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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 3 years

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The d’Avenir Treatise on the Essentials of Monster Hunting (Vol I) - Preface and Introduction

The timing of this whole thing with the campaign is pretty amazing, as it turns out. In the middle of absolute work hell and attempts to sort out my general apartment/living situation, a little while ago I entered a fic into the /r/CurseOfStrahd second annual fanfic contest. It was one of my attempts to kind of write out and process the way our own run through the module went, stretch out some poor, suffering, unused writing muscles, and it was also super duper self-indulgent. So I'm very, very proud to say it won first place amidst some really great competition, and super happy to rep my best girl Ez.

Summary: In the aftermath of Strahd's destruction and the not-quite-loss of her mentor, Ezmerelda d'Avenir sets out to tie up loose ends and lay some ghosts to rest, and continues carving out a path for herself in the Domains of Dread.

Word count: 9999, as there was a 10k limit. I had fun.

Rating/Warnings: T, with canon-typical violence, and dealing with death and loss in a general gothic horror setting. Spoilers for the Curse of Strahd module.

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The d’Avenir Treatise on the Essentials of Monster Hunting (Vol I) - Preface and Introduction

Being a compendium of successes, failures, tricks, and warnings relating to detecting, tracking, fighting, and ultimately destroying undead, fiends, lycanthropes, and assorted monstrosities.

1.1. Introductory remarks

Their ride back to town is a quiet one. The silence is broken only once they are sitting, their hunting and travelling gear half-unpacked and strewn about, in the library just above van Richten's herbalist shop.

"Were we in any other profession, this would be a cause for celebration," van Richten's lips twist into a bittersweet wisp of a smile, and he pushes a warm cup of tea into her hands. "A demonstration of pride in an apprentice's first job well done, for all to see and revel in."

Ezmerelda tries to look up at him and meet his gaze properly, but her shoulders, her head, her eyes all feel too heavy. A leaden weight seems to have settled on every bit of her. She is tired, bone-deep, but the very thought of lying down and closing her eyes to attempt to sleep fills her with disgust and no small amount of dread. She knows exactly what she will see. The man, just on the cusp of middle age, entirely unremarkable at first... features quickly twisting into a mask of monstrous hunger, then to wide-eyed horror, and, finally, resorting to desperate pleas for mercy as the stake hits home and his screeching form dissolves to ash.

It feels like the ash still coats the back of her mouth. The tea smells of strong herbs, with just a whiff of something even stronger that van Richten must have snuck in from the liquor cabinet. Her hands clench around the cup, and a burning need to justify and defend herself drives her to finally speak up.

"I was ready," she insists. "I am ready."

"I know," van Richten replies, softly, sadly.

The tea scalds her tongue, but she drinks it anyway.

---

Getting up from the damp, cold floor of the tomb again feels like an impossibility. She can barely keep her head above the ground, eyes stinging with a mixture of blood and sweat and the glare of pure, magical sunlight. The clawed gashes on her ribcage burn with every weak, hard-won breath, and a metallic taste coats the back of her tongue.

But she is not done yet. She has one last lightning bolt left in her, and Strahd and his dusk elf lackey are so beautifully, perfectly aligned. Ezmerelda can't keep her lips from curling up into a smirk as she raises an arm and mutters her incantation, feeling that familiar tickle of static rising all around her.

She holds on, builds it up as much as she can, teeth grinding together, ears buzzing - until she can hold on no longer, and the energy flies from her, the flash near-blinding, the roar of accompanying thunder ringing in her ears.

She sees it hit home, the first traces of foggy vapour swirling around Strahd's convulsing form, and a beautiful satisfaction fills her.

Then, she lets herself go.

An instant or an eternity later someone is shaking her into jarring and painful wakefulness, jostling her head against the rough floor. Her mouth is filled with the bitter aftertaste of a potion, and she grimaces as she feels the familiar residue on her lips and chin.

"Fine, fine, old man, relax, I'm up," she manages, slurring the words, struggling to blink her eyes open and into focus. "I'm awake. Stop it."

But it's not him.

It is Ireena, wide-eyed gaze somehow growing wider still at her words. The reason for this becomes abundantly and agonisingly clear as she points to somewhere behind Ezmerelda... to where Rudolph van Richten lies, very pale and very still, a greater and more profound calm upon him than she has ever witnessed.

"No."

She didn't even see him fall.

"Why didn't you help him?" Ezmerelda knocks the empty potion bottle away, and it clatters loudly against the stone, finally finding rest near a streak of dark ashes. "What are you waiting for, what--"

"I tried. It was... it's too late," Ireena whispers, "I'm sorry."

Ezmerelda feels shame flood her immediately at the misaimed anger. "No. No, I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I'm sorry. I just-- wait." Awareness of just where they are and what they were in the middle of doing suddenly overwhelms her, and she feels panic crawl up her spine. "Is it over? Did you stake that bastard once and for all?"

Ireena nods, mouth curling in visible distaste. "I did, just like you said to. Your last hit - it was enough to force him to turn into mist, and then, when... when he reformed in the coffin, I did it."

The relief Ezmerelda feels at that is so bitter it burns. "I missed it, then," she murmurs, and feels ridiculous immediately afterwards. Ireena shakes her head, and helps her sit up.

She allows herself a few precious moments of rest against the cold, damp wall of the crypt, eyes painfully locked on van Richten's still, still form. As soon as she feels half-capable of moving, she all but drags herself to his side. Feeling for a pulse, a breath, anything at all to help her disbelieve what is plainly before her eyes.

She finds no such thing. He's dead, and it feels like a stake through her own heart. After all her efforts, after getting into Barovia just to get the damned foolish old man off his self-destructive warpath and out, only to lose him now, to fail right at the end...

A pale shimmer falls over the scene before her, like a curtain right before her eyes. Ezmerelda blinks and shakes her head, but can't make it go away. She reaches up, and--

Erasmus all but swoops down to be face to face with her.

It takes her a moment to properly grasp what she is seeing. Erasmus. Somehow still there, his ghostly form hovering over his father's body. Gesturing at her wildly, pointing down at something, and, finally, using his ectoplasmic paint to draw... a circle within a circle, hanging in mid-air.

She follows his wordless instructions to the best of her current ability and, with some painfully suppressed reluctance, looks down at van Richten. And there on his finger is a ring that was certainly not there before.

Erasmus seems insistent and quite unusually agitated, so Ezmerelda takes the ring, trying not to register the coldness of the hand it was on, and puts it on numbly, feeling utterly beyond thought.

Suddenly, cutting through the fog that seems to have descended upon her mind, bubbling up like an idea from her own consciousness, a thought - a voice. A familiar voice.

'Ezmerelda? Ah. I see. Well, that could have gone decidedly better.'

She feels tears welling up in her eyes, an unstoppable burning in her chest. She wants to laugh until she can't breathe, or sob her lungs raw.

Instead, she sits back against the cool stone wall. As the adrenaline wears off, she becomes more aware of the extent of her injuries: the sting where foul claws raked across her midsection and upwards; the burns of magical fire on her palms. She fishes out the last potion from her pocket, and downs it in one greedy gulp. The relief is near-instant.

Her faculties at least somewhat returned to her, she opts for a laugh as she recognises the ring for what it is. Ireena looks at her with some concern, but Ezmerelda waves it away.

"A ring of mind shielding. Protect the mind, and store the soul, should the worst happen. Of course you of all people would come so prepared."

Ezmerelda twists the ring on her finger, marvels at the detailed engraving.

"Should I... we could... there's ways. To get you back. I mean..."

She trails off, and there is a brief pause before the voice in her mind pipes up again. 'No. No, I think, at long last, it is time for me to stop. And rest.'

Even though her entire being wishes to rail against this, to insist on the need for Rudolph van Richten to exist, and protest the injustice (just when she'd gotten him back!), Ezmerelda manages, barely, a soft, "I understand."

'There is still some work to do before that, though, no? Loose ends for us to take care of before, well...'

That, she feels far more comfortable with. It almost comes as a relief. "Yes, of course. First order of business, we will sit down, and we will work out a plan. And we will stick to that plan."

There is a soft chuckle in her mind.

"What's so funny? You love plans."

She imagines, in better, happier days, the old man - only slightly less old - shaking his head at her with a long-suffering smile.

'Thank you for humoring me, is all I'll say. Now, go handle things here properly and finish up, while I think of a list of priorities for us. Miss Kolyana is waiting for you.'

1.2. A brief reflection on personal experience

Ezmerelda is pulled into a room, hand clamped over her mouth. The door slams shut, and she almost stumbles as she is suddenly released.

"What in all the realms are you doing here?" The colourful half-elf carnival master hisses at her in a voice decidedly unlike the one he was just using in the downstairs taproom. Now that they are close, she can see the magical disguise of the Great Rictavio is utterly impeccable, but the eyes... the eyes are unmistakable.

They are also flooded with the closest thing to panic Ezmerelda has ever seen in them.

"I'm here to help you. You don't stand a chance on your own."

"How did you find me?"

Ezmerelda shrugs noncommittally, and doesn't look behind him. "I have my ways."

He shakes his head. "That isn't good enough. If his agents - and there are many, I assure you! - catch even a whiff--"

She finally glances at the ghostly form of Erasmus, just barely visible over Rictavio's shoulder, unable to be perceived by the one man he wishes he could reach out to and reassure. He meets her eyes and holds his finger up to his lips.

"I recognised your horse," she says, at long last.

"Dear Drusilla? Oh..." Rictavio seems to almost deflate at that, though his nervous pacing doesn't slow.

Erasmus' visage shows what has to be gratitude, or relief, or both. Then he closes his eyes, seemingly tired, and the shimmering remnants of him disappear from view.

"Damned stubborn, foolish girl..." Rictavio moves deftly around the small room, securing the shutters on its single window, locking the door from the inside, gaze darting around wildly. Then he reaches up and removes his hat, and Rudolph van Richten, looking more old and more worn than Ezmerelda was perhaps ever prepared to see, stands in his place.

"I had a plan, you know," he sighs, tossing the hat onto the bed. "One that I can now no doubt forget about entirely."

"There's no time for your endless preparation and planning. Any waiting game we try to play is a losing one. There's a young woman who desperately needs our help, a legendary weapon to be found, and there's a monster to hunt, feeding on an entire land. I've been to the castle, scouted out--"

"You've done what?"

Ezmerelda doesn't look at him and chooses to pace a small circle around the room herself. "The castle. Ravenloft. Getting in was a breeze - getting out was the hard part." She suppresses a brief shudder at the memory of her invisibility spell running out and Strahd's eyes boring directly into hers, as if he'd known she was there all along. "But, well, I managed. And more importantly, I found a way into his crypt."

Van Richten sits down on the bed, rubbing circles into his forehead.

"Ezmerelda, you can't be here." His voice sounds pained, almost. "You know you are not safe near me. My curse--"

"Sincerely, fuck your curse," Ezmerelda spits. "After all these years, it can wait a few days before striking. Can't be worse than what will happen to both of us and anyone involved if we can't manage to work together on this. We have to. I tried, by myself, but..."

She tries not to dwell on the terribly brief confrontation, the bite of the cold, cold grasp that seemed to steal the very life out of her, and her rather desperate escape.

"Ezmerelda," van Richten starts again, then pauses, and just looks at her - a long, heavy look. "Why?"

"There are still people who care about your well-being," she replies simply and softly, "no matter what you may believe."

Then she straightens her shoulders and allows the steel back into her voice. "So listen to me. We are going to stake that devil in his lair, and we are going to get out of this cursed land. Together."

For once, he doesn't argue.

---

Their lord and master may be gone, but there are plenty of foul things still crawling around Castle Ravenloft - and occasionally crawling out of it as well.

How lucky for the Village of Barovia, then, to have a monster hunter visiting.

"...so I think that should do it for that particular area of the barracks," Ezmerelda flicks a stray bit of zombie gunk off of her bracer, then casts an apologetic look at Ireena. "But who knows what else he has buried under there."

Ireena Kolyana, the girl haunted, hunted, and tormented by the vampire, deciding she's had enough of running, turning on him and wielding a sword of pure sunlight against him. Poetic justice, if Ezmerelda fancied herself a poet.

Ireena Kolyana, looking exhausted in a very different way, now caught up in burgomaster duties, barely finding time in her overstuffed schedule to hear about the results of Ezmerelda's latest expedition to the castle.

"You know," Ezmerelda begins, eyeing the stacks of papers and growing chaos on the desk between them, "if you ever get really tired of this, and miss life on the road..." she nods towards the window, and the wagon just outside it. "I have room for one more. And could always use a deft hand with a sword."

Ireena smiles, but the sadness underpinning it is palpable. "I can't, not now at least. There is too much to take care of here. And without Ismark..." a shadow falls briefly over her face, then she visibly forces it back. "Some day, maybe. I would honestly love to."

Ezmerelda nods, then moves to stand up, and holds out a hand expectantly. "Come on, you have time for a walk. A minute to escort me out and say goodbye, at least."

Ireena chuckles quietly and shakes her head, but pushes away from the desk and takes the proffered arm.

The sunlight is bright, tempered only by a wisp of white cloud here and there. Ezmerelda feels a light pull on her arm as Ireena stops on the threshold of the house for just a fraction of a moment. The hesitation is brief, barely noticeable, but the pause as if needing to catch her breath and the subsequent dawning joy - pure, almost radiant by itself - as the sunlight hits her skin--

Ezmerelda realises she's staring, blinks, and makes herself look away.

Their stroll is indeed brief, and as soon as they turn the corner and reach the parked wagon, Ireena sighs and stands half-ready to hurry back to her office and her duties.

"Hey," Ezmerelda puts what she hopes is a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I know you can handle all of this. Never doubt that."

This wins her a sincere smile. "Thank you."

Knowing there's no more point in delaying, Ezmerelda pulls away, moves to arrange her things around the wagon and prepare to leave.

"The offer stands," she says as she climbs into the driver's seat. "Keep it in mind."

"Maybe next time," Ireena replies with another sad smile. But then she pauses for a moment, almost as if thinking something over. Then she darts in quickly, and kisses Ezmerelda's cheek.

"Don't stay away too long," she says, quietly, then draws away again. Ezmerelda nods her agreement, and takes up the reins of her conjured horses.

Ireena waves her goodbye, and stands, looking on, bathed in sunlight.

And then the road turns, and she disappears from Ezmerelda's view.

'Well.'

"Shut up." Ezmerelda can feel her face burning. "Absolutely no need to read into things."

'You know I mean no offense. I only want the best for you.'

"I am perfectly fine," Ezmerelda grumbles. "Besides, this is the last thing she needs right now."

'You don't know that. Ask her sometime, perhaps, to tell you herself. Too many people have assumed too much about that young lady, I think. Myself included.'

"Oh, what do you know..."

There is a distinct sensation of stinging grief, never quite healed, as the voice comes again. 'You seem to forget I was young once. In love once. More... than once. And though it never ended well, like few things in my life did, the only thing I have ever regretted was not acting sooner. And regret is...'

"... the enemy of progress. I know." Ezmerelda sighs, the old man's oft-repeated saying rattling around in her mind as she snaps the reins and takes them down the road westward. "Maybe next time."

1.3. Materials and methods, an overview

Her balance is off still, but the past few weeks have brought incredible improvement. She flicks her rapier upwards, then lunges - back, forth, back, forth, fully and properly bearing weight on her right side in the training yard for the first time in months. The new prosthetic is truly a work of art and a masterful display of craftsmanship. Ezmerelda feels almost giddy at the sensation of ducking and weaving under the wooden limbs of the training dummy, feinting deftly, ignoring the burn in her arm and shoulder. The maneuvers are not yet close to her peak speed and fluidity and elegance, not after the long, arduous recovery she is only now reaching the end of. But it is all so very, very promising.

It also brings to mind - because how could it not, when for the better part of the past half-year she has had more time to think, and remember, and reflect than in her entire life? - van Richten's drills. He was always far more of a theoretician than practitioner of swordfighting, but he was certainly no slouch with a blade. The precision and perfection of form he insisted on instilling in her initially seemed to clash with her more free, improvisational, off-the-cuff approach, but ended up blending with it to great effect in ways that occasionally surprised them both.

She goes through attack patterns he's drilled into her and realises she misses him, the cantankerous old man and all his frustrating ways, and suddenly finds herself fervently wishing she wasn't doing this alone. She spares a moment to imagine the amount of fussing over her he would likely have insisted on, with his overprotective bedside manner that she used to chafe and scoff at whenever one of their hunts went badly for her. She thinks of all the lovely, fleeting drawings Erasmus would have made for her.

Her next step is careless, thoughtless, distracted, and as a result only a little off. The lunge is misaimed, unbalanced, and her knee twists unpleasantly. For the briefest flash of a moment she could swear she can feel the teeth sinking in again, and the horrible tearing.

Ezmerelda winces, fingers clenched around the rapier's handle, knuckles white. Her teeth grit as the wave of pain subsides so very, very slowly, but doesn't quite go away. She remembers, belatedly, that she has an audience.

"Ah, almost there," she calls back to the artisan eagerly awaiting her feedback, voice forcefully kept steady, without turning to face them, and taps her rapier on the metal plating running up from the heel. "We'll need to make another slight adjustment to the ankle joint, I think. But this is definitely and by far the best one yet. Let me get some more practice first, and we can go over the details in the afternoon."

Ezmerelda doesn't wait to see if her words are acknowledged. She hefts the rapier back up.

---

Before she reaches the first crossroads west of Vallaki, she turns the wagon south and into the woods.

"I have some unfinished business of my own to settle first," Ezmerelda states very matter-of-factly, preempting any interrogation from the ring's general direction.

The wagon trail to the top of the hill is easier to navigate than ever, and the camp is abuzz with activity, as it usually is. But this time the feel of it all is a bit different.

Ezmerelda knows it well; the air of a caravan packing up to leave.

Arabelle sees her weaving through the horses, strolling towards the large central tent, and darts towards her immediately, then freezes not three feet away. Ezmerelda can tell plain as the new Barovian day that she is torn between looking dignified and throwing herself at her in a hug.

So she crouches down and opens her arms first, and is almost knocked over when Arabelle rushes in.

"I want to show you something I've been practicing," Arabelle whispers conspiratorially, "but you'll need to lend me a dagger."

Ezmerelda's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but she obliges the girl after only a moment's contemplation, still crouched down and one arm around her narrow shoulders.

The dagger is one of the smaller ones she usually keeps concealed, but even so it seems far too large in Arabelle's hands. Nevertheless, in a few surprisingly dextrous motions with only a couple of moments of hesitation, she seems to make it disappear - then produces it again as if out of thin air.

"Huh. Impressive. Did your uncle teach you that little trick?"

Arabelle nods, but her pride is palpable. "Papa was so mad! He says that both him and you are a bad influence and I am far too young to be handling blades."

"There's no such thing," Ezmerelda scoffs, but motions for her dagger back and tucks it away safely. "Where is your father? I wanted to speak with him."

"Luvash is busy," another voice cuts in cooly, and Arrigal steps out of the fading, scarce shadows, somehow slipping under her notice even with the bright streams of sunlight all around. "But you can speak with me."

Ezmerelda stands up slowly, and can see him sizing her up.

"Run along now, Arabelle," Arrigal says in a much warmer tone of voice, but without taking his eyes off Ezmerelda for even a moment.

Arabelle gives her one last look as she turns to leave, and Ezmerelda tries to give her a reassuring smile - but then she realises Arabelle doesn't seem concerned or reluctant or... anything at all. She seems supremely calm, and not seven years old at all.

Arrigal steps forward and, even as uncannily quiet as he always is, it startles her back into the moment. Then, he reaches out a hand.

Ezmerelda meets his gaze, steps forward, and takes it. The handshake is firm, and she smirks. "Looks like you backed the losing side, cousin."

The term of address rolls off her tongue with some bite of irony in it. Arrigal inclines his head in acknowledgement. "You can't say it wasn't a fairly sure bet. A matter of survival, of course. We do what we must to keep our people safe. But," and he draws a bit closer, as if letting her in on a secret. "I'm glad he didn't send me after you."

Ezmerelda nods, and decides she isn't in the mood for a debate. "You know, so am I. I would have hated having to kill you. Instead, here you are, in an excellent position for a little introspection, changing your ways... much better this way, isn't it?"

He shakes his head with a grin, and finally lets go of her hand. "You are a menace. But we follow the traditions, and you have a place here. Where are you going?"

"Borca," she says, and pointedly doesn't elaborate further.

Arrigal laughs. "Off to more of your grim business right away! Well, one has to admire your tenacity. You can stay, of course, and leave with us tomorrow. We will share the road at least part of the way."

So Ezmerelda stays, and exchanges news of recent caravan routes and planned Mist-traversal with Luvash. The fire roars to life as the sun sets. Tales are told, and she contributes some of her own.

"Regale us, cousin," Arrigal says, grinning wolf-sharp, arms open wide as if to encompass the entire camp, "with the story of the fall of the devil Strahd."

Arabelle is a delight, as always. The truce with Arrigal, if it can be called that, is uneasy, but holds. The ring is quiet.

Arabelle insists on riding with her in the morning ("You did fish her out of that lake... brought her back to us," Luvash grumbles. "I suppose there's no harm... I'll have none of that monster-hunting nonsense, though!"). Her delight at the summoned magical horses is palpable, even as she tries to hide it. Ezmerelda gives her the reins until they need to enter the Mists, and is only slightly surprised to see her managing well, with just a few pointers here and there.

The whole way, Arabelle demands stories of her and van Richten's exploits very matter-of-factly - interrogates, almost, at times. Her eyes are large, intent, focused, as Ezmerelda obliges, for hours.

"I knew you would win," Arabelle says at one point, breaking a rare longer stretch of silence between them. "Uncle didn't want to listen to me, but I knew."

Ezmerelda looks at her, matches her seriousness. "I hope he will learn to listen, one day soon."

1.4. Common pitfalls

Ezmerelda inches back to consciousness more than wakes, and hisses as she almost reflexively tries and fails to sit up. She recognises her own bed in the former guest room above the herbalist shop, but the details of how she got there are fuzzy at best, completely absent at worst. She is, however, very aware of a merciless pounding in her head and that she has most certainly just pulled some fresh stitches.

A swirl of colourful ectoplasm greets her when she next opens her eyes, Erasmus' fleeting but always lovely and cheerful greetings hovering above her.

Well. Ezmerelda forces a pained smile at him, knowing that if he is here, his father cannot be far, and--

Ah. Familiar footsteps on the stairs, and the distinct creak of the second one from the top, as Rudolph van Richten enters the room with uncanny timing.

He doesn't seem to be surprised to see her awake as he gives her a quick look-over, even as concern and frustration clearly war on his face.

"I thought we had reached an agreement," he begins at last, very deliberately calmly.

Ezmerelda doesn't reply.

"I thought," he continues with that same calm tone, "that we had made a plan. That was my distinct impression of our last conversation."

Ezmerelda clenches her teeth, then grinds out, "I couldn't just stand by and let that beast--"

"You could have voiced your disagreements with the plan and brought your concerns to me, instead of running off on your own in the middle of the night," van Richten is clearly struggling to keep his voice level. "You almost died."

"Fine, I am voicing my disagreements. We know it's a wereboar. Just go at it with our silvered weapons, set up an ambush where we found its lair... why wait? Why give it more chances to hurt people?"

"To be absolutely certain we have all the information. That we have looked at it from every angle, that we have not overlooked a crucial detail. Minimise its chances to hurt us."

"But by then it might have mauled half the village to death, or worse!"

Van Richten's gaze on her is sharp. "And if we get ourselves pointlessly killed, are the villagers any safer for our hasty, brash, ill-thought sacrifice?"

"Hasty, brash, and ill-thought. Fine, if that’s how it is, how you think of me," Ezmerelda throws her hands up, and wishes she could march off, slamming a door shut behind her for good measure, as childish as the thought makes her feel.

Van Richten sighs deeply, and pulls up a chair to sit next to her bed. Ezmerelda recognises it as one from downstairs, and feels a small stab of guilt at the thought of him setting up a vigil at her bedside.

"We can't go rushing in on half-checked information," van Richten begins, after a brief silence, looking down at his hands. "We can't, because... because I have done that, in the past. And people - good, brave, dedicated people who chose to stand against evil, people who trusted me - died as a result."

"I have been wrong," he continues, still not looking up. "I have followed faulty sources without the due diligence of thorough enough vetting. I have overlooked things, and I have lost many. I will not and cannot allow that to happen again. We have to be careful, patient, and vigilant, always."

"I'm not advocating for blindly rushing in," Ezmerelda protests, "I'm merely--"

"I won't have you on my soul as well. I have far too many already."

"And I won't have any more innocents on mine! We had all the relevant information two days ago. Four people could have been alive today if we had acted on time. We were right."

"And what about when you aren't, Ezmerelda? What about when you aren't?"

Ezmerelda looks him right in the eyes, steely. "Then I will make sure I am the one who pays the price for my own mistakes."

"Oh," van Richten smiles sadly, "If only that were possible."

---

The letter arrives just as she is preparing, to her great relief, to leave Port-à-Lucine for good. It is hand-delivered by an ostentatiously dressed man in a stylised fox mask, entirely - and Ezmerelda feels her lips curl in annoyance - unassuming and usual for the land of outrageous pretense that is Dementlieu. The way he seems to disappear in the moment it takes for her to glance down at what he has thrust into her hands is also something Ezmerelda finds hard to marvel at anymore.

Overjoyed to be able to return to the relative privacy and safety of her wagon, she tosses away her old harlequin mask in the sincere hopes of never having to put the damn thing on again. Then she throws herself on the bed and focuses on tearing into the sealed envelope, absorbing its mysterious contents.

After she reaches the end of the letter's brief text, she stays very still for a long while.

'Not a name I thought I would see again, if I am to be honest,' van Richten's voice comes slowly, sounding very wary.

Ezmerelda breathes out a frustrated sigh, an unidentifiable jumble of feelings warring in her chest and burning up her throat. She tries to reply several times, then stops, and closes her eyes. Collects herself, at least somewhat, and decides to focus on the practical. "How do we even know this isn't a forgery, or some sort of trap?"

'We don't. But it is a loose end I, for one, am not prepared to simply overlook.'

"She's tried before, but I never... I don't have time for this right now, I--," she throws the letter and the shredded envelope onto the chest at her bedside, and runs an annoyed hand through her hair, again, and again, and again. Thinking, or at least trying to.

'We have time. You and I both know it's not time that is the problem.'

