dean blushed or if his face was red because it was sick.

“Although you didn’t have to do that,” Sam added.

Dean shrugged a little. “I wanted to do something nice for your first birthday together...I would’ve baked you a cake but vertigo’s a bitch.” He broke off with a cough. “I’m glad you liked the flowers though. I almost went with red but it seemed a bit to cliché, and I didn’t want you to think Becky got them for you.”

“Shockingly Becky was pretty tame today,” Sam told him. “I went by that deli you like and picked up some of their chicken noodle soup. I also rented us a few movies, I would’ve liked to use the gift certificate Adler gave me for a way too overpriced steak, but we can go when you’re feeling better.”

“Sam...you really don’t want to spend your birthday night with a sick person,” Dean started to protest.

“Well, considering it’s my birthday, you don’t really get a say of who I get to spend it with now do you?” Sam asked. “Now get your ass back on the couch.”

“Don’t make me laugh, my throat feels like sandpaper,” Dean told him.

Sam walked into the apartment and shut the door behind him while Dean tried to clean up around the couch. Sam got one of the movies set up and grabbed a bowl for the soup, and joined him on the couch.

“Happy birthday Sam,” Dean told him. “I promise next year will be a lot better.”

“You know? All things considered, this one turned out to be pretty good,” Sam replied as he got comfortable.

“You wouldn’t happen to know why Gabriel asked me to pick between Sean and Sheene would you?” Dean asked as he ate his soup.

“Nope, no idea,” Sam answered.

“Such a weird little man,” Dean mused as Sam wrapped an arm around him.

#@spnaubingo #supernatural #Sam Winchester #dean winchester #sam wesson #dean smith #gabriel #castiel #lucifer #rowena #CEO!AU #CEO!Sam #Head of HR Dean #smith/wesson #sam and dean #sam/dean

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asocier · 4 years

Text

interaction guide for alison!

last edited: april 6th, 2021

***please be sure to read the note at the end of this guide pertaining to interactions with alison as a muse!***

alison is a complex muse. for the most part, i’d say she is pretty flexible with some limitations ( more on that in the note at the end of this guide ). slice of life plots, romantic/friendship plots, and generally lighthearted interactions are the easiest to start with alison, though angst certainly has its place as well under the right conditions. while alison is very kind, very loving, and overall a fairly soft type of muse, she is also incredibly strong ( not necessarily in a physical sense unless we’re talking about her spy verse ) and, in main verse, will not take kindly to being treated like a pushover. this is important to keep in mind so as to not baby alison and overlook the fact she has gone through a lot to get where she is now.

fashion-related plots — in her main verse, alison is employed by her aunt as a designer for her aunt’s clothing line. it’s not a huge label, but it’s fairly noteworthy, so alison gets to experience quite a significant chunk of the fashion world. as part of her job, she also assists in fashion shows and travels quite frequently to different cities, and in her free time, she runs an art and fashion blog and dabbles in sewing at home. needless to say, fashion inspires alison a lot, so meeting other muses who are involved in the fashion industry or who are also interested generally in fashion would be a nice way for alison to meet them. fashion plots aren’t limited to main verse, either — in high school and in post-high school verse, she’s always looking for ways to make a little extra cash, so if a good opportunity arises, she’ll take it. some ideas below include scenarios where your muse:

works in the fashion industry and meets alison on a business trip ( airport thread anyone? )

is part of a fashion show staff or is a model that works closely with alison ( imagine your muse wearing something alison designed though :weeps: )

needs their outfit tailored. this can be professionally, for example, alison doing part time work as a tailor to make a little extra cash, or casually, like alison is a friend your muse knows can sew and so they ask her to tailor as a favor.

just needs some fashion advice for a big date/event/job interview so they ask alison for input. on the same vein, alison can be your muse’s personal stylists as a job too !!

works in the same office as alison at the fashion firm and collaborates with her on a design

works in the same office as her and just hates her because your muse thinks she got handed everything to her bc the ceo of the company is her aunt

asks alison to design something for them, whether that be an outfit for a special occasion ( prom dress, wedding dress, suit, costume, ect ) or something for a fashion show!

art/music/photography related plots — fashion and art go hand-in-hand when it comes to alison’s inspirations and big interests. she dabbles in a lot of hobbies, and while she’ll go through phases where one interest may wane while the other waxes, painting, playing the piano, and taking photographs are three big hobbies that will always be close to her heart. my favorite plots involve alison being able to express herself creatively through her artwork, and allowing another muse to see her artwork is a fairly intimate interaction tbh just because alison doesn’t usually share much about her hobbies to others aside from “oh yeah, i do x,y,z for fun sometimes.” some plots under this category involve scenarios where your muse:

talks to alison about shared interests such as watercolors, sketching, photography, or music ( specifically piano )

encounters alison while she’s painting, drawing, playing the piano, or taking pictures. photography especially is a big one since she runs her fashion and art blog, and i wouldn’t put it past her to run like a food/travel instagram either so she’s always taking photos !!

asks alison to take their photo ( or a photo of them and their crew ) just because they can’t do it themselves and surprise it turns out alison takes some bomb ass photos

is alison’s art muse. this can be that they pose for a sketch/painting or, if we wanna get interesting, your muse actually allowing alison to paint on their body since i headcanon that alison experiments with body art to make some really powerful creations before photographing the model to add to her portfolio.

asks alison to be their art muse ( which, would get her v flustered bc she never thought she’d be someone’s muse, ever. but she’d also be very flattered ).

gets piano lessons from alison

asks alison to take pictures for their prom/wedding/graduation/just because they want a photoshoot !!!!

asks alison to play piano for their super special fancy event that has live music !!!!

post-high school verse plots ( trigger warnings may be applicable ) — post-high school is where the bulk of alison’s time as a sex worker is spent, either when she’s with her ex-boyfriend grant or after they broke up since she continues to do sex work to support herself even after she leaves him. sex work for alison includes a variety of activities including prostitution, escorting, and sugaring ( being a sugar baby ), so plots in this verse are not limited to sexual encounters. in fact, i’ve had a lot of fun discussing with other muns plots and relationships that started out in a post high school setting but evolved into a new canon for alison where she finds her footing and breaks away from sex work in a manner different from her actual canon!! in other words, post-high school verse is the point in alison’s life where significant events can really change the course of alison’s life, so interesting things can really come out of interactions started in this verse. this verse does canonically have a lot of triggers due to the nature of alison’s relationship with grant, but we definitely don’t have to delve into that dark side if you don’t want to <3 some plot ideas under this category involve scenarios where your muse:

is one of alison’s clients ( regular or first time ). being a client of alison’s is such a broad plotting point with so many possibilities that i’m just going to put some plot bunnies all in this bullet point: 1) it can be an instance of your muse paying alison to be their first sexual encounter for whatever reason you choose; 2) a misunderstanding where someone else paid alison to come visit your muse but your muse actually has no interest in sex with her. but maybe they could just hang out with her maybe? gives more sustenance to the plot than her just going home lmao but if she did go home it’s possible this mishap is a conversation starter when they meet again someplace else! 3) your muse could also just be really nice to alison and their encounters start to blur the lines between business, a casual relationship, and something romantic. in any case, they spend a lot of time with each other, so they get to know each other real well. again, can be romantic or no strings attached, though the latter will probably be difficult for alison in the long run. 4) your muse and alison regularly hang out and chat in exchange for payment or gifts; why your muse decides to pay for company is up to you. this plot has potential for a very pure sugar baby relationship, no sex needed. 5) tries to be a savior and financially supports alison so she doesn’t have to do sex work anymore, or at the very least, allow her more of a means to find her footing so that she can decide where she wants to take her life. these are just some ideas, but you’re never limited to them. a client/sex worker relationship doesn’t have to be a bad experience for either muses, and the basic idea i’m getting at is that the dynamic can be sexual or just your muse looking for company and some affection in exchange for money or some other gift. there’s definite possibility for platonic relations here since sugaring isn’t always sexual. whether or not grant is still in the picture can also impact this plot idea and change it radically too, so more options for you if you’d like!

is in need of a fake date/girlfriend. this can be a one time thing or a regular thing. to add onto this — if it’s a regular thing, a “breaking up” plot when alison decides to move on from being a sex worker is a possibility, and your muse can either handle this really well and support her decision to pursue something else, or they can freak out and things turn toxic because they become unhealthily attached and possessive of her.

attended the same university as alison and notices a few things. post-high school verse does include a short period in time in which alison is a university student, so it’s possible for your muse to have befriended her in a class, and as such, they might notice that she stops coming to class suddenly. they can then run into her a while later and asks her about it, or they can actually find out what kind of work she’s been doing somehow while attending school despite alison telling your muse she does something else.

talks a lot of shit about alison and spreads nasty rumors about her while she’s still enrolled in college, which kind of helps her find more clients but also just really negatively affects her image too ( and she confronts your muse about it )

high school verse plots ( trigger warnings may be applicable ) — high school verse holds the bulk of alison’s interactions with cedric and nate. this verse also has a lot of triggering details since quite frankly, cedric and nate are actually terrible people. heavy plots containing serious matters can come from this verse, but lighthearted school plots can also come from this verse! below are some some ideas in which your muse:

knows about how much of a asshole cedric is being to alison and tries to convince her to break up with him.

knows that nate is harassing/blackmailing alison and gets involved somehow.

protects alison during high school because bullies just love to pick on her for no reason, so they become her protector of sorts.

is one of alison’s bullies. can either run with the drama and use that to make life even more difficult for alison, or they can have a change of heart where they realize how much nate and cedric fucked over alison.

is one of alison’s close friends in high school; can be a classmate, an upperclassman, an underclassman, someone she only sees during clubs or at lunch.

is a teacher alison learns to trust and really confide in, especially when it comes to her life at home, her relationships, or her assault. can extend this plot idea out to older muses in general who alison may learn to trust!!

has a crush on alison uwu she may be dating cedric canonically, but we can work something out. it’s not like cedric was faithful to alison anyway—

royalty/aristocrat verse plots — alison does have a royalty verse with very, very, basic information fleshed out, but i’m not super attached to what’s written in her royalty verse. i mostly enjoy writing royalty threads with alison due to how regal she is in her mannerisms, so i really like writing her as someone with royalty status uwu. this sentiment can extend to plots where alison is some sort of aristocrat as well, but a rags to riches story ( or vice versa ) is also fun since that’s kind of what happens to alison and her family anyway in canon. so please consider plots in which your muse:

has a forbidden relationship with princess alison and the two of you have to keep it a secret and work through whether your relationship will last or not ( bodyguard/princess; princess/princess; princess/prince who isn’t the one she’s arranged with; princess/commoner )

is arranged to marry princess alison but she’s so anti-arranged marriage that she doesn’t even want to look at you let alone talk to you ( or the reverse — your muse just refuses to acknowledge alison )

holds the princess hostage for ransom ( could be money, could be something revolutionary like wanting the royal family to change laws to benefit the people )

helps alison conceive a child. as much as alison wants to have a child, conceiving a child can be incredibly difficult even under the best conditions, and with how much weight is put on a woman for conceiving the next heir, stress can make it even more difficult to conceive. so :eyes: how your muse helps her is up for discussion.

other verse/au/wishlist plots — in addition to royalty verse, alison also has an alternate verse, a werewolf verse ( note: this isn’t an abo/omegaverse setting even though i do draw elements from this verse ), and a spy verse. the wishlist tag is also another option if anything strikes your fancy!

alternate verse — this is a very general verse that essentially captures interactions in which the canon events of alison’s high school and post high school events do not happen. additionally, alternate verse alison was raised differently from canon alison such that she was not socialized to uphold traditional feminine gender roles. in other words, she was not discouraged from acting more tomboyish as a kid, and she was not raised in a strict environment that forced her to act a certain way and as such, alison’s trajectory in life is very different. alternate alison is more aggressive, more forward, and she can be a bit of a misandrist. she tends to be more social than canon alison in the sense that she’ll go clubbing, partying, and barhopping more readily, and her career path is a little less developed ( re: she’s not tied down to a fashion job and can take on all sorts of work depending on what makes sense for a thread ).

