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purplesauris · 3 years

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A Moonlit Winter’s Night

This one took me a bit longer to write between work and everything else, but hoo boy am I glad to have it finished. Mostly inspired by a beautiful full moon we had the other night, and spurred on by my gorgeous friends. I guess you could also count this as day 4 of @witcher-and-his-bard winter prompts!

Read on AO3 here!

“Invite him, wolf, before we do.” Lambert is well into his cup, but if he has to spend another winter with Geralt dragging his ass he will end up killing his brother and he’d rather not.

“Hmm.” Invite him? What would Jaskier, bright, warm, stunning Jaskier do in a keep alone with witchers for the four months they’re snowed in? Well, there’s only one way to find out, he supposes.

This time, when Geralt heads down the mountain he’s the last to leave. While Vesemir has never said no to the guests they show up with, something in him hesitates to bring Jaskier here. He’s opulent, almost garishly so, and revels in the finer things when he manages to drag Geralt into a town bigger than the backwater villages they frequent. So he may or may not spend some extra time making up the guest room, Vesemir watching and putting Geralt to work until he finally leaves.

He heads for town after staying that extra week, hurrying a bit more than usual down the mountainside. He doesn’t want to miss their meeting, though he’s definitely going to be late, or else he isn’t sure he'll find the bard this year. He’s a days travel away from Oxenfurt when he’s stopped by a woman on the road, begging for someone to find her husband. She claims he was dragged off into the woods, and promises ample payment, and Geralt is unable to say no. Coin can be hard to come by, especially in the spring when so many monsters are still thawing out.

He brings her back to her village and gives strict instructions to watch his horse and watch her well. If he comes back to Roach missing, he says, there will be more problems than a missing husband to contend with. With Roach guaranteed safe Geralt treks into the forest, following the path that the wife relayed to him on the way back to the village. He finds the husband without much difficulty, shacked up in an abandoned hunting cabin with two other tittering, intoxicated women. The sight of Geralt stops their celebration, and one of the women screams, throwing her half full bottle at him. It crashes against the doorframe, shattering and spewing wine against his leg. He wrinkles his nose, looking at the three before him and doing his best not to flinch when they scream at the sight of him.

“Your wife is waiting.”

“M-me wife?” He nods, crossing his arms and tipping his head back toward town. The man goes with little convincing, stumbling past and shaking like a deer.

“P-please, we didn’t- didn’t know he were married, honest.”

“Somehow I doubt that. I’m not here to meddle, just find him. You live in the same village?” One of them nods, the one who threw the wine bottle, and Geralt sighs. “Sober up a bit before heading back, or they’ll know you were together.”

“Right, course.” The witcher stands there for another awkward minute before grunting and leaving out the way he came. He takes his time going back, knowing there’ll be a story spun and not feeling particularly inclined to dispute it. Despite the obvious lack of monsters, Geralt can tell there was activity, once. He can smell an old nekker nest a quarter mile from the hut, but nothing has used it in ages. There were also animal tracks, but nothing more than a couple of wolves, if he were to guess by the lack of rabbits about.

He gets Roach and double the payment the wife had offered when he gets back, the husband thanking him profusely for saving him. His wife hangs off his side the whole time, teary eyed with relief. Geralt leaves out of the village astride Roach, intent on traveling through the night to get to Ja- Oxenfurt. The contract took up more time than he would have liked, and he wonders how long Jaskier will wait before giving up on him. Roach isn’t one to complain about the long night, and by the time they get into the city Geralt has slid from her back to lighten her burden. He finds the tavern on memory alone, and spends some time brushing and getting Roach settled in the stables before finally heading inside to hope they have a room. The sky hadn't begun to lighten yet, but dawn isn't far off, and Geralt desperately needs some sleep

He reeks of booze, but the barkeep doesn’t care and says nothing when Geralt asks for whatever ale they’ve got that isn’t made with river water. He takes his usual spot in the back, tossing a look around the bar for a bright doublet or a flash of blue eyes, but either he isn't here or he's asleep. Geralt drinks himself into a light buzz and eats whatever stew is bubbling over the fire before going to get a room upstairs for the night. He tries to spend as much time as he can in the main room, but the room is quiet for once, devoid of it’s usual rabble.

He’s halfway down the hall when he smells the faint scent of sweat, lavender and a hint of chamomile, Geralt stopping and dragging in a deep breath. He follows his nose easily, backtracking to the room right next to the stairs. The scent in the hall is stale, but if Jaskier hasn’t been out since last night that would account for it. He wants to knock, to try the knob and show himself in, but that feels like too much a breach of privacy, and Geralt is too tired to think straight anyhow. He retreats to his room, shaking his head and berating himself. Jaskier is here, that much he knows, so all he has to do is go down sometime around dinner, where Jaskier will most likely be entertaining for his room and board. The plan is a good one, he thinks, and he props his swords up by the bed and lights the hearth with a twitch of his fingers. His armor comes off in pieces, left on the table in the corner of the room, his clothes following. He crawls into bed only after examining the sheets closely. Clean, thankfully.

Geralt is stretched out, languishing in a patch of sunlight a few hours later and wondering if he should try to sleep more when he hears footsteps pounding up the stairs. Geralt frowns, hand wrapping around the dagger under his pillow as the footsteps draw closer and closer. His grip tightens, pupils constricting to ease the shift of light as he watches the door.

The knob turns in slow motion, and the scent of sun- warmth and lavender hits him like a ton of bricks. He doesn't have time to do more than sit up in bed before Jaskier is slipping into the room, ducking and looking around frantically. He knows Geralt's first instinct is to throw his knife it seems. His eyes skim over Geralt's armor and the fire burning low in the hearth before he finally spots Geralt, motionless on the bed, dagger peeking out from under his pillow. Geralt hears Jaskier's heart stutter in his chest, and the corner of his mouth quirks up.

"Geralt!" Jaskier closes the door fully, grinning and padding over as Geralt swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He's about to get up when Jaskier surges forward, throwing his arms around the witcher's neck and squeezing him tight. Geralt goes still, eyes wide, before allowing himself a moment to enjoy and take in the bard. The warmth that seeps through his doublet, and the stronger lavender scent that Geralt inhales when he buries his face in Jaskier's hair is like being home again. He wraps an arm around Jaskier, holding him against his chest and squeezing gently. They stay like that for a minute, then two, Geralt refusing to be the one that pulls away first this time. Finally Jaskier seems to have had enough, because he pulls back, eyes misty and a wry smile on his face.

"You're late."

"Surprised you're here." He replies, and honestly he is. He's more than a little late.

"Where else would I be?"

He shrugs, not sure what to say to that, and Jaskier smiles fondly. "They told me a big brute with white hair came through early this morning. I would have come in earlier, if I'd felt inclined to nurse a stab wound."

Geralt huffs a small breath at that- it's as close as he'll get to a laugh this early, or late he supposes, in the day. He's fully awake now, but his muscles are loose and the scent and sight of Jaskier close has him relaxing, leaning back on a hand. He watches Jaskier puttering around, exploring the new armor he'd had crafted on the way up the mountain and looking at the clasps closely. He glances over at the bed, blue eyes curious, and raises a brow. "Good winter?"

Geralt shrugs, pulling the dagger from under his pillow and rising to his feet. "Mhm. You?"

"It was fantastic, if I'm honest. I'll tell you more on the road." Geralt takes that as his cue to get dressed, and he gently nudges Jaskier out of the way to do so.

-*-

Something had happened to Geralt. He wasn't sure what- he couldn't see any visible change, no knock to the head or magical influence, but something had changed. Jaskier hadn't been able to help himself when he found Geralt in the tavern, hair mussed from sleep and golden eyes vulnerable to whatever emotions played through his head. He hadn't expected Geralt to reciprocate the hug, allow it even, but he'd squeezed them close together and Jaskier's heart had soared at the contact.

He wasn’t much different on the Path, though. They still bounced from town to town, taking whatever pickings there were. Geralt was stricter on the bounties though, asking for larger sums than he had before. Despite it, when they agreed and stiffed him later he didn’t raise a hand. Instead, he seemed pleased with himself, and took the coin that they did offer. He also stayed away from towns if he could absolutely help it. He isn’t sure if the long winter made Geralt more skittish or he just doesn’t want to, but Jaskier tries his best not to complain.

They spend much of the year this way, pushing hard and taking any contract they can find. Jaskier will play for the bigger villages and stay back at camp mending when he has nothing else to offer. He becomes startlingly proficient with starting a fire no matter how wet the surroundings, and his game trapping could actually carry the both of them through the empty nights where they would have had nothing before. Through all of it, Jaskier finds himself happier than he was during the winter. They talk more, or at least Jaskier gets more replies instead of dead silence. A hum here, a nod and Geralt’s pretty cat eyes locking with his to let him know he’s paying attention. If Geralt sees the way he preens under the attention he doesn’t mention it, but he doesn’t stop either. Fall has come early this year and sunk claws into the land, and all around them is the smell of decaying leaves. It's Jaskier’s favorite and least favorite time of the year.

“We’re stopping in Novigrad.” Jaskier perks up at the first words Geralt has spoken today, smiling.

“Finally decided you missed the comforts of a bed, hmm?”

Geralt hums, tugging on Roaches reins to keep her from straying toward a particularly green patch of grass. “It’s for you.”

“Me?” Geralt nods, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Jaskier thinks he spies a bit of pink to Geralt’s cheeks, but he just swings his lute up into his arms and begins to practice. He’s going to need money to spend in Novigrad, after all.

-*-

Jaskier navigates the streets of Novigrad like he was born here; with a drunklike stagger and a grin on his face. He winks and waves at any strumpet that walks by, and laughs when Geralt tells him to stop teasing them. They stop in the main square to check out the notice board, and Geralt sighs out a heavy breath at what he finds.

“Something good?” Jaskier peers over the man's shoulders, up on tiptoes and wanting to see what could possibly make Geralt excited. Because he’s almost certain that’s what that noise means, and he happens to be an expert on his witcher by now.

“Something dragging townspeople away.”

“Drowners?”

Geralt shakes his head, and leaves it at that. He goes to see the soldier who posted the report, and tells Jaskier to get comfortable at the inn. He’s expecting it to be a long hunt, based on the bodies alone, and he doesn’t expect he’ll be back for a couple of days. Jaskier doesn’t like it, but that night he plays in the Kingfisher, and makes enough coin to pay for their room three times over. As he does the next night, and the next night after that.

Jaskier is nursing a hangover in bed on morning three alone when the door to the room swings open, slamming into the wall. He groans at the noise and influx of light, but the sight of Geralt stops him short. He looks… bad, for lack of a better word.

The sight is enough to have Jaskier stumbling out of bed, closing the door behind the witcher and hurrying with sleepy fingers to get the clasps to his armor undone. Geralt’s eyes are hazy with fatigue, and he doesn’t say a word when his armor drops in pieces onto the ground. Blood stains every inch of his clothing, and Jaskier has no clue what’s his and what could be the monsters. Fear shoots through him, cold and slimy, and he shudders at the thought of Geralt out there alone. Jaskier calls for a bath and a meal, picking all of the armor up and depositing it with the rest of their stuff. His armor seems to be intact, and the only blood is on his gauntlets and greaves. Whatever soaked into his clothes must be dead.

In the time it took for Jaskier to tidy up Geralt has stripped down and tossed his clothes into the fire. He doesn’t seem to care about trying to salvage them, and Jaskier frowns at the waste. Bloody grooves slash over the scars littering Geralt’s back and chest, and he can see two neat puncture wounds scabbing over on the meat of Geralt's shoulder.

“Shit Geralt, what the devil happened? What was the contract for?” Geralt doesn’t seem to hear him, staring glassily at the fire. Jaskier’s chest tightens, a lump forming in his throat. He’s never seen Geralt like this after a hunt. The tub and food are brought up quickly, and he drags it in himself, sending the attendant away. He doesn’t need anyone else seeing a naked, wounded witcher in his room. He’s not sure what Geralt would do to anyone else who saw him this way anyway. “In the tub.”

Again, he doesn’t respond, and Jaskier walks over, taking Geralt’s hand in his. The older man pulls in a breath as if starved of air, and his pupils are tiny slits as he stares at the point of contact. “C’mon love, lets get you cleaned up.”

This way, holding onto Geralt in some capacity, is the only way that Geralt seems to be able to focus. He hisses at the first contact of the hot water, but Jaskier uses a firm hand on his shoulder to keep Geralt from escaping. He uses the best washcloth they have to gently wipe him down, dabbing at the worst of the cuts and frowning at their jagged edges. The water goes murky and then pink as he works to get the witcher as clean as he can. Once he’s satisfied he leaves Geralt to soak for a moment, digging through their packs until he finds a small round bottle, a red band wrapped around the neck. Swallow. Relief washes through him, and he hurries back to Geralt, pulling the stopper and holding it to Geralt’s lips.

“Drink.” Geralt presses his lips together, twitching away from the bottle, and Jaskier frowns. He takes hold of Geralt’s chin, holding him still, and moves the vial closer again. “Don’t be an ass, or I’ll let those cuts get infected.”

Geralt’s pupils are still miniscule, and if he didn’t know better he’d think that the man was high on something. They stare at each other, Jaskier’s grip tightening bit by bit until Geralt’s hand comes up, taking the vial and tipping it back into his mouth. Jaskier takes the now empty vial and tucks it back away, taking a deep breath to hide the shaking of his hands. Water splashes behind him, and he has to avert his eyes at the sight of Geralt standing up and getting out of the water. The potion must be working, because even though he’s sluggish, he’s moving and acting better than before. He dries off with stiff movements, and grunts before collapsing onto the bed.

“Are you going to eat or sleep?” Geralt’s stomach growls loudly at the mention of food, and Jaskier gives a shaky smile. This, he knows better. He grabs the tray of food and moves back to the bed, humming a soft tune. “Move over.”

Geralt groans but wiggles his way over, allowing Jaskier to clamber up on his knees and tuck himself next to Geralt on the bed. Jaskier drags the nightstand a bit closer and sets down the tray as Geralt settles his head in Jaskier’s lap. He isn’t sure what to do with that, but Geralt holds his hands out for something to eat and Jaskier gives him what’s easiest. Fruits first, then the cheese and bread, and by the time he’s finished all that, even Jaskier can see that sleep is dragging at him. He’s expecting Geralt to move once he’s eaten his fill, but he merely stops asking for food and closes his eyes, his breathing settling down almost immediately. Already the cuts on his chest are sealing shut and fading, and something lightens in Jaskier's chest. He knows Geralt will be okay, he came back relatively whole, but the glassy, lost look sticks in the back of Jaskier’s mind. He’s stuck here for another few hours at least while Geralt sleeps, so he settles in for the long haul and closes his eyes. He trails fingers through Geralt’s hair, messing with the soft strands and gently tugging at any knots he finds.

Jaskier’s headache is gone when he jolts awake later, snorting and blinking his eyes open. The fire in the hearth has burnt to embers, but Jaskier is pleasantly warm even without the covers over him. When he looks down at Geralt he finds golden eyes staring back, and he huffs. He’s being watched quietly, a contemplative look on Geralt’s face, and Jaskier raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Come north with me.” That’s about the last thing that Jaskier had expected, and he chokes on a breath, leaning away to cough and thump at his chest.

“Pardon? I don’t think I heard you right, because the Geralt I know would never ask that. You are Geralt, aren’t you? Not a doppler in disguise?”

The man in his lap wrinkles his nose in such a distinctly Geralt way that though he doesn’t say it, Jaskier believes him already. “No. The potion would have killed me.”

“Ah, so has a grievous head wound occurred?”

“I’m serious.” Jaskier laughs, shaking his head in disbelief, but Geralt is still looking at him with that same contemplative look. “You don’t have to.”

“Of course I’m going. When do we leave?”

“Soon.”

-*-

Soon ends up being by the weeks end, once Geralt is sure Jaskier has warm enough clothes. Jaskier had objected at first; he’s weathered many a winter with what he has, but Geralt insists. Jaskier isn’t sure how they’re going to be able to pay for all of the clothes Geralt tells the tailor they need, but Geralt pays down to the last crown without complaint and without letting Jaskier help. Jaskier has a sneaking suspicion that all Geralt’s higher bounties had been an excuse to get the original sum without complaint. Once they get all they need and load Roach up, there’s nothing stopping them from heading out of Novigrad and toward Kaedwen.

Jaskier has never been this far north, though he’d always dreamt of going to Zerrikania or seeing the valley of Dol Blathanna for himself. He entertains himself with thoughts of far off lands while they trek through the forest, and eventually, rising toward the mountain peaks in the distance. Geralt had warned him before they left that the path up the mountain was dangerous, and that if Jaskier didn’t listen to him he was unlikely to survive the journey up, let alone back down. It wasn’t hard at first, though- it was as if they were on their way to another town for a contract. He’d kept telling himself that even as the terrain got rougher and the air biting cold.

They’re stopped for the night, huddled around a fire that Jaskier hasn’t left since Geralt made it when he speaks. He hasn’t talked much since they got well into the mountains, finding he needed his breath more than they needed conversation.

“I feel as though I’m going to shake my way off the mountain. How do you stand this- this cold?”

“Told you.”

“Yes, well, remind me never to doubt you again about anything weather related. When will it snow again, by the way?”

Geralt pauses then, looking up toward the sky and sniffing before replying in perfect deadpan. “Two hours.”

Jaskier smiles fondly, rolling his eyes and going to tuck himself away in his bedroll for the night. He doesn’t give Geralt the satisfaction of a reaction when snow begins to fall almost exactly two hours later.

-*-

When they finally crest the peak and Kaer Morhen comes into view, Jaskier thought he couldn’t get anymore out of breath. The sight of the keep nestled with its back against the mountain steals whatever air is left in his lungs, and he has to pause to take it all in. Parts of the outer wall are crumbling and he can see an entire side of the keep has collapsed in, but it cuts an imposing figure all the same. Almost more so for what Jaskier can see it’s survived. Like Geralt, the keep has seen more than most would ever know, and carries the battle scars to prove it.

“It’s… breathtaking.” He admits, looking back to find Geralt watching him, a small smile on his face. He doesn’t have any words to truly describe how he feels right now, but Geralt has never needed words, and he can see the understanding in the witcher’s eyes. He’s just as affected by the sight of his home, and he can’t imagine how homesick Geralt must feel climbing the path up to the mountain, or the relief at finally being here. “C’mon Geralt, let’s go see your home.”

Geralt nods, and they descend into the valley, Geralt letting Jaskier run a few paces ahead, breath puffing out ahead of him and ears red from the cold. He keeps a close eye out for any monsters that Vesemir hasn’t had a chance to come out and get, but the way to the entrance is blissfully clear. The gates are open when they finally make it, and two figures stand, arms crossed with twin swords on their backs. Jaskier slows his pace, suddenly nervous at the thought of meeting Geralt’s family. He’s never been to Geralt’s home or met his family, and suddenly he finds himself doing both. He smoothes a hand over his hair, hoping it isn’t too messy, and straightens his cloak a bit.

“I look okay, don’t I?” He looks toward Geralt for an answer, but a slightly higher voice calls out over the distance.

“Hurry it up you slow bastard! I’m freezing my ass off over here.” He hears Geralt growl and mutter something under his breath, but Jaskier raises a hand and waves to the two witchers waiting for them.

“Who do we have here? A paramour of yours?” Jaskier doesn't react to the phrasing, instead glancing to see how Geralt will react. He tries not to let his heart hurt over the fact that Geralt would never think that way.

“You know who he is.” Geralt grits out, glaring at the witcher before him. He’s a bit shorter than the others, hairline receded further back and nose hooked, broken at least twice. Despite that, he’s not bad to look at, and Jaskier mentally makes a note to try and meet an ugly witcher. Jaskier looks between the two obviously feuding witchers, noting the tension and seeking some way to break it. The other witcher though, stands there peacefully, as if he were used to this as an everyday occurrence. He’s handsome, though Jaskier is beginning to think all witchers are. Three wicked scars slash down the right side of his face, and that tickles at his memory. Jaskier stops for a moment, frowning, before a grin splits his face and he reaches out to take the man by the arms. He holds him still, looking him over, and laughs. Both Geralt and the unnamed witcher go still, watching the casual touch with barely concealed interest.

“Eskel! I should have known you were a wolf! I must have been drunker than I thought that night!” Eskel smiles, the scars bisecting his lips tugging with the movement, and draws Jaskier into a tight hug. It only lasts a moment, but Jaskier is rosy cheeked and bright eyed with excitement. Something twists inside Geralt at the sight, and he clenches his teeth together to keep from saying anything stupid.

“Good to see you again, Jaskier. The academy treating you alright?”

“Well they weren’t too happy to lose a professor for the winter, I can tell you that. Oh! Geralt, why didn’t you tell me Eskel was your brother?” Jaskier turns those blue eyes on him, and Geralt just shrugs, unsure of what to say.

“You didn’t tell him?” Jaskier looks over at the other man, and raises a brow when Geralt snarls loudly. “Did he tell you about me at least?”

Jaskier looks the third man up and down once, glances toward Geralt, and then shakes his head. “Must not have been important.”

“Not been- Oh, I like this one Geralt. I’m hurt you haven’t brought him sooner.”

“Lambert.” Geralt’s voice is full of warning, but Lambert gives a tooth filled grin and motions for them to actually come into the keep.

“Let’s stop standing around, your bard has a tour to get to and Vesemir has a thousand bullshit tasks for us to get done. I tell you, the old man had a list written down before I even stepped my ass into the courtyard.”

Lambert takes off at a brisk pace, seeming more inclined to get out of the cold than chat anymore, and everyone else follows him. They pass through the training grounds first, leaving Roach at the stable, and Jaskier doesn't object when his arms are filled with a pack or two. He just shoulders the weight and trails along behind, eyes wide and flying to take in every detail he can. Geralt lingers behind a bit, occasionally pointing out a small detail Jaskier hadn't noticed yet, warmth blooming in his chest at the smile Jaskier gives in return.

"Is he always like that?" Jaskier leans over to whisper, eyeing the back of the grumpy witcher's head.

"Wait until Vesemir gets him going." Jaskier snickers, bumping their shoulders together lightly. His cheeks are red from the cold, and he's glad for the ability to hide his blush for once.

Jaskier wants to stop and look at everything as they head for the keep, but Geralt takes him gently by the elbow to keep him going. He would fight the grip, but Geralt reassures him he'll have plenty of time to explore while they're snowed in. For now, Geralt is obviously itching to get settled and see his brothers. So Jaskier tells himself to be patient, and doesn't voice any objections to their pace. He's going to have plenty of time to overturn every stone. Lambert and Eskel break off when they finally step inside the keep, giving Geralt a look before making a beeline for where a round of Gwent seems to have been abandoned.

"How did they know to stop and come out?" He doesn't realize he's voiced it aloud until Geralt answers, shrugging and heading for the far side of the room.

"Witcher senses."

"They can't be that good."

"They are!" Lambert calls after them, voice resounding through the room and bouncing off the walls. Jaskier scowls, throwing a dirty look toward the eavesdropping witcher before retreating into the next room. Geralt leads them up to where the guest bedroom is, pausing on the landing before the door. For the first time in years, Jaskier thinks that Geralt looks nervous.

“Is this mine?” He asks softly, not wanting to spook him but eager to look around. Geralt blinks a couple of times, swallows, and then nods. The sight of Geralt nervous is rather endearing, and Jaskier falls for him a bit harder. “Well, show me in, dear witcher.”

Geralt twists the knob and pushes the door open, stepping inside and out of the way. Jaskier follows behind him, stopping in the doorway as he sweeps the room with a first cursory glance. It’s slow, but Jaskier’s bright eyes soften, and a smile curls at the corners of his lips. A large fireplace is tucked against the far wall, near it a bed that clearly hasn’t been touched in many, many years. The blankets seem a bit threadbare, but Jaskier bets they’re warm, and he could go for a good nap right now, if he’s honest. Old velvet, deep red and trimmed in gold hangs from the ceiling along the walls, making the room seem warmer than it actually is. The middle of the room is dominated by a fur carpet, and a wooden table is shoved into one corner, two stools tucked underneath.

“It isn’t much.” Geralt mumbles, growing more and more restless the longer Jaskier stands and stares. Jaskier takes a couple more steps in, dumping his things on the bed and turning to Geralt. There are tears in his eyes, sticking to his lashes and slipping down his cheeks in shimmering streaks. Geralt reaches up to brush them away without a thought, thumb sweeping gently across sun kissed skin. “Jask-”

“It’s perfect.” Jaskier leans into Geralt's touch, reaching up to cradle his hand as he places a gentle kiss onto the calloused palm. Geralt’s whole hand tingles pleasantly at the contact, and he takes a step closer as Jaskier closes his eyes, sniffling softly. “You did all this for me?”

“You deserve it. To be comfortable. I know we live a little- rough.” He isn’t sure what else to say, is choking on the warmth and yearning and love rising in his chest. Jaskier’s eyes are made even more brilliant by his tears when he opens them again, and Geralt loses himself in them. They’re inches apart now, and Geralt’s nose fills with the scent of cold, lavender and that edge of chamomile. Jaskier looks at him, searching for something, and Geralt is about to do something very stupid when Jaskier does it first. He leans up, closing the space between them and gently pressing a warm kiss to Geralt’s lips. His touch is featherlight, like Geralt could break at any moment, and in a way he does. A dam fractures in his chest at the contact, and Geralt uses the hand still cradling Jaskier’s cheek to guide him closer as feelings he’d hidden deep away rage through him.

Their lips press together harder, less hesitant, and Jaskier’s hands come up to curl in the edges of Geralt’s cloak. He presses himself up against Geralt, drawing him closer as their breath mingles and Geralt’s fingers tangle in his hair. Jaskier hardly knows where he begins and Geralt ends, and it isn’t until they hear a sharp whistle and an “Atta boy!” from the bottom of the steps that they break apart. Jaskier is breathing hard, and he laughs when Geralt growls, glaring toward the stairs. Jaskier tugs lightly on the cloak in his hands, and Geralt’s attention is drawn back as easily as that, golden eyes soft in the low light coming from the hall.

“You know, if I’d known this would happen when you brought me to visit, I would have insisted years ago.”

“Years?” Geralt hardly recognizes his own voice, rough and out of breath, and he leans to kiss the smile from Jaskier’s lips on instinct alone. Jaskier melts into the kiss, leaning heavily against Geralt. He slides his hands over Geralt's chest before pulling back and bumping his nose against Geralt's.

“You’re very dense, when you want to be. I don’t normally nurse witchers back to health for fun, you know. Blood isn’t my strong suit, nor are monster guts. I’m not very inclined to write dozens of songs about them just because I like fame either, though the stories do make good coin.” Jaskier pauses, smiling when he feels a rumble vibrate under his hands. He goes on tiptoes, placing a soft kiss on the corner of Geralt’s mouth in apology. “The fame is nice, I’ll admit. It makes it easier to travel with you, to provide something, even if it’s only songs that drive you mad.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier kisses him again, chuckling softly against his lips and just enjoying being close.

“I couldn’t agree more. Now, I know you’re eager to visit with your brothers, so go see them.” Geralt begins to protest, brow scrunching, but Jaskier silences him with a firm, hot kiss, and Geralt finds he’s rather enjoying being silenced like this. “You get to see me all year. They don’t. I’ve got some unpacking to do, and a nap to take. Come up later, if you’d like?”