They are nearing the end of their planned journey, finishing up their business with Alanik Ray and Arthur Sedgwick's latest investigations and bidding farewell to Dementlieu. And then it was supposed to be on to Mordent, to call in at the Mordentshire shop briefly, and afterwards to Darkon - to Rivalis, and the villages surrounding the old Richten estate. Some ghouls to fight off, wraiths to purge, ghosts to lay to rest, to help the villagers out, before... well. They'll come to that when they do.

Ezmerelda can't deny the detour would only be a brief one.

"A 'loose end'," she huffs. "Really."

'I am just trying to help you. Don't waste years of your life like I have, either bitter or wondering or fleeing. Confront your - our - past, at least this part. Lay it to rest, if you can.'

"The past does not lie behind us. It is part of what we are, and part of what we always will be," Ezmerelda recites, then sighs again. "Old Vistani saying."

A moment of silence. 'Make sure it is a good part, then.'

Ezmerelda's memory of her mother feels... not fuzzy, but perhaps a bit tweaked and twisted over the years, more by feelings overtaking it than by any fault of recall. The images of what she remembers and what now stands before her don't match, but have a strange, dissonant overlap, leaving visible in the centre a woman Ezmerelda could almost, almost imagine seeing in the mirror. One she hoped to never see again after that night of wordless parting, many years ago.

Years of imprisonment seem to have been surprisingly kind to Madame Irena Radanavich. She has wormed her way into some kind of favour with someone powerful here, no doubt, as has always been her utterly unscrupulous way. The cell is clearly a formality, more of an office than anything, a parlour for receiving agents and lackeys, as well as bosses. There is even a chair - a worn, old wooden frame with faded red upholstery - placed a little ways away from the bars, facing them. Ezmerelda also gets a distinct impression that the guard standing in the corner is not there for any visitor's safety or protection.

The woman in the cell seems to light up the moment she sets eyes on Ezmerelda strolling into the cell space with a pretense of casualness.

"My, how you've grown! My, and yet-- oh, darling," concern seems to flood her face and voice, and - there, a subtle, wry twist - Ezmerelda thinks she catches a false, even mocking undertone to it. A flash, and it’s gone, and perhaps she merely imagined it, or even wanted it to be there, an ache for some semblance of simplicity to box this woman in. "There's both more and less of you than last time I saw you."

"Really?" Ezmerelda scoffs, and almost wants to laugh. "All those tales I've heard of your vicious, clever, insidious scheming, and that's the best you can come up with?" She crosses her arms, and clicks her metal heel against the floor loudly. "Not an angle you can use against me, I'm afraid. Try again."

"You wound me!" A dramatic hand placed over her chest. "Treating your own mother like that, who has never had anything but your best interests at heart. Who you've never even come to visit."

Ezmerelda slips the opened letter through the bars, letting it land on the hewn stone on the other side. Then she moves to sit down on the solitary chair.

"I'm only here because I got your letter."

"Oh! Good. My dearest Ezmerelda, I was--"

"I am here to tell you I want you to leave me alone," Ezmerelda continues, acting as if she hasn't heard a word. "For good. Forget I exist, preferably. I want nothing to do with you, and I never will. And the only thing I might want to do with your plotting and scheming is foiling it, so it is in your best interest to leave me out of it all. And van Richten..."

The saccharine smile dips down, almost into a scowl. "And here I'd heard you'd finally seen sense and parted ways with that old fool."

"You hear much, I see," Ezmerelda replies, cooly.

"I have my ways. My sources. People loyal to me, who have yet to abandon me."

Ezmerelda feels the swipe like an airy almost-cut of a dagger that just barely misses. "Well, here's something new for you, then. Something your little web-weaving spiders seem to have missed. You'll be happy to hear he's dead."

"And right away you come back to me! Time to end your silly games, eh, Ezme? Good, good. A start--"

"You have no right to call me that," Ezmerelda cuts her off, rapidly losing her will to restrain herself.

"Come now, dear. That's no way to talk to your mother, your own flesh and blood. It's about time we set all this nonsense aside, don't you think? Your family--"

"You're no family of mine."

"Please," she scoffs loudly. "You sound like an angry child. And... oh, really, what kind of name is 'd'Avenir' even?"

"My name," Ezmerelda replies, perfectly matter-of-fact, and refuses to even entertain further discussion of the matter.

"I wonder how you'll do," Madame Radanavich smiles, but this time the threatening edge is obvious, pretense briefly abandoned, "all alone. Playing your little games of pretend with your make-believe name. You'll come crawling back to me yet."

Ezmerelda finds herself thinking of Erasmus, and almost believes she can see him, out of the corner of her eye. Tries not to think of what this confrontation might be bringing back for him. Thinks of the Martikovs welcoming her with open arms and offering shelter even in the darkest and dourest and most dangerous of days; thinks of Ireena with the sunsword and an entire wealth of feeling tangled in a tired, relieved smile somehow brighter than the blazing sunlight itself. Of nights around the fire in the camp outside Vallaki, and little Arabelle pulling on her coat, extorting promises of lessons in both swordfighting and divining. Of Arthur Sedgwick and his honest, caring eyes, and his patient instruction in properly using a flintlock, as his husband gleefully offers detailed scientific explanations of the weapon's workings from the side. She twists the ring on her finger.

"I'm not alone," Ezmerelda says simply, and feels resolute steel pouring back. She stops to consider her next words more carefully.

"I watched your actions and your curse destroy a good man's life. But I want you to know that you wanted to take from him, and in the end you took from me, the daughter you profess to care about so much. And now you crow at me about flesh and blood and expect me to, what? Beg you to let me come back? Back to what? A mouldy cell and as short a leash as the current master feels like giving you?"

"Bold words for one given to following an old wretch around like a sad pup, even as he keeps trying to kick you away," Radanavich sneers, then shifts back to sad pity in the blink of an eye. "Oh, yes, my dear, it's so very tragic... I've heard it all. Look at you - you're wasted on him."

"Oh?" Ezmerelda raises an eyebrow cooly, clamps down on the sting to her pride and the deliberate scrape against old wounds, and almost wanting to scream you are the reason he feared that daring to care about someone would be a death sentence for them. "And what would you prefer to be using me for?"

"How dare you! After all I've done for our family, while you throw your lot in with the man who killed your brother and imprisoned your mother!"

Ezmerelda feels suddenly tired, more than anything. "You know he did no such thing. And I've done very well for myself, despite you."

"Have you, now? What price have you paid for your... profession? What has it cost you already?"

"Nothing I wouldn't be ready to pay ten times over if it meant ensuring the safety of an innocent, or beating back those such as you. You still don't understand," Ezmerelda just smiles sadly, allowing only the slightest undercurrent of danger. "I'm neither lost, nor settling for anything, nor desperately grasping at a chance, nor tragically misguided. This is what I want. This-- this cause, this fight, this is exactly what I was meant to do. And I am very, very good at it."

"Oh, Ezmerelda, if excitement and adventure and glory is what you are after, I know of much that you could do! So many causes that your... talents... would be an excellent match for. You do have a certain reputation, and I know several highly influential actors who'd know exactly where to put your skills to use, no matter how they were acquired. You could do so well for yourself! Rise right to the top of the ranks in the blink of an eye, become truly great."

Ezmerelda shakes her head, and sighs, and moves to get up from the sad, solitary seat.

"Ezmerelda--"

She quickly turns towards the bars and leans in, baring her teeth and grinning widely. "I killed the devil Strahd," Ezmerelda smirks at the look of shock she gets in response. "I think your petty schemes are a little below me, don't you?"

She turns to leave, not waiting for a response. The guard leans back in his corner as she moves away from the bars, waving him off.

"Oh, do feel free to let your masters know," she tosses over her shoulder nonchalantly as she makes her way out. "Though I have to say I haven't really looked into whose lapdog you are nowadays."

Ezmerelda hears a frustrated growl behind her as the sickeningly sweet, pleasant mask falls for good. As the door slams shut behind her, she doesn't look back.

She lets the noise of the city drown out her thoughts as she slowly makes her way back to her wagon, more than ready to be on her way elsewhere. Until, after a while, a familiar voice comes swimming up through her mind.

'How do you feel?'

"I don't know," Ezmerelda murmurs, after a long silence. "Ask me tomorrow."

1.5. Notes on useful classification and categorisation

As she finishes rattling off the information she's gathered on a series of apparent annis hag encounters that van Richten asked her for, he looks-- well, 'impressed' is the only word Ezmerelda can think of to describe it.

In the ensuing moment of quiet, he takes off his spectacles, fidgets with them briefly, polishes off a smudge with his handkerchief. Then, he looks her right in the eye. "You, girl, are a veritable sponge."

Ezmerelda flashes him a smug smile, then remembers the other matter she wanted to bring to his attention. She clears her throat, and begins, with uncharacteristic hesitance. "I've also been looking into some... other things. Another way I can contribute, I think."

The only reply is a raised eyebrow, so Ezmerelda steels herself and decides to go forward with her planned demonstration. She quells the nervous fluttering in her stomach, and instead focuses on the points of her own fingers as they trace well-practiced patterns in the air. With a final flick and a quick mutter of the incantation she's quietly recited so, so many nights in her room when she was supposed to be asleep, the very air around her right hand shimmers with heat. A few tense moments later, a small mote of flame appears in her palm.

Ezmerelda bites back an exclamation of joy at the success, tries to keep her expression fairly neutral, and looks to van Richten expectantly.

His eyebrows are, very amusingly, trying to climb into his hairline. "Where in the world did you learn to do that?"

She lets the little flame dance between her hands, casually skip from one to the other, flickering giddily, and feels an odd sense of relief wash over her.

"I saw it in one of your books. Almost by accident, and it... it just made a lot of sense to me, even just skimming over it. So I thought, why not? If I could get a handle on a few of the spells, I could complement your arsenal quite well. Bring more to the fight."

Van Richten nods, but there is a wary undertone to his words. "As long as you aren't making any ill-advised deals and pacts - which, I'll remind you--"

"-- are all of them. I know. Don't worry. I'm only interested in things I can glean by myself."

"Well, I'm not much of an arcane practitioner, though I am quite familiar with a lot of theory. I'm afraid I won't be able to provide any elaborate training or instruction--"

"That's fine," Ezmerelda rushes to say. "I can continue like this. The research, the books - it's..."

She trails off, not quite knowing how and what to explain. Arcane magic is fascinating, surprisingly enjoyable, and strikes a deeply satisfying balance between being hard-won and feeling like it comes naturally to her.

It also feels... hers.

"It's very engaging material," she finishes after a little while. She moves to close her fist and extinguish the tiny fire, but something stops her at the very last moment.

"Indeed," van Richten replies simply, and gets up from his seat. "Well, I do need to go tend to the shop, but rest assured we will discuss the tactical applications of this later today."

Just as he is out the study door and about to start down the stairs, he pauses, and turns back to look at her, a bright and sincere smile on his face. "Very well done, Ezmerelda."

The flame flickers, ready to fly from her fingers, bursting with potential.

"Thank you," she murmurs long after he is gone.

---

It is deep nighttime when Ezmerelda shakes off the last tendrils of the Mists and sets eyes on the cliffs of Mordentshire. The wagon's wheels clatter over rain-slick cobblestones as she navigates the still-familiar streets of the seemingly unchanging harbour town. The cold sea wind makes her tighten her coat around herself, to very little avail.

She can't say she's missed the weather.

By the time she spies the sign neatly painted with the words Herbalist - Dr. Rudolph van Richten, she feels soaked through and entirely miserable, and spends only a moment giving the place a quick look-over.

The shop is in fine shape - if she didn't know better, Ezmerelda could easily believe its owner closed it up for the night and left just yesterday. The wolfsbane and garlic in the planters underneath each window are flourishing. She makes a mental note to make her first order of business in the morning calling in on the neighbors and discussing further arrangements with Mrs. Polk, in whose capable hands van Richten has been leaving things for years.

In the meantime, she fervently hopes for dry clothes and a workable fireplace.

A quick rummage between two bushy wolfsbane plants - the second and third one on the right - produces a spare key, and Ezmerelda remembers with mild amusement her shock at this mundane weakness in van Richten's usually impeccable and overthought defenses, years ago.

"Keys," he'd looked at her over the rim of his spectacles, "are hardly a problem for things that truly want to harm me."

The little bell chimes as she opens the door. Catching a glimpse of herself in the very precisely placed full-length mirror just opposite the entrance, she wastes no time before going upstairs. The second stair from the top creaks its old, familiar reassurance.

Ezmerelda enters the room that used to be hers, in between harrowing hunting trips and trying adventures, during her years training with van Richten. It doesn't seem to have changed much - nor does it seem to be in use as anything but spare storage space.

She does her best not to think about how empty and quiet the house is, or how she's never truly been alone in it. Instead, she hangs up her coat, rolls up her shirt sleeves, unpacks some of her things, and, by the time she gets a proper fire going, realises sleep is the very last thing she feels like doing. Her eyes alight on the small desk in the corner, and she instead decides to do something she hasn't in a while.

She sits down to write.

First, Ezmerelda takes off the ring and sets it aside, muttering a quick good night, Doctor under her breath. Then she takes out some of her collection, observations accumulated over the years - jotted down on everything from thick parchment to old wrapping paper. Combining it with the wealth of van Richten's remaining material and into something eventually coherent will no doubt be a challenge, but a challenge is not something Ezmerelda d'Avenir has ever shied away from.

It is just haphazard, quick notes on anything of consequence that comes to mind at first, carried by an odd nervous energy. A more systematic approach will have to come at some later point.

While knowledge is a key weapon in any hunter's arsenal, honing one's body as well as mind is absolutely necessary, she writes, tapping her foot on the wooden floor in a way that often drove van Richten to distraction. Many of the creatures of the night become, in their cursed states, inhumanly strong, and in such instances one must be particularly careful of engaging them in close quarters, for even the greatest strongman would be at a disadvantage.

However, not all of these encounters need be solved by violence. Many ghosts

She pauses, pen slowly dripping ink onto the half-filled page before her, and sees Erasmus out of the corner of her eye. She turns her head to face him, and for once in their long and unusual life-and-afterlife-spanning acquaintance, she finds she can't quite read him.

Many ghosts are held in their in-between existence due to unfinished business. Tethered to some regret or incomplete task from their mortal lives, they seek resolution and closure. Many hauntings can thus be resolved by investigation, and what I must term a primarily sympathetic approach. Of course, one must also always be wary and on the lookout for deliberately misguiding spectres who seek to play upon one's pity.

The first signs of dawn creep into the room by the time she has moved on from ghosts to wraiths to trying to sort out her notes about creatures that lurk underwater - old notes that have been, to her chagrin, very appropriately and unsalvageably waterlogged.

Ezmerelda manages to light another candle just before her current one sputters out, and rubs at her tired eyes. Then she pauses, gazing idly at the ink stains on her fingers.

She reaches over for a new page, setting her current work aside. There is something else she wants and needs to write, something other than dry facts or hopefully helpful guidelines. The first few sentences come in fits and starts, but soon enough she finds them flowing out of her pen almost of their own accord.

What I would like to make clear is that this is not an inherently bad place. The lands themselves can be beautiful - wondrous, even. Worth living in, and worth fighting for. And the people who live in them do not deserve to live in fear. I, and many others, could simply leave for some better, tamer prospects, yes - but then what? Nothing is gained if we merely surrender an entire world, a collection of lands so fantastically varied and so full of promise, to a cruel, merciless, hungry night. It can't all be abandoned as collateral damage in a great punishment intended for a horrible few. I can't, and won't, allow this to happen.

Maybe the foes are overwhelming, and the fight endless. But a life saved is a life saved. A victory is a victory. One innocent snatched away from a grim fate, one tendril of darkness beaten back - that is enough. But only if we persist at it, day after day after day. And evil may be impossible to ever completely destroy, but it is far weaker and less widespread than it could and doubtlessly wants to be, in at least some small part thanks to our continued efforts.

A dour prospect? Perhaps, for some. Ezmerelda smirks to herself, and gazes down at her veritable manifesto, and thinks back to that cell in Il Aluk.

What better life is there to lead? None, for her.

I, for one, don't intend to give up anytime soon. I hope that in you, dear reader, I can find one of like mind. And perhaps one day we shall find ourselves standing together.

She lights another candle, and continues.

1.6. Conclusions and remarks on future work

She clenches her hands as she steps into the sitting room that morning, decisions made after a long, sleepless night of contemplation. As if fate is conspiring against her, the first thing she sees is Erasmus, hovering over his father's shoulder. He turns to face her as soon as he notices her, a bright smile he saves just for her on his pale, ghostly face. She knows what a struggle it is for him to manifest this way, how much it takes out of him. The thought of his precious few minutes today being this...

It takes immense effort to speak up, interrupting van Richten's apparent focus on the post strewn about the table in front of him.

"I think... I think it's time for me to go."

"Go? Where?" He blinks, looking up from his papers.

Ezmerelda swallows, but hesitates only for a moment. "I don't know," she answers, chin tilted up, almost proud. "But I know we can't go on like this. I don't want to go on like this."

They butt heads and scrape against each other constantly. Chafe and grate and, and, and. She can't remember the last time they agreed on even the most cursory thing. It has reached a level where she fears his presence will become intolerable, and anything binding the two of them together become irreparably soured and tainted.

She refuses to allow this to happen.

Erasmus has drawn a coin. Two sides. He indulges in a small, semi-teasing pantomime, pointing at the two of them as his shimmering, ectoplasmic drawings hover briefly before vanishing like so much smoke, and Ezmerelda shakes her head sadly.

"I don't want to come to resent you, that is all. I don't think I could bear it if I did."

"If you think it for the best, by all means," van Richten says simply, and leaves it at that. He never turns to fully look at her. There is an undercurrent to his voice Ezmerelda can't quite place - something deeply tired, and far more complicated than plain sadness.

It rains heavily that morning as she sets off, as if the world itself wants her to rethink this. The muddy road squelches almost threateningly under her horse's hooves as she leads him forward.

Van Richten doesn't come out to see her off.

"I'll miss you," she breathes to herself, and half-hopes it somehow reaches both of the companions she is leaving behind. But she has only the rain and her horse's steady trot on the trail for company.

It is quiet.

---

Finally, the familiar mists of Darkon, and the countryside of Rivalis, lie before them. The inevitable, at a familiar estate fallen into quite a state of disrepair.

'No, leave it be,' van Richten said, at her hesitantly presented idea of including returning Richten House to at least some of its former glory on their list of unfinished business and loose ends.

Still, this is where he wanted to come. At the end.

Ezmerelda never saw it in its prime. She was a mere child then, kept well away from her family's machinations. Until she was (inevitably, irrevocably) drawn in, her fate forever entangled with that of the van Richten family. But even now, in all its disrepair, rich traces of what the gardens, the orchard, and the house itself used to be permeate the atmosphere, like ghosts themselves.

She walks across the hills of the grounds, all the way around the mansion to the family cemetery. She slows as she moves up to the two most recent graves, so easy to find, and thinks, briefly, of the body van Richten insisted on being burned before they left Barovia, just in case.

Just in case, she agreed, knowing all he knew about what foul magic and foul intentions could do to physical remains in the wrong hands, and built him a pyre.

The headstones before her are simple but elegant, as is the tidily engraved lettering on them.

Ingrid van Richten

Erasmus van Richten

'Well, here we are.' For a disembodied voice softly projecting into her mind, almost as through a mild haze or over some great distance, it is one of the heaviest things Ezmerelda has ever heard.

'A few words, if I may,' van Richten's request comes, gentle, and she nods, finding herself oddly wordless.

'I am so proud of you,' he begins, and the ferocity of it almost startles her. 'I hope you know this, always. If I have ever made you doubt this, as I pushed you away - I am sorry. I regret many things in my life, as one does, no matter what I like to say - but most of all I regret that I didn't tell you this sooner.

You are the best of my life. But more than that, you have grown far beyond me, into a finer person than most could dream of being. And I am sorry I wasn't there for you, that you had to do so much of it on your own. But know that when I see you... I couldn't be happier, or more in awe.'

There is a very brief pause, and then the voice softens again.

'I love you as my own, and am deeply honoured you would consider me, and that I get to consider you, family.'

Ezmerelda swallows once, twice, struggles, then finally lets her tears fall freely.

'Look at you. You don't need me anymore. And I can only hope your legend will far surpass anything I have ever done - there is so much ahead of you! Your light stands so very bright against the darkness. But I am glad, so very glad - selfishly, perhaps - that we were there together, at the end.'

"So am I," she manages a whisper. "Love you too, old man."

'Now I suppose it is time for me to go.'

Erasmus looks at her, bittersweet pouring from him in waves, and he gives a small nod. His form flickers, and then disappears, and Ezmerelda knows she will never see him again.

She knows how the ring works, too. The soul within it can choose to depart whenever it wants to. She knows she doesn't need to do anything - that she couldn't, even if she wanted to. It brings with it a strange sort of peace.

Ezmerelda inclines her head. "I hope you see them soon." Tell Erasmus I'll miss him, she wishes she could say.

She spins the now-inert ring around on her finger, a habit she will need to break. She wants to tear it off, and throw it as far away from herself as she can. She wants to never take it off as long as she lives.

A soft rain starts up, and Ezmerelda feels oddly grateful for the feel of it on her face, even as she knows there is no one here but her.

It is quiet.

---

With gratitude to the notes and tutelage of the esteemed Dr. Rudolph van Richten, whose guidance and wealth of knowledge have proved invaluable on countless occasions, and whose friendship changed the course of my life more than once.

#ezmerelda d'avenir #rudolph van richten #curse of strahd #dnd #dungeons and dragons #fanfiction #my fic #oathkeeper writes things #erasmus van richten #ravenloft #gonna take my horse to the old svalich road #tabletop

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tanoraqui · 3 years

Text

There actually are enough good fics about postcanon tentative reforging of assorted pairs and even the whole of the Gusu Summer School No Brain Cell Trio to satisfy my niche itch, so pls enjoy these stray snippets of a fic I don't have to write:

Nothing would've happened if the cultivation conference wasn't at Cloud Recesses. But it was, Cloud Recesses with its pale stone and gracefully winding walkways and too many memories, including Lan Xichen sitting the whole thing out in seclusion somewhere... If it'd been at the Unclean Realm, Nie Huaisang would've been busy and if it'd been at Carp Tower the memories only would've been manageably bad, and if it was Lotus Pier or one of many smaller sects, it would've been...fine. Just fine.

But it was Cloud Recesses this year, this first conference since Jin Guangyao's downfall, and specifically it was half past ten at night, and Nie Huaisang was wandering the elegant pathways with a mostly full jar of wine in one hand. The previous jar, now entirely empty, had been left back in his room. He was a Nie, so he was only half as drunk as he'd always used to pretend at these things - but at least twice as drunk as he'd ever actually been.

After da-ge's death, of course. Before that, he used to get plenty drunk. Playfully drunk. With friends.

It would be a terrible idea for him to go appear on Lan Xichen's doorstep. Neither of them was ready for that yet.

So he appeared on Jiang Cheng's.

[ . . . ]

"Fine." Nie Huaisang pouted and turned. "I'll go ask Wei-xiong - "

And Jiang Cheng was easy, he was so easy, he'd always been easy, the only new thing is the faintest edge of wariness to his fury -

He grabbed Nie Huaisang's elbow in a flash and snapped, "Ugh, fine, I'll go - but I'm holding the wine."

Nie Huaisang laughed and handed it over. Jiang Cheng immediately took a deep swig.

[ . . . ]

It must've been a quiet night at the Jingshi. Wei Wuxian's sleeping robes didn't look the least bit hastily pulled on, and his lips were only the slightest bit red and puffy.

[ . . . ]

[for the record, this takes place in a book-show postcanon fusion wherein immediately post-Guanyin Temple, WWX and LWJ ran off to fuck in the bushes at least once a day for as long as possible, but in their absence, various sect leaders voted that Lan Wangji should be Chief Cultivator now, and alas some messenger caught up with them about six months into their honeymoon. Definitely caught them in flagrante delicto. Tragic for all. I’d probably communicate all this hereish somehow. It was definitely NHS who finally tipped someone off on how to actually find them.]

[ . . . ]

"Yes, yes, I'm coming," Wei Wuxian said, with a lidded look at Nie Huaisang, and Nie Huaisang burst into a giggles because the two most unequivocally lethal people he knew were afraid to leave each other alone with him, and it was satisfying to be recognized but also what's he going to do, personally? Cry at them? It'd taken him years to destroy Jin Guangyao, and at this point it'd take him months, if not years again to re-destroy the Yiling Patriarch, much less Sandu Shengshou. Especially when they both kept doing things like watching each others backs while pretending they weren't.

[ . . . ]

"Of course we need more!" Wei Wuxian declared. "This isn't even Emperor's Smile!"

[ . . . ]

"It's just a rat or something," Jiang Cheng scoffed.

"So?!" Wei Wuxian cried grandly. "Are we not noble cultivators? Is it not our duty to investigate this woman's complaint, and to slay whatever monster plagues her good inn’s wonderful cellar, whether deathly or monstrous or rodential it be?" He turned to Nie Huaisang and begged, "Help me out, Nie-xiong. You agree with me, right?"

Nie Huaisang clutched his cup against his chest, eyes wide, and shook his head in sharp jerks. "I don't know! I don't know!"

Wei Wuxian laughed and elbowed him in the side.

[ . . . ]

[while waiting for Wei Wuxian to send some sort of signal]

"You know I don't bear any grudge against Jin Ling, right?"

Jiang Cheng's impatient glare snapped to him, darkening with threat; his hand shifted on Sandu's hilt toward a drawing position. "What?"

"I don't bear any sort of grudge against Jin Ling," Nie Huaisang repeated, holding only the last jar of Emperor's Smile. "That's why you've been side-eyeing me all night, right? All conference." He took another sip (it really was the best!) and added recklessly, "If I wanted Jin Ling dead and disgraced, or all Carp Tower burned to ash, they already would be."

Sandu slid an inch out of its scabbard and Nie Huaisang watch it with fascinated curiosity. From a greater distance, he wondered if that was entirely healthy.

"What about Lotus Pier?" Jiang Cheng asked abruptly.

It took Nie Huaisang a blinking moment to focus on him.

"What about Lotus Pier?"

Jiang Cheng sat beside him on the cold earth and yanked the jar out of his hands, cruelly before Nie Huaisang could take another sip.

"Where's your grand terrible vengeance against me and mine? I get it, but if you're being honest for once right now, you could at least tell me when it's going to hit, and how."

"What?" Nie Huaisang pushed himself against his tree trunk, genuinely confused. "Why would i have a terrible vengeance planned against you?"