werewolf verse — a post explaining the basics of this verse can be found here! alison’s in this verse is a blend of canon and alternate alison in how she acts. because she was raised without a pack for most of her life, her only family being her brother, emile, alison learned to carry herself like an alpha even though she’s an omega, which leads to a lot of problems when she meets other, actual alphas who try to hit on her or take control. this is where alternate alison’s aggression can come in. on the contrary, canon alison’s maternal instinct and affectionate nature becomes apparent whenever werewolf alison decides to eventual settle with a serious partner, whether that be another werewolf she’s bonded with ( up to mun’s decision whether bonding is a thing in our thread ), or someone else she loves. i’d like to re-emphasize that this is not a true omegaverse even though i do categorize muses as alphas, omegas, or betas, mention bonding between werewolves, nesting, heat/rut, and the use of suppressants to control the severity of heat. the description of these topics, however, are very tame as the focus of this verse is not unhealthy power imbalances or plotless smut. this verse exists bc werewolves are cool, and also because the idea of bonding between partners is where i find the most interest since true bonding really embodies the “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until parted by death” sentiment in marriage vows except even to a more serious degree. so yeah — werewolves. have your werewolf meet mine. she can take care of yours or you know, keep them company.

spy verse — also known as handler and hound verse on this blog due to reasons. this is essentially an espionage verse in which alison is a rather high ranking field agent. she’s older in this verse than in canon ( 31 vs. 24, though her age in spy verse can vary depending on plot ), and is technically engaged to her agency assigned partner. this verse opens up the opportunity for morally grey muses to interact with her. the best way to learn more about this verse is to read this link which should outline all the details you should know about this verse’s setting, this link for a tl;dr ( not recommended ) and look through the verse tag for aesthetics and answered asks set in this verse!

miscellaneous plots — these are plots that don’t fall into a defined category for whatever reason ( mostly because they aren’t developed yet ) but i’d still love to explore them <3

future plot — i think about this a lot because i have such an immense love for alison, but i’ve headcanoned that once alison is older, she becomes a very big advocate for sex workers those who have been in domestically abusive relationships with a romantic partner. it takes her years to find the courage to share her story, but after years of volunteering at women’s shelters and doing charity work, she eventually finds her calling to take things a bit further. it’s possible your muse encounters alison during her volunteer work or while she’s a guest speaker sharing her story at some event. really though, i think it’d be interesting for muses to interact with alison when she’s a lot older since she’d have so much time at this point to process her trauma and, hopefully, seek the help she needs.

angel plot — alison is an angel and is very much one to stick by the rules and be good. a big contrast to leah’s angel verse in which leah is childish and does whatever the fuck she wants. angel alison is more experienced and is regarded as a good angel, but her curiosity about romantic love might get her into trouble.

childhood plot — alison is a tomboy who kicks ass; the older she is, the more feminine she’ll be ( unless it’s alternate alison, in which she only gets more aggressive ); your muse is an older muse or a fellow child who interacts with her ( male child muses beware! she’ll make you eat dirt if you aren’t nice to her or emile! )

single mother plot — this would straight up be a self-indulgent plot for me to be able to play alison as a mother. she absolutely adores kids, and while the circumstances in which she has a kid in this plot wouldn’t be ideal, she’d love her kid with all her heart, and this would allow your muse to help her raise her child, try for a romantic relationship with her, or maybe they’re the other parent??? just tossing thoughts around, i just really love alison as a mom :weep:

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now that you’ve made it to the end of the guide, please read this important note about alison before interacting with her!

tl;dr — please respect my muse and don’t force scenarios that would not make sense for her to be in on me. she’s a fairly flexible muse, but i will not ignore specific, canon, character traits just to make a plot work. i’m open to discussions regarding how to make an idea work ( which includes perhaps using one of alison’s other verses ), but please don’t assume. also read her character bio — this is a must ( trigger warnings are included ).

like i’ve said before, alison is a very complex muse. i’d like to think she’s a fairly flexible muse but with some limitations as a result of her experiences. if you’ve read alison’s biography ( which you should have, and in fact, i expect you to since it’s very crucial to her as a muse ), you’d know she has been through a lot of traumatic events. as such, she has developed certain mannerisms, tendencies, and thought processes as a result of what she has been through. these behaviors, such as being very wary of men when she’s alone with them in a setting that goes beyond a normal, casual interaction ( e.g. a man ringing her up at a cash register at a store ), are engrained in her character, and it takes a lot of time and trust building for her to change any behavioral patterns she may have.

i say this to preface the fact that if you have any plot ideas you’d like to share with me, please take into consideration whether it makes sense for alison in her canon verse if that’s the verse you’re interested in. canon alison, in short, is not the type to form casual, sexual relationships. if this is what you’re looking for, look elsewhere. there are exceptions to this, but these exceptions have involved a lot of plotting to make it work and make sense. i could say more on the matter, but for now, i’ll just say that alison behaves very different depending on what period of life she is in. as such, canon/main verse alison behaves differently than post-high school alison, who behaves differently than high school alison. alternate, werewolf, and spy verse alison behaves even more radically different than the former three. so you certainly have options if you’re really interested in a specific plot for alison! i’m very open to ideas, but i ask that you also respect my muse and what she’s been through as well since i’ve worked hard on her backstory.

#wishlist;#cw: long post

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sanerontheinside · 4 years

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Written for @caffeinewitchcraft‘s caffeine challenge!

[Prompt: A story told from the POV of someone who’s not part of the hero’s journey. No, their role is much worse. They’re the hero’s tragic backstory and they realize it a week before their death.]

He came to study with me in the winter, when the snows had crawled down from the caps and frozen and dried my garden. I wasn’t sure what he expected to learn from me, in this dormant time of year, before he knew his herbs and beetles. I told him so, and sent him down to the cellar to learn from the dried plants and the old books.

Not a single university-educated bone in the boy’s body. Which was partly just as well—those children think they know so much. But they only teach certain things at universities these days, and I’m not all that keen on teaching complex geometries myself. Then come the lunar orbits and the rotations of other celestial bodies nearby, and the interactions of plants, and drying and heating and—

And that’s if you’re lucky enough to find a student who knows the world does not revolve around them, but around a burning celestial flame. Alchemy is a complex art, built on everything at once. It’s the making of magic from science and maths, exploring the chaos within the order, and not the reverse. It isn’t for the faint of heart.

But he came with the recommendation of his village’s witch, a practical woman and an old friend. I suppose that’s the best I could expect, if I’d ever wanted a student.

(I didn’t).

She talked me into it anyway. In a letter. Awful wench, not even the decency to do it in person.

Addie has always had what I had not—a way with people, of inspiring trust and warmth. Or rather: one day I stopped trying, and discovered an immense freedom in speaking my mind. I lost my place as the court physician, and no longer had to curry to the whims of my betters. I lost my friends, and realised they’d never been friends to me at all.

I found Addie barely a month after that. I discovered the person I had once wanted to be, alive and well and thriving out in the great wide world, whereas I had felt throttled and sidelined since the day I came into the city.

He reminded me of you, she wrote. He sees that the world is broken and wants so very badly to fix it.

“And he thinks alchemy is the way to do that?” I muttered aloud in my kitchen.

Yes, he wants the power of this gift; he still thinks that power is the way to fix things. Yes, I know it should frighten me, you may keep your grumbly lecture.

I know you will not let him abuse your art.

Addie would never steer me wrong.

And she knew how to throw down a challenge, which certainly never hurt.

Her protégé was worthy of her praise. He learned fast, and he had a knack for it, much to my surprise. Instead of learning his herbs and beetles he sat that and charted and muttered and cross-referenced my many old books. Corrected half the Celestial Atlas in tiny marginalia. Found my old journals where I’d done my own calculations, and started studying those instead.

It is rare to have a student so willing and stubborn. Patient enough that he will wait for you to warm up to him, certain of his charm. He cared for my goats and chickens, kept my hearth clean, fixed my rickety gate and dusted the shelves. If nothing else, it was good to have the company.

And on late nights, the sky was high and clear, and he argued about the paths of the celestial flames with me, and argued about what it was that the gods were burning. Clever boy—I could see why Addie liked him. He told such fine stories, when he was finally sure I would listen.

He was hopeful. He was hopeful and certain and brilliantly clear in a way that I no longer was. He had a purpose and a belief, a fire lit from within. Sitting beside him on the long solstice nights, I felt like the cold of these mountain winters had seeped into my very bones. Or perhaps it was the cold and damp of the city and the king’s court, and I’d never really warmed through, even after all these years tending to my own, comfortable, clean fire.

Maybe he would burn strong enough for it to last. Maybe he could go out into the world, even down into the city, and light the way for better days. He was already so serious and so solemn, sometimes. He had the makings of that patient, constant force that whittles away stone and marks the passage of time with no more than an absent gesture.

And he made me miss one plucky village witch. Made me feel the way I had when I first met her, and realised that someone like her truly could exist. That unforgettable feeling, like filling your lungs full with air so cold and sharp and rarified that it feels like your heart might burst. They’ll be the death of me, I sometimes think, with their kind and solemn eyes, their unearthly patience.

Spring came, cold and grey and eerily still. I’d begun to send the boy out to the mountainsides, to investigate what enterprising young things had sprouted, what had braved the first thaw and would likely die the next frost, for Winter hadn’t quite finished with our corner of the world just yet. He wasn’t much for herbal lore, though I could tell Addie had tried to teach him.

We get few travelers in these parts; the ones who are lost rarely make it this far, and the locals try to avoid me. They’re not too overfond of mages, never mind that alchemists aren’t any such thing (well, only peripherally). A village witch succeeds in part because she can convince the villagers that she is harmless, and I have never been able to do any such thing.

They know. They only come to me when there is no one else to help them. A child sick with fever whom even the mages could not save, a plague among the cattle—these are the things that overcome the bounds of any fear.

I did not take the boy with me for this.

It was sheer misery: bitter cold and stillborn foals, cattle poisoned by polluted water. I was asked to do what even a mage couldn’t fix. There was one in the town’s inn, still, unwilling to give up or admit defeat. He looked haggard. It takes much from a being, tending to the fevered and the ailing.

But where a mage goes to the cattle, I go first to the water.

This is not what we called you for, the elders tell me.

“But you called me, so allow me to do my work.” To purify, to separate out what they cannot see is killing them.

This is what I would not have that young boy see: the way they shy from me. Maybe they will never hide from him, because he is not like me. He draws people to himself without so much as thinking of it. But I do not wish for him to ever see this gift we share as a thing of which to be ashamed.

“I remember you,” the mage said to me one day. “I saw you once, in the city. You were a member of the king’s court.”

The chill wind rippled across my back.

“You were well known for your work. We studied it, in my school.”

“That’s very flattering,” I said, still wary.

He chuckled. “Hardly. You were renowned, and a Master at the University, read around the kingdom.”

“I was renowned, and a Master at the University, and they burned my books when I left the city,” I told him.

It had taken me days to realise that he was actually quite young. Perhaps he did not know the story—how I left, and why.

Some days I still regard it as a terrible mistake. Days like this, when I am up to my elbows in poisoned water and pushed to the limit of my tolerance for cold stares. Days when I remember Addie’s patience, and the patience of that boy looking after my hearth and my goats, waiting for me to teach him.

I felt—these days, very often—that it was my greatest failure. How could I have dared to turn around and throw away everything I’d ever worked for? How could I, when I’d already done so much?

The mage frowned at me. “My school did not burn your books. Our Masters told us about you. You were... remarkable. I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

“Ah.” I shrugged, and squinted at my work. “Well, you know what they say about meeting one’s heroes.”

I bent down to fix the water filter into place. It was still too difficult to do, I couldn’t possibly expect the women of this town to have the time to fiddle with this thing as much as I had...

“I do,” he said. I heard him rise from my workbench, and move toward the door. “They’re far better in person.”

By the time I looked up again, he was gone.

The villagers paid me what I asked, with dark looks and hand-signs to avert evil. How kind of them, I think to myself with the slightest of smiles, to wish me on my way well-protected from meddling spirits.

The mage walked with me to the village boundary, still asking me about the filters, how to use them, where to put them. It was a strange thing, to enjoy teaching once again. Despite the misery of that place, I left it feeling a little lighter.

Just not for very long.

As I mounted the last hill between me and home I discovered that my hands were shaking. My heart raced too fast. Surely, I grumbled, I cannot be that old.

The cold sweat and the sudden gripping fear was what propelled me forward. The blinding terror made me run, dropping my satchels and precious tools haphazard on still-frozen ground.

There are rules that any mountain-dweller knows. You do not cross the path of certain things, you do not speak to masters of the mountain. If something speaks to you, you are polite, but you do not leave your answer open to another question.

You don’t invite a stranger in.