“Mhm.” Though he’s still reluctant, he does as Jaskier asks, retreating back down the stairs with silent steps. Jaskier closes the door behind him and gets a fire roaring in the hearth, grinning like a fool. His whole body tingles, and he traces his lips with trembling fingers. He’s sure he’s going to wake up any minute, no matter how the cold pinches at his toes to tell him he’s really here. In Kaer Morhen, with a witcher who’s spent the better part of this year earning enough coin just to bring him home to his family.

Jaskier putters around unpacking as he told Geralt he was going to, and once the room has warmed sufficiently he sheds his outerwear. The velvet helps trap the heat in surprisingly well, and when he peeks behind them he finds windows. The fur is soft under his feet as he digs through their packs, trying to find something to wear to nap in. Near the bottom of the pack is a white shirt, something Jaskier has never seen Geralt wear, but it’s soft and warm and smells like him. He slips it on without a second thought, swimming in the fabric, and then tucks himself into the bed for a nap.

He’s woken up by the door clicking shut a little while later. There’s only one person he thinks that would come in without knocking, but for now he keeps his eyes shut and snuggles a bit deeper under the covers. He waits until he hears the soft clink of metal to open his eyes, and watches lazily as Geralt methodically strips out of his armor. His back is to the bed, and Jaskier enjoys the view more than he was allowed to before. When Geralt tugs his shirt over his head and glances over his shoulder, Jaskier doesn’t bother pretending to be bashful. His gaze is hungry as it trails over pale skin before meeting Geralt’s eyes, the man quirking a brow. Jaskier merely winks in response, warmth blooming in his chest at the soft chuckle he earns.

“How are your brothers?”

“Nosy.” Jaskier rolls onto his back as his witcher pads over, sitting on the side of the bed and leaning down to kiss him softly. Jaskier reaches a hand up to thread his fingers in Geralt’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp and tasting the sigh that brushes against his lips. Geralt shifts, turning himself so he isn’t quite so contorted, and Jaskier moves with him, sitting up and letting the blankets pool in his lap. Geralt uses a hand to steady Jaskier, fingers splaying against his ribs before they bunch in the fabric of Jaskier’s shirt. Jaskier hears Geralt’s breath stutter and catch in his throat, and the kiss moves from soft and sweet to heavy and hot. Geralt laps at his lips, nipping gently until Jaskier opens up. He’s swept away by the way that Geralt is able to use his tongue, and heat pools low in his belly at the implications of it.

Jaskier’s side cramps with the way they’re sitting after a few blissful minutes, and he pushes the blankets back, breaking the kiss for a second to clamber into Geralt’s lap. Geralt scoots himself back a little bit, plants his feet better and grabs at Jaskier’s shirt again, yanking him close. Geralt leans up, trying to kiss him, but Jaskier smiles, taking a fistful of Geralt’s hair and tugging. The soft whine that he gets in response goes right to his groin, and he mouths at the sensitive skin just under Geralt’s jaw. When he nips at the skin, teases at leaving a mark Geralt’s whines again, arching his neck and pressing up into the touch. Jaskier can’t deny Geralt when he asks so nicely, and he kisses his way to a nice spot before digging his teeth in. His grip tightens in Geralt’s hair when Geralt’s hips buck, keeping himself from being displaced. The witcher keens needily underneath him, and Jaskier hums against his skin. Jaskier bites a bit harder before releasing and sucking at the mark, leaning back to admire his work. Witcher’s skin is hard to mark, but he's pretty proud of himself at the mark that he’s made. He leans down to add a couple more, enjoying the sounds that he coaxes out with each sharp point of pressure.

Bruises bloom in a pretty arc of teeth marks, darkest purple in the middle and fading toward a lighter pink at the edges along the side of Geralt’s neck. Geralt is panting, hands clenching and unclenching against Jaskier’s sides, and Jaskier brushes his thumb lightly over one of the marks. Geralt’s eyelids flutter at the feeling, and Jaskier shudders at the rush of power it brings him to see Geralt this way.

“What got you so worked up, love? Hmm?” Jaskier keeps constant contact with Geralt in some way, sitting in his lap and rolling his hips lazily as the man comes back to him slowly. He’s sure Geralt is back when he blinks rapidly, hands grabbing onto him and holding him still. Geralt rolls his neck, stretching to kiss Jaskier before answering.

“The shirt.”

“Oh?” Jaskier purrs, rolling his hips down until Geralt tightens his grip again and presses him down firmly. Once Jaskier stops trying to move Geralt’s hands wander, skimming over Jaskier’s thighs and back up, hands sliding under Jaskier's shirt. Geralt's fingers tickle at the soft skin over Jaskier’s ribs before he brushes over one of Jaskier's nipples with the pad of his thumb. The younger man hums at the attention, draping his arms over Geralt’s shoulders and kissing the shell of his ear. “What about the shirt, Geralt?”

“S’mine.” Jaskier hums in encouragement, and Geralt shivers under him. “Makes you smell like me.”

“And you like that, don’t you? That all the others here know I’m yours?” The answering growl and roll of Geralt’s hips is all Jaskier needs, and he kisses just under Geralt’s ear, sucking at the sensitive skin until a faint mark blooms. “Geralt?”

“Mmm?” Geralt noses at Jaskier’s hair, breathing in softly as his hands wander once more, smoothing down Jaskier’s thighs. He isn’t wearing pants, and his smallclothes don’t hide anything and Geralt aches to touch.

“Can I- can I touch?” Geralt grinds his hips up, shuddering when Jaskier gasps so close to his ear, and Geralt does it again just to hear Jaskier make that same sweet sound.

“Only if I can.” Jaskier surges forward to kiss him then, whispering ‘deal’ against his lips as he fumbles to open the fly of Geralt’s pants. Geralt falls back against the bed, taking Jaskier with him and never letting him stray too far.

-*-

When Jaskier wakes up that next morning, he’s sore in ways he hasn’t been in months, and sated in a happy, boneless kind of way. Geralt is already up, no surprise there, and Jaskier groans, sitting up to get dressed. Geralt slips the shirt from last night on over his head, tugging his hair out of the collar and tucking the ends into his pants. It’s a bit rumpled, but Jaskier helps fix it as best he can while dressing himself for the day. He knows not to doubt how cold it is anymore, and dresses warmer than he would normally. Geralt waits patiently by the door, tying his hair back and holding a hand out to Jaskier once he’s got his boots on.

“Why are we up this early again?”

“Chores.”

“Right, right.” Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand and lets himself be guided, yawning and rubbing at his eyes down the stairs. He trusts Geralt enough not to let him fall, and together the two of them pad into the main hall. No one else seems to be around other than Eskel, toiling away in the kitchen, and though he eyes the bruises blooming along Geralt’s throat, he doesn’t comment.

“Vesemir’s waiting for you outside. Jaskier, you’re with me.”

“See you at breakfast.” Geralt presses a kiss into Jaskier’s hair before heading outside, leaving the bard and the other witcher alone. Jaskier wanders over, wringing his hands, and Eskel nods toward the space next to him.

“Roll up your sleeves, we’ve got bread to make.”

“Bread?” Jaskier does as he’s told though, and spends the better part of an hour learning the basics of doughworking from Eskel. Once they’ve got the bread in what Jaskier assumes is a huge version of a stereotypical stone oven Eskel has him wipe up and begin to cut up the vegetables they'll need for the day. Jaskier falls into the rhythm of work easily, moving past Eskel without crashing into him and tossing vegetables into a pot set to simmer over the fire until lunchtime. He even takes the time to tidy the kitchen up a bit until Lambert and Geralt come inside, shoving each other and laughing on their way to get food. Jaskier watches them fondly, snapping a spoon across Lambert’s knuckles when he tries to nose around the stew and shooing him away. Eskel gives him a proud smile and winks, heading off with his brothers to sit down and eat.

Jaskier leans against the counter watching them for a moment, and jumps when he hears footsteps come up next to him. The witcher next to him has to be Vesemir, based on the grey hair and fact that the only other witchers here are all at the table in front of him.

“So, you’re the bard he kept talking about, hmm?”

“And you’re Vesemir, his father?” Vesemir nods, arms crossed across his chest.

“Tomorrow morning, get up a bit earlier. The chickens need tending if we’re going to have enough meat and eggs for the winter.”

“Yes sir.” Jaskier is sincere, looking toward the witcher to find Vesemir looking back. He doesn’t feel trapped like he usually would; instead he finds it’s more like Vesemir is reading him, and hasn’t found anything particularly horrible yet.

“Hey bard! Eat before everything gets cold.”

“Coming!” Jaskier turns to Vesemir to ask if he’s going to eat as well, but the older witcher has disappeared, and Jaskier blinks in confusion before grabbing himself a plate and going to join the others at the table. He settles himself on the bench next to Geralt and digs into his food, enjoying the fluffiness of the eggs and the lovely crust on the bread from yesterday. Jaskier is halfway through his plate when a sly look comes over Lambert’s face.

“So,” he begins, and Jaskier looks up. Lambert uses his fork to gesture toward Geralt, raising a brow. “Was that you?”

“Lambert.” Geralt starts, but Jaskier holds up a hand and Geralt goes blissfully quiet.

“I would take care, Lambert.”

“What, is it crime to wonder who made my brother's neck look like an ekimmara's amateur work?”

“Unless I deign to tell you, I’d prefer if you keep your thoughts to yourself.” Jaskier’s eyes narrow minutely, and Eskel looks between the two of them. They’re two untested forces, and no one is sure who’s going to break first.

“What, can’t handle a few hard questions? If so, I’m surprised you made it up the mountain.” Jaskier stands up, pushing the table up against Lambert, and in spectacular form, punches him directly in the nose. Lambert goes crashing off of the chair and takes the table with him, swearing. Geralt stares, wide eyed at Jaskier with his fork still poised for a bite. Eskel had picked his plate up well before, and he's clutching it in mute shock as Lambert rages on the floor. He sits up, gripping his nose and shoving the table off of himself with the other hand. Eskel looks between his brother, then the bard, then back to his brother, and begins to laugh. Louder and louder until he’s doubled over trying desperately to pull in breaths between laughing at Lambert and telling him he finally got what he deserved.

Jaskier shakes his hand out as Eskel laughs, blood staining his skin red. He stoops down and plucks a napkin from the table, using it to dab at his knuckles with mechanical indifference. There’s a messy crunch as Lambert rights his nose, and Eskel finally stops laughing long enough to help him off the floor. Geralt has abandoned his fork by now and comes to gently take the napkin from him, inspecting the skin carefully. Most of the blood seems to be Lambert's, but Jaskier has split two of his knuckles, and the skin around them is already bruising.

Geralt wipes away the blood best he can and glances up at Jaskier when he flinches. "Okay?"

"Fine." Jaskier's voice is light, almost forcefully so, but he smiles wistfully when Geralt gently kisses the first knuckle, then the second. "You know that isn't sanitary."

"No, ancient magic. Mothers have used it for centuries." This makes Jaskier smile, genuine this time, and he grips Geralt's fingers weakly. Jaskier turns to Lambert, watching as he presses a napkin to his nose to staunch the rest of the bleeding. Geralt is ready to get between them if Lambert decides to be spiteful, but instead he sees something like respect in Lambert's eyes.

"You're alright, bard. You're alright. Never had a human knock me flat."

"Pray you don't see me angrier." Jaskier replies with deadly seriousness. This time it's apprehension that shines in Lambert's eyes, and he gives a curt nod.

While Geralt goes to get something for Jaskier's knuckles the bard helps right the table, picking up cups and plates off the floor. It's a good thing they don't seem fond of fine cutlery, or Jaskier would be picking shards of ceramic off the floor. Instead all he has to do is use another napkin to gather the eggs and bread off the floor and dispose of it. Lambert helps once his nose has stopped bleeding, and waves Jaskier off when Geralt comes back to finish tending to him.

Jaskier follows Geralt a few steps away from the table, hopping to sit on the tabletop. Geralt nudges at his knee and steps easily between Jaskier's legs, taking hold of his hand again to look at it.

"In the hall, Geralt? You could at least wait until they'd left." The joke is weak but Geralt takes pity on him and chuckles, shaking his head.

"I'm sure they know to respect your privacy now." Jaskier hmms at that, hissing when Geralt presses a thumb into the bones of his hand. They shift uncomfortably, but nothing moves out of place and Geralt seems pleased with that. Once he's certain Jaskier hasn't broken anything he smears a sharp, pungent salve over Jaskier's knuckles and uses a bit of cloth to bandage his hand. "Good as new. No lute today."

Jaskier gasps, affronted, and presses his injured hand to his chest. "Whatever shall I do without it? How else am I to write my newest ballad? 'The man who punched the Prick'?"

Geralt wrinkles his nose, and Jaskier nods sagely. "You're right, the name could use some work. Back to the drawing board I suppose."

"Whatever you do, it'll have to be left handed." Jaskier winks, raising a brow, and Geralt snorts. He doesn't say it, but he gives Jaskier a look that says later.

-*-

Jaskier fits himself into their routine without much of a fuss after that; he gets up to tend the livestock with Vesemir long before anyone else, and joins Eskel in the kitchen preparing the day's meals after he's done. After breakfast the boys head for the training grounds while Jaskier makes for the library where he pours over tomes no one has seen in decades and gathers information for his songs. Vesemir joins him when they're finished with training, and Jaskier spends an hour picking his brain before lunch. Despite his gruff exterior, Vesemir seems glad to have someone to talk to who doesn't try to piss him off. Lunch is a short affair, just a quick meal before everyone branches off to finish up final chores and take some time for themselves. Jaskier spends his time after lunch in the woods surrounding the keep, setting out traps for the smaller game and keeping Geralt close for anything bigger. Dinner is the longest affair of the night, where the ale is broken out and Lambert insists on at least three songs. The first time Jaskier had tried to sing Toss A Coin he'd been met by three golden glares, and hasn't touched the song since. That was fine though, because Jaskier had plenty to sing about and more that no one had ever heard yet.

It’s nearing the end of their first month that the keep seems to get busier than ever. The snow has fallen thick and there’s no more going out into the forest, so Jaskier spends most of his days stuck inside. The witchers still train despite the biting cold, and Jaskier insists on helping them clear the training grounds of snow when he has time. None of them will let him stay outside for more than an hour, not when he shakes the way he does even with three or four layers on. The other witchers seem to grow more distant too, as if the end of the month meant something that Jaskier wasn’t privy to.

They’re in bed after retiring early from dinner, Jaskier in one of Geralt’s shirts when Geralt tugs him a bit closer and tucks his nose into Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier hums softly, never glancing up from his book but reaching to take Geralt’s hand in his.

“Hmm?” Neither of them need many words anymore, and Jaskier doesn’t want to break the cozy atmosphere they have by talking. Geralt presses a kiss against his temple, and Jaskier smiles. Geralt doesn’t seem to want to say anything either, he just seems to want to hold Jaskier a bit closer and smell his hair. They sit that way for a little while until Geralt sighs, tugging on his shirt and whining softly. Jaskier turns, kissing Geralt gently before going back to his book, but that doesn’t seem to sate him this time. He whines again, and Jaskier finally closes his book and tucks in on the floor under the bed. “Bed time?”

Geralt nods, and Jaskier slides down further under the covers, bundling Geralt into his arms and closing his eyes. Geralt tucks his head under Jaskier’s chin, nose pressed against his collar bone, and throws an arm over Jaskier’s stomach. The fire in the hearth is still roaring merrily, but the light isn’t enough to bother either of them and Jaskier drifts off to sleep warm and cozy.

A breeze rustles Jaskier’s hair later that night and he shivers, huddling under his covers to try and block out the cold. He’s almost drifted off to sleep again when he realizes there shouldn’t be a breeze at all, and he sits up in bed. Moonlight floods his room, washing out the color of the velvet and casting everything in stark contrast. The bed next to him is empty, the sheets cold, and Jaskier frowns. Where in the devil could Geralt have gone?

The floor is icy when he slips out of bed, and he tosses a few more logs on the dying embers of their fire and hurries to yank on pants. He shoves his feet into his boots without socks and grabs whichever cloak is closest, which happens to be his. He heads out of his room with the singular task of finding where Geralt has gone, wrapping his cloak tight around him and shuffling down the steps. Geralt’s room a floor below his is empty, even more barren than he would have expected, so Jaskier carries on. He’s never been up this late in the night, and the keep is eerily silent without any arguing witchers or the crackle of a fire. He pops his head into the kitchen, thinking Geralt, with his bottomless stomach might have wanted a snack, but again he finds the room empty.

He’s about to head up to the library when he hears wood splintering and cracking outside, and Jaskier is heading for the huge doors of the keep without a second thought. He wouldn’t be cutting wood would he? The barn out back is full up, and besides, why would he do it so late? Jaskier follows where he thinks the sound came from and trudges through a couple of inches of snow to the courtyard. He hears the sound again, and this time he can tell it’s coming from the training yard. He doesn’t bother being quiet, breaths puffing out in front of him as he pulls in sharp, jagged breaths. He didn’t dress to be outside long, if at all, and he hurries to the training grounds so he can get Geralt to come back to bed.

A snarl ripples through the air as Jaskier gets closer, and he stops at the low wall of the walkway to peer over the edge. He looks just in time to see Geralt toss both Eskel and Lambert off of him, the two witchers flying through the air and landing nimbly in the snow. They charge back at him, and Geralt sweeps Lambert’s feet from under him, slamming the palm of his hand against Eskel’s chest. Eskel goes down wheezing, and Jaskier is running before he can think about what the hell is going on. He slips and slides down the path and rounds the corner into the training yard, staring in open mouthed horror as Lambert sends Geralt crashing into the scaffolding on the far side of the yard. Wood groans and cracks under Geralt’s weight, and judging by the damage it isn’t the first time he’s been tossed that way either.

“Melitele's tits, stop.” His voice is shrill in the cold air and he’s beginning to lose feeling in his toes as he stands ankle deep in the snow. “What the hell are you guys doing out here?”

Three pairs of cat eyes lock on him at once and he gets three different kinds of growls. Lambert starts toward him, snarling when Eskel grabs his shoulder and digs his fingers in. Eskel hasn’t looked away from him, but his voice is rough and full of barely concealed rage. “Go inside.”

“What are you guys doing out here? Beating each other in the middle of the night? For what?”

“Jaskier, you don’t have much time. Go. Inside.” Eskel’s voice is strange, strangled and blurry. The witcher glances behind him, toward the sky, and Jaskier glances back too. The moon is huge and yellow and so, so impossibly close this high in the mountains. The sight would be mesmerizing if it weren’t for the snarl and feeling of something warm and very, very riled up emanating behind him. He swallows, heart fluttering in his chest, and turns around slowly to find Geralt inches from him. Jaskier relaxes a bit, smiling, and jumps when Geralt’s hand comes up and grabs his arm tightly.

His fingertips dig in mercilessly and he gasps in pain, turning and placing a hand against Geralt’s chest. “Geralt, let me go.”

“You’re supposed to be asleep.” He grits out, grip loosening only marginally. “Inside.”

“Not without you.” Geralt snarls, shaking his head, and finally releases his grip.

“You don’t want me with you. Not tonight.”

“I do. Geralt, tell me what’s going on. Please.” His voice is pitifully soft in his own ears, and Geralt lets out a sharp breath before jerking his head toward the keep.

“Geralt.” Eskel’s voice is sharp, afraid, and Jaskier isn’t sure why. Lambert is shaking under Eskel’s grip, and Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand, leading him out of the snow and back toward the keep. Well, it looks like he’s leading, but he has a feeling Geralt is really herding him back inside instead. Jaskier grips Geralt’s hand tight, afraid that if he lets go Geralt is going to bolt back outside and he won’t get his answers. He shivers as he makes his way back upstairs, slipping into his room and shutting the door as quickly as he can to keep in the heat from the fire. Geralt stands resolutely by the door, back rigid and fists clenched. Jaskier tosses another log on to keep the fire going strong and unclasps his cloak, tossing it on the table.

“Geralt, what’s going on? I woke up alone and- and I’m not sure what I did or what’s happening to you but-” His voice wobbles, betraying him, and he turns around to see Geralt trembling. Jaskier pads closer, taking one of Geralt’s hands and kissing his knuckles one by one. He can feel the fine tremor that goes up Geralt’s arm at the contact. “Talk to me, please. Don’t lock me out.”

“It’s a witcher thing. We- monsters are strongest during a full moon- but- so are we. Energy has to go- somewhere.”

“So this happens every month? Is that why you always took longer contracts around the full moon?”

“Yes. Don’t wanna- hurt you.” Jaskier huffs, stepping a bit closer. Geralt takes a step back, Jaskier following, and he growls when his back hits the wall. “Jaskier, don’t-”

“You won’t hurt me. Not in any way that can’t be fixed, or any way that I would mind.” Jaskier rises up on his toes, brushing his lips against Geralt’s gingerly. He presses himself bodily against the older man, and Geralt’s hands come up to grab at his sides. Geralt whines, shaking, and Jaskier’s grin is serpentine. “You said the energy has to go somewhere, right? Well, I happen to know a couple of ways to get rid of energy without having to be in the cold.”

Geralt groans then, breathing out sharply and drawing Jaskier tighter against him. Jaskier captures his lips in a firm kiss, slipping a hand up into Geralt’s hair to tangle his fingers in the silver strands. Geralt leans forward, away from the wall, and Jaskier bends with him. “Jask, if I-”

“You won’t.” He whispers, and Geralt can feel his smile as Jaskier kisses him briefly. “And if you do, you’ll be back out in the cold for the night. Deal?”

Geralt nods, heat roiling under his skin and hands grabbing roughly at Jaskier. They’re about as close as they can be, but Geralt presses him closer anyway and catches his lips in a filthy, heated kiss. Jaskier moans into the kiss and laps into Geralt’s mouth, tasting his breath and jolting at what he finds. He isn’t sure whether it’s the moon or Geralt, but his fangs are long and sharp, and the way Eskel’s voice sounded garbled makes more sense now. It doesn’t deter Jaskier in the slightest, and heat licks down his spine at the thought of those teeth leaving pretty marks. Jaskier breaks away to kiss down the length of Geralt’s jaw, nipping gently.

Geralt moans suddenly, fingers digging into Jaskier’s sides as Jaskier kisses his neck, palming him through his pants and using his other hand to pin Geralt’s hips back. His head tips back against the wall, baring his neck, and Jaskier spends some time leaving small marks. Deft fingers tug at the ties of Geralt’s pants, and the older man jolts when Jaskier takes him in hand, tugging him out of his pants. He almost complains that his fingers are cold, but the temperature difference between them does something funny to his stomach, and he isn’t sure he wants Jaskier to stop touching him.

Jaskier huffs hotly against his neck, stroking him slowly and pressing his thumb against the head. He listens to every whine and twitch of Geralt’s hips, adjusting his grip and speed until Geralt is writhing back against the wall, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. One of Geralt’s hands lets go of Jaskier and he cups the bard's cheek, tipping his head up and kissing him desperately. The kiss is messy, but neither of them care, Geralt groaning into Jaskier’s mouth when Jaskier pulls back too soon. Jaskier’s eyes are dark, the pupil swallowing most of his iris, and he turns his head, nipping at Geralt’s thumb and smirking when Geralt twitches in his hand. “Be good.”

Geralt isn’t sure what in the hell he’s doing to be bad, but then Jaskier is sinking to his knees in front of him and all his breath leaves him at once. Jaskier glances up, gauging his reaction, and leans forward to place a wet, openmouthed kiss on the side of Geralt’s cock. He doesn’t stop there, humming and licking a long strip up the underside before taking the head into his mouth. Geralt’s hips twitch forward and Jaskier raises an eyebrow, lapping at the slit in what Geralt supposes is reprimand. He only whimpers in response, mind going blank when Jaskier hums, taking him further into his mouth. He bobs his head achingly slow, enjoying the weight of Geralt’s cock in his mouth and his taste on his tongue. Jaskier can feel his jaw complaining already, but he welcomes the soreness. They’d done a lot in the month that they’d been here, but Jaskier seems particularly fond of being on his knees whenever he can.

Geralt buries his fingers in Jaskier’s hair as he pushes deep but stops short of all the way, eyelids fluttering at the feeling. Jaskier’s mouth is so incredibly wet and warm around him, and he’s unable to help himself this time when his hips twitch forward. Much to his surprise Jaskier moans, hands coming up to grab the sides of his thighs and urge him forward. Geralt is gentle at first, pressing forward until his cock hits the back of Jaskier’s throat and then pulling back. Jaskier doesn’t let him get far, chasing him and swirling his tongue around the head. Geralt growls, fingers tightening in Jaskier’s hair in warning, but Jaskier is persistent, only stopping when Geralt snaps his hips forward roughly. The vibrations from Jaskier’s moans rock through him, and Geralt tips his head back, setting a rougher pace than he’d thought about before.

Jaskier doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, swallowing around him and tilting his head to make the angle easier. Geralt glances down, and the sight of Jaskier’s lips stretched around his cock, drool on his chin as Geralt fucks into his mouth makes his cock twitch hard. Pleasure washes over him in steady waves, pooling in his belly and making his muscles clench as he lets out a shaking breath. His hips stutter, Geralt moaning and tugging on Jaskier’s hair. He mumbles Jaskier’s name in warning, closer than he’d like to admit, and Jaskier moans, fingers pressing into Geralt’s thighs and urging him forward again. Geralt grips Jaskier’s hair tight, and he’s sure Jaskier will tell him to stop, to let go, but Jaskier bobs his head and sucks harder, all too eager to please. He doesn’t bother trying to warn Jaskier again, grinding into his mouth and shuddering as his release hits him, heat searing from his head to his toes. Jaskier takes him as deep as he can, nose pressed to his skin and throat tightening around him as Geralt comes, hips stuttering. His vision whites out as Jaskier pulls back, sucking and lapping at the head until Geralt is overstimulated and has to use his hold in Jaskier’s hair to keep him still.

He can feel his thighs trembling underneath Jaskier’s hands, and he tries to regulate his breathing as best he can as Jaskier pants, leaning into Geralt’s hand and whining softly. Arousal, sweet and heady, overwhelms any other scent in the room, and Geralt guides Jaskier to his feet. He uses his thumb to wipe Jaskier’s chin before leaning in, kissing him thoroughly and tasting himself on Jaskier’s tongue. Jaskier whines into his mouth, shifting, and Geralt stoops a bit, scooping the bard up easily. Jaskier wraps his legs around Geralt’s hips, muscled thighs flexing as his kisses harder, nips at Geralt’s lower lip and only pulls away to yank Geralt’s shirt up and over his head. Jaskier’s cock is hard against his stomach, and he grinds up, craving friction as Geralt carries him to bed. Geralt walks without really looking, and he grunts when his shins hit the bedframe and he tips forward. Jaskier gasps as they sway, and Geralt catches them before he squishes Jaskier on accident. Jaskier’s nails dig into his shoulders as his heart thunders, and Geralt snarls, pressing him back into the bed and grinding down.

“Fuck- Geralt-” Jaskier arches up against him, digging his nails in harder and gasping when Geralt bites at his neck. Geralt’s chest rumbles against his, and Jaskier realizes with a jolt that he’s purring. Jaskier drags his nails down across Geralt’s chest, leaving angry red marks, and Geralt trembles. Jaskier uses his heels to push at Geralt’s pants, sick of clothing being between them, and Geralt moves to help. Geralt is now blissfully naked, but Jaskier is still fully clothed and he fumbles with the fly of his own pants. His hands are batted away so Geralt can make quick work of the ties, and Jaskier groans when some of the pressure on his cock is lessened. He’s hard, painfully so, and he feels like he could come just from Geralt looking at him with those cat eyes of his. When Jaskier moves to take his shirt off Geralt stops him, eyes dark at the sight of Jaskier bare but wearing Geralt's too big shirt.