"I benefitted from Nie Mingjue's death, didn't I?" Jiang Cheng took another swig of wine of his own, and swung the jar illustratively. "My disciples have hunted in your territory while you 'weren't paying attention.' I absolutely fleeced you in that trade deal four years ago. And I worked with that bastard as much as anyone but Lan Xichen, especially on those damn watchtowers, and you broke him. So when's it my turn?" He pointed at Nie Huaisang, finger only wavering slightly. “If you fuck with Jin Ling, Wei Wuxian, or my sect, I will fuck you back.”

"You- oh, gimme that. Gimme. Gimme!" Nie Huaisang leaned forward and tried to grab the wine jar, and more importantly whined until Jiang Cheng handed it to him.

He stared at it for a moment, thrust it back and ordered, “Drink,” without letting it go, and once Jiang Cheng had dutifully tilted it back, pulled it back and slugged down the last swallows. He needed more alcohol for this much honesty, and so did Jiang Cheng.

He set the jar down very carefully, because the ground seemed to be moving, and leaned forward with even more care. He enunciated clearly, “Everyone fleeced me, and hunted in my territory, and I acsh- ass- let them. Why would I expect you to go looking for trouble with Jin Guangyao, when he had your heart locked in a box in his treasure room?”

Jiang Cheng, who was a respected master of all five arts but probably hadn’t actually read poetry for fun since an instructor had officially declared him as such, and who was himself at least a full wine jar in, squinted in angry confusion.

Nie Huaisang rolled his eyes. “He had final say over where and how Jin Ling spent his time, and could’ve tried to poison him against you. What would you have even have done if I had come complaining?”

Jiang Cheng’s face only fell further, with the very sort of drunken moroseness Nie Huaisang was out here to avoid.

Nie Huaisang attempted to swap him sharply. He failed on both the swap and the sharpness.

“Stoppit! Stop thinking you’re not useful! You weren’t! I needed to pry er-ge away from him and for that only Lan Wangji would work, and I needed someone to watch his back through thick and deadly thin, and to be so disruptive that even Meng Yao couldn’t...circle, sneaky, planning...”

They were waiting for the pulse of a light talisman from the other tunnel entrance, half a mile away. There was a small but very bright explosion. laced with resentful as well as spiritual energy.

“Motherfucker!” Jiang Cheng cursed, leaping to his feet and drawing Sandu in one hideously coordinated motion.

“Just Lan Wangji, I think,” Nie Huaisang said, because Nie Mingjue himself couldn’t have stopped him. He groped for his own weapons - fan, check; wine jar -

“Oh no!”

“What?” Jiang Cheng snapped, as he bent and dragged Nie Huaisang to his feet with one hand. (Hideously coordinated. Sword people, honestly...)

“He’s going to be so mad that we finished the wine without him!”

[ . . . ]

[three grown-ass men, two sect leaders and one Yiling Patriarch, flying at high speed through Caiyi Town on one sword, all screaming. Nie Huaisang is clinging to Wei Wuxian; Wei Wuxian is flinging to Jiang Cheng, a little bit to Nie Huaisang, and most importantly to a chicken, Jiang Cheng is flying the sword. There is a bedsheet draped over all of them from where they ran into a laundry line. It’s 2am. Again I say, all are screaming]

[ . . . ]

[it probably wasn’t a rat - not just one, at least. Wei Wuxian does something incredibly clever, possibly including a creative use of that bedsheet; Jiang Cheng singlehandedly defeats something in combat, probably after he and Wei Wuxian shove each other out of the way of blows without either of them acknowledging it. Nie Huaisang shoves them both under cover and then with perfect professionalism tells whoever came to check on the ruckus that they handled the problem exactly as planned with absolutely no involvement of alcohol, and the Chief Cultivator will foot the bill for the unfortunately absolutely necessary property damage. Overall, they did handle the problem, but the local cryptid they were chasing will only have its reputation swelled and its continued existence assumed by all locals. it is possible that they themselves made this cryptid up two decades ago, but idk how heavy-handed we want to be.]

[ . . . ]

Nie Huaisang was leaning heavily on Wei Wuxian by the time they got back to the guest quarters. He could hold his alcohol, he was a goddamn Nie, and frankly he’d had it adrenalined out of him at least twice this evening. But he’d also had rather a lot, and he didn’t have Jiang Cheng’s golden core or Wei Wuxian’s blithe lack of sleep schedule.

“I missed this,” he admitted, head on Wei Wuxian’s (Mo Xuanyu’s) shoulder while Jiang Cheng opened the door.

Wei Wuxian leaned his head on Nie Huaisang’s. “Me too.”

“You’re both fucking annoying,” Jiang Cheng grouched, which meant, Me too.

Wei Wuxian stripped off Nie Huaisang’s muddy outer robe and tucked him into bed, and Jiang Cheng poured a glass of water from the pitcher by the door, drank it, poured another, scowled at Wei Wuxian for a moment, and set it on the bedside table. Wei Wuxian glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, finished with Nie Huaisang and started backing out of the room.

Nie Huaisang sat up more or less abruptly. “Both of you have got to stop that bullshit. I miss my brothers, okay? I’d I had a second chance...” He sagged back down with the plural, and flung an arm over his damp eyes. There was a glimmer in the sky; it’d be morning by Lan standards soon. “I fucking miss them.”

“...Ah,” said Wei Wuxian, who always spoke even when he didn’t know what to say.

“Yeah,” Jiang Cheng said abruptly, and, “Drink your fucking water.” And the door slammed behind him as he walked out.

[...a few lines of dialogue later...]

“Seriously, you can go.” Nie Huaisang flicked a few tired fingers in dismissal.

“Are you sure?” Wei Wuxian added with an audible smirk, “Because if I stay up for another half hour, I can wake Lan Zhan with a morning...big ol’...loving...”

Nie Huaisang finally adjusted his arm to crack one eye up at him.

“People usually cut me off before I get that far,” Wei Wuxian admitted.

[ . . . a bit more dialogue and the end.]

#mdzs #the untamed #nie huaisang #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #to the shick of no one i did write more in this than i thought i would #it's still like...no connective tissue though #and i'm not bothering with anything more #my fic #ficlet #i'm not gonna lie that plural snuck up on me #love when that happens!#incidentally you can’t prove that there ISNT a classic ancient fantasy China version of a telltale heart so my reference stands

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shiversdownyerspine · 3 years

Text

13. Affecting

Soon...kisses. Lip locking. SOON.

A couple of weeks pass after the reveal of your 2nd Phase and the acceptance of your request. And during that time the brothers make good on the agreement; they touch you, hands stroking your upper arm in greeting, lazily sweeping up and down your back, or simply resting a warm palm at your lower back when you linger a little too long in one spot.

With each passing day it gets harder and harder not to notice the sensual subtleties, not to mention the kisses don't stop either, lips pressing to cheek and shoulder and temple and forehead.

If you're in the kitchen baking, Axel will often be at your side. Whether sitting at the table or leaning back against the counter with cookbook in hand, you very much appreciate his quiet company and often return the favor when he cooks. The two of you have taken to discussing recipes and one day as you are busy preparing some chocolate croissants, he describes one familiar to him; Pirog, a baked good with savory filling.

The croissants were nearly ready for the oven, all that was left was one final pastry to prepare. Rolling the dough nice and tight to enclose the chocolate within, you muse aloud, "I've never made Pirog before, wonder what sort of filling would be good..."

The eldest brother takes a moment to consider before listing several, but according to him, "Fish is the best choice."

With a straight face you insist beef would be the better option, far more superior. And with little warning his heat was seeping into your back as his hands braced on the kitchen counter, arms either side of your body. Heartbeat quickening and ears reddening, you fumble with the pastry in your hands as he challenges your claim with a playful, "Is that so?"

Understandably a bit flustered, it takes you a second to successfully retort, "It would absolutely taste better, you just don't want to admit it."

Who knows, maybe you can goad Axel into making them.

The lighthearted bickering bounces back and forth until the warmth of his breath ghosts the shell of your ear. You hold strong, determined not to break but the brush of lips to your ear nearly makes you squeal.

The sound of the oven finishing its preheat cycle saves your skin.

Axel lifts the tray as his other hand leaves the curve of the counter to casually stroke up and down your side before he moves from you to pop the pastries in the oven. Immediately your hand is up and rubbing your sensitive ear, cursing the way it tingles. Taking a steadying breath, you still stumble over your own two feet as you go to grab up the mixing bowl and utensils for a good scrubbing.

Oscar sneaks up behind you like always, but he's started tugging you into him. The first few times his arms curl low around your belly and your back meets his chest, you're a bit tongue tied and bashful. But you don't want him to stop and it isn't long before you start leaning back into his hold. It becomes a part of his sneak routine and eventually it's not as startling as it used to be. It still has a high chance of pulling a gasp from you though, which you are highly suspecting he likes.

Sometimes when you're sitting on the sofa reading or watching television, the youngest brother would plop himself down on the carpet next to you. Curious you had considered asking if he wanted to join you on the furniture, but in the end decided not to. You figured if he wanted to, then he would. No need to ruin harmless fun.

And in the name of harmless fun, every now and then you would lightly nudge him with your leg, eyes riveted to your book and unmoving each time Oscar looks at you. It doesn't take long for him to wrap his arm around the offending leg, and satisfied with his capture, he'd lean his head back against the sofa cushion and rest his eyes. You do it again and again until eventually, he just starts automatically wrapping an arm around your leg whenever he sits with you.

Once while feeling mischievous, you had grabbed up a throw pillow as the urge to smack the catnapping man with it grew too tempting. The gentle pressure of a hand squeezing just above your knee had you glancing back with wide eyes to see him very much awake and watching you. The intensity of his gaze, the fixation, brought about this feeling. It was the same one you had when you'd sprayed Axel with the garden hose. You were once again on the verge of biting off more than you could chew.

Innocently you placed the pillow on your lap, using it to prop the book up a little higher. He gave you a suspicious squint before settling back down, leaning in and pressing his mouth to your leg with a smirk. It almost felt like he was daring you to do it, just to see what would happen.

Otto also likes to join you when you're on the sofa. One evening the large man brought out a small sewing kit and one of his shirts. Apparently he's the one that patches up all of their clothes when the need arises. He doesn't like throwing things out when they just need a little care.

Appreciating his resourcefulness, you mention that you'd tried your hand at patching up your own clothes in the past but you didn't quite have the patience for it and gave up fairly quickly. Subsequently, your request to watch actually had little to do with learning the skill and more with wanting to see how dexterous his hands are.

Otto shifts position so you could see better as you scoot in close. He works deftly with needle and thread, your eyes following the practiced motion of his fingers. As he tends to the stitches, he talks. His voice is a pleasant murmur as he explains that his brothers, much like you, haven't much patience for the skill either. They can do a little in a pinch but they wouldn't enjoy it.

You cheekily comment how easy it is to imagine the two; Axel scowling as he focuses on accomplishing the task as quickly as possible, tidy stitching be damned. Or Oscar's frustration growing, fit to burst as he pricks his finger for the umpteenth time. The descriptions tickle his funny bone, his smile growing until teeth glint and eyes crinkle. Shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee, you lean into Otto's side as the conversation eventually lulls into a comfortable silence, his warmth pulling you into a light doze.

Within a few more minutes the holes have been properly mended and the mender rubs his thumb over the line of stitches, content. When the tallest Swede softly calls your name, your response is a mumble, more of a sound than actual words. There's no other movement from you so he takes the chance to press a light kiss to your head, breathing in a whiff of your hair as he lets you nap and considers joining you.

Towards the end of the week as you're making a grocery list for a trip to the market, the Commission finally contacts the Swedes. Tapping the pen against your bottom lip, you and Axel contemplate your list of goods on the table below you, "Milk, eggs, bread..let's see...seasoning! How much black pepper do we have left?"

Axel inspects your spice rack with a critical eye, "...Won't last long, a week at most. Maybe."

The eldest Swede places the pepper back in its place before lifting a little corked jar beside it, "Cinnamon too."

As you are adding the crucial items while Otto alerts you to your pantry's dwindling supply of flour, the unexpected clatter inside your cabinet draws attention. Oscar retrieves the canister, rolling it down the kitchen counter to his brother before walking to you. With a grin he scoots you into Axel as he squeezes in on your other side, pressing his arm at your back to trap you between them.

Cheeks pink you toss a look at Oscar who is busy peering past you at the paper being examined by his older brother...but he isn't too busy to let his hand playfully squeeze your side apparently. Otto joins the three of you as Axel tilts the paper towards you for you to see as well, the message short and to the point. It reveals the usual; the date, the target, the co-ordinates, and the rendezvous point.

"So the access point is...the abandoned bus stop beside the forest? I forgot that little shack was still standing."

Otto nods, "We know it."

You respond, mildly surprised and a touch remorseful, "Oh, Commission dropped you all off down there? If I had known I would have gone out to meet you three when you first arrived."

Axel grunts, "Wasn't a far walk."

Smiling you nudge him with your hip, "Well, I hope it was a pleasant one."

Turning your attention back to your shopping list you reassure the three, "Alright I can finish up with this if you all want to start preparing for your mission, I figure you'd want to get to it. I don't have any deadlines to worry about for my work, but I doubt that's the same for you three."

The youngest Swede pouts, "You don't want to help? With guns?"

And just like that you're on edge, frowning as your body stiffens. Your silence lasts just a little too long.

"...That's..not my area of expertise."

Axel grimaces, peering at you closely, "Never learned? For protection?"

Remembering that the grocery list is in your hands, you restrain yourself from clenching them and crumpling it, "I already have a way to protect myself."

"You want to hide. A gun will give you another way to protect secret."

He has a point. A good point. Regardless you can't imagine holding a gun let alone firing one without your hands shaking like a leaf in a storm. You just can't. So, you try to compromise, "Maybe I could use one in the future. The far, far future."

Glowering at the table, Otto tries to recall a previous conversation. An old memory, a desperate kill..bullets and blood. Ah. You'd been shot, possibly repeatedly? The tallest Swede shares his conclusion, "You're afraid of guns."

With a sigh you shortly acknowledge it, "I have my reasons. Anyway, caring for your firearms is going to have to be solely your responsibility. Sorry to disappoint."

Lifting your grocery list up you consider any missing items you may have forgotten. Something is nipping at the back of your mind, something that had popped into your head after Oscar had gotten chased out into the garden by Otto and the two roughed each other up...Oh! Your eyes drift up to Axel.

"...How often do you three get injured? Or...smack each other around? Actually don't answer that, I'm going to go ahead and add some first aid on here."

You scribble it down, look at the scars on the two older brother's faces, and firmly circle it.

Yeah, that's going to be a priority.

#tua The Swedes #Axel x Reader #Otto x Reader #Oscar x Reader #Ikea Mafia #The Swedes #tua Swedes #the swedes x reader #umbrella academy swedes #tua Axel #tua Otto #tua Oscar #ikea mafia

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teyvattherapist · 3 years

Text

Write to Me

eh fuck it here ya'll go. pspspsps dain simps come get your food.

Anyways it features my oc, I'm too lazy to rewrite it, and I think this is cute. Sooo, posting it anyways.

tags: gn!readerxDainsleif, fluff, soulmate au babyyy, it do always be angst when u squint, dain was a ho as a young man as he should be honestly, oc mention? not massive tho just in the bg, kaeya and albedo making bets

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

When he was younger he wasn’t exactly monogamous, sleeping with whatever pretty thing piqued his fancy, his status and good looks lending to men and women throwing themselves at him. He didn’t think he had a soulmate, no lovely voice in his head, he could see colour just fine, and whenever he wrote or drew on his arm there was nothing in return. Not a single scratch that wasn’t his own, nothing. So he did whatever he wanted, there wasn’t anybody matching his soul.

But he was older now, much older. Centuries passed since he was a young man at the centre of many people's hearts. Now he was a disgraced knight and a traveler. He was busy tracking down and destroying the Abyss Order, his traveling companion gone, he had nothing but his duty once more. He stayed away from cities as much as he could, only going in to restock his supplies.

Imagine Dainsleif’s surprise when he woke up one day, odd blue squiggles on the tainted skin of his right arm. It wasn’t anything fancy, a small little smiley face with awful handwriting beside it, a tiny ‘hi’. He outstretched his arm, blinking once, twice, he tried to rub it off. But it didn’t come off. Now? Really? NOW?! He didn’t want to write back, he didn’t want to draw anything. They were more than likely a child judging by the writing, he could just pretend he never saw this.

But they didn’t cease. Apparently when he had rubbed the drawing, it had showed up on them. ‘Yuo real?’ Dainsleif groaned, pulling his gloves on instead. He didn’t have time for this. So Dainsleif ignored it, ignored the messages that sometimes showed up on his arms and he ignored the drawings, no matter how good or awful they were. His duty came first, and he was several centuries old. He simply couldn’t pay attention to it.

But as the years went on the messages began to slow. How many years had passed? Ten? Twenty? He wasn’t entirely sure, his memory blending together, fragmenting and hazing over. Bits and pieces here and there. ‘I hope you’re well, you’ve been quiet.’ A message scrawled on his left arm and he stared at it in the dark of the tent.

‘I am well. And you?’

‘And here I thought my soulmate died. I’m fine.’

Dainsleif sighed, blue eyes flicking upwards at the material of the tent. They deserved somebody so much better. The Twilight Sword was not that somebody. He looked back at his arm, a name, he assumed, was scrawled beside the words.

‘Dainsleif.’

‘Like the sword?’

‘Like the sword.’

“Fascinating. I must be going to sleep now, I have work early. Goodnight, Dainsleif.’

Dainsleif dropped his arm beside him, a soft sigh escaping his lips. How ridiculous was this. The Gods truly hated him to gift him a soulmate when he was what, five hundred and twenty five? His poor soulmate, too. He couldn’t stop thinking about what an unfortunate situation it was for them, perhaps it was the way he showed he did care, even if he hadn’t met them or spoken to them beyond reading the occasional message they wrote.

You hurried through the hallway, already late for work, the fifth time that month. You spared a wave to Sucrose who was exiting Albedo’s laboratory and she smiled, waving back. You quickly threw open the door to the laboratory across from Albedo’s, entering swiftly. “I’m so sorry Ohm, my alarm didn’t go off again and- Oh!” You stopped, realising there was somebody else in there.

The medical captain looked around the man dressed in interesting garb, smiling when he saw it was you. “Hello, (y/n)! Nothing to worry about. Ahem, where was I? Oh yes! Same rules as before, but try to apply it more sparingly, I don’t want you building up an intolerance until I can find something stronger.” Ohm held out a jar of azure gel but the man was stiff, unmoving. “Teyvat to Dainsleif?”

“Wait- Dainsleif?” You stopped, dropping the papers you had been holding. They scattered everywhere and Ohm tilted his head, periwinkle hair falling into his face, a clear sign of his utter confusion. Dainsleif turned to you, his eyes were stunning, blue and the pupils- he was gorgeous, that was the first thing that came to you and you felt your cheeks warming at his piercing gaze.

“Well would you look at the time, I have to go uhm, annoy Albedo. It's in my schedule. Please lock the lab if you are to leave. Dainsleif heed my orders or I’ll find you.” Ohm stood up, he rounded Dainsleif, grabbing the bough keeper’s hand and placing the jar into it. He then let go and walked away. He put one hand on your shoulder and leaned in close. “Be nice, he’s shy.” The doctor whispered and then he was off, shutting the door behind him with a click.

You bent down to pick up the paperwork now that the initial shock wore off. Dainsleif also seemed to snap back into action, pocketing the jar. He stepped forward, crouching down to help you with the papers. “I apologise, your Gods have chosen an awful soulmate for you.” He was blunt, apparently. His voice deep and soothing nonetheless. He held the papers out in a bandaged hand and you hesitantly took them.

“I don’t know, I think you’re pretty. Even if you ignore me.” Did you really just- You stood quickly, walking by him and to the desk on the other side of the room, the small wooden desk you had claimed as your own. “Ahem, are you injured? I suppose you must be if you’re visiting the medical captain.” You trailed off, sorting the papers neatly on the desk.

“No, yes, technically.” Dainsleif stood, brushing off his dark pants. You turned, quirking an eyebrow at him as he moved back to the captain’s desk to retrieve a glove that matched his other one. Was it worth it? To give up his secrets? To show just why they should stop speaking to him and run far far away? He grabbed his glove and hesitated, looking at the thick material. He shook his head, pulling the glove over his bandages.

“Well, if you’re ever in need of care and you’re in Mondstadt, just write. Ohm has been teaching me how to do what he does. Though I can’t really do it like him yet, I’m still a pretty alright healer.” You offered with a soft smile even though he wasn’t looking at you. Dainsleif hesitated, adjusting his glove. Kind, dedicated to a good cause, funny sometimes. He cursed his feelings.

Dainsleif turned towards you, pressing himself against the desk as if to steady himself. His eyes flicked to the side, he was clearly thinking of something. He closed his eyes for a moment, nodded to himself, and then opened them again. “Ask your mentor about the Twilight Sword. I’m afraid I must take my leave. Write to me.” Dainsleif pushed himself off the desk and with a swiftness you weren’t sure was human, he was gone.

Immediately you brought your nail to your arm, writing gently. ‘I like your cape.’

‘Thank you, I like your cloak.’

Oh he was awkward awkward. Cute. You smiled at the words before getting back to work, these medical reports wouldn’t process themselves, after all. Though his words played through your mind, Twilight Sword.. It was oddly familiar but no amount of examining your brain proved useful, oh well. You’d just have to ask later.

Ohm snickered with Kaeya as they watched Dainsleif breeze by them, practically throwing himself down the staircase and out the door. “I’ll bet you one thousand mora he left the explaining to me.” Ohm spoke when he heard the heavy door to the headquarters slam shut.

“Neither of us are dumb enough to bet that, he absolutely did.” Albedo commented, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “The feared Twilight Sword, Bough Keeper of Khaenri’ah brought down by a soulmate, so silly.”

“I don’t know, Albedo, I think it's quite endearing.” Kaeya teased, tapping his chin thoughtfully, but his eye told another story, glinting mischievously. “I’ll take that bet, Ohm. I’ll bet one thousand mora he tells them before he gets back to camp.” He held his hand out and Ohm took his hand, shaking it. Unfortunately, sealing Kaeya’s fate.

“Wait, hold on. I’ll bet one thousand mora he doesn’t do either.”

“That’s the spirit, alchemist.” Ohm shook hands with Albedo who huffed. “We should get back to work.” The medical captain gave a curt nod before he headed further up the stairs and towards the direction of his laboratory.

#dainsleif x reader #genshin impact x reader #dainsleif #genshin impact #soulmate au #lane writes #idk do i tag my oc? will he show up in future fics? probs #ohm ambros #queue #maybe i'll come up with a cooler genshin queue name but for now no #yes i pair dain up with a healer s/o a lot dont even LOOK at me

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gojology · 3 years

Text

Teddybears and Shitty Cards.

back to homepage pairing : yuuji x gender neutral reader warnings : minor cursing, fluff wordcount : 1529 a/n : i hope i did u yuuji stans justice .. probably not but this is rlly good for my characterization :) also i thought that gojo wasn’t as well loved as megumi/yuuji/nanami etc but holy shit i thought wrong. my megumi and nanami fics got little to no attraction, or maybe i write them horribly, idk. is gojo satoru the best husbando in jjk? (the answer is yes.) also uh.. i didnt proof read this ████████████████ 100% Complete. Enjoy your game.