Rarely is there anything that wanders in these parts looking to make mischief. But young magicians are forever a target for such beings. Especially those of great potential.

The shadows are a hungry thing, here among the ice and rock, but no shadow can abide a fire. I sent embers spewing from my hearth, threw a rain of sparks through the unnaturally dark room. They fell upon the shadow-creature and it did not burn, but it pulled its tendrils tight, as if in pain. By the faint light I could just make out the child’s pale and frightened face—

—and the fine-scaled golden features of the thing that hovered over him.

Another rule: you do not show your fear. Oh, it smells fear on the wind—but you do not show it.

“There is a sign on my gate, and a rune on my door, and even the goats in my yard would have told you that you are not welcome. It is time for you to depart.”

It bared its teeth at me in something like a smile, wrapped the dark about itself and vanished without a word.

Too easy.

“Achim.”

The boy was curled in on himself in the corner, so small.

With a sigh, I crossed to the table and picked up my kettle. I set it to heat, and banished the soot from my floors. There was something to be said for heat and sweetness and spice, after such things. I approached him slowly and crouched down to tuck a blanket about his curved shoulders. “Achim, look at me.”

I nudged his chin up until I could see his eyes. “It isn’t coming back.”

“It—told me I could never—run far enough,” he stammered out through chattering teeth.

“And I’m telling you that I keep my word. Any being that does not keep to the contract is one you can bring low. This is your first lesson, child.”

First, and perhaps the last.

He watched me, wide-eyed, as I set the table. Watched me as evening fell. Watched me clean and hum and read until he fell asleep.

And when I was sure he did not dream, I pulled my shawl about my shoulders, and walked out the door to the edge of my grounds, to the garden gate that he had fixed for me.

The creature was still lurking there.

Actually, it loitered, rather as if it owned the place. It had a vaguely human shape, though of course appearance was the last thing you could trust. It leaned against the fence as if propped up at hip and elbow, lounging like an uninvited lover at the gate. The cloak of shadows hung from its shoulders, hood fallen free of the being’s head.

Mischief-maker, quicksilver trickster. People used to come up all this way into the mountains, searching for gold. There were stories of the yellow demon they saw glimmers of in the mountain streams.

“You are owed nothing. You came onto my lands at the invitation of one who did not even own them. Why do you linger?”

“He is young and powerful,” the golden creature said, “and the future that awaits him must not be.”

Another, less acknowledged rule: such beings are old and powerful, and if they speak of troubled times, perhaps it is worth a listen. Perhaps, or perhaps not. It is certainly a folly to ignore such warnings. The being that delivers it is never one that cares for your wellbeing. But if it worries for its own, then you may be sure: a mortal will not survive what follows.

“What future do you see?"

“Death to the mages and witches,” it said, without hesitation. “He will do what is right, he will bring light into the darkness, as you believe him capable of doing. But with that light, great unintended evils will spread through the world. The extinction of those who use magic, those who are magic, is not a change that this world can sustain.”

“And I suppose you are here out of enlightened self-interest,” I blurted, and cursed myself for my thoughtless mouth.

The being only smiled.

“That boy has a better chance than most,” I rallied. “He has a gift, and it isn’t just his magic or his knowledge. He has a chance at gaining enough wisdom to keep it in balance.”

“Maybe so. But you have always known that your faith is not enough to save anyone. Sometimes, there is simply nothing that you can do.”

I leaned heavily against the gatepost. “And if you know so much of me, you know I cannot let you take him. Because you have to try.”

That Achim should have come to me—that Addie should have sent him here—was a chance as slim as starfall landing in one’s yard. I had discovered not long afterward that the King had set his hounds to thinning out the ranks of learned folk outside the city. Achim’s parents had died for “spreading lies”—insisting that the factories had tainted the village water—and the only thing that saved their son was that he’d been practicing a little bit of simple trick-magic at Addie’s fire.

I must have been among the first to fall in the King’s war on the educated, five years ago. One of the learned folk whose names had been used to justify the slaughter of traitors, snobs, and liars—the evil that would bring the kingdom down.

Those who did not leave the city, as I had, had simply been murdered.

“Name a different price,” I told the shadow-creature from the mountains, and it laughed.

“A price for what? I did not come here for a deal.”

“Yet you will make one, because I have asked it of you,” I said. “I will abandon my charges no longer. So you will tell me what the price is for me to keep them safe.”

“Them,” the creature echoed, and raised a golden eye-ridge. “Who are they?”

The people I left behind in the city. The boy I refused to teach for so long, and now might never really get a chance to teach at all. Addie and that tired, curious mage who still thought me a hero.

The being stared at me.

“Come out, fair lady, dance with me,” the golden creature said at last with a wide, inhuman grin, and stretched out a long-clawed hand. “I find yours is a better mind to dance with than a child’s.”

I laughed, terrified, because I did not know what else to do. “That is your offer?”

Dancing, what was that supposed to mean?

It twitched its shoulders, like a shrug, and pointed up at the moon. “Until it turns, you have time to think on it.” It made a show of straightening out, dusting off its sleeves, and turned to go. “Seven nights, I believe, and remember that they grow ever shorter.”

“Wait! How am I not abandoning anyone if I am off—dancing?”

There were tales of diaphanous things dancing on the mountain winds, through the shadows in the canyons. The souls of dead climbers, some still think. There were stories of souls that danced with death. I had always thought the truth must be somewhere in between.

This wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind, however.

The being looked over its shoulder, and blinked at me, slowly, like a mountain cat. “The only truth you know of what lies beyond this place is that you can’t return to where you’ve been. You do not step into the same water twice in a mountain stream, Tali, yet you have never made the mistake of thinking that there is nothing beyond the stream.”

Between one breath and the next, the creature vanished.

I stayed and watched the moon for a long time, too numb to feel the cold. I thought, I’d never given you my name.

No—I don’t remember giving you my name.

I wasn’t sure which thought was the more terrifying.

Back in the house behind me, a young boy slept a dreamless sleep. In response to a nameless, shapeless threat against him, I’d thrown all caution to the winds, somehow bargained with my life. All in the name of a potential none could grasp.

And with a being that had the advantage of me, no less.

I won’t be able to teach him, I thought, and dropped that regret like a stone at the gate; one of those smooth, small stones that weighs far more than it looks like it ought to. Another rounded, heavy stone: I won’t be the one to watch him grow.

I’d waited too long, again. Old fool, still making the same mistakes as always.

I had a week to get my old journals in order. At least, as a university master, I’d been an obsessive scribe for my own affairs.

There was a tale I once heard, about a woman who learned the name of the fae that she’d entered into a bargain with, and that was what freed her from their deal. I did not recall making a deal with anything.

But then, I did once somewhat carelessly offer my heart and soul in exchange for being permitted to learn the secrets of the universe...

#something's always listening #caffeine prompts #caffeinewitchcraft #strange alchemicals #loose interpretation of 'not part of the hero's journey' and also 'death'#loose interpretation of the whole prompt #*quickly tosses fic out into the open before i can grow more doubts about it*

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three-houses-text-files · 5 years

Text

hilda/lorenz

c-a support + paired ending

c (i)

Hilda: Ah, Lorenz. At it again. Lorenz: Hello, Hilda. Are you training too? If that's the case, I may have to revise my opinion of you. L: Increased strength and skill would serve as perfect complements to your beauty and esteemed lineage. H: Um, no. I just left something here. I don't share your tireless work ethic. H: You’re quite something. I don't think I've ever seen you take a break. L: When the fate of all the Alliance rests on your shoulders, the rigors of training seem paltry by comparison! (golden deer route) L: When the fate of all Fódlan rests on your shoulders, the rigors of training seem paltry by comparison. (other) L: Besides, when my admirers see that even an individual of my talent possesses a diligent work ethic, it is sure to inspire them. H: I see. But I was wondering... Ah, never mind. You're clearly busy. L: Oh! Is there something you require? What do you need? There is nothing I cannot handle! H: The trouble is I'm no good at fighting. I'm a fragile young lady, not a fearsome warrior. H: I didn't even want to join the academy, honestly. My brother made me. L: Of course. For a delicate flower such as yourself, no doubt battle must present a terrible hardship. H: It does, it truly does. So I was wondering if, in the next training session, you'd do my fighting for me? (pre-skip) H: It does, it truly does. So I was wondering if, in the next battle, you'd do my fighting for me? (post-skip) H: I mean, I can put on a tough, "I'm actually fighting" kind of air, but...that's not quite enough on its own. L: Please, leave all of the difficulty to me. I shall permit no harm to befall you! H: Ah, I'm so happy! In that case, I'll focus on giving a convincingly soldierly performance. H: You know, Lorenz, you're a good guy. Not that I'd have expected anything less from a noble. L: With each of your foes that I vanquish, I shall only become ever stronger! L: Yes, leave it all to me! H: What a guy! And all I had to do was ask. H: Mm, maybe I'll have a snack.

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c (ii)

H: Thank you, Lorenz! You've done so much for me. You've been a tremendous help. L: It was but a trifle. Surely there was no small amount of danger, but in the interest of experience, I was happy to endure. H: You're so strong that I can't help but feel safe in your presence. L: Yes, of course. Although no matter how much brute strength we bring to bear, it is important that there be a leader on the field as well. L: Without someone possessed of my sound judgment and adaptability, we would surely be lost. H: Surely, yes. My thoughts exactly. But, um... L: Hm? What is it? H: I'm going to keep providing support from the back. You wouldn't mind doing more fighting for me, would you? L: Oh. Well, uh...physically, I can certainly, but if you mean on an everyday basis... H: I knew you would! You have the generous soul of a true noble. I'll have to write back home and sing your praises! L: Really? You mean, to your father and brother? H: Oh yes. I have to write my big brother pretty often, as a matter of fact. He gets upset if I don't. H: And yet, I never have much to write about. I've been really straining for topics. H: That must strike you as a terrible nuisance—the idea of me blabbing about you in my letters. L: Nuisance? Hardly! Your brother is one of the foremost commanders of the Alliance. (pre-skip) L: Nuisance? Hardly! Your brother has won great honor as a commander of the Alliance. (post-skip) L: I can think of no higher accolade than to have my name passed on to his noble ear. H: And I'll tell him about all your thrilling exploits! Although, if you can't help, that's OK too. I'll find something else to write about. L: Oh, fear not! I shall show you exploits of a nature more thrilling than you could ever dream! L: Incidentally, when you write to him, please do not refer to me merely as Lorenz. L: Please use my full name... Lorenz Hellman Gloucester! L: This will be an excellent opportunity to advance the status of the Gloucester name! H: What a funny boy.

——————————————————————————————

L: Ah! There's yet another option. H: Lorenz? What are you doing? L: Oh. Hello, Hilda. I'm using these pieces to represent soldiers on the battlefield. This will allow me to better visualize concepts of strategy. H: Very good! Is it fun? L: It is utterly engrossing. Look—swap out just certain pieces for others, and the board completely changes. L: Then, even considering the same types of units, employing different individuals calls for a new set of plans. H: Oh, I see! Or, I kinda see? It's hard for me to grasp really complex things like this. L: Nonsense! It's thanks to your many requests that I have been adapting my fighting style of late. L: Working to accommodate you has convincingly shown me how essential it is to rethink tactics on a continual basis. L: After all, the risk of getting hurt is greatly reduced if you are prepared for any situation. L: So, now I will be ready for anything. H: ... H: Lorenz, you're so wonderful, I'm at a loss for words. I'm not just saying that to flatter you either. Honestly! L: Tell me something, Hilda. Did you make all of these ludicrous requests of me purely so that I might have the opportunity to develop myself? L: Because if so, I am deeply moved. Thank you for caring so thoughtfully and passionately for my personal growth. H: Um, you're welcome! L: If you will permit me to return the favor, I do have one request to make of you. Will you hear me out? H: Ah, I'm not usually one for fielding requests, but I can make an exception in your case, I suppose. L: I would be so pleased to have the opportunity to observe you in action, in the heat of battle. Would you be so kind as to oblige me? H: Oh, very well... You've convinced me. But if it gets too intense...you'll help me out, right?