“The- more I hurt, the rougher I get-” He’s trying to explain best he can when his mind isn’t quite so jumbled, and Jaskier’s scent spikes with what Geralt can only describe as love.

“I won’t break.” Jaskier promises, cupping the back of Geralt’s neck and dragging him down into a kiss. And he won’t- he knows his own limits better than anyone could imagine, and he also knows what he wants. What he wants just so happens to line up with what Geralt needs in the moment. Jaskier slides his fingers up into Geralt’s hair and grabs a tight fistful, pulling and reveling in the snarl and snap of Geralt’s hips, arousal sweeping over him in waves. Geralt sits up, Jaskier losing his grip, and Jaskier tries to go with him, but Geralt pushes him back and leans to grab something from the nightstand. Jaskier knows instantly what it is and his cock throbs. “Wanna fuck me?”

Geralt growls low, nostrils flaring, and Jaskier is the one to crowd into his space this time, thighs bracketing around Geralt’s hips as their cocks slide together. The friction is delicious and Jaskier spends a moment just grinding down until he hears the pop of the stopper. Geralt has hooked his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder to see what he’s doing, and Jaskier shudders when oil-slick fingers dip between his cheeks, drawing tight circles around his rim. He croons at the sensation, grinding his hips forward and gasping when Geralt’s chin digs into his shoulder. Jaskier takes Geralt’s earlobe between his teeth and tugs, gasping into his ear when Geralt presses against his rim with a warm finger. Jaskier goes still, focusing on that one sensation as Geralt slowly pushes in. Jaskier moans, rocking his hips down, and Geralt presses a second finger in quickly after the first.

Jaskier whimpers at the stretch, squeezing around Geralt’s fingers and rocking between his fingers and his groin. Geralt shifts, pressing sharp teeth against Jaskier’s neck and rumbling when Jaskier’s cock twitches between them. Geralt thrusts his fingers in and out slowly, enjoying the way that Jaskier squirms and begs, whining when Geralt teases a third finger before pulling back and thrusting his fingers in again. Geralt’s skin is flushed, hot with the roaring fire at his back, but Jaskier has left the velvet pulled back and a cold breeze sweeps through the room. Jaskier is so close to coming, moving desperately between grinding down on Geralt and riding his fingers, and he still hasn’t added another finger. Jaskier slides his hands down Geralt’s back, over the many ridges of his scars, and rakes his nails back up fiercely, Geralt howling.

Jaskier is expecting more, aches for it, but he cries out all the same when Geralt shoves a third finger in him and crooks his fingers, rubbing mercilessly against his prostate. Jaskier’s release builds rapidly in his stomach, scorching through him, and he whimpers pitifully when Geralt’s other hand clamps around the base of his cock, squeezing tight.

“Wh- no, nonono Geralt please. Please.” Jaskier begs, writhing in Geralt’s lap as fingers crook inside him again, rubbing hard and making his cock dribble. Geralt doesn't seem to hear him anymore though, and he pulls his fingers out completely, waiting until he knows Jaskier isn’t going to come. Jaskier’s cock is flushed an angry red, and even the breeze coming from the old window makes him whimper. Geralt lifts him from his lap, turning him around and rearranging him the way he likes. Jaskier moves pliantly under his guidance, tucking a pillow under his chin as Geralt slides a hand down his spine and presses Jaskier’s chest into the bed. Jaskier hears the pop of the cork again, and he tries to turn his head to look back at Geralt to watch what he’s doing.

Geralt drapes himself over Jaskier’s back, fitting them together and lazily grinding his cock between Jaskier’s cheeks. Geralt has used plenty of oil, and every time the head catches on his rim Jaskier tries to angle so that Geralt can slide in, but Geralt just hums and adjusts his own angle, denying him a little while longer.

“Told me to be good, but then did that.” Geralt’s voice wavers with the purr that’s taken residence in his chest, and Jaskier whines. “S’like you don’t want to walk tomorrow.”

“I’d consider it a failure on my part if I can.” Jaskier gasps out, sliding a hand back to scratch at Geralt’s thigh. That small movement costs him, and Geralt snarls in his ear, bearing more of his weight down on Jaskier.

“Stop it. You don’t know-” Jaskier does it again, and then again, raking over that same spot until he’s almost certain that if he does anymore Geralt will actually begin to bleed. Geralt trembles against his back, jerking with every scratch, and Jaskier chokes on a breath when Geralt suddenly begins to press in, cock twitching weakly. He goes fast- hardly gives Jaskier time to adjust to the heady feeling of stretching so deliciously around his girth before he’s snapping his hips. One hand braces beside Jaskier’s head and the other grips his hip with almost crushing force, Geralt snarling and panting in Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier moans and whines at each hard press of Geralt’s hips, spreading his legs wider to create a more stable base as Geralt desperately tries to pound him into the bed.

Jaskier can feel his orgasm rushing up on him again, and he reaches back, grabbing a fistful of Geralt’s hair and tugging him down to kiss him desperately. He keens into Geralt’s mouth when Geralt shifts his hips, slamming against his prostate and shoving him over the edge. Jaskier clamps sinfully tight as he comes, pulling at Geralt’s hair and sobbing against his lips as he spills onto the bed sheets. Geralt doesn’t let up though, sitting up and planting Jaskier in his lap. This angle has Jaskier shuddering with each thrust, eyelids fluttering madly as Geralt grinds directly against his prostate. The feeling quickly becomes pleasurable to the point of pain, and Jaskier whimpers. Geralt’s lips curve into a smile against his, and he wraps one hand around Jaskier’s softening cock. Jaskier shies away from the touch, it’s too much, too soon- but there’s nowhere to go, and Geralt continues to roll his hips, grinding against his prostate and forcing Jaskier to fuck up into his hand.

Jaskier rocks between those two torturous sensations, crying out when he’s forced very quickly into a second dry orgasm that has him shaking like a leaf in Geralt’s lap. Geralt drops his hand from Jaskier’s cock finally, petting at his stomach and allowing Jaskier to settle heavily in his lap. He purrs in Jaskier’s ear, tugging the collar of his shirt out of the way and leaving soft, gentle kisses along the column of his neck. Jaskier focuses solely on breathing so he doesn’t pass out, whining whenever he shifts and Geralt’s cock presses deeper into him.

“Okay?” His voice is thick with arousal, but Geralt nuzzles sweetly at his neck and Jaskier can’t help but squeeze around his cock.

“Cruel, torturous witcher.” His voice cracks, wrecked from Geralt fucking his throat, and Geralt chuckles throatily.

“I warned you.” Jaskier hums, knowing he’d brought that particular punishment on himself and finding he can’t stop himself from pulling on the handful of Geralt’s hair he still holds. Geralt growls, pressing sharp fangs against the meat of Jaskier’s shoulder in warning. He mumbles against Jaskier’s skin, warm breath making him shiver. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Mmm, I think I’ll be okay. Haven’t even finished yet.” Jaskier pulls again and tightens around Geralt’s cock, calling Geralt’s name when he snaps his hips up roughly. Their skin slaps together obscenely as they settle into a rhythm- Jaskier lifting himself off as far as he can before Geralt drags him back down, thrusting up to bury himself deep. He can’t say he’s ever had someone fill him up quite like Geralt does, and the angle is more heavenly than he’s ever had before. It doesn’t take much more coaxing from Jaskier for Geralt’s hips to stutter, Jaskier giving one last harsh pull on his lover’s hair before Geralt is snarling, shoving up and spilling inside of him. Jaskier cries out when pain lances through his right shoulder, Geralt’s fangs sinking deep into the meat near his neck as he comes, holding Jaskier tight against him. Jaskier’s not sure that pain on this level is supposed to be hot, but he melts bonelessly back against Geralt, shivering as something akin to an orgasm washes through him. The feeling makes his legs tremble and his cock give a valiant twitch, but Jaskier is thoroughly spent and it’s all he can do not to fall asleep in Geralt’s arms right now.

Geralt rolls his hips up, grinding as he works himself through his orgasm before finally going still. Moonlight washes over the both of them, but it’s weaker, and Jaskier knows dawn isn’t too far off now. Jaskier releases his hold on Geralt’s hair, petting the tangled fibers down flat and crooning softly as Geralt comes back to himself. It takes a few minutes, but once he realizes Jaskier’s blood is in his mouth and his teeth are still very much sunk into Jaskier’s flesh he pulls back gingerly. Jaskier hisses at the pain that trickles through his shoulder as Geralt lets go, and twin lines of blood drip down his chest and soak into the black fabric of Geralt’s shirt. Jaskier tries to twist his neck to look back at Geralt, but the movement sends a fresh wave of pain through his shoulder and more blood trickles from the wounds. Jaskier settles down again instead, reaching to take one of Geralt’s hands in his for a moment and peeking out of the corner of his eye.

There’s blood on Geralt’s lips still, and some smeared along his chin, but the sight doesn’t bother Jaskier as much as it should. Geralt on the other hand, looks stricken, eyes wide and scared. He can smell the harsh copper of Jaskier’s blood, can taste it on his tongue, and shame sweeps through him when his cock twitches inside of Jaskier against his will. “I’m- I-”

Jaskier shifts in his lap, lifting up until Geralt slips out of him and he can turn to sit face to face in Geralt’s lap again. Despite Geralt’s growing horror at what he’s done, Jaskier’s eyes are bright and full of love, and he tips forward, kissing at Geralt’s neck before sinking his teeth deep in one smooth movement. Jaskier’s teeth aren’t nearly as sharp as Geralt’s and he hears Geralt’s skin crunch horribly before giving way. Despite the waning moon Geralt lets out a noise somewhere between a growl, a snarl and a hiss, grabbing at Jaskier’s thighs and wrenching their hips together. His shoulders twitch madly as fire lights along his nerves all over again. It’s hard to stay coherent with pain surging through his neck, but the moon’s influence is weaker and Geralt masters himself with a couple of deep breaths. Jaskier’s mouth and chin are bloody to match when he pulls back, and Geralt watches in helpless fascination as Jaskier licks his blood off his lips.

“There,” Jaskier says, sitting back a bit and smiling. “Now we match.”

“Jaskier, I could’ve-”

“Hurt me? As I said before love, you didn’t do anything that won’t heal, or that I didn’t want.” Jaskier’s gaze is soft and patient, and he presses his forehead to Geralt’s, just breathing for a minute. Geralt matches his ragged breaths with Jaskier’s slow and even ones, and soon his heart settles back into it’s slow, heavy patter.

“You- wanted that?”

“Every bit of it.” Geralt stares, waiting for Jaskier to break down and admit how scared he was- is- but Jaskier does no such thing. He only presses a soft, coppery kiss to Geralt’s lips and slides from his lap. “But, I wouldn’t mind if you felt inclined to sneak us a bath.”

Jaskier stays behind in the room while Geralt tugs on pants, feeling filthy but knowing he can’t wander the keep naked in this cold. Geralt has a tub in his room, and he brings that up the stairs before venturing down to hope that there’s enough hot water left in the kitchen to get the both of them sufficiently clean. His neck throbs with every step that he takes, but his wounds have already clotted and by tomorrow they’ll be halfway healed. Jaskier won’t have the same luck, even with the salve they have, but they’ll have to take it one step at a time. He’s in the kitchen, dumping more water into the pot and using Igni to hurry the warming process along when Lambert and Eskel come in, arms crossed.

Geralt ignores them, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms as well. Neither of them say anything as they go about grabbing a late night snack, but as always, Lambert is the first to crack.

“So,” He starts, and Eskel groans. “What happened to the whole not hurting him thing?”

Geralt shrugs, uncomfortable with the reminder, but Eskel comes to his rescue. “Please, look at his back and neck. I think Geralt had more to worry about than Jaskier did.”

That makes Geralt chuckle, and Lambert takes another good look at him before whistling low. “Damn, the White Wolf looks awful red.”

“Fuck off.” Geralt says, but there’s no malice in it and he has to keep himself from smiling. Eskel doesn’t let Lambert say anything else before dragging him away, and Geralt lugs the hot water up to the room. Jaskier is sitting at the table, staring at the bloody wound on his shoulder through the small mirror he’d brought with them. Geralt’s stomach flops as he nudges the door shut, and he pours the hot water into the tub to cool down some before they climb in. Jaskier has finally shed Geralt’s shirt, and he smiles when Geralt comes over to gently touch the skin near the wound. Jaskier shivers lightly at the touch, snagging Geralt’s hand and pressing a warm kiss to his palm.

“Right as rain, love. Want to help me with the sheets?” Geralt grunts, but doesn’t actually let Jaskier help in stripping down and changing sheets. The only thing he lets Jaskier do is get himself in the tub, sinking low into the water and sighing happily. He keeps his shoulders above the water, and when Geralt strips to join him Jaskier winces. “Sorry love.”

“Hmm?” Jaskier gestures for him to come close, and he traces soft fingertips over the marks on Geralt’s thigh. The blood vessels beneath his skin have burst, leaving dots of red-purple in nail shaped trails down the side of his thigh. Geralt bends down to kiss the top of Jaskier’s head, slipping into the bathtub behind him and resolutely ignoring the way the heat prickles uncomfortably at his thigh. “Right as rain.”

Jaskier laughs at the mimicry, leaning back against Geralt’s chest and closing his eyes. “So, this happens every month?”

“Making plans?”

“Well, I’d hate to get us banned from every inn we stay in.” Geralt laughs softly, tucking his cheek against Jaskier’s and gently kissing at his shoulder.

“We’ll figure something out.”

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #major sluttiness #nsft #winter prompts

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theladyofdeath · 4 years

Text

Swipe Right {Rowaelin Fluff Modern AU}

Part TWO to Swipe Left {Rowaelin Fluff}

Written alongside the beautiful and talented @throne-of-ashes-and-beauty

Aelin looked in the mirror one final time. She had to look absolutely perfect, of course, even though she was just visiting Rowan at work. It had been a little over a year since she had met the love of her life in the airport, and life was pretty perfect.

She had no complaints.

And from what she could tell, the perfection would only continue to grow.

After brushing through her long, golden hair, Aelin slipped on a pair of brown sandals to go with her turquoise t-shirt dress and called it good.

It had been an eventful morning, to say the least, starting with a quick workout and brunch with Lysandra. After that, she’d showered and gotten ready, checking her email for an offer letter from one of the many companies she’d applied to. The paid internship she’d taken had ended a couple weeks back and while Rowan had been more than generous, not asking her to pay rent when she’d moved in, she needed to start pulling her weight.

Rowan said she could pay him in other ways and she snorted and shoved him.

Aelin liked to contribute. She liked to help out.

Nonetheless, she was hurrying down the steps, as quickly as she could, and to her car. Once inside, she was starting the engine and pulling out of the parking space before the radio could even catch up and begin playing music.

She was giddy, could hardly control herself.

She couldn’t wait to show Rowan.

In her defense, though, she was also bringing him lunch just before his lunch period, so it wasn’t all about her surprise. It was about the kind, loving gesture that could only be shown through bringing your significant other food.

She had to make one stop before she stopped at the school, though, and that was the most important of the day.

Rowan turned around and crossed his arms as he looked at his class. “Can anybody tell me who Abigail Williams is?”

He was met with silence.

“You learned about her last year, with Ms. Lochan.”

Not even a blink of recognition.

He sighed and rubbed between his brows with his thumb and forefinger. “First person who can tell me anything about her gets to leave for lunch ten minutes early.”

A male voice spoke up. “She was accused of being a witch, right?”

“Good, Quinton, she was.” He pointed at the student, who was a basketball player. He’d never put any effort into his studies until recently, when he realized colleges care about your grades, too, not just how many three pointers you can hit. “Where?”

Quinton hesitated.

“Starts with a S,” Rowan slowly.

“Salem,” Quinton said, without any hesitation.

Rowan leaned back against the whiteboard, arms crossed. “Very goo-.”

His words dropped off as he noticed a flutter of movement in the doorway out of the corner of his eye. His class had noticed, too, because he instantly lost their attention as Aelin gave him an amused look.

Rowan couldn’t be mad. His eyes softened as he said, “You all remember my-.”

She was met with a series of loud hellos and hollers, which only made her grin widen - and her ego grow to an uncontrollable level, no doubt.

She held up a bag. “I brought lunch. I didn’t mean to be early. I’ll just…” She pointed to Rowan’s desk in the back corner of the room, indicating her destination.

He chuckled and nodded. He turned his attention back to his class, trying to reclaim their attention. “Alright, next week, we’re going to start on the Salem Witch Trials.” There was a flutter of excitement, which was atypical for sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds in school. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, because yes, it’s extremely interesting, but there’s also a lot of dates or boring stuff.” There was a collective groan, knowing Rowan would give one of his date only quizzes for extra credit. “But...we’re also going to be watching a movie next week. Which leads me to our homework…” Cue the groans again.

“Witches are a commonly adapted piece of folklore in modern media. Monday, I want you to bring in an example of your favorite adaptation of witches from movies, tv shows, music videos, whatever it may be. Wednesday, I want an example of other times there were witch hunts in history, aside from Salem. Not too hard, but we’re going to be taking a lot of notes. Be ready.” He glanced at his watch and saw it was ten til. He nodded his head at Quinton. “Q, you ready for lunch?”

He nodded yes and started packing up his backpack.

Rowan shrugged and said, “I’m feeling generous today. Pick a buddy to go with you.”

Quinton smirked and turned around, pointing to Aelin. “You hungry, Miss G?”

The class erupted into good natured heckling.

Aelin laughed, quietly. “I’m afraid I’ve already eaten.”

“Too bad,” Quinton murmured, earning another round of laughter. “Evangeline, then.”

Evangeline rolled her eyes but began packing up, anyway.

Rowan gestured for them both to go then told the others to get started on their homework, which meant they’d be talking quietly among themselves or on their phones, until the bell rang.

Rowan made his round around the room and ended by his desk, sitting on the edge. His smile had faded, and he wore a concerned frown. “Why’d you come in such a hurry? Don’t get me wrong, I love that you’re here, but...I mean, is everything okay? Did something happen?”

He hated that he had to miss the appointment, but he was saving his vacation days for the months when Aelin would need him home.

“No, nothing, just…” She shrugged her shoulders trying to appear cool and casual, but inside she was about to explode. “Wanted to see you.”

She couldn’t tell if he believed her, he smiled softly, but the wariness was still in his eyes. “Well?” He asked.

She laughed, quietly. “You don’t think I should maybe wait until you don’t have a class of eavesdropping teenagers around?”

She gave a pointed glance behind him and he caught two of his students quickly turning around.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. He glanced over at the clock, they still had a few minutes. “What did you bring me for lunch?”

Aelin chuckled before she said, “Ham and cheese sandwich, a bag of chips, and cut up apples with some caramel to dip them in.”

Rowan’s smile was genuine when he said, “You spoil me.”

He reached for the bag, but she snatched it back. “It’s not fair of you to eat in front of your students,” she replied, smirking.

He rolled his eyes, but got back up, making another quick circle around the room.

“Mr. Whitethorn?” A girl’s hand raised. “We have a question about what we can use for our media. Movies are okay, right?”

He figured the question would be coming and he was glad someone asked it, rather than half the class having to scramble like the grade before them did last year. “Movies are permitted, but PG-13 or lower. Can’t be rated R.” There was a chorus of groans. “I don’t make the rules, sorry, but if I did, you still wouldn’t be allowed to.”

The bell rang and as everyone rushed for the door, he called, “Alright, don't forget your homework and have a great weekend!”

They were out the door before he’d finished his sentence. Aelin was chuckling from where she sat on his desk.

In a flash, Rowan was at the door, locking it, pulling the privacy blind and then at his desk. He pressed his lips to Aelin’s and said, “Okay, well?”

She laughed and handed him the brown sack that his lunch was in. Rowan looked at the bag and said, “I appreciate you bringing me lunch, baby, but that’s not what I’m asking.”

The urge to roll her eyes was almost too strong to resist, but she said, “Open the bag, you frantic buzzard.”

With narrowed eyes in her direction, he did as he was asked, and froze. His eyes widened as his hand reached in and pulled out the little black and white ultrasound pictures.

He said absolutely nothing as he shuffled through them, his green eyes growing bright and misty.

Aelin watched him with complete adoration.

“Shit,” he breathed, shaking his head as he met Aelin’s loving gaze. “This is our kid.”

She nodded, a smile breaking on her lips. She didn’t try to stop the tears that slid down her cheek.

Aelin and Rowan had gotten married on the beach, almost six months to the day after they’d met. Neither of them had any immediate family and they both knew the wanted no one but the other for the rest of their days.

They’d suspected Aelin was pregnant a few weeks earlier. Her cycle hadn’t come and Rowan was actually the one who noticed it was late.

Now, their baby was growing and would be there in a matter of months. These were the first ultrasound pictures where the baby actually looked like a baby, not just a blob. They could see the head, the hands, the feet, everything.

“Yeah,” she smiled, and he took her face into his hands and kissed her, softly. “It’s our baby.”

“I’m so sad I missed it,” he whispered. “Instead, I was here talking about shit that none of these kids will remember tomorrow.”

“There will be others,” she promised. “Much more important appointments that you’ll be able to come to.”

His eyes lit up. “When do we find out if it’s a boy or girl?”

She rolled her eyes, kissing him once more. It had been a constant debate for them both the past month. Rowan was adamant it was a girl, but Aelin said she could feel that it was a boy. “She wants to schedule that for eighteen weeks, but says we may not be able to tell until twenty.”

Rowan waited and he asked, “And how pregnant are you right now?”

“Ro!” She laughed but shoved him. “This morning was eleven weeks.” She placed her hand over her stomach, the bump just barely starting to show.

He laid his hand over hers. “Six weeks until I get to see my beautiful baby girl.”

“Or your perfect, handsome son,” she laughed.

Rowan just said, “We’ll see.”

Aelin rolled her eyes and took a bite of his sandwich, which earned her a scowl from him. When she claimed it was because she was eating for two, Rowan couldn’t argue with that.

He sat in his desk chair, pulling her onto his lap as he started to eat. He only had thirty minutes before his next class came in, and he hated to say he was dreading it. As much as he loved his job, he was ready to be at home with his wife, rubbing her belly on the couch in his sweatpants.

Life was never as good to him as it was now before he met Aelin. Things weren’t bad, not at all, but he was never this happy.

Before, he used to love teaching. It was his passion and he was always one of the first into the school in the mornings and one of the very last to leave in the evening. He poured over his lesson plans at home, spent all of his spare time grading papers or homework. But now, he wanted that spare time to go to Aelin. Rather than get up at five-fifteen, and make it to school by six-thirty, he stayed in bed with Aelin as long as he could, sometimes not making it until right before the bell. Those were usually the mornings that Aelin awoke with his first alarm and scooted back into his warm embrace. And then continued to scoot until he had to get up.

She had completely consumed him, but he definitely wasn’t complaining about it.

And soon, there would be another little person to captivate him, too.

It was a Saturday, and the second Rowan opened his eyes, he realized Aelin was gone. He sat up, slowly, and blinked a few times to clear his surroundings.

She was nowhere.

“Ace?” He called.

“Kitchen!” She called back.

He picked up his phone to catch the time. 9:06. Just when he was about to ask why she was already out of bed on a lazy Saturday morning, the thought hit him.

Their gender reveal party was at noon.

He was up and rushing around the corner, grabbing it for traction as he rushed into the kitchen. His wife had an eyebrow raised, her hair piled into a messy bun on her head. She wore an old shirt from his college baseball days and a pair of his sweat pants she’d claimed as her own once her belly began to get too big for her own comfy clothes to fit. She held a cup of tea in her hands, carefully blowing on it. “Good morning,” she said with a smirk.

He stood upright and leaned on the wall. “Morning, babies.”

Aelin laughed as she rubbed a loving hand over her belly. He’d begun to refer to them as one, and she thought was the cutest thing she’d ever experienced.

“Is that breakfast?” He asked, with a yawn, throwing open the fridge for the entire carton of orange juice.

“No,” she said, with a pointed finger in his direction. “This is for the party, and if you touch any of it, I will kick you in the balls.”

Rowan froze as he turned, the carton halfway to his mouth. He was just now realizing how much there was on the counter. Multiple crockpots, bags and bags of junk, and something in the oven, seeing as how it was turned on and cooking.

“Exactly how many people are coming?” He asked, surprised.

Aelin shrugged. “Enough.”

At least they had just bought a new house and could fit a herd of people. Either way, Rowan was not a fan of large groups of people. His socially awkward nature prevented it.

Standing up in front of a class of kids? Sure. Easy.

Entertaining guests? Nope. Not his thing.

“I see that look on your face, calm down,” she said, chuckling as she meandered toward him and grabbed him by the hips. “I’ll entertain, you just make sure all the bowls I set out are constantly filled to the brim.”

Rowan grinned, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her mouth. “Alright, I can do that.”

She turned back to the counter, picking her tea back up. Rowan began pulling things out to make himself a protein shake. After blending it up, he hopped up on the counter and looked at Aelin. “What can I do to help?”

“I need you to go pick up the cake,” Aelin said, washing her mug and placing it back in the cabinet.

Rowan blinked at her. “Like the cake? Like the cake our baby is in?”

She rolled her eyes. “First of all, you’re an idiot, you know that the baby isn’t in the cake. And secondly, we’re not doing a cake reveal, remember? But we are having a cake for the party.”

Rowan frowned. “Since when are we not doing a cake reveal?”

Aelin came up between his legs and looked up at him. “Since everyone else in the world did one.”

“Then why do we need a cake?” Rowan asked.

Aelin blinked. “Are you serious?”

Rowan just cleared his throat. “Okay, I’ll get the cake. What else?”

“Hang the decorations I got because I’m short.”

Rowan chuckled as he hopped off the counter. “Fair enough.”

A loud knock came to the front door but before anyone could walk toward it, it flew open and Lysandra came flying in, plastic bags full of decor in each hand.

“Hello, mommy and daddy-to-be!” She sang, setting the bags on the counter and immediately getting to work.

“Or I guess Lysandra is going to take care of that,” Aelin chuckled.

Rowan pressed a kiss to her forehead and went to go get ready for the day while Aelin sat and talked to Lysandra. Just like Rowan, her best friend hadn’t allowed her to lift a finger throughout her pregnancy. He was just entering the bathroom when he heard Aedion enter the house and say, “Good morning, Aelin. You’re looking plump this morning.”

Thirty minutes later, Aedion was riding to the bakery with a freshly showered and shaved Rowan, having been kicked out of the house by Lysandra.

“How was I supposed to know she was going to cry?” He asked, shrugging his shoulders.

“She’s five months pregnant, man,” Rowan laughed. “Her emotions are all over the place, pretty much assume everything might make her cry right now.”

“Huh,” Aedion said, staring out the window. “The pregnant mind is one I don’t wish to understand.”

“Me either,” Rowan muttered. “Just wait until you knock up Lysandra.”

Aedion groaned. “Yeah, that can wait.”

Rowan laughed as he drove into the parking lot of the bakery and hopped out. He ran in to pick up the biggest, most elaborate gender reveal cake. It was for a small gathering, of course, but for a handful of people, the five tier cake was a bit much.