“Itadori!” you yell, panting, cupping your hands together around your mouth to amplify your voice. He had asked you prior to meet with you for Valentines in this particular park, most likely because it was Valentines day. You had to admit, his selection in nice places was clearly defined. The views from the hill you and him sat upon was spectacular, you could see the city in it’s whole. This was amplified with the setting of the sun, a hazy beautiful orangey-yellow gradient was all the eye could see from up here. It was definitely worth the walk up the steep hill, and you took a much needed seat and breather on the painted wooden bench, pulling out your water bottle you take a long swig, wiping the sweat off your brow as you did so. You took a quick sneak peek at Yuuji, who was humming a tune, earbuds in. Shielding your eyes with your hand, you leaned closer into his shoulder. His thumbs were fumbling with something, which you now realized was a Nintendo Switch. “Watcha playing?” you ask, breathing in his scent. Remnants of candy and baked goods filled your nose. Yuuji didn’t say anything back, instead continuing to hum and mumble a few lyrics, lost in his own world. It was only until you impatiently tapped at his broad shoulders to pay attention to you. He jolted up, looking left and right before finally realizing you were sitting next to him. Taking a deep breath in, he cheerfully smiled before taking one of his earbuds out. “Hey! You came early~ are you excited to see me?” he questioned, setting his Nintendo Switch into his backpack before picking up what seemed to be a bag right next to him. “Of course! Why wouldn’t I be, baby?” you reply back, grinning, deciding to pay no mind towards this bag. Yuuji was quite popular, especially revolving sports or something along the lines of that. Many famous coaches had said that he possessed super-human strength, and he had been showered in contracts with sport teams not long after those few words. In return, this caused Yuuji to be insanely busy with many interviews and pelted with multiple adult-y stuff to do, which had hurt you exceptionally. It greatly hindered the relationship between you two. Weekly visits turned into monthly, and you couldn’t bare to see him drown in all his work. He was a busy guy, but yet always so carefree, and you didn’t want that carefree childish aspect of him to disappear. After all, that was something you loved about Yuuji. He looked up at you with a reassuring beam, and you felt yourself melt under those warm eyes. “Aww, that makes me happy, (Y/N). Scratch that, you make me happy!” facing you, he gave you a quick peck on your cheek. Your heart bursts, it had been too long since you felt that specific thing, and you give him a gentle kiss back, running a hand through his fluffy hair. “I missed you. It’s been too long since I’ve talked to you, lovebug. Schedule is jampacked. But I met some nice friends along the way, and my coach is super nice!” he rambled on, fumbling with the handles of this mysterious bag. “Oh? How so?” trying to make conversation, you want to appear as interested as he talked about his coach, but you were focused on his outfit and how he looked in general. He had gotten way more stronger, you noted. He was much more scrawnier when you two first started dating, and you wondered how his cuddles might feel like. Something that didn’t change though, was his horrible fashion sense. Wearing a turquoise t-shirt with a lemon yellow jacket over it, you almost winced. Yuuji dressed like a 6th grader who had their mom pick out clothes for them. “...And he annoys the absolute shit out of his co-worker, Utahime. It’s funny! I also met this guy named Nanami and I have no idea how my coach and Nanami are friends. Nanami always looks like he’s on the verge of murdering him whenever he opens his mouth to speak! Oh and also me and my coach made Valentine cards together and I worked really hard on it and I just know you’ll like it! Also-” “Alright, alright. That’s a mouthful.” you sang sarcastically, Yuuji awkwardly laughed and rubbed his hand against the back of his neck, looking at you like you had caught him stealing a cookie out of a jar at 12 AM. “Sorry. I get carried away a lot.” he says, peering into the bottomless pit inside the bag. You couldn’t quite see what was inside of it. “No, no. I think it’s cute, Yuuji-san! I didn’t forget how you acted in the span of 1 month, why would I be dating you if I thought you were annoying?” hoping this’ll knock some sense into him, you closely examine his body language for any changes, hoping that went through his mind. You had to make sure, the guy was dumb when it came to social cues. “Ohh, really?” he looked up, pointer finger on his chin, a confused expression covering his features. “I didn’t know, I’ll act more annoying for you then!” Smacking your forehead, you studied your shoes, too giggly to look at him eye-to-eye. “That’s not what I meant, idiot.” “...What did you mean then?” Yuuji quizzed, tilting his head to the side. You really couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, you’d think that all sport players would be brutes and be masculine and perhaps... Not stupid? But here you were. “No bother.” waving your hand as a dismissal of the conversation, you instead lean towards the bag he was holding, fluttering your eyelashes. “What’s this?” “It’s a surprise~” he responded, obviously giddy. You felt yourself soften once more, how could someone be so cute just answering a question? “Hey, come on!” tugging on his arm, you try to yank the bag away, curiosity killing you. His grasp was firm, and he laughed as you did so, it felt good to hear him laugh like that again. “Okay, okay! Fine. Here, go at it.” handing you the bag, you practically ripped the handles off, ecstatic to see what could possibly be waiting to be discovered. Inside was an incredibly large teddy bear, soft. The color was almost exactly the same shade of Yuuji’s, and you squeal, hugging the plush. “Awww! This is so cute! I woulda never believed you’re smart enough to get a good gift for me!” you joked, he caught the sarcasm this time, giving you a confident grin. He liked the compliments. “It’s supposed to be me.” placing a hand onto his chest dramatically. “I don’t know if you realized though.” Scoffing, you put the teddybear to the side. “Of course I’d realize! I’m not dumb, Yuuji-san!” “Why not? We could be dumb together! Also, there’s something extra at the very bottom that I think you’d like.” Blinking, you realized that you had completely forgotten about the bag between your legs. Looking back down and rummaging for what possibly could be there, you pull out a card. On the front, there’s a tacky lopsided heart, made with glitter glue. It seems there are also many failed attempts of starting this large heart at the sides of it. At the top, there’s a large, “Happy Valentines Day!” in red marker that was also uneven. Underneath the heart? A stick figure drawing of you and Yuuji, which was also... Pretty horrible. Stifling a giggle, you open the card, eyes scanning the left for anything, you turn to face the right as soon as you deem it clear. That’s where the writing is. Dear Y/N, I love you very much and I know I do not spend that much time with you anymore but you still make me very happy. My coach was very nice and gave me Valentines day off because he felt bad. I had to run to the nearest drugstore to get you this teddybear, but me and Mr. Coach decorated this together! He says he’s a very good drawer and I agree. I think the drawing is very detailed. He also helped me with the heart (we picked out the color together) and we had a lot of fun decorating. He says my handwriting looks really bad (is that true?) can you please help me fix it later? :( With a lot of love, Your Boyfriend and Gojo Satoru (his cool coach that helped him write this, thank me later. I have no idea how you handle this guy, but God is he such an amazing kid.) Looking back up from the card, you look at Yuuji, who is looking at you back, squeamish. Without another thought, you kiss him, soft and light ones on his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, everywhere on his face. When you finally pull away, both of you are staring at each other fondly. “Yes, I’ll help you fix your handwriting, dummy.” Yuuji gave you a toothy smile that he only saved for the special ones in his life.

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luxekook · 4 years

Text

chapter seven.

⇥ pairing: ot7 x reader

⇥ genre: college au with fluff, smut & angst

⇥ summary: a series in which the reader meets (and falls for) seven members of the Beta Tau Sigma (BTS) fraternity

⇥ word count: 3.6k

⇥ warnings: 18+, lots of cursing, general chaotic energy, poly relationship, a short confrontation, mentions of slut-shaming, switch!reader, dom!joon, switch!jin, sub!jimin, library shenanigans, an abundance of coffee, punishments, spanking, bad puns (jin is in this chapter, DUH), many nerd references uwu

Chapter Seven

Quinn Library – 3:54pm

The end of September passes in a blur of studying, partying, volunteering, and spending time with friends. The month’s conclusion also includes the increasing presence of seven boys in my everyday routine.

Since giving Taehyung the suck of his life in the bathroom of Hannigan’s, I have been basically fighting off the seven of them for a moment to breathe. But, sometimes breathing is overrated when being smothered by affection.

Going from being single to essentially dating seven people is quite the adjustment. I found myself growing attached to them – something that both excited and scared the shit out of me. We haven’t discussed labels or anything, but I figure it’s only a matter of time. The boys have apparently been planning an elaborate first date for this upcoming weekend, and I feel like they’ll probably ask to make it official then.

My stomach erupts in butterflies at the thought, and I take a calming breath. No need to overthink such things.

While it might be unconventional by some societal standards, polyamory is simply a way to love. Why should love come with confines? With binary expectations? The saying ‘love is love’ gets thrown around a lot, but I believe it bears repeating.

Jenni and Luna have been nothing but supportive to me over the past two weeks. They even came with me to volunteer this past weekend because they - and I quote - wanted to ‘check out our vibe’. But, I wholeheartedly expect that the real reason had actually been for them to feel out the boys’ intentions.

Why did I suspect this? Well, because Jungkook had come up to me within the first fifteen minutes at the worksite quivering in fear over how ‘scary my friends were’ and how ‘Jenni had cornered him to interrogate him while Luna hovered behind her, menacingly holding a nail-gun’.

I had never felt more loved and supported by my friends.

My phone dings, and I quickly hasten to put it on silent, shooting an embarrassed and apologetic look around the library. It seems like most people have headphones in, and I let out a sigh of relief. No one wants to be that one loud person in the library.

Checking my notifications, I smile when I see it’s a SnapChat from Hobi in the group chat the boys created a few weeks ago. My thumb swipes it open, and I barely contain myself from announcing to the whole library how vibrantly handsome one of my potential boyfriends is.

I quickly send a SnapChat back of me and my stack of books in the library with the caption ‘send help in the form of coffee’.

Immediately, Taehyung sends a flurry of heart eyes emojis in the chat, Jungkook sends a ‘noona is so cute’, and Yoongi sends back a picture of a black screen with the caption ‘come nap with me’.

God, I would love to nap with Yoongi right now… Alone time with the older boy is so elusively precious. One day last week at their house, I had mentioned wanting to learn piano. Yoongi had just grabbed my hand and tugged me to his room. We had spent a couple hours together in the small corner of his room playing on his keyboard.

Well, he had been playing; I had been fumbling around like a buffoon - half uncoordinated in general and half flustered by how good Yoongi looked playing. His hands had been so nimble as they flew over the keys, crafting melodies I could only assume he had composed. His focus had been so fucking hot as he nodded slightly along to the tempo in his head, his eyes shooting over to look at me every once in a while.

My hand kink? Activated.

My willpower to not kiss the shit out of Yoongi? Nonexistent.

When Yoongi had paused in between songs, I may or may not have grabbed him by his shirt collar and kissed him. His blushing attempt to dodge me had been so cute; and when I had stopped trying to kiss him, he had pouted and then kissed me instead.

What a cutie…

A giggle draws my attention from my reminiscing. At first, I pay it no mind, taking it as a directive to dive back into my studies. But then, the whispering starts.

“I heard she’s fucking her way through the whole house.”

“Isn’t there a term for that?”

“Yeah, a frat rat.”

I slam my 500-page textbook closed and stand, leveling the duo of gossiping girls with a glare that could make grown men cry. It had before when I had to properly eviscerate my uncle in defense of feminism at our last family gathering. What a time that had been.

“Is there a problem?” I force the question through gritted teeth, stalking over towards their nearby table. I relish in the way they gape at me, eyes wide and pupils quivering, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid my complaint jar is at capacity. Please don’t try again later.”

The girl on the right gulps, “No-nope, there’s no problem! We were just leaving. Right, Janika?”

“No,” The girl who had called me a ‘frat rat’ just moments before crosses her arms and stands, “I do, like, have a problem.”

“Janika,” The other girl tugs on the sleeve of the one standing, “Don’t.”

“Yeah, Janika,” I smile, “Don’t.”

I can see the moment she snaps.

“You’re, like, such a fucking bitch! I don’t know what they all see in you. Oh wait, yes I do. You’re fucking easy.”

I consider myself to be a patient person, but having to endure this type of rant against my character - and against women’s sexual freedom in general - has pushed me well past my limits.

“Now, listen here, Janika,” I take another step forward, “You can keep talking your shit. I really don’t give a flying fuck what you think about me. But I really advise you to google ‘how to stop slut-shaming for dummies’ because it seems like you need a crash course.”

Janika’s face darkens, “Whatever. They’ll get tired of you anyway.”

“Yeah,” I let out an amused laugh, “I’m sure they’ll get real tired of me choking on their dicks every night.”

Letting out a gasp, Janika whirls back around to face her silent friend, “Let’s go. I don’t want to, like, be around her any longer.”

“Buh-bye now,”I wiggle my fingers in their direction as they shuffle out of the library.

Smiling in satisfaction, I head back towards my table. Without hesitation, I gather my books and belongings and head upstairs to the quiet floor. Any more distractions or confrontations would probably make my blood pressure pop off the charts.

The quiet floor, as one of my safe havens, is home to several small private study rooms. Peering into each, I start to lose hope that any would be available. Finally, the very last room proves me wrong, and I swing open the door and almost in tears over the sweet, sweet solitude.

This particular study room is tucked away in the very far corner of the library’s second floor. Not many people are aware of its location, and it seems that paid off for me today. Plopping my things down across the table in the center of the tiny room, I follow suit and drop down into one of the two chairs adjoining the table.

What a clusterfuck of an afternoon… This sadly isn’t the first time I’ve heard some comments being made about my association with the BTS boys, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. Yet, part of me knew all along that this would be the trade-off.

After all, what are a few irrelevant opinions to seven gorgeous and loyal partners? Inconsequential - in my opinion. That is the reason why I haven’t breathed a word of the backlash to anyone.

Sighing, I flip open my textbook to where I had been before being rudely interrupted.

The amygdala plays a key role in emotion and behavior…

“Noona?”

I jump a half-mile out of my chair, slapping a hand over my pounding heart. Jimin had somehow managed to enter the room without my knowledge. Had he fucking teleported?

Holding a giant iced coffee in one hand and a cinnamon bun in the other, Jimin beams at me and ignores the fact he just scared the living shit out of me. “Hi, noona! I saw your SnapChat while I was in class, and I came here as soon as I could.”

I stare dumbfounded at the angel before me. Jimin is slightly out of breath with reddened cheeks and a sweaty brow. His black track-pants are slung low on his hips, his long-sleeve white t-shirt clings to his torso, his black duffle bag thrown carelessly over one shoulder. He must have run over straight from dance class.

Standing abruptly, I stalk over to where Jimin is still posted up by the doorway to the study room. Toe to toe with him, I blurt out while still half in a daze, “You really brought me coffee and food?”

He eyes me warily like I might suddenly jump on him at any moment. Shifting his weight back and forth, Jimin hesitantly replies, “Um, yes?"

I take the coffee and cinnamon bun from his hands, place them on the table, and then tackle him with the biggest hug. "You absolute sweetheart!" I murmur into the crook of his neck, "This made my day. Thank you, Jimin-ie."

His hands tentatively wrap around me, pulling me closer. "You're welcome, noona. I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Well, I really appreciate it, baby,” My lips brush over the crevice of his collarbone and relish in his shudder. Bringing my head up to face his, I smile widely at him, “Can I kiss you, Jimin-ie?”

“Yes,” He sighs out, eyes already closing in anticipation. I press my lips to his, still smiling softly against his mouth. His lips are plush under mine, velvety soft. My tongue swipes across his bottom lip and— Is that coffee I taste?

I pull back, “Jimin, did you sip my coffee on your way here?”

The boy looks rightfully alarmed, “I– y-yes. But only a little, noona!”

Cute.

“Hmm,” I trail my fingers down his chest, “I guess I’ll make an exception for you this time since you were the one to bring it for me.”

Jimin relaxes slightly, but his expression is strangely disappointed. I stare at him quizzically, and he blushes.

“What is it?” I lean against the table, facing him.

He clears his throat, staring intensely at the ground, “You can still punish me if you want, (y/n)-noona.”

My eyebrows shoot upwards at his offer, and then I let out a slight chuckle, “Oh, Jimin… That would be a favor to you, wouldn’t it? My baby boy wants to be punished, hm? Did dance practice make you all hot and bothered? Jungkook tells me that has been happening to you lately.”

Jimin’s face explodes in color as he mutters, “That little bitch will pay for this.”

Suddenly, the door swings open with a resounding thud, nearly clipping Jimin in the shoulder.

“Your savior has arrived!” Kim Seokjin announces loudly in spite of the studiously silent atmosphere of the quiet floor. His hands hold two steaming hot travel mugs, which I can only guess are filled with the elixir of the gods (aka coffee).

Seokjin’s eyes glance around the room as he takes in the fact that I’m not alone as he obviously had expected. “Wait, Jimin-ie? What are you doing here?” Jin’s eyes flick down to the coffee and cinnamon roll that lay on the table. “Goddamn it!”

“You were too slow, hyung,” Jimin smirks happily as he takes a seat in the chair I had previously vacated. He slouches smugly as he stares up at the fuming older boy.

“Too slow?!” Jin roars.

“Jin,” I chastise, circumventing around him to shut the door.

“Sorry, babe,” Seokjin says while still glaring daggers at the all-too-pleased Jimin. Suddenly, his expression changes into a sneaky look that makes me both want to run and jump his bones. “Well,” He waves the two coffee mugs around in the air, “I made these myself - with love. I didn’t buy that generic shit; I brewed it, baby.”

It’s Jimin’s turn again to look disgruntled, and I can’t help but laugh at their antics.

“Any and all coffee is appreciated and loved by me – the more the merrier. So, thank you both,” You say, taking one of the travel mugs from Seokjin. Kissing his cheek, you turn back to sit opposite Jimin at the table.

“She kissed me on the lips!” Jimin bursts.

“Park Jimin!” I cry as Jin splutters some sort of incoherent rant about fairness and equality.

Jimin holds eye contact with me, still leaning back in his chair like he’s the king of the fucking universe. But, he’s not; I am.

My chair hits the wall behind me with a bang as I stand, planting my hands on the table to loom over Jimin. “Do you think it’s fun to push your hyung, Jimin? Does it amuse you to be a little shit?”

I can see the moment that Jimin decides to be a brat. His eyes heat up in a challenge, and he firmly answers, “Yes, noona.”

“Get up.” The change in my tone is apparent. Jimin gulps. Getting to his feet, he stares back at me expectantly.

“Jin,” I address the older boy while still maintaining eye contact with Jimin, “What kind of punishment do you think I should give our Jimin here?”

Seokjin rounds my other side, grinning, “Well, (y/n) darling, I believe he should get spanked.”

“Interesting choice,” I murmur, turning to face Jin, “That’s what you’re going to get then.”

“What?” Jin squawks, arms waving rapidly around in the air, “But I didn’t do anything!”

“Nothing is what you should have done, Jin,” I push him against the wall, “You know better than to let Jimin rile you up like this.”

Those plump lips of his pout dramatically as he whines, “But, (y/n)…”

“But nothing,” I say and then whirl around to face the other boy. He’s still standing where I left him with his eyes glued to the pair of us. “Jimin,” I hold his gaze, “You’re going to watch. You’re not going to touch yourself, your hyung isn’t going to touch you, and I’m not going to touch you.”

His eyes widen comically, “No! That’s not fair!”

“Do you want to be gagged, too, baby boy?” I ask, cocking my head slightly. Seeing his emphatic head shakes, I grin. “That’s what I thought. Now, stay.”

Turning back to Jin, I smirk slightly as I ask, “Punishment now or later?”

Seokjin’s eyes scrunch cutely in confusion, “What?”

“You see,” I move closer to him, my body brushes his, “I think you earned a punishment, but I think you also earned helping me punish Jimin.”

A wide grin crosses Jin’s face as he glances back at the corner Jimin is stewing in. “I would be honored to help you punish him, babe.”

“That’s what I figured,” I smile briefly at him before slowly sliding my hands up his chest to rest on the nape of his neck. Holding them there, I press the lightest of kisses to the corner of his lips.

Jin’s breath hitches in his throat.

I run my tongue against the seam of his mouth, taking my time and savoring the sweet taste of him. His lips part to let me in, my tongue sliding across his. I grind against him as we kiss, moving my hips in such a way that makes him groan and lean back harder against the wall.

“What the fuck is going on in here?”

Ripping my mouth from Jin’s, I turn to face the newcomer.

Namjoon stands in the doorway holding yet another cup of coffee, his face thunderous. "What do the three of you think you're doing? This is the goddamn library, you heathens!”

Seokjin jumps out of his skin in fright, pushing me away faster than I can anticipate. Stumbling back, I crash into Jimin – who apparently had ventured out of his assigned corner. Brat.

“The shades were open!” Namjoon continues to rant as he flicks the aforementioned item down to cover the door’s window, “Did you want people to see you?”

He reads the expression on my face correctly, “Oh, but you did, didn’t you, (y/n)?” Namjoon approaches where I’m still captured in Jimin’s embrace. Glaring down at me, he taunts, “So quick to stake your claim; but, make no mistake, they were mine first.”

Shaking out of Jimin’s hold, I straighten, raising my chin to meet Namjoon’s gaze full-on, “That’s interesting. I didn’t realize you were so lenient with your partners.”

Jimin makes a choking noise behind me. Jin stands behind Namjoon, waving a hand in front of his throat to clearly tell me to stop talking. I keep going, “Perhaps I need to teach you how to discipline.”

Namjoon flips me around, shoves Jimin out of the way, and bends me facedown across the table.

“Jin,” He says, his voice growly, “Stand in the hall and let me know if you can hear us.”

The sound of the door opening and closing alerts me that Jin followed Namjoon’s instructions without a word.

“Jimin,” He continues, “Hold (y/n)’s hands out in front of her.” Jimin ascquieces, staring apologetically down at me as he tugs my hands towards him.

“This is cute,” I say, “I always love holding Jimin-ie’s hands.”

Thwack. The stinging imprint of Namjoon’s palm on my ass burns deliciously. I arch my back, looking over my shoulder at him with a half-smile. “Do it harder, daddy.”

A breath sucks in between his lips as I utter the word I know will get him feeling as hot as me. “You’re playing a dangerous game, baby girl,” Namjoon grits out, his jaw clenched tightly.

“Oh, daddy,” I say, “Don’t you remember? I’m the fucking Queen.”

“Was that a chess pun? Nice.” A muffled voice followed by a squeaky laugh sounds through the door.

“Seokjin,” Namjoon seethes, flying over to open the door and drag the older boy back inside, “I thought I told you to let me know if you could hear us.”

I tug out of Jimin’s gentle hold, straighten back up, and then situate myself into a sitting position on the table.

I watch amusedly as Jin shimmies his way out of Joon’s grasp, “Yah! It’s not my fault I get intense FOMO. Don’t hate the player, hate the game. Besides, I only heard you because I had my ear pressed to the door.”

Jimin stifles a giggle. I let out a full-on laugh. Namjoon mumbles what sounds like a plea to some higher power under his breath.

“See what I have to deal with?” Namjoon turns to me, shaking his head. “Are you sure you want to sign up for this?”

“That depends,” I swing my legs back and forth as I stay perched on the table, “Are you going to keep spanking me?”

The boy who had just unhesitatingly bent me over to punish me now blushes and rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, probably? You have quite a mouth on you, baby.”

Hopping off the table, I laugh, “Good answer. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

“Woo!” Jin cheers, “Nice job on the House Points, Joon-ie!”

“I am in love with idiots,” Jimin sighs.

Grabbing my phone from my backpack, I let out a slight yell as I read the time. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!” I scramble to shove all of my textbooks back into my bag.

“What is it, noona?” Jimin worries, appearing next to me. “Are you late for class?”

“No,” I cry, “It’s so much worse. I’m late for my weekly Animal Crossing discord chat! Heath is gonna kill me…”

“Heath?” Jin scowls, “Who is this Heath you speak of?”

“Chill, fam,” I shrug my backpack onto my shoulders and stare contemplatively down at the three different coffees. “You can’t get jealous every time I mention a new person. What’s next? You’re gonna come for Tom Nook?”

Namjoon - who must play Animal Crossing - stifles a laugh as Jin pouts. “She has a point, Jin.”

“And so does a pencil. Big whoop,” Jin scowls with his arms folded.

“Aw, Seokjin-ie,” I coo, reaching over to pinch his cheek, “Don’t be mad. You’ll get to spend all day with me on Saturday after volunteering! What are we doing, anyways?” I level Joon with my best side-eye as I ask that question, knowing he is more likely than not the mastermind behind our planned date.

“It’s going to be great, noona!” Jimin pipes up, hugging me from the side, “You’re going to love it…You’re going to love us.” He murmurs the last part, probably not meaning for me to hear; but, I do.

God, I do.

“We’ll pick you up before volunteering,” Joon says, “Just bring yourself and a change of clothes.”

“What?” I decide - fuck it - and attempt to grab all three coffees, “No overnight bag?”

Jin, who had just taken a sip of his own coffee, spews it everywhere. “Pack one,” He gasps out in between coughs.

Laughing, I walk to the door, which Jimin kindly opens for me. “Okay, I’ll think about it. Ah, I’m so late. Jimin and Jin, I’ll punish you at a later time. Joon, you can try to punish me at a later time.” Living for their astonished expressions, I wave as best I can with three coffees in hand, “Bye, babes! Text me-e-e.”

As I make my way out of the library, it hits me that I only have one more day to prepare for this date. Fucking hell…

a/n: this is such a filler of a chap with a tinge of drama mixed in, hehe. the next one is gonna be that date tho uwu stay tuuuuuuned and thanks 4 reading

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downwiththemutantnjnjaturtles · 3 years

Text

Vulnerable [chapt. 1/2]

[2012 Leo x reader]

Based off of a request from an Anon: "A reader who is good at archery?" and the art is in fact mine, signature in the corner.

Leonardo grimaced as he walked. On his bad leg he still limped a bit, but he no longer was so dependent on his crutches. Every step was a twinge of pain in his knee, but he continued, bow in hand and looking for prey. The rest of the team was back at the farmhouse—he wanted to do this alone. He needed to do something. For himself and everyone else.

He crept along the forest floor, senses hyper-aware of all of the things around him, as with his injured leg, he felt vulnerable. He jumped when a bird shot out of a tree nearby with another one hot on its tail feathers. When had he become so easy to start? Of course, as a ninja, he was trained to be skeptical. Aware. But he'd never felt so jumpy as he did after coming out of his coma, his throat wrecked and his knee in just as bad a condition. He took in a deep breath, then released it. Focus.

He definitely felt like he was being watched. He was in a sea of trees and bush, wandering and out of his element, having come from the city. It was such a jarring change to have been struck down in a construction site on that frightening day, only to wake up three months later in a quaint farmhouse outside of New York City. His stomach churned slightly recalling what he could remember from his encounter with the Shredder and the wave after wave of Foot Bots. The cold rain, and their mortal enemy's imposing figure stood above him before going in for the kill. He shook himself of those thoughts—not now. Today was sunny. He had to look around him for a second as if to assure that there was light shrouding everything. That there were no shadows to hide in. Shifting his footing, his knee suddenly jerked forward and sent a shot up pain up his leg. He had to resist making noise, but in that moment, a shudder ran down his spine. The sheer pain, he remembered, of the Shredder's blades catching his neck. The trauma to his knee. He didn't know when he'd started breathing heavily, still and partially leaning on his bow. When would he ever be able to recall that day without it shaking him so deeply? Would the memories hit him during his next and inevitable meeting with Shredder?

But he couldn't think about that now, not as he heard rustling in the brush ahead of him. He stilled. Crouching, he took to the large trunk of an oak and hid behind it, peering around the corner to catch a glimpse of what he was hearing. It sounded big; likely a deer. As long as he didn't engage with a buck and his fearsome rack of antlers, he would be okay. His knee ached as he kneeled there. No sudden movements, he reminded himself.

He looked around the side of the tree and saw it. A tall, proud buck and his air of regality, eating from a plant and seemingly unaware of Leo's presence. This was his chance to make himself useful. To stick it to his cursed leg that he wouldn't let it stop him.

Rising as slowly and quietly as he could, he lifted his bow and drew an arrow. He had to find the perfect moment. But he also couldn't wait too long, otherwise he would lose the animal. The buck paused his meal and looked up, smelling the air. He ducked back behind the tree when it actually turned its head toward him, almost as if in acknowledgement. But deer's eyes didn't face forwards—if it were looking for a threat, it would have turned its head. Ignoring that detail, Leo knew it would get his scent quickly, so there was not much time to waste as he aimed, shooting for something vital. The buck stiffened, readying to bound off. He was just about to let loose the arrow when he blinked, and suddenly, there was nothing. The buck was gone, the clearing was empty, and he was extremely confused. He stood up, letting down his bow as he stepped out from behind the tree and looked around him. It had been there one moment, gone the next.

He jolted when a twig snapped behind him. He spun around, arrow ready to fire. Standing only but a few feet away was the large creature looking down at him, and in his surprise, Leo hesitated. He wasn't sure what to do beside lower his weapon, eyes fixated on the impressive antlers the buck donned. Those could deliver a fierce blow.

He was backing away, opting to ditch the effort and try again another time, because the animal was certainly strong. And not with his bad leg could he defend himself as much as he would have liked—but unnaturally fast, the buck charged forward anyway. Heart pumping, Leo gasped and drew his arrow, trying to get a clear shot on the animal as it vanished around him, disappearing behind trees, reappearing elsewhere, running at him from every which way. He let out a loud grunt when he was struck in the abdomen by it, disoriented and trying to gain his footing. He tried to dodge the oncoming attack, but his knee buckled, and he fell to the ground against the mossy trunk of a massive tree. His bow was dropped elsewhere. In a last resort, he swiped his knife from his belt, eyes flitting about. He expected another blow from the strange animal, but nothing came. He was left in shock sitting there as he regained his composure, only noticing the buck out of the corner of his eye one last time.

He watched it, brow ridge furrowed intensely as he got up and snatched his bow from the ground. The buck only stared back, his reaching presence making an imprint in Leo's mind. He knew then that there was something else to this. He had no idea, not even a clue, of where to start with it. But the creature sauntered further into the trees, disappearing into the thicket.