——————————————————————————————

H: Lorenz! Lorenz! Look! L: What is it, Hilda? Ah, a letter. From your brother? H: That's right. Though part of me thinks it's some stranger imitating my brother's handwriting. He's never given me this much praise. H: "Hilda, you've learnt the value of persistence." "You're really maturing." Stuff like that. H: Usually his letters are like, "I'm worried about you," and, "Stop being so lazy." L: Since I have fought by your side, I can assure you that his praise is genuine and entirely deserved. H: I've written about fighting in plenty of letters. Why's he so gushy this time around? L: I would venture to guess that your depictions of battle are more passionate than before. L: It’s no surprise that such authenticity would resonate with a veteran warrior like your brother. H: If that's true, I have you to thank. You've inspired me to throw myself into battle. H: Does everyone think I'm a tough warrior now? I don't want to be stuck with their high expectations. L: Would that be so terrible? You are gifted, you know. L: Not to say that your lackadaisical nature has failed to endear itself to me. H: I'll choose to take that as a compliment. L: Speaking of letters...did you keep your promise? L: Did you, uh, mention me? H: I did! I told my brother all about you. H: I said you were a uniquely gifted leader, who could inspire people to be their best selves. And I said that you'll be a real asset to the Alliance. (golden deer route) H: I said you were a uniquely gifted leader, who could inspire people to be their best selves. And I said that you'll be a real asset in this new era. (other) H: I also told him how I wished you could join our family. He responded that he'd be honored to call you his brother. L: Truly?! To have such a valiant brother would be beyond my wildest expectations! H: Um—Lorenz. You know what I mean about you joining our family, right? L: I believe I do. And I confess, if I am correct, that the same thought has preoccupied me as well. L: But you must forgive me. Now is not the time. L: Before we can consider our own future, we must first end this war. We must secure a peaceful world. H: And if we do attain a peaceful world, then what? Come on! Just say it. L: As much as I'd like to grant that request, I cannot. This is something that will deeply affect our lives. L: It must be said at the proper time and place, with the most artfully chosen words, and the perfect offering. L: I am Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, after all! H: I'm not usually one for waiting around... But maybe I'll make an exception in his case.

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paired ending

As the new head of House Gloucester, Lorenz first worked to restore his own territory, and then expanded his vision to include reforms for all Fódlan. At the height of his storied political career, he announced his marriage to Hilda, the only daughter of Duke Goneril. After the recovery effort, at Hilda's behest, the pair established artisan academies all over Fódlan. The schools quickly flourished, invigorating interest in the arts as well as trade with foreign lands. After many years of success and prosperity, the students of the first of these academies crafted a bronze statue of the founding couple to honor their achievement. The statue stands to this day.

#fire emblem three houses spoilers #fe16 spoilers #fe3h spoilers #hilda x lorenz #lorenz x hilda #romantic

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aconitemare · 4 years

Text

[jaydick] Before That, And Colder

Chapter 2

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

AO3

A breeze lifts gently over the port, sweeping Dick’s dark curls from his face as he adjusts his tortoiseshell sunglasses on his nose. He smiles appreciatively at the valet who opens his door and quickly switches his call from bluetooth to phone. There’s no need for the valet to hear the frustrated growling on the other end of the line.

As he steps out, he deposits the keys to his sleek and silver Audi R8 Spyder — a recent gift from Bruce, justified as mission-based although Dick could see the quiet excitement in Bruce’s tugging lips when he led him to the Batgarage, understood this was a gift — into the valet’s open palm, along with a cash tip. “Thank you,” he mouths, hand cupping the receiver.

A recent stalker with a penchant for crowbars pushed Jason into requesting Tim’s — and, by extension, everyone else’s — help. Last night, he agreed to let Dick join Tim on surveillance; the stalker likes to leave Jason pictures of their assaults, which means it’s likely only a matter of time before they catch some distinguishing trait on camera. Unfortunately, time is of the essence and Jason is short four Outlaws and Dick gets antsy playing the waiting game. He’d rather investigate Red Hood’s Iceberg Lounge associates. He called Jason to update him on the change of plans the minute he pulled into valet and not a minute before.

“I mean it, N,” Jason insists. “Don’t come here. I don’t need bats up in my belfry. Vigilante-types make my guys nervous.”

“And you don’t?” Dick challenges. A bellhop removes a suitcase from the trunk and quickly wheels it past the shiny glass double doors, which another attendant holds open while Dick leisurely walks towards the entrance. Seagulls squawk, diving in and splashing upwards from the engulfing Atlantic. The air is cool and carries a light, briny taste.

“No, I make them terrified.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” asks Dick. “If they’re busy soiling themselves because the big bad Hood looked at them funny, they’ll hardly even notice me breathing down their necks. So to speak.”

“Wro-o-ong,” drawls Jason on the other end. Dick imagines him rolling his eyes, or maybe reclining in exasperation if he’s on a nice office chair. Jason is a casino-owner now, or something along those lines. He might even wear a tie. “Terrified is good for them. It makes them efficient. Nervous people get clammy hands and drop the ball,” explains Jason.

“They won’t even notice me,” Dick appeals. He nods politely at the door attendant and stops at the front desk for his room key, where another bellhop promptly escorts his luggage. He tries not to speculate inwardly over anyone’s salary here. He resolves to just tip very well, as the tried-and-true Wayne method of resolving one-percenter guilt.

“I’ll notice you.”

Key card in hand, Dick pushes his sunglasses over his bangs, tapping the desk in an appreciative gesture. He follows the direction the receptionist pointed out. “That’s flattering, Jase, but sounds like a you-problem,” he says absently. He’s watching the virtual fish that wade through the pixelated water of the lobby’s walls. Beside the crystal elevator is an extravagant fountain that burbles and gurgles. Dick inhales the air around him: filtered by salt, not chlorine. Nice touch, he thinks wryly. Though he doubts Cobblepot had anything directly to do with the interior design of this place.

“Har-har,” Jason responds without much humor. “Look, I’m not a complete jackass. I appreciate the help, trust you’re all fairly competent, etcetera, but this is my territory. I don’t swing into Bludhaven and criticize how you’re running things.”

The clamshell-shaped light switches on as a ding sounds. “Who’s criticizing?” Dick asks innocently. The doors part and Dick steps inside. The walls are crystal but not completely transparent, warped as they are by the cleavage and cast in a sickly blue light from above. There’s even air conditioning, which makes the confined space frigid. He’s certainly in the iceberg now.

Jason sighs into his speaker. “Nothing, absolutely nothing about the Iceberg Lounge is legal,” he confesses. This confession is not much of a revelation, however, as news of Red Hood’s latest operation circulated the bats via Batman more-or-less immediately. Jason shares major updates on the Underground he plans to infiltrate and, in exchange, Bruce turns a blind eye to the everything-else part. The whereabouts of the Lounge’s original owner, Mr. Cobblepot, is anyone’s guess — although everyone’s guess is pretty good.

Dick watches the number on the screen tick upwards. He can’t wait to be out of this icebox after mere seconds. He misses his first apartment in Bludhaven, the one with the dirty carpeted stairs and the humid lobby and the friends. The hotel’s design is foreign and cold by comparison, although if he’s being fair, most of Gotham has felt like that since his return.

He’s preoccupied by several thoughts and not giving his all to this conversation — which he did start, yes, but only out of courtesy to Jason. He’s mostly amused that Jason seems to expect Dick to crash through a window in full Nightwing get-up and arrest everyone on the spot. Then again, maybe Jason’s paranoia isn’t wholly unfounded. Tiger did always say Dick was a terrible spy.

For the sake of this conversation, however perfunctory, Dick pretends to gasp. “Jason!” he stage-whispers as the doors finally, gratefully, open. “Don’t tell me — is this a money laundering scheme?” He makes sure to add an extra dollop of shocked horror to his words.

Dick partly expects Jason to hang up on him, as people usually shut down when Dick tries on sarcasm for size. It’s not a good tone on him, he’s been told. That’s a miscalculation on Dick’s part, of course, because Jason isn’t affected by words the same way others are, especially Dick’s words. “Yeah, among other things,” Jason mutters instead. “Just stick to parking lot surveillance where my bike is, alright? You know, the original deal. No offense to you, but I don’t like people touching my shit. I’ll let you or some other bat-brat know if my human resources need outsourcing.”

Dick hums agreeably; he hadn’t expected Jason’s utmost cooperation anyway. It’s always best to obtain someone’s blessing, if he can, but permission just gets in his way. “‘No touching,’” Dick repeats as he wanders down the hall in search for his room. “Not a request I hear often,” he teases.

“Not a request, or I would’ve added please.”

3401, 3402, 3403, 3404...

“Yes, yes,” Dick placates. The floor here is a sandy-beige marble topped by a molding made entirely of tiny seashells. He resists the urge to crouch down and run his fingers against the texture. “If you won’t let me in your cool casino gang, then I can’t force you. Batman didn’t supply me with a gun to your head,” he assures.

3410, 3411, 3412…

On the other end, Jason snorts. “No, he just gave you a lifetime supply of entitlement and an annoying personality.”

3414, 3415, 3416…

“Hey, the latter was home-grown, thank you,” Dick defends, feigning offense. “Also, I unfortunately must end this conversation because — ”

The line goes dead. Dick removes the phone from his ear and frowns at it.

He discovers he likes this floor better, especially after the preternatural blue of the elevator. Here, the light is a warm yellow cast from plastic conch shells. The mosaic walls are made entirely of pale blue sea glass with waves of green rippling through. It’s an artistic take on the beach. An artful interpretation with central air conditioning.

He arrives at his room shortly after the phone call, sliding his key card in and waiting for the green light to appear with a short buzz. It does, and Dick pushes in to find his Coach suitcase already beside his California King bed. The style is less minimalist than he had expected, with bold blues and reds splashed across the walls in a lucky imitation of the violent sunsets over Bludhaven’s waterfront. Dick is almost nostalgic, he thinks.

The first thing Dick does is check for bugs. This takes some time, since Bruce called the hotel before Dick could and ordered his version of “modest and undercover,” which still qualifies as a suite. Dick doubts the room is bugged, as certainly most of the nefarious higher-ups’ attention would be paid to the casino and not the hotel. Still, best to begin and end all missions with routine since the middle parts always get too chaotic for formalities. Dick adapts better than Bruce himself does, but he still knows the value of order and tries to accommodate it when he can.

The minute corners of the ceiling and the floor are dustless. The carpet is soft and thick, Dick’s feet sinking in with each step. The nightstand has a phone, a notepad, a lamp, a service menu, and a casino itinerary, but no bible. Dick wonders who made that decision during the hotel’s design. The television is expansive, flat, and mounted across the wall facing the bed. The extravagance elicits from Dick the same feeling as if a giant mirror has been hoisted onto the ceiling too. Does Bruce also ever get disgusted by such ludicrous excess? Or has he become used to it, like a buzzing in his ear, like tinnitus? Bruce accumulates and accumulates, yet never seems to care for that accumulation one way or another. To be fair, though, Dick has never felt a certain way about grass being green. Or air having smells, as might be the better analogy; sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always taken for granted.

The sweep proves the room clean, as expected. Well, Dick has his own suspicions about government agents and corporate drones peering through the shiny flat-screen, but Lex is a busy man so Dick thinks he’s safe. This is the kind of spot-on humor Tim would appreciate if he hadn’t objected to tagging along. Tim is also a busy man apparently.

Evening won’t fall for another few hours, but Dick should get a head start on socializing. Deciphering who’s actually important, who’s within the Red Hood’s board of trustees, won’t be easy in the intoxicated, big-talking, narcissistic casino crowd. In preparation, Dick accessorizes with a range of subtle tools and weapons: a miniscule switchblade, disguised as a pendant and hidden under his shirt; bandages slipped into his jacket pocket; and a flask of disinfecting alcohol slipped into a pair of white boots. He’s roughing it in designer shoes.

Satisfied, Dick sticks his key card into his wallet and sets about trying his luck.

___

The casino keeps to the same ice-white theme as the hotel. The gaming floors shine like chromium, solid as a frozen lake. The floors winding between the games and shops and restaurants, however, are watery blue with digital fish splashing beneath guests’ feet. It’s novel, really, and it’s possible Dick might’ve even liked the whole schtick if it weren’t so Penguin-y.

The woman beside him places her hand on his wrist. From the ceiling plays an inoffensive pop song, the singer’s voice autotuned to sound as if coming from deep underwater. Dick smiles down at the woman. “Oh, sorry, were you trying to get my attention?”

She’s pretty in a forgettable way, with long blonde hair and a sloping nose. “No, no, sorry!” she says, pulling away clumsily as if remembering herself. She has a plastic water bottle on her, but no alcohol. Trying to sober up still. “I just thought you looked really familiar, like I might know you — ?” Her voice pitches upward at the end, waiting for him to finish her half-formed idea.