Which was why Rowan walked ridiculously slowly, cautiously, to the back of the car. He opened the trunk and slowly slid it in.

Aedion was just staring. “No wonder Aelin didn’t want to come pick it up. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for ruining that.”

“Thanks, man,” Rowan mumbled, climbing back in the front seat.

Aedion picked up the receipt and looked at it. “Gods, that’s way too many zeros at the end for a cake.”

Rowan sighed and said, “If it makes her happy, I do whatever she asks.” Aedion smirked. He asked, “What?”

The smirk softened. “Nothing, just… I always hoped Aelin could find someone who loved her the way I love Lysandra. I just didn’t think it would be on Tinder.”

Rowan groaned. The fact that they’d met on a glorified fuck-buddy app brought Aedion a lot more joy than it should have.

“Technically,” Rowan began, “We met in the airport.”

“Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that,” Aedion said, as Rowan slowly pulled onto the road. The drive back to the house was ten minutes longer than it should have been, due to the ridiculously slow speed Rowan was driving at to keep the cake safe.

When they arrived, it was just after eleven and Lysandra was already wrapping up her intense decorating agenda. The house was draped in pink and blue streamers, banners, and little frilly things that Rowan thought were ridiculous and pointless, but he kept that thought to himself.

“Where’s Aelin?” He asked, once he and Aedion set the cake, successfully, on the island.

“Bedroom, dressing,” Lysandra said, still scowling at an exasperated Aedion.

“I’ll be back,” Rowan sighed.

He walked down the hall to their bedroom, knocking softly on the door. “Ace?” There was a quiet answer and slipped in.

She was in her closet, and when he entered the bathroom, she said, “Baby, can you help me put on my shoes? I can’t reach my feet anymore.”

He found her sitting on a small chair, her foot halfway in a sandal.

He laughed and knelt down, latching the shoe around her - honestly, very swollen - ankle and then did the same with the other. He kissed her knee then her pronounced bump, and looked up her face. “Aelin, I love you…but that cake is fucking excessive.”

She smiled. “Yes, it is.”

He rolled his eyes and stood, helping her to her feet as he went.

She was wearing a white dress, that hugged her body, highlighting the pronounced bump that grew more and more every day, and a loose, comfy cardigan. Her hair was piled on the top of her head.

He softly kissed her. “You look so beautiful.”

She smiled and wrapped her arms around him. It was becoming difficult. She sighed and said, “Are you sure I’m not looking plump?”

“Baby, he was just joking,” he chuckled, rubbing her back.

She sniffled.

“Aelin, baby, don’t cry,” he cooed.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” she said, throwing her hands in the air, “and I don’t know why it makes me so mad that Aedion called me plump, which I am, and why I hate that my house is covered in pink and blue. I mean, pink and blue? That’s so normal, Ro, and I hate normal. Why didn’t we do purple and red? Or, shit, green and gold? I love green and gold. Pink and blue sucks, Ro.”

Rowan just stared at her as she babbled on before taking a long, deep breath. “How about this? Next week, when we start decorating the nursery, we’ll do it in green and gold. Okay? After today, you never have to look at blue or pink again.”

She wiped angrily at her nose. “Fine.”

“Fine,” he repeated, trying his hardest not to laugh. “I love you.”

She leaned up on her toes and he met halfway, pressing his lips to hers. “I love you, too.” She stepped out into the bathroom and made sure that her makeup was still intact and then said, “Let’s go see my fucking excessive cake.”

One by one, their friends showed up. Lysandra made everyone give their official guess as they came in and after everyone had arrived, it seemed the majority agreed that Aelin was correct and there would be a little heartbreaker running around soon.

Even with the pink and blue decorations, Aelin had to admit that everything was beautiful. Lysandra had done an amazing job, which she told her time and time again.

When the time came, everyone filed out into the backyard, Lysandra carrying a bat and a white box. She handed Rowan the bat and Aelin took the box, explaining that the ball inside would explode into a colorful cloud when hit. All she had to do was get it to Rowan. All he had to do was hit it.

“No pressure,” he mumbled, setting the bat down. He rolled up his sleeves, to which his friends whistled and howled, and got a few practice swings in. When he felt he could confidently hit a moving target, he got into position and nodded to Aelin.

Her grin was glorious as she threw the ball.

It was a terrible throw, but Rowan swung at it, nonetheless, and pink dust filled the air.

Everyone erupted into cheers as Aelin yelled WHAT THE FUCK, but when the cloud cleared, and Rowan caught her gaze, she was smiling at him with tears in her eyes.

Rowan whistled, looking around at their living room, which was full of opened gifts. Their baby shower had been that morning - Rowan had spent it playing basketball in the park with Lorcan - and they had been spoiled.

Earlier that week, Rowan had painted the nursery gold, and it seemed that everyone who went to the shower got the hint that gold and green was the theme.

Aelin sat in the chair, her feet up on the table in front of her. She nodded. Her voice wavered as she said, “I love our people.”

He smiled softly and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He knew this wasn’t a crazy pregnancy crying. No, this was the love she felt for their friends, how blessed and overwhelmed by their own love and generosity she was.

He took her hands and helped her to her feet. “Let’s go get comfy and put together our sweet girl’s nursery.”

She groaned as she moved towards their bedroom. “I’m eight months pregnant. I don’t even remember what comfortable is anymore.”

“Just take off your pants,” he suggested, as they entered their room. “No pants equals comfort.”

She snorted. “You just like me pants-less.”

He shrugged. “It’s a perk.”

As much as she thought he was joking, she did just that, putting on a gigantic t-shirt and some fuzzy socks. In his sweatpants, Rowan followed her down to the end of the hall, to where the nursery was.

She sat in the plush rocking chair they’d bought, knowing they’d be spending quite a bit of time in nursery. Aelin quietly watched Rowan as he worked, humming a lullaby and slowly rocking in the chair. One by one, Rowan built, put together or set up everything they received from the day.

He dragged a big box towards him, puzzled. “What is this thing?”

Aelin smiled. “A cooler with a built into bluetooth speaker and charging station.”

He blinked. “And why does the baby need that?”

“The baby doesn’t, but you do.” She laughed at his shocked expression. “It’s from Aedion and Lysandra. He said it was your bro shower gift.”

Rowan opened the box and peeked inside. “Have I mentioned how much I love your cousin?”

She snorted. “He’s aware of your bromance, yes.”

Rowan grinned as he put the box in the hallway and looked around. “Anything left that has to be put together?”

Aelin shook her head, slowly. “Just stuff that has to be put away.

Rowan opened up a little gift bag and pulled out a little red, polka dotted sundress. “Are you fucking kidding me? This is tiny.”

Aelin’s grin widened. “That’s from Elide. Along with a hundred other little outfits.”

But Rowan was staring at the newborn sundress. “Aelin, this is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

She laughed. “Come with me, I’m about to blow your mind.” He raised an eyebrow and she rolled her eyes. “Not like that.”

With Rowan’s assistance getting out of the chair, she led him back down to their room. “I can’t bend over so… There’s a storage box under the bed. Put it up here.” She patted the mattress.

He did as he was told, grabbing a hold of a long, thin plastic tub, it’s lid was snapped securely in place, but it was full to bursting.

Rowan murmured, “She has more clothes than me. How does she already have more clothes than me?”

Aelin chuckled but skimmed through the small outfits, pulling a few of her favorites out. “Because Lysandra is her auntie.”

Rowan took the small blue onesie from Aelin. He held it in his hands, gazing down at it.

Aelin noticed his silence then and her smile faltered. “Baby?”

Aelin was floored when he looked up and there were tears shimmering on his face.

She hesitated, and when she spoke it was a whisper, “Gods, Are you crying?”

“No,” he said, but a tear had, in fact, fallen down his cheek. “It’s just so...small.”

She watched him, smiling softly, as he took in the little outfit.

“The baby is going to be tiny,” he breathed. “What if I break her?”

He chuckled, brushing it off, but she could see the genuine fear in his eyes.

“You won’t, Ro, you couldn’t.” She reached up and brushed the tear from his cheek, cupping his face in her hands. “She isn’t even here yet and you’re so in love with her. You wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt her.”

He nodded, but Aelin could see the trepidation still on his face. The whole pregnancy, he’d been her rock, the one constant motivator. She knew he was so ready for this baby, that she was already so loved, but it was normal to be scared.

“I love you,” she breathed, rising up on her tiptoes to kiss him. Her belly got in the way and she groaned as she was just barely too short of his lips.

He laughed and leaned down, letting her stand back on her feet and wrapping his arms around her. “I love you, too.”

They went back to the nursery, Rowan carrying the massive tub so Aelin could begin folding them and putting them in her dresser. As he was unwrapping diapers and putting them in their designated drawer, Rowan said, “So I had an idea for a name.’

Aelin paused and turned. “Okay?’

She was having this baby in less thirty days and they had yet to find a name they agreed on. The closest they’d come was with Nora, which Aelin had decided after a day of overthinking, was that Nora was an old person's name. Rowan had said that it was classy and timeless. Nonetheless, it went into the no pile, and they continued looking.

He leaned his back on the gold wall, crossing his arms over his chest, almost like he was bracing himself for her response. “Sloan.”

Aelin tilted her head to the left slightly. “Sloan?”

He nodded. “Sloan.”

“Hmm.” She closed her eyes and repeated the name a few more times, slowly, then with their last name, just to see. At last, she opened her eyes back up to meet her husband’s gaze and said, “I like Sloan.”

Rowan hesitated. “Wait, seriously?”

She laughed, leaning back on her hands from where she sat on the floor. “Yeah, seriously. I love it.”

Rowan still was in shock that she was in favor of a name suggested by him. He was still frozen in his place along the golden wall. “You’re worrying me. Are you feeling okay? I’m calling your doctor.”

“Shut up, you prick,” she said, smiling. They’d finally decided on a name, a name they both loved, a name they both agreed upon.

He chuckled and laid down in front of where she sat, his face inches from her round stomach. “Did you hear that, Sloan? Mama just told daddy to shut up. You should kick her in the ribs for that.” Their daughter did no such thing and Aelin quietly laughed, running a hand through Rowan’s newly cropped silver hair, as he scowled at her. He pressed a kiss just above her belly button. “What about this? Can you tell her how much I love her?” Aelin took a sharp breath in through her teeth as she felt a sharp pain in her side. Rowan’s deep rumble of a laugh traveled across her skin. “That’s my girl.” He pressed another kiss to her stomach, and gazed up at Aelin through his lashes, smirking. “Won’t take orders from a man. Just like her mama.”

Aelin sighed and shook her head. “Already turning her against me.”

“She’s a daddy’s girl,” Rowan muttered, yawning as he closed his eyes. It had been a long day, and he wasn’t even the one growing a human being inside of him. When he looked up at his wife, he could see her exhaustion. “I think we’ve done enough today, mama. Let’s go to bed.”

“Mama,” she repeated, quietly, eyes shining.

Rowan nodded, slowly, and took her hand. “One more month.”

Aelin brought Rowan’s hand to her lips as she smiled. “Yeah, one more month.”

___

“Ro.”

Rowan was having a beautiful dream, sleeping soundly, when his wife suddenly began shaking his shoulder with the wrath of a cranky, nearly full-term pregnant woman.

He groaned, opening his eyes, just barely, to look up at the alarm clock that sat on his side table. It was just after two.

“Go to bed, babe,” he mumbled.

“No, Ro,” she said, jabbing him in the back with her knee.

“Ow, Damn,” he hissed, pushing himself up on his elbows with a sigh. “What? Are you okay?”

“No,” she breathed.

His body tensed as he reached over to turn on the lamp, and when he did, he saw Aelin sitting up, eyes wide, a dark circle spotted on their light gray bed sheet.

Rowan blinked. “What? You woke me up cause you pissed your-“

“My water broke, you asshole,” Aelin snapped.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, eyes wide. He jumped out of bed, grabbing for the jeans he’d discarded on top of the hamper the night before. “Oh, shit!”

Aelin was breathing heavily, and clutching at her stomach. “She’s coming,” she whispered, “she’s coming, she’s coming, she’s coming.”

Rowan was there immediately, sitting on the bed in front of her, taking her hand in his and letting her squeeze as hard as she could. “What do you need me to do, baby?

“Are the bags packed?” She asked, voice tight.

He nodded. “Yes, ours are in the dining room on the way out the door and Sloan’s in the truck, with her carseat, already buckled in and ready for her.”

“You’re such a good daddy,” she breathed, face showing relief as the pain in her abdomen subsided.

Rowan pressed a kiss to her forehead and said, “Come on, let’s get you changed and go meet our precious girl.”

A slight look of panic crossed her face, but it quickly turned to excitement and adoration. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Rowan breathed, and helped her to her feet. She kept on the oversized tee she had and Rowan helped her slip on some cozy pants and her flip flops before they were hurrying out the door.

The car ride was miserable. They got stuck at every red light along the way and the contractions quickly became stronger and closer together.

When they got to the hospital, Rowan parked as close as he could to the entrance. It helped that it was the middle of the night. After helping her to the door and into a wheelchair, Aelin was met with a nurse and then she was being wheeled away. Rowan, and their bags, just behind.

“I feel like we forgot something,” Aelin said, as Rowan tied the back of her hospital gown and helped her into the bed.

“We talked about this,” Rowan began, pulling a chair up close to the side, “Fleetfoot isn’t allowed in the hospital, Ace.”

She chuckled, but the gesture was quickly replaced with a contorted look of pain.

“Breathe,” the nurse whispered, calmly, as she finished hooking Aelin up to a series of machines. One took blood pressure, one kept track of the contractions, one monitored her heartbeat, another monitored the baby’s.

Looking at all of the machines gave Rowan a headache.

“How far apart are your contractions, dear?” The nurse asked, taking notes on her chart.

“About eleven minutes apart, but my water broke,” Aelin said, resting back in the bed, trying to get comfortable while she still could.

She smiled and said, “Not uncommon for a first time mom. We’ll keep an eye on it, but for now, why don’t you try and get some more sleep.”

“Sleep?” Aelin asked, her eyebrows raising. “I can’t sleep right now, I’m having a baby. I want my epidural and to push her out.”

The nurse, a sweet-looking older woman named Alis, laughed softly. “Sorry, hon. You can’t get an epidural until your contractions are about five minutes apart. Just relax and we’ll come check on you in a little bit.”

Alis left and Aelin stared after her. “I can’t sleep,” she mumbled, looking at Rowan. “How does she expect me to sleep? I’m about to shove our daughter out of my vag.”

“Great visual, babe,” he sighed, sitting next to her and taking her hand with his free one. His phone was in his other. “Here it is,” he began reading. “In the early stages of labor, mothers-to-be are encouraged to rest and relax. If labor begins at night, it's best to try and go back to sleep until contractions have increased to require all of your focus.”

“Fabulous,” Aelin mumbled. “Can I have my phone?”

“Sure, baby, where is it?” He asked, reaching for her purse.

She looked at him. “I thought you had it.”

Rowan’s brows furrowed. “Why would I have had your phone?”

Aelin’s eyes narrowed. “Because I asked you to grab it on the way out the door when you went back for your tablet.”

Rowan didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His eyes said enough: Ohhh shit.

She let her head fall back against the pillows and closed her eyes, settling back and trying to get comfy. “I knew we forgot something.”

“I’ll ask Aedion and Lysandra to get it on the way.” He yawned and leaned back in the chair, pulling the ball cap covering his messy, silver hair lower over his eyes.

It was quiet for a minute and then Rowan said, already dozing off, “If you don’t have your phone, I assume that means you haven’t told anyone she’s on the way?”

Aelin replied, “Nope.”

He re-situated his hat and pulled out his phone. Since things didn’t seem to be progressing too quickly, he sent a quick text to their friends, not wanting to call and wake everyone. Save for one person: Lysandra.

Thirty seconds later, Rowan’s phone was ringing. With a sigh, he answered. “Hell-.”

“You didn’t call me on the way to the hospital?!” Lysandra’s loud voice came through to his ear.

“Sorry, I was a little busy trying to get my wife to the hospital,” Rowan said, yawning. “Nothing’s happened yet, don’t worry, I’ll call when things pick up. Her water broke and now she’s being told to go back to sleep.”

“Which I can’t do and my husband forgot my phone!” Aelin said, loudly, obviously frustrated.

There was a second of silence on the other end before Lysandra said, “Seriously? You didn’t grab her phone?”

“Don’t worry, she’s giving me a look that is equivalent to being stabbed, I’m being punished,” Rowan muttered.

“Let me talk to her.”

Rowan held out his phone without any hesitation. He heard Lysandra rattle off a series of questions and Aelin silently nodded along to each, softly biting the side of her finger. It was a nervous ‘twitch’ she’d picked up in the past few months and couldn’t seem to break it when she was thinking. “Okay, I got it. You know where the spare key is and I’ll send you the rest.” He heard Lysandra saying something else and Aelin’s eyes flicked over to him. “I haven't decided yet. I’ll let you know. Love you.” Lysandra replied and then Aelin ended the call, handing the phone back to Rowan.

He had an eyebrow raised, and though every instinct in his body instinct told him not to, he asked, “Decided what?”

She pouted her lips slightly and was about to reply when another contraction began. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, holy shit.”

He was up, his phone forgotten on the side table, and he took her hand. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe through it.”

“I’m deciding,” she said, through her teeth, “if I’m having Lysandra pick something up from Starbucks for you on the way here, or just me.”

He raised his eyebrows, rubbing soothing circles in her back with his free hand, but he said, “That’s cold, baby.”

“Well you forgot your pregnant wife’s phone on the way to give birth to your daughter,” she said, finally remembering to do the breathing exercises they’d learned.

Rowan sighed and said, “That’s fair.”

Aelin ended up having Lys get Rowan his coffee, too. They were even able to get a couple more hours sleep between the contractions, but when Lysandra blew threw the door at five-thirty, a bleary-eyed Aedion behind her, they were both up and Rowan was eating a sad, cold, hospital cafeteria breakfast.

“Oh, bless your hearts, thank the gods I brought real food.” She held up a bag from Aelin’s favorite bakery.

“Chocolate croissants?” Aelin asked, her eyes going wide.

“And they’re still warm, haven’t even been out of the oven for ten minutes,” Lysandra said, handing her the bag. With the other hand she extended her phone.

Aelin snatched both. Rowan knew better than to ask for a croissant. Lysandra held up a cup of coffee to him, her emerald eyes narrowed. “In your defense, she had left it in under the blankets in the bed.”

Aelin was sniffing the croissant as the door swung open, once again, and Alis came in, cheerily asking, “Good morning!”

“Good morning,” Aelin groaned. “When can we get this thing out of me?”

It had quickly turned from my daughter to this thing as the morning went on.

“I’m going to check where you’re at, and we’ll see,” she smiled.

Alis eyed the coffee and bag of goodies as she approached, but before she could say anything, Aelin said, “Don’t worry, they’re just for smell. I’m waiting to eat them after baby gets here...which will be soon, right?”

Aedion had made himself scarce the moment Alis ordered Aelin to put her feet up, but Lysandra was sitting on the edge of the bed. Rowan was still eating his shitty cafeteria waffle as Alis checked where Aelin was at. Five minutes later, the nurse was tossing her gloves into the trash and washing her hands.

“I believe your baby girl will be here sometime this afternoon,” she smiled, hands on her hips. “I’ll be in to give you the epidural in a few hours. Until then, continue to relax as much as possible. I’ll bring in more ice chips for you to munch on while you sniff your baked goods.”

She left and Aelin groaned as she let her head fall back into the pillows. “After noon,” she said, making sure the words were separated. “As in after twelve pm, which is still seven hours away.”

Lys patted her hand. “It could be sooner. She might decide she’s ready to be here now.”

Aelin turned and looked at her best friend, a look in her eyes that she hadn’t seen since they were in middle school and beating the shit out of each other in the girl’s locker room. They’d been inseparable ever since. “That would be horrible, too. Because then I wouldn’t get my epidural and I’d be in even more pain.”

Aedion said from the couch, mouth full, “She’ll get here in the perfect amount of time that you get your drugs and you aren’t in labor for two days.”

Aelin looked at him. “What are you eating.”

Aedion crumpled up the wax paper bag it had been in, trying to obscure the chocolate within. “Nothing.”

Aelin’s voice was like ice. “If I wasn’t due for a contraction any minute now, I’d punch you right in the dick.”

The room got silent and then Rowan’s phone rang. He glanced at it. “It’s Lorcan, babe, I need to get it.”

“Go,” she said, smiling wickedly. “Aedion can help me.” She held out her hand, waiting for his to squeeze.

Rowan patted his back as he walked by. “Hope that croissant was worth it.”

He answered as he stepped out into the hall. “Hey, man.”

Lorcan asked, “Your wife push out your demon spawn yet?”

Rowan rolled his eyes. “No, she’s still a few hours away from her epidural and a while from pushing.”

Lorcan’s response was simple. “Gross. Hey, is your substitute giving your finals?”

He sighed, “I would assume, Lor, since they start on Wednesday, and my wife is giving birth to our daughter right now.”

“Fair enough,” Lorcan said. “Elide will be coming by at some point to see Aelin, and I’ll come by after classes end.”

“That’s probably about when she’ll be here, so make sure you call Lysandra first. I might be a little busy,” Rowan laughed.

Lorcan snorted, “Why? It’s not like you’ll be doing any of the hard work. You did your part nine months ago, when you nutted inside of-.”

Probably louder than he should have, in a hospital wing just after sunrise, Rowan said, “Goodbye, Lorcan,” and hung up the phone.

Considering how his best friend usually spoke, Rowan had to admit that the conversation had actually been pretty tame. I’m fact, he was pretty sure that was Lorcan being sweet and caring. Which is why, once he opened the door to Aelin’s room, Rowan said, “Lorcan said good luck.”

Aelin, next to Aedion who was rubbing his now-sore hand, blinked. “Are you sure? That’s uncharacteristic of him.”

“He also says that Elide will come by soon.”

“That sounds more accurate,” Aelin said, then yawned. “Can you at least go get me some magazines or something? I’m bored as hell and hurting like shit.”

His stomach grumbled and he said, “I’m absolutely starving, so what if I go grab some food that doesn’t look like it could come to life and eat me instead, and I’ll pick up that new book you’ve been wanting?”

“You mean you’re going to leave?” Her eyes went wide, filling with tears.

He was instantly by her side, her face in his hands. “I won’t, I don’t have to. I can eat the radioactive cafeteria food and run down to the gift shop for the magazines. I was just going to run to the Walmart that has a McDonalds in it down the road. Two birds, one stone.”

Her eyes were still panicked and Lysandra, hearing Rowan’s stomach growl ferociously again, said, “Ro, why don’t you run down to grab some magazines, and Aedion will go get you food and the book for Aelin?”

It was less of a question and more of a “Get your asses in gear, this is what we’re doing” statement, and with Aelin’s sniffling nod of confirmation. The men were off, Rowan coming back with a few magazines and the sweetest stuffed animal that Aelin had ever seen.

“What is that?” she laughed, eating another bite of ice chips.

Rowan sheepishly held the white ball of fluff in his hands. “I realized that when we were packing her bag, we didn’t bring her anything but clothes and diapers and the essential stuff. And I know she has tons at home, but... I wanted to give her her first stuffed animal, as her daddy, so…”

Aelin’s eyes were rimmed with tears as she said, “Can I see?”

His cheeks burned. “I didn’t have many great options, they’re doing a remodel down there, so… The White-Tailed Hawk was the highlighted animal of the month.” He held the soft bird out to her.

Aelin huffed a laugh as she took the bird into her hands and ran her fingers over the soft fur. “It’s perfect.”

She clung to that stuffed animal for the next few hours as Rowan ate his McDonalds. The book, however, had to wait, because by the time Aedion got back with everything, the contractions were brutal.

At least Rowan had finished his egg McMuffin before they pulled out the longest needle he had ever seen, making him lightheaded.

He nearly fainted when they stuck that needle into Aelin’s back.

It wasn’t much longer that she grew numb from the waist down, and not too much longer after that she felt the slightest bit of pressure, letting Alis know that the baby was wanting to make her grand appearance into the world.

Lysandra, much to her disappointment, was told she had to leave while Rowan remained, holding her hand as she began to push.

“You’re doing so good,” Rowan whispered, five minutes in. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Aelin closed her eyes and pressed her sweaty forehead against his, just as she started to push again.

They had both heard horror stories of women who had to push for hours and hours and hours. Thankfully, Aelin was not one of them, because half an hour after the first push, a soft cry filled the silent room.

“She’s here, baby, she’s here.” There were tears streaming down Rowan Whitethorn’s face as the doctors placed the small, wailing infant on Aelin’s chest. The cries quieted almost immediately and he kissed her head. “I love you so much. You did so amazing, Ace.”

Aelin was crying, looking down into the perfect face of her daughter. “Hello, beautiful girl. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Rowan laughed quietly, though even Aelin admitted that it sounded closer to a sob.

————

About an hour later, a quiet knock came from the door. Rowan opened the door to find Lysandra and Aedion waiting.

All it took was one smile from Rowan and Lysandra began to cry, throwing her arms around him. “Congratulations.”

He hugged her back, trying his best not to tear up again himself. “Thank you. Come meet her.”

After a quick hug from Aedion, Rowan led them into the room, where Aelin, fresh faced and hair in a messy bun on the top of her head, sat in the bed, gazing adoringly at the small bundle in her arms.

“Do you want to meet Auntie Lys and Uncle Aedion?” She cooed down at her daughter.

Sloan was sleeping, but it didn’t stop Lysandra from pressing her lips against the newborn's head, where a striped knit hat was pulled over her tufts of golden hair.

“Meet Sloan Elia Whitethorn,” Aelin said, quietly, brushing her finger over Sloan's soft cheek.

“She’s beautiful,” Lysandra whispered, and the moment Aelin asked if she wanted to hold her, Lysandra was crying again.

Rowan watched the entire scene play out from just inside of the door, leaning up against the wall. His wife, holding his baby girl. His friends, family, admiring their little creation. There was nothing like it. He had never imagined life could be so perfect, so joyful. He had never imagined he could love someone, two someones, so much.

And to think, he owed it all to a fucking dating app and an absurdly long layover at the airport.

He was so damn happy he swiped right.

#part 2 #rowaelin #tog #throne of glass #rowan #aelin #fanfic #fanfition #oneshot #sjm #collab

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blizzardfluffykpop · 4 years

Text

Our Home (II)

Summary: California, the golden state, home of the dreamers and the sun. No one can have a rainbow without a little rain. The rain has past now all we see is the misty rainbows. (There is still a lot of Jim Croce references).

Bambam X Reader

Multi-parted: Part I, Part II, Mini-Part III, and Mini-Part IV.

(This part only alludes to the reader’s past but doesn’t talk about it).

California is everything we dreamed up and more although it took a few months until we were on our feet. Our first aim was to find a home to settle down in. The house we settled on was old but with a whole lot of love, we could make her shine. We got a mortgage on her and that's when we knew everything was starting to piece itself together for us. The outside looked like a train wreck with paint falling off the sides of the walls, the grass overgrown. But the inside screamed of the house screamed 'home' to the both of us. From the painted grapes on the kitchen cabinets to the living room's sunken floor. Everywhere we turned we found ourselves looking at each other giddily. We shared the same idea that this house is our home, I remember the realtor’s shocked face when we said we’d take it. No one has lived in the house since the seventies, and the rooms were all different colors. Nothing seemed in place in the house, but that was why it caught our eyes. It was something that none of the other houses had, character. Of course, we sat on the porch talking it over before settling for it. The day after we took the mortgage out with the money we had from “The Mac,” we started on our hunt to find a job.