"What was that?" he muttered to himself, unable to look away from where he'd last seen it.

He returned to the farmhouse later that night, meeting you at the front porch when he dragged himself up there. His knee was irritated to all hell from the exertion, and you could tell, too; he favored his good leg when he stepped, wincing as he came over. It was then that you noticed he looked a little more rough than you'd originally thought.

"Leo?" you said, meeting him at the stairs. He tried to give you a smile, but it was obvious he was absolutely beat, his leg was hurting, and overall, not in a good way. "Are you okay? What happened out there?"

You helped him up the steps with an arm around him, supporting his heavy weight as he made his way into the house. He groaned, a little shameful, "I got attacked by a...deer."

He left his bow and quiver at the door. A deer? You gave him a questioning look, and he continued, "Yeah, a deer. Like with the antlers. It came at me when it realized I was there. I've never seen something move so fast."

You were going to help him to the couch, but he shrugged your arm off with a sheepish smile, getting there himself. You sat down next to him. "So, an angry buck?" you asked. He nodded. "Weird...it's not mating season. Usually, they aren't so aggressive."

"Well, this one was," he said, "and I know this is going to sound weird, but…"

He knew it would be hard to explain why he suspected this was something otherworldly, due to the teleporting. He'd seen it clearly with his own two eyes. Still, it was just as confusing to him to think about as it would have been for you to hear.

"Wait, how do you know that?" he inquired. He looked over at you, blue eyes falling on yours.

You chuckled, "My dad was into hunting, so I picked up some stuff as a kid. You learn that pretty early on; the antlers on those things can really tear you up. Though...you're lucky for having natural armor." Gesturing toward his bow and arrow, you bumped his shoulder with your own. "I'd say I'm good with one of those."

Leo quirked his brow, curious for you to go on. He didn't doubt your statement one bit; he'd seen how you watched him practice, how sometimes, he'd catch you idly running your hand along the curves of the bow. "How good would you say you are?"

Grinning, you padded across the room and got his bow, drawing back the string experimentally. It had been a while. You threw a glance back at him over your shoulder. "Fairly," you replied, setting it down. "I think my parents started me out when I was twelve or so. With one of those kiddie bows, the ones that are easy to pull back? I'm no master, but maybe...I could come out and help you next time? I don't think any of us should be going out alone, anyway, especially you with your…"

He noticed your eyes had fallen on his injured leg.

"Uh, hold on. I'm not an invalid, [y/n]."

He didn't want to be snappish, but the last part irked him a little. He could handle himself out there. How well he could was a different story, but nonetheless, he felt weirdly infantile hearing that. It should have been him telling you that and offering to help, not the other way around.

Damn his leg.

Still, he knew he had to swallow his pride, for now. He really was in no shape to be wandering the woods on his own. He also noticed that it was a great opportunity to bond with you more without everyone around to overanalyze it.

"You know, I...I appreciate it. I know you're just trying to help." He tried to hide the disappointment he was feeling with himself, but it was easily replaced by more positive prospects. He hadn't ever spent that much time with you alone, as they were always going, going, going. The farmhouse and surrounding woods was a slow change of pace—a good change of pace. But even then, he still couldn't always get away from everyone else, especially Mikey and Casey. "What do you say we go out tomorrow?"

You nodded, "I say it's a date!"

"Y–yeah," He laughed, looking down at the floor. "It's a...yeah. I'm going to go to bed now. Goodnight, [y/n]."

"Night," you said as he headed up the stairs.

Mind on the kitchen for a drink before you went to bed yourself, you were slightly surprised to see April there, leaning against the counter with a curious smile on her face. "Oh, hey, April," you mumbled, reaching past her for a glass.

"Hey," she cooed, "so, a date, huh?" A knowing grin crossed her face, along with that twinkle in her eye she got any time something like this came up.

Face beginning to flush, you chuckled awkwardly as you filled up your glass from the tap. "Uh, it's more like a...it's not really a date. I just said that. For some reason. We're gonna go out into the woods and scope it out for a little bit." You glanced out of the corner of your eye and saw her sat at the kitchen table, patting the chair next to her. A date? Like that? No. In fact, he was likely offended to some degree that you even proposed helping him out. Not with how sensitive he was about his knee, lately, which was a hindrance to him. But you wanted to help, that's what friends were for. And maybe spending some time away from the antics of his brothers and Casey wasn't such a bad idea, either…

You were going to slip out of the kitchen, but April was set on getting the details. "Come on, girl talk!" she said, low enough so no one else would hear, but you could hear the excitement in her voice. "Did he get embarrassed? Oh, what about bringing lunch? Like a picnic, in the woods," she suggested, clasping her hands. "Quiet, away from you-know-who. It would be nice!"

"Okay, okay, slow down there," you said. You took a seat next to her and looked behind you into the living room to make sure there wasn't anyone there, then added, "You see, I don't know for sure…"

...if Leo felt the same way. There was a hunch, but that wouldn't do—you couldn't go off of a mere inkling, lest you ruin good friendship turning things weird. You liked him. How obvious it was, you didn't know, but you never tried to show it on purpose.

April noticed the uncertainty of your expression and put her hand on yours in your lap. She could feel your hesitance over the subject. "You're worried that he doesn't feel the same way about you," she stated softly. "Is that it?"

"In short," you answered with a small shrug as you kept your gaze on the edge of the table.

She tilted her head in thought, humming to herself. "Well, I think you should go for it, if that's how you feel."

Looking up at her, you inquired, "What if it makes things awkward between us?" That was the last thing you wanted.

"I think Leo might have a crush on you," she said finally. "Of course, I can't tell you definitely, but...it's just the vibe he gives me."

Your heart fluttered. April's intuition had always seemed pretty on point; you trusted her judgement more often than not. The question was, did you have the guts to come out with it to him, or would it be another time gone past? Hung up on her words, you blinked. "Do you think so?" you asked honestly.

She nodded and gave a reassuring smile. "I won't pressure you, but I still think you'll have a great time. I can put together a basket, if you want. We don't have much besides sandwiches, though." April was considerate. It was easy to feel comfortable around her; she was a gentle soul outside of combat, and supportive of yours and everyone else's pursuits (so long as they weren't harmful.) Especially pursuits of love, when they weren't directed at herself.

You thanked her as you got up, to which she replied that it was no problem. Leo's door was cracked slightly open, you'd found out when you passed by, and inside he was fast asleep. he tended to leave it ajar out of habit; he felt that he needed to be able to hear what was going on in the rest of the house in case something happened, paranoid of ambushes. The only time he wasn't conscious of his bad leg was when he was unconscious, and even then, you had a suspicion that he dreamed about it sometimes. Maybe even had nightmares. You recalled seeing him toss and turn one night while muttering incoherent things after he'd fallen asleep on the couch in the lounge, almost rolling off the side before you decided to wake him. Both the mental and physical wound was fresh at that time, so he panicked himself awake feeling your hand lightly shake his shoulder. He apologized as you tried to help him, instead taking his crutches and left by himself.

But Leo seemed to be having good dreams, tonight. You stopped just for a moment to watch him through the ajar door, seeing that his face was not tense, he wasn't moving around, and looked to be more at peace than he had in a while. That was all you needed to know.

"He looks pretty calm right now," a voice, Raph's, commented out from the blue next to you. He was leaned against the wall, arms crossed as he watched his sleeping brother. "Last few nights were rough. Wonder what has him all peaceful all of a sudden."

You couldn't mistake Raph's unusually soft disposition, even if he talked as gruffly as always. "Does he have bad dreams about it often?" you questioned him. Both of you knew what you were talking about, the event in New York City that landed them all at the farmhouse to begin with.

Sighing, he answered with a light scoff, "More like nightmares." For a second, you thought he was annoyed by you asking, but he continued, shaking his head. "This just…I can't stand seein' him like this. Not like this, this, but on those nights he gets nightmares, and the hobbling around…"

"It really sucks."

"Big time."

A silence fell between the two of you, but it wasn't uncomfortable. You both bonding over your mutual care for Leo and his well-being, brought together by circumstance. Raph went to bed. You did, too, thinking all the way that Leo deserved a good day. A normal-as-could-be day.

You'd take April up on that picnic idea, you decided.

——————————————————————

a/n: yeahh i find it difficult to believe Leo wouldn't have some kind of lowkey trauma aside physical after his last encounter with Oroku Saki before the Farmhouse

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt leonardo x reader #tmnt leo x reader #tmnt leonardo #tmnt leo #tmnt x reader #short story #tmnt 2012 #tmnt 2012 leo #leonardo #fanfiction #tmnt fanfic #fanfic

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whump-town · 3 years

Text

A Cumbersome And Heavy Body

Chapter Three: I'm Treading For My life, Believe Me

Summary: Stubborn until the very end, Aaron Hotchner isn’t going to go down without a fight. It’s just getting hard to tell the difference between fighting them and fighting the cancer.

Word count: 6103

Author’s Note: I did listen, on repeat, to the Anastasia soundtrack while writing this. Which, you would think, would make this a rather happy chapter and if you thought that... how silly you will feel in a few moments. You can find the first chapter here!

Warning: the subject of this fic is cancer and it’s treatment, cursing, maybe out of character (idk, man. hotch is weird) bonus: I’m 19 and a humanities major so obviously I don’t know anything about medicine so I’m doing my best out here

Not knowing how to think I scream aloud, begin to sink My legs and arms are broken down With envy for the solid ground

There is not a sound. Not a shiver. The floorboards do not moan lowly. No hinge gives its creaking complaint. The disturbance is a felt one. Something she feels right where her fourth rib meets her sternum. It has no name. Calling it instinct is superstitious. Claiming it as training or intuition is childish.

It has everything to do with love and fear. And love and fear alone.

“Aaron?” The comforter he seems to be forever tangled has been kicked away in his fitful sleep. In the low light of the room, the hallway light seeping in, she can see his heaving chest. As though he has run a great deal, not lying supine on his bed. “Aaron, can you hear me?” Despite the bitter scent of sweat, she can’t tell what it is that draws her deeper into the room.

Slowly, his dark eyes open, breathing rasping out as he opens his mouth to answer but no sound leaves his pale lips.

Looking over her shoulder, only after looking and listening for a sign they’ve awoken Jack, does she enter the room. Shutting the door behind her, she stifles the room to darkness. She can’t even see the hand extended in front of her. Not that she needs it. The path of his room is simple.

Two steps in there is an outfit shed by the dresser on her right side. The pant leg extends out and if she doesn’t lift her foot, she’ll trip. Three more steps in and she needs to extend her hand just a fraction to feel the cool wooden bed frame. There she can pivot herself with its aid. Step high over the sweatshirt on the floor and she’s good. Well, mostly.

She gets tangled in the comforter he kicked off.

“Em--” he coughs, letting out an achy moan. “Emily?”

She gets to his nightstand and leans heavily on the old wood, catching her breath. The damn blanket was like fighting an octopus. “Right here,” she promises, knocking all kinds of shit to the floor as she fights her way to the lamp. It comes on with a click and they both wince at its sharpness. She’s got her eyes closed, trying to allow her pupils some small reprieve, when his hand wraps around her forearm. Cold clammy fingers wrapped around her wrist. “Hotch?”

The soft hazel of his eyes is unfamiliar. “I want to go home,” he rasps softly. His chest shutters with the effort the simple request has taken. The tears in his eyes slide down his cheeks without the guilt. He strikes her. Not with his palm open and hands roughened by callouses. He does not hit her or cause her to draw back with his words. By the look in his eyes. The confusion. The pain.

“Aaron--” Once and only once does she consider trying to convince him that he is exactly where he craves to be. Mouth open, the words pushing at her tongue, she decides that will only hurt them both. Softening the look on her face, she crouches down by his side. Taking a seat on the edge of his bed.

The rash on his chest has depended its angry red, it taunts her now as the glisten of his sweat across his pale skin. Every visit to the doctor promises that it’s not as bad as it looks. It causes him mild discomfort and nothing can be done. It is a product of the radiation. To heal the wound is futile. Stepping off a cliff to avoid a hill.

“You’re feverish,” she notes, moving the back of her palm against his forehead. To her surprise, he doesn’t pull away from her touch. Not even as her fingers draw against the sharp peak of his cheek bones. He lays, compliant, eyes foggy but on her. With a fond sigh, she observes, “dehydrated. You didn’t drink the water I gave you.”

When he speaks, he sounds much more like himself. The tone costs him more than it's worth. “My throat hurts.” Which is an awful excuse but it’s the truth and she knows it’s just another part of normal life falling away from her grasp. Today it is just water but tomorrow it is the hospital. It’s the central line and the saline and the tube they’re going to place in his stomach because he’s reaching the point of inabilities.

And it is never as simple as a sore throat.

She’s tired of seeing his blood so casually wiped from his pale skin. The bags under his eyes deepened to caverns and the lakes of tears in his eyes. There is nothing she can do. The mass of cancer can be cut out of his flesh but the cells could still multiply. Quite simply, there is nothing she can do for him. Except--

“Stay.”

He mistakes her movement for the path to leave. She’s just aiming to pull the comforter back over him.

“I--” They look at each other. She sees so much burning vulnerability. “I’ll stay,” she caves and with that promise she can reach down and pull the comforter back over his body.

Already, his eyes are dropping shut. “You can--” he coughs, his whole body jarred by the movement. “You can sit, Emily. I can keep my hands to myself.”

She rolls her eyes but sits down on the corner of the bed. She takes his hand, rubbing at his knuckles when he turns his head to cough. “Shut up,” comes her hesitation reply. It feels wrong, misplaces. She wants to slip into their innocent, normal tit-for-tat banter but he’s not up for it. It’s not what he needs or is even capable of.

“Please don’t just sit there and stare at me,” he rasps.

Her face flushes. She had been doing exactly that. “If I lay down, you better not try to cuddle me.”

He huffs at that but whatever he might have said is overshadowed by his deep, nasty sounding coughs.

She reaches

“Aaron?”

“Hmm?”

She gently moves her hand across the bed sheet until she finds his. Interlacing her fingers with his she manages, thickly, “please don’t die.” His head turns on his pillow and she can feel him looking at her but she keeps her eyes on the ceiling. After a long pause, her heart beating frantically the whole way, he simply squeezes her hand. Not a promise… just comfort. Sniffling she sits up and grabs some of the blanket, pulling it over her own bare legs. “Stop hogging the covers. You’re not the only who might want some.”

As she settles down, turning her back to him, she closes her eyes. Feeling the hot stream of her tears falling over her face. The last thing she hears before she falls asleep is his hoarse voice, full of tears of his own. “I’m so sorry Emily.”

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

“How are you?”

Radiation was early this morning. He’d been lying if he didn’t admit that he gave Emily hell about it. Which he does feel fairly guilty about but she got what she wanted to he’s not that sorry. For the first time, he let her come in with him. Mostly because he didn’t have the strength to get himself out of the car but if he doesn’t dwell on that thought too much then it’s okay.

But he also knows that Emily told Garcia about this morning. Briefly, no doubt, about him being an absolute pain in the ass. Mostly how he’d let her tie his shoes. How he’d limped, leaning heavily against the wall to the bathroom and losing the meager bit of breakfast he had. Whatever she knows, she wears on her face. The worried crinkle between her brows. The downward quirk of her pink sparkling lips.

She shouldn’t be here.

Despite the ear protection Dave had spent so much time finding, his ears still ache from the rattling from the radiation machine. Every nerve in his body agitated by hot fire packers digging further and deeper into his brain. The dancers with their little tacs glued to their shoes traveling along his skin. To his legs and then up his arms. And, yet, he pushes on.

As confidently as he can manage, he forces himself to focus his eyes on Garcia. Smiling through the haggard, involuntary sway of his body. “I’m okay, Garcia. No need to worry.”

But she can see how pale his skin has gotten over the last month. How the shadow of a beard across his cheeks makes him look sicker, weaker. She knows that he won’t like her attention but she craves for Aaron Hotchner. So, she finds herself looking at him longer, trying harder to see within him. To find her boss and not the ghost he’s left behind. “We… I love you, sir. You know that, right?” She hesitantly touches his hand and as much as she thought it would hurt to feel him recoil it hurts even worse when he doesn’t.

But he’s here, isn’t he? Is it not just like her stupidly brave boss to keep trying, to keep pushing?

Hotch’s hand trembles where she’s captured it in her own and as self-conscious as that makes him feel… he can’t pull away. All these shields, blocades he’s built around himself have been his destruction. He’s pushed them away until they no longer let him near without armor of their own. Always prepared to enter the cave and find a beast. But Garcia, merciful Garcia, still just sees him. It terrifies him but he just wants someone to disregard his wishes. To throw caution to the wind and hug him. Touch him.

“I know,” he manages. He smiles, clenching his teeth to refrain from showing or saying how much better he feels with her around.

She stands, leaving his side. “Just making sure,” she confirms. She turns, her hand on his shoulder, as she takes in the state of his house. Empty. Emily has been diligent with cleaning up after them. Hotch, too, when he can manage to stand long enough to wash the dishes.

She remembers, like a blow to the heart, that Emily has fallen behind on laundry. That had been the one chore Hotch was solidly keeping up on. Emily had seemed so positive about that, only a few weeks ago. Smiling as she reassured he was very adamant to let her anywhere near the laundry (and as she suspected, his underwear) so as long as he was managing to be his usual stubborn self things would be fine. They had been. But after the nose bleeds he’s not as strong. His appetite is gone and every week when they draw his blood the odds are slowly shifting out of his favor.

He’s anemic and they gave him a blood transfusion at the hospital after the nose bleed but it hasn’t helped. Now he takes iron supplements and a pill that smells horrible and tastes even worse. He can get over the pills. It’s just two more in the sea of things he takes. It’s the fact that he can’t lift anything. Years of training and rigorous training down the drain but his knees are like jelly and his arms like boiled noodles.

On top of all that, this morning they talked about starting chemotherapy in addition to the radiation. His cells aren’t responding. So, Emily’s thoughts have been elsewhere. Not on the laundry steadily building unwashed.

“I’m going to make myself useful,” she says, getting in a quick kiss before he can put up too much of a fight. She’s not sure if his lack of response is good or not. Either way, she tucks a blanket up around him. Smiling when he just looks up at her-- there’s a flash of Hotch in his exhausted eyes. He starts to fuss with her-- she doesn’t need to clean, that’s not why she’s here (which they really don’t need to argue about unless she wants to hash out how she’s really here to babysit him).

But he just sinks into the pillow behind his head. No fight.

“Please tell me if you need help,” she says as she walks away. He hums something under his breath but she knows he won’t. She’ll just have to listen for him.

The laundry really isn’t that bad.

Emily’s room is a mess but Emily is a bit of a mess herself so it’s not that surprising. She picks up minimally. Moving anything around too much will just make Emily flustered to have been caught. So, she just picks up the towels she sees and a few pairs of shirts and pants she knows Emily likes the most and heads to the laundry room. The washing machine and dryer are down the hall, pushed aside in a closet like space.

Tossing in what she’s gathered she goes back to Emily’s room-- she’s just wasting time so she doesn’t have to go into Hotch’s room. Picking up a discarded glass of water and a few water bottles. She makes note that if Emily isn’t back in time to throw their sheets and bed sets in the washing machine. It’s always nice to have clean bedsheets.

Looking at Emily’s room she realizes she has to venture to Hotch’s room now.

She comes to linger in the living room. “You doing okay?” She doesn't get a response but she can’t really see him so she moves closer. One of his legs is drawn up, resting against the couch and the other stretched out and over the arm of the couch. When she’d left him he’d still been sitting up, fighting to stay alert through their short conversation. It’s… nice to see him comfortable.

Without thinking, she reaches down and moves her hand through his hair. Trying her best not to react to the amount of grey she sees. He moves, shifting his face further into the couch. She fears she’s woken him but his eyelashes flutter for only a moment before he sighs and stills once again.

Sighing, she leaves him once again. Blindly hoping he’ll sleep for a while if she doesn’t bother him.

His room is… exactly as she expects it to be and, yet, not.

His bedspread is a dark green color, nearly emerald and surely something Jessica or one of the other’s picked out. There are pieces of him thrown through-out the room with the finest touches of someone else left behind. For example, the books that litter every surface is him. From his nightstand, to his dresser, to a few stacked on the floor. The nightstands are old and she feels a little sore work itself into her throat at the possibility that they are a set and were probably bought for him and Haley.

And now there’s only him.

There is a stuffed elephant and blanket on the floor on the other side of the bed. She wonders how frequently Jack sleeps with him. Probably more than normal now.

His room is neat. She tucks his comforter back where it should be. Placing a piece of paper in the book he’d left face down. There’s a single sock with colorful, swirling patterns. A shirt that looks very well loved tucked inside of a sweater of equal wear and tear. Clothes and homely things. Hotch things.

From down the hall she hears his muffled coughs and something hard hitting the wall.

“Sir!” She hurries from his room, letting the clothes in her hand hit the floor. It’s not hard to find him. His house has a familiar, simple layout. “Are you okay?” He’s standing in the hall, facing her. Shoulder pulled in, left arm around his chest, and the right blindly leading him along.

He nods, muffling his bone rattling coughs into his elbow. “Just…” he shakes his head. “Going to the bathroom.”

She looks over her shoulder, his room and bathroom are only a few steps away but… He doesn’t look like he’s going to get there without a little help. “Could…” she chews her lips into her mouth. “Would it be okay I help-- If you just leaned on me, a little bit? For my sanity?”

He nods, simply going where she moves him. It’s not hard to slip under him. Without heels, his height advantage is much more apparent. She looks down at the floor as she works his arm over her shoulders, smiling at the sight of his socks. Her own don’t match-- a homage to Reid but also because she knows it, secretly, drives Hotch crazy. But he’s wearing a pair of polka dot socks. Each one an extreme loud variation of every color you can think of.

“Nice socks, sir!”

It distracts him for a moment from the humiliation of needing both her and the wall to walk down the hall. He looks down at his socks-- socks that he and Emily had fought long and hard about this morning. He didn’t want to wear them. He’d needed normalcy. Craved it. He wanted plain black socks that would go unnoticed. But she had won and everyone saw him in his boxers and stupidly bright socks. It had put smiles on their faces too. Even Emily’s, though, she had tried to hide it behind her book.

“Emily’s doing,” he reassures her.

They can’t fit shoulder-to-shoulder into the room so she lets him lean against the doorframe and manage it on his own. Following closely behind. “Oh, of course,” she says smiling now she’s behind him and he can't see. Though, as soon as she’s done it she wishes he would see. To see her smile and know it’s at his expense and give her one of those scowls that have always just made her love him a little more.

But instead she sits on the corner of his bed and closes her eyes. Wincing and flinching as he gets sick.

Emily had been so… afraid when she left. Garcia hadn’t understood why. Even when the information Emily was throwing at her-- hurling words, meaningless words. Now… Now Garcia is cursed with Emily's same burden of knowing.

It had all come so quickly-- that the nose bleed had been because he was anemic and that they can’t get his red blood cell count back up. “Not to fret”, Emily had said thickly with sarcasm, his white blood cells are through the rough and the product of much anxiety. That the awful cough he has is from Radiation Pneumonitis and “not to worry” he’s on steroids that make him incredibly nauseous and a complete ass. The best part? It can scar his lungs!

All this information had come so quickly that Garcia hadn’t processed any of it.

Dave had called Garcia early this morning and asked if she needed anything to do. Normally, when he asks that sort of thing, he’s asking her over to do the grunt work of cooking-- rolling breads or kneading dough-- but today when she’d happily agreed he’d had something else in mind.

So, today, while Emily goes with Dave for a long lunch she’s staying with Hotch.

The original plan was just to leave him by himself. Dave had assumed that would be alright. Afterall, two days ago when Dave had last seen him, Hotch was very himself. Stubborn and grouchy when they tried to help him do anything-- even the normal sorts of things you do for people: hold the door, pass them a plate, ask if they want anything when you go to get yourself something, etc.

Having to explain how she couldn’t simply leave Hotch had… broken Emily just a little more. Keeping herself calm, collected as she explained that she was going out with Dave for a while and she’d make sure to bring him something back. Coffee or soup (anything so long as he’d agree to eat). She had cried as soon as she stood to walk to her room, lower lip quivering at just how easily he’d caved. He’d protested everything she did all morning and now just… submits. She’d sobbed in the shower.

He annoys her to no end. Her closest friend, the man she’d left behind to search for something more in London, was a basket case. Do not mistake that. Aaron Hotchner has to do everything himself. Independence is very important to him and she’s being forced to watch him give in. Too tired to fight.

Garcia had arrived a little sooner than expected and Emily had opened the door in a towel, her mascara from that morning smudged under her eyes. Before she could get out an apology, Garcia had already assured her she had plenty of time and that Garcia would go back out and tell Dave to cut the car and come in for a moment.

And Hotch…

He’d been asleep on the couch. Sitting up, nestled into the corner where Emily had left him.

“Hey, Pen?”

Garcia hadn’t even realized she’d been staring.

“He’s got a heating pad tucked against his side, will you warm it up?”

And she’d learned Hotch is prone to chills. That along with nine awful scars, Foyet had damaged his body's ability to regulate temperature and that radiation is being a bitch. So to ease the ache in his side, where Foyet had nicked a rib that won’t ever really heal, Emily just keeps a heating pad around. It keeps him warm.

The beast of knowledge.

“Garcia?”

She hates him. For a moment. Anger and impatient it eats her alive and that’s such an awful thing to have to feel about someone you love. Why can’t he be stronger? It leaves her body in a choked sound. How could she even let herself feel such contempt for the very man who always prides her for her brightness? Loves her no matter how much trouble she drags up? Goes out of his way to remind her to always be her bright silly self?

She stands from his bed and opens the bathroom door.

He looks ashamed and she hates that.

“Have I ever told you about the time Reid and I broke a coffee pot and hid it from you for a month?” she asks before he can apologize.

His Adam's apple bobs as he looks up at her. He’s still curled into himself, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. He feels weak, useless. He couldn't even find the strength to stand and pee. Then, on top of it all, she’d been right there on the other side of the door as he vomited. By now, this is not the first apology he’s been beaten to. Emily has this infallible way of sensing them coming and quickly changes the subject to something else.

It’s… strange to see Garica practice it too.

“Please tell me that was far too long ago to be worth fussing with you over?” he asks, trembling as he accepts the hand she offers.

She smiles and tuckers herself back against him, wrapping her arm around his hips. “Oh it was a while ago,” she assures him. “Like… Gideon long ago. He was just a baby--” she keeps talking no matter what. When he whispers that he needs a break at the doorway, a whole two steps later. Tells him how terrified they’d all been of him at some point in time. How that’s all rather silly because Aaron Hotchner is nothing but a big softy. And, believe it or not, it has always been Derek Morgan breaking that secret to the rookies. That he’s not as big and tough as he looks. That a good, warm batch of snickerdoodles will melt his big icy heart so quickly--

“How many people did you tell that to?” he asks.