Dick communicates to the dealer he’s doubling down and pushes a stack of orange chips forward. He’s hoping the dealer will make a face, however unlikely that is, or do something to attract the attention of a supervisor. He wants to attract the house’s attention as subtly as possible, suss out anyone who might be high on the chain.

“I was at a televised event recently,” Dick responds, because he doubts they met personally. “The Wayne Foundation was heading a protest against the detention centers in Texas.” The girl’s mouth opens, gulping, fish-like, and Dick wonders if he should talk more about the protest or leave it at that. She’s impressed, but only hazily so, as if she’s recognizing the patterns of words and their moral virtue — foundation, protest, detention centers — but can’t make sense of the detail. Dick muses inwardly; it’s been a while since he was last inebriated, but he’s always been a drifting, Play-Doh-brained drunk like her. He’s tempted to order himself a drink, but that would be counterproductive to Mission: Find Jason’s Mole.

He initially tried chatting with the dealer directly, on the off-chance of information trickling down. She’s young, barely Dick’s age, and has shaved half her head in that edgy-punk-rock style Dick recalls Shawn being fond of. Unlike his ex-girlfriend’s cropped hair, which she had dyed with the same warning colors of poison dart frogs, the dealer’s is a natural black that tumbles down her shoulders. Dick did not get far with her as she gave only clipped responses. Now, from under her curtain of hair, she peers with sharp eyes that leap across players’ hands.

The man on his other shoulder slaps the table roughly, startling the dealer and dragging Dick’s attention away from the cards. “You’re one of Wayne’s kids!” he exclaims, pointing a finger. He has a faint Chinese accent ground out in gravelly tones. The knuckles are hairy but bejeweled with smooth rings, and the nails are perfectly manicured. “I’ve been looking at you, trying to figure out!”

Dick would’ve noticed him staring, in that case, but one doesn’t have to stare to watch. The thought alerts him momentarily and his eyes do a quick sweep of the floor again. I’ll give it another hour, he decides. If no one seeks me out, I’ll just have to go snooping.

“That would be me,” Dick confirms. He takes the man’s hand and they shake cordially.

“Should’ve known,” the man continues. “You always dress so — colorful.” He took a moment to decide upon the that adjective, but he doesn’t sound disrespectful so Dick grins. The man is right; Richie Grayson does generally go for the pastels. For the night, he’s dressed himself in a white blazer with muted paisley designs whirling across the silk. Over his breast rests a peach-colored pocket square to match the interior peach fabric he’s displayed by rolling the cuffs to his elbows. No tie, jacket left unbuttoned, and hair gelled carefully-carelessly: he’s the picture of insouciant extravagance.

His first time out with Damian as “Richie,” Damian was infuriated by the silly pastels and airheaded conversations Dick cloaked himself in. Damian ranted about Dick’s public persona being an “odious script he must’ve concocted as a bad joke.” Dick spares him the embarrassment of the truth, which is that Dick appreciates a vacation from himself. The breezy talks and airy outfits are less of a deep-cover character and more for fun. Of course, Damian is also embarrassed by his usual wardrobe of sweats and running pants, so Dick doesn’t bother trying to live up to the kid’s standards. They’re both just glad to have each other back. Dick has missed out on so much, but Damian hardly notices the changes in either of them. It’s because he’s still young and time isn’t finite yet. Childhood clings to Damian’s full cheeks and attitude. His stubborn youth relieves Dick. He’s missed out on a lot, but not everything.

“Yes, I keep up with Bruce Wayne, men like him,” the man at the table continues for explanation. He taps his head. “They’re smart. Can learn from them. Or I try to, at least.” With that, he laughs all the way from his gut. Dick can feel himself warming up as he often does around good-humored people. He can’t help it; he’s a sucker for laughter.

He buys drinks for the table, except for the woman, whom he buys another water. The hour drags on. He wishes he was playing poker and not blackjack, although poker gets too vitriolic for his tastes and doesn’t concern the house much, which is what he needs to do. He’s beginning to doubt his plan, though, and he wonders if it would be easier just to beg Jason to let him in on the case in full. He’s not going to do that however. He hadn’t expect a yes, but that doesn’t make Jason rejecting his help any less irritating. At this point, he’d prefer swimming with sharks ( again ) over playing nice with a guy who’d apparently rather get assassinated than just cooperate a little.

He’s close to leaving the table when he spots a person of interest. The man is on the shorter side, just shy of scrawny, with tan skin and dark hair. He’s not paying any attention to Dick, just meandering through the tables, but Dick recognizes him from Batman’s Teen Titans database. Miguel Barragan: otherwise known as Bunker, a former member of the Teen Titans and the current owner-on-paper of the Iceberg Lounge. Dick is almost giddy to have such a solid lead right off the bat. He quickly collects his winnings and bids everyone a goodbye, Miguel locked in his peripheral throughout.

He doesn’t approach Miguel directly; he’d probably alert Jason right away of his casino’s sneaky guest. Dick trusts his charisma to carry him through most confrontations, but he also considers anyone associated with Jason to be a bit of a wild card. He’s not sure how he could win Miguel over to his side because he’s not sure how Jason won Miguel over. Dick doesn’t understand how Jason wins anyone over — or, perhaps more accurately, how anyone wins Jason over. Dick hasn’t been able to parse out what grounds the amorphous Outlaws have been founded on, since their modus operandi changes as frequently as their roster and these outlaws seemingly share one characteristic, which is that they are all outlaws.

Dick is admittedly guilty of avoiding Gotham, focusing instead on reestablishing his life in Bludhaven after Spyral. He still receives updates, some of them about the Outlaws, whose guns sometimes shoot rubber bullets and other times kill. Batman occasionally sends the Outlaws on missions, making them either private contractors or accidental, honorary bats. Dick has long given up on deciphering and disarming Bruce’s relationships. Or maybe he hasn’t, since on the practical level, it is on Bruce’s behalf that Dick’s helping Jason. Dick responded to all of Bruce’s messages, albeit late, and Dick himself doesn’t know if his recent lateness is as accidental as he pleads. Dick’s life has always been hectic, yet he’s always made time for Gotham.

What is different now? Dick sees the past year like a literal timeline laid out before him, and if he could just follow that line, eventually he’d find what had changed. Maybe he’s missing a step, though, because he just keeps going back to the dormitory at St. Hadrian’s. He sees himself sitting on the twin-sized, standard-issued bed, back hunched, phone attached to his ear like a lifeline that might disintegrate at any moment. He hears himself leave a message for Mr. Malone; then Dick turns around, abandoning the scene before the line can disintegrate and he shares the same fate as this sad, forgotten figure on the bed.

Dick’s response to Bruce’s latest message was immediate, as Bruce probably assumed it would be. He dangled Jason’s vulnerability like a bait over Dick’s head. Dick, with the stench of death curling into his nostrils at the mere suggestion, took the hook in his mouth and allowed himself to be hauled aboard out of Bludhaven’s hazy depths. So he has resurfaced in Gotham, which he knows is for the best. It gives him the opportunity to right a wrong of his, when Jason first was in danger and Dick had busied himself elsewhere, away from Bruce.

Of course, Jason is not as helpless as he was in his Robin days. The Outlaws are fittingly named, operating more like a loose group of friends egging each other on than a true team (or so it seems to Dick, and indeed everyone else watching them in suspense), but they do pull through for the Hood. Miguel is one of these friends, and therefore likely knows about the Park Row victims and the photos, although whether his priority is Jason’s safety or Jason’s trust is up for debate. Dick has to play it safe and assume that Miguel would report his good intentions and have him thrown back into the parking lot to watch a bike. Or forced off the case altogether, Dick thinks with exasperation, as Jason is prone to theatrics and extremes. Roy and Kory, at least, he does not have to worry about, being off-planet with the Justice League. Artemis and Bizarro have recently disappeared, but Dick doesn’t write them off yet. In his experience, those whose lives defy death rarely stay gone for long. This is both a comfort and a conflict of interest.

He watches Miguel furtively; he accomplishes this by mingling gregariously, camouflaging himself within a dense thicket of drunken socialites. He works crowds consecutively, easing himself in and out of dialogues, his split attention unnoticed in an atmosphere that cultivates distraction. He keeps his face turned away from Miguel at all times. He moves his tortoiseshell sunglasses from his mussed hair to his eyes. He follows.

Miguel does not stay among the blackjack tables. He eventually moves towards the floor with the digital fish, his pace brisk but not hurried. Flashing shop signs and stumbling, moseying guests help blur Dick into the background. He wonders how long he can keep this up for and where he might end up. Best case scenario: Miguel talks to several key players in Red Hood’s operation for Dick to investigate and provides an insider’s look at the map of the casino before he can slip behind a door Dick can’t reasonably follow him through. Worst case scenario: Miguel notices he’s being followed by a weird man who wears sunglasses inside, confronts him, and Jason yells at him about respect and boundaries, as if those are things that exist in their makeshift family. Scenario of undecided goodness: Miguel is the leak and Dick catches him.

From a yard ahead, Miguel shifts his hand from the pocket of his slacks. He presses his ear, tilts his chin downward and to the side. An earpiece, for sure. He’s communicating with someone; perhaps Jason, Dick’s brain immediately supplies, and he does feel some guilt laden over the little kick he gets from the idea of pulling one over on the uncooperative prick. Dick gets his jollies from helping people against their will. Probably not everyone’s idea of fun, but his family just wouldn’t be his family without the unnecessary shadows cloaking every kind act.

Then Dick notices Miguel twist his head just slightly so that his eyes address the floor. Is he looking at Dick? Has he been caught? Dick hangs back, pausing to admire a shop window. He’s grateful for his sunglasses now, which enable him to keep track of Miguel’s progress. Hopefully he looks more eccentric than suspicious in them.

He melts back into the loose crowds once he’s confident Miguel has lost him. He knows Miguel took a right at the escalators, didn’t go up them. Dick keeps a bit of swagger in his walk, feigning leisure while taking broader steps than usual. He needs Miguel to lose track of him without losing track of Miguel himself.

Dick rounds the escalator corner, hands shoved in his pockets. A uniformed woman sweeps a plastic straw into a dustpan. He smiles graciously and sidesteps her. He glimpses Miguel’s figure retreating into a misshapen circle of the line spilling out of a burger joint. His body is swallowed whole by the hungry mass, absorbed neatly into the membrane of good-timers and luck-triers. Dick feels a little of the excitement go out of him. Where, really, can he get with this? He might have to pay Jason a visit as Nightwing after all.

Still, he may as well continue for a bit longer. He’s less than subtle while maneuvering through. His passage doesn’t feel half as smooth as Miguel’s looked. The people in line are glassy-eyed with dumb, slack-jawed smiles. Dick can’t help envisioning them as blind, newborn kittens under his feet. He pushes through in a series of mumbled apologies and penitent smiles. He receives, in return, a few blank smiles delivered on auto-pilot. Mostly he’s just ignored, which does irk him but he reasons that if they’re not bothered enough for a reply, then they’re content and so is he.

He finally breaches the wall of people. Miguel has stopped walking and stands, back facing Dick, near a bistro. A waitress, tufts of blonde locks sticking up like macaroni, intercepts the two of them, carrying a tray from the bistro to the nearest gaming floor. She all but waddles in the standard short white dress and tiny black blazer, throat pinned to her head with a stiff bowtie. When she passes, Dick realizes Miguel is not alone. Leaning against a load-bearing stalagmite is someone else, sneakered heel digging into the floor with their toes pointed up, their fists plunged into the pocket of a pullover. A hood hides their face, though the tip of a nose peeks out. Dick takes a step forward only to be reeled backwards, shoulder jerking where a hand has caught it.

Dick nearly grabs the hand and yanks, but remembers his surroundings and stifles the impulse. He lets himself be dragged towards an unmarked set of double doors. A small box is mounted to the wall in front of him, and another hand reaches out to wave a card over it. A light flashes green and buzzes. Dick’s feet have to dance for purchase as he’s pulled awkwardly by his side. The second the doors swing shut behind them, Dick breaks out of the grasp. His shades have slid down his nose and he pushes them up. He has time to recognize the people milling about as normal employees, some resting in chairs with stained cushions and others carting hampers and vacuums or talking into radios. Name badges abound.