It wasn’t hard for Bambam to find a tattoo artist shop that was willing to take him in. The place that took him under their wings just opened up. Both of them had a wide variety of experiences and were willing to teach him the ropes. The smile on his face was unforgettable, the smile that stretched from ear to ear. As he came out of the shop, I leaned against his bike with an amaryllis flower, knowing he had the job walking in. I put the flower behind his ear as he picked me up and spun me around. “I’m so proud of you, Babe!” I told him excitedly, he giggled, “I can’t wait to start!” I laugh with him, “When do you?” He set me down, “Tomorrow morning, bright and early so they can start teaching me. Maybe someday my name will be up there.” He tells me pointing towards the sign that reads, “Mark and Gyeom’s Tattoo Parlour”. I kiss his cheek, as I tell him the meaning of the flower.

For me, it was a different story, while Bambam only saw two tattoo parlors before the third accepted him. It took me three weeks, of going to every recording place in the city. Bambam was at the parlor learning the art of tattooing on fruits. I started early in the morning applying, hoping they would at least look at my music sheets. It was evening when I looked at my wallet which had a few dollars in it and decided to grab a cup of tea at a cafe. As I sat there thinking, Bambam crossed my mind and it was like my hand couldn't grab a piece of paper and pen fast enough. I couldn’t stop writing it seemed like this cafe resembled everything we had been through to make it to this point. Once I finished my final thought on paper, I left the shop I knew I had to bring Bambam later.

I was about to call it quits for the night as I walk down a gloomy side street filled with neon signs. What should bother me about this alleyway doesn’t affect me a bit. I had grown used to these sinister side streets back in New York. I look up and see the sunset out in the distance. It reminds me that I always have hope, and with Bambam by my side I know I can achieve my dreams. When I reach the end of the alley, I see the beach. As much as it calls out to me, I find myself turning left, my heart guiding me. I look at the signs when a blue neon sign catches my eye, “Lost Amour: Recording Label.”

I pick up my pace and when I enter the business everything feels right. I swallow a gulp and a guy with an anti-eyebrow piercing greets me and asks, “What can I do for you?” A smile gracing his features, “I-I,...” I talk myself out of a stammer in my head and approach the desk with confidence. I pull out my lyrics and compositions from my satchel. “I was wondering if you were looking for a new lyricist or composer! I can do both, so it’s okay if you only want me to do one or the other!” I tell him trying not to let him get his hopes down about me. My heart has been broken so many times this week, I feel like this is my last chance.

He asks if he can read over my works and I agree immediately. He is the first person to even look at my lyrics and compositions. I watch him flip through them until he reaches the song I wrote in the cafe. I see him smile, “Who is this about?” A grin breaks out on my face, “That’s about my lover Bambam, he is everything I ever dreamed about and more.” He grins, “You poured your whole heart into this one.” He stares at it, “Honey?” His voice calls out, “Yes, Sugar?” A male voice responds, “Would you come up here?” A man emerges from a glass office, he places his hand on the back of the anti-eyebrow piercing man. Anti-eyebrow tells his lover, “I want you to read over this” He nods, “Who wrote this?” He asks after he reads it through, his partner points at me, “I’m Park Jinyoung and you are?” I gulp, “I’m (Y/n) (L/n)” The other man tells me his name is Im Jaebeom, I tell them it’s a pleasure to be acquainted with them. Jaebeom whispers something to Jinyoung, and Jinyoung nods. Jinyoung tells me, “We’ve needed a new lyricist and composer. Someone to bring light to Lost Amour, since our last coworker left for Chicago. Would you want to join us here?” He holds his hand out for me to shake and my jaw drops, “Really?” They look at each other before looking over and nodding at me, “If you write like this all the time, from the heart,... We need someone like you, what do you say, (Y/n)?” I’m in shock and my heart is beating out of my chest. I grin and shake Jinyoung's hand, “I would love to work with you guys.” They grin, “Welcome to the Lost Amour, then. We'll need your contact information so we can contact you about your hours. We'll have the official papers ready for you by Monday.” I agree and shake Jaebeom's hand once I leave the building with my songs, my heart is pounding.

I run home and pull out my guitar. I started playing around with the song that I made at the cafe. I’m gonna show it to Bambam tonight, I’m gonna tell him that I made it. I eat a quick snack and fix up the song to perfection. By the time he gets home, I made my final corrections and rush downstairs. My grin saying it all, I already know but I grab his hand and rush us up the creaky stairs. I have him sit next to me and I start strumming, singing out my whole heart. When I finish he puts his hands on the sides of my cheeks, “You found a label, didn’t you?” His smile wide, “I’m so proud of you” I pull him in by his neck kissing him, “I did, that’s the song that got me in.” He kisses my forehead, his hands still on my cheeks, “Is this song about me?” I nod, “You’re my whole world, Bambam. I was sitting in this cafe that reminded me of us,... Would you like to go to that cafe with me tonight?” He grins, “Let's celebrate the bill is on me” he pulls me up and spins me around. We sway for a little basking in each other’s warmth.

The pale yellow in the room contrasting against his tan skin, and my heart feels calmed by his presence. He makes me feel like I can take on the world, “You’re my world, god I can do anything by your side.” He voices my feelings, I grin and kiss him, “Bambam, nothing in this world could compare to you.” He shakes his head and I continue, “You’re the one I want to go through time with.” I softly sing into his ear, he puts his chin on my shoulder, “Let’s build our home up from pillars of love” he whispers.

---

Three months later, our house is finally settled in. We’ve worked day and night on her every time we’re home together. Sometimes we get caught up with each other, but looking at it now. The siding having a fresh coat of pale yellow paint after scraping off the crumbling green. After we ran around the house like little kids chasing each other with paintbrushes full of paint. Or when it got too hot and we would dunk one another with a bucket of water. The first time I did it to Bambam, he screamed, before I could run away he had his arms around me shivering. “You brought this upon yourself!” His laughter ringing through his voice as I tried to get out of his hold.

Tiling the bathroom floor was awful, we asked help from Yugyeom, his coworker. They complained the whole time. By the end, we were throwing the little plastic spacers at each other. I stepped on so many plastic spacers because of our antics, felt just like legos. Jackson, our next-door neighbor, came over with lunch ready to help us out. He invited Youngjae over who lived across from us to help too. I never thought I would have people in my life that would selflessly come over and want to help. Youngjae came in shortly after, with full stomachs we went back upstairs to finish tiling.

Don’t worry it wasn’t long before Jaebeom, Jinyoung, and Mark were called,... We may be fixing up our house but it doesn’t mean we know what we’re doing. When Jaebeom arrived we had him look at the water heater, we got it to turn off but we couldn’t get it to turn back on. It took Jackson, Mark, and him thirty minutes before we had warm water.

I ordered pizza for everyone that night. Mark’s girlfriend came in tired from her long workday. We ate our hearts out in pizza as we sat and talked about life. We haven’t even known each other for that long, but we’re all so comfortable around each other. Like one big happy family, one that you see on television. Where they go out on the weekends together and enjoy each other's company. Trying new things together, telling stories from years past.

Going out for events such as Bambam’s name being added to the company name, or one of my songs make it big. You wouldn’t believe the party we held when we were told Mark’s girlfriend was going to have a baby. Our house became a home, not just because of the new fixtures but because of the people we’re surrounded by. It’s always lively no matter where you are when you’re with them.

Then there are nights like tonight, where Bambam and I sit on the couch before we go to work. Cuddling up to each other, nothing could get better than this. Bambam grabs my hand, I lean my head up to look at him, “Yes?” I ask him softly, wondering what he was thinking, “Would you,... want to get a couple tattoo with me?” I grin with a shrug, “Yeah, why not?” He grins and leans over placing a kiss on my forehead. He tells me that he wants me to tattoo it onto him. At first, I disagreed until he convinced me with, “If you tattoo it on me, I’d be able to say my lover tattooed that on me! Even if it doesn’t look good, everyone is going to think it’s endearing!” I shook my head with a smile and agreed.

I guess as Jim Croce had once said, “Is that nobody ever had a rainbow, baby, until he had the rain.” The rain was my past and my present is Bambam and the life we spend together. The rainbow is showing its colors in the life we lead together, though the rain will always be there,... The sun will shine through and make a rainbow because Bambam’s my sun.

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desdemonafictional · 6 years

Text

The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (pt 5)

continuation of Choko’s October People

pt. 1

The sounds of the calliope are the first sign that the carnival is waking up for the night, the lazy reel of the starlight song drifting over the sleeping ferris and down between the trailers, until it crawls beneath Edgar’s door and startles him into wakefulness. He gives his misty reflection a long, thoughtful look. Today is going to be different. Today, he’s going to make this place yield for him.

Sharktooth appears in the doorway as Edgar is pulling on his jacket. He doesn’t know what it is about this place, but it clearly does not want him to have shirts. Twice now he has had to hunt down and coax the shirt he came here in out of the mouths of carnival beasts. He doesn’t wear the clothes he arrived in anymore, but he doesn’t feel right if he doesn’t know precisely where they are, tucked underneath his thin mattress like the pelt of a selkie.

“I’ve got an idea for the box,” Sharktooth says.

He is not quite in the doorway, not quite outside of it, shadowed by the glow of the rolling blue fog. His buttons gleam.

“Oh do you?” Edgar says. When he turns, it takes a moment for the showman’s eyes to disengage from his chest.

“Yeah—” his gaze finally snaps up. “I wanna do the three magic breaths routine. I need somebody to practice with.”

Edgar points to a chain of pearls hanging from the vanity beside Sharktooth, who is helpful enough to pass them over. Bits and bobs of jewelry are still appearing in his room, and he knows that Johnny is leaving them here, although why he pretends like he isn’t… isn’t entirely clear. Edgar loops this one around his throat and turns back to his guest, who seems to swallow dryly.

He was right. Today is going to be different.

“Okay,” Edgar says, and holds out his hand. “Show me.”

Edgar is up in the Black Ferris, shouting answers down to Tenna as she grills him about the mechanics of its enormous spider heart, when he spots Sharktooth climbing the platform up towards them.

“Hey!” he shouts. “Tenna! Let me borrow the canary for a minute.”

Edgar leans out over the edge and peers down at them.

“Aww,” Tenna says, “come on, I’m not done with him. Wait your turn.”

“Fuck that,” Sharktooth says, “he wants to come with me. Isn’t that right, Vargas?”

Edgar looks from one to the other. He cannot help but be amused by the poorly concealed eagerness on Sharktooth’s face, and by the visible sulk on Tenna’s.

“Just give us five minutes,” Edgar says. “I’ll be right with you.”

In the doorway, breathless and almost glowing with excitement— “I had an idea,” Sharktooth says. “Come practice with me.”

In a clatter of chain, Sharktooth pushes back the curtain to the changing room, catching Edgar by the wrist before he can protest, tugging him out half dressed into the night—

A chill hand, an urgent pace, the glow and whirl of the carnival all around them as they duck beneath banners and through alleys—

“I gotta admit,” Sharktooth says, almost wistfully, “you’re a natural.”

Edgar holds out his wrists for the clasp of silver manacles, trying not to let the stutter of his breathing show as those cool, restless fingers grip his skin.

Edgar pauses, as he notices the crowd of carnies gathered in a mill around the turnstiles. It’s unusual to see so many of them in one place, let alone up at the front. He catches Cleo’s eye, and ducks closer.

“What’s going on?” he asks her.

“Bossman’s due back any time now,” she tells him, in her exhausted monotone, blowing and popping an enormous bubble.

Nny? It’s true Edgar hasn’t seen him in a few days, but that’s not entirely unusual. He is an inscrutable creature, coming and going at his own pleasure.

Because it seems to be the thing to do today, Edgar waits by the ticket booth until at last the crowd starts to churn with excitement, pushing each other out of the way to lean over the turnstiles.

“Shoo!” the familiar voice comes, barely audible over the ruckus. “Get back, you animals.”

As the crowd skitters back, Edgar catches sight at last of Johnny pushing through, chin sunk into the lapels of his coat. With a scowl, he reels back a knee and kicks the backside of a slower moving body. At his heels, there is a little red wagon loaded up with a teetering stack of odds and ends, plastic and glass.

“Can you greedy little monsters at least attempt to do this with some class?” he demands, reaching into the lining of his coat and removing a long sheet of what appears to be a shopping list. “Okay,” he calls out, “who asked for the sea monkeys?”

Edgar watches as item by item, Nny parcels out his hoard of modern luxuries to dozens of delighted hands. As the crowd clears out, Nny looks up from his work and lights on Edgar.

“Oh!” he says, and breaks into a smile. “Of course, for our precious Edgar-Edgar-Vargas. I have a little something for you too.”

From inside of his heavy coat, Nny draws out and spreads several paperback books like a deck of oversized cards. Edgar literally does not understand where he was keeping them. Nny trots over to him, flashing one cover after another, and then pushing them into his hands in one messy stack.

“These were out on the display shelf,” he says, “I figure that must mean they’re popular.”

Edgar gives him a tentative smile. “I’m afraid I’m at a bit of a disadvantage here,” he says. “I haven’t got anything to trade you.”

Nny scoffs and flicks his wrist. “You’re one of us now,” he says, “you just do what the others do. A button or something.”

Edgar blinks as Nny reaches into his deep pockets and draws up a handful of pale stones and chipped buttons, one or two yellow teeth. He pushes his open hand out at Edgar, who—helplessly—pats down the sheer clothing that the trunk in his tent has provided him, in search of something useful. At his wrist he finds the tiny white button and pops it free with his teeth, gently laying it on top of Nny’s peculiar hoard.

“There we go,” Nny says. He grins, and Edgar can’t help but return the smile. He looks down again, at the stack of paperbacks.

“Wait,” he says, “is this a library barcode—?”

“Magic words,” Edgar repeats, doubtful.

“Magic words!” Tenna says, leaning in towards him.

They are helping the strongmen move the coffin of the woman who sleeps like the dead, an ice block in which the flutter of her dreaming eyelids is visible to the delight of the crowds. Edgar is in charge of holding doors open for them.

“If magic is that easy,” Edgar says, thinking of the chains and the deep, of prestidigitation, “then why do any of you walk anywhere? Why do you use that wrench on the ferris?”

Tenna rubs her hands together. “I’m ready for this one,” she says. “You know how it costs more money to send something rush through the postal service than to send it regular?”

“Yes?”

“It’s like that.”

Edgar considers it for a moment. “How do you know what the postal service is?”

“Oh,” Tenna says, “and I bet you think I don’t know what a telegram is either. Or a range stove. Get a load of mister modern over here, thinks he invented the talkies.”

“I literally can’t tell if you’re saying old things to make fun of me, or if you actually think it’s 1930,” Edgar says.

“Please,” Tenna says. “Like I’ve ever known what number year it is.”

One by one the pall-bearers leap over a wooded post fallen across the pathway, causing Tenna’s feet to swing merrily against the side of the ice.

“So… what kind of magic words are we talking?” Edgar asks her.

“Let’s say you want to put people to sleep in an instant,” Tenna says, tapping the icy coffin upon which she is currently seated. “There’s a word for that. Want me to teach you?”

Edgar gives the crew a surreptitious glance. “Alright,” he says.

Tenna leans down and taps her lips with her finger. “Trrdigl’yaie,” Tenna says, slowly, somehow pronouncing several letters that should not ever sit next to each other on the tongue.

“…Teriggly,” Edgar says.

Tenna laughs so hard that she topples right off the top of the ice coffin, landing on her back in the sawdust with her legs kicking in delight, as the strongmen bear their cargo away into the night.

“What is Nny to you?” Edgar asks.

He is suspended by his wrists above the swirling tank, trying his best to hook his foot under the rope floating across its surface without having his ankle bitten off by Rahab, who is as fond of him as Tenna and nearly as intent on taking a sampling for taste. Below him, Sharktooth’s marker squeaks off the glass in a distressed scribble.

“What’s he to you?”

The rope bobs under the pressure of Edgar’s toe. “Well,” he says. “Sometimes I think of him as my friend, and sometimes I think of him as my captor, and sometimes I think of him as a…”

Sharktooth leans his whole weight onto his forearm, scrubbing off the stray marking with his sleeve. His face is bare today, the first time Edgar has seen it for more than a moment at a time. Without the camouflage of skeletal paint his face is strikingly open, with bright, expressive eyes—something he seems to compensate for by squinting a lot.

“A what?” he says.

“Let’s leave it at ‘keeper’,” Edgar answers, flushing a bit.

Sharktooth pulls back and squints at him, his disconcertingly pale lids low over his bright eyes.

“You’re close with him, aren’t you?” Edgar says. “I mean, as much as anyone can be.” The loop of rope slides at last over his foot, and he kicks it over the edge of the tank, down to Sharktooth, who catches it in his hand.

“Not a single non shitty thing ever happened to me,” Sharktooth says, “not one, until I met him.”

“Did he try to eat you too?”

Sharktooth digs the heel of his palm into his clavicle, just above his heart. His expression flickers, bare brows creasing. “What’s up with the interrogation?” he asks.

Edgar swings, trying to get enough momentum to touch the ledge of the tank. Long term, he’s hoping to get fit enough that he can curl up and hook his legs around the chain, he thinks that would be kind of cool, especially if Sharktooth will actually teach him how to pick these locks. He thinks he’s like…. Four more passive aggressive hints away from getting there.

“I guess—” Edgar says, straining and missing the ledge, “—I never know what it means when he like… gives me things? Touches me?”

“He touches you?” Sharktooth demands.

“Uh—” This swing brings him a little closer. He touches down and strains to keep his footing, one heel over the side. “Yeah—in my bedroom mostly, when he comes to visit—shit, Jesus, I misjudged this—actually he’s very sweet, I wasn’t expecting him to be so—oh god damn it.”

As his toes splash back down into the water, Rahab gives the surface an interested look.

Edgar blows out a puff of air. “Like I said,” he finishes, using his arm to push his hair off his forehead, “I just don’t know how serious it is. Can you let me down from here?”

The strain on his shoulders disappears, and for a half second he is stunned by the feeling of free fall, the shock of his feet hitting water—and then he is on the ground, disoriented, breathing hard. “You could have just lowered me down with the pulley,” he says, a hand squeezed over his pumping heart.

“It’s serious,” Sharktooth says.

Edgar looks up, a cold feeling coming over him as surely as if he’d been dropped in altogether. Sharktooth is watching him with the grimmest expression Edgar has ever seen on him, all the more for being twisted into his naked features.

“Oh,” Edgar says. “Should I be—should I be worried?”

Shartooth’s lip twitches down. “If anyone should be worried, it’s probably him. You’re about as inevitable as quicksand.”

Edgar makes a face. “Thanks? I think?”

“Ain’t my fuckin call to make,” Sharktooth mutters, more to himself than Edgar it seems like. He turns and uncaps the marker again, picking up where he left off on the intricate pattern of the incantation circle.

“I gotta set up for the show,” he says. “You better go.”

Feeling wrongfooted and uneasy, Edgar says, “I could help?”

Without turning, Sharktooth says, “You’ll help yourself, I’m sure.”

#jthm #nny/edgar

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ayellowbirds · 6 years

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Keshet Rewatches All of Scooby-Doo, Pt. 13: "Which Witch Is Which?"

("Scooby-Doo, Where Are You", Season 1 Episode 13)

AKA "That Voodoo You Don’t Do"

In a misty marsh, a strange, hunch-backed figure pushes a punt boat through the water, pausing to look behind him so the camera can see his face.

What a looker.

Not far away or long after, the gang are taking a shortcut on their fishing trip. They've gotten lost due to Fred’s terrible route-planning (seriously, I may need to start keeping track from here, i feel like the gang getting lost while on the road becomes a trope later on), and catch sight of a figure by the road, holding a lantern but apparently not visible enough to register as anything strange. While Scooby “fishes” in the back of the van by dipping a line tied to his tail into a bucket full of water, the Mystery Machine pulls to a stop so Shaggy can ask for directions.

Fleeing in terror from the “zombie”, the gang arrive in a community evidently named “Swamp’s End”, if the sign on the General Store is any indication, still quite badly lost.

While Scooby raids an open tin of beans (wouldn’t they be dry? I can’t imagine wet beans being left out for sale in a non-refrigerated environment), the gang speak to the store owner, a thickly-bearded fella by the name of Zeke. He tells them that the zombie was created by an old witch with “voodoo magic”. Zeke and his buddy Zeb Perkins first caught sight of her six months back, having gone into the swamp for some frog gigging.

Seen above: the landscaping concept for my fallback retirement plans. The witch chants above her fire, “Smoke of darkness, demon of evil, take the form of the living, and come forth from the flame!” and the logs and fire fade away, replaced by the zombie. He’s even already got his lantern!

While Zeke relates that the town is abandoned except for the two of them and that Zeb has been scared so bad he won’t go outdoors, Scooby’s inattentive eating wind up giving him a mouthful of jumping beans, leading to him bouncing around and hiccuping.

This was a popular bit in older cartoons, especially Hanna-Barbera ones, but it seems like nowadays, “jumping beans” aren’t really part of popular culture. It’s probably because the reason they “jump” is that they’re parasitized by a caterpillar, and novelty items powered by insect larvae are not as popular as @bogleech might hope.

While Fred, Velma, and Daphne clean up Zeke’s shop after Scooby’s bug-induced hopping fit, Scooby and Shaggy are tasked with checking on Zeb. They arrive to find his cabin showing sings of having been inhabited, but dusty and full of cobwebs—there’s no sign of Perkins himself.

Well, except for one.

Shaggy assumes that Zeb’s been shrunk, but Velma explains that it’s a “voodoo doll” made in his likeness. “Voodoo” is tossed around a lot in this episode, and that could be blamed on it being the mistaken assumptions of white people and pop culture about any folk magic practices, but pretty much everything observable about the swamp witch except her zombie servant is actually rooted in European and especially English and Germanic folk magic and superstitions.

Her “Halloween witch” looks draw on the typical mishegoss of stereotypes of feminine villainy that include a vaguely antisemitic hooked nose, and a hat style that i’ve ranted about before (and others have noted is linked to the beer-brewing traditions in Europe, along with things like the broom, solitary old women, and having cats around); the “voodoo doll” is in fact an English-style poppet and most of the connection to voodoo/vodou is based in racist propaganda. Even her hut looks more like something illustrated by Arthur Rackham or Ivan Bilibin.

The gang take a boat out into the swamp and catch sight of their targets, but lose them among the reeds and waters. Continuing further on, they find signs warning them to BEWARE and GO BACK, but press onward, and find the witch’s "shack”—complete with pin-pricked poppets in the likeness of Fred, Daphne, Velma, and Shaggy propped up against a mirror! .

Velma thinks it’s “phony baloney”, but Scooby can’t resist testing it out.

Ah, the loyalty of Man’s Best Friend. “Coincidentally”, Shaggy backs into a fork just as Scooby literally stabs his likeness in the back, and the witch appears in a puff of smoke. “So, you dared entered the swamp in spite of my warning signs!”

Daphne’s response?

Everyone else is stunned by her sick burn, but i notice in this moment that there’s a portrait of the witch up on the wall. What an oddly extra touch on the part of the villains! How long do you figure it took them to make it, or did they acquire it somewhere and tailor the witch disguise to match it?

Enraged, the witch casts a spell on Daphne, bidding the “smoke of evil, make her vanish!” and causing the redhead to disappear in a puff of smoke, leaving only her footprints behind on the rug where she was standing.

The bright pink rug that was not visible in any prior shots, in spite of Daphne’s full body and shoes on the bare wood floor being on-screen.

But Velma and Fred realize that the way Daphne’s footprints seem to slide backwards mean that there’s a trap door, and find it when investigating below the house. Following footprints further into the swamp in hopes of finding their friend, they catch sight of a derelict river boat and the zombie’s punt... which has an odd little extra.

The end of the punting pole is embellished with a metal tip that has clearly had more intent and care put into its design than the episode’s villains themselves (not to mention such things as bright pink rugs), with extra little indentations and rivets that are far from necessary to convey its role in the scheme.

The gang go to investigate the riverboat, unknowingly watched by the cackling witch and her undead minion, who begin to terrorize the foursome as they split up and search the boat.

While Shaggy and Scooby flee the zombie, Fred and Velma hear a muffled voice behind a wall with no clear entry, and try to find a secret entrance. Velma tries tugging on a lantern because “it’s always done that way in the movies”, but instead pulls it clean off the wall and tumbles backwards, knocking over an old bucket and sending a bar of soap flying at an emergency axe mounted on the wall—which was the actual trigger for the secret door.

Why is there always a secret door? It’s never just that the door is somewhere else and they happened to take a wrong turn, there’s never just a dead end.

Finding a grunting sheet-clad shape inside the secret room, Velma initially mistakes it for a ghost, but pulling away the sheet quickly reveals it’s Daphne... and a search of the room finds a very modern electrical winch, cutting torch, and set of power tools.

An aside for observation on characterization: i’ve joked a lot about Velma being not as skeptical as she makes herself seem, but i think the “credulity to skeptic” scale of the gang goes something like this:

Shaggy

Daphne

Scooby

Velma

Fred

I rated Scooby in the middle, though it varies in later series, because he actually seems to wind up noticing something isn’t supernatural faster than the others, either due to circumstance or canine senses. When he doesn’t, he usually reacts to a threat because the others are reacting to it, taking cues on what to fear based mostly on Shaggy. Much of the time, he seems innocent to what something could be except “big and angry”, and only really reacts with terror when one of his human friends says something.

Speaking of fear: the witch and zombie take advantage of being a team to terrorize both divisions of the gang at the same time, including the witch seeming to fly after them. But the discovery of a modern fan-powered airboat tucked into a passage in the riverboat also leads to the discovery that the flying witch is nothing more than a painted sheet thrown over a balloon, a cheaper trick than most Halloween decorations.

The airboat’s throttle gets stuck, and Scooby tosses down an improbably large anchor. The jarring stop brings up a lot of swampwater... and an entire armored bank car. Soon, the gang have improvised a rope-and-pulley system with some sturdy trees, and pull the truck to shore, finding sacks full of money with big old dollar signs drawn on, in case you were confused about what the enormous bags secured inside an armored bank car could possibly be.

Fred’s trap this time around is to leave some of those bags out in the open, where the witch and zombie—who the gang rightfully conclude have been hunting for this, using the metal-tipped pole to sound out the swamp floor for the metal roof of the car—can find them. Without breaking character, the gruesome twosome run up to the bags, cackling and mumbling with glee.

Of course, the bags are mostly filled with Scooby and Shaggy.

Kasem’s delivery on this line is magnificent, by the way. Leading the costumed crooks into a trap, the plan almost goes off without a hitch, but as usual, Scooby gets knocked along with the villains into a waiting wagon that rolls downhill towards the open back of the armored car. It’s only Shaggy demonstrating improbable line-casting skill that keeps Scooby from being trapped with the villains, as he uses a fishing pole to snag the bag Scooby is still wearing and pull him back uphill.

Jinkies, but Shaggy is strong. Why is this boy scared of anything? He could probably lift most of the villains of the week with one hand. I feel like there’s a lot to be said about the fact that Shaggy is a jock who doesn’t realize he is one, especially when we get into the episodes and movies where he actually competes in sports.