She shrugs, only the people that really needed it. “Do I have to give you a number if I make you some right now?”

He considers her offer. His stomach has settled a little and the smell alone would be divine. Plus, Emily had said he could pick dinner… what’s the possibility that she would cave to just letting him eat a cookie or two? He smiles, “I’d consider adequate reparation.”

“Wanna help?”

His smile falters just a bit. He can’t stand for that long and--

“We can make them at the table,” she adds, hastily.

And… he nods. Okay.

That’s how Dave and Emily find them an hour later.

Hotch is covered in flour and Garcia too. A good proper mess.

He’s wrapped in a blanket, the one from the couch, and leaning heavily on the arm propped up on the table. Smiling, content, as Garcia checks the cookies and reassures him that they need only a little bit longer. So that they come out right as the bottom is browning but not brown. ANd he nods his head like he understands when she says the point is to let them finish baking on the pan outside of the oven. That’s the secret to soft cookies.

Which, to him, just sounds like she’s saying she's going to feed slightly undercooked cookies but he’s eaten cookie dough raw for years. He’s never had salmonella but he did get cancer so obviously someone wasn’t warning him about the right things.

“What in the world did you two get into?”

“Cookies!” Garcia holds open the oven to show them. “If you wait just a moment they will be ready!” She places the dirty dishes into the sink. Throwing some water over them to make it easier to wash the dough off.

Emily raises an eyebrow at Hotch and he shrugs. She’s amused by the sight of him covered in flour and what more is to add but a submissive shrug. What can he say except he’s a softy who has always lacked the ability to tell them no?

“You didn’t let Hotch do the measuring did you?” Dave asks, stepping in and inspecting the damage done to the kitchen. Under his breath he continues, “you can tell he’s never been a math man. I’m convinced he doesn’t understand fractions.” Dave has cooked with him too many times. Hotch has never once successfully measured everything right in any dish. The amount of times one fourth has been mistaken as a half or an eighth of something rounded up to a third… it’s crazy.

Garcia glances at Hotch and he already knows exactly where she’d going-- “Well,” she admits, “I let him put the cinnamon in--”

Hotch groans from the table, a dramatic sigh as he closes his eyes and admits defeat.

“It wasn’t his fault!” It was. “There might just be a little bit too much cinnamon. It’s not a big deal!”

Aaron Hotchner brought to his knees by fractions.

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

When Hotch was in the second grade he got chickenpox from his next-door neighbor Michael. A very common thing given the time and the general mindset of “chickenpox parties”. It had been awful and itchy. His brain so ravished by the fever that he doesn’t remember a whole lot about the experience. Just that it had begun as a patch of dry skin under his right arm, perfectly wedged between two of his protruding ribs. That week of horrible fever and endless itching is the only time Hotch can ever recall his father being gentle.

He’d awoken once during that week, just after four and when his father typically arrived home, to the door shutting softly. His mother whispering to gather his father’s attention and diverge the man away from Hotch. Who, thanks to itching, had only just managed to fall asleep.

Halfway up the stairs, Hotch can remember waking up in his father’s arms. The man had shushed him softly, rocking him the way you might a child until Hotch had laid his head against his father’s chest and gone back to sleep. The gentleness of that action has haunted Hotch for years. Something he thinks about occasionally. Trying and failing to wrap his mind around something so out of character. So bizarre.

“Daddy,” Jack whines, he twists in his father’s lap. “You’re not watching, look!” His little finger demands Hotch’s attention, pointing to the TV. “Did you see it?” Jacks asks, sitting up to gauge Hotch’s reaction. “It was amazing, huh?”

Knowing his son, Hotch does try and get the boy out of the house as much as possible. Which means that lazy nights come far and rare in between. If he can, Hotch likes to take him to the park, museums, aquariums. Anything to keep his little mind crazed by the ideas of the world around him and actively engaged. Today… is not one of those days. There hasn’t been a lot of those days recently.

“The cancer is spreading--”

There’s a certain understandable science to the way that chickenpox works. They actually follow a pattern on the body when they spread. Hotch’s had curled from his left side to his right, working in the grooves of his ribs, and up his sternum.

A very similar pattern to the cancer spreading in his body.

Radiation is no longer enough.

He has two rounds of chemo and spends a lot of time thinking about what comes next. He’s going to get sicker. Weaker. Probably lose his hair. What will really be left of him when all is said and done?

Outside the rain comes down in buckets, thunder shaking the earth, but there’s nothing to the peace inside. Emily had gone around lighting candles, trying to soothe Jack in preparation for if the storm knocks out the electricity. Even if she’d managed to annoy him with her fluttering about, she’d been gentle and understanding. Making sure his shirt was buttoned to hide the deeply irritated skin on his chest.

She’s stronger than he is.

They are all.

“Asland,” Jack mumbles in amazement. He’s settled back down in Hotch’s lap, head on his thigh so Hotch can mindlessly play with his hair. Hotch can’t follow the plot of the simple movie but he’s seen it enough times to hum and mumble responses to Jack’s questions.

The Chronicles of Narnia. It’s Jack’s new favorite thing.

They’ve probably watched it now at least a dozen times.

Emily’s started having dreams about the movie.

No matter how many times he requests it though, she’ll still play it and Hotch will sit down and let Jack explain the plot again. Everytime, it ends with tears.

“I don’t understand why he has to leave,” Jack whimpers.

Hotch is struggling to fight with consciousness. Radiation leaves him haggard. Limbs seemingly attached by measly strings and joints that buckle with minimal weight. He’s got a rash up his chest that itches and burns a lot like that chickenpox rash. It’s normal, he’s assured, and they give him ointment to keep on it. Not to clear it up but rather to keep it from getting infected. Which… seems so practical if not normal. Mundane, really.

“Who?” Hotch rasps, forcing his eyes back open to squint at the TV.

Jack looks up at his father, tears streaming down his face. “Asland.” Over the course of the last few months, of course Jack can tell his father isn’t well. Everyone treats Jack like a thoughtless child, and he is child, but he’s not stupid. He knows why he has to sleep at Jessica’s and why, no matter how much Emily and Hotch make a point to only see him on Hotch’s “good” days, that his father is slowly withering away.

The thigh under Jack’s head used to be bigger. Tense with muscles not thin, almost to the bone. His father seemed to loom, towering over everything. Jack had thought him a king, a knight, a hero. Someone who, through the aches pains of it all rises triumphant and reigns on. Because his father has always been the best kind of person. Strong, vigilant, and forgiving. Surely… that would offer some forgiveness, no? An extra life in the bonus round or a break.

Hotch swallows thickly around the nausea knotting up in his throat. “Asland,” he repeats with a sigh. Right. Asland dies. They’re passed that point but he does die. For the greater good, a strategic move, but the sacrificial play none-the-less. “Sometimes,” Hotch lifts his head. “He was saving the other’s, Jack. He sacrificed himself.” He’s too tired to explain how the book was just a huge religious metaphor. “Sometimes people have to leave.”

Jack sniffles and wraps himself around Hotch’s stomach, burying his head closer. “Why?” he asks miserably.

Hotch doesn’t know. It’s never what you want but he doesn’t want to tell Jack about all of that. How at one point Jack and Haley had been the ones to leave Hotch reeling with that same question, despite logic dictating a clear answer. That Emily had done the same thing to him multiple times. Everyone on the team, really. He’s probably done it to them. If not already, then soon.

“I don’t know, buddy,” Hotch shakes his head. “I really don’t.” Jack nods his head, crying softly against Hotch. Hotch starts to rub Jack’s back, despite the ache in his limbs. “Listen…” Hotch clears his throat and Jack senses the turn in conversation. Jack sits up, looking, searching in Hotch’s eyes as he sniffles and wipes his face with the back of his hands. “I have to… We have to talk about something, buddy. About what’s been going on.”

Emily sits in the guest room and tries her best not to think about what’s going on in the living room. It was only a matter of time but… she couldn’t help but think maybe they could fix all this. It must be a matter of faulty testing. Surely, that must be the case. Hadn’t they already been through enough? Have they not lost enough?

Jessica sends her a text, Hotch isn’t answering his own phone.

Emily leaves her room, leaning out first just to see if they’re still talking. They’re not. The TV has been turned off, no sound.

Jack is curled into his father, clutching Hotch’s t-shirt in his little fist. Despite the dried tear tracks on his face, the boy looks at peace. His head tucked under Hotch’s chin and arms holding on tight, Hotch won’t be able to move without Jack noticing. Understandably, Jack has some apprehensions about his father leaving his sight.

“How’d he take the news,” Jessica asks. Her anger has melted, leaving her wilted in a puddle of emotions that she doesn’t even know where to begin to deal with. “I can’t--” she shakes her head. “I just can’t imagine it,” she whispers, glancing at Emily. “He’s so young,” she brushes her tears from her cheeks. “He can’t lose Aaron, too.”

She nods her head, she’s afraid to lose him as well. To be a child, though, living this as a reality that at any moment you might become an orphan… Jack’s only a child. He’s not even ten yet. What will he have to cling to? The cold nights come frequently and he’ll be alone. Surrounded by people but alone.

In London, there wasn’t a single moment she could step out and not get lost in crowds. It was the safest way to avoid detection. In those days, she’d clung to online Scrabble and read and rereading the letter Hotch had written her before she’d left. It was in the file with the other identities and money. While it had not been a technical element to the FBI’s idea of “everything” she might need it kept her alive.

On those cold night’s she’d curl into herself with her heating pad pressed against those old wounds and read his letter. Fingers ghosting over the ink and eyes taking in every detail. Where his hand wavered writing about Reid failing to cope. The stain of a tear beside Jack's name. Her favorite passage:

“I believe Ashley will try to leave the unit the next chance that she gets. You were her mentor and I’m afraid I have not offered her too much in claims to stake here. A part of me is partial to her staying. You were her mentor and she reflects that in the strangest moments. I hope she stays, I indulge myself in her rebellions against me. I think it reminds me of you.”

It never failed to make her smile. Take her back to the nights she’d drive home in a fit of rage or have arguments with her imaginations version of him in the shower. Cursing like a sailor but telling him how she really felt.

What will Jack cling to when Hotch is not here?

@laiba-the-person, @emily-hottie-prentiss, @unionjackpillow, @clockedstar, @baumarvel, @blakeprentiss, @qvid-pro-qvo, @aaron-hotchner187, @ssalavellan

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #cancer fic #tw cancer #tw hospital #aaron hotchner #penelope garcia #emily prentiss #jessica brooks #david rossi

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dovveling · 3 years

Note

Why must you keep giving me opportunities to spam your ask box 😔

❣️ When did your OC first realise they were in love? How did they react to the realisation?

💍 Which one of them would propose? How would it happen? (or write if you feel like it!)

💋 Who is the best kisser? (if you’d like write a short smooch scene!)

BESTIE THANK YOU FOR ENABLING ME I'VE BEEN WANTING TO WRITE A WEDDING SCENE--

❣️ When did your OC first realize they were in love? How did they react to the realization?

- Unfortunately, it was love at first sight-- Even if Iolas would rather drop dead than admit this. He probably saw the incredibly ostentatious portrait of Lucio in his wing and was taken aback by how attracted he was to this man who was supposedly dead. It only got worse after Lucio got attached to Iolas through the ghost binding within canon-- Iolas the whole time thinks Lucio's romantic advances are just for fun and doesn't expect Lucio to love him at all. All the While he's completely in love with Lucio. (even if he acts like a rude little shit to him 50% of the time) It isn't until Lucio asks him to go traveling in the upright ending that's when Iolas realizes that Lucio is serious about him and even if it scares the shit out of him he can't help but believe him. The events of everything come crashing onto him and he realizes that He's 100% in love and cannot escape it.

💍 Which one of them would propose? How would it happen? (or write if you feel like it!)

(THANK YOU-- I will put this under a read more because the next two answers will be LONg but look under if you wanna see two idiots fall in love)

The sun hung low in the sky as Lucio makes his way to the palace gardens. He has asked Iolas to meet him out by their favorite spot in the garden maze. the blonde smiles remembering how the two of them had found the hidden spot while goofing around and shoving each other into the hedges. It wasn't until one hard push sent Lucio through the hedge and where he expected to land on his ass but he found himself on the other side of a portal with Iolas calling for him from the other side. After Lucio had ushered the other man through the portal the two looked over a hidden meadow that seemed to be somewhere close to the center of the maze.

Lucio could picture it perfectly; the stark white gazebo in the center, the perfect sun rays that sprinkled the fluffy grass, and the willow tree with its small leaves that dripped and trickled. He loved when the wind would blow and the tendrils of the willow would tickle up the wooden beams of the gazebo and scare Iolas into laughter every time the leaves would brush against his lover.

As Lucio draws closer to the portal before he stops and stares at the ring he had spent hours picking out. He had never fussed so much over a gift for someone. He never had to worry about gift-giving, because anything he picked out was glamorous and simply perfect. this however wasn't just a gift. It was a question. It was a statement and soon as he would think he was close to picking he would look and see a flaw and wonder if Iolas could see it and if he did then he'd never get to hear the answer he so desperately wants to hear to the question He'd rather not be asking.

So many times Lucio doubled back on himself about the personal. Is this just too much? could he see himself getting married when his last marriage was such a failure? Then He would hear it. Iolas' laugh and the sunlight hitting his lover's coffee skin and every reservation burned away and was replaced with a deep desire to make this person his and only his.

Lucio steels himself as he pockets the ring, almost dropping the bottle of champagne he forgets he was holding. As he pushes through the portal the blonde's heart skips a little at the sight of his lover resting on the side of the white gazebo, wearing a white robe that Lucio had gotten commissioned to match his iconic white suit. His lover seems to be lost in thought, their crimson eyes gazing over the tree line until Lucio steps closer and knocks on the wood with a playful tune. His wolfish smile triggering a similar one on his lover's face.

"Hi, my Darling--" Iolas starts before pulling Lucio over by his collar to meet his lips. With a giggle, Iolas watches Lucio hop over the median of the gazebo instead of using the very close opening that's just a little be over to the side of them. Lucio tries to steady his face. He doesn't want to come off too excited or nervous. He needs to play it cool so Iolas doesn't suspect anything, but it's too late Iolas gives him a curious look. "What are you planning? I know that look."

Lucio however holds his hands up after he places the bottle of champagne down on the railing in front of them. "Why do I always have to be up to something huh? Can't a man just meet his lover in a secret hole in the woods for some late-night drinking and maybe some late-night macking?" the blonde throws the magician a wink, which is met with a playful smack that Lucio is too found of.

"Did you bring glasses, Oh Count of Macking?" Iolas teases with a click of his tongue and to that Lucio's face freezes for a second because he did not think about the glass part of drinking, but his shock lasts for a split second before he nudges his lover with an elbow and a cheeky grin. "Can't you just magic something up for us--" Before Lucio can even finish Iolas throws his head back, his whole body shakes with a genuine laugh, one that Lucio only sees when Iolas reacts to his particular stupidity. "Absolutely not. I cannot manifest glassware, but fret not Lulu I prepared for this." The silver-haired man stands on the railing of the gazebo and reaches up behind one of the posts and brings down two champagne glasses. Lucio helps the shorter man down before taking both glasses and leaning down to give his lover a short kiss on the head.

Snickering to himself Lucio places the glasses down and pops open the champagne. "See? Who needs magic when you have a lover who has the spirit of a squirrel. Why are those even up there?" Iolas can't seem to hold back his laugher and starts into a long dialogue about how the last party they hosted he was tasked with disposing of all the drinks Lucio downed after getting into a drinking match with Julian and at some point, he got too fed up hauling all the empty glass wear to and fro so he eventually gave up and used the portal which was much closer than the garbage. Soon as he finishes that story Lucio makes note that not only does he not remember this drinking contest at all, but he also notices that the whole upper layer of the Gazebo is littered with small drinking glasses of all shapes and sizes.

This brings the two of them to a comfortable speed of talking, to which Lucio adds more flavor by introducing the drinks. The sun finally settles and the garden lights are now on and thanks to all the glass wear in the gazebo there are small reflected lights scattered within their own space. Slowly the stories of their day dwindle and eventually, they huddle close to each other so they can look under the top of their gazebo and point out stars. Lucio watches the small warm lights bounce off his lover's face and his heart races. He can't chicken out now.

"Iolas." Lucio stops the silver-haired man mid-sentence as the other was just going on about his zodiac sign and how it will be visible in the sky until he hears his name.

Iolas pauses fully, not use to hearing his full name exit his lover's lips unless it was during a more intimate and scandalous situation. So he hides his hesitation with a smile and he answers the blonde with the same tone he just used but extracted with a deeper tone to lighten the mood. "Lucio." The count starts to fidget but just laughs when Iolas mocks his serious tone. "No really, uh... Listen for a second." Iolas' face now turns from curious to worried. " Uh oh. that's a real serious tone. What did you do?" Lucio brushes him off, biting his lip and rubs the back of his neck. He feels so lame doing this, but that's the point.

Lucio stands up straight taking Iolas' hands, looking directly into those red eyes. Something in him wants to run away, but the ring sits heavy in his pocket and he opens his mouth only to close it so he can bring Iolas' cold fingers to his lips. Iolas' however is completely taken aback. His lover has been romantic before but he was much more used to their back a forths of one-upping each other and superficial hyping each other up coupled with nightly flings where he ended up in the blonde's bed. So this sudden tenderness was jarring.

The magician could feel that dark feeling creep to his shoulders that say he shouldn't get his hopes up, that he's happy filling the count's time till he finds a real suitor. Even if Lucio was a temporary General at the palace was still a completely different status then Iolas and Royals don't have court magician as suitors. So he was happy to bid his time with Lucio because even with the teasing and snarky remarks that sometimes hurt Iolas' loved the other man's company, but love doesn't change status. Love doesn't guarantee a happy ending. He knew this from experience and learned his lesson the hard way.

So It was the last thing Iolas' expected when the taller man pulls out the biggest ring the magician has ever seen and gets down on one knee. Iolas' first thought is that he wants to shake his head so he can wake up. Then when air fills his lungs he realizes he is awake and this is happening. More than happening he's been silent for too long but all he can hear is the stinging sound of his fears buzzing in his head. The buzz is deafening and He can see that Lucio is speaking but he can't hear him.

You will just disappoint him. Iolas' thoughts curse. Better yet he'll disappoint you somehow. A shaky breath leaves him and all he can do is blink and look at Lucio with watery eyes. "I-- I'm sorry please can you say that again." Iolas stops and closes his eyes just so he doesn't have to look at the ring that's almost blinding with its meaning.

Lucio's normal wolfish grin falters but only returns once he hears Iolas speak. "I said. We should get hitched, ya know?" Lucio sputters, shit. "Look. Like I was saying we're surrounded by losers, Pet. Who else am I gonna get to match me other than you huh? come on, look at me. Then look at you! we're perfect for each other.. ya know?" Lucio now looks nervous as he speaks. Unable to keep eye contact. ...and.. I love your laugh."

This seems to pull Iolas' from his fears a little even enough to get him to let out a weak laugh. "What? what does that have to do with anything?" Lucio pouts and glares at his lover just a tiny bit. "I love your laugh! and I don't want anyone else to have it. I deserve it, I get you to do it most and I think you owe me. So like.." Lucio ushers Iolas' to the ring, his legs are starting to buckle. "I wouldn't admit this to anyone else but my knees aren't what they use to be so can we--" Iolas stops him with a curt turn, his shoulders shaking.

The blonde stands suddenly, his whole body rigid. This was it. the rejection he warned himself about. He's ruined everything, his heart screams to go back. Iolas is probably laughing at the proposal and Lucio's tacky way of offering himself. It isn't until the sound of a stuffy nose echo through the silent night that Lucio realizes his lover is crying and instantly he steps forward a different kind of fear gripping his heart. " W-wait-- wait, why are you crying? You never cry--" He falters and fidgets his hands around his lover unsure if he wants to be held or not.

Iolas turns finally, his red puffy eyes are turned down in a grimace as they glisten in the dim light. "Yeah, you idiot I never cry and look at what you made me do." His tone is harsh but it's followed by a sad shake that ruins any intention of anger. "Lucio I... I don't know how to do this." Lucio's heart slows but he's thrown for a loop and Iolas can sense his confusion and clears his throat as he wipes his leaking eyes. "No one has ever, wanted me like this before. I don't know if I can-- How do you know you want this? What if I disappoint you? What if you get tired of me and regret ever meeting me? At least if we keep things like before you can just get rid of me if I'm too much and I won't have to--" Lucio stops Iolas this time as he brings his lover close by pulling on his crossed arms.

"You won't have to worry about falling in love?" The blonde answers with his own sense of sadness, his eyes looking down at their feet before meeting with Iolas' who only nods in response. Lucio is a bit thankful that his lover didn't outright say no and is at least contemplating the idea of things. "No I had the same thoughts and honestly I don't know how I'm sure. I just... am." Lucio's normal bravado comes back now that he feels more secure in the conversation. "I know that I love seeing you every day. I know that I love sleeping with you every night. I know that I don't want anyone else to hold you the way I hold you and I know that you feel the same way about me." At that the blonde swallows hoping he isn't wrong. "But mostly I know I don't ever want you to leave. If you were to leave, do you know how fucking boring this place would be? I would set the parlor on fire within minutes of you being gone." The cheeky grin is back and Iolas snorts at the idea and manages a smile as he is now fully embraced by his lover.

Lucio rests his head on the shorter man's head and hums, kissing the top of it. Slowly he pulls Iolas back so he can look down at him. "But it's not just about what I want... you kinda need to want those things too." Now it's Iolas turn to nervously look away and slowly as the shorter man's courage builds he tights his grip in Lucio's jacket and more tears fall down his face as the realization comes crashing onto him that he'd do absolutely anything to be with the man in front of him forever. Before He can answer he shoves his face into Lucio's jacket rubbing his head back and forth on the soft fabric. "You moron-- Of course I want all that."

The blonde can't resist the urge to tease the other man however and laughs to himself. "I'm sorry, could you say that again I couldn't hear you from inside my jacket." Iolas hits the taller man's chest with a laugh before he goes to wipe his damp eyes yet again. "You know for a fact that I said YES-- urgh, gods look at what you did to my make searing the hell am I going to fix this now--" Iolas' whining is stopped short by his lover picking him up in a searing kiss that continues as the blonde twirls them both. With a firm grip on Iolas' was it Lucio Looks up at the magician with a smile that could blind the gods. "I wanna hear you say it." Iolas rolls his eyes, a large pout crosses the silver-haired man's lips as he kicks his legs from his newfound lifted position.

"I have zero ideas what you're talking about--" Iolas protests but Lucio shakes his head. "Say it or you are never leaving this gazebo." Iolas is about to rebuttal but the look in Lucio's eyes is that yes he is serious. Iolas' expression softens, even if it's despite himself. "Of course I'll marry you, LuLu." Lucio bounces in his spot and spins the both of them once again but this time continues to spin around the whole gazebo till Iolas can't help but laugh and struggle against the crazy man holding him. "Stop-- Lulu Stop we're gonna--" but it's too late. Lucio's legs trip over themselves and with zero grace they both tumble onto the hardwood floor.

Iolas rolls onto his back and groans, dizzy and sore his eyes dart over to the man beside him who is just as dazed. slowly Iolas entwines their hands with a smile and Lucio is about to kiss his lover's fingers before he remembers the ring. The blonde springs forward, getting up like the fall meant absolutely nothing but Iolas takes his time sitting up as his lover fumbles to find the ring he dropped.

Soon as it's found Lucio slides over, the scraping sound of the fabric of the taller man's pants on the hardwood makes the magician giggle. Iolas has to give the other man sheer points for his enthusiasm. Pompously Iolas sticks his left hand out, to which Lucio plays along and kisses the other man's ring finger dramatically before slipping the large ring onto Iolas' hand.

Carefully Iolas' holds his hand out to the light and observes the sheer size of the ring and can't help but grin. Lucio practically radiates waves of anticipation on his lover's thoughts "Was this the biggest ring they had?" Iolas wiggles his fingers, acting as if he's unimpressed. Lucio simply feeds back into him. "How dare you." Lucio sneers, pulling Iolas into his lap as he sits, unable to be on his knees any longer. "I had this one custom ordered. Not only is it the biggest ring in stores, but it's also the biggest wedding ring, period." He speaks into the shorter man's neck before he kisses it, The count's tone never faltering while he speaks. This sends Iolas into a giggle fit. He knows for a fact that this ring physically cannot be the biggest but another part of him can see Lucio putting up a fight with store owners about the pitful size of their rings to the point where he just orders them to make him a whole new size.

"Of course, I knew my Lulu would only get me the best. He not capable of anything less." Lucio preens in the praise and Iolas strokes the back of his fingers against his lover's face. For a moment they stay like that, both of them processing what exactly just happened and what this means for their future. Iolas is the first to break the silence with a soft hum as he presses against Lucio's chest. "Thank you... Lucio." the taller man responds by nuzzling his nose into the shorter man's hair with a confused hmm. "I never thought I could do this... but for the first time, I'm not scared." Lucio smiles at that. and squeezes his lover in his arms.

"Good. We can both be fearless together."

💋 Who is the best kisser? (if you’d like write a short smooch scene!)

(I WILL TRY MY BEST TO KEEP THIS SHORT SINCE I JUST WROTE YOU A WHOLE FIC ON ACCIDENT ON MY LAST ONE)

The sound of wood creaking fills the otherwise quiet room as Lucio pushes his lover against the doors of his chambers. Lucio places on hand on the hip of the man under him and huffs a breath through his nose that leads to a soft moan as their lips bump against each other awkwardly for a second. Iolas snickers within the brief pause and pulls Lucio down by his collar. Now controlling their embrace the shorter man pushes the blonde backward and with a searing bite, he slams the count onto the disgustingly huge bed placed in the middle of his room. Breathless Lucio stares up at Iolas his bottom lip red and puffy from the bite, which only makes Lucio's slurry grin look even more dangerously attractive.

Iolas steps in between his lover's spread legs and uses one of his hands to tip the taller man's head back with a grunt. Lucio's hands wander over the man before him, knowing his place he doesn't try to switch their positions. He loves when Iolas gets pushy he knew if anyone could match him in greediness it would be his lover. Iolas however preoccupies himself with tracing his thumb over Lucio's red bottom lip till his nail presses a little too hard and draws just a few drops of blood to the surface of his lover's pale skin.