The hand roughly grabs him by the collar. “Easy!” scolds Dick at the same time he gets a good look at the person attached. He’s a big guy with furry arms that could constrict a boa. A gray vest stretches over his broad frame, accentuating his size as well as any muscle tee. He wears a high collar fastened with a wide tie. His throat is as thick as a tree trunk, though, and the overall effect is that of an ill-fitting leash.

“I don’t work here, what are you doing?” Dick demands. He doubts the casino employees here are expecting dignity anyway. Maybe he should even try for tipsy, just to put on a show for anyone watching him get hauled across the room from the scruff of his neck by Hulk Hogan. This has all turned out surprisingly well for him, really. Whoever this guy is, he’s not a hero.

“Behave,” the man orders as he shoves Dick — unnecessarily roughly, for that matter — through another set of double doors. These ones give way without identification.

Dick skips nimbly forward so he doesn’t fall on his face. The man’s hand is on his neck again in an instant, which screams overkill considering Dick hasn’t put up a fight or attempted escape. “‘Behave’?” Dick quotes. “What am I, your long-lost son?”

“Good question,” says the man. The walls here are more eggshell than snowfall with air pockets bubbling beneath the wallpaper. People with name badges eye them curiously but say nothing. Dick wonders how anyone would get rescued in this heads-down atmosphere. It occurs to him, grimly, that they probably wouldn’t.

“Is it?” Dick prods. “Did someone forget to file for a paternity test?”

“What are you, smartass.”

Fingers tighten around his neck, a warning to behave or a threat for what’s to either way. Dick guesses it’s the latter and replies, “What is manhandled, for 300.”

“Yup, keep it up,” the man replies. He takes a sudden left, Dick spinning after like a sidecar held to the driver by a rope. There’s another box-shaped scanner around the corner, presumably for the narrow, metal door adjacent. This device doesn’t scan from afar but requires insertion, and the man feeds it a different card from the one before. There’s no buzz or green light. Just the same, the knob turns easily in the man’s grip.

“Lot of doors here,” Dick observes at the same time that he’s unceremoniously launched, face first, through a door.

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

#jaydick #dickjay #fanfiction for the void #dc

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eb-byestelle · 5 years

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:3 2 5 6 9 13 14 17 22 23 24 28 29 30 34 35 37 38 40 41 43 44 47 48 50 54 55 56 57 59 60 61 63 64 67 68 70 72 73 74 76 79 80 81 82 84 87 88 90 97 98 100

Hi there !! ❤️

Oh lord……….. 😵😅 There is a lot of it! But in some way it flatters me 😂💖

2: do you like the feeling of cold air on your cheeks on a wintery day?

I do. It seems to be sth unpleasant but I like that tbh. It’s a very refreshing feeling.

5: are you self-conscious of your smile?

Ofc I’m 😂

6: do you keep plants?

Generally no. I prefer to have an ornamentation which are long-term like a paintings or various types of souvenirs. But every now and then I love to buy some roses or lilies.

9: do you like singing/humming to yourself?

Sometimes.

13: what’s something that made you smile today?

A few things for sure ^^ For example some new epizode on the channel of one of my favrite youtubers. I usually don’t care about youtubers, but there is few guys who I really like. He is one of them. Besides of reviewing and mocking of a bad movies, he started to make a program when he laughs of his inept cooking skills and in a funny way he tries to do the various dishes. It was the epizode when he tried to do some dish created by Gordon Ramsey. With his brilliant joke and a chill style of being, as usual it was great. Another thing which comes to my mind is a very tasty breakfast 😋

14: if you were to live with your best friend in an old flat in a big city, what would it look like?

I guess it would be like in case of a lot of roommates. A separate rooms for each of us. Each one would be the own part of the fridge. The bills would be divided in half for each.

17: what color do you really want to dye your hair?

Right now I have a color I like (dark chocolate).

22: are you a morning person?

Not exactly xD I love mornings! It’s my favorite part of the day. But at the same time I love to spend all night without sleeping xD At night we have the best ideas and the biggest inspiration ❤️ sometimes I call myself „a night animal”. But I still love mornings, this fresh air, very pleasant atmosphere. But because of my love to being „a night animals” my morning is only sometimes in the correct part of the day (like 7.00 – 8.00 am).

23: what’s your favorite thing to do on lazy days where you have 0 obligations?

Like today xD Eg. replying to messages (like right now xD), cleaning, some activities like a cycling, trips or swimming, watching a movies, finding an interesting things or creating sth like a new poem or taking a new photos to my albums.

24: is there someone out there you would trust with every single one of your secrets?

Yes, she is ❤️ She knows more than anybody.

28: sunrise or sunset?

Sunrise ❤️

29: what’s something really cute that one of your friends does and is totally endearing?

Eg. when there is my birthday time and some my friend always gives me the gifts which perfectly suits to my interests and my personality ❤️ It’s the sign for me that someone knows my well and I’m important for him/her.

30: think of it: have you ever been truly scared?

I think I have… But I’m not sure when exactly. It was a long time ago…

34: tell us about the stuffed animal you kept as a kid. what is it called? what does it look like? do you still keep it?

You mean a mascot, right? I still have my dear bunny ❤️ Its name is Niunia (a girl name). I got it for my fourth birthday. It was one of my biggest inspiration for the next 10 years xD Thanks to this bunny I created my first tales, comics, novels, and arts. It was like an one big inspiration bomb xD

35: do you like stationary and pretty pens and so on? do you use them often?

Yeah, I like it. I use it very often.

37: do you like keeping your room messy or clean?

Rather clean.

38: tell us about your pet peeves!

It would be probably when someone is too sarcastic. Many people love sarcasms. Some are funny, when don’t laugh of somebodies in some mean way, but generally when it’s sth too personal, directed directly to me, then it’s sth very painful.

I also really don’t like when someone is a religious fanatic. I’m not an atheist and I totally respect all religiouses but some part of them are just insane… Some of them even try to say, that the homosexuality is a disease and that the contraception is a killing. Maybe we should claim that the religious fanatics is a disease xD 💀😂

Oh! And I hate this obsession with diet and exercise. It’s great to feel attractive and healthy but it started to be the one large international persecution mania 😅💀💀

40: think of a piece of jewelery you own: what’s it’s story? does it have any meaning to you?

Ahh, ofc! I have a lot of jewelery, many of them remind me of some memories. My the most precious thing is my ring which I bought from my first scholarship (the scholarship I got in 2015, while I bought it in 2016). I wear it everyday. Later I went to the some steep hill and at the top of this hill I’ve done a kind of oath to myself that I will never make some mistakes once again, i.e. that I will always respect and love myself and I will always be faithful to myself (Sth a bit like a self-wedding xD There was even the cross xD).

41: what’s the last book you remember really, really loving?

Generally I read book quite rarely, I choose much more the watching the movies/anime, but when I think about a books like this, eg. now I’m reading some really great book. It’s called „Sophie’s World”. It’s about a teenage girl which one day came back from school and inside of her letter-box found a letter addressed to her, where it was one question „Who you are?”. Later, after she started think about who could give it to her and wonder about that question, another anonymous letters with philosophical questions began to be put into her letter-box. After a short time, after stimulating her curiosity towards philosophy, still without knowing the identity of the mysterious philosopher, the girl started a philosophy course, this time receiving a lot of long sheets full of new knowledge. More and more she began to delve into the world of philosophy, while at the same time trying to find out who is that mysterious teacher. At the same time, every now and then for some reason in various places, she found some things for the another girl she had never met. So far, I’m halfway through, history is getting more and more interesting. This is not a romance, as might be suggested by that “mysterious man” xD is a novel which is a kind of textbook of philosophy inserted into the story of the main character, written in a style that is one of the best literary styles I have ever read ❤️

43: who was the last person you gazed at the stars with?

With my music xD 🎵🎇

44: when was the last time you remember feeling completely serene and at peace with everything?

It was some time ago, on my last ride by bicycle.

47: what food do you think should be banned from the universe?

The meat from the dogs 😱😭😭👎

48: what was your biggest fear as a kid? is it the same today?

In case of this, I’ve really changed. As a kid I was scared by a storm, altitude, public appearances, spiders, darkness, although at the same time since childhood I’ve liked to challenge myself. Then there was a time when there were many strong negative experiences in my life, after which I came up with some simple thought: “Once I was afraid of a storm, but then I found out that there are more terrible things than a storm.” Now I’m afraid of only few things. I was able to go in the middle of the night through a dark forest, perform in front of a hundred people or run away from a stranger who chased me with a log in hand and even then I didn’t feel a fear. But there is still something I’m scared. It’s a bad people. I divide bad people into “culprits” and “intruders”. These first ones are people aware of their faults who have made mistakes, but they have a goodness within them that helps them to be better. Those second ones are totally evil. They are persuasive. People love them and follow them. They’re often completely unaware of the quantity of evil that is within them. Their boundless ruthlessness, combined with their eternal state of repression and alleged innocence, make them worse than the most dangerous lion.

I’m also afraid of losing humanity. I have the view that human is a creation between an animal and a device. I don’t want to get lost totally in lusts and instincts, like an animal, I don’t want to lose myself in logical cold action, like a device. It’s important to not forget about the instincts and the logical thinking, both skills are very valuable. But the extreme transition to one of these parties is bad. And very simple in a present times. While there is still humanity in the middle, specifically this what is metaphorically called “the soul” (feelings, weaknesses, sensibility). I don’t want the present world to deprive me of this.

50: what’s an odd thing you collect?

I guess I don’t collect any things like this.

54: who’s the last person you saw with a true look of sadness on their face?

Some my friend from studies. She has a very hard time right now…

55: what’s the most dramatic thing you’ve ever done to prove a point?

It’s hard to say… But I guess it was some „skill” I had to learn, ie. more „sharp” kind of speaking and behaving, more agressive. Ofc not as a kind of speaking everyday, but it were a situation which forced me to be cruel to someone who hurt me. It was my final attempt to prove that this person very hurts me and deserves my contempt. It worked. Now this person is completely different to me. But I don’t hide that it was difficult. In a way, I had to move my scruple and find within me something what I call “wildness”.

56: what are some things you find endearing in people?

When someone still has inside sth from a child. Specifically, I mean a children’s sensitivity, curiosity about the world, the ability to dreaming, child’s innocence and a kind of enjoying something like a child. Imo it’s very important to cultivate everything this within us, at the same time having sth of an adult, like eg. an emotional maturity (there are ofc also children who can do it ;3). I like when someone is not afraid of being themselves. I also value a tenderness. I also like when someone gets involved in something with a passion, in some of their interest, or even in the anime episode xD

57: go listen to bohemian rhapsody. how did it make you feel? did you dramatically reenact the lyrics?

I can to listen to this AGAIN AND AGAIN 💖🎵🎵

59: what’s your favorite myth?

I don’t have any.

60: do you like poetry? what are some of your faves?

I like ^^ My fave poets are Adam Mickiewicz and Jan Lechoń. From my poetry my fave poem is called „The Shine” about how to recognize the true great love and not to confuse it with sth worse, some fake. It resembles a dialogue by a man with a personified „Mrs Love/Goddess of love Venus” (there is even sth mentioned about Venus). The man falls in love with someone, but he hesitates, doesn’t know if she’s this only one. Love tells him that yes, this is the only one. Love also tells him what he should to do to not lose her and how to realize the enormity of his feelings and distinguish the “first place / podium” from the others ones.

61: what’s the stupidest gift you’ve ever given? the stupidest one you’ve ever received?

I gave one day for one my friend a cup with picture of Rei from Free! in a butterfly costume. Have I received some stupid gift? Maybe that bright green headphones for music in the shape of little monkeys that looked terribly and worked even more terribly XD

63: are you fussy about your books and music? do you keep them meticulously organized or kinda leave them be?

I think that to some level I’m fussy, but not very much. I love the most to listen sth what it evokes some feelings me and emotions inside me or inspires me to sth. When it doesn’t do it, it’s not a big deal but on the first place I put a kind of music like above.

64: what color is the sky where you are right now?

Black (We have a 2:15 am so .. xD).

67: how do gloomy days where the sky is dark and the world is misty make you feel?

It’s not sth what makes me feel worse. I just try to accept any weather and to be above it. But sometimes there are a moments when I feel sleepy.

68: what’s winter like where you live?

It depends. Sometimes it’s light and warm, about 0oC, sometimes we get even -20oC O.O … The snow is every year but not during all winter.

70: have you ever used a ouija board?

So far I have not.

72: are you a person who needs to note everything down or else you’ll forget it?