The gang meet up with a sheriff outside of the General Store, and it’s unsurprisingly revealed that the witch is Zeke, while the zombie is Zeb, explained as having hijacked the armored car in the first place, sinking it to find it later after the heat died down. The Scooby wiki notes that this episode seems to feature a rare example of a character from outside of the gang being reused: the Sheriff originates in the very first episode, as seen in this model sheet from a now-defunct Cartoon Network page, though the episode number doesn’t match up.

The episode ends with the gang musing on this having begun as a fishing trip, and Scooby is still dipping his tail-strung line into a bucket in the back of the Mystery Machine. “Give up,” says Fred, but less than a second later, Scooby pulls a hooked fish out of the water!

As Scooby defies the laws of physics and common sense once more, the gang share a laugh, and... fade to credits.

(like what i’m doing here? It’s not what pays the bills, so i’d really appreciate it if you could send me a bit at my paypal.me or via my ko-fi. Click here to see more entries in this series of posts, or here to go in chronological order)

#scooby doo #KRAOSD

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laisselfreemaiden · 6 years

Text

The Skinchanger

Pairing: ??? x Skinchanger!Reader

Warnings: Violence and Thorin being his kinda bratty kingly self lol

A/n: I almost called this The One Where I Make Three Endings because I coudn’t decide who to ship yall with! Soooo....one will be with Legolas, one with Thorin, and one with Fili! Because I literally can’t handle how many attractive men there are on the Hobbit

For as long as you could remember, it’d been you, the animals(wild and tame), and your father. You, like him, never really cared for the company of others, but you tolerated it more than he did. You were more curious than he was, even as a child. Child was subjective, however, you were quite mature. And old. You don’t quite remember how old you are, but it is older than men, that you know. That’s to be expected, though, since you aren’t of the race of men.

You had learned from them, though. Just like you had from your mother’s people; the Elves. You had learned their language, Sindarin and Quenya, from listening and mimicking them. It was quite fun, no one knew you could so it would surprise them.

You’re brushing the ponies when you see strangers seemingly running for their lives towards your home. No small wonder they are, either, with a giant bear chasing them. You hide yourself among the rather calm ponies before they see you and you watch as they slam the door on the bear. You guess by the shapes that had ran past you that there were about fourteen lodging in the house. No matter. You didn’t mind sleeping outside on such a nice night, anyway.

You watch as the bear walks slowly away, twisting and becoming more man-like as he does. He’s still huge, but he is how how he usually is. Beorn the skinchanger is home. Sending up a quick prayer to whatever divine beings there are for your unexpected guests, you lay in the grass among the ponies.

As you usually did in the early mornings, you go out to hunt. Your bow on your back rhythmically tapping against you, as well as your daggers on your upper thigh holsters, as you silently walk over roots, tracking a small group of deer. Quickly taking to the trees, you watch the herd graze peacefully. You almost hate to kill them, but you and your father have to eat.

Being the daughter of a skinchangers and being half one yourself gave you a higher respect for nature and creatures. You know how they thought, how much they cared for their group members, and how scared they could be when hunted. The fear in their eyes made the killer inside of you eager to hunt, but another part of you stills it.

The many horned male looks up at you, his ears twitching silently. He is old, his eyes, antlers, and scars on his skin show that much. An almost spiritual conversation seems to happen between you both before he lays down, head resting on the ground as he falls asleep.

You send up a silent prayer to the spirits before notching an arrow and loosing it. He feels nothing as he sleeps eternally.

A sharp neigh startles the heard as a pony trots up. You jump down to lay the buck across it’s back, holding the antlers to keep them from scratching the pony. Your father most likely sent it to assist you.

When you reach the house, you pull the deer onto your back and send the pony away to rejoin the herd. You know it’s unlikely, but you secretly hope the visitors are still here. You wish to learn more about the world beyond your borders.

“Ada(Dad), I brought a buck this...time…” you trail off as fifteen pairs of eyes look to you. Only two are familiar.

The visitors had stayed after all.

You clear your throat before dragging the deer inside. “Mae govannen(well met), strangers. I trust you had a restful night?”

The awkward stiffness after your elven words is almost palpable as you brush your hands off. Didn’t help that your bow and daggers are elvish, either.

“Gandalf, Company,” your father’s deep voice breaks the silence. “This is my daughter. She has gone out and gotten us a meal.”

You smile softly as you quickly busy yourself, trying to ignore the curious and angry stares.

“...not talk about….with an elf-mutt here….”

Your ears twitch under your hair as you hear whispers behind you. Mutt, huh?

“This elf-mutt can hear better than you think, master dwarf.” You turn to look directly at who you gather is the leader, a dark haired man with rich fur on his tunic. He looks regal enough, though the look in his dark eyes makes you bristle.

“Nothing here concerns you, whelp.”

Your father knows you can stand for yourself, so everyone sits in silence, waiting to see what you’ll do.

“You seek the Misty Mountain. It was the home of the dwarves long ago, before the destruction of Smaug. You must be of the line of Durin, yes? Am I forgetting anything? I am only an elf-mutt whelp, after all.”

Many turn their heads away to hide amusement at your retort, your father included. You always have been sassy, just like your mother.

The dwarf’s face flames red and he stands up before an older dwarf with white hair pats his arm to interrupt.

“Leave the lass alone, Thorin, or we will never get anywhere.”

You laugh softly before assisting your father and catching as much of the plan as possible. When it’s pieced all together, you know there’s no way you aren’t going with them.

And Beorn knows it as well.

He doesn’t stop you when you take a pack out to guide them with the ponies. He kisses your hairline before you walk out, hoping you come back home safe to him.

You and the Company stop at the forest edge of Mirkwood and, with final warnings from an anxious Gandalf, you follow them in.

The forest feels heavy and dark, weighing on your mind like a sickness. Bilbo, you learned the Hobbit’s name at home, seems to feel the same. It only grows worse as you cross a river or stream or...whatever it is. You blindly follow the dwarves off the trail, barely registering Bilbo climbing a tree and Gandalf’s warning. That is, until the spider attack knocks you to your senses, though, by then, you all are tied up in the trees.

You soon come to realize why it’s a curse to understand animals like you do. These spiders...they’re far more dangerous than anything you’ve met yet. You try to wiggle, trying to grasp your knives, until you hear spiders screaming and hissing and feel yourself falling. Fili, Thorin’s blondish nephew, helps you out of the webby mess, which you quickly thank him for, and you pull your bow out. Thorin’s eyes meet yours briefly before he nods in grim determination, a silent signal for you to join them. You can’t help the large grin overtaking your face as you shoot spiders from the trees. One is lucky and bumps into you, knocking you flying along with your arrows. You roll your back to jump to your feet and pull out your dagger with a twirl of the weapons.

One side of you wants to run from the danger so badly, but another urges you headlong. Soon, you’re crashing and slashing through spiders, moving gracefully as elves do in fights

You only pause when an arrow flies past your head to a spider, killing it instantly. Not just any arrow, either.

It’s Elven.

“Watch yourselves!” you yell, finally following your instincts and running through the fighting group.

Then, you notice.

“Where’s Bilbo?”

Your question falls on deaf ears as Elves surround all of you, some stripping weapons away from your companions and some threatening to shoot.

You refuse to comply(your strongest strength and weakness is your stubbornness) until you see arrows specifically aimed at Thorin. You swore to yourself that, if he trusted you, you would do anything to keep him and the company safe. So, with a growl, your daggers fall, and you face a pale blond Elf man who regards you curiously. You don’t return the expression.

“What is a fair maiden doing with a pack of mongrels?”

You resist the urge to spit at him. “Pe-channas!(Idiot!)”

He reaches out to push hair out of your face, nearly exposing your ear, so you again follow instinct.

And punch him directly in the nose.

#skinchanger reader #x reader #lord of the rings x reader #lord of the rings #lotr #lotr x reader #the hobbit #the hobbit x reader #from other account

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emmelinevxnce · 6 years

Text

"It gives me strength to have somebody to fight for; I can never fight for myself, but, for others, I can kill."

⤷ ( jinx. pst. twenty-three. she/her. incest, eating disorders, self harm. ) wands at the ready, EMMELINE VANCE has joined the fight! the TWENTY FIVE year old works as a AUROR, but spends HER/THEIR time fighting for THE ORDER. EMMELINE is known to be RESILIENT & HARDWORKING, as well as OVERTHINKING & JUDGEMENTAL. ( fc: jessica henwick )

i’m jinx, i’ve been playing emmeline for over four years now i think? & i love her! this is long, beware, but i’m excited to be here !!

⟶ pinterest • biography ( to give a quick overview )

under the cut: abandoment mention, death mention, suicide mention, abuse mention

CHARACTER INSPIRATIONS: : Nikita Mears ( Nikita ), Misty Knight ( Luke Cage ), April Ludgate ( Parks and Rec ),Peyton Charles ( iZombie ), Prue Halliwell ( Charmed ), Jessica Jones ( Jessica Jones ), Sun Bak ( Sense8 )

under the cut: abandoment mention, death mention, suicide mention, abuse mention

Emmeline definitely comes off as a bit of an asshole/hardass, she was a prefect in school and she was gald to be so because she knew she held a position of power without abusing it to hurt people and she knows in times like these, that’s important. She wouldn’t say she’s a good person, mostly due to self esteem issues, but she wouldn’t say she’s a bad person either. When it comes to herself, she has a ton of insecurities, learned not to let them keep her from speaking up through years of building herself up. Not to let them fuck her up because in the end she is the only one she’s got. People leave, and it hurts, but always expecting the worst, preparing for it, is better than being blindsided by it. Emmeline learned that the hard way when her mother, who she took care of for years even through the abuse, left Emmeline the minute she could. If her own mother left her, what would stop anyone else from it? In school, the first few years it was hard, she was constantly forcing herself to speak up but didn’t do so effectively until she got those positions of powers. One thing Emmeline ALWAYS did was stand up for other people. For herself? Not so much. Something she still struggles with now but in a less insidious way.

Speaking of her mother, halfway through her sixth year her mother left, leaving her to handle all the affairs, bills, etc. Definitely went through a stage after her mother left in her sixth year where she was lashing out at everyone around her verbally and probably didn’t apologize for it but showed she was apologetic in her actions, how she talked, and is really bad at apologizing for her own shitty behavior. Due to being a Scorpio & her upbringing, she’s bad at apologizing when she ACTUALLY does something wrong due to the shame she feels, thinking she’s acting just like her mother. She justifies it a lot, but also beats herself up about it. Emme really has grown a lot as a person since then and will continue to do so. Still, will OCCASIONALLY drink, if ever but has never smoked or done drugs in her life. She really hates being out of control in any sense, especially because of how her mother was drunk, and when she does go to events, gets really gets sort of appalled by people getting plastered and associates it with her mother. Emmeline is judgemental, but she’s able to challenge those judgements with logic, still, she’s quick to judge.

She’s so grateful for the few friends she has, especially the ones that keep her in line and challenge her. The ones who show her kindness when she needs it and she doesn’t even know she needs it. If you have Emmeline as a friend, you have Emmeline as a friend for LIFE. She’s loyal to the core, she will fight by your side ( something she’s excellent at doing with a wand ), she will die for them and show a softer, sillier side. It’s still extremely hard for her to open up and most of them didn’t know about her home life in school ( most still don’t to this day, as she hates sharing it ), though for the first six years of Emmeline coming to school, there were definitely bruises, scars, and things that could tip them off that something wasn’t quite alright. But she never ever wanted to talk about it because the pity she got after her father ended his life made things harder tenfold. She doesn’t want to be pitied, seen as weak or anything of the sort, especially by people who’s opinion she actually cares about.

Showed kindness to younger students and played wizarding chess with them, especially the ones bullied. The ones she notice may have bad home lives and no one to be there for them. Angry, is just one word to describe how she feels about the fact that Dumbledore probably knows about a majority of the hurt / bullying that goes on in and out of Hogwarts and doesn’t seem to do a damn thing about it – so she figures taking matters into her own hands by at least doing something is worth a try. It would be awesome if she had a chess partner or someone she played chess with though that was her own age. Her father played chess with her growing up, and it’sA HUGE PART of the reason why she makes an excellent strategist for the Order and why she’s an excellent dueler now.

Emmeline blossomed her seventh year being Captain of the Dueling Club. For the first few years of Emmeline’s life at Hogwarts, she was very shy, very to herself, due to the trauma of losing her father, but when she discovered her gift with dueling it helped bring out a side of Emmeline that she didn’t even know she had. To say she’s gifted would be an understatement in this area, and it’s not just natural talent, it’s hardwork, it’s dedication, it’s the fact that she feels powerful and like she can take on all of her demons when she’s wielding a wand. It’s that with having such an ability, she saw a way out of her horrible home life & a future. Something a girl who’s used to just surviving never thought she’d be able to have, It was that, combined with the fact the world was so horrible that Emmeline realized she wanted to be an Auror when she heard of the profession. She’s willing to die to make the world a better place, a part of her wants to hunt down every dark wizard that’s made this magical world WORSE and Albus Dumbledore has already approached her about joining the Order after graduation.

IF I had to pick a label for her, it would be The Dark Knight. THE DARK KNIGHT label fits Emmeline Vance because whatever it takes to make the world a better place. Each of the character influences above have bent, broken, or disregarded the law entirely to help their friends or the people in need move forward and succeed. To get what they deserve. The LAW has never helped Emmeline, it has never been on her side, it has never saved her from the hurt she’s experienced when it should’ve – so she doesn’t believe in it. Even with her being an Auror, Emmeline hopes to be able to take advantage of that power to do more than what the law dictates. Working within the SHADOWS comes naturally to Emmeline having to be a shadow in her own home for several years, learning the benefit of quiet survival. Of quiet rebellion & quiet living. She likes to work behind the scenes to do what she needs to in this war because that’s going to be a way she survives it. It’s the way the people she cares about & those who deserve it might as well. She doesn’t like any of the attention she may get just for doing the right thing because, in her mind, doing the RIGHT THING shouldn’t be praised – it should be the standard.

This isn’t to say that Emmeline is a paragon of righteousness – maybe of her own brand of it, yes, but she doesn’t always do the right thing. Sometimes, Emmeline can do the very wrong thing thinking it is the right thing – much like many of the characters above. There’s a guilt that comes with it, one she suppresses because it’s not helpful, though it comes POURING out into the same fuel that caused her to fuck up in the first place. There is a cost of working in the shadows, of being so self sacrificing but she’s willing to pay it if means the world is better, lighter, happier, more equal. Her life, in the grand scheme of things, means nothing compared to the good she can make by sacrificing everything for it. Even her life. Emmeline is a fighter, a survivor, and everyone’s survival looks a little bit like death sometimes. She is not afraid to embrace the dark, to become the dark, if it means the world gains a little light.

random factz:

emmeline CAN EAT. she loves food and eats as much of it she can. her favorite food is strawberry cheesecake.

does a really good impression of mcgonagall!!!

emmeline’s sexuality is confusing, she’s probably pan/bi but all she knows is she’s not straight and is sometimes interested in sex. regarding their gender, emme has never connected to either gender, of course because it’s the 70′s, she doesn’t know of a term for what that is. frankly, she has better things to think about than something like that but the idea of talking about it is strange to her, weird. self conscious, especially. since she’s a survivor at heart, she’s learned to compartmentalize these feelings & thoughts, and will just push it away for another time when she can actually have time to think about it. to unpack it.

emmeline speaks french and english!! she’s not connected to being part chinese at all as she really didn’t get really any education from her family about it and tbh lived in a very white area and sort of assimilated to it. she has small memories, does go to/has gone to chinese new year events and has TRIED, but feels disconnected in everything besides the food. regarding this though, her dad’s from a v important pureblood family in china, he anglonized & changed his last name for Dorcas’ and his families protection ( there was a HELLA lot going on ) & so they could start fresh somewhere.

is still learning how to be a proper human and not just survive. NEEDS HELP!! lord knows she’s got an interesting fashion sense so she tries to stick to basic colors and neutrals and some NICE BLUES.

her favorite color is tardis blue and she LOVES doctor. she does have a scarf like tom baker’s.

that’s it thank you for reading1!!! if youd like to plot, like this ill come bother you!!

wanted connections:

give me her auror partner! or some auror partners! mentors in the auror department!

people emmeline mentor/do rounds with while in the order!

ex flings maybe??

ex something?? emmeline is difficult but i could see her being in love/having feelings for someone given the right circumstances etc. i doubt they’d be a thing now but angst! it could be angst! emmeline probs could’ve fucked it up/broken ur characters hearrt!!

ministry shit!! emmeline working with other ppl!!

friends from school!!! give me some friends!!!

rivals!! emmeline loved dueling and tbh she’d need a hella good person to rival her tbh?

IDK MAN

#renegade.intro #intro.#we love (1) recycled intro!

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fayerieetale · 4 years

Text

He who wished me a Happy Birthday for an entire month.

I don’t really reveal my birthdate to anyone. I don’t even give my real or entire name. No, it isn’t because I don’t want people to know my age (I turned 24 last August). It’s part of my entire I-like-Egyptian-mythology idiosyncrasy. Or is it because I want to be economical and save myself from the nauseous nagging of treating people to lunch/dinner. No hard feelings to those friends I voluntarily took out, I love you guys.

That time we were talking about how I got sidelined on my birthday a year ago. And you clarified if my birthday is in August. Which I answered with the clarification that yours in December. Of 1995. I was certain that you were just teasing about wishing me a happy birthday every day of August. And I was sure that you thought I’ll wavered and tell you the exact date to save you the inconvenience. But then again, I didn’t. I knew it’s going to be a story to tell, and I like feeding on such situations. It’s the in-between.

August came. I thought you have forgotten and I gave up on exploiting such a gesture. Anyway, I was probably just looking at it with the rose tinted glasses. But you never disappoint. I completely omitted the time difference.

You came up with such creative ways to greet me, while some are simple ones, however it was said, I fervently appreciate the effort. I was in dilemma if I’ll let you keep it up for a month because I didn’t want to make you feel pressured or horrible. But knowing me, I like to be a nuisance. Little ways to penetrate my existence on to your mind.

4th of August. My friend announced that she is pregnant. I was happy and yet overwhelmed about the news, I am not one for having children (as of now, but it will never be off the table). I realized that I am an adult living in a 10-12 year old body (sometimes 8 year old according to H&M, Uniqlo and Gingersnaps sizes). While most of my age are getting married and having babies, and making serious adult decisions, I am with three of my best friends hiding in the CCTV room eating coffee jellies because we didn’t want to share. Oh and take note, one of them is almost on her due date this September.

Realizations. Realizations. I was perplexed that night on what am I doing with my life. I started to question myself if striving for my dreams for 5-7 more years will be all worth it. Sometimes, being lost in your convoluted thoughts is what makes you feel hopeless and lonely.

Ding. A notification from you. A voice message. The classic happy birthday song. Slow and intimate. I let out a gasp. You had no idea how much it meant to me. Not because I needed a fixing, but because you were there. I replied how much I appreciate hearing you sing (at least you weren’t out of tune unlike the Can’t Help Falling In Love) and that I wasn’t having the best day. Next thing I knew, you were calling. And at that moment, I knew I’m into something good (the one by the birds and the bees). Thank you for not making me feel alone.

You did miss a day or two and I didn’t really mind, ahem, like I’m not even counting, ahem. Days passed and things have became even extremely uncanny. August 7th. We had a “really quick” call. We talked about you eating Iguana and opossum, you hunting non-human beings, your fascination on the language and origins of words, the folklores (Douen, Tiyanak, Soucouyant, Aswang) created by our Spanish conquistadors, and other gory bits. You showed me how you sleep in the most non-provocative way ever. Thank you for not being a creep.

Before that “short call” ended, you said something indirectly. Twice. And I left a comment in one of Ed Sheeran’s song on Youtube to always remember that day. I didn’t know how to answer so it took 13 days and a slideshow presentation to come to realization.

The actual day came. And you almost forgotten. I was a little anxious but how can I blame you when someone twisted tried to not disclose such information? Time still played a huge part in this. And I assured you it was fine since we are following two timelines. I did tell you my actual birthdate before the month was over but that’s because I was foolish enough to let something slipped through my mouth and you figured it out. You are a smart one. And even if you knew that it had already passed, you still wished me until the month was over. Thank you for making me feel not regular.

You wrote a piece dated on my birthday (coincidentally), with your timestamp on it. It was one of the most intimate presents I have ever received.

I hope you will not just be “he who wished me a happy birthday for an entire month” but instead you will take turns with me in telling this anecdote.

The coast is still misty, but you have successfully captured the city. But to officially conquer a city, one must declare it as its territory.

When the time is ripe. Like how this wise man once put it “Life is definitely on course and I’m noticeably ecstatic!”

#personal #filipino #philippines #ldr community #long distance relationship

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buildarocketboys · 7 years

Note

Thomas x Max just hanging out and doing literally anything, just being bros.

I love these two! This is a modern au where Thomas is a professor and Max is his favourite student. Dedicated to my favourite lecturer, Ulrike, because she keeps trying to persuade me to do an MRes researching queer German history. (I mean. I’d love to. But I need to actually. Get a job.)

Here on ao3

“So, how are you doing?” asked Thomas, setting his teacupback down on its saucer. “How’s job hunting going?”

Max rolled her eyes. “Don’t ask. Honestly, you’d think abusiness degree would be a safe bet to land you a job, but no one seems to wantto hire me.” She sighed.

“Well, it’s only be a few months. And you could still do aMasters, you know. I’d be very happy to be your supervisor, or give youreferences if you want to go elsewhere.”

Max snorted. She took a gulp of coffee, looking at Thomasover the rim of her mug. “And where is a Masters in Queer Theory going to getme, Professor.”

Thomas looked slightly hurt, but then he shrugged, smilingruefully. “Good point.”

He and Max had met when she had chosen his module on QueerLiterature and Protest as an elective. As a business student, Thomas had beenconcerned about having a business student on his favourite module, who mightnot take it as seriously as her other subjects, especially as Max had been inher first year at the time, and it was normally a second-year module. Thomashad requested an interview, and Max had wasted no time in lecturing him on hisprejudice in assuming she wouldn’t take it seriously just because she was afirst-year, and that just because she was a business student, it didn’t meanshe couldn’t care about queer rights and literature, and, actually, this was the module she was most looking forward to thisyear, and how dare he challenge her right to be here when all the universityand various college rules allowed it.

Thomas had been utterly charmed by her, apologisedprofusely, and accepted her into the module on the spot, much to Max’s surpriseit seemed. They had had a relationship that was part academic, part genuinefriendship ever since, Max dragging him along to several LGBTQ+ events andprotests even though he claimed that he was too old, Thomas lending her booksabout queer culture, literature and history he thought she might beparticularly interested in and trying to persuade her to split her degree anddo Business and Literature. This was a discussion that they had had many timesbefore, in various guises.

“You could be an academic,” said Thomas. “You really have agift for it, Max, it would be a shame to waste it.”

Max shook her head, smiling. “My parents won’t hear of it.They think it’s pointless.” Thomas opened his mouth to argue, but Max brushedhim off. “I don’t agree with them, but I have to keep them happy, at leastuntil I can do without their support. Which is why,” said Max, smilinggood-naturedly at her professor, “I need a job.”

“I know,” said Thomas. “Are they alright about it now, yourparents?”

“‘It’ meaning me being a lesbian?” she asked teasingly. Thenshe sighed. “Mostly. They’re very ‘don’t shove it in our faces’ about it, whichis fine with me. I don’t want any of my future girlfriends to have to deal withthem, anyway.”

Thomas grinned, remembering the one and only time James hadmet his father – it had ended with James throwing Alfred Hamilton out of hisown house. Physically.

“You never know,” said Thomas. “It might do you good.”

Max, who had heard the story, sniggered. “Yes, only if myfuture girlfriend is ripped as fuck.”

Thomas snorted. “Well, you never know. Any news on thatfront, by the way?” he asked casually, trying not to sound nosy.

“God, it’s like having a second dad,” said Max, rolling hereyes again. “Have you got a job, how are your family, have you got a girlfriendyet?” Thomas managed to look not at all embarrassed. “How’s your husband?” shesaid, changing the subject.

Thomas’s features softened visibly. “He’s well,” he said. “Hesent his best wishes. Said you should come for dinner sometime.”

“He only said that because he hates spending even a singlemoment away from you if he can help it.”

Thomas was practically misty eyed now. Max thought it was nauseating.She hoped she would be as in love one day. “Well, maybe that’s part of thereason,” he conceded. “But we’d both love to have you over again. You know howmuch he loves to show off his cooking skills. And you can play Mario Kart withme! James refuses.” Thomas pouted.

“Any particular reason why?” asked Max innocently, privatelythinking that she would smash him at Mario Kart, but it would be a snowball’sday in hell before she took him up on the offer.

“I may get a little…competitive,” admitted Thomas,sheepishly. “But that’s half the fun!” he protested.

“Mm, yes, I remember how funMonopoly was when I was staying at yours,” said Max acidly, but the softness inher eyes said she didn’t really mean it.

When she had first decided to come out to her parents, atthe end of second year, Thomas had offered her a place to stay in case it didn’tgo well. Max had thanked him, but bravely said she was sure it would bealright. Thomas hadn’t been fooled, and had insisted on giving her his address,just in case. Two weeks later she had found herself on Thomas’s doorstep, inthe pouring rain, with a suitcase. Thomas had ushered her inside and made her acup of tea, and she had spent the next few days reading and talking aboutliterature with Thomas, eating James’s delicious food, and listening to himrant about homophobic parents, and have him offer to go over and kill, or atleast threaten them no less than three times. Oh, and Monopoly. That aside, bythe time Max’s parents called her, five days later, begging her to come backhome, she was feeling much better.

“Sorry about Monopoly,” said Thomas, looking embarrassed. “Ipromise I won’t be that bad with Mario Kart.”

Max narrowed her eyes at him sceptically.

“Well, alright, maybe I will, but at least it won’t be overan extended period!” said Thomas, winningly. Max shook her head fondly. “Morecoffee?” he asked, gesturing at her empty mug.

She shook her head. “Enjoyable as this was, I have to go. I’mmeeting Eleanor at 12 so we can give each other back our stuff.” She tried tosay it as if it was no big deal, but her eyes were downcast. Thomas placed hishand on top of hers, sympathetically.

“Are you alright about that now?” he asked, concerned.

Max shrugged and forced a grin. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’mmostly just pissed off that it’s taken so long to get her to agree to a date tomeet. Almost a fucking year! She keptputting me off, telling me she was busy.”

“Well, James is working her very hard,” said Thomasreasonably, then exchanged an ironic grin with Max.

She stood up. Thomas followed suit.

“Good luck with everything, then, Max,” Thomas said. “If youwant me to-”

“If you’re about to say you could come with me to meetEleanor, I’d advise against it. Unless you want me to camp out at your houseand sit outside your bedroom door every night, singing sea shanties.”

Thomas laughed, looking chagrined. “You’re right, I’m sorry.You can handle it.”

“Yes I can,” said Max self-assuredly, and stepped around thetable to hug him.

Thomas squeezed back. “Keep in touch. You know you’rewelcome any time, right?” he said anxiously.

Max drew back so he could see her eye roll. “Yes, Thomas, Iknow,” she said, kissing him on the cheek for good measure. “Invite me fordinner,” she said as she exited the café.

“We will,” said Thomas, smiling warmly at the retreatingback of his favourite student.