At the sight of this Iolas captures The count's lips once against and shamelessly sucks on the blood he just conjured. the kiss devolves as Iolas holds Lucio's head still with the grip on his hair and once the magician pulls back Lucio's face flushes at the sight of his blood dripping from his lover's lips. Lucio's voice comes out breathy and needy as he pulls against Iolas' grip on his hair. "Do that again."

#love asks #ask box #please read this i think its sO CUTE i would love feed back--#I AM SO SORRY I WROTE A WHOLE ASS FIC FOR THIS HA #the arcana mc #oc apprentice #lucio x apprentice #lucio x mc #my writing

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geffenrecords · 3 years

Note

The ppl require more thoughts on davenzi

smh the curse of having gay followers. none of u guys care for me u just want to hear things abt the gay ppl i like 😔 anyway david and matteo i love them lets go. since ur a hopeless romantic touch starved bitch, this ones about them being intimate without the sexy times [cos im a minor and also its ace week so 😎]

yeah so anyway they love touching each other and not in a sexual way they just have very small ways of saying i love you unlike SOME PPL.....[glances at robbe and sander] but they just have small ways of saying it. like around their friends? they r unbearable....literally just sp fucking cheesy like "yeah so me and david, my :-) boy :-) friend :-) who i just love so fucking much" or theyll just be draped across one another and they do it just to piss everyone off with how in love they are bc gay ppl r SO annoying u know......

but behind closed doors theyre a lot quieter and more subtle but they have their pens ways of saying i love u. like they dont SAY it tht much but they have little actions that say it. like matteo will come up from behind and rest his chin on davids sholders and lean his head into his and put his hands in davids pockets and david will just smile and maybe whisper a little to him abt how hes SO cheesy and matteo grins and is like "and yet u fall for it everytime" and david just laughs bc he does fall for it everytime......or matteo likes buying david small things. new pencils, a cool eraser, chapstick or just random shit he finds on the ground. like he has an entire collection of rocks matteos given him [matteo was ABSOLUTELY that gay kid who collected rocks in elementary school] or little paperclips matteo finds or even thumbtacks or paperweights or rubber bands......he never uses them but he likes to keep them in little jars in his room and everytime he sees them it makes him smile. matteo even tries to draw for him sometimes but its USUALLY shitty stick figures doing dumb things or saying like "gayass ily. lets go out together on friday" and he keeps those in a little tin can on top of his desk bc theyre SO bad but theyre so matteo

davids way of saying i love you is squeezing matteos hand 3 times or tapping him 3 times. like anytime he does a small motion 3 times thts how he says ily and its matteos favorite thing. like theyll be laying in bed one morning and matteos still half asleep and davids just resting on him and likes to run his hands up and down matteos arms or back and kiss his shoulder bc he loves the way matteo feels and he likes to remind himself tht thats HIS boyfriend.....no one elses......but he'll tap matteos shoulder three times and matteo will mutter "i love you too" and then roll over and fall asleep and david just laughs bc he loves this boy sm........but david will literally do a 3 tap motion any chance he gets and its SO annoying smh. no one else except davids sister [i like to think they squeeze each others hands 3 times for ily but david took it further with matteo cause hes in love or whatever 🙄] and she loves seeing david do it. it confused her at first cause david would do smthn weird like grab his cup and tap it against the tabled edge 3 times and it always made matteo smile so softly so at first she thought it was an inside joke but eventually she Realized and it always makes her smile too. she hasnt started doing it w david cause it's more of his and matteos thing and she likes it being like tht and they like it too. annoying ass gay ppl things yknow

#THIS IS SO LONG AGAIN IM SO SORRY EKNDKDMFLDMF #u dont even know who david and matteo r but i appreciate the ask....#davenzi #literally anyone send me asks i will ramble so much.......love these dumb bitches.....#to everyone who likes these and tht one guy who rbed my last one.....i kiss u #druck #alyssa asks

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moonchildsaurora · 3 years

Text

Moonlight Sonata

✤ OT8 w/ Woo-centric (+ a side of WooSan, SeongJoong) ✤ genre: fantasy!AU // mild horror, more creepy than anything really, a dash of fluff ✤ t/w: sfw, lots of spoopy shit happening, swearing, description of fantasy violence & grotesque body horror, very brief mention of intoxication, rated M ✤ count: 6k+ ✤ [ ‘prologue’ of The Alderfell Chronicles ]

a/n - well this was suppose to be for Halloween and instead I’m using it as a belated birthday one(long)shot for our beloved Wooyoung. It’s my first member-centric piece that stemmed from me thinking about, “Why aren’t there many AUs for legendary beings like the Dullahan (Headless Horseman)?” Lo & behold the world of Alderfell was created and I do not regret it one bit. The only thing I regret is not having enough time to write this out as an on-going series, having to squeeze info/hints throughout this piece...so please excuse the weird jumps in timeline...about the characters’ lives and backstories. This is also my own twist on the concept of the Dullahan – they usually are depicted with a more sinister nature but my Dullahan is a good boi™. I do plan to re-visit every now and then, maybe to elaborate on certain origins or associated scenarios/blurbs. But for now, please enjoy reading about Wooyoung having the time of his life trying to settle down in a town that’s more than meets the eye and live to tell the tale of how he experienced first-hand a midnight stroll with a legend 💙 P.S. sentences in all italics are flashbacks! P.P.S. I would absolutely be keen to hear any thoughts/headcanons/speculations as to what you think is happening with each character or just about the world itself. See how many easter eggs you guys can find!

The balcony windows slammed opened as the intruding wind howled into the bedroom, drawing a shriek out of Wooyoung. In the unfortunate process of accidentally slamming his knee up to the escritoire with a startled jump, he helplessly watched as the ink jar tipped over a river of black onto his handwritten letter. Tugging at his coal black strands with a groan of frustration, he was soon reminded that the tempestuous rain had come in uninvited when the lamps and bronze candelabras started to quake.

Grumbling a string of curses under his breath, Wooyoung marched across the rosewood floor towards where the billowing ivory curtains were. They reached out to brush against his cheeks as he worked against the wind to quickly close the large windows. By the time he managed to secure the latches, his vision was dotted with rain droplets that splayed across his silver-rimmed round glasses.

Fumbling with the sleeves of his sleeping robe, Wooyoung lightly wiped the lenses clean whilst he made his way back to where the ruined letter laid. Staring at the mass of harsh ink smears across majority of the previously neat lines, he gingerly reached out to grab the papers.

Then came a soft knock on the door.

“Wooyoung, is everything alright?” a deep dulcet voice spoke from the other side.

“Y-Yes, I was jus– please, come in.”

Wooyoung turned to face the doorway just in time to see it swing open, revealing the ever empyreal-looking aristocratic owner of Rosentine Mansion where he was currently residing at. Adorned with a beige embroidered silk sleeping robe and a faint smile, Yeosang stepped soundlessly in to the room.

“Sorry if I disturbed your sleep, there was a bit of a mishap…” said Wooyoung, gesturing to the mess on the escritoire with a sheepish look. The windows started rattling once more which drew Yeosang’s attention towards the balcony.

“No need to worry. Was it the wind?” he asked, walking over with the intention to check the latches.

Wooyoung nodded, “it’s rather blustery tonight.”

Yeosang hummed as he peered through the curtains, looking out to the gloomy darkness where he could barely make out the glowing street lamps through the rain.

“The rain will pass after tonight, storms don’t tend to linger around here for too long. At least it’s cleared up the fog a little for now.”

An involuntary shudder went down Wooyoung’s spine at the mention of the fog. He quickly learnt within the first few days of his stay, more often than not, the streets became foggy after dusk once the sun has gone to slumber and the moon awakes. Wooyoung wasn’t fond of how his mind would wander to think of what might be lurking within the fog, and so he makes a conscious effort to never stare too long from his windows. Too afraid that one evening he might find fiendish eyes staring right back at him.

“You speak as if the weather has a mind of its own.”

“Oh? Have you never thought of that possibility before?”

The ambiguity of Yeosang’s smile certainly didn’t help Wooyoung in trying to decipher whether the aristocrat was being serious or not with that question. Then again, Wooyoung had somewhat gotten used to the eccentricity within the mansion; especially when his own cousin is just of that calibre along with the rest of the residents.

However everyone he’s met so far have been nothing short of pleasant and accommodating, even the brutally honest groundskeeper who was particularly protective over his fruit trees.

“Please let me know if you require any more candles.”

Wooyoung diverted his attention back to the present, only noticing then that Yeosang had gone round to dim the lights within the lamps.

“And…” pausing, Yeosang turned towards the half empty ink pot and stained papers, “Perhaps it’s best to leave that for tomorrow. You’re due to wake up at dawn if you wish to make it on time to Seonghwa’s shop, you know how he can be like with tardiness.”

“You’re right,” said Wooyoung, with a tired sigh.

“I’ll leave you to it then. Goodnight Wooyoung,” giving the room a once over and deeming nothing else was out of place, Yeosang left just as quietly as he arrived before.

“Goodnight Yeosang.”

That night, Wooyoung fell asleep under the comfort of his duvet on the 4-poster bed. Dreaming of flowing ink, swirling fog and the echoes of thunder from the depths of his mind.

“Do be careful Mr Jung!”

Wooyoung still wasn’t used to being addressed so formally by the townspeople, it wasn’t this sophisticated back at his previous home in Rookhaven. But he had no time to dwell on that as he hastily dusted the dirt off his taupe trousers and gave a courteous nod before continuing on with sprinting his way to the shop.

Cheeks tinged with a rosy hue and not just from the chilly air. After tripping and face-planting onto the gravel path right in front of the Mayor surely proved to be an embarrassing start to his morning. He raced past the magnificent fountain of the dancing naiads in the town square; where the granite sign that sat on the top tier engraved with bold letters of gold read; ‘ALDERFELL – welcome thee to a pleasant stay, otherwise be on your merry way.’

Tucked in the corner of Étoile Lane was Alderfell’s main apothecary shop that Wooyoung was headed towards. He entered through the back gates to ‘Drops of Aurora’ and almost immediately, the fluttering of wings reached his ears. Soon his shoulders were claimed as a perching spot by the shop’s inhabitants. Hummingbirds of sunset shades excitedly chirped their welcome, making Wooyoung giggle as he placed his leather satchel aside.

A few of them had already begun gathering his hair in a loose ponytail and looping a ribbon around it. The first time this ever happened he was left flabbergasted and didn’t quite know what to make of it. By now he’s accepted the hummingbirds were simply highly intelligent and perceptive.

Even if they had an odd glow around their forms.

When he brought it up with the Master Healer all he got was a teasing, “Shall I send for the oculist to come examine your glasses?”

Wooyoung huffed at the memory, taking out a glass vial from his satchel that was filled with light amber-coloured liquid. Grabbing one of the spare ceramic bowls from the shelves, he placed it by the window sill where the morning rays were slowly trickling in and poured out the liquid. The hummingbirds gave cheerful chirps and took turns taking sips of the sweet nectar that Wooyoung had harvested from the new batch of bell purple valdeisses.

Smiling fondly at the scene, he left them to their treat and went to grab his work apron off the wall hanger before walking through the connecting archway to the main section of the shop.

“Ah Wooyoung, nice to see you’ve made it.”

Wooyoung felt his soul jumped. Releasing a silent yell, he blinked owlishly at his mentor who was unexpectedly early and already pouring lavender tea into two vintage floral tea cups by the counter. His almost-silver hair that had been meticulously styled to one side, faintly glimmered under the light.

“Good morning Seonghwa, I’m sor–“

Wooyoung was interrupted by his own stomach letting out an unbashful rumble. There was silence, in which Wooyoung wanted nothing more than to disappear into the ground before deep chuckling filled the air.

“Oh my, did you skip out on breakfast my young apprentice?” asked Seonghwa, a knowing look in his glacial eyes.

“I may have woke up later than usual this morning…and rushed right out the door to get here.”

“You’re lucky that Hongjoong insisted I bring these along then,” Seonghwa pushed a brown paper bag across the counter towards Wooyoung. Inside was an assortment of berries and cream cheese pastries, still having that freshly-baked scent had Wooyoung salivating.

“He was in one of his baking moods and next thing I knew he whipped up half a dozen batch too many. As the saying goes…sharing is caring.”

“Thank you, please tell Hongjoong for me that I’m very thankful for this too!”

Wooyoung felt a warmth stirring within. Both from the fond expression his mentor displayed as he talked about his beloved and from the simple yet kind gesture of looking out for Wooyoung’s wellbeing.

The whimsical ambience of the shop continued for the rest of the morning, especially when the mellow sound of a piano came through the radio speakers. Seonghwa hummed along to the melody and footsteps swaying between the counter and shelves. Wooyoung tried not to snicker out loud and hid his grin behind the bunch of mountain ifliums that he was tasked with deseeding.

What a rare sight it was for him to see the softer side of his normally strict mentor.

“What happened to your previous apprentice?” Wooyoung remembered asking with curiosity. Wondering if it was the pressure of the work itself as he knew Seonghwa’s way of teaching left little room for play – only because the nature of being a healer required immense knowledge and skills that can’t simply be absorbed overnight. And Seonghwa expected no less than his best, pushing Wooyoung to where he knows his capabilities could take him to.

“This just wasn’t the place for them, which was a pity because they had potential…”

Wooyoung felt there were unspoken double meanings underneath that simple answer, but decided to not push for it. Instead he dedicated his time and energy in to learning when he found himself growing to genuinely enjoy this area of expertise. The move from his previous mundane life was unplanned but he didn’t regret taking up the opportunity; perhaps this was the change he never knew he needed, until now.

It was when a chime came from the tall grandfather clock at midday that the hummingbirds noisily came chittering and flapping their wings around the Master Healer and apprentice. Seonghwa had been demonstrating to Wooyoung how to finely slice evergreen opier roots for a healing elixir when they were interrupted by the commotion.

“Hush, one at a time. What’s all the fuss about?”

A marigold coloured hummingbird with speckled spots came to land on Seonghwa’s outstretch hand, some of the others making Wooyoung’s shoulders and head their perching spots once again. Wooyoung stared at his mentor who paid attention to the little bird’s rapid chirping, pondering if Seonghwa was a bird whisperer on the side or by some sorcery if he actually understood the bird.

Then the bell to the entrance jingled, effectively drawing everyone’s attention towards the doors.

“That must be our visitor, Wooyoung would you please let them in.”

Must be an important visitor if it had the hummingbirds excited, or so Wooyoung thought when he swung the dark oak doors open. Only to be met with an empty space, confusion taking over as he looked around.

A sharp yip caused him to cast his gaze downwards.

“Um…Seonghwa? There’s a….”

The little silver fox stared back up at Wooyoung, head tilting to the side and fluffy tail swishing lazily. It let out another sharp yip before proceeding to walk right through the entrance and in to the shop.

Wooyoung scrambled to move out of the way, still utterly confused but not wanting to risk unintentionally stepping on the creature…and was that an ornate scroll container slung around its body?

“Don’t be alarmed, this is one of the town’s messenger.”

What an odd term for a postman, if Wooyoung could even call it that. He watched the silver fox jump up lithely on to the stool and greedily took the chin scratches from Seonghwa before nudging the small container towards Seonghwa’s hands.

“Thank you for coming by to deliver this. Here, for your afternoon tea,” said Seonghwa, pinching one of the extra pastries and offering it to the silver fox. As it left ‘Drops of Aurora’ with its sweet snack, Wooyoung swore the creature winked at him right before it leapt back outside. He really hoped he wasn’t losing his mind already, closing the doors and rubbing his eyes at an attempt to calm his nerves from the small oddities he’s observed throughout the day so far.

He shuffled back over to where his mentor was already reading the paper parchment he retrieved from the container.

“Seonghwa, what’s The Twin Moons festival?” asked Wooyoung with curiosity, after taking a glance.

The sheer look of surprise and raising of eyebrows fleeted across Seonghwa’s face, entirely missed by Wooyoung since he still had his eyes on the parchment. To Seonghwa, the written text was common Elvish that he was fluent in understanding – but to anyone who Alderfell has yet to accept would’ve been foreign script.

And yet, Wooyoung was patiently waiting for an answer he shouldn’t even have known to inquire about in the first place.

Placing down the iron pot in the middle of the dining table, Wooyoung felt a great sense of achievement. The hearty venison stew with a mixture of herbs from Jongho’s garden (with his permission of course, Wooyoung wouldn’t risk the groundskeeper’s wrath) had steam rising and the aroma of spices, rosemary and juniper berries filled the room.

His cooking ability had grown immensely after his arrival, having found out that the mansion’s kitchen was hardly in use; simply putting it that –

“…there aren’t any ingredients? At all?”

“Well, nobody here really cooks.”

“How in the hell did you all survive till now?!”

Wooyoung took it upon himself to make sure that the pantry was stocked and everyone had some form of substantial food at least. Yeosang would remark that it’d give him an excuse to bring out the fancier gold plated cutlery sets since the whole group would gather together for dinner whenever Wooyoung cooked.

“Something smells delectable in here!” announced a tall figure with a cheery voice and an even cheerier smile.

Yeosang had just finished placing the last gold fork down when Yunho walked in to the dining room along with his fellow gentle giant, both already in their work attire and carrying over-cluttered folders. A careless yawn and the dishevelled fiery red hair gave a good indication that Mingi had just awoken from slumber. Wooyoung was aware that both worked predominantly throughout the night at Alderfell’s Observatory, hence their abnormal sleeping schedules. He once made a passing joke that Mingi could very well be a vampire with the rarity of seeing him during the daytime hours, which made Jongho snort and comment about the, “lack of imagination…such a cliché thought.”

A small basket of ruby red apples and plums was placed on the other side of table as everyone took their seats. “Been feeling rather generous lately and these were ripe for the picking,” said Jongho casually, subtly puffing his chest out.

“Aww, he really does have a heart after all.”

“I will not hesitate to leave the cheese in your room again and let the remu– I mean rats find their way to it.”

“You wouldn’t…Yeosang would never allow you to do something so cruel!”

“Please do not involve me in this.”

The high-pitched laughter escaped Wooyoung’s mouth and he held his sides for support. The light-hearted bickering reminded him of his family back home and how boisterous the atmosphere would get. It made him smile till his cheeks hurt because in good company, he felt less alone.

“We should start eating before the stew gets cold, wouldn’t want Wooyoung’s hard work go to waste now would we?”

Among the clinking of cutlery against ceramic bowls, Wooyoung heard his name being called by Yunho, “Oh! Before I forget…these are for you. Yeosang mentioned you needed new paper to finish your letter and I have abundant in stacks lying around for the taking. I’ll be sending mail back to my family too, would you like for me to post yours off tomorrow morning?”

Wooyoung’s mind reeled back to the previous night’s mishap and promptly made a mental note to rewrite the letter after dinner. Or else his mother would surely worry her way into bombarding Yunho next with letters about her son’s lack of response. Wooyoung felt that same warmth from before engulfing his heart and starts to think, as he reached out with grateful hands, that maybe he’s found his new home here after all.

The Twin Moons festival turned out to be longer than just a day’s worth of celebration, rather it went on for two whole weeks. Wooyoung had been slightly overwhelmed at the start, even more so when visitors from smaller neighbouring towns poured in for the festivities. Alderfell came alive at night where Wooyoung got to witness the unveiling of the moons as the clouds parted and stars shone like little diamonds bedazzling the darkened sky.

“Yeosang! Look at the colour!”

And what Wooyoung found more astounding than the two giant azure orbs up above was that Yeosang had voluntarily left the mansion to accompany him down to the festival. He’s never really seen Yeosang leave the grounds of the mansion, unless he’s done so whenever Wooyoung had been at work, so being able to spend time with him outside was an enjoyable change. Wooyoung saw a couple of familiar faces in the crowds, notably Hongjoong who provided music for the townspeople; skilled fingers flying across the keys of the piano situated under the elegant gazebo and sweet low suave tunes enticed the crowd to slow dance the night away.

He could definitely see how Seonghwa became so enamoured with Hongjoong in the first place. If his charismatic presence wasn’t a big enough charm already than his music from the soul certainly was the final hook.

On the 3rd day, Wooyoung found out about the significance of moonflowers and why the entire town was decorated with them.

“Has anyone told you of Alderfell’s legend yet? It’s said that this land used to be occupied by the King’s bravest knights who defended against intruders. The fiercest knight left standing fought battle after battle, even after his head fell. Now in spirit, that same knight continues to guard this town. Rumour has it that in the wee hours of midnight you may hear the galloping of hooves in the distance or even catch a glimpse of a rider cloaked in black on a crimson-eyed noble steed if you’re courageous enough to venture out to the woodlands. The moonflowers we display are a tribute for our guardian!”

By the end of that Wooyoung was left with a copious amount of words to process and a, “…to guard this town from what?” at the tip of his tongue.

It wasn’t till the 10th day that Wooyoung got a cryptic answer of sorts to his question. Yunho and Mingi decided it was their turn to take Wooyoung down to the town square for the night, Yeosang opting to stay back at the mansion. They even managed to rope Jongho along who easily became distracted by the wood chopping competition and didn’t hesitate to sign up for it. Yunho introduced Wooyoung a local favourite drink, Duchess’ Crystal, which was a crystal clear liquid with an iridescent tinge and tasted like extremely sweetened blueberries. However there was a sting similar to that of drinking vodka when it hit the back of his throat.

Well into the night, a happy buzz tingling all over, Wooyoung asked Yunho what Alderfell was being guarded from.

“Oh my dear cousin, why there are many things! From deep within the woods, crooks and crannies…foul beasts that roam…fiends that lure with deceitful mimicry” Yunho spoke with a dramatic air.

Mingi slung an arm around Wooyoung’s shoulders, having gotten bolder with affection the more he drank. “Just remember this – do not always trust the voice that calls your name especially if you hear the clicking. Do not turn around, do not look and if by heavens’ grace you get a chance to…run!” he whispered to Wooyoung.

As inebriate as Wooyoung might have been in the moment, the chilling message stuck firm with him since. Logic scoffed at the ridiculous elaboration, yet intuition told him to take heed of this warning.

Fate sure had a peculiar way of working and Alderfell decided it was time for the final mask to be taken off.

“Oh shit…shit…bloody hell...” Wooyoung muttered like a mantra with each hasty step he took along the dirt pathway through the woodlands. He had spent all afternoon collecting medicinal herbs, mushrooms and flowers to restock some of Seonghwa’s ingredient jars that he completely lost track of time. Straying quite a distance inside where the rarer plants were found in abundance meant being able to fill his basket to the brim; though at the cost of how far he was from the safety of the town’s borders.

The sun was beginning to dip real low and Wooyoung could only hope that he’d reach back before the last sunray disappeared below the horizon.

He most certainly did not miss the fog that was currently creeping over the ground steadily chasing after his feet. Much to his delight there was the absence of it during the entirety of the time when the Twin Moons reigned the nights. Nerves were settled then but now, alone and stuck outside past the curfew set him right on edge.

Wooyoung held the basket closer and concentrated on moving forwards, refusing to allow his eyes to waver from the path ahead. The woods became eerily still and silence encompassed his surroundings, save for the crunching of leaves under his leather boots. Any other day he’d welcome the tranquillity with open arms. At present he was desperate for sound, for anything to drive away the feeling of being watched.

“I just hope someone will continue to feed the darling cat if I were to meet my demise here…” Wooyoung mumbled out loud, trying to elevate some of the tension by attempting to make light of his current predicament. He would miss the cat with gorgeous cerulean eyes that’s taken a liking to accompany him on the walk back to the mansion after work. It took him almost a solid week of many fresh salmon slices, sweet praises and patience to befriend the feline.

Just as the last light started to dwindle, Wooyoung finally caught sight of the familiar large wooden gate that he entered from. To hell with the uneven ground and risks of rolling ankles, Wooyoung was about to take off sprinting the last leg of the pathway.

“Wooyoung?”

He halted in his movement so abruptly that he nearly toppled over. The sudden voice that cut right through the silence took him by surprise.

“Seongh–“

Wooyoung paused from turning around to the sound of his mentor’s voice. Wait a minute…there had to be a mistake; Wooyoung knew for a fact that Seonghwa was out of town with Hongjoong and wasn’t due back till tomorrow. So why was he suddenly hearing…

“Do not always trust the voice that calls your name!” rang loudly in his mind.

His stomach dropped, limbs locked and frozen as sheer dread filled his veins.

And then he heard it.

Clicking.

Almost like sharp thin nails against glass, a heavy drag also followed. Conjuring up an image in Wooyoung’s mind – a mass of broken bones moving in unison, grating disjointed parts and the snapping of unhinged jaws at irregular intervals.

“Wooyoung.”

Came Yunho’s voice this time, luckily not sounding right from behind Wooyoung but not too far off either. The time he spent staring at the ground as he internally willed his body to move, he took notice of how thick the fog had become.

Each second that ticked by the clicking became louder and each time a different voice from someone he knew within Alderfell called his name. A part of him wanted to haul rocks whatever cursed being it was, angry that it had the audacity to mimic his friends with sinister intentions. But that would require turning around and he remembers, as clear as day, Mingi’s warning to not look.

At all.

The mimicry itself was perfect, however it felt off.

When the raspy breathing and rancid stench of decay hit his senses, his body jolted and legs broke out of its frozen state.

“RUN!”

An inhumane wail unleashed that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Which was more than enough for Wooyoung’s survival instincts to take off, kicking up the dirt and leaving the monstrosity behind. He could hardly see where his boot-clad feet landed as he sprinted, moonlight only being able to guide him where the fog hasn’t consumed. But he couldn’t care less so long as the distance between him and the wooden gate was diminishing.

Much to his dismay, it sounded like he was being followed as the clicking of bones were sent into a manic state and getting louder. Wooyoung yelled his throat hoarse, weaving in-between the trees and he was oh so close to grabbing the sturdy gate to leap over…

He lost his footing and fell, dropping the basket (he miraculously still had in his hold all this time) in the process. Something was painfully squeezing his right ankle. Looking downwards he had to bring a hand to cover his mouth, bile rising and threatening to spill at the sight. A solemn grey coloured…hand…if Wooyoung could even call it that, with unnaturally long spindly fingers each had unforgivingly sharp bone white talons protruding out from their joints.

“WOOYOUNG, HELP ME.”

“NO! STOP, GET THE HELL OFF ME!”

Wooyoung was blindly kicking in the direction of the ‘Yeosang’ voice that wailed, feeling the crooked fingers clamped down harder and he was pretty certain it was going to leave a nasty bruise for days. Too focused on trying to get his feet out of the creature’s vice grip he didn’t pick up on a distinct neigh and sound of hooves charging across the ground.

It all came at a blur for Wooyoung.