Some things yes. I love to create a lists concerning various things. Thanks to this some stuffs and things to do are orderly in my head. But not everything. There must be a place for being spontaneous lol xD without this we don’t live xD

73: what are some of your worst habits?

No comments XD

74: describe a good friend of yours without using their name or gendered pronouns.

Friendly, kind, tender, open-minded, full of passion and amazing ideas, funny, inteligent, positive, shy, sensitive, as much pervert as me (or more xD), with a golden heart 💖💖💖

76: is there anything you should be doing right now but aren’t?

Yhm, Sleeping? (2:40 am while tomorrow morning I go to work xD sometimes I have to turn off my inner „night animal” xD)

79: what’s one of the cutest things someone has ever done for you?

Eg. when one my friend gave me on my birthday ALL collection of „X/1999”, all 19 volumes which cost a lot of money and which are also very hard to find. I’m truly grateful for that, it’s one of my favorites manga serieses ever! In case of guys, eg. one kissed my hand only in a winter glove, claiming that he’s not worthy to do it without this. From myself (I do for myself A LOT of sweet things xD) I’ve gotten a gold statuette for happy birthday with an engraved wishes 😄🏆🥇

80: what color are your bedroom walls? did you choose that color? if so, why?

The walls of my bedroom are in a creamy color. I didn’t chose it but creemy it’s for me very neutral color so it’s alright. In my future dreamy bedroom the walls would be white or in a powder pink color.

81: describe one of your friend’s eyes using the most abstract imagery you can think of.

Yeah, this is perfect xD

82: are/were you good in school?

In those subjects I liked. That was my rule xD About the rest I didn’t care.

84: are you planning on getting tattoos? which ones?

I guess not.

87: what are some movies you think everyone should watch at least once in their lives?

The scientific movie “Journey to the Edge of the Universe” (2008) It’s one of the most beautiful and profound movie from this kind, I’ve ever seen ❤️❤️ „100 girls” when the main guy has absolutely brillant reflections about a women and men, everyone should to listen to him! :D And „Lucy”, about the potential of our brain. And perhaps also „The Devil’s Advocate”, it’s a food for thought.

88: are there any artistic movements you particularly enjoy?

Music for sure and a bit the painting world.

90: talk about your one of you favorite cities.

Let my own photos and those from the Internet will tell instead of me.

Yeah… That’s Wroclaw 💖

97: myer briggs type, zodiac sign, and hogwarts house?

INFJ/ENFJ, pisces/aries , none of hogwarts houses.

98: when’s the last time you went hiking? did you enjoy it?

Last week, It was very nice. I really like this kind of spending time.

100: if you were presented with two buttons, one that allows you to go 5 years into the past, the other 5 years into the future, which one would you press? why?

I think that none of them. I don’t want t change a past, I like the state of things which is now and love some special memories which could to not happen If I would go back 5 years. I also don’t want to jump up the 5 years which can bring something special.

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

It reminds me some trend which we were in the primary school, called “The golden thoughts” where some person created a 100 question, wrote in a notebook and later others answered her question in that notebook. It looks exactly the same ❤️

Thank you for your message! 😘

#tag game #ask #answer #E.B. - by Estelle

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salavante · 5 years

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Odwain! The goodest.

Wow, featuring one of the more flattering drawings I’ve done of Odwain. Like last time, I’ll post all these guys separately and then do all the headshots in a masterpost. In the meantime buckle up for...a lot. (Thank you for giving me my favorite character.)

Full Name: Odwain Novak. In Ben Yit’gab, the Bennai language, his first name would be Oediwen, and it’s what his dad called him. His mother calls him Oddy and he does not like it.

Gender and Sexuality: Male and Bisexual

Pronouns: He/him

Ethnicity/Species: Odwain is a Ben-Aleth, a Human-Bennai hybrid, also called a mosshead if you’re in coarse company. His human mother Blanche Novak is mixed race. Odwain’s maternal grandfather came directly from Earth, Poland specifically, during one of the several accidental migrations of humans coming from Earth to The Road. His maternal grandmother is from a previous wave who were already settled on The Road by that time, but the family can trace her ancestry back to West Africa. Odwain’s father, Ashatov Novak, was a full-blooded Bennai, a plant-based halfling race. Ashatov took his wife’s last name.

Birthplace and Birthdate: Thinking about this trips me out man. Odwain was born in 1946, sometime in the summer, probably July or August, in Septor Secundis, a coastal, metropolitan city and the seat of The Road’s government. He’s 27 during his first adventure and right now, in Godslaughter, he is 69 (what the FUCK). He will live maybe 20 or 30 years longer than your average human, and is in better physical shape than a human would be at 69. He’s more like late 40’s or early 50’s.

Guilty Pleasures: A lot, probably - Odwain has just a bit of hedonistic streak just because he feels miserable so much of the time that he needs to feel good somehow. He smokes cigarettes for much of his life (but eventually quits), is a casual cannabis smoker and binge eats really truly terrible junk food (and has a bit of a gut because of it, but because he’s kind of lanky otherwise, he’s just kind of gourd-shaped). He likes beer, but doesn’t drink hard liqour all that often because he gets astronomically bad hangovers. Despite having a generally weak stomach, Odwain really likes frightfully spicy food, and his kids’ obligatory dad-gifts for him are probably hot sauces. When he’s not pounding down garbage, his favorite kind of cuisine is Thai. Not a guilty pleasure per say, but he also loves all things that have to do with insects, and when he and Rusty have a house together, Odwain takes up gardening as a hobby and plants an expansive garden of flora that are attractive to bees. (A Nice Thing: Odwain plants this garden when Rusty is pregnant because he found his love of insects through his father’s garden as a child, and wanted to give his kids the same opportunity) Odwain also maintains an apiary from the time that he’s living in a warehouse in the desert, to when he’s living with a partner and beyond. When he learns how to make Hot Honey it’s over for all of us. He has a modest collection of novelty bee-themed things that he’s amassed over the years, but he is not guilty about asserting his love of bees/wasps, like, at all. He’s also a little kinky but I’m not going into that.

Phobias: All of Odwain’s fears are existential - what if I push everyone away, existing in society is anxiety inducing, what if I’m just a bad person and my existence is making everything more difficult for functional people, etc. Though he’s kind of a sad fellow and has ideated suicide, and came very, VERY close to trying to kill himself after he dropped out of college, he also fears growing old and dying. I think death is more digestible to him if it’s on his own terms, but even then, I think what coaxed him off the edge was fear. If anything ever happened to his chosen romantic partner or any of his kids, he’d be besides himself, and is kind of one severe trauma and emotional breakdown away from becoming a bee-themed supervillian.

What They Would Be Famous For: Odwain is notable at a certain point in his career for being a pioneer in AI programming, and also for designing, building and patenting an invention called the Hercules Rig, which is basically a beetle-wing inspired jetpack. You can see it here. He holds the patent very closely and only allows it to be reproduced for recreation, construction, emergency rescue operations, etc. Odwain has taken a very firm stance on not allowing the military or any paramilitary organization to get their hands on it, though it has not stopped them from making shitty knock-offs that he is constantly suing people about.

What They Would Get Arrested For: Breaking and entering. Exploding something he shouldn’t. Buying illegal hazardous materials. Doing something petty that bites him in the ass.

OC You Ship Them With: To be honest there are not a lot of other characters besides Rusty that I ship him with. Bitter college rivals, thrown back together as late twenty-somethings, becoming better people together and learning to express empathy and vulnerability…it’s good. The only other character that I really go yeah, that’s the good stuff, is Jake’s character Finnick, who is kind of Odwain’s weird BFF and fellow mad scientist type. I don’t think they’d have a super stable relationship, and I think it would most likely be a “we yelled at each other and had weird sex enough that we like each other now” kind of scenario. But I do think they would come to love each other and have each other’s back to the death. Him and Hemlock, my dirty swamp witch who’s only picture was devoured during the great tumblr purge, also make a pretty fun couple for similar reasons. Iona too, but I think they are too explosive of personalities to ever find a stable middle ground. I also think he would find certain people attractive (August, Hare, Ganzrig, Ifechi the man I have spoken of but once, Jonquil in certain scenarios) but may not put himself out there to pursue them.

Neither of us have ever posted any art of her but here’s a few headshots of Finnick I did awhile ago, because she really is my favorite romantic partner for Odwain aside from Rusty, and is the only other one that’s really relevant in our games.

OC Most Likely To Murder Them: Odwain is fairly physically fragile and to be honest I think that most people could kill him as long as they could get their hands on him - he’s very dexterous and has a lot of gadgets that let him get the upper hand, keep enemies at a distance or escape. He has a ranged fighting/add-spawn build so he is mostly out of direct harm unless he’s reeled in somehow. But uh, Odwain IS dead right now in Godslaughter, he died fighting an eldritch deity named Dreamer who sucked him into a nightmare dimension and flayed his soul out of his body. It’s ok though, as long as the party beats Dio, he’ll be fine. I didn’t cry you’re the one who’s crying.

Favorite Movie/Book Genre: Ok, so, first off HAHA Odwain canonically likes Transformers and collects them, which are a thing in circulation after the last human migration from earth in the 90’s. Imagine. Imagine your grown ass father with a genius level IQ and multiple patents collecting plastic robots. Him and Finnick have transformers sonas - ANYWAY, that aside, he doesn’t really read for pleasure, just information, and generally just puts on cable while he works for white noise (and in later years, whatever The Road’s TV streaming service is). Most of the media he consumes is incidental to him, but will get interested in strange things that pique his interest. He probably thinks true crime docs are neat and enjoys pulpy sci-fi stuff that he can complain about. Any documentary about bugs. He’d like Mystery Science Theatre if they had it around. He enjoys things that are the fun, good kind of “bad” and has a fairly high threshold for disturbing imagery.

Least Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: Odwain is that guy who makes 20 minute long youtube videos lampooning movies for “not making sense”. If there’s anything that breaks his suspension of disbelief, his attention and tolerance disintegrates, even if it’s just one of those things that needs to happen to move the plot along. It doesn’t really matter what genre it is, though he is most hard on sci-fi and fantasy. There is a tipping point for him, however, where he starts enjoying the thrill of blasting something and circles back around to enjoying it.

Talents and/or Powers: Odwain is only a little bitty bit magical, and only because Bennai are the most magical race on The Road. He has latent magical ability that allows him to sense magical signatures and incorporate magic into technology, and maybe cast a low level spell if he tries really hard. If he was in a high fantasy setting, he’d be an enchanter. His staff (the big lightbulb thing I draw him with sometimes), the Hercules Rig, his Wasp Suite (robotic wasps with an AI and different spells loaded into them) and any other devilish, bug-based weapons and utility objects do his work for him.

Why Someone Might Love Them: Odwain’s a bit of a tough walnut to crack because I think that he shines in moments of sincerity and vulnerability, but he has to, well, get there. He’s capable of very great, thoughtful acts of selflessness and compassion, and deeply desires meaningful relationships with other people, but he gets insecure about how he expresses himself and can clam up. He’s passionate, emotional and expressive, but has been put down for being so, and was probably a very brilliant, curious child who was beaten down into a somber adult. I actually think that, at some point in his childhood, he was not entirely unlike Whitty in the way that he was eager to share things with people and explore the world around him, which is why Odwain feels very protective of his grandson. I think the most lovable thing about him is that when he’s at his best, nothing can stop him - he’s extremely intelligent, diligent, creative and innovative. He truly, deeply loves making things, and making them better, and when he’s not in a crash, creates prolifically. What he loves, he loves deeply and without compromise, which makes Rusty, a person that could also be said of, a good match for him. I also think his cattiness makes him very witty, he’s a genuinely funny guy who can engage in some really goofy shenanigans when he’s feeling up for it.

Why Someone Might Hate Them: Oh, lots of reasons. Odwain is an acquired taste to many, or just not to many’s taste at all. He is very petty, blunt and catty, and as a young man is extremely bitter and negative. You’d be very hard pressed to get a positive statement about anything out of him between the ages of 16-25. He’s very confrontational, can become very loud and intense if it’s something that he feels is important, and is not afraid to cut people out of his life if he feels that they aren’t good for him. Sometimes, he will end relationships/friendships prematurely because of this. Being such, he is heavily prone to self-inflicted isolation. He has no childhood friends, and only kept in touch with one person from college. He just cuts and runs. Odwain’s self-loathing runs very deep, which makes it hard for him to accept, or ask for, emotional support or affection. And that can be hard on the people around him who care about him. His executive dysfunction can also be abysmal, making it seem like perhaps he is messy or lazy, but he’s just kind of a mess himself, hah.