#black sails #black sails fic #thomas hamilton #flinthamilton #max #maxanor #sort offfff #bisexualpirateheart #my writing #asks #coming out #homophobia #i mean fairly light mention but it's there so fair warning

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semirahrose · 7 years

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In the past few days I've read posts claiming that Sam is a psychopath who turns his empathy on and off so easily that it's disturbing, that Sam never cries (lol what?), that Dean is more emotionally mature than Sam, that Sam is egotistical and only cares/thinks about himself, and that Sam demonstrates more toxic masculinity than any other character on the show... I've been in hell basically and I was hoping you could cheer me up by disputing these "claims" with cold hard canon facts.

I’m so sorry you’ve experienced that, Anon! I fear… you ventured into a truly dark corner of fandom. I have a fair few items on my blacklist to keep me away from that sort of “meta”, because honestly… it’s emotionally exhausting and endlessly frustrating running into such patent drivel.

I don’t know what these people were using to support their claims, so I can’t really refute them. Heck, I don’t know if they brought up solid points or were just angry and baseless. For many of the things you mentioned, I don’t even know where to start, because I can’t imagine what could have given anyone such an impression, but I’ll try to share some thoughts.

Sam is a psychopath without empathy? If anything, Sam’s empathy is always on. It’s always at max, and what these people might be seeing as “turning on and off” is likely Sam trying to redirect his attention elsewhere or deal with/compartmentalize his feelings. It could also just be a gross misinterpretation of introverted emotional expression. But also, let’s be real: the Winchester boys are soldiers. They’re fighting to keep people safe. They have to make choices that we can’t even fathom. A lot of times, these choices are not clear-cut and smelling of roses. Either way, someone will die. People will hurt. And these two, without the benefit of a hierarchy or large support group or court of law–in the heat of the moment–have to make decisions. People who find Sam “cold” or—God forbid, psychopathic? What the ever-living heck?—may simply not understand the magnitude of the decisions these boys must make.

Sam never cries? WHAT EVEN. What the hell even. First of all, crying is not the be-all-end-all of emotional expression. Some people cry regularly. Some people don’t cry for years at a time. And you know what? The former don’t feel things more strongly than the latter. People express grief and sadness and frustration differently. Some people feel numb. Some people get angry. Some people feel miserable but can’t cry. Some people drown it in drink. Some people blame themselves. Some people simply haven’t been taught that it’s okay to give vent to negative emotions, or grew up in an environment where expressing them was weakness and subject to mockery (*raises hand*) And… for the people who said that, may I kindly direct them to my crying Sam tag, because I have like seven pages of misty-eyed canon Sam for them to feast their eyes on. (Um. Geez. I swear there’s an explanation for the fact that I–that I have a tag for that. Uh.) ANYWAY. *clears throat* What even.

Sam is not as emotionally mature as Dean? I can’t even dignify that one with an answer. Well. Actually. I believe Sam is, in many ways, more emotionally mature than Dean. Where Dean resorts to blame-shifting, violence, anger, and denial when it comes to things he doesn’t like, Sam acknowledges his mistakes and is aware of his unhealthy coping mechanisms (…while still using them). THAT SAID, I don’t think I can state that Sam is more mature in general, because, well… Dean vents. He gets angry, he finds ways to release it, and he generally finds ways to settle into a sort of balance and keep going. On the other hand, Sam represses to the extent that it drives him to his breaking point. See Mystery Spot. See s4, where he was literally suicidal after Dean’s death. See any number of other times. At any point, I think Sam is a hairsbreadth away from breaking, and while there are a ton of things I love and respect about Sam, a lot of them are rooted in some really unhealthy habits. So… in many ways, Sam deals with things more maturely, understanding all angles. But he also truly just needs decades of hugs and therapy because wow.

Sam is an egotistical bastard? I would advise people who think Sam only cares about himself to watch Swan Song, then The Man Who Knew Too Much, and then Sacrifice, and then Nightmare, and then… the whole freaking show, actually. How Sam regularly puts the safety of others above his own welfare. How, even while grieving Jessica, in the beginning of the very first season, he threw himself bodily between two strangers and a Wendigo. How he was broken to pieces by his visions of death but unable to save the victims. How, later, Ruby’s perfectly calculated way to make him start drinking demon blood again was to imply that he might, by inaction, cause the deaths of innocents if he didn’t suck it up, drink the blood, and save the world. And Ruby knew Sam, played him masterfully. If anyone in the world knew how to get to Sam, she did. And she did so not by appealing to a desire for personal gain, but by implying that Sam’s desire to stop drinking blood might be selfish. And if that’s not enough, I’d like them to take a look at Soulless!Sam, who could have done anything but chose to continue hunting. Soulless!Sam, the single most stable and consistent soulless person in the entire show, whose admitted motivation for remaining soulless despite knowing he was “wrong” was that things didn’t hurt as much. Seriously. Come at me. Anyone who thinks Sam is egotistical has not seen the show or is picking events out of context and trying to apply some isolated events to the entire show.

Sam displays more toxic masculinity than any other character? What the…what even? What the heck? I would love to see the support for this argument, I really would. While both brothers display some unhealthy habits undoubtedly adopted thanks to their impossibly tough life and their upbringing… claiming that Sam is the poster child for toxic masculinity is just laughable. I could talk about why, but first let’s just look at a quick definition:

Toxic masculinity is a narrow and repressive description of manhood, designating manhood as defined by violence, sex, status and aggression. [… S]upposedly “feminine” traits – which can range from emotional vulnerability to simply not being hypersexual – are the means by which your status as “man” can be taken away. Sex, in particular, is an important part of “being a man”. […] The need to “get” sex is all-encompassing because the more of it you have, the higher “status” you have as a man.You’ll notice how often sex and sexlessness comes up as an insult when a man wants to insult another man. (x)

Let’s just take a moment and ask ourselves. For which of our leads are sexual conquests important? Which character looked at cheerleaders and leered that he could tell which ones were legal? Which one finds peace in violence and resorts to violent ways of expressing himself before any other? Which one calls the other “bitch” and uses feminine terms as a way to demean someone? Which one pushes the other to have sex or act aggressive/sexual? Which one regularly calls women opponents “bitch” without any real evidence or reason? Spoiler: it’s not Sam.

And here’s the thing: toxic masculinity isn’t something where we can point out someone who displays the traits of it and call that person awful. It’s not quite as simple as that. Toxic masculinity isn’t a person. It’s an unhealthy, pervasive set of expectations. Heck, yeah, it’s terrifying and harmful to women and anyone who doesn’t conform or accept it. But it’s not the people we need to fight, but the overwhelming pressure and the media portrayals and the way it’s freaking exalted as the “right” way to “be a man.” On some level, there is an element of choice in adopting these beliefs and a certain amount of personal responsibility to… I dunno, not be an asshole, but in a lot of ways, it’s like showing commercials about grapes and making movies about grapes and rewriting history to feature grapes and then expecting no one to eat grapes. The hunting community in Supernatural, I’m afraid, is full of said grape-glorification. There’s no excuse for what some of them do, but they have ample reasoning for acting that way. (And if we’re talking levels of grape-hood on SPN, then I’m gonna have to say that Dean displays the highest levels of grapeliness, objectively.)

Haha, I hope this helped, Anon! I hope you’re able to blacklist the types of people who are saying those things. Personally, I’ve found it’s just unpleasant and ultimately fruitless (pun not intended) to engage cruel and baseless claims like that. I hope you’re able to make your Tumblr experience a more enjoyable one. Sending hugs and hopes that this made even a bit of sense.

#asdlkdjlkj WHY with some of these? It's like they just looked at the facts and were like 1+1=TWENTY #wank for ts #bittersamgirlclub #sam winchester #sam hate not welcome #anonymous #semirah replies #for safety gonna tag #dean negative #fandom wank

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windmilltothestars · 7 years

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I finally finished the Defenders today! Time for some spoiler-tastic Scattered Impressions and Questions and Whatnot under the cut.

-K’un-Lun. We know it’s gone somehow, but has it actually been massacred, or just the portal is inaccessible? Elektra claims to have killed everyone there, but she might have just been saying that to get Danny riled enough to activate the Iron Fist. I’d like to think it’s still out there and Danny will be able to go back at some point and talk to his old friends, possibly explain things to them, but who knows? If he’s taking over vigilantism from Matt, New York’s his priority, and probably still THINKS there’s nothing left there because of Elektra’s claims, even if they WERE false.

-Elektra. Augh. I can’t get myself to like her. I think it’s very noble and and shows great heart and loyalty for Matt to never give up trying to save her and find the good in her, but - I couldn’t see it, man. Like in the beginning she was totally brainwashed and that was more understandable that he was trying to get her to go back to herself, but when she broke free and still wanted to murder everyone and support the Hand’s goals? Unless there was lingering brainwashing nonsense, I just gotta say -- Matty, she’s not good for you. Unclear if she survived, but I’m not necessarily looking forward to her return

-Murakami was by far my favorite Hand boss. Not even sure particularly why, just his continual snarky disregard for Alexandra, the fact that he only ever spoke his native Japanese and always tried to fight alone - it showed a kind of endearing pride and independence and arrogance that I found deeply entertaining. He was introduced dissecting a bear he had hunted and killed in hand-to-hand combat for kicks, and he lost pretty much every fight because fought alone people got the drop on him, but I loved him. He got impaled and had a building fall on him, but with those Hand guys, you never know how much it takes for perma-death, so I can hope he’ll be back. I felt like he showed a lot more actual personality than his lieutenant, Nobu, even if he got off worse in fights. The rest of them I could take or leave. I liked Sowande and Bakuto OK, nothing special, was generally annoyed/creeped out by Alexandra, and would be almost sorry to see Madame Gao go after all this time, as her enigmatic menace has been here since season one of Daredevil. It’s likelier that she survived that collapse than Murakami, if either did.

-I know next to nothing about Heroes for Hire or Daughters of the Dragon, but I’m here for them. I thought Luke and Danny’s friendship was gold, and Colleen and Misty were getting there. I think it’s possible Luke and Jessica will get back together, after that last scene. Luke and Claire seem solid, like, practically-married solid, and I wouldn’t want to rob either Luke or Claire of one thing going right for them, but - I don’t know, man. Luke and Jessica are a happily-married superhero family with a child in the comics, I hear. And that would be adorable. We shall see, we shall see. Jess deserves something going right for her, too. I definitely want Danny to stay with Colleen, though, and not randomly get paired with Misty in the name of comics-accuracy. She seemed so much older than him, and his dynamic with Colleen is sweet and solid.

-On the other hand, I could consider Jess with Matt, and their snarky frienship was really entertaining and refreshing. I think ultimately I prefer them as just friends as well, but of course that’s what I used to say (and sometimes still do) about Matt and Karen. I would definitely have to use the ship name “Mess” for them, and there dynamic was fun and sweet in that after a fashion, they stopped judging each other and worked as respectful team unit, with more affectionate banter. But nah, I’ll hold out wild crazy out-there longshot hope that Matt gets together with Natasha Romanoff, just because. I need to stop with my internal shipping wars because it’s going to get silly, and I’ll probably revert back to my lingering sentiment for season one Matt with Claire and Karen with Foggy, which opens up more messes with Luke and Marci and things, so -- let’s end this.

-Matt’s not dead, but his friends think he’s dead and he’s probably going to meet his mother, and season 3 is being hinted to cover the famous arc of “Born Again” - which I have not read, but intend to, and know a bit of the gist of. I REALLY want Matt to tell his friends he’s not dead as soon as he can, because it would be a jerk move not to, but Punisher season 1 is coming out before Daredevil season 3, and Karen is in Punisher and I can’t really imagine her just getting a call from Matt all “Hey, I’m not dead” when it’s not his show and she’s dealing with other things. So storytelling timeline-wise, it might be inevitable to postpone, which sucks. Or maybe he lets her know he’s not dead but doesn’t come back to town for a while so she won’t worry about him or mourn for him but she can do whatever she does on Punisher anyway. Or maybe he can’t access any way to contact his friends for a long time? Or maybe he has amnesia? I’m grasping here, I don’t know. I just don’t want another huge Matt’s Friends Are Justifiably Mad At Him fiasco. I was SO HAPPY to see how NICE and SUPPORTIVE Foggy was being in Defenders. He supports him not-Daredevilling and doesn’t judge, and then supports him doing it again when it’s inevitable and necessary, and they HUG and he just wants to HELP him. Karen confused me and slightly annoyed me in one scene, but hopefully her talk with Trish got her thinking about Matt differently. If she’s still an ally to Punisher I have faith she will still be one to Matt in the future.

-Stick is dead for realsies it seems. I’m not gonna lie, I utterly loathed Stick after season 1 of Daredevil, but I was forced with great resistance to gain a measure of extremely grudging respect for him in season 2 and in Defenders. Even if he was going to kill Danny and ultimately allowed him to be captured. He joins a troublingly expanding list of MCU characters I initially hated but was later forced to sort-of respect -- along with Yondu, Ward Meachum, Hope Pym -- but the strength of both the dislike and the eventual respect is perhaps strongest with Stick. Man, what a jerk. I hate him. I don’t hate him. I respect him but still hate him. I don’t know. He’s dead. I’m sure he’s been resigned to his death for most of his life. Rest in peace, you child-murdering punk.

- I freaking ADORED the lighting design of the first few episodes where every character and their scene was continually bathed in their theme color -- Red for Matt, blue/purple for Jess, yellow for Luke and green/muted turquoises for Danny. Like, it just did it for me. I loved the lighting designs with just the symbolism of the red in season one of Daredevil, so the expansion was just beautiful. Also the revelation that Matt can play the piano a little bit (playing a few chords of the theme tune)? Man, I gotta do something with that in fic!

-Obviously, you know, out of the Defenders I’m the biggest fan of Daredevil. I like all of them, but Matt is just my dude. I’m most defensive of Danny, probably, because he is a puppy and he needs it the most, but they all shone in their respective areas, and their team dynamic was just getting good when it ended. I wanted them to act as a team MORE, but I suppose this was more of Defenders Assemble and they’ll be more united in future seasons, if those exist. I wanted to explore different character dynamics, though, between them all. And the fact that they ALL knew Claire! We got a lot of Danny and Luke and a lot of Matt and Jessica. We got a little Jessica and Luke and very little Matt and Danny. And we got next to no Matt and Luke or Jessica and Danny. Anyway, they should all eat more meals together and hang out and be friends and have a “Yay we beat the Hand” party but I don’t suppose that will happen now they all think Matt’s dead.

-It was crazy, sometimes-disturbing action-packed, snarky ride, but I had a lot fun with it. I was obsessed with it, really, and chafed at waiting for the next episode with my parents, so impatient and hungry for it I spoiled most of the major plot points for myself beforehand. But ah well. It was still awesome to see how it came together. If you count how many time I mentioned season one of Daredevil here, you can probably tell I still love it the best of all the Marvel Netflix things, but Defenders was full of heart and soul and humor and worth every second.

#defenders spoilers #opinions #the defenders #personal #long post #mcu

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writerspink · 5 years

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prepared journey trade delicate arrived track cotton hoe furnish exciting view grasp level branches privilege limit wrong enable ability various moreover spoil starve dollars digest advice sense accuse pretty wasn’t industry adopt loyal suggested blow treasure cook adjective doesn’t wings tools crops loud smell frail wisdom fit expect ahead lifted deed device weight gradual respect interesting arrange particular compound examine cable climate division individual talent fatal entire advantage opponent wouldn’t elements column custom enjoy grace theory suitable wife shoes determine allow marsh workers difficult repeated thrill position born distant revive magnificent shop sir army struggled deal plural rich rhythm rely poem company string locate church mystify elegant led actual responsible japanese huge fun meat observe swim office chart avoid factories block called experience win crumple brilliant located pole bought conditions sister details primary survey truck recall disease radio rate scatter decay signal approach launch hair age amount scale pounds although per broken moment tiny possible gold milk quiet natural lot stone act build middle speed count consonant someone sail rolled bear wonder smiled angle fraction Africa killed melody bottom trip hole poor let’s fight surprise French died beat exactly remain fingers clever coast explore imitate pierce rare symbol triumph ancient cling disturb expose perform remote timid bashful brief compete consider delightful honor reflex remark brink chill conquer fortunate fury intend pattern vibrant wit

7.1

capture remark western outcome risk current bold compare resident ambition arrest furthermore desire confuse accurate disclose considerable contribute calculate baggage literacy noble era benefit orchard shabby content precious manufacture dusk afford assist demonstrate instant concentrate sturdy severe blend vacant weary carefree host limb pointless prepare inspire shallow chamber vast ease attentive source frantic lack recent distress basic permit threat analyze distract meadow mistrust jagged prefer sole envy hail reduce arena tour annual apparent recognize captivity burrow proceed develop humble resist peculiar response communicate circular variety frequent reveal essential disaster plead mature appropriate attractive request congratulate address destructive fragile modest attempt tradition ancestor focus flexible conclude venture impact generosity routine tragic crafty furious blossom concern ascend awkward master queasy release portion plentiful alert heroic extraordinary frontier descend invisible coax entrance capable peer terror mock outstanding valiant typical competition hardship entertain eager limp survive tidy antonym duplicate abolish approach approve glory magnificent meek prompt revive watchful wreckage audible consume glide origin prevent punctuate representative scorn stout woe arch authentic clarify declare grant grave opponent valid yearn admirable automatic devotion distant dreary exhaust kindle predict separation stunt

7.2

evade debate dedicate budge available miniature petrify pasture banquet pedestrian solitary decline reassure nonchalant exhibit realistic exert abuse dictate minor monarch concept character strategy soar beverage tropical withdraw challenge kin navigate purchase reliable mischief solo combine vivid aroma spurt illuminate narrator retain excavate avalanche preserve suspend accomplish exasperate obsolete occasion myth reign sparse gorge intense revert antagonist talon aggressive alternate retire cautiously blizzard require endanger luxurious senseless portable sever compensate companion visual immense slither guardian compassion escalate detect protagonist oasis altitude assume seldom courteous absurd edible identical pardon approximate taunt achievement homonym hearty convert wilderness industrious sluggish thrifty deprive independent bland confident anxious astound numerous resemble route access jubilation saunter hazy impressive document moral crave gigantic bungle prefix summit overthrow perish visible translate comply intercept feeble exult compose negative suffocate frigid synonym appeal dominate deplete abundant economy desperate diligent commend boycott jovial onset burden fixture objective siege barrier conceive formal inquire penalize picturesque predator privilege slumber advantage ambition defiant fearsome imply merit negotiate purify revoke wretched absorb amateur channel elegant grace inspect lame tiresome tranquil boast eloquent glisten ideal infectious invest locate ripple sufficient uproar

8.1

apprehensive dialogue prejudice marvel eligible accommodate arrogant distinct knack deposit liberate cumulative consequence strive salvage chronological unique vow concise influence lure poverty priority legislation significant conserve verdict leisure erupt beacon stationary generate provoke efficient campaign paraphrase swarm adhere eerie mere mimic deteriorate literal preliminary solar soothe expanse ignite verge recount apparel terrain ample quest composure majority collide prominent duration pursue innovation omniscient resolute unruly optimist restrain agony convenient constant prosper elaborate genre retrieve exploit continuous dissolve dwell persecute abandon meager elude rural retaliate primitive remote blunder propel vital designate cultivate loathe consent drastic fuse maximum negotiate barren transform conspicuous possess allegiance beneficial former factor deluge vibrant intimidate idiom dense awe rigorous manipulate transport discretion hostile clarity arid parody boisterous capacity massive prosecute declare stifle remorse refuge predicament treacherous inevitable ingenious plummet adapt monotonous accumulate reinforce extract reluctant vacate hazardous inept diminish domestic linger context excel cancel distribute document fragile myth reject scuffle solitary temporary veteran assault convert dispute impressive justify misleading numerous productive shrewd strategy villain bluff cautious consist despise haven miniature monarch obstacle postpone straggle vivid aggressive associate deceive emigrate flexible glamour hazy luxurious mishap overwhelm span blemish blunt capable conclude detect fatigue festive hospitality nomad supreme

8.2

exclude civic compact painstaking supplement habitat leeway minute hoax contaminate likeness migration commentary extinct tangible originate urban unanimous subordinate collaborate obstacle esteem encounter futile cordial trait improvises superior exaggerate anticipate cope evolve eclipse dissent anguish subsequent sanctuary formulates makeshift controversy diversity terminate precise equivalent pamper prior potential obnoxious radiant predatory presume permanent pending simultaneously tamper supervise perceived vicious patronize trickle stodgy rant oration preview species poised perturb vista wince yearn persist shirk status tragedy trivial snare vindictive wrath recede peevish rupture unscathed random toxic void orthodox subtle resume sequel upright wary overwhelm perjury uncertainty prowess utmost throb pluck pique vengeance pelt urgent substantial robust sullen retort ponder whim saga sham reprimand vocation assimilate dub defect accord embark desist dialect chastise banter inaugurate ovation barter muse blasé stamina atrocity deter principal liberal epoch preposterous advocate audacious dispatch incense deplore institute deceptive component subside spontaneous bonanza ultimate wrangle clarify hindrance irascible plausible profound infinite accomplish apparent capacity civilian conceal duplicate keen provoke spurt undoing vast withdraw barrier calculate compose considerable deputy industrious jolt loot rejoice reliable senseless shrivel alternate demolish energetic enforce feat hearty mature observant primary resign strive verdict brisk cherish considerate displace downfall estimate humiliate identical improper poll soothe vicinity abolish appeal brittle condemn descend dictator expand famine portable prey thrifty visual

9.1

stance vie instill exceptional avail strident formidable rebuke enhance benign perspective tedious aloof encroach memoir mien desolate inventive prodigy staple stint fallacy grope vilify recur assail tirade antics recourse clad jurisdiction caption pseudonym reception humane ornate sage ungainly overt sedative amiss convey connoisseur rational enigma fortify servile fastidious contagious elite disgruntled eccentric pioneer abet luminous era sleek serene proficient rue articulate awry pungent wage deploy anarchy culminate inventory commemorate muster adept durable foreboding lucrative modify authority transition confiscate pivotal analogy avid flair ferret decree voracious imperative grapple deface augment shackle legendary trepidation discern glut cache endeavor attribute phenomenon balmy bizarre gullible loll rankle decipher sublime rubble renounce porous turbulent heritage hover pithy allot minimize agile renown fend revenue versa gaunt haven dire doctrine intricate conservative exotic facilitate bountiful cite panorama swelter foster indifferent millennium gingerly conscientious intervene mercenary citadel obviously rely supportive sympathy weakling atmosphere decay gradual impact noticeable recede stability variation approximately astronomical calculation criterion diameter evaluate orbit sphere agricultural decline disorder identify probable thrive expected widespread bulletin contribution diversity enlist intercept operation recruit survival abruptly ally collide confident conflict protective taunt adaptation dormant forage frigid hibernate insulate export glisten influence landscape native plantation restore urge blare connection errand exchange

9.2

feasible teem pang vice tycoon succumb capacious onslaught excerpt eventful forfeit crusade tract haggard susceptible exemplify ardent crucial excruciating embargo disdain apprehend surpass sporadic flustered languish conventional disposition theme plunder ignore project complaint title dramatic delivery litter experimental clinic arrogance preparation remind atomic occasional conscious deny maturity closure stressed translator animate observation physical further gently registration suppress combination amazing constructive allied poetry passion ecstasy mystery cheerful contribution spirit failed gummy commerce prove disagreement raid consume embarrass preference migrant devour encouragement quote mythology destined destination illuminating struggle accent ungrateful giggle approval confidence expose scientist operation superstitious emergency manners absolutely swallow readily mutual bound crisp orient stress sort stare comfort verbal heel challenging advertisement envious sex scar astonish basis accuracy enviable alliance specific chef embarrassed counter tolerable sympathetic gradually vanish informative amaze royal furry insist jealousy simplify quiver collaborate dedicated flexible function mimic obstacle technique archaeologist fragment historian intact preserve reconstruct remnant commence deed exaggeration heroic impress pose saunter wring astound concealed inquisitive interpret perplexed precise reconsider suspicious anticipation defy entitled neutral outspoken reserved sought equal absorb affect circulate conserve cycle necessity seep barren expression meaningful plume focused genius perspective prospect stunned superb transition assume guarantee nominate

10.1

install reticent corroborate regretfully strength murder concise cunning intention holy satire query confused progression disillusion background mundane abrupt multiple enormously introduce emulate harmful pragmatic pity rebut liberate enthusiastic elucidate camaraderie disparage nature creep profitability impression racist sobriety occupy autonomy currently amiable reiterate reproduce cripple modest offer atom provincial augment ungratefully expansion yield rashly allude immigration silence epitome exacerbate somber avid dispute vindicate collaborate manufacturer embellish superficial propaganda incompetent objective diminish statistics endure ambivalent perpetuate illuminate phenomenon exasperate originality restrict anxiety anthropology circumstances aesthetic manufacturing conventional dubious vulnerable reality precedent entity success term critical repair underscore stepmother republican hesitantly classic wary contents prediction immediate invoke notorious implicit excluding input skeptical foster element punish frank humanity profound dessert orthodox substance disappear encourage neighborhood elder superfluous naive ascertain complacent resilient deafening military tend prudent glare acceptance skillfully induce monster beam gullible conciliate vessel petty cantankerous disclose archaeology anecdote disdain electronics substantiate subjective tourism advisable joyful incredible provocative psychological ruins discipline condone indifferent misfortune judgmental industrialize tasty assume astute mission mar protective definitely escape oppress shocked virtual zealous endorse qualification hostile eccentric abstract disparate geographical scrutinize generalization tolerate activity claim dogmatic influential obsolete extol implausible subsequent resource chronic benevolent improve confidential ambiguous seriously dearth perplex hatred throughout dine contemporary evoke essentially economic flagrant obscure alleviate eloquent dreaadful clumsy sympathy victim condemn vigor condescend spontaneous quell reprehensible substantially sleeve equivocal ironic decry errand articulate progressive eradicate refreshments elicit aspiration recently exemplary bribery theoretical disingenuous partisan revere particle nostalgia self-aggrandizement debunk tyranny rhetoric hierarchy warning whimsical venerate commend assert miserable awful vibe constrain undermine explicit differentiate compliment scrupulous contempt erroneous ideal refute imply cynical rash presume insight revival vary delay renounce indignant offensive temperate circumstantial export peep logo advertise suppress distort chunk convoluted denounce overwhelming fertility rigorous acquire arrogant university antagonize profitable indulgent strategic breathing idiosyncrasy profession frugal discern accommodation adversary incredulous disturbance digress social belie roam smug continual pertinent voluntarily elite subtle blame sincerity lick horror censure involvement candid infer futile impetuous exploit bewilder sustain diligent sincere protect sealed musical empathy callous parenthetical insure acorn sarcasm seize sacrificially allege emphatic irrelevant progress diplomatic stunned improvise deride reconcile meticulous deject scientifically incontrovertible pressure justify gloomy depict supplant endurance analogous diary bolster slip contemplate pesticide glow religious advocate negligent creator lament fundamental embrace throne inherent inferior valuable thrive trivial pretense reserved capricious refresh refusal flight boost explanation coherent prevalent tenacious official royalty assassin rub poach delete

10.2

warrant circumscribed somewhat explosive optimistic mandate previously detract opinion intuitive feasible intimate persistent humble simplicity tempt deliberate painful unethical fundamentals discrepancy remorse pessimistic possibility conclusion acknowledge impregnate soberly creation paralyze suitability oblige tranquil medal arbitrate pacify illusory susceptible vibrate vengeance infection democratic stressful grave speculative sample identification stifle obligation revenge organization namely mediocre practical scream weaken consensus affectionate deficient treacherous console isolation ingenious memory melodrama despair awestruck composition regret recommendation celebrity decision devoid opaque ornamentation longevity participate dread restore interrogate aid accordingly mislead embarrassment optimism domestic apt funds virtue geography fundamentally thoroughly press despite horrible chilling rental esteemed disappointment innovative contemplation assign popularize haunt deafen serene percent estrangement suffer extravagant throng estimate comment priesthood mass dreadfully promote periphery animated saying relate clarity triple derivative succeed distortion register suicide improvement discreet inquisition probable curative incident praise convenience baffle covet dreadful genuinely weary undisturbed disgruntled humility renown nonchalant monopoly comedy vague decisive inconsequential announcement fabricated nevertheless vigilant scarce neglectful hushed attainment tedious explode snatch pslm agency sentimental tension adhere meanwhile sacred avert conformity likewise challenger accessible responsibility peril contact event roast fallible catastrophic competitor violate resolute deceive exaggeration discredit intolerable approve paste dimly novelist demeanor norm politician satisfaction obvious vehicle reservation defer involve restoration crush audible assistant backpack attain inanimate commemorate confrontation emigration parasite disperse quantitative laughter policy vulgar occasionally repay effective eulogy starvation empty therapeutic overall immortal encompass inappropriate opportune engagement illustrate turmoil observatory classification expression reminiscence comedian invention depress remedy protagonist gesture texture diplomatic election prolong conducive emotional invigorate curiosity expressive %

K-12 Words was originally published on PinkWrite

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daresplaining · 7 years

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Iron Fist Countdown: 4 Days

K’un-Lun, the Immortal Weapons, and the Capital Cities of Heaven

Heart of the dragon! With only a few short days left before the show, we’re doing a deep dive into the details of the Iron Fist mythos and the eternal city of K’un-Lun!