One minute he was thrashing about and then he was sailing through the air, having been flung by a mighty force. Luck was still on his side when his landing was cushioned by a pile of foliage. His ankle freed from the death trap.

“Be gone, you vile creature. Go back to the depths of the Abyss from which you came!” a disembodied voice bellowed through the woods.

Wooyoung’s eyes was on high alert for he did not recognise the commanding voice. He rolled over to his side where he heard metallic sounds and piercing screeches of a battle unfolding.

He swore upon the heavens for the second time that night. Not entirely sure if he was stuck in a twisted dream or that Alderfell’s legend was far more real than fantasy.

“I ought to start believing in ghost stories…”

Wooyoung watched as the headless rider strike his luminous blade fiercely down on the creature. One of its several elongated limbs made a clawed swipe at the rider’s steed, to which the shadowy stallion reared defensively on hind legs. Using the window of opportunity, the creature dashed in an attempt to flee though it didn’t make it very far.

“Close your eyes.”

The voice returned with a firm yet gentler undertone. It took Wooyoung a whole 30 seconds to realise that the instruction was directed at him and he followed right through; knowing enough to not question a legendary figure who had just saved his life. In the few milliseconds before he blocked out the view entirely, he witnessed the rider’s hands being engulfed in purple flames along with his sword, the blade itself unlocking in sections and extending to resemble more of a whip.

There was a cacophony of metal crushing bone, wail-screeches filling up Wooyoung’s eardrums, a sudden searing heat blowing against his skin and the reciting of an ancient language before silence took over again.

Wooyoung let out a deep breath.

He was alive, he was breathing and his heart still beating.

Just to be cautious he peeked one eye open, deeming it was safe to open the other and shook his head slightly to re-focus his sight in the dark. The headless rider stood by what Wooyoung assumed was the monster from before, now nothing more than a crumbling husk. Small purple embers ate away at it sending bits of ash floating off into the empty air.

Now under the spotlight of the moon, Wooyoung could get a better look at the headless rider. He was expecting a gory wound where the head was meant to be, instead black smoky tendrils coiled calmly in place. A heavy-duty cloak sat upon lightweight armour, leather gloves, pants and sabatons all of which were in an obsidian black. Wooyoung thought the rider would’ve looked rather regal, headless or not.

The stallion let out a low grunt signalling a reminder that they still had company.

Wooyoung stumbled to his feet, wincing slightly at his swollen ankle, when the headless rider sheathed the sword and turned to make his way towards the young healer apprentice. The sea of fog seemed to part and retreat wherever the headless rider stepped.

Up close both figures seemed to tower over Wooyoung but he didn’t shrink back in fear. Not when the stallion with mounted spiked armour and glowing crimson eyes stared into his soul nor when the headless rider quietly regarded him in his formidable presence. They didn’t pose a threat…or at least Wooyoung didn’t feel like they did.

“Your leg…is it hurting?”

So he had noticed Wooyoung keeping his weight off his right side

Now that the headless rider wasn’t fending off terror entities, he spoke in a warmer honeyed voice. Another aspect Wooyoung wasn’t expecting of the mythical figure. He could imagine the rider’s head tilting down to survey his leg as he asked the question.

“Ah…yeah, my ankle’s not in the best shape at the moment.”

The headless rider descended down on one knee and held out a gloved hand towards Wooyoung’s right foot.

“May I?”

Wooyoung mutely nodded and balancing on his left foot, he allowed the headless rider to hold his other to inspect the injury. The same hands that wielded a sword to slay were handling Wooyoung with utter care.

“It doesn’t seem to be broken, but best to get it treated soon. Come.”

A confused noise escaped Wooyoung when the headless rider beckoned him closer to the saddle.

“You came from Alderfell did you not?”

Another nod.

“It’ll be much quicker to return by horse than on feet, these woods aren’t safe at this hour…as you now are well aware of.”

Wooyoung felt bewildered. Only just a week ago, he found out about the legendary Dullahan and now said legend was planning to stroll through town to escort him back?

“Are you allowed to?” was what Wooyoung wanted to ask, instead he settled for, “But you don’t even know where in Alderfell I live.”

An amused chuckle resounded all around.

“I trust that you ought to know the way back home, little healer. You’ll be my guide for tonight.”

Wooyoung gawked at where the smoky tendrils were intertwining together, not doubt there was a grin hidden somewhere in there.

How did the headless rider know about Wooyoung’s connection with healer’s work? How was he being so…nonchalant about, well everything? Was he always this approachable towards other townspeople that may have encountered him? Did they even know that Alderfell’s legend actually exists? Questions upon questions that Wooyoung would demand answers for if he wasn’t already so drained from his near-death experience. Should he ever get the chance to meet his saviour again, he’d pester him about it then.

For now, Wooyoung was ready to head back home.

‘Is the legend really true?”

“Might I ask you to please clarify, which part of?”

“You being a knight…and that you’ve been guarding this town, or rather, land since you lost…your…”

“My head? You’re allowed to say that, I take no offence. After all I’ve had a century or two to get used to this new form.”

“Wow, you’re practically an ancient!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. To answer your question, yes. It seems like even after death, my guardianship of this land still remains.”

“…The thing, back from before…is that the reason why Alderfell has the curfew?”

“There are others besides Hollowsworns that come from The Abyss to hunt after dark. The curfew is a precaution. Alderfell has its own ways–powerful ways–to protect its people.”

“Like yourself?”

“You could say that.”

“You truly are the bravest. Do you have a name Sir Knight?”

The shadowy stallion let out a loud snort.

“So are you, and apologies for not introducing myself sooner. You may call me San, Choi San.”

“You have my deepest gratitude for saving my life Sir Choi. My name’s Jung Wooyoung!”

“Just…San is quite enough, Wooyoung. You’re very welcome.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is it because it makes you sound old?”

To say the residents back at Rosentine Mansion were worrying their heads off was an understatement. Yunho was ready to lead a search party out for Wooyoung even if it meant breaking the rules. Jongho argued that was a counterproductive plan since no one knew exactly where Wooyoung had even wandered off to.

“What if something were to happen to you? That’ll be another added issue!” With Seonghwa being absent, they couldn’t turn to their level-headed elder for help.

It was a painful waiting game.

When the clopping of hooves and spectral guardian came into view from the porch, both Yeosang and Jongho instantaneously leapt up from where they had been sitting on the stairs.

“Yunho! Mingi! Get out here now, Wooyoung’s back!” hollered Jongho, sticking his head through the front door.

Meanwhile Yeosang had ran down ahead, oil lamp swinging in his hand, to fling open the front gates.

“Is he…?!”

“He’s safe, just in slumber. Understandably so.”

Wooyoung had fallen asleep against San’s chest on the ride back, head cradled under where San’s chin would’ve been and letting out soft snores.

“OH THANK MIHTOS!”

“HE’S ALIVE!’

“Shush! Or do you want to wake up the entire town?”

Jongho and Yunho managed to squeeze past Yeosang out on to the street. They worked to slowly lift Wooyoung’s sleeping form off the saddle and into Yunho’s arms so he could carry him back inside. San untied Wooyoung’s basket (that he made sure to recover, “I worked hard and nearly died for those!”) from his saddle bag and passed it over to Mingi.

Everyone thanked San profusely, Jongho even sneaking an apple from his pocket to feed the stallion which bowed in appreciation.

“San…”

The small whine ceased the group’s chatter, all eyes turned towards the figure curled up in Yunho’s arms. One of Wooyoung’s arm reached out languidly for San’s gloved ones. The Dullahan reciprocated to envelop Wooyoung’s hand with his.

“…thank you, again”

“Sleep well Wooyoung, may dreams allow you to rest properly tonight,” San responded softly with a light squeeze to Wooyoung’s hand.

Mingi followed Yunho back inside to help him get Wooyoung to bed while Jongho and Yeosang stayed to see San off.

“He can hear me, just like you two.”

“Who’s looking forward to seeing Seonghwa’s face tomorrow when he returns and learn of what’s happened?”

“I’m relieved that Wooyoung is here to stay, I’m growing rather fond of the young mister.”

“Do prepare Wooyoung for the discussion...”

“More like a history lesson!”

“...and please check on his ankle as soon as you can, the Hollowsworn got there before I did.”

San waited till Yeosang and Jongho disappeared behind the mansion doors before manoeuvring the reigns of his horse back in the direction he came from. It has been an eventful night and the Dullahan was intrigued by the young apprentice. There was much more to Jung Wooyoung than meets the eye – much like Alderfell and he hoped to cross paths with him soon again.

A purr stopped San and his steed in their tracks.

“There you are my dear, so this is where you’ve roamed to.”

A gloved hand patted at the rear and the cerulean-eyed cat claimed the spot on the horseback, nestling comfortably behind its master.

Somewhere else in a well-kept tomb beneath the winged stone sculpture, a dimpled smile forms on a serene face resting on a pillow of moonflowers. The head lets out a contented sigh.

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newsiegirlscout · 4 years

Text

Lightfoot Quarantine Headcanons

(These are a few headcanons to pass the time with some more optimistic friends; stay safe and wash your hands!)

--So as suspected, Barley ropes the others into playing Quests of Yore first thing, as often as possible.

--Colt infamously waged a short-range attack on the gelatinous cube. It. Did not end well.

--Barley is an essential worker and he jokes about it being the first time he’s been considered essential once before Ian threatens to show up at his job and pull the whole “Barley special” bit.

--”What is this? A brother coming to pay calls at my place of work just to inform the other village folk how adeptly I handle my profession?”

--”Barley, be quiet and appreciate yourself or I’ll intentionally go the wrong way up aisles.”

--Laurel and Barley come back from work with masks at the same time, coincidentally in the same patterns. Ian walks down to Target immediately after he sees them just to get a mask that doesn’t have a dragon on it.

--Barley quotes The Princess Bride at work in response to any reference to his mask and the customers love it.

--If Laurel and Colt don’t have to enforce the “No magic in the house” rule every other Tuesday--

--Many shenanigans ensue with using random things (moss, wildflowers, cool rocks) as assist elements to see what happens.

--Once Ian forgot he still had a splinter from practice and accidentally cursed Barley with a tickling cantrip. He never did hear the end of that one.

--Laurel jokingly "grounded" him for that one, to which Barley immediately declared since they were all on indefinite lockdown, the world was a lawless place and revenge-tickled Ian.

--Sometimes when Ian is really stressed out, Barley invites him to go for a “quest”. There, they drive past Ye Olde 7-11, grab some ice cream on the way up to Raven’s Point, pop the trunk, sit in the back, and just...watch the world go by for a little while.

(A la this amazing fanfiction which is *chef kiss*....I have read it....five times since lockdown? I’m okay.)

--Ian dislikes online classes, but Barley always counters with "Still better than shilling out $800 for textbook PDFs."

--It's also more entertaining than it should be to watch Barley rant about the scandal of charging full price for textbook PDFs.

--"I am a history major!! I should feel the ink and parchment beneath my fingers as strongly as the satyr playwrights of Greece did when they first penned the script! TAVISH OF ATHENS DID NOT WRITE 'OF SERPENTS AND STARS' TO CRASH WHEN TOO MANY PEOPLE ARE USING THE WI-FI."

--Blazey gets sooo many cuddles and has learned to squish under doors.

--Colt was unofficially kicked off the wi-fi during the most frequent overlapping Lightfoot class hours, so he plays with Blazey. As a result, Colt is now one of her most favorite people ever.

--The first time Ian got Blazey, Colt whistled for her, and she scrambled off Ian's lap and up to Colt, Ian pretended to be scandalized by her treachery.

--Blazey is also the best hot-water bottle for a cold night. Colt's friendship has absolutely nothing to do with the fact centaurs sleep in, essentially, nice stables.

--You think you need a haircut? Poor Colt’s tail got long enough to tangle with his back legs when he galloped five weeks in. While centaurs can wash and brush their tails easily, they are not quite flexible enough to cut them.

--The Manticore's Tavern is tragically understaffed for courtyard delivery; Barley pulls a shift now and again between his usual job and classes and the Manticore is unbelievably grateful.

--This boy can move orders like all-get-out, double the tip jar in three hours, and still spend most of his time on his phone or messing with Quest of Yore cards.

--Laurel and Barley pick up groceries and essentials weekly, but are notorious for forgetting that One Thing. Or two. Or five. Or vaguely remembering the list and happily checking out with a cart full of fruit juice and snack packs.

--The last few days before the next shopping trip inevitably become slapdash cooking competitions between two or three people at a time (or, if it’s really unsuccessful, pizza nights).

--Everything Laurel makes has a smiley face on it. Waffles? Sunny-side up. PB&J? Happiest meal of the day. Salmon piccata? Smiley face, comes with a note reminding you to do your best and show someone your friendly smile if she’s working on autopilot.

--Ian always attempts something elaborate, and it ends up as A) a decent four-star meal or B) fire.

--Barley’s entries always slap. You give him an egg, a pack of bacon, and half a box of spaghetti and he comes back with pasta carbonara. Nobody knows how he does it (there’s a rumor going around that he just throws it away and MordorDashes something when nobody is looking), but he does work with what he have and has a few sneaky cooking tricks.

--Every one of Colt’s entries is some form of queso griffin skillet, and there’s always way too much of it. He has a near-perfect record of wins by unanimous vote and Colt’s entries are lowkey anticipated all week.

--Near-perfect means he lost, once.....to the time Laurel and Barley teamed up to make a better queso griffin skillet.

--There wasn’t even any actual queso in the house, good lord.

--The boys stay quiet and inside for one (1) day and it's because they were building a LEGO castle.

--At some point Laurel changes into pyjama pants in the middle of the day. Ian asks her about it ("Mom, shouldn't you, uh, be wearing pants?") and she counters with "Why?"

--Ian leaves and comes back in pyjama pants.

--Colt has some kind of squad groupchat which he checks for a minute once in a blue moon. (There are few calls to go on, so it’s mostly, “My girlfriend’s kids liberated my hair clips and are serving a three-minute house arrest.” or “The eldest just put peanut butter on scrambled eggs, now that’s a crime.”)

--Long story short, someone offers a giant roll of butcher paper and even as he trots over to pick it up, Colt knows it’s the worst decision he’s ever made.

--It is.

--Ian and Barley get super excited when they first see it and spend days drawing or playing games on it in table-length sheets.

--Laurel gets tired of scooting past them every time she tosses something in the overflowing recycling, so she tapes them up like wallpaper with gold stars and compliments .

--Ian gets embarrassed when he first sees them, but Barley takes five seconds to pull a turnaround power move and start making a big deal about his stickers, especially in comparison to Ian’s.

--”Dearest mother! As you see here, Iandore has earned a green star for his magnificent drawing of a hippogriff--”

--”That was a hippogriff? I thought it was Mr. Nakamura, from the dry-cleaner’s. He loved it on FaeBook, even has it printed out and framed in his apartment!”

--”Ian has earned a green star for his magnificent drawing of Mr. Nakamura, but my, very similar picture of a pegasus has been acknowledged with but an orange star. Orange is the colour of defeat.”

--Absolutely, they would do faerie lights and bunnies in windows.

--Barley unsuccessfully proposes that fencing, ultimate frisbee, and archery are socially distanced sports (until you hit someone, that is), but he and Ian are kings of geocaching.

--Ian is content to read or draw by himself, but Barley is always a fairly affectionate person. He got a minor cold at some point and had a six-foot yardstick propped up in his bedroom just to lightly smack Barley with when he got too close.

--Ian reads the entirety of that one really long fantasy series (yes, that one, with the dragons) and soon becomes more or less illiterate.

--Too many conversations have opened walking in on Barley throwing sticky hands at the walls (yes, like Alex Hirsch) and asking, “Can I have some?”

--Colt is about six feet long and is infamous for asking in full Cop Manner whether people who won’t wear masks or want to see managers are “having a problem.”

--Laurel manages just to keep her sanity mostly because she is always down for a pillow fight.

#onward #ian lightfoot #barley lightfoot #headcanons #onward headcanons #laurel lightfoot #colt bronco #yayyyy now stay inside

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legolaslovely · 4 years

Text

Well Loved Hands

A/N: This was originally written for Fikiweek2020, Idiosyncrasy day, but it strayed too far from this prompt, and I didn’t feel comfortable adding this story to that day/idea. So **please read the warnings** and have some Kíli comforting Fíli. Thank you @dreams-of-wander for beta-ing (Is that what it’s called?) this for me and helping me keep it safe for readers.

Pairing: Fiki

Rated Mature

**Warnings: self-harm- nail biting (not gratuitous), injury, light gore if that’s a thing, smut, comfort, Post Quest of Erebor, everyone lives, nobody dies!

Summary: Fíli had all the ‘good kinds’ of flaws. "Too kind, too trusting, too generous for his own good." However, they all boiled down to one unhealthy and rather harmful habit. But Kíli never judged, only soothed.

ûrzudel: sun of suns

When those around him looked at Fíli, it was always with a smile and sparkling eyes of pure admiration. The mothers of Erebor would speak of his enormous heart and how they wished he would take their daughter for his wife. The fathers would puff out their chests and say with absolute certainty that Fíli would be a great king for Erebor. The children would play make believe and fight over who got to play Prince Fíli with his swords and daggers that sliced open fierce orcs in battle. If any dwarf dared to ask about the heir’s flaws, he would be booted out of Erebor faster than he could say, “Gandalf is a troublemaker.”

Those who knew Fíli better, such as those in Thorin’s Company, would roll their eyes at Erebor’s blind and undying love for the young prince. But all the while, they’d never say a bad word about Thorin’s nephew, because Fíli truly was worthy of the adoration he attracted.

“That lad only has those good kinds of flaws,” Dwalin said.

“He’s too kind-”

“Too trusting-”

“Too generous for his own good!”

Like the humble dwarf he was, Fíli shooed these ‘compliments’ away, ears flaming at the joking insults that were more like glowing praise.

Kíli took his hand under the table and ran his thumb over the back of Fíli’s fingers. Though Fíli sent a squeeze in return and tilted his head in Kíli’s direction, he wouldn’t look at his little brother. Right now, Fíli was embarrassed, and not just because of the praise from their friends. Little pin pricks of shame poked Fíli’s already scarlet cheeks because he knew I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it.

Kíli scooted closer, ignoring the rolling of his gut, and wished the two of them were alone so he could kiss Fíli well enough and hold him tight enough to make him believe that everything was okay.

***

Fíli did have all the ‘good kinds’ of flaws. But they all boiled down to one unhealthy and rather harmful habit. He bit his nails. And not in a cute or charming way that someone could ignore or fall in love with. Fíli chewed and pulled and picked at his nails until his finger tips bled. If he was anxious during meetings, stressed throughout the night, or nervous at the dinner table, he was sure to be hiding his hands from curious, condemning eyes.

But Kíli never judged. Only soothed.

That night he massaged cream into Fíli’s skin, holding back a wince, a gasp, a tsk, as Fíli let out a hiss of pain.

“I didn’t know I was doing it.”

“I know,” Kíli said.

“I thought I was doing better.”

Kíli dipped another clean, healthy finger in the cool, smooth ointment and rubbed it into Fíli’s short, sharp nails and screaming red skin.

“You are.”

Kíli couldn’t help but wonder about his brother’s habit. Was this something unique to Fíli, or did this happen to other dwarves? Perhaps humans or hobbits? Kíli had suggested going to a medic again, asking more questions, but the one visit for the cream was enough for Fíli. I can fix this myself, he’d said.

So Kíli kept his secret and helped him heal, though his goal was to stop his brother from harming himself this way. From lashing out against the label of The Golden Prince. And Kíli had his ways.

***

Being the nephew of the king meant Kíli too had to be present at most meetings involving the dwarven realms, though he’d rather be anywhere else. Spending his time working in the forge, training with the army, or even exhausting himself in the dwarfling nurseries seemed much better options than sitting, trapped in the throne or council rooms from dawn to dusk. These preferences were well known by all involved and one would think he’d run from his responsibilities at record-breaking speeds if given the chance. Some conversations, after all, were not for every ear in the council.

However, his escape meant leaving Fíli alone for an untold number of hours in an unbearably stressful environment.

So Kíli would stay. He’d wriggle his way to the head of the table, between his uncle and his brother because he wanted to learn, he wanted to be a part of what made the council great. He wanted to be right there if his brother needed him.

Though for most of the day, Fíli didn’t need him. He sat with both hands glued to either arm of his chair, calmly listening to various problems and solutions to the kingdom’s needs. Thorin asked for his opinion on multiple occasions and Fíli was brilliant. He’d learned much from his studies and apprenticing, but he also had intuition that a realm could trust with their lives. Kíli was proud.

Kíli was still proud when Thorin and his brother disagreed.

“You think that would be a good move for our people?” Thorin yelled across the table, ignoring the awkward fidgeting of the other guests sitting around it. “Have you completely forgotten…”

Kíli stopped listening to his uncle’s growling. Instead, he watched Fíli. Though he didn’t shrink from the harsh words or the harsher voice, his hands did slide into his lap from the arms of the chair. Kíli could just hear his nails clicking over Thorin’s unjust shrieking.

Secretly and sneakily, without drawing the gaze of any of the distracted council members, Kíli ran his fingers down Fíli’s forearm and pulled his hands apart before Fíli could inflict any more damage to his already torn up skin. He held Fíli tight and felt him breathe deeply, as if his head had been yanked above an unforgiving riptide.

“Uncle,” Fíli interrupted. “I know our kingdom’s history. But I have also done the research and our land has changed since we last ruled it. I am confident that…”

Kíli loosened his grasp, sure that Fíli could handle the rest of the conversation alone, but Fíli held on. He kept their hands comfortably in between them, lacing their fingers together - a small embrace that remained there for the rest of the meeting.

***

Kíli couldn’t always be by Fíli’s side. He had his own duties, his own life, and there were often full days the brothers spent apart. Most of the time, Fíli would catch him stealing a late dinner from the kitchens long after its doors had been closed to servants and others in the mountain. They’d talk over their days and stuff themselves full (to the prep cooks’ morning despair) and somehow find the strength to amble back to their chambers.

Some nights were different. Occasionally, Kíli would slowly turn the knob on their door and curse the loud creak of the hinges as he opened it, hoping such an argument wouldn’t wake his sleeping brother. But as the door slid ajar, candlelight flooded the corridor. Fíli was still awake, drenching his hands in the healing cream the medic had told him not to administer by himself.

But Kíli wouldn’t admonish, not now. He sat on the bed and took the jar away from Fíli, seamlessly replacing the broken fingers with his own.

“I can do it,” Fíli said.

“I know.”

Without another word, one brother took care of the other. Kíli massaged until the cream had soaked into the skin and disappeared, but even with his tender touch and calming presence, Fíli still sat on the bed like stone. Too proud to be disgraced, too strong to crumble, too old to need his little brother.

Kíli lifted Fíli’s hand and kissed the back of it. His kisses traveled down the wide hand, lingering over stubby, well loved fingers, gracing harsh, abused tips and nails. One kiss was granted to the palm before Kíli lifted the other hand, giving it the same treatment until Fíli let the callused inside caress Kíli’s equally rough cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Not for his pride or his distance, but for failing. Again.

Kíli replaced the lid on the jar and cast it away on the side table before wrapping his arms around Fíli’s shoulders and pulling him down to settle together on the bed. Tonight, Kíli took control of the kiss, converting it from one of apologies and promises to do better into one of acceptance and support and adoration.

He gave caresses of commitment over Fíli’s shoulders and up his bare back under his tunic. Smooth fingertips fondly followed thick curls of soft, golden fur over a heaving chest, down a flat belly and into loose trousers, while hips ground and thrust together - lacking discipline, but coursing with thirst.

Fíli hid his face in Kíli’s neck when Kíli found his erection, throbbing with arousal and defying the ugly burdens of the day. He huffed a curse as a talented thumb circled his head, digging his nose into his lover’s pulse.

“Please, Kíli, I need-”

“I know, ûrzudel.”

With every pull, Kíli pledged it - “I’ve got you, I’ll take care of you, I love you.” He felt Fíli’s tears slip from the corners of his eyes and down his skin - tears of desire, of frustration and desperation, of stress and release, of love and gratefulness for his brother.

***

Fíli had to be protected and taken care of, yes, but he was not to be coddled. Kíli learned this very early on when he was so scared and so concerned, that he was much too patronizing. Then, Fíli’s bellowing had bounced off the walls of his chambers, and the jar of cream off the stone floor as Fíli threw it far away. There was nothing wrong with him and if there was, he could fix it himself. He didn’t need his baby brother babying him.

The secret, Kíli learned, was to keep his brother’s hands busy.

Kíli would ask him to re-braid his hair. Yes, Fíli had just done it and yes, it looked fine, but there’s something pulling right there and it would bother him all day if it wasn’t fixed.

Or Kíli would plop on the bed, making it bounce so Fíli lost his page in the book he was reading. With a great, big apologetic smile, he would wriggle between Fíli’s legs and beg his older brother to rub his shoulders because it feels so good or he had a headache or he couldn’t quite reach that itchy spot by himself. Just like that, Fíli would stop reading his book about Ereborean wars and quit chewing on his already very short thumbnail.

Kíli was clever with his courting gifts. Just because we’re brothers doesn’t mean we’re not courting, which means we ought to exchange courting gifts, right? Right. This led to Fíli walking into his chambers and seeing his desk covered with impeccably wrapped boxes and bow-tied bags.

Stop staring at me and open it, earned Kíli a few balls of ribbon chucked his way. However, Fíli was soon too astonished to punish his brother any more for his disrespect. Piles of wrapping lay on the ground, but on the desk sat something perfectly combined - a perfect set.

Paints? Oil paints and watercolors and acrylics, along with parchments, books and canvases of all sizes, collections of brushes - anything he’d need. But Kíli’s favorite piece was a blending palette that would ensure this would become a two handed hobby. It was personalized with their initials etched into it and the craftsman assured him that no matter how much paint was glooped onto the ceramic tile, those marks would still be visible.

Fíli stood, embarrassed and mystified. Then rambling. You went to a craftsman? These must have cost… you didn’t have to do this, having you is enough, but this will sure keep me busy, but you knew that… you knew that.

Fíli thanked him. The night went by with little sleep but no nail biting.

As did many of their future nights together as things got better. Kíli read aloud from Fíli’s books as his brother painted by the window. His artwork that was once shoved away and hidden in old servants’ quarters in the basement, was hung with care and pride on the walls of their chambers. Kíli’s hair was occasionally braided three times a day by a willing lover. The jar of medicated ointment gathered dust on the shelf in the washroom and Fíli learned that even a future king needs his little brother.

Tagging you friends! Thanks for reading! @dreams-of-wander @nerdbirdsworld @marigoldvance

#fiki

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