A weird non-psychological one but I think is enough to get someone’s hackles up is that Odwain doesn’t like animals very much unless they are insects, invertebrates, etc. He finds mammals loud, messy and needy, and that “I’m the only one in my house that is allowed to be all of those things”.

How They Change: As Odwain ages and gains a stable support network of friends, his edges soften and he learns how to ask for help more effectively. He also learns how to better choose his battles, and how to exercise the compassion that he knows he has, but has been too insecure to utilize. He manages his mental health better, but is never entirely free of it, because you never really are. Most importantly, I think, he learns how to forgive the people who deserve forgiveness, and give people second chances, accepting that people can change. Which means the same can be said for him, too.

Why You Love Them: I’ve talked about this before, somewhere, I’m sure. Odwain is one of those characters that has a very big slice of my personality, and has a lot of my more negative traits, though they are ones we’re both working on. My first session with Odwain was a scene where Odwain’s dad died after being ill for a very long time, and as it happens, it was on father’s day, on the first or second father’s day after MY dad died, after several brutal months fighting with the cancer that eventually killed him. I had to put down the dice, so to speak, and for a short time, thought that Odwain might actually be a character that I scrapped completely. He came too close to something very painful and personal. I don’t remember how, exactly, but the solution to this problem of mine was that if he’s getting close to me on his own, then I might as well just let him in on everything. I can genuinely say that doing that has changed the way that I empathize with my characters and how I make them, and that there is something I share with Odwain that I don’t have with many of my other characters. Also, I like bees.

#odwain #tyromedico

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uptonogoodindiememes · 6 years

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Faking It Sentence Meme - Pilot

“What time is it?”

“How do blind people pick out clothes?”

“Tell me again how this will rescue us from obscurity, because yesterday it sounded crayzer than Shia LaBeouf’s twitter feed.”

“Morning muffin.”

“I made you some camomile tea. You’re chart indicates a major cosmic shift that might upset your tummy.”

“You know I’m creeped out by rodents as pets.”

“Why? We hate high school during the day, I doubt we’d like it any better at night after it’s been drinking.”

“I can’t spend another Friday night watching Netflix! I’m at the end of my Queue. We gotta try something new.”

“Epic high school parties are a critical right of passage for normal people.”

“Really? Cause I just heard that kids these days are chugging jugs of hand sanitizer.”

“I’m not thrilled our parents are engaged either, but don’t piss me off. I have access to your toothbrush.”

“How dare you threaten me in my own home!”

“Bullying the gays, someone wreakes of the late nineties.”

“I didn’t realize this would be so intimidating. Everyone’s so much sluttier than they are at school.”

“We just need to relax, you know what will help? Alcohol.”

“I am not getting drunk around these people.”

“Why aren’t you dancing?”

“I am so sorry.”

“Hey, you made it!”

“Hey, great party. So much fun.”

“My friend’s getting us beers, she’ll be right back, and she’s much better at small talk.”

“Look I’m oddly flattered, but I’m not gay.”

“I’m just gonna flip on this closet light for a sec so we can talk, okay?”

“I feel like such an asshole.”

“You’re not the one who puked all over the floor.”

“Where’ve you been Poo Bear? Who’s this bitch?”

“Look, I’m not your boyfriend. We’re just good friends who have sex occasionally, but if that’s too confusing for you than we have to stop.”

“Look, I’m not a douchebag, alright? I am always clear about my ground rules. The girls they always agree to them, and they they get. . .”

“Women are genetically wired to mate and start a family, in fact if we weren’t our entire species would have died out, so, have some respect.”

“We’ll just walk in and tell them that we’re not gay.”

“Thank got the voting age is eighteen, teenagers are idiots.”

“I don’t know, maybe we should, see how this plays out.”

“You’re kidding right? They think we’re lesbians, I don’t even like looking at my own vigina.”

“Okay, when we get to school, we’re going to the nurses office, I think you have head trauma.”

“For the millionth time, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“When you thought that your yoyo routine could get you on america’s got talent, did I try and stop you?”

“Maybe I want to get hurt. Maybe I want to feel something other than boredom.”

“Don’t do that! Do not make this about you!”

“Right, because god forbid it’s not about you for one second!”

“I have been getting a lot of free baked goods.”

“Let’s just go with it. See what happens.”

“You know I’m a terrible liar.”

“Don’t think of it as lying. Think of it as. . . I gift to your oldest and dearest friend.”

“It’s art, what do you think it means?”

“Interesting theory, what you got all of that out of this?”

“You’re art, says a lot. It’s really good.”

“His lips are like the perfect blend of soft and firm, their like two tiny temperpedics on his face.”

“I’m done pretending I’m a lesbian and I’m not gonna do it anymore.”

“Can’t we just forget these past few days ever happened and just go back to the way things were?”

“Do you know that I haven’t have peanut butter in a decade because she has an allergy.”

“How’d you find me?”

“I knew you would find the tallest place in this school, cause you know I’m scared of heights, but here I am, facing my fears to apologize.”

#open starter #roleplay starter #indie rp starter #roleplay meme #meme #Prongs

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ghostmartyr · 6 years

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Fic: A Terrible Idea [4/?]

Fandom: Attack on Titan Title: A Terrible Idea Author: Immi Rating: PG-13 Summary: Ymir’s pursuit of the hot cheerleader was meant to stay strictly lustful. But it’s a high school AU with a ship tag, so you know, fuck that. Notes: Thank you wiki for caring more about Sannes’ partner’s name than I did.

Segment summary: Ymir continues her contribution to the story’s title.

I II III

Schools liked to act like they cared about their students.

They didn’t, but try explaining that and the loudest thing for miles would be some school counselor asking why it is that schools suck, and sweetheart, are you being bullied? Meanwhile five periods went by, and everything of educational value was lost. Finding that upsetting was considered grounds for another session a week later. Because wanting to talk about feelings was so normal.

Ymir had her doubts that anyone believed that. Including the counselor. What really mattered was that if she ran off and did something scandalous, no one could say the school hadn’t put in the bare minimum token effort to prevent such behavior.

Looks were everything. With that checked off, the freedom to do whatever the hell you want rang.

Historia got that. One more infernally attractive factoid about her. Ymir was still working her way up to being whatever the hell, so hot cheerleader’s current shtick mostly involved her phone— but damn if she didn’t make the most of it. While a grand total of no one pointed out that the school goddess was about as interested in them and their anything as any real god had to be.

It was all about appearances. Historia’s went way further than her skirt length, which was the multifold brand of luck that had people on the other side of the planet dying for the sake of balance.

Ymir knew all about appreciating a master at work. She spent most of her time being one.

So when the school set out neat, orderly guidelines about where their beloved sheeple were allowed to be during lunch hour, whatever. If they wanted to pretend they had a say in where the cool kids sat, Ymir was willing to work with it. All it took was finding the right prop.

Some people, like Porco’s delinquent friend, went old school and paid in full for their gear. No one was going to mess with the kid who brought a knife to school when that kid was Annie. As long as good ol’ cousin Levi wasn’t around, she had a permanent hall pass with edges sharp enough to kill a man. Several, if the rumors had any truth to them.

Porco needed to hang around better influences.

Ymir went classic.

She tucked a manila folder under her arm and went right out the front gate.

Very official, very unlikely to get the cops called, and innocuous enough that the idiot in the suit didn’t so much as glance up when she snapped a picture of him lighting up a cigarette on school grounds. All-star dad had some intense thoughts on what he’d do to them if they ever got their phones confiscated, so Pieck had charitably donated hers to the cause.

Ymir, primo messenger girl on a mission, didn’t waste her time on the private eye spiel begging to be played out. One hour a day, she got to share a room with an undersexed goddess. She wasn’t going to offer more of her precious seconds up to the altar for cheap drama. Any was bad enough.

Keeping the folder on obvious display, she walked across the parking lot.

The suit, peasant name Ralph (he wore a nametag. A collar must have had too much dignity), didn’t catch on fast. He looked up seconds too late to change his fate, Ymir sliding easily into his hazy view. His shiny silver lighter glinted in his hand like it knew it was never going out of style. Ralph scowled like he knew he couldn’t say the same.

“School’s that way, kid.”

This was going to be a fucking treat.

“Smoking’s really bad for your health,” Ymir said, keeping up a smile for her new friend. She drew Pieck’s phone with a flourish, flicking over to its latest digital addition. “Maybe not as bad as this, though.”

Ralph’s scowl added a pulsing vein or two, and a swell of panic. Ymir sat back on the beautifully waxed hood of the nearest car. His car. This guy had never had a bright idea in his life, thank fuck. Ymir made a show of craning her neck to examine the evidence. “Would you look at that. Right in front of the school sign. Way to earn that street cred.”

Never let it be said that the Reiss family hired people who couldn’t understand blackmail.

With what they got up to, that was probably one of the top things they looked for, even if they neglected things like enough common sense to avoid lawbreaking when they were on the clock.

Ralph looked like he was rediscovering the part of him that was okay with murder. “What,” he asked, “do you want?”

Ymir grinned at her new bestie. “You’re Historia Reiss’ driver, right?”

----

If there was anything you learned from sharing a house with a jock and his helicopter brother, it was getting up at the crack of dawn for things that made no sense.

“Hey, Historia!”

Ymir was finally finding it in her to forgive them for that.

The early morning sun flattered Historia’s figure just as well as the other times of day, perfecting her halo hair and bringing new light to the sheen of sweat cheerleading practice always gifted her with. All the shifting hours brought out were fifty new shades of gorgeous, and a touch of drowsiness to go with the death in her eyes.

All while she waited by the locker room instead of heading in. Because when Ymir said her name, she stopped. Easy peasy lemon fucking squeezy.

Like the smile Ymir felt stepping up with the butterflies. She kept a lid on it. There wasn’t much she could do about a person being a walking aphrodisiac, but if she was going to return the favor, she couldn’t go around with dopey hearts in her eyes. Major turnoffs like that were why Porco was still a virgin. She was on the charm and swag track, not the loser romantic track.

Dialing it up a notch, she winked at Historia and held out the fruits of her labor.

“Thought you could use a pick-me-up before school,” she said. “A pretty girl like you should always have something to snack on.”

One vending machine granola bar, as sponsored by Ralph. Cheap, probably not poison, and most importantly, something that Historia liked that wasn’t her phone. Other options included watered down sports drinks and vitamin water. Ymir was now the proud owner of a list of acceptable flavors for every consumable Historia tolerated—along with the confirmation that servants were basically paid stalkers. Bunch of creeps.

Historia took the candy bar with a hesitation so slight it belonged in a casino. Points to Ralph.

“Do you blackmail people often?”

Fuck Ralph.

“It’s more of a trading favors deal,” Ymir said. She sprawled a hand on her hip. “I offer to cover for someone, they owe me, I let them know how to clear the debt.” Nowhere in the process was procuring a new debt mentioned. That little thing the Reisses should seriously consider screening for was supposed to keep that from happening.

Schooling her expression like a boss a few pay grades behind the light of her life, she kept the next conversation piece relaxed. “He told you about it?”

Historia shrugged. “He thought you were trying to poison me.”

She peeled back the wrapper and took a bite of granola.

Blue eyes left laser etchings in Ymir’s pupils, and just what the fuck. What the fuck bound this person to a human body, and could she get its number next. Hell, she should have bargained with Ralph for Historia’s from the start. Maybe her to-do list needed an upgrade from its one item generalization.

“Not,” Ymir said, “my first plan for your body.”

Historia bit off another piece. Ymir’s shoes dug into a crack in the pavement. Blinking was slowly earning an urban legend tally. There really was something about those damn eyes. They weren’t so bleary now. There was almost a spark looking back at her. Art appreciation wasn’t a course Ymir had plans to bother with, but this moment was making it rain college credits.

“You could have asked,” Historia said abruptly.

Ymir’s eyebrows popped up. It took a Herculean effort to remember that they were back to talking about the Ralph factor and keep her mouth from going full lewd. She should have gotten a drink while she was at the vending machine. “What, you? You take requests?”

Historia shrugged again, popping the last bit of the bar into her mouth. “Yours, maybe.”

She turned around and walked into the locker room.

Ymir stood still and transcended.

#yumikuri #yumihisu #shingeki no fanfic #fic #mine #well #not at 3am

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