K’un-Lun, the Shining City

Occasionally, early Iron Fist comics will refer to K’un-Lun as a city hidden deep in the Himalayas-- but that doesn’t come close to describing its remoteness. Technically, it only exists in the same physical space as the Himalayas for a single day, once every ten years. The rest of the time, K’un-Lun is located in an alternate dimension, on an alien planet called H’ylthri. Not much is known about the actual rest of the planet (the citizens of K’un-Lun don’t tend to venture far from the city), but we do know that it is inhabited by a race of maneating sentient plants, also called H’ylthri, and that the valley surrounding the city is infested with extremely aggressive, possibly crazed wolves.

[Power Man and Iron Fist vol. 1 #75 by Mary Jo Duffy, Kerry Gammill, and Christie Scheele]

The ten years rule is really more of a guideline than anything, and since practically the moment it was introduced, writers have been scrambling to find ways around it. The city is only accessible in the normal way once every ten years, yes-- but any number of portals and magical forms of travel can get you there. Lei Kung the Thunderer (who we’ll talk about in a moment) once ripped through the fabric of spacetime(!) to make a temporary entrance into the city. Inventor Phineas Randall, the father of former Iron Fist Orson Randall, built a steampunk-style gateway that allowed for passage between the worlds. And Danny once linked the city to his heartbeat to pull it onto the earthly plane permanently-- which worked out about as well as you might expect.

[Iron Fist/Wolverine #1 by Jay Faerber and Jamal Igle]

Referred to as paradise by its inhabitants (and the “City of the Damned” by the H’ylthri, who are kind of bitter about its presence on their planet), K’un-Lun is an ancient civilization, laced in magic and long-held traditions. The people who live there are functionally immortal-- that is, they can be killed in combat, but will otherwise live forever. Those not born in the city can be gifted with immortality, if they are deemed worthy of it, and those who break serious enough laws can have their immortality revoked.

[Iron Fist vol. 4 #4 by James Mullaney, Kevin Lau, and Omar Dogan]

K’un-Lun is ruled by a hereditary monarch called the August Personage in Jade (or Yu-Ti, if you’re nasty). He is advised by a council of Dragon Kings, who occasionally turn into actual dragons. While functionally immortal like the rest of the citizenry, there is a reasonably regular turnover of the line of succession, because kings always have short lifespans-- particularly in militaristic societies like K’un-Lun’s. Nu-An, the most recent long-serving Yu-Ti, is a particularly bad egg, engaging in everything from corrupt business dealings on Earth to alliances with malevolent gods. He also indirectly killed Wendell (his adopted brother) and Heather Rand, so Danny isn’t a huge fan.

The city faces many threats-- from the H’ylthri (who can get pretty violent, for plants), from the other Capital Cities (we’ll get to those in a minute), from internal unrest, and even occasionally from Earth-based forces. The responsibility of maintaining K’un-Lun’s national security falls partly on the city’s war-master, the Thunderer. This position has been held for the past few hundred years by a super cool guy named Lei Kung.

[Immortal Iron Fist #8 by Ed Brubaker, Matt Fraction, and Roy Allan Martinez]

Lei Kung is a fascinating character, and someone who we’re hoping will get his live action due in the Netflix show. He is often the voice of reason in the midst of K’un-Lun’s internal conflicts. He is respectful of tradition, yet able to see when and where laws need to be broken for the betterment of the city. And he is a strict-yet-caring teacher, responsible for training all of the young fighters in both physical combat and moral fortitude. Plus, as those for whom he has played father figure over the years would probably attest, he has a soft spot for misfits. (He’s not a great father to his biological son, but that’s another story...)

[Iron Fist: The Living Weapon #3 by Kaare Andrews]

When we talk about formal martial arts training in K’un-Lun, of course, we’re talking about men. The city upholds a strict occupational gender divide: Boys are trained in the martial arts, women are taught academics, and the two life paths are kept rigidly separate. (So yes, for anyone who may have been wondering-- Danny probably still has a fourth grade education level when he returns to Earth). Teaching a woman martial arts results in very serious punishment for everyone involved, and hitting a woman can get a man kicked out of the city.

[Marvel Premiere #24 by Chris Claremont, Pat Broderick, and Phil Rache]

For this reason, Danny is initially thrown off-balance by the fact that the first two friends he makes upon returning to New York, Colleen Wing and Misty Knight, both kick serious butt-- in public!-- on a daily basis.

However, this is one rule that has been undermined for probably centuries. There is a long history of women illegally learning martial arts, and most of the K’un-Lun women who show up in the comics know how to fight. This recently became an organized movement, with Lei Kung helping to train an entire army of women in secret.

[Immortal Iron Fist #14 by Ed Brubaker, Matt Fraction, and Tonci Zonjic]

K’un-Lun is currently in a bit of a mess, but it’s very likely that when it is restored to its former glory, this rule is one that will be consigned to the garbage heap of history.

No word on whether men will get to study academics, though.

K’un-Lun Slang

Listen. If they can make “Sweet Christmas” work in the context of the MCU, they can give us some of this hip K’un-Lun slang too, right?

The Iron Fist Legacy and the Ch’i-Lin

Bei Ming-Tian: “I am the Iron Fist. I stand before the unstoppable hordes... and I hold them back. That’s what I do. What I’ve always done.”

[Immortal Iron Fist #1 by Ed Brubaker, Matt Fraction, and Travel Foreman]

The rest of the responsibility for defending K’un-Lun falls, of course, on the Immortal Iron Fist. Sixty-six of these dragon-powered warriors have protected the city over the span of nearly a thousand years, and more will continue to do so far, far into the future. The Iron Fist legacy began partly by chance, born out of a period of great darkness in K’un-Lun’s history. According to the most recent version of continuity, a creature called Changming summoned a horde of monsters to terrorize the city. One of them was a dragon with the snappy name of Shou-Lao the Undying.

Immortal Iron Fist #23 by Duane Swierczynski, Tonci Zonjic, et al.]

Shou-Lao found a home in a cave just outside the city and settled in for a long stay. It was thought to be unkillable (note the “Undying” epithet) because its heart was outside of its body, hidden deep inside the cave. To kill the dragon you had to get to the heart-- and obviously, Shou-Lao felt pretty strongly about not letting that happen. The dragon continued to terrorize the citizens of K’un-Lun, until a young man named either Bei Ming-Tian or Quan Yaozu (depending on which writer you ask) had an idea. He ventured out to the cave and fought the dragon. When the opportunity presented itself, he grabbed Shou-Lao around the middle and used his body to block the hole in the dragon’s chest through which its heart had been removed. This cut off the flow of chi between Shou-Lao and the heart, causing the body to die. Having survived this, the young man went over to Shou-Lao’s still-beating heart and plunged his hands into it (because why not?), absorbing the dragon’s chi and becoming the very first Iron Fist. And that’s how it’s been done ever since.

[Immortal Iron Fist #7 by Ed Brubaker, Matt Fraction, Leandro Fernandez, et al.]

Thus began a sustainable source of magical warriors for the city-- because Shou-Lao always comes back. A certain period of time after dying, an egg appears in the cave, which eventually hatches and grows into another Shou-Lao, ready to be killed by another future Iron Fist. While the procedure for winning the dragon chi has remained the same since the beginning, a certain amount of ritual has been added since. Having acquired the chi of Shou-Lao, Iron Fists are now forced to test their new powers in the Challenge of the Many and the One, in front of the entire population of K’un-Lun.

[Iron Fist: The Living Weapon #5 by Kaare Andrews]

During the periods of time between the death of one Iron Fist and the rise of another, the graduating classes from Lei Kung’s school will annually fight to win the right to face the reborn dragon. It’s not an easy feat, and most of those who try to kill Shou-Lao end up dead, so there can be long periods between one Iron Fist and the next. When there is an Iron Fist, anyone else who thinks they have what it takes can, seemingly, challenge the current champion to a formal duel and try to take their chi.

[Iron Fist vol. 2 #2 by James Felder, Robert Brown, and Mike Thomas]

But as it stands, most Iron Fists don’t last long. As warriors and adventurers, they lead dangerous lives anyway, and nearly all them have died at the age of thirty-three at the hands of a creature called the Ch’i-Lin.

[Immortal Iron Fist #18 by Duane Swierczynski, Russ Heath, and Matt Milla]

This creature eats Shou-Lao’s eggs-- and to do so, it hunts down Iron Fists by tracking their chi. It travels around in a human host who uses the name Zhou Cheng (remember that name.) This chi awareness makes the Ch’i-Lin almost impossible to fight. It can predict any move that the Iron Fist it is hunting might make, and the chi of Shou-Lao has no effect on it. Having beaten the Iron Fist into submission, the Ch’i-Lin will rip out their heart and use it as a gateway to K’un-Lun. Once there, the K’un-Lun army will try and prevent it from getting to Shou-Lao’s egg. If the egg is eaten, the city will lose its chance of having any future Iron Fists-- so this is kind of a big deal. Only two Iron Fists have managed to survive their encounters with the Ch’i-Lin: Orson Randall, who drugged himself up on opium to the degree that the creature could no longer detect his chi; and Danny Rand, who had the advantage of teaming up with the other Immortal Weapons.

The Immortal Weapons

K’un-Lun is not alone in the cosmology of magical, dimension-shifting cities. It is part of a collective referred to as the Capital Cities of Heaven. Officially, there are seven cities, each cycling through spacetime at a different rate, and all intersecting with Earth at various points. Each city has its own champion, with their own chi-based powers, who operates along the same lines as the Iron Fist. These superpowered badasses are collectively known as the Immortal Weapons:

[Immortal Iron Fist #8 by Ed Brubaker, Matt Fraction, David Aja, and Matt Hollingsworth]

The traditions surrounding each of these champions vary, as do their powers and methods of acquiring them. As Weapons, they are intended to be “wielded” to best serve their city’s interests. All interactions between Weapons can thus be seen as diplomatic in nature. The capital cities maintain a delicate power balance, and past aggressions between Weapons have been enough to create long-held animosity between their corresponding homelands. One of the most important job requirements for the Immortal Weapons is to battle each other every 88 years, during the rare period when all seven cities intersect. The outcome of this pan-dimensional tournament determines the celestial cycling for the next 88 years, and how frequently each city will have access to Earth.

[Immortal Iron Fist #9 by Ed Brubaker, Matt Fraction, David Aja, and Matt Hollingsworth]

Because as far as the Iron Fist mythos is concerned, when you get past the complex worldbuilding and endless minutiae, it all comes down to cool kung fu fights. And we wouldn’t want it any other way.

We are extremely eager (and just a little bit nervous) to see how all of this will be adapted into the relatively grounded world of the Netflix shows. We really hope they go all out with it. After all, this is Iron Fist. They knew what they were getting into when they picked the character.

Certain minor details in the trailers have suggested to us that K’un-Lun may exist in an alternate dimension in the MCU. We really hope this is the case, because that’s a detail they could have easily not used. If so, they may at least have changed the interval at which it intersects with Earth from ten years to fifteen, since that’s how long Danny is gone in this universe. Unless it takes him five years to find his way back to New York-- which isn’t out of the question.

There have been only a few suggestions of what form K’un-Lun will take in the show. While ideally, we’d love to see the ancient, complex, drama-filled city of immortals fully explored in live action, it seems likely that it will be downsized for the sake of storytelling convenience. Since so much of this season will be taking place in New York (as it should-- this is Danny’s origin story, after all) it probably won’t have the time to delve deeply into all of the details of K’un-Lun, or to develop it on the scale at which it exists in the comics. The biggest piece of information we have so far on the subject is from the recent Empire Magazine article, in which it is referred to as an “all-male monastery”. We’re not sold on this idea, but of course, we’re going to reserve judgement until we see how it is handled. Danny has also been referred to as a monk in some of the promotional material, which suggests a level of spirituality in his training that is absent in the comics. No one would ever call 616 Danny a monk-- even in DnD terms. He is a warrior all the way.

The actual role of the Iron Fist will be pretty much the same: serve and protect K’un-Lun. Since the Hand have been tied into all of this in this universe, the Iron Fist’s tasks will also include directly battling them. We know that-- like in the comics-- MCU Danny will have to juggle his duties and identity as the Iron Fist with his responsibilities on Earth, which will be a lot of fun to watch. Furthermore, we know that the Ch’i-Lin (or at least, Zhou Cheng) will be making an appearance-- but it’s anyone’s guess what form he might take.

We also know that the concept of the Immortal Weapons is alive and well in the MCU. Apart from Danny, the only other Weapon that’s definitely been confirmed so far is Bride of Nine Spiders.

But if there are two, there have got to be more, right?

Only four more days (well... three days and a few hours) until we find out!

#Whooo... this was a fun one #Iron Fist #K'un Lun #Immortal Weapons #Lei Kung the Thunderer #Shou Lao the Undying #Commentary #IF Countdown

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persuadedproject-blog · 7 years

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Chapter 4

On the morning that Shep showed the Crofts the Kellynch House, Anne was naturally out. She was also naturally sorry she had missed an opportunity to see them (sorry in a it-would-have-been-awful-but-she-was-still-curious sort of way). The very next day, the admiral and his lawyer sat down in the senator’s wood panelled office to settle terms. The senator had walked out front to greet them, which spared Anne from having to interact with the admiral - as it was, all she could muster was a quick glance up from her secretary’s desk as they passed. Their voices rumbled from inside the office as Shep worked out the legal terms, rising and falling in a peaceable way. The landlord and the prospective tenant got along very well; Admiral Croft was inclined towards an amicable relationship because of the open and friendly sort of person he was, the Senator because he had been flattered into his best behavior by Shep’s assurances that he was viewed on a pedestal by the Navy man.

At dinner that evening, Senator Walter announced that without reservation the Admiral was the best looking sailor he had ever met. He even went so far as to add that (if he could see the senator’s barber) he would not be embarrassed to be seen with him anywhere in Washington. The admiral had had similarly generous impressions of Senator Walter, commenting to his wife on the drive back to their hotel that although the senator was not likely to set the world on fire, he seemed harmless on the large scale of things.

Knowing that Anne’s input on a new house would either be ignored or scorned, Mrs. Russell took up most of the house-hunting duties while Anne prepared the business to be mobile. Since it had been decided that the Crofts would move in at the end of the month, that gave them all three weeks to pack up and say their goodbyes. A cottage had been found on the outskirts of Hyannis, close enough for an easy walk to town - far enough to give privacy and enviable access to the water. Mrs. Russell had hoped to spare Anne from too much unwanted change at one time by a slower transition from Washington to Hyannis and, by sheer coincidence, Anne got it. Three days before they were all going to drive up (the small moving truck had already gone ahead), Liz got a text from Mary. Mary was frequently under the weather. She always put great stock in her own complaints, and had no quibbles in claiming Anne as her solution. This time, Mary was sure she was in for another long bout with her body (probably brought on by the oil in all of the french fries that she had been forced to eat the night before), and told Liz that ‘I have 2 have A 2 help’. Liz was not the sort to reply promptly to a text, unless it suited her purpose exactly, or if she was making arrangements for someone else. Since both of these were true, she replied immediately. ‘I’m sure she can come stay with you - no one will want her around in the Vineyard.’

Certainly not eager to troupe up to Martha’s Vineyard, Anne agreed to stay back in Virginia to help Mary. Her father was putting the company on hold for several weeks to let Shep and other logistics minions work out the transition, and so she was sure she could manage her own tasks remotely. Anne was used to sweltering Virginia summers, and liked the seafaring atmosphere around Uppercross (the small town where Mary lived, about two and a half hours away from D.C.). The only downside of the arrangement was that it gave Liz the excuse to invite Penny up with them, to keep her company while Senator Walter set up his business. Anne did not see any immediate danger - Penny had freckles a gap between her front teeth, and hair that was almost red. Although to some these qualities would be endearing, to the senator they were flaws - ones that he criticized frequently when she wasn’t around. But she was young, and overall a good looking woman, and (even more dangerously) she had learned how to feed her host’s ego. Anne tried to warn Liz before they left, but was met by dismissal with a side of indignation.

“I can’t believe you would even imagine something like that up! Penny knows her place, and we’ve talked about marrying older men before - she wouldn’t want the inequality of being with someone so much more established. And how could you think that our dad - who has remained single for all these years for our sake - would even be tempted by her? For all her good parts, Penny isn’t really pretty.” The reason that the senator had remained unmarried was that the social punishments for enjoying the benefits of marriage without cost or commitment had vaporized. Knowing this, Anne tried to persist,

“I just think -”

“Honestly, Anne! You would think you’d never heard him talk about her defects before. Think about all of his complaints, does he sound like a man on the brink of love?”

“There is no physical trait that cannot be overlooked after getting to know someone, if you really like them.”

“I disagree,” Liz said shortly. “Being nice or engaging really sets off a beautiful person - but it could never make a plain girl beautiful.”

“Is that what you tell the people you coach?” Anne inquired quietly. Ignoring her question, Liz burst out,

“I don’t know why you’re trying to advise me - she’s my friend, and it’s my reputation!” before huffing out of the room. Anne sat back in her chair, relieved that the confrontation she had been dreading was over. She had tried her best, done what she had thought was right. There was hope that the conversation was not entirely lost on Liz; maybe it would at least get her suspicions raised to the point where she might start watching her friend more closely for ulterior motives.

Liz, Penny, and Senator Walter set off for Hyannis in a caravan of two cars, sporting flowered shorts, sunglasses, high spirits, and enough hairspray to start a wildfire. It was almost as if they were really going to vacation in the Vineyard, and would be back the next week. Mrs. Russell, who had come by to see them off, was saddened by the whole thing. Knowing how the family had once been, remembering the happiness and respect that had once permeated the house, made seeing the family depart in a cloud of debt and unsure circumstances a source of heartache. She gave Anne a misty hug, and then left her to close up the house with some time by herself. Depending on a person’s mood, an empty house can either be a tranquil safe haven, or an echo chamber for every doubt you have ever had. Despite her original wish to be alone for a long while, once everyone was gone Anne found that it was hard to be alone with herself in Kellynch. She checked each room for traces of the Elliots, gathering up the hodge podge of left behind belongings as quickly as she could, closing up the finished rooms and finally fastening the lock on the storage closet. Anne wished that she could have a sentimental moment in the house, wished she could sit and have a glass of tea while reminiscing on the good times that had happened there - because for all the bad times, there had been happiness, too. But there were too many regrets, and the pain of leaving was all too present to permit much warmth. She was afraid that if she opened herself up to sentiment, all of the other emotions she had been carefully bottling up for weeks would insist on making themselves heard too. With only one glance back at the old brick and column structure, she got in her car and headed south, to Mary’s house.

Uppercross was a moderately sleepy inlet town, with most of its occupants commuting for work either to the coast, or half an hour inland. It only had a handful of what Senator Walter would consider ‘nice’ homes (historic, well-groomed places), but two of that handful were owned by Mary and Charles, and Charles’ family, the Musgroves. Because of Mary’s recurring needs, Anne had spent countless weekends at Uppercross, and was as adept at managing life there as in Washington. The senior and junior Musgroves were always at each other’s houses, and so she was surprised to find Mary all by herself. Being alone, Mary was feeling even worse, and her spirits were decidedly damped. Although she was more classically beautiful than Anne, she did not have her sister’s even-keeled intelligence. When times were good - when she was well, happy, and paid enough attention - Mary possessed the charisma and sparkling attitude of a southern belle, however any inconvenience or contradiction of her will deflated her immediately. She had inherited a heaping dose of the Elliot self-importance, which enabled her to assume that in any given situation she was not being paid her due. When Anne let herself into the house (how was it that she had a key to almost everywhere on her ring? actually, she knew how, everyone needed someone to run errands, and she was trustworthy), Mary was lying on a loveseat in the front room. The room was nice; cozy, with plenty of light, and furniture which had at one time been high class - but five years and two children had rendered it rather worn. Spotting Anne, Mary greeted her.

“You are finally here! I was starting to think you had decided not to come, and you just went off to the shore with the rest of them. I am so sick I can barely talk, and I haven't seen a anyone all morning, what took you so long?”

“I’m sorry you’re not doing well,” Anne soothed. “When we texted yesterday it seemed like you felt fine.” With the sigh of a skilled and practiced martyr Mary said, “I made the best of it, I always do - I was nowhere near well yesterday, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt as badly as I do today. I can’t believe Charles left me alone - what if I had passed out, or my reaction had gotten bad and affected my cognitive capabilities?” Mary had never fainted in her life, but that did not stop her from feeling light headed and that she was on the verge of losing consciousness every other day. These episodes were not blamed on the fact that she rarely strained herself with exercise, or her lack of sunshiney Vitamin D - usually blame was cast on some sort of food; today gluten, tomorrow dairy; her diet was always somehow in question. In this case, Anne thought it best to be properly sympathetic. When she had commiserated enough, she asked about Charles.

“Oh, he’s out golfing. I haven’t seen him since seven this morning, when he took the boys to stay with Mom.” Anne was still a little startled to hear Mary refer to anyone as Mom, even though she knew it was right. Mary used the term more out of rightness than closeness to Mrs. Musgrove, but Anne knew it was a step in a good direction for Mary. “He said he wouldn’t be long, but it’s almost two, and he hasn’t come back yet.”

“It’s only eleven,” Anne reminded her. “You might see him before lunch.”

“And I would like to have the boys back, but they make so much noise, I’m afraid my head would burst. CJ won’t listen to a thing I say, and Walter is not much better.”

“Well, I’m here now, and you know I always cure you when I come.” Shifting the subject, Anne asked, “How are the Musgroves?”

“I don’t know, none of them have stopped by except for Mr. Musgrove, and he just came by to get the clubs from the garage, he never came in. And neither of the girls have been bothered to come over to visit.”

“They may swing by, it’s still early - especially for college students on a Saturday.”

“Oh, I don’t care if they come by or not! They talk and laugh and move around too much. And I feel so bad. Why didn’t you come when we were talking the other day?”

“You sounded so well, even I couldn’t tell you were under the weather. Remember, you told me there was no rush? I have been so busy, I couldn’t have left Kellynch half an hour earlier than I did.”

“What could have possibly kept you busy?”

“Lots of things! More than I can think of at the moment, I’m so tired. Let’s see.” Anne had to work hard to remember more than her jobs for that day. “I had to document the exact condition we left the house in, I had to catalogue all of our belongings in the house (including the books), and I had to pack household necessities into the truck before it left. And I had to close up the business with all of the clients, explain what was going on and how we would be moving forward with them, which” she added, “was really hard to do.”

“Oh. Well.” Thinking about another’s troubles, Mary was momentarily unsettled. “You haven’t asked me about the Board Dinner last night at the Poole’s.”

“Did you go? I assumed if you weren’t feeling well, you stayed home.”

“I went, I was having a good day yesterday; nothing was the matter with me til this morning. It would have been strange if I had not gone, all of the other board members brought their spouses.”

“Well, I’m glad you were well enough to go. Was it a nice time?” Mary rolled her eyes.

“It was the usual thing - cocktails, dinner, the board, the academic talk, trying to figure out how to raise more money. We rode there with the Musgroves in their Suburban, so I had to sit in the back seat between Hazel and Louise. I think it was Louise’s perfume that made me feel so awful. She knows how strong scents bother me, but we were all smushed together.”

Patience, encouragement, and forced cheerfulness by Anne already started working a cure on Mary. She could soon find the strength to sit upright, and even hope that she might be able to move to the kitchen while Anne made dinner. Forgetting her woes long enough to make a quinoa smoothie, she was fortified enough to propose walking over to the Musgrove’s, which was half a mile away, with one steep hill starting at their property line. Mary’s one quibble with walking there was that they should have invited Anne right away.

“At least as my sister, they should have at least sent a quick message, to welcome you back.”

“I would never have thought about it, especially with friends that go as far back with us as the Musgroves.”

“Well, they should have. But we may as well visit, and then we can enjoy our time afterwards.” Although Anne found the constant back-and-forth of being offended unhealthy, she had given up trying to put a stop to it a long time ago. In a strange way, both families needed to be a little displeased every now and again. So to Uppercross’ Great House they went, to “sit and stay a while” in the comfortable living room. The great room in the Great House was under revision by the collegiate Musgroves, who had added chevron, end tables, copper light fixtures, gold embossed paintings, and pastel throw pillows. All of the trends they had seen come to life on Pinterest were embodied in one room, and it made for a cheerful mess.

The Musgroves (not unlike their house) were in a continual state of evolution. The father and mother were some of the last Virginia gentry, the two girls at the start of the new lines of royalty. Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove were good, hospitable, comfortable sort of people - not high brow, but full of life. Hazel and Louise (home from college for the summer) were very ordinary girls; they had the advantage of being pretty and fashionable, but not snobby. Fortunately they had inherited their parent’s friendliness and easy going spirits. They were important when they were home, and in favor wherever they went. Anne usually thought about the Musgroves as some of the happiest people she knew - but she still would not have switched places with them. As nice as their lives were, all of Anne’s experiences had given her an understanding of the world and a love for some of the better things that the girls could not compare to. The only thing she truly envied was the rapport the sisters had; the understanding, care, and easiness with one another that she had not been able to share with her own sisters. After being welcomed into the Musgrove home with the family’s usual zest, they caught up for half an hour, and then started their walk home accompanied by Mary’s two boys, and (at Mary’s request) Hazel and Louisa.

Thank you to all four of my readers for your patience! More of Mary’s deliciously silly selfishness next week.

Chapter 5: http://bit.ly/2vSXZ0B

#jane austen #persuadedproject #persuasion #adaptation